Two Poems by Du Fu (c. 712-770)

Spring View
Translated by Arthur Sze

The nation is broken, but hills and rivers remain.
Spring is in the city, grasses and trees are thick.
Touched by the hard times, flowers shed tears.
Grieved by separations, birds are startled in their hearts.

The beacon fires burned for three straight months.
A letter from home would be worth ten thousand pieces of gold.
As I scratch my white head, the hairs become fewer:
so scarce that I try in vain to fasten them with a pin. 

Thwarted
Translated by Carolyn Kizer

Thwarted, old friend! We have been baulked again.
Though we live at opposite ends of the same lane
We haven’t seen each other for ten whole days.

I returned my Official Horse to the local authorities
And the road is rotten, like a deliberate plot.
An obstacle course! Now, thanks to my lack of credit

I can’t even rent a carriage, though I still have shoes.
But what if my department head caught me afoot?
Taking such risks with protocol, face, future!
You know I’d walk through brambles to get to you.

By morning the rain is furious. I’m resigned.
Though I’ve raved like the spring wind, in my sleep.
Now I’m deaf to the ring-bell and the bang-drum,
The summons to Court. Next door a lame donkey grazes.

A complaisant neighbor owns him, lends him. Ho!
But I daren’t ride the beast in the slick mud.
Not to that slippery Palace! Let them mark me absent.
Life is one long, fragmented, murky episode.

W.H. Auden, "If I Could Tell You"

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know. 

1940

Devin Kelly, "The Old Catcher Considers the Failing of His Knees"

All I did was hide. I made myself so small
I could not be touched. I knew each player
by what they thought was invisible — the twice-tapped
cleat on the batter’s box back line, the little prayer
one whispered: deliver me this, & I will deliver this
for you. I watched their anxiety — how lonely it felt,
how lonely it always is to witness someone
turn their worry into the twitching of a finger,
something muttered, a glance to the sky as if the sky
might forgive each of us our wrongs.
The sky brought the light that hid the ball.
The sky threw shadows I called a curveball through.
When the pain came, I wondered why.
They pulled the chips from my joint & I kept them
in a glass. Look, I know. What isn’t broken
just isn’t broken yet. Jesus, I know. & someone
can spend their whole life hiding away their grief
& then find themselves crying in the dairy aisle of a store
while they hold the mint chip & vanilla,
because the mystery is gone, & with it, hope,
because someone said you don’t have a choice, said
you have to stop, & they were right, & you thought
they were wrong, & you spent your paycheck on tiger balm
& beer, rubbing each into your body until you felt
like liquid poured from a kaleidoscope.
I don’t get it. How what you love can kill you,
even if you spend your whole life loving it.
Even if you love it small. Even if you curl up in its palm.
Somewhere now, someone is whispering a list
of everything they’re scared of but no one
seems to hear them. Somewhere now, the wind
cuts through a promise being made, & breaks it.
There’s that story of the man who walked into the light
&, because of the light, could not see a thing.
Who played that trick on us, that long & lonely trick? 

*    *    *

Devin Kelly is a high school teacher living in New York City.

Valerian the Fallen

Lactantius, On the Deaths of the Persecutors, c. 315 AD

Emperor Valerian, having been made prisoner by the Persians, lost not only that power which he had exercised without restraint, but also the liberty of which he had deprived others, and he wasted the remainder of his days in the vilest condition of slavery. Shapur, the king of the Persians, who had made him prisoner, whenever he chose to get into his carriage or to mount on horseback, commanded the Roman to stoop and present his back; then, setting his foot on the shoulders of Valerian, he said, with a smile of reproach, "This is true, and not what the Romans boast of." Valerian lived for a considerable time under the insults of his conqueror.

Valerian the Fallen

They wonder, I know, why I endure my fate, why I have not rebelled and forced Shapur’s guards to end my life.

They do not know that on the plague-stalked field beside Edessa where my army met the God of Death and I was taken

The heavens opened unto to me and gave this fallen king a vision such as gods have sent to few men dead or living.

I have never since beheld the world as other men behold it; I do not see the trodden dirt beneath my captor's steed but times to come.

I see mighty Rome laid low, its walls broken, Goths and brigands dancing in the Forum while noble women wail and rend their robes.

I see order overturned: emperors bow down to holy men in rags and call them by the blessed name of Father, while scholars write the words of starving women in barren cells and call them truth.

I see small ships that cross the ocean and upend the world, casting down old empires and raising new.

I see philosophers with lenses and crucibles burning libraries of old wisdom and building temples to new revelations.

I see machines like iron bulls that belch forth smoke and do the work of fifty men.

I see plebeians breaking down the palace gates, not to name a new man king but to proclaim an end to kingship.

When the shah’s foot stomps my back I see ships of fire sailing to the stars, and men walking on other worlds.

I do not choose to die because even as a footstool I behold the wonder and majesty of creation, and with every breath I praise the gods who brought me here to share their gift.

– John Bedell, September 2023

Maya Angelou, "Come and Be My Baby"

The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that'll burn
Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass
And you sit wondering,
Where you're going to turn.
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomrrow
And some give it a week or two
The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror
And you sit wondering'
Whay you're gonna do.
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.

Arthur Sze, "Fugitive"

Red begonias stricken by frost –
listen: they nail plywood sheets and complete the garage decking–
swarmed by mosquitoes, you wander hot, thirsty, disoriented in a palm forest–
you have blooded your hands on barbed wire–
after a snowfall, you inhale starlight while standing in an orchard–
you have had three operations to repair a torn elbow–
green mist rising from leafing willows–
running across a dune of white sand, you discover a pile of oryx bones–
they stack elephant tusks in a pyramid and set them on fire–
you have staggered out of a house in flames and lived to say this–
you have been thrust by rifle butt to a river and heard someone shout, "Swim!"–
the grass turns to yellow-gold stalks–
minutes replete with the noise of honeybees–
minutes replete with river gold–
asleep, she rides the waves of her breath onto the shore of your shoulder–
you coil hoses and haul them to a barn–
you have loved, hated, imagined, despaired, and the fugitive colors existence have quickened in your body–
after seventy years, you write with shivering memory into the sunrise–

In the August 7 New Yorker

Without Thee

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist’ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful ev’ning mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist’ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful ev’ning mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

Milton, Paradise Lost

Tao Yuanming, "Substance, Shadow, and Spirit"

Tang Dynasty poem and quick primer on Chinese philosophy.

Substance speaks to Shadow:

Heaven and Earth exist for ever:
Mountains and rivers never change.
But herbs and trees in perpetual rotation
Grow and are withered by the dews and frosts:
And Man the wise, Man the divine—
Shall he alone escape this law?
Appearing by chance for a moment in the World
He suddenly departs, never to return.
How can he know that the friends he has left
Miss him and think of him?
Only the things that he used remain;
Friends look upon them and their tears flow.
Me no magical arts can save,
Though you may hope for a wizard’s aid.
I beg you listen to this advice—
When you can get wine, drink it.

Shadow replies:

There is no way to preserve life.
Drugs of Immortality are instruments of folly.
I would gladly wander in Paradise,
But it is far away and there is no road.
Since the day that I was joined to you
We have shared all our joys and pains.
While you rested in the shade, I left you a while:
But till the end we shall be together.
Our joint existence is impermanent:
Sadly together we shall slip away.
That when the body decays Fame should also go
Is a thought unendurable, burning the heart.
Let us strive and labour while yet we may
To do some deed that men will praise.
Wine may in truth dispel our sorrow,
But how compare it with lasting Fame?

Spirit expounds:

God can only set in motion:
He cannot control the things he has made.
Man, the second of the Three Orders,
Owes his precedence to Me.
Though I am different from you,
We were born involved in one another:
Nor by any means can we escape
The intimate sharing of good and ill.
The Three Emperors were saintly men,
Yet to-day—where are they?
P’ēng lived to a great age,
Yet he went at last, when he longed to stay.
And late or soon, all go:
Wise and simple have no reprieve.
Wine may bring forgetfulness,
But does it not hasten old-age?
If you set your hearts on noble deeds,
How do you know that any will praise you?
By all this thinking you do Me injury:
You had better go where Fate leads—
Drift on the Stream of Infinite Change,
Without joy, without fear:
When you must go—then go,
And make as little fuss as you can. 

– Tao Yuanming (c. 365-427). Translated by Arthur Whaley

Khalil Gibran, "Youth and Age"

In my youth the heart of dawn was in my heart, and the songs of April were in my ears.
But my soul was sad unto death, and I knew not why. Even unto this day I know not why I was sad.
But now, though I am with eventide, my heart is still veiling dawn,
And though I am with autumn, my ears still echo the songs of spring.
But my sadness has turned into awe, and I stand in the presence of life and life’s daily miracles. . . .

In my youth I was sad indeed, and all things seemed dark and distant.
Today, all is radiant and near, and for this I would live my youth and the pain of my youth, again and yet again.

1926

Making a Life

The way we are living,
timorous or bold,
will have been our life. 

– Seamus Heaney, Elegy for Robert Lowell, 1979

An Old Babylonian Love Charm

I plucked the thornbush;
I sow the grapevine.
Upon the raging fire,
I have poured water.
Love me
as if I were your lamb.
Turn back to me
as if I were your flock, then
look at me! 

From Slightly Alive Translations

Rumi, "Like This"

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual desire
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.

When someone praises the gracefulness
night, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.

When anyone asks about the beauty of angels,
or how the most expensive perfume would smell,
lean your head in close.
Like this.

When someone quotes the old poem
about clouds uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.

If someone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
If anyone doesn’t believe that,
Leave my house and walk back in.
Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.
Like this.

I am a sky where angels live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze tells a secret.
Like this.

Kaveh Akbar, "Soot"

Sometimes God comes to earth disguised as rust,
chewing away a chain link fence or a mariner's knife,
From up so close we must seem
clumsy and gloomless, like new lovers

undressing in front of each other
for the first time. Regarding loss I'm afraid
to keep it in the story,
worried what I might bring back to life,

like the marble angel who woke to find
his innards scattered around his feet.
Blood from the belly tastes sweeter
than blood from anywhere else. We know this

but don't know why—the woman on TV
dabs a man's gutwound with her hijab
then draws the cloth to her lips, confused.
I keep dreaming I'm a creature pulling out my claws

one by one to sell in a market stall next to stacks
of pomegranates and garden tools. It's predictable,
the logic of dreams. Long ago I lived in Heaven
because I wanted to. When I fell to earth

I knew the way—through the soot, into the leaves.
It still took years. Upon landing, the ground
embraced me sadly, with the gentleness
of someone delivering tragic news to a child.

From Calling a Wolf a Wolf, 2017

Mary Oliver, "The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac"

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you're in it all the same.

So why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it,
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it's happened
Or not.
I am speaking form the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Thunder, Perfect Mind

Do not be ignorant of me.
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.
I celebrated a great wedding,
and I am unwed.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
I am the solace of my labor pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
and the sister of my husband
and he is my offspring. . . .

I am the silence that is incomprehensible
and the idea often remembered.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
and the word that appears again and again.
I am the utterance of my name.

Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
and hate those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me,
and you who confess me, deny me.
You who speak truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, speak truth.
You who know me, be ignorant of me,
and those who have not known me, let them know me.
For I am knowledge and ignorance.
I am shame and boldness.
I am shameless; I am ashamed.
I am strength and I am fear.
I am war and peace.
Give heed to me. . . .

Give heed then, you hearers
and you also, the angels and the messengers,
and you spirits who have arisen from the dead.
For I am the one who alone exists,
and I have no one who will judge me.
For many are the joys in sins,
and disgraceful passions,
and fleeting pleasures,
which men embrace until they become sober
and go up to their resting place.
And they will find me there,
and they will live,
and they will not die again.

Thunder, Perfect Mind is a Coptic poem found among the gnostic texts of the Nag Hammadi Library. Experts say it was translated from Greek and may have been written in Alexandria in the second or third century AD. This is about half of it; more here.

Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

1986

A Little Lullaby

She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing a song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep.

—Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 III.1 

Ella Standage, "The Matter of the Body"

Poem made from the handout for a lecture on the fragmentary historical sources and missing tomb of Alexander the Great.

I posted another one of Ella Standage's poems here; I just love what she does with cut up texts.

And see here for a passage of the Iliad translated using a National Geographic article about whales.

Jorge Luis Borges, "A Poem about Gifts"

May no one slight, with tears or a reproach,
This declaration of God’s mastery,
That, with sublime irony,
Gave me at once books and the night.

He vested those lightless eyes
With guardianship of the city of books,
Even though they can read
But senseless passages in the library of dreams,

Where sunrises give way to zeal. The day
Lavishes them in vain with infinite books,
Toilsome like the manuscripts
That perished in Alexandria.

Of hunger and of thirst (or so goes the Greek legend)
A king once died amidst fountains and gardens;
Aimless and unrelenting I tire the confines
Of this blind vault of a slender library.

Encyclopedias, atlases, the East
And West, centuries, dynasties,
Symbols, the cosmos and cosmogonies,
Afford us the walls, albeit uselessly.

Slow by my shadow, I explore the
Hollow penumbra with a tottering crosier,
I, who imagined Paradise
Under the figment of a library.

Something unnamed, certainly not
Random fate, governs all this;
Somebody else has already received in hazy
Evenings the many books, and their shadow.

As I rove through the slow galleries,
I happen to feel with sacred horror that
I am the other, the dead one, who must have
Ambled his days past, in a similar vein.

Who between the two writes this poem of
A plural me albeit of just one shadow?
Who cares about the word convoking me
If the anathema is one and indivisible?

Groussac or Borges, I behold this dear
World both distorting and dying down
Into a pale, vague ash, all too
Similar to both slumber and oblivion.

1957

Paul Klee, Short Poems

Last Things Last

In the heart's center
The only prayers
Are steps
Receding.

– Translated by Anselm Hollo

Emerged from the Gray of Night

Now from gray-dark night emerged
Burdened and beloved,
Strong with night's fire
Drunk and staggered with God.
Amidst blue ethereum
Soaring over snowfields
Toward the wise constellations.