April 12, 2021: "Refuge of Nocturnal Birds" - Salvatore Quasimodo in "Italian Lit. in Transla.", pg. 335

 A Refuge of Nocturnal Birds

High on a cliff there's a twisted pine;
intently it listens into the abyss
with its trunk curved down like a crossbow.

A refuge of nocturnal birds,
in the deepest hours of night it resounds
with the swift fluttering of wings.

Even my heart has a nest
suspended into the darkness, and a voice;
it, too, lies awake listening at night.

April 11, 2021: Two Little Children

Two Little Children
 
Two little children, far from a home
Where their parents had turned into strangers.
It was late in the night when they set off to roam,
For they thought it the lesser danger.
 
For water, they followed a lazy stream
Where bushes and grass grew tall,
And though defensive birds would dive and scream,
They couldn’t be seen at all.
 
They had a salve to keep insects at bay.
They didn’t know what they were after.
They were only trying to make their way.
The wind in the trees seemed like laughter.
 
Laughing at -- or laughing with?
Up rose the friendly sun.
The two were the heroes of a made-up myth,
And were out for survival . . . and fun!
 
They’d travelled several days so far,
Using Sarah’s fearless madness.
She found a whole bag of food in a car.
How they danced in their grateful gladness!
 
But even with food, they at times felt forlorn.
Could their journey be sustained?
Doris’ shirt had got dirty and torn,
And the clouds were threatening rain.
 
So they made their way towards a friendly farm
To find a place they could sleep.
They slipped through the gate of a simple barn,
And lay down next to some sheep.
 
A boy came out with a bag of feed,
And asked them if all was well.
How long had they been there?  Were they in need?
He told them that he wouldn’t tell.
 
He only wanted to hear their tale,
And he seemed like a really nice guy.
“Eventually,” he said, “The law will prevail,
But I’ll try to help you get by.”
 
At least they had someone to whom they could speak
From a family that seemed so fine!
They hung around for about a week,
‘Til they decided they’d had their time.

April 11, 2021: "Children" by Po Chu-I in Arthur Waley's "Chinese Poems", page 154.

 Children

Written c. 820.

My nephew, who is six years old, is called 'Tortoise';
My daughter of three--little 'Summer Dress'.
One is beginning to learn to joke and talk;
The other can already recite poems and songs.
At morning they play clinging about my feet;
At night they sleep pillowed against my dress.
Why, children, did you reach the world so late,
Coming to me just when my years are spent?
Young things draw our feelings to them;
Old people easily give their hearts.
The sweetest vintage at last turns sour;
The full moon in the end begins to wane.
And so with men the bonds of love and affection
Soon may change to a load of sorrow and care.
But all the world is bound by love's ties;
Why did I think that I alone should escape?

April 10, 2021: Impatience

Impatience
 
I want it now; I don’t want to wait.
I’ll never have time if I go at this rate.
I need to fill my heart’s desire!
I want to run and never tire;
To excel to a rate that will leave me behind!
Then stop to transform the whole of mankind.
I think I can do it.  There must be a way!
But there can’t be a cost, ‘cause I don’t want to pay.
I want it now;  I don’t want to wait!
Serve up my dinner on a dirty plate!

April 10, 2021: Regret by Yuan Chi, in "Chinese Poems translated by Arthur Waley, Page 73.

 Regret

When I was young I learnt fencing
And was better at it than Ch'u-ch'eng (famous swordsman).
My spirit was high as the rolling clouds
And my fame resounded beyond the World.
I took my sword to the desert sands,
I watered my horse in the Nine Wilds,
My flags and banners flapped in the wind,
And nothing was heard but the song of my drums.

War and its travels have made me sad,
And a fierce anger burns within me.
It's thinking of how I've wasted my time
That makes this fury tear my heart.

April 9, 2021: The Jovial Bird

The Jovial Bird
 
Our jovial faces smile from a bridge
That crosses a canyon near the top of the ridge.
It’s a passage about which we had been told
By friends who went searching for wisdom and gold,
 
But they met a giant who got in their way
And said that there’d be a price to pay.
A half ran off, and forgot their intent.
Three fell off the trail in an accident.
 
There were only two who came back on the trail
And besought our help when they told their tale.
We set off to help those caught in a bind,
Knowing that we only had limited time,
 
And being aware:  We might fall into danger
Or be visited on by an unfriendly stranger.
Yet also, what beauty!  What specters of hope!
We carried machetes and a large roll of rope.
 
At the end of the bridge was a road to the sky,
And another that passed by the giant’s castle.
To have the best view, we would need to get high.
Plus, we didn’t want to run into a hassle!
 
Then the clouds rolled in like a blanket of fog.
A storm was brewing, and the wind grew chill.
To warm ourselves up, we began to jog
To the nest of a bird with a golden bill.
 
It was a monstrous bird with massive wings:
So large that two of us mounted its back.
The rest sat in its nest and began to sing,
Beneath a tarp in one of our packs.
 
The bird became a very good friend,
Though two of my buddies he had for a meal.
Still, the others found safety, and in the end,
He fetched the lost ones and helped them to heal.
 
So I was sad for the two, but I could see he was kind,
And flying on its back fairly blew my mind.
So far I could travel, and so much to see!
Never in my life have I felt so free!
 
Still, the rest of my buddies said they had to return.
Some had jobs, or they had family concerns.
We walked back to the bridge, and the clouds all cleared.
Then the road to the sky simply disappeared!
 
I walked back to town, and I’m not sure why.
I guess I just needed to say goodbye
And now, in spite of my family’s wrath
I head back to the bridge, in search of the path.

April 9, 2021: To a Waterfowl by W. C. Bryant, in Oxford Anthology of Amer. Lit., page 332

 To A Waterfowl

Whither, midst falling dew
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast --
The desert and illimitable air --
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou has given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.