Short Poems

I walked in a street, head high,
when a thug began beating a passer-by.

I gave no help with blow or cry,
but hurried on glad it wasn't I.

Suddenly we noticed that we were in darkness;
so we went into the house and lit the lamp.

The talk fell apart and bit by bit slid into a lake.
At last we rose and bidding each other good night went to our rooms.

In and about the house darkness lay, a black fog;
and each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound.

It rains.
The elms curve into clouds of twigs.
The lawns are empty.

On the kitchen shelf the dusty medicine bottles;
she in her room heaped under a sheet,
and men and women coming in with clumsy steps.

Stubborn flies buzzing
in the morning when she wakes.

The flat roofs, higher, lower,
chimneys, water-tanks, cornices.

I look across the housetops,
through the leaves in a black pattern:
where are you hidden, moon?

Surely I saw her,
broad-bosomed and golden,
coming toward us.

I leave the theatre,
keeping step, keeping step to the music.
It sticks to my feet,
stepped into dung.

Night falls
in still flakes.

The fingers of your thoughts
are moulding your face
ceaselessly.

The wavelets of your thoughts
are washing your face

BY THE EMPEROR WU OF HAN

There is no rustle of silken sleeves,
Dust gathers in the Jade Courtyard.
The empty houses are cold, still, without sound.
The leaves fall and lie upon the bars of doorway after doorway.
I long for the Most Beautiful One; how can I attain my desire?
Pain bursts my heart. There is no peace.

When he mounted his horse, he did not take his leather riding-whip;
He pulled down and snapped off the branch of a willow-tree.
When he dismounted, he blew into his horizontal flute,
And it was as though the fierce grief of his departure would destroy the traveller.