Mid 50's today here in Akron. In February. How f---- up is that, my friends. Pass me the jar ...
Rinsing sorrows of a thousand forevers
away, we linger out a hundred jars of wine,
the clear night’s clarity filling small talk,
a lucid moon keeping us awake. And after
we’re drunk, we sleep in empty mountains,
all heaven our blanket, earth our pillow.
Li Po (A.D. 755-762)
At White Deer Spring
A little fishpond, just over two feet square,
and not terribly deep.
A pair of goldfish swim in it
as freely as if in a lake.
Like bones of mountains among icy autumn clouds
tiny stalagmites pierce the rippling surface.
For the fish, it is a question of being alive …
they don’t worry about the depth of the water.
Yuan Hung-tao (1568-1610), trans. Jonathan Chaves
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1 comment:
Thanks for posting these, Keith. Timely and timeless, like all real poetry.
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