#chinese
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
An old traveler stands at the gate with a pack of stars,
A storyteller with a thousand myths to soften the stone.
He speaks of ancient kingdoms and the wisdom of his years,
Turning the heavy silence into a tapestry of clarity.
He does not flinch at the shadow or her sudden vexation,
Standing calm within the storm of her quiet resentment.
Not a parent to command, nor a stranger to the conflict,
But a partner who knows the path and lights the way.
He practices the ancient, silent art of Kintsugi,
A master of the healing craft learned across the wide seas.
He sees the cracks that others caused or chose to ignore,
Tracing the jagged lines with a touch of profound mercy.
He does not look past the scars but finds worth in the break,
Adding beauty and compassion for the sake of a weary soul.
He fills the hollow spaces with a wealth that cannot be sold,
Fusing her spirit with a love of refined gold,
Wiping the woe from her eyes to let her brilliance emerge.
The brush finds a new rhythm in the stillness of the night,
As he reveals the person standing beyond the present moment.
Profound talent and heart emerge from the forge of the past,
A character of rare beauty that was always meant to endure.
He sees the potential blooming like a lotus in the light,
Knowing the labor of the soul has only just started.
He offers gentle guidance with a dash of patient kindness,
Providing the quiet leeway for her spirit to find a home.
The seasoned spirit keeps his watch as a steady anchor,
A companion who marks the years by every wound and notch.
He uses the gold of his patience to mend what the world damaged,
Making the broken spirit even stronger than she was at the start.
He is the bedrock for the young dragon learning how to rise,
The steady earth beneath the mist as she claims the zenith.
He sees past the mask of the moment to the queen she is to be,
A woman of immense power, finally set and standing free,
Held in the light of an old soul who loves all he has seen.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:37 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
A spirit sits caged, a dragon’s heart held in quiet rest,
Within a fragile shell, a work of art from her own hand.
Dormant she lies, yet power radiates from the white stone,
A woman of alabaster, separate from the world’s noise.
Unknowing of the force within, her form is obscured by history,
Pure and benevolent, a gentle soul beneath the surface.
Yet hidden depths remain, a story untold and guarded,
A wounded heart, protective and untrusting of the start.
Within the white dragon, she weeps a silent and hidden tear,
A woman broken and shattered year after year behind her walls.
She is non-confrontational, avoiding the fire of the world's sting,
Choosing to hide her marrow beneath a veil of silent stone.
The dragon spirit is the refuge she forged to guard her peace,
A sanctuary built to endure the cost of being used by others.
She is the masterpiece and the prisoner of her own design,
Awaiting a witness who can see the truth behind the mask,
Before the weight of the cage pulls her deeper into the earth.
An old scholar approaches, a curious and steady mind,
Seeking the vision within the brushstrokes she leaves behind.
He watches her movement, the rhythmic pace of her hand,
And sees the dragon stirring where others see only the stone.
Purposeful and unique, a spark ignites within the darkness,
As he recognizes the spirit emerging through the flow of ink.
He does not look at the shell, but at the force that dwells within,
Finding a kindred truth in the calligraphy of her wounded soul.
Through the white dragon, the scholar finds a sweet surprise,
But gives her a wide and gentle space to breathe and grow.
He does not desire to lead her, but to walk as a patient partner,
Wiping away the tears of woe and the fog of old frustrations.
With a steady hand, he clears the glass of her confusion,
Allowing her to see the world from a vantage point of peace.
He recognizes the kindred spirit behind the alabaster wall,
Providing the quiet stability she needs to stay afloat,
Becoming the mirror that reflects the power she has long forgot.
The inner dragon punishes him for the sins of a thousand pasts,
Lashing through the silence with the fire of her tangled heart.
He accepts the pain as a noble deed, a guiding seed of light,
Persisting through the fever while she tries to drive him away.
The more he loves, the more the spirit lashes in her confusion,
Unable to reconcile the kindness with the scars she carries.
He comforts the woman with a touch that she embraces too much,
Remaining steady as the bedrock while the transition takes hold.
Through the white dragon, he finds a love that transcends her masks,
A devotion that recognizes the soul beneath each changing form.
Though she remains unsure at times, retreating behind her walls,
He feels the mutual pulse of a bond that needs no outward name.
He has found his center by seeing through the alabaster shell,
Knowing the woman and the spirit as two halves of a singular truth.
Whatever disguise she takes, whatever fox or shadow she becomes,
His gaze will remain fixed on the light he found within the stone,
For he has seen her essence, and he will never look away.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:32 AM UTC
Conquest.
Soldiers need release.
80 years ago, I,
young lady, Chinese,
would've been a slave—
thrusted deep in the front lines
rotting bodies, disease, and knives
inside me. I am
the evidence they must hide.
Lucky me. I watch Japanese TV
and music and teens. I love
Japanese novels and Japanese comics
and Japanese history. Lucky me,
two-thousand-twenty-five,
age fifteen, Chinese.
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC
In my left ear,
Mozart on two times speed,
In my right,
The full Bible read in Chinese.
The strange writers in my mind,
Will take inspiration from anything.
So here is a sentiment in Chinese
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 8:58 PM UTC
__I. Moonlit Shadows, Whispered Name__
___Xiǎo bái lóng___, a name soft on the ear,
She dances 'neath the moon, banishing all fear.
Petals, like snow, from her fingertips flow,
A gentle breeze stirs, where soft laughter will grow.
Dawn's tender hue, the twilight's fading grace,
Her laughter etched, in time and shadowed space.
A spirit kind, with dragon's heart so bold,
Fierce yet gentle, a story to be told.
II. Plum Blossoms in the Storm's Waking Dream
The world's weight borne, on shoulders blooming bright,
Like plum blossoms, in the storm's fading light.
Resilient strength, in adversity's harsh reign,
Pain turned to art, a beauty born of pain.
Though shadows creep, and darkness fills the air,
She stands unbowed, with courage beyond compare.
III. Lotus Blooms in Rain's Gentle Aftermath
After soft rain, the lotus finds its grace,
Roots in the mud, it turns to light's embrace.
Each petal speaks, of journeys long and deep,
Survival's beauty, secrets it will keep.
Through currents soft, and edges sharp and keen,
Her own true path, a tranquil, vibrant scene.
IV. Spark of Hope, in Time's Woven Thread
A spark she is, in darkness' deepest hold,
A golden thread, in time's grand, ancient fold.
Each heartbeat's rhythm, hope's enduring light,
A gentle glow, dispelling darkest night.
___Xiǎo bái lóng___, her spirit's radiant fire,
Compassion's rivers, quenching all desire.
V. Starlight Gaze, Dawn's Gentle Teaching
Her laughter's echo, a sweet, lingering sound,
Deep, knowing eyes, where ancient stars are found.
A smile, a bridge, to dawn's warm, golden ray,
Teaching gentle strength, along life's winding way.
Resilience's grace, and beauty's vibrant art,
The exquisite joy, that lives within the heart.
VI. Treasured Moments, Forever Blooming True
In her sweet presence, moments turn to gold,
A treasure found, a story to unfold.
Wrapped in her spirit, forever blooming fair,
___Xiǎo bái lóng___, a beauty beyond compare.
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC
Autumn Moon rises
Full-faced and bright
Filling the sky
White with hues of orange and red
First of the lunar year
Moonlight dancing
Over the mountains
Beaming through the valley
Reflections on the river
Mountains with the moon above
Amber lights of lanterns
The flicker of candles within
Villagers crowd the banks
Honor, remembrance,
Peace, forgiveness
Riddles light the village streets
Celebrations are in the air
Notes and prayers adorn the water
Prayers for ancestors and luck abound
Tiny lanterns start to glow
The current is gentle
Pulling the gifts from the shore
Drifting downstream
Guided and protected
By the spirit below
Roar of the water
Mist obscures
River falls away
Crashing below
Spirit revealed
Over the edge
Tiny vessels washed away
Updraft catches
Lanterns take flight
Spirit encircles
Spirit soars upwards
Heaven's journey
Serpentine flight
Celestial Guardian
Heaven's palace
Spirit returns
Duty fulfilled
River domain
Benevolent and pure
Slumber awaits as the rain begins to fall
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 2:57 PM UTC
High Moon ascends,
Full and resplendent,
Sky ablaze,
Orange, red, a haze,
Year anew.
Moonbeams dance,
Over the mountains,
Valley aglow,
River reflects low,
Moonlit scene.
Lanterns alight,
Candles flicker bright,
Villagers throng,
Honoring the long,
Yearned-for peace.
Riddles abound,
Joyful sounds resound,
Notes on the stream,
Ancestors' dream,
Lanterns gleam.
Currents so mild,
Gifts drift wild,
Spirits guide,
Down the tide,
Protected all.
Water roars loud,
Mist shrouds the crowd,
River descends,
Spirit extends,
Power revealed.
Over the fall,
Lanterns enthrall,
Updraft takes hold,
Celestial fold,
Spirit ascends.
Soaring high,
Heavenward journey,
Serpentine flight,
Guardian of light,
Palace awaits.
Duty complete,
Spirit retreats,
River's domain,
Pure and serene,
Sleep descends, rain.
Jan 28, 2025
Jan 28, 2025 at 7:14 PM UTC
I have titled this collection of ancient Chinese poems SORROWS OF THE WILD GEESE by HUANG E
Sent to My Husband
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wild geese never fly beyond Hengyang ...
how then can my brocaded words reach Yongchang?
Like wilted willow flowers I am ill-fated indeed;
in that far-off foreign land you feel similar despair.
“Oh, to go home, to go home!” you implore the calendar.
“Oh, if only it would rain, if only it would rain!” I complain to the heavens.
One hears hopeful rumors that you might soon be freed ...
but when will the Golden **** rise in Yelang?
A star called the Golden **** was a symbol of amnesty to the ancient Chinese. Yongchang was a hot, humid region of Yunnan to the south of Hengyang, and was presumably too hot and too far to the south for geese to fly there.
Luo Jiang's Second Complaint
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The green hills vanished,
pedestrians passed by
disappearing beyond curves.
The geese grew silent, the horseshoes timid.
Winter is the most annoying season!
A lone goose vanished into the heavens,
the trees whispered conspiracies in Pingwu,
and people huddling behind buildings shivered.
Bitter Rain, an Aria of the Yellow Oriole
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These ceaseless rains make the spring shiver:
even the flowers and trees look cold!
The roads turn to mud;
the river's eyes are tired and weep into a few bays;
the mountain clouds accumulate like ***** dishes,
and the end of the world seems imminent, if jejune.
I find it impossible to send books:
the geese are ruthless and refuse to fly south to Yunnan!
Broken-Hearted Poem
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My tears cascade into the inkwell;
my broken heart remains at a loss for words;
ever since we held hands and said farewell,
I have been too listless to paint my eyebrows;
no medicine can cure my night-sweats,
no wealth repurchase our lost youth;
and how can I persuade that ****** bird singing in the far hills
to tell a traveler south of the Yangtze to return home?
These are my modern English translations of poems by the Chinese poet Huang E (1498–1569), also known as Huang Xiumei. She has been called the most outstanding female poet of the Ming Dynasty, and her husband its most outstanding male poet. Were they poetry’s first power couple? Her father Huang Ke was a high-ranking official of the Ming court and she married Yang Shen, the prominent son of Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe. Unfortunately for the young power couple, Yang Shen was exiled by the emperor early in their marriage and they lived largely apart for 30 years. During their long separations they would send each other poems which may belong to a genre of Chinese poetry I have dubbed "sorrows of the wild geese."
Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves ...
And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”
Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
Kindred (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Rise, pale disastrous moon!
What is love, but a heightened effect
of time, light and distance?
Did you burn once,
before you became
so remote, so detached,
so coldly, inhumanly lustrous,
before you were able to assume
the very pallor of love itself?
What is the dawn now, to you or to me?
We are as one,
out of favor with the sun.
We would exhume
the white corpse of love
for a last dance,
and yet we will not.
We will let her be,
let her abide,
for she is nothing now,
to you
or to me.
Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).
Breakings
by Michael R. Burch
I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?
I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.
But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch
Like angels—winged,
shimmering, misunderstood—
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.
They are as they are ...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full
and dream of us by day.
Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring—
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ...
to see, to touch, to feel.
Held in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, so old!,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.
Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"
by Michael R. Burch
THE PLAGUE has come again
To darken lives of men
and women, girls and boys;
Death proves their bodies toys
Too frail to even cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Tycoons, what use is wealth?
You cannot buy good health!
Physicians cannot heal
Themselves, to Death must kneel.
Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty’s brightest flower?
Devoured in an hour.
Kings, Queens and Presidents
Are fearful residents
Of manors boarded high.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
We have no means to save
Our children from the grave.
Though cure-alls line our shelves,
We cannot save ourselves.
"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
faith(less)
by Michael R. Burch
Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed
and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.
ah-men!
The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch
Einstein the frizzy-haired
claimed E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!
Ass-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch
Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
claims mass increases with speed.
My (m)ass grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!
Salvation of a Formalist, an Ode to Entropy
by Michael R. Burch
Entropy?
God's universal decree
That I get to be
Disorderly?
Suddenly
My erstwhile boxed-in verse is free?
Wheeeeee!
Keywords/Tags: Chinese poetry, China, sorrow, sorrows, geese, rain, heavens, hills, winter, trees, rivers, mountains, books, birds, spring, springtime, baby, babies, pray, prayer, angels
May 19, 2024
May 19, 2024 at 7:54 AM UTC
China Computer
The laptop was made in the usual place
It was substandard crap designed to fail
With a charger that worked half the time
With a screen that was only half bright
With a keyboard only half sensitive
With a mouse that was half frozen
With a speaker that was only half loud
You get the idea of this piece of junk
Nothing but crap sold by the million
Mass produced throwaway *******
Soon to be dumped in the landfill!
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 9:04 PM UTC
i am not
my mother’s daughter
she is horselike
she is free
she is constant and steady
she is strong
i am
a rabbit
i am
scattered
imprisoned
trapped
i freed myself
i’ll never look back again
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 12:02 PM UTC
The Shijing or Shi Jing or Shih-Ching (“Book of Songs” or “Book of Odes”) is the oldest Chinese poetry collection, with the poems included believed to date from around 1200 BC to 600 BC. According to tradition the poems were selected and edited by Confucius himself. Since most ancient poetry did not rhyme, these may be the world’s oldest extant rhyming poems.
Shijing Ode #4: “JIU MU”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
thick with vines that make them shady,
we find our lovely princely lady:
May she repose in happiness!
In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose clinging vines make hot days shady,
we wish love’s embrace for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!
In the South, beneath trees with drooping branches
whose vines, entwining, make them shady,
we wish true love for our lovely lady:
May she repose in happiness!
Shijing Ode #6: “TAO YAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its flowers are fragrant, and bright.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will manage it well, day and night.
The peach tree is elegant and tender;
its fruits are abundant, and sweet.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it welcome to everyone she greets.
The peach tree is elegant and tender;
it shelters with bough, leaf and flower.
A young lady now enters her future home
and will make it her family’s bower.
Shijing Ode #9: “HAN GUANG”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In the South tall trees without branches
offer men no shelter.
By the Han the girls loiter,
but it’s vain to entice them.
For the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.
When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall thorns to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their horses.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.
When cords of firewood are needed,
I would cut down tall trees to bring them more.
Those girls on their way to their future homes?
I would feed their colts.
But the breadth of the Han
cannot be swum
and the length of the Jiang
requires more than a raft.
Shijing Ode #10: “RU FEN”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches in the brake.
Not seeing my lord
caused me heartache.
By raised banks of the Ru,
I cut down branches by the tide.
When I saw my lord at last,
he did not cast me aside.
The bream flashes its red tail;
the royal court’s a blazing fire.
Though it blazes afar,
still his loved ones are near ...
It was apparently believed that the bream’s tail turned red when it was in danger. Here the term “lord” does not necessarily mean the man in question was a royal himself. Chinese women of that era often called their husbands “lord.” Take, for instance, Ezra Pound’s famous loose translation “The River Merchant’s Wife.” Speaking of Pound, I borrowed the word “brake” from his translation of this poem, although I worked primarily from more accurate translations. In the final line, it may be that the wife or lover is suggesting that no matter what happens, the man in question will have a place to go, or perhaps she is urging him to return regardless. The original poem had “mother and father” rather than “family” or “loved ones,” but in those days young married couples often lived with the husband’s parents. So a suggestion to return to his parents could be a suggestion to return to his wife as well.
Shijing Ode #12: “QUE CHAO”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The nest is the magpie's
but the dove occupies it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will attend her.
The nest is the magpie's
but the dove takes it over.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages will escort her.
The nest is the magpie's
but the dove possesses it.
A young lady’s soon heading to her future home;
a hundred carriages complete her procession.
Shijing Ode #26: “BO ZHOU” from “The Odes of Bei”
ancient Chinese rhyming poem circa (1200 BC - 600 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This cypress-wood boat floats about,
meandering with the current.
Meanwhile, I am distraught and sleepless,
as if inflicted with a painful wound.
Not because I have no wine,
and can’t wander aimlessly about!
But my mind is not a mirror
able to echo all impressions.
Yes, I have brothers,
but they are undependable.
I meet their anger with silence.
My mind is not a stone
to be easily cast aside.
My mind is not a mat
to be conveniently rolled up.
My conduct so far has been exemplary,
with nothing to criticize.
Yet my anxious heart hesitates
because I’m hated by the herd,
inflicted with many distresses,
heaped with insults, not a few.
Silently I consider my case,
until, startled, as if from sleep, I clutch my breast.
Consider the sun and the moon:
how did the latter exceed the former?
Now sorrow clings to my heart
like an unwashed dress.
Silently I consider my options,
but lack the wings to fly away.
The Song of Magpies
Lady ** (circa 300 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The magpies nest on the Southern hill.
You set your nets on the Northern hill.
The magpies escape, soar free.
What good are your nets?
When magpies fly free, in pairs,
why should they envy phoenixes?
Although I’m a lowly woman,
why should I envy the Duke of Sung?
A Song of White Hair
by Chuo Wen-chun (2nd century BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My love is pure, as my hair is pure.
White, like the mountain snow.
White, like the moon among clouds.
But I lately discovered you are double-minded.
Thus, we must sever.
Today we pledged our love over a goblet of wine.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk alone
beside the dismal moat,
watching the frigid water
flow east, and west,
dismal myself in the bitter weather.
Should love bring only tears?
All I wanted was a man
with a single heart and mind,
for then we would have lived together
as our hair turned white.
Not someone who wriggled fish
with his big bamboo pole!
A loyal man
Is better than rubies.
Spring Song
by Meng Chu (3rd century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One sunny spring, either March or April,
when the water and grass were the same color,
I met a young man loitering in the road.
How I wish that I’d met him sooner!
Now each sunny spring, whether March or April,
when the water and grass are the same color,
I reach up to pluck flowers from the vines;
their perfume reminds me of my lover’s breath.
Four years, now five, I have awaited you,
as my vigil turned love into grief.
How I wish we could meet in that same lonely place
where I would have surrendered my body
completely to your embraces!
A Song of Hsi-Ling Lake
by Su Hsiao-hsiao (5th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I ride in red carriage.
You canter by on dappled blue stallion.
Where shall we tie our hearts
into a binding love knot?
Beside Hsi-ling Lake beneath the cypress trees.
A Greeting for Lu Hung-Chien
by Li Yeh (8th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The last time you left
the moon shone white over winter frosts.
Now you have returned through a dismal fog
to visit me, still lying here ill.
When I struggle to speak, the tears start.
You urge me to drink T’ao Chien’s wine
while I chant Hsieh Ling-yun’s words of welcome.
It’s good to get drunk now and then:
what else can an invalid do?
Creamy *******
by Chao Luan-Luan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Scented with talcum, moist with perspiration,
like pegs of jade inlaid in a harp,
aroused by desire, yet soft as cream,
fertile amid a warm mist
after my bath, as my lover perfumes them,
cups them and plays with them,
cool as melons and purple grapes.
Life in the Palace
by Lady Hua Jui
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At the first of the month
money to buy flowers
for several thousand waiting women
was awarded to the palaces.
But when my name was called,
I was not there
because I was occupied
lasciviously posing
before the emperor’s bed.
The End of Spring
by Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wind ceases,
now nothing is left of Spring but fragrant pollen.
Although it’s late in the day,
I’ve been too exhausted to comb my hair.
The furniture remains the same
but he no longer exists
leaving me unable to move.
When I try to speak, tears choke me.
I hear that Spring is still beautiful
at Two Rivers
and I had hoped to take a boat there,
but now I’m afraid that my little boat
will never reach Two Rivers,
so laden with heavy sorrow.
Sung to the tune of “I Paint My Lips Red”
by an anonymous courtesan or Li Ch’ing-Chao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
After swinging and kicking lasciviously,
I get off to rouge my palms.
Like dew on a delicate flower,
perspiration soaks my thin dress.
A new guest enters
and my stockings flop,
my hairpins fall out.
Pretending embarrassment, I flee,
then lean flirtatiously against the door,
******* a green plum.
Spring Night, to the tune of “Panning Gold”
by Chu Shu-Chen
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My jade body
remains as lovely as that long-ago evening
when, for the first time,
you turned me away from the lamplight
to unfasten the belt of my embroidered skirt.
Now our sheets and pillows have grown cold
and that evening’s incense has faded.
Beyond the shuttered courtyard
even Spring seems silent, forlorn.
Flowers wilt with the rain these long evenings.
Agony enters my dreams,
making me all the more helpless
and hopeless.
The Day Nears
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The day nears
when I will once again
share the sheets and pillows
I have stored away.
When once more I will shyly
allow you to undress me,
then gently
expose my sealed jewel.
How can I ever describe
the ten thousand beautiful,
sensual ways you always fill me?
Sung to the tune of “Soaring Clouds”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You held my lotus blossom
between your lips
and nibbled the pistil.
One piece of magic rhinoceros horn
and we were up all night.
All night the ***** magnificent crest
stood *****
All night the bee fumbled
with the flower’s stamens.
O, my delicate perfumed jewel!
Only my lord may possess my
sacred lotus pond,
for only he can make my flower
blossom with fire.
Sung to the tune of “Red Embroidered Shoes”
by Huang O
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If you don’t know what you’re doing, why pretend?
Perhaps you can fool foolish girls,
but not Ecstasy itself!
I hoped you’d play with the lotus blossom beneath my green kimono,
like a ****** with a courtesan,
but it turns out all you can do is fumble and mumble.
You made me slick wet,
but no matter how “hard” you try,
nothing results.
So give up,
find someone else to leave
unsatisfied.
The Letter
by Shao Fei-fei (17th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I trim the wick, then, weeping by lamplight,
write this letter, to be sealed, then sent ten thousand miles,
telling you how wretched I am,
and begging you to free my aching body.
Dear mother, what has become of my bride price?
Chixiao (“The Owl”)
by Duke Zhou (c. 1100-1000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Owl!
You've stolen my offspring,
Don't shatter my nest!
When with labors of love
I nurtured my fledglings.
Before the skies darkened
And the dark rains fell,
I gathered mulberry twigs
To thatch my nest,
Yet scoundrels now dare
Impugn my enterprise.
With fingers chafed rough
By the reeds I plucked
And the straw I threshed,
I now write these words,
Too hoarse to speak:
I am homeless!
My wings are withered,
My tail torn away,
My home toppled
And tossed into the rain,
My cry a distressed peep.
The Duke of Zhou (circa 1100-1000 BC), a member of the Zhou Dynasty also known as Ji Dan, played a major role in Chinese history and culture. He has been called “probably the first real person to step over the threshold of myth into Chinese history” and he may be the first Chinese poet we know by name today, and the spiritual ancestor of Confucius as well.
Seeking a Mooring
by **** Wei
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A leaf drifts through infinite space,
a cold wind rends distant clouds.
The river flows seaward,
the tide repulses.
Beyond the moonlit reeds,
in unseen villages, I hear
fullers’ mallets
pounding wet clothing,
preparing for winter.
Crickets cry ceaselessly,
mourning the autumn frost.
A traveler’s thoughts
wander ten thousand miles
in such a night of strange dreams.
The tinkling sounds of bells
cannot disperse sorrows to come.
What will I remember
of this journey’s darkest hour?
Only ghostly veils of desolate mist
and a single fishing boat.
** Shuang-Ch’ing aka Shuangqing has been called “China's peasant woman poet.” She wrote in the 18th century.
To the tune “A Watered Silk Dress”
by ** Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Deepest feelings are hardest to divulge.
How to reveal a hidden love?
Swallowed tears well up again, return.
My hands twist, wilted flowers.
I lean speechless against my screen.
I’m frightened by my figure in the mirror,
a too-thin, wasted woman.
Not a springtime face,
nor an autumn face:
can this be Shuang-ch'ing?
To the tune “Washing Silk in the Stream”
by ** Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The warm rain falls unfelt
like delicate silk threads.
The farmer ***** a flower behind his ear,
trundles the grain from his field
to the threshing-room floor.
I rose early to water his field,
but he snapped I was too early.
I cooked millet for him
with smoke-reddened eyes
but he snapped I was too late.
My tender bottom was sore the entire day.
Bitter Rain
by Wu Tsao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitter rain drenches my courtyard
as autumn wilts into winter.
I have only vague feelings
I’m unable to assemble into poems
because words diffuse with the drifting clouds and leaves.
After the golden sunset the cold moon rises out of a dismal mist.
But I will not draw down the blinds from their silver hooks.
Rather, my dreams will fly with the wind,
suffering the bitter cold,
to the jasper pagoda of your divine flesh.
LAO TZU
For Martin Mc Carthy, who put me up to all but the first translation.
Lao Tzu poems from the Dàodé Jing or Tao-Teh-Ching (“Scripture of the Way”):
An unbending tree
breaks easily.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothing is weaker or gentler than water,
yet nothing can prevail against it.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That the yielding overcomes the resistant is known by all men
yet utilized by none.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why does the Sea exceed all streams? Because it does not exalt itself but is the more lowly. Even so, the sage.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sage wears coarse clothes while concealing jade within his *****
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sage does not hoard; having bestowed everything on others, he smiles, content.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When his last scrap has been spent on others, the sage is the richer still.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sage does not exalt himself; he prefers what is within to what is without.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heaven’s net is vast but nothing slips through its mesh.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Daring boldness kills; boldness in not daring saves.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To recognize knowledge as ignorance is a noble insight.
To consider ignorance knowledge, a disease.
Because the sage recognizes flaws, he can be flawless.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ruling a large state is like broiling a bony fish.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ruling a large state is like poaching an octopus.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Way of Heaven is like stringing a bow:
it brings down the high as it elevates the low.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wise don’t aggrandize their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wise don’t vice their virtue.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Be Like Water
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The highest virtue resembles water
because water unselfishly benefits all life,
then settles, without contention or needless strife,
in lowly cisterns.
Weep for the Dead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When seeing mounds of the dead
the virtuous weep for the loss of life.
When one is “victorious”
observe the mourning rites.
Avoid Boasting
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rather than overfilling,
it’s better to stop in time
and avoid overspilling.
Though you hone it to a point,
the edge will soon be blunt.
Though the salesman’s exploits are crowed,
in the end, what real good was his gold?
Reticence, when the day’s work is done,
Is the Way of Heaven.
The Wise
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The multitudes satisfy their eyes, tummies and ears, again and again,
while the wise consider them children.
Naming the Nameless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tao can be discussed, but never the Eternal Tao.
Names can be named, but never the Eternal Name.
There are known paths yet the Way remains uncharted.
The origin of the universe must be forever nameless
unless we call her the Mother of All.
Always the Secret awaits insight.
Thus when seeking the Ever-Hidden, we must consider its inner essence;
when seeking the Always-Manifest, we must consider its outer aspects.
Both flow freely from the same source, despite their different appellations
and both are rightly called mysteries.
The Mystery of mysteries is the Gateway to all Secrets,
the Door to all beginnings.
The Fountainhead
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tao is all-pervasive,
an empty vessel yet fathomless,
the bottomless fountainhead from which everything springs!
It blunts the keen,
untangles the tied,
softens the glare,
harmonizes the light,
redistributes the dust motes more evenly,
resolves all complications.
A profoundly deep pool that is never exhausted,
the unknowable child who fathered the gods.
The Divine Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Spirit is limitless.
We call it the Divine Feminine,
from whom Heaven and Earth arose
and in whom they remain deeply rooted.
Delicate as gossamer, only dimly seen,
yet infinitely flexible, her strength inexhaustible.
The Valley Spirit
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The valley Spirit never runs dry,
the river to whom all waters run:
the Spirit of our Primal Mother.
Deeply rooting Heaven and Earth,
to most eyes a delicate veil dimly seen,
yet a never-failing Fountainhead.
Adhere to the Feminine
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Know the masculine
but adhere to the feminine
and be a valley to the sphere.
For if you’re a valley
constant virtue won’t desert you
and you’ll return to the innocence of infancy.
Know the bright
but stick to the shadows
and be an example for the realm.
For if you’re an example for the realm,
constant virtue will accompany you
and you’ll return to the Infinite.
Know the glorious
but adhere to the humble
and be a valley to the Sphere.
For if you’re a valley,
your constant virtue will be complete
and you’ll return to the uncarved block
the great Cutter does not cut away.
The World-Mother
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Something formed out of chaos,
born before heaven and earth,
inexpressible and void, is never renewed,
yet continues forever without failing:
the World-Mother.
I don’t know her name,
so I call her the Way.
Earth reflects the heavens;
the heavens reflect the Way;
the Way reflects all that is.
The Wisdom of Contraries
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s easy to control something at rest;
easy to handle the undeveloped;
easy to shatter the brittle;
easy to disperse the minute;
easy to deal with things before they get out of hand;
easy to manage affairs before they escalate.
A tree as wide as a man’s arms
sprang from a tiny seed.
A nine-story tower
rose from rock piles.
A journey of ten thousand leagues
begins with a single step.
Whoever meddles begets ruin.
Whoever grasps soon lets go.
The wise understand the advantages of non-action;
They lose nothing by not grasping and clinging,
while foolish people in their enterprises
often fail on the brink of success.
Be mindful from beginning to end
if you want to avoid failure.
The wise desire to be desireless;
they place no value on what is unavailable.
They learn how to live without learning,
yet correct the errors of scholars.
They advise conformity to nature
and avoid rash actions.
The Roots of Turbulence
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heaviness lies at the root of lightness;
stillness begets turbulence.
Thus the nobleman heads his caravan
keeping a constant eye on his possession-laden wagons.
At night he sleeps secure behind high-walled towers,
undaunted and untroubled.
But how can the ruler of ten thousand chariots
discard the people so lightly from his thoughts?
The branch too high above the root is lost;
the aloof ruler is lost through turbulence.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rills to the Sea
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Way is nameless.
The uncarved block is small,
but who dares claim it?
The world’s relation to the Way
is like rills’
to the Rivers and Seas.
True Greatness is Selfless
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like the broadest River
the Way cannot be rerouted or deterred.
And while myriad creatures depend on it for life,
it imposes no authority
but works tirelessly without acclamation,
feeding its dependants without seeking to rule them.
Free of desires, it may be deemed “small,”
but because myriad creatures depend on it,
it may also be considered “great.”
And because it never claims greatness,
it is capable of greatness.
When the Way Holds Sway
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the Way holds sway,
farm horses plough fertile fields;
but when it fails to prevail,
war-horses breed on closed borders.
There’s no greater crime
than to pander to needless desires,
no sickness worse
than not knowing what’s enough,
no greater disaster
than covetousness.
But whoever knows what’s enough
will be content with his fate.
The Way
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Way creates and nurtures all creatures,
rears and nourishes them,
sustains and matures them,
feeds and shelters them,
grants them life without possession,
benefits them but asks no thanks,
guides but imposes no authority.
Such is the mysterious virtue.
The Greatest of These Is Compassion
by Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The world calls my Way vast,
says it resembles nothing else.
Precisely! And its vastness is why
my Way resembles nothing else.
For if it resembled anything else,
wouldn’t it then be small?
I have three treasures
that I cling to, and cherish.
First, compassion.
Second, moderation.
Third, not rashly advancing myself.
Being compassionate, I can show courage.
Being moderate, I can be generous.
Not rashly taking the lead, I can command.
Courage without compassion,
Generosity without moderation,
Leading from in front rather than from behind,
are certain to end in catastrophe.
With compassion you will win at war
and be invincible in peace,
for Heaven will protect you
when you act with compassion.
Keywords/Tags: Shijing, Shi-Jing, Shih-Ching, translation, book, songs, odes, Confucius, Chinese, ancient, rhyme, rhyming, love, nature
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 4:07 AM UTC
Lost Sailing
The boat sails this way and that
Round around the waters
Lost its rudder a while ago
Like a person with no eyes
Going about by feel alone
Wondering how it happened?
Up **** creek no **** paddle
These things happen like life
Made in Red China kaput
Low quality crap made bad
Mass produced ****
Sold to us by the CCP turtles
Like the boat going round
But that's fine the crew
Tho minus a rudder
Are drinking a dozen beers
No cares for this world
Or the next sailing there
In a rudderless boat
Is the boat on the Styx
Also without a rudder?
And made by the Chinese?
What does the ferryman think?
All fine as long as you pay
Coins on a dead person's eye
Chinese currency refused
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 5:47 PM UTC
I am from incense
From water and candles
I am from the three prostrations
needed to enter the baai san (prayer room).
(cold, smooth, watchful tapestries)
I am from the pecan shells, the tree whose nuts
and leaves left small hills of muddy layers
I'm from ginger to contacts
From Ly to Tran
I'm from the headstrong
and the never-wrong
From mou jung! (useless)
and hou gaawi! (how obedient)
I'm from Nama Amituofo with Cha Lua
and Taking Refuge in the Gurus,
Buddha,
Dharma,
and Sangha
I’m from Sugar Land and Bellaire,
2% milk and Pork Sung sandwiches.
From Dad forcing my brother to stare at green
to fight our genetic astigmatism
to Mom making us chant mantras
with rosary beads on the way to school
In the neighborhood pool,
I pushed away floating junebugs
I am those moments—
Chalk on the cul-de-sac
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
*
*Tears bestirs the moon
Heart dangles as willow weeps
Cruel, her love short lived*
*
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 3:41 AM UTC
Cunning ones, with nine-tails and orbs of power,
Beautiful women luring men to devour.
Honored ones, bringing bountiful harvests,
Whom villagers share their food and drink.
They are loyal companions, playful tricksters,
Messengers and harbingers.
They do not serve a single master.
(They are not human, no matter the smile, the enchanting eyes,
Do not forget that.)
--
The fox returns another stormy night, banging loudly on front gates.
(No one else awakes to answer)
They wear human clothes; they wear her face.
“What are you here for?” the girl asks, bright-eyed and unafraid.
The fox walks forward, on the tips of its feet, swaying and smiling with too many teeth.
“Are you here to grant me a wish?” Because the girl has heard of stories like this.
“Do you want me to?” Said with childlike glee. “What would you give in exchange to me?”
The girl shakes her head and asks once more, “Tell me what you are here for.”
“To thank you.” They dangle a small cloth pouch.
Winds howl. Rain washes over the ledge.
“I want something else.”
The fox sounds a barking laugh. “You? Make demands of me?” The glint in its eyes says
little boys and girls are what I eat. I wear their skulls and charm their hearts,
until all that’s left is an empty shell
and my own divine immortality.
A shake of a head, begetting rain drops. “A bargain, a simple trade. I teach you and you teach me.”
To capture youth and bottle up light.
To gaze past the heavens, to move earth under my feet,
let me see it all, this universe, its secrets and its mysteries.
“And what will you teach me?”
The girl, Abril, smiles, a little too wide, and full of teeth.
“I will teach you to be human.”
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 6:15 PM UTC
Uyghur Poetry Translations
With my translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets and their people, who are being sent in large numbers to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps which have been praised by Trump as "exactly" what is "needed."
Perhat Tursun (1969-????) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. Apparently no one knows his present whereabouts or condition.
Because Perhat Tursun quoted Hermann Hesse I have included my translations of Hesse at the bottom of this page, including "Stages" or "Steps" from his novel "The Glass Bead Game" and excerpts from "Siddhartha."
Elegy
by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"Your soul is the entire world."
―Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?
Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?
In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?
When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes,...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?
In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?
TRANSLATOR NOTES: This is my interpretation (not necessarily correct) of the poem's frozen corpses left 300 years in the past. For the Uyghur people the Mongol period ended around 1760 when the Qing dynasty invaded their homeland, then called Dzungaria. Around a million people were slaughtered during the Qing takeover, and the Dzungaria territory was renamed Xinjiang. I imagine many Uyghurs fleeing the slaughters would have attempted to navigate treacherous mountain passes. Many of them may have died from starvation and/or exposure, while others may have been caught and murdered by their pursuers.
The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”
I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.
After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.
While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.
Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.
For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.
Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.
The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.
The Encounter
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God.
I asked her, anything else? She said her People.
I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul.
I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not.
The Distance
by Tahir Hamut
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades.
Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building
the nurses watch our outlandish party
with their absurdly distorted faces.
Drinking watered-down liquor,
half-nude, descanting through the open window,
we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls.
The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in,
wrecking critical parts of our dissertations.
The others dream up excuses to ditch me
and I’m left here alone.
The cosmopolitan pyramid
of drained bottles
makes me feel
like I’m in a Turkish bath.
I lock the door:
Time to get back to work!
I feel like doing cartwheels.
I feel like self-annihilation.
Refuge of a Refugee
by Ablet Abdurishit Berqi aka Tarim
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lack a passport,
so I can’t leave legally.
All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety,
but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border
and I can’t afford the trafficker.
I’m a smuggler of love,
though love has no national identity.
Poetry is my refuge,
where a refugee is most free.
The following excerpts, translated by Anne Henochowicz, come from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abdurishit Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants...
I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through?
Chen Quanguo, the Communist Party secretary of Xinjiang, has said it’s “like the instruction at school, the order of the military, and the security of prison. We have to break their blood relations, their networks, and their roots.”
On a scorching summer day, Tarim came to Tel Aviv from Haifa. In a few days he would go back to Urumqi. I invited him to come say goodbye and once again prepared Sichuan cold noodles for him. He had already unfriended me on Facebook. He said he couldn’t eat, he was busy, and had to hurry back to Haifa. He didn’t even stay for twenty minutes. I can’t even remember, did he sit down? Did he have a glass of water? Yet this farewell shook me to my bones.
He said, “Maybe when I get off the plane, before I enter the airport, they’ll take me to a separate room and beat me up, and I’ll disappear.”
Looking at my shocked face, he then said, “And maybe nothing will happen …”
His expression was sincere. To be honest, the Tarim I saw rarely smiled. Still, layer upon layer blocked my powers of comprehension: he’s a poet, a writer, and a scholar. He’s an associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute. He can get a passport and come to Israel for advanced studies. When he goes back he’ll have an offer from Sichuan University to be a professor of literature … I asked, “Beat you up at the airport? Disappear? On what grounds?”
“That’s how Xinjiang is,” he said without any surprise in his voice. “When a Uyghur comes back from being abroad, that can happen.”…
This poem helps us understand the nomadic lifestyle of many Uyghurs, the hardships they endure, and the character it builds...
Iz (“Traces”)
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We were children when we set out on this journey;
Now our grandchildren ride horses.
We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey;
Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert.
We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys
Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves.
But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars
their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers!
We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance;
The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains.
The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin,
But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces.
The original Uyghur poem:
Yax iduq muxkul seperge atlinip mangghanda biz,
Emdi atqa mingidek bolup qaldi ene nevrimiz.
Az iduq muxkul seperge atlinip chiqanda biz,
Emdi chong karvan atalduq, qaldurup chollerde iz.
Qaldi iz choller ara, gayi davanlarda yene,
Qaldi ni-ni arslanlar dexit cholde qevrisiz.
Qevrisiz qaldi dimeng yulghun qizarghan dalida,
Gul-chichekke pukinur tangna baharda qevrimiz.
Qaldi iz, qaldi menzil, qaldi yiraqta hemmisi,
Chiqsa boran, kochse qumlar, hem komulmes izimiz.
Tohtimas karvan yolida gerche atlar bek oruq,
Tapqus hichbolmisa, bu izni bizning nevrimiz, ya chevrimiz.
Other poems of note by Abdurehim Otkur include "I Call Forth Spring" and "Waste, You Traitors, Waste!"
My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.
The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.
Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.
Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.
To My Brother the Warrior
by Téyipjan Éliyow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When I accompanied you,
the commissioners called me a child.
If only I had been a bit taller
I might have proved myself in battle!
The commission could not have known
my commitment, despite my youth.
If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me,
I'd have given that enemy rabble hell!
Now, brother, I’m an adult.
Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon.
Soon enough, I’ll be by your side,
battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender!
Another poem of note by Téyipjan Éliyow is "Neverending Song."
Keywords/Tags: Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, elegy, Kafka, China, Chinese, reeducation, prison, concentration camp, desert, nomad, nomadic, race, racism, discrimination, Islam, Islamic, Muslim, mrbuyghur
Chinese Poets: English Translations
These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang E, Huang O, Li Bai, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo.
Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The spring breeze knows partings are bitter;
The willow twig knows it will never be green again.
A Toast to Uncle Yun
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords;
Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine.
The Solitude of Night
by Li Bai (701–762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At the wine party
I lay comatose, knowing nothing.
Windblown flowers fell, perfuming my lap.
When I arose, still drunk,
The birds had all flown to their nests.
All that remained were my fellow inebriates.
I left to walk along the river—alone with the moonlight.
Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure who has been called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, which has been called the 'Golden Age of Chinese poetry.' Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T'ai-po, and Li T'ai-pai.
Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alone in your bedchamber
you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon.
Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an...
A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets!
In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade!
Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?
Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight the Fu-Chou moon
watches your lonely bedroom.
Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an...
By now your hair will be damp from your bath
and fall in perfumed ringlets;
your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight!
Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?
Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries querulously for his companions.
Who feels kinship for that strange wraith
as he vanishes eerily into the heavens?
You watch it as it disappears;
its plaintive calls cut through you.
The indignant crows ignore you both:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.
Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means 'Long-peace.'
The Red Cockatoo
by Po Chu-I (772-846)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A marvelous gift from Annam—
a red cockatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.
So they did what they always do
to the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred cage
and shut it up.
Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi.
The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c.1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The migrant songbird on the nearby yew
brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills:
another spring gone, and still no word from you...
The Plum Blossoms
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c.1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This year with the end of autumn
I find my reflection graying at the edges.
Now evening gales hammer these ledges...
what shall become of the plum blossoms?
Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi'an.
Star Gauge
Sui Hui (c.351-394 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
So much lost so far away
on that distant rutted road.
That distant rutted road
wounds me to the heart.
Grief coupled with longing,
so much lost so far away.
Grief coupled with longing
wounds me to the heart.
This house without its master;
the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils.
The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils,
and you are not here.
Such loneliness! My adorned face
lacks the mirror's clarity.
I see by the mirror's clarity
my Lord is not here. Such loneliness!
Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. And her 'Star Gauge' or 'Sphere Map' may be the most impressive poem written in any language to this day, in terms of complexity. 'Star Gauge' has been described as a palindrome or 'reversible' poem, but it goes far beyond that. According to contemporary sources, the original poem was shuttle-woven on brocade, in a circle, so that it could be read in multiple directions. Due to its shape the poem is also called Xuanji Tu ('Picture of the Turning Sphere') . The poem is now generally placed in a grid or matrix so that the Chinese characters can be read horizontally, vertically and diagonally. The story behind the poem is that Sui Hui's husband, Dou Tao, the governor of Qinzhou, was exiled to the desert. When leaving his wife, Dou swore to remain faithful. However, after arriving at his new post, he took a concubine. Lady Su then composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of silk embroidery, and sent it to him. Upon receiving the masterwork, he repented. It has been claimed that there are up to 7,940 ways to read the poem. My translation above is just one of many possible readings of a portion of the poem.
Reflection
Xu Hui (627-650)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Confronting the morning she faces her mirror;
Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile.
It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile,
So why would she answer a man's summons?
Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her.
Waves
Zhai Yongming (1955-)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly,
and so the world abuses my body—
accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy...
Monologue
Zhai Yongming (1955-)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am a wild thought, born of the abyss
and—only incidentally—of you. The earth and sky
combine in me—their concubine—they consolidate in my body.
I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh,
and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you.
I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women.
Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit.
When you leave, my pain makes me want to ***** my heart up through my mouth—
to destroy you through love—where's the taboo in that?
The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body.
I have my ways.
A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me?
What is life?
Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. She was one of the instigators and prime movers of the 'Black Tornado' of women's poetry that swept China in 1986-1989. Since then Zhai has been regarded as one of China's most prominent poets.
Pyre
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You and I share so much desire:
this love―like a fire—
that ends in a pyre's
charred coffin.
'Married Love' or 'You and I' or 'The Song of You and Me'
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You and I shared a love that burned like fire:
two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire
molded into twin figures. We two.
Me and you.
In life we slept beneath a single quilt,
so in death, why any guilt?
Let the skeptics keep scoffing:
it's best to share a single coffin.
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. A famous poet of the early Yuan dynasty, she has also been called 'the most famous female painter and calligrapher in the Chinese history... remembered not only as a talented woman, but also as a prominent figure in the history of bamboo painting.' She is best known today for her images of nature and her tendency to inscribe short poems on her paintings.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I heard my love was going to Yang-chou
So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan.
For just a moment as he held me in his arms
I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Will I ever hike up my dress for you again?
Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night descends...
I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover.
Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt;
I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window;
If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly,
I'll blame it on the unruly wind!
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When he returns to my embrace,
I'll make him feel what no one has ever felt before:
Me absorbing him like water
Poured into a wet clay jar.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze.
Night deepens.
My lover loves me,
And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Do you not see
that we
have become like branches of a single tree?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed!
I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere―
disembodied voices calling my name!
Helplessly I cried 'Yes! ' to the phantom air!
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have brought my pillow to the windowsill
so come play with me, tease me, as in the past...
Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses,
how much longer can love last?
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no?
But your disdain for me is nothing new.
Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door
where no one enters anymore.
Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I remain constant as the Northern Star
while you rush about like the fickle sun:
rising in the East, drooping in the West.
Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c.400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ('midnight songs') . Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a 'sing-song' girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a 'wine shop girl' and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po) was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very **** poems of the 'sing-song' girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's 'The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter.' If the ancient 'sing-song' girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch
The Day after the Rain
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I love the day after the rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart endlessly rises with wind,
gusts with wind...
away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves...
away the clouds like smoke...
vanishing like smoke...
Music Heard Late at Night
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
for Xu Zhimo
I blushed,
hearing the lovely nocturnal tune.
The music touched my heart;
I embraced its sadness, but how to respond?
The pattern of life was established eons ago:
so pale are the people's imaginations!
Perhaps one day You and I
can play the chords of hope together.
It must be your fingers gently playing
late at night, matching my sorrow.
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) , also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin.
Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again
Xu Zhimo (1897-1931)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
quietly I wave good-bye
to the sky's dying flame.
The riverside's willows
like lithe, sunlit brides
reflected in the waves
move my heart's tides.
Weeds moored in dark sludge
sway here, free of need,
in the Cam's gentle wake...
O, to be a waterweed!
Beneath shady elms
a nebulous rainbow
crumples and reforms
in the soft ebb and flow.
Seek a dream? Pole upstream
to where grass is greener;
rig the boat with starlight;
sing aloud of love's splendor!
But how can I sing
when my song is farewell?
Even the crickets are silent.
And who should I tell?
So quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
gently I flick my sleeves...
not a wisp will remain.
(6 November 1928)
Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include 'On Leaving Cambridge, ' 'Second Farewell to Cambridge, ' 'Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, ' and 'Taking Leave of Cambridge Again.'
These are my modern English translations of poems by the Chinese poet Huang E (1498-1569) , also known as Huang Xiumei. She has been called the most outstanding female poet of the Ming Dynasty, and her husband its most outstanding male poet. Were they poetry's first power couple? Her father Huang Ke was a high-ranking official of the Ming court and she married Yang Shen, the prominent son of Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe. Unfortunately for the young power couple, Yang Shen was exiled by the emperor early in their marriage and they lived largely apart for 30 years. During their long separations they would send each other poems which may belong to a genre of Chinese poetry I have dubbed 'sorrows of the wild geese' …
Sent to My Husband
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The wild geese never fly beyond Hengyang...
how then can my brocaded words reach Yongchang?
Like wilted willow flowers I am ill-fated indeed;
in that far-off foreign land you feel similar despair.
'Oh, to go home, to go home! ' you implore the calendar.
'Oh, if only it would rain, if only it would rain! ' I complain to the heavens.
One hears hopeful rumors that you might soon be freed...
but when will the Golden **** rise in Yelang?
A star called the Golden **** was a symbol of amnesty to the ancient Chinese. Yongchang was a hot, humid region of Yunnan to the south of Hengyang, and was presumably too hot and too far to the south for geese to fly there.
Luo Jiang's Second Complaint
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The green hills vanished,
pedestrians passed by
disappearing beyond curves.
The geese grew silent, the horseshoes timid.
Winter is the most annoying season!
A lone goose vanished into the heavens,
the trees whispered conspiracies in Pingwu,
and people huddling behind buildings shivered.
Bitter Rain, an Aria of the Yellow Oriole
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These ceaseless rains make the spring shiver:
even the flowers and trees look cold!
The roads turn to mud;
the river's eyes are tired and weep into in a few bays;
the mountain clouds accumulate like ***** dishes,
and the end of the world seems imminent, if jejune.
I find it impossible to send books:
the geese are ruthless and refuse to fly south to Yunnan!
Broken-Hearted Poem
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My tears cascade into the inkwell;
my broken heart remains at a loss for words;
ever since we held hands and said farewell,
I have been too listless to paint my eyebrows;
no medicine can cure my night-sweats,
no wealth repurchase our lost youth;
and how can I persuade that ****** bird singing in the far hills
to tell a traveler south of the Yangtze to return home?
Hermann Hesse
Hermann Karl Hesse (1877-1962) was a German-Swiss poet, novelist, essayist, painter and mystic. Hesse’s best-known works include Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, Demian, Narcissus and Goldmund and The Glass Bead Game. One of Germany’s greatest writers, Hesse was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1946.
"Stages" or "Steps"
by Hermann Hesse
from his novel The Glass Bead Game
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As every flower wilts and every youth
must wilt and exit life from a curtained stage,
so every virtue—even our truest truth—
blooms some brief time and cannot last forever.
Since life may summons death at any age
we must prepare for death’s obscene endeavor,
meet our end with courage and without remorse,
forego regret and hopes of some reprieve,
embrace death’s end, as life’s required divorce,
some new beginning, calling us to live.
Thus let us move, serene, beyond our fear,
and let no sentiments detain us here.
The Universal Spirit would not chain us,
but elevates us slowly, stage by stage.
If we demand a halt, our fears restrain us,
caught in the webs of creaturely defense.
We must prepare for imminent departure
or else be bound by foolish “permanence.”
Death’s hour may be our swift deliverance,
from which we speed to fresher, newer spaces,
and Life may summons us to bolder races.
So be it, heart! Farewell, and adieu, then!
The Poet
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Only upon me, the lonely one,
Do this endless night’s stars shine
As the fountain gurgles its faery song.
For me alone, the lonely one,
The shadows of vagabond clouds
Float like dreams over slumbering farms.
What is mine lies beyond possession:
Neither manor, nor pasture,
Neither forest, nor hunting permit …
What is mine belongs to no one:
The plunging brook beyond the veiling woods,
The terrifying sea,
The chick-like chatter of children at play,
The weeping and singing of a lonely man longing for love.
The temples of the gods are mine, also,
And the distant past’s aristocratic castles.
And mine, no less, the luminous vault of heaven,
My future home …
Often in flights of longing my soul soars heavenward,
Hoping to gaze on the halls of the blessed,
Where Love, overcoming the Law, unconditional Love for All,
Leaves them all nobly transformed:
Farmers, kings, tradesman, bustling sailors,
Shepherds, gardeners, one and all,
As they gratefully celebrate their heavenly festivals.
Only the poet is unaccompanied:
The lonely one who continues alone,
The recounter of human longing,
The one who sees the pale image of a future,
The fulfillment of a world
That has no further need of him.
Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one cares or remembers him.
On a Journey to Rest
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Don't be downcast, the night is soon over;
then we can watch the pale moon hover
over the dawning land
as we rest, hand in hand,
laughing secretly to ourselves.
Don't be downcast, the time will soon come
when we, too, can rest
(our small crosses will stand, blessed,
on the edge of the road together;
the rain, then the snow will fall,
and the winds come and go)
heedless of the weather.
Lonesome Night
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dear brothers, who are mine,
All people, near and far,
Wishing on every star,
Imploring relief from pain;
My brothers, stumbling, dumb,
Each night, as pale stars ache,
Lift thin, limp hands for crumbs,
mutter and suffer, awake;
Poor brothers, commonplace,
Pale sailors, who must live
Without a bright guide above,
We share a common face.
Return my welcome.
How Heavy the Days
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How heavy the days.
Not a fire can warm me,
Nor a sun brighten me!
Everything barren,
Everything bare,
Everything utterly cold and merciless!
Now even the once-beloved stars
Look distantly down,
Since my heart learned
Love can die.
Without You
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My pillow regards me tonight
Comfortless as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To face the night alone,
Not to lie asleep entangled in your hair.
I lie alone in this silent house,
The hanging lamp softly dimmed,
Then gently extend my hands
To welcome yours …
Softly press my warm mouth
To yours …
Only to kiss myself,
Then suddenly I'm awake
And the night grows colder still.
The star in the window winks knowingly.
Where is your blonde hair,
Your succulent mouth?
Now I drink pain in every former delight,
Find poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To face the night alone,
Alone, without you.
Secretly We Thirst…
by Hermann Hesse
from his novel The Glass Bead Game
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Charismatic, spiritual, with the gracefulness of arabesques,
our lives resemble fairies’ pirouettes,
spinning gently through the nothingness
to which we sacrifice our beings and the present.
Whirling dreams of quintessence and loveliness,
like breathing in perfect harmony,
while beneath your bright surface
blackness broods, longing for blood and barbarity.
Spinning aimlessly in emptiness,
dancing (as if without distress), always ready to play,
yet, secretly, we thirst for reality
for the conceiving, for the birth pangs, for suffering and death.
Doch heimlich dürsten wir…
Anmutig, geistig, arabeskenzart
Scheint unser Leben sich wie das von Feen
In sanften Tänzen um das Nichts zu drehen,
Dem wir geopfert Sein und Gegenwart.
Schönheit der Träume, holde Spielerei,
So hingehaucht, so reinlich abgestimmt,
Tief unter deiner heiteren Fläche glimmt
Sehnsucht nach Nacht, nach Blut, nach Barbarei.
Im Leeren dreht sich, ohne Zwang und Not,
Frei unser Leben, stets zum Spiel bereit,
Doch heimlich dürsten wir nach Wirklichkeit,
Nach Zeugung und Geburt, nach Leid und Tod.
Across The Fields
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Across the sky, the clouds sweep,
Across the fields, the wind blunders,
Across the fields, the lost child
Of my mother wanders.
Across the street, the leaves sweep,
Across the trees, the starlings cry;
Across the distant mountains,
My home must lie.
EXCERPTS FROM "THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN"
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In the house-shade,
by the sunlit riverbank beyond the bobbing boats,
in the Salwood forest’s deep shade,
and beneath the shade of the fig tree,
that’s where Siddhartha grew up.
Siddhartha, the handsomest son of the Brahman,
like a young falcon,
together with his friend Govinda, also the son of a Brahman,
like another young falcon.
Siddhartha!
The sun tanned his shoulders lightly by the riverbanks when he bathed,
as he performed the sacred ablutions,
the sacred offerings.
Shade poured into his black eyes
whenever he played in the mango grove,
whenever his mother sang to him,
whenever the sacred offerings were made,
whenever his father, the esteemed scholar, instructed him,
whenever the wise men advised him.
For a long time, Siddhartha had joined in the wise men’s palaver,
and had also practiced debate
and the arts of reflection and meditation
with his friend Govinda.
Siddhartha already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words,
to speak it silently within himself while inhaling,
to speak it silently without himself while exhaling,
always with his soul’s entire concentration,
his forehead haloed by the glow of his lucid spirit.
He already knew how to feel Atman in his being’s depths,
an indestructible unity with the universe.
Joy leapt in his father’s heart for his son,
so quick to learn, so eager for knowledge.
Siddhartha!
He saw Siddhartha growing up to become a great man:
a wise man and a priest,
a prince among the Brahmans.
Bliss leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw her son's regal carriage,
when she saw him sit down,
when she saw him rise.
Siddhartha!
So strong, so handsome,
so stately on those long, elegant legs,
and when bowing to his mother with perfect respect.
Siddhartha!
Love nestled and fluttered in the hearts of the Brahmans’ daughters when Siddhartha passed by with his luminous forehead, with the aspect of a king, with his lean hips.
But more than all the others Siddhartha was loved by Govinda, his friend, also the son of a Brahman.
Govinda loved Siddhartha’s alert eyes and kind voice,
loved his perfect carriage and the perfection of his movements,
indeed, loved everything Siddhartha said and did,
but what Govinda loved most was Siddhartha’s spirit:
his transcendent yet passionate thoughts,
his ardent will, his high calling. …
Govinda wanted to follow Siddhartha:
Siddhartha the beloved!
Siddhartha the splendid!
…
Thus Siddhartha was loved by all, a joy to all, a delight to all.
But alas, Siddhartha did not delight himself. … His heart lacked joy. …
For Siddhartha had begun to nurse discontent deep within himself.
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
I guess I was amassing a collection
So I could show my children all the places I’ve ate
Like little milestones
All the places I’ve had dead end dates
All the places I’ve gorged myself
Having just got off work
Or just smoked a bowl
Either way I felt deserving of a feast
All the places I shared stories with friends
All the places we shared kisses before we went in
All the orange chicken I ate to help sober up
All the take out I ordered when we broke up
And that one place I found out I was allergic to shrimp and threw up
Yeah I remember it all
The egg rolls, the soup, the soy sauce
The painting of pandas or dragons
The red lanterns
All the motifs
You seemingly needed to run an establishment
Like this
There are the stand outs
The Lucky Star whose pork fried rice was just cut up Slim Jims
The Panda House who treated me less like a customer and more like a friend
If I didn’t come around, they would call and ask where I had been
It didn’t matter if it was in a mall or in my small home town
I always found comfort in this other culture’s food
So while I’m waiting for all those fountain cookies to come true
I guess I’ll look back over these dozen Chinese menus
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 2:49 PM UTC
Te amo means I love you
Wǒ ài nǐ means I love you
je t'aime means I love you
I love you means I love you
But when you say it
It don’t mean ****
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 8:35 PM UTC
Perhat Tursun
Perhat Tursun (1969-) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Born and raised in Atush, a city in China's Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, Tursun began writing poetry in middle school, then branched into prose in college. Tursun has been described as a "self-professed Kafka character" and that comes through splendidly in poems of his like "Elegy." Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. According to a disturbing report he was later "hospitalized." Apparently no one knows his present whereabouts or condition, if he has one. According to John Bolton, when Donald Trump learned of these "reeducation" concentration camps, he told Chinese President Xi Jinping it was "exactly the right thing to do." Trump’s excuse? "Well, we were in the middle of a major trade deal."
Elegy
by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"Your soul is the entire world."
―Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?
Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?
In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?
When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes, ...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?
In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?
Keywords/Tags: Perhat Tursun, Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, elegy, Kafka, China, Chinese, reeducation, prison, concentration camp, mrbuyghur
TRANSLATOR NOTES: This is my interpretation (not necessarily correct) of the poem's frozen corpses left 300 years in the past. For the Uyghur people the Mongol period ended around 1760 when the Qing dynasty invaded their homeland, then called Dzungaria. Around a million people were slaughtered during the Qing takeover, and the Dzungaria territory was renamed Xinjiang. I imagine many Uyghurs fleeing the slaughters would have attempted to navigate treacherous mountain passes. Many of them may have died from starvation and/or exposure, while others may have been caught and murdered by their pursuers.
The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”
I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.
After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.
While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.
Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.
For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.
Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we were able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.
The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us to line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.
The Encounter
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God.
I asked her, anything else? She said her People.
I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul.
I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not.
The Distance
by Tahir Hamut
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades.
Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building
the nurses watch our outlandish party
with their absurdly distorted faces.
Drinking watered-down liquor,
half-nude, descanting through the open window,
we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls.
The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in,
wrecking critical parts of our dissertations.
The others dream up excuses to ditch me
and I’m left here alone.
The cosmopolitan pyramid
of drained bottles
makes me feel
like I’m in a Turkish bath.
I lock the door:
Time to get back to work!
I feel like doing cartwheels.
I feel like self-annihilation.
Refuge of a Refugee
by Ablet Abdurishit Berqi aka Tarim
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lack a passport,
so I can’t leave legally.
All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety,
but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border
and I can’t afford the trafficker.
I’m a smuggler of love,
though love has no national identity.
Poetry is my refuge,
where a refugee is most free.
The following excerpts, translated by Anne Henochowicz, come from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abdurishit Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants...
I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through?
Chen Quanguo, the Communist Party secretary of Xinjiang, has said it’s “like the instruction at school, the order of the military, and the security of prison. We have to break their blood relations, their networks, and their roots.”
On a scorching summer day, Tarim came to Tel Aviv from Haifa. In a few days he would go back to Urumqi. I invited him to come say goodbye and once again prepared Sichuan cold noodles for him. He had already unfriended me on Facebook. He said he couldn’t eat, he was busy, and had to hurry back to Haifa. He didn’t even stay for twenty minutes. I can’t even remember, did he sit down? Did he have a glass of water? Yet this farewell shook me to my bones.
He said, “Maybe when I get off the plane, before I enter the airport, they’ll take me to a separate room and beat me up, and I’ll disappear.”
Looking at my shocked face, he then said, “And maybe nothing will happen …”
His expression was sincere. To be honest, the Tarim I saw rarely smiled. Still, layer upon layer blocked my powers of comprehension: he’s a poet, a writer, and a scholar. He’s an associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute. He can get a passport and come to Israel for advanced studies. When he goes back he’ll have an offer from Sichuan University to be a professor of literature … I asked, “Beat you up at the airport? Disappear? On what grounds?”
“That’s how Xinjiang is,” he said without any surprise in his voice. “When a Uyghur comes back from being abroad, that can happen.”…
With my translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets and their people, who are being sent in large numbers to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps which have been praised by Trump as "exactly" what is "needed." This poem helps us understand the nomadic lifestyle of many Uyghurs, the hardships they endure, and the character it builds...
Iz (“Traces”)
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We were children when we set out on this journey;
Now our grandchildren ride horses.
We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey;
Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert.
We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys
Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves.
But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars
their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers!
We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance;
The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains.
The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin,
But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces.
The original Uyghur poem:
Yax iduq muxkul seperge atlinip mangghanda biz,
Emdi atqa mingidek bolup qaldi ene nevrimiz.
Az iduq muxkul seperge atlinip chiqanda biz,
Emdi chong karvan atalduq, qaldurup chollerde iz.
Qaldi iz choller ara, gayi davanlarda yene,
Qaldi ni-ni arslanlar dexit cholde qevrisiz.
Qevrisiz qaldi dimeng yulghun qizarghan dalida,
Gul-chichekke pukinur tangna baharda qevrimiz.
Qaldi iz, qaldi menzil, qaldi yiraqta hemmisi,
Chiqsa boran, kochse qumlar, hem komulmes izimiz.
Tohtimas karvan yolida gerche atlar bek oruq,
Tapqus hichbolmisa, bu izni bizning nevrimiz, ya chevrimiz.
Other poems of note by Abdurehim Otkur include "I Call Forth Spring" and "Waste, You Traitors, Waste!"
My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.
The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.
Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.
Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.
To My Brother the Warrior
by Téyipjan Éliyow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When I accompanied you,
the commissioners called me a child.
If only I had been a bit taller
I might have proved myself in battle!
The commission could not have known
my commitment, despite my youth.
If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me,
I'd have given that enemy rabble hell!
Now, brother, I’m an adult.
Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon.
Soon enough, I’ll be by your side,
battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender!
Another poem of note by Téyipjan Éliyow is "Neverending Song."
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 7:32 AM UTC
The autumn leaves descends from above,
While the moon fades the cold evening wind.
As I brood upon the nothing I have,
I sit in melancholy by the jade guqin.
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 8:30 AM UTC
Corona made people Jäïn,
People are turning vegetarian.
Stock markets made us Đïgämbär Jäïn,
Now we're pauper & don't have any clothes.
Đïgämbär Jäïn don't wear any clothes,
They stay **** as a part of their penance.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
Maybe it’s the only way
to pop the dud days of the gone year
like popcorn
yet in lighting a string of firecrackers
hands that survived bullets and shells
still tremble uncontrollably
as if facing a fierce enemy
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 1:31 PM UTC
I want to take
the fast train with you
and go far away from here.
~
Wǒ xiǎng gēn nǐ
zuò kuàichē
qù lí zhè'er yuǎn
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC
Can I find you past Mount Hua,
After crossing Cao’e River,
Through the fields of Longkou,
Will I be walking for long?
Sat, waiting for the train to go
To take me where I am supposed to be
Head pressed against the cold window
I want that seat.
Lost among the frames
And paths between stones
You should be somewhere among
The busy laying down of flowers
I want to know
A fickle not fitting anywhere
A missing piece,
Just wandering.
Who do I owe my existence to.
Who brought me here.
I would kneel down to you
And offer my deepest gratitude
Tired of floating up in the air
Just whisked around by the wind.
The tree with roots is stronger
The clouds so lonely.
Breezing by, the single leaf
Stuck in this one state
I’ll walk alone with my two legs
Don’t worry, I’ll continue to go
But where are you?
The people who came before me
Blocks of my past
You’re going too far
I’m lost.
This voice,
The voice formed
Trying to reach out
It’s calling out
It can’t let go,
Where it came from.
Every sunshine,
Every storm,
It surrounds us
Brings us to life.
I’ll always look up
And see it like you.
Going past Mount Hua
Alone among the clouds
Who put me here
I want to know.
I’ll travel long
And so far,
I’ve been walking for long.
I’ll put my respects
Will you see me
I won’t be disappointed
I’ll lay down everything
Just to have my place.
Left away
Those a part of me
I’m walking through the path
But where are you?
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 3:47 AM UTC
As they say, 'practise makes perfect',
I'm out speaking to birds in Chinese!
Maybe one day, i will know what i was doing!
** kin t yaaah....
Shen zi! "
Allow me practice
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 5:11 AM UTC