Short Poems

Winter seclusion –
sitting propped against
the same worn post

At dawn you mount, ride swiftly over the village bridge,
Petals fall on Plum Stream, snow still frozen.
Short days, frigid sky, I grieve at your departure,
Endless Chu Mountains, your road ever remote.

Winter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
insects singing.


Translated by Robert Hass

The cascade resounds behind operetta huts.
Fireworks prolong, through the orchards
and avenues near the Meander,--
the greens and reds of the setting sun.
Horace nymphs with First Empire headdresses,--
Siberian rounds and Boucher's Chinese ladies.

Winter downpour -
even the monkey
needs a raincoat.

I am Winter, that do keep
Longing safe amidst of sleep:
Who shall say if I were dead
What should be remembered?

Bring me hither Homer's lute,
Taught with mirth (not wars) to suit;
Reach a full cup, that I may
All the laws of wine obey,
Drink, and dance, and to the lyre
Sing what Bacchus shall inspire.

My brain grows dizzy, whirled and overthrown
With wine: my senses are no more my own.
The ceiling and the walls are wheeling round!
But let me try! perhaps my feet are sound.
Let me retire with my remaining sense,
For fear of idle language and offence.

Even in a person
most times indifferent
to things around him
they waken feelings
the first winds of autumn

Wind whipping through bone
slammed against a wall of air
each step contested