Waiting For Her At The Garden
Standing here for so long now my boots
have cut their impression into the ground.
I’ve had no answer from her at this gate
knocking and waiting and pacing while spring
overflows the garden; a crimson apricot blossom
reaches over the wall to me.
The Old Fisherman
Last night he anchored and slept
near the west mountain cliffs.
At dawn he draws water from Xiang River
and cooks over a bamboo fire.
As the fog lifts he guides his boat back into the water
until out of sight, the only sound his oars
dipping into the clear, cool river.
Looking back, seeing his camp and the aimless clouds
wandering along, one by one.
Calligraphy of original poems by Zongyuan Liu (773-819) on rice paper
by Rong Shang. Translated by Yilin Dai and Michael Moore
in Pank: New Writing & Art, 2(2008).