trans. Finnish Jascha Kessler and the author To the evening that speaks in two thousand tongues and knows not the meaning of war, I give myself. To the nighthawk's, the nightingale's tongues, the presence unseen of all that is, whose dreams make me loved. Their speech never leaves the lips, never stales the wine, but…
The moon shines down over the public ferry, Alone, I'm overwhelmed by thoughts of home. Birds roost in the trees round Lake P'eng-li, The moon mounts high up above the boat on the Chien-ch'ang. Dead drunk, old fishermen disperse from the market, In secluded buildings travelling merchants sleep. Where is that flute playing across the…
trans. Bulgarian Jascha Kessler & Alexander Shurbanov You were dying, fully conscious, having summoned the incredible strength you needed to go calmly, not crying, not moaning, not shuddering — to keep fear away from me. Your hand went softly cold in my hand, and led me gradually beyond to death, so as to introduce me….
He should never have died though I've been lecturing about him all spring he's alive saying important things on Thursday things that would solve all our problems if only we were strong enough to be absolute Every Thursday the snow dunes have melted the sun burned, exhausting Every Thursday I've prayed not to be buried…
On the river at Mu-chou, west of the water gate, They raised the oars, hoisted the sail, and we released our embrace. Today, at the sky's shore, I sit deep into the night, Heart-broken and haunted by the memory of leaving Ah Yin.
trans. Bulgarian Jascha Kessler and Alexander Shurbanov It was in the Fall of '56 that I stood where I stand still: they're drilling 20-year old marines in diving. Dolphins leap with the sheer joy of it, keeping time in the sea with them. As for me, I stumble on in grief at the mere thought…
trans. Persian Elizabeth Gray Her curls dishevelled, sweating, laughing, and drunk, her shirt torn, singing ghazals, flask in hand, her eyes quarrelsome, her lips crying “Alas!”, last night at midnight she came and sat by my pillow. She bent her head to my ear and said plaintively, “O my ancient lover, are you sleeping?” The…
All withers in the autumn air: wine quickly wears off: Bleak and dismal, it's always like feelings felt at parting. At dusk, I lean on a pillar: I don't go home; My heart breaks at the patter of wind and rain on the green lotus.
Standing between good and evil, between the two frozen poles, at last between man and man, and, looking hard, I simply cannot understand how in the world life can make both ends meet.
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