The Cranes
The western wind has blown but a few days;
Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.
On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;
In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat.
Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away;
Through sparse bamboo trickles a slanting light.
In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,
The garden-boy is leading the cranes home.
Related quotes
Walk To The Water
She said it wasnt cold
She left her coat at home that day
She wore canvas shoes
White canvas shoes
Around her neck
She wore a silver necklace
It was given to me by my father, she said
It was given to me
She took the back way home
Passed the lights and the summerhill
Turned left onto the north strand
And on, and towards the sea
He said he was an artist
But he really painted billboards
In large capital letters
Large capital letters
He was telling jokes
Nobody else would listen to him
I saw you that day
Your lips were cherry red
Your legs were crossed
Your arms wide open
Your hair was coloured gold
Like a field of corn
You were blown by the wind
You were blown by the wind
Walk, walk, walk...to the water
Walk with me a while
Walk, walk, walk...to the roadside
Walk me in the light
A room in the royal hotel
Sea facing views
A man with a suitcase
Full of things he doesnt need
Im looking through your window
Im walking through your doorway
Im on the outside
Let me in
Let me love you
Let me love you
Let me...
Walk, walk, walk...to the water
Walk with me...yeah
Walk, walk, walk...to the roadside
Walk with me again
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Changgan Memories
When first my hair began to cover my forehead,
I picked and played with flowers before the gate.
You came riding on a bamboo horse,
And circled the walkway, playing with green plums.
We lived together, here in Changgan county,
Two children, without the least suspicion.
When I was fourteen, I became your wife,
So shy that still my face remained unopened.
I bowed my head towards the shadowed wall,
And called one thousand times, I turned not once.
At 15 I began to lift my brows,
And wished to be with you as dust with ashes.
You always kept your massive pillar faith,
I had no need to climb the lookout hill.
When I was sixteen, you went far away,
To Yanyudui, within the Qutang gorge.
You should not risk the dangerous floods of May,
Now from the sky, the monkeys cry in mourning.
Before the gate, my pacing's left a mark,
Little by little, the green moss has grown.
The moss is now too deep to sweep away,
And leaves fall in the autumn's early winds.
This August, all the butterflies are yellow,
A pair fly over the western garden's grass.
I feel that they are damaging my heart,
Through worrying, my rosy face grows old.
When you come down the river from Sanba,
Beforehand, send a letter to your home.
We'll go to meet each other, however far,
I'll come up to Changfengsha.
A Spinster's Life...
by the river the spinster wades
like a black swan
all alone not waiting for anyone
the bamboo leaves not blown
by any ill wind
begin to fall
one by one until all that can
be seen
are needles of morning light
cutting through
the early cold by the banks
to the marshes
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Looking Back At The Greens
i too look back at those green things
from the point of view of my
green thumb
a vegetable garden without an aphid on a leaf
a row of roses, lush green leaves
and red blooms
some petals falling due to the
wind
a line of green mint trees along the path
leading to the highway
sounds of motors threatening what green there is
i come back and settle on this patch
of green meadows
and grass and gray shade
my own shadow cast
on the huge gabi leaf.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Restless Night
As bamboo chill drifts into the bedroom,
Moonlight fills every corner of our
Garden. Heavy dew beads and trickles.
Stars suddenly there, sparse, next aren't.
Fireflies in dark flight flash. Waking
Waterbirds begin calling, one to another.
All things caught between shield and sword,
All grief empty, the clear night passes.
Restless Night
As bamboo chill drifts into the bedroom,
Moonlight fills every corner of our
Garden. Heavy dew beads and trickles.
Stars suddenly there, sparse, next aren't.
Fireflies in dark flight flash. Waking
Waterbirds begin calling, one to another.
All things caught between shield and sword,
All grief empty, the clear night passes.
The Birth Of The Yellow Butterfly
on the gumamela leaf
the small cocoon hangs
there for days and
you wait for the
usual surprise in this
garden
it wriggles out and
pulls itself from
a tight house
it holds itself at the
tip of the leaf and
gets a fan from
the wind and then
stretches itself
and spreads its
wings and finally
flies away
how beautiful
to see
the birth of another
yellow butterfly
regally erect and
flutters from flower
to flower like she
were a princess
in her green castle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Clearing at Dawn
The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped;
The colours of Spring teem on every side.
With leaping fish the blue pond is full;
With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.
The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks;
The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.
By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud
Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.
Li Po
tr. Waley
It All Trickles Down
Theres a dragon-tail swishing behind tonight.
Poisons rising. Im up too tight.
I might not be responsible
For the things that I might do.
My tanks are full and my dogs are loose.
Bees in my bonnet. stew in juice.
Saut-simmer, shallow-fry
When it all trickles down to you.
It all trickles down.
Yes it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down,
From me to you.
My day was rough, dont care about yours.
I put muddy feet on your polished floor.
A goose to cook, a job that im
Well qualified to do.
And it all trickles down.
Yes it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down
From me to you.
Would be the one, would be the tea on toast.
Would be the son, would be the holy ghost.
If this is not believable
Then youve just had one too few.
Would be the mad jack to your queen of spades.
A little mac in your burger trade.
One dead-cert consequence --
It all trickles down to you.
And it all trickles down.
Yes it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down
From me to you.
Theres a dragon-tail swishing behind tonight.
Poisons rising. Im up too tight.
I might not be responsible
For the things that I might do.
My tanks are full and my dogs are loose.
Bees in my bonnet. stew in juice.
Saut-simmer, shallow-fry
When it all trickles down to you.
It all trickles down.
Yes it all trickles down.
Well it all trickles down,
From me to you.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Western Wind.
The western wind
so hot for me to bear
so cold for me to fear
the brat icared for
caried away by the wind
too haevy for me to carry
too light for me to leave
weighty as an iron rod
free from the control of human
The western wind!
the cold in it i adore
the heat in it i can't absorb
fresh to change a rough life
swift and calm do i admire it
the passion in it do i aspire
the joy in it do i require
too expensive for me acquire
though it is my greatest desire
to be carried away by the swift western wind
and never to return
The western wind! !
of which affection tends to be hot
but whose attention seems to be cold
it brought me to a junction of faint decision
I do not know which path to tread
The western wind
my greatest desire and my highiest panic.
poem by Kumolu Ayowale
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Gasoline Alley
(rod stewart, ron wood)
I think I know now whats making me sad
Its a yearnin for my own back yard
I realize maybe I was wrong to leave
Better swallow up my silly country pride
Going home, running home
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Going home, and Im running home
Down to gasoline alley where I was born
When the weathers better and the rails unfreeze
And the wind dont whistle round my knees
Ill put on my weddin suit and catch the evening train
Ill be home before the milks upon the door
Going home, running home
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Going home, and Im running home
Down to gasoline alley where I was born
But if anything should happen and my plans go wrong
Should I stray to the house on the hill
Let it be known that my intentions were good
Id be singing in my alley if I could
And if Im called away and its my turn to go
Should the blood run cold in my veins
Just one favor Ill be asking of you
Dont bury me here, its too cold
Take me back, carry me back
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Take me back, wont you carry me home
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Take me back, carry me back
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Take me back, carry me back
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
Take me back, carry me back
Down to gasoline alley where I started from
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Enchantment of Birds.
Winter green, showing dark in morning haze of fractured warmth
Of tall shadows cast in absence of light upon empty air
Of ephemeral breezes that dusk among bough arched halls
Where light glanced threads stitch the ground and make joyful a prison of twined trees
Who fall in ungainly ranks that dress on, innumerable and innominate
With needles to splinter the clustered light for the specklings of dust that show it off
All is a prelude to the more timid green of spring
Sails of new hope dawning carry each restless stride
From leaf brown shore to moss green isle and on some feral bearing
That tacks its way in the gentle company of ‘nothing much to do' and ‘everything to see'
The passage continues, into the deep green of fir woods
Through sun wrought mists to an end
An end that is not ‘yet' or ‘now' or even ‘soon to be'
And so in looking through the miles of absent time
Between this living slope and that, shown in clearest motion
The perfection of what is
This thing, this all in the enchantment of birds
poem by William Reed O'Connor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sea Rose
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf,
more precious
than a wet rose
single on a stem --
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Lonely Hobo Lullaby
(sylvester / clarke)
Heading out on my way to nowhere
Just a traveling man
Hitching rides along the highway
From whoever I can
Gotta stop someplace somewhere
And put some leather on my shoes
Theyre the only pair that get me there
Any horizon that I choose
I know when the cold wind blows
My coat will keep me warm
Ive got no womans love
To call my own
I saw you lying there
A cast-off from another man
So I picked you up took you home
And home is on my back
Lonely hobo lullaby is my song
Lonely hobo lullaby gets me along
My shoes my coat my jeans
And anything else I own
Were a family without a tree
No roots to hold us down
Verse 1
Verse 2
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Wish (III)
Oh that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
poem by Frances Anne Kemble
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Autunm Clouds
AUTUMN CLOUDS
That morning’s landscape is pleasant and exceptional;
A goose flies high into the heaven. The sky’s water has
Fallen, and autumn clouds are thin, the western wind has
Blown a million elements go into the firmament. Long
Rain has not harmed the land.
poem by Darryl K. Porter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pepito Sings
On white horse wings
Ushered in from corners
Farther than those
With unlikely souls
Time is still for angels
Quiet, persistent and bold
Clever silk, scheming
Beneath the weaving
Of a flying red horse
Charged with his mission
Announcing his course
Windswept out to sea
We ride to the north
To cold slanting ilses of moss golden green
Our paths to toss time
Clever silk angel’s scheme
Plan not to clear the river
But stop in the stream
A light shines on us
In this angles dream
Where forever is a minute
That begins with this ring
poem by Stuart Knapp
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bamboo Tree Poem
see the coming of the wind
from the prairies
see how it is playing with the
leaves of the bamboo tree
see how a bamboo leaf falls
to the ground
withered by the sun
and now flip-flopping
like an Olympic diver
see how it finally touches
the womb of the earth
silently it lies there
soundlessly it appears
like any other leaf
beside a woman now
sleeping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The North Window: Bamboo and Rock
A magisterial rock windswept and pure
and a few bamboo so lavish and green:
facing me, they seem full of sincerity.
I gaze into them and can't get enough,
and there's more at the north window
and along the path beside West Pond:
wind sowing bamboo clarities aplenty,
rain gracing the subtle greens of moss.
My wife's still here, frail and old as me,
but no one else: the children are gone.
Leave the window open. If you close it,
who'll keep us company for the night?
Miscellaneous Feelings in the Sui Garden
1
Joy and anger are not caused by outside things:
they simply happen to arise in the heart.
Rising and falling are not matters of fate:
one simply happens to encounter them.
Reading a book and finding nothing there,
I drop the volume, get up, and take a walk.
I think I'll go to the bamboo grove
where I can listen to the springtime water flow.
2
Let them knock at the bramble gate —
the host is in a dream!
Startled awake, I search for my socks;
I must have lost them east of the thatched hut.
At night, with nothing on my mind,
in dream I watched the bamboo growing tall.
Should guests arrive now at my garden,
barefoot I will see them off.
3
Classics, Histories, Philosophers, Belles-Lettres:
these the four branches of literature.
Pavilions I have built, libraries —
one for each kind in four different spots.
In each one I have placed an inkstone
as well as several brushes to write.
Mornings I rise, wash my face,
then let my feet lead me where they will.
Circulating among all four,
happily I pass the day's twelve hours.
4
When they hear me stop reading out loud,
the farmers come from all around.
The healthy ones shoulder hoe and plow,
the fragile ones wear their hempen shoes.
The happy ones bring piles of bamboo mats,
the tired ones have bundled firewood.
They invite me to sit with them under the trees:
we all open our hearts to each other!
"This year we've suffered from wind and rain,
and still can't plant good sprouts.
We hear you chanting out loud from books:
could it be you prepare for exams?"
I love these people, their true, sincere nature,
and the way they speak, like little children!
Each one drinks a cup of wine
and we lie in a heap on the moss.
5
Do not mock me for building this tower tall:
of course a tower should be tall!
If you approach from three miles away,
already I'll see you from here.
When you visit, come not in a carriage:
the carriage's racket will terrify my birds.
And when you visit, don't come on a horse:
the horse's teeth will decimate my grass.
Also, when you visit, please, don't come at dawn:
we mountain folk hate to rise too early.
And when you visit, don't wait until dusk:
by then the flowers will all have withered away.
6
The Master of Sui Garden in the past
first built buildings here beside these hills.
Terraces, pavilions summoned clouds and mist;
wine cups glittered in the candlelight.
The old men here all say to me
that this Master was no vulgar man.
He took this garden and passed it on — to whom?
How could he know it would be me!
Long, long the thirty years;
and now I come, to help the flowers and bamboo.
"Follow Garden" : the meaning timely now;
no need to change the garden's name at all.
Consider my present-day happiness
continuation of the Master's joy.
Does it really just all "pass away"?
Past and present, still the same chess game!
And who will follow after I have left?
I ask the mountain, but it does not say.
poem by Yuan Mei, translated by Jonathan Chaves
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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