The West winds tumble fallen leaves;
Autumn 's yellow, though blooms are shy;
I brush at dust upon my sleeves;
The horses' hoofprints dot the frost;
Moonlit cocks crow amid grain sheaves;
The road to town: no passersby.
Fame 's not gained by effort or skill,
And would fade away ten years hence.
Please don't dance, but drink your fill.
Six Dynasty tales flow away:
Diluted as waters spread and spill.
The world feels like dream and pretense.
The Ballad of Mulan: 木兰辞 by Song Nan Zhang
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were -- I have not seen
As other saw -- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring ---
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow -- I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone --
And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone --
Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn
Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still --
From the torrent, or the fountain --
From the red cliff of the mountain --
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold --
From the lightening in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by --
From the thunder, and the storm --
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view --
My mother groan'd! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud:
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swadling bands.
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.
All the stream that's roaring by
Came out of a needle's eye;
Things unborn, things that are gone,
From needle's eye still goad it on.
Have no mother, have no dad,
have no country, have no God,
no cradle, no winding sheet,
no lover, no kisses sweet.
Haven't eaten for three days,
my head spins, the body sways...
Twenty years! My might, my gale,
twenty years are now for sale.
If there is no customer,
sell it to Devil in hell.
With a clean heart, I will steal,
If need be, I'll even kill.
They'll catch me and hang me up,
with soft earth cover me up,
and death-bringing grass will start
from my beautiful, clean heart.
Translation by Frank Veszely in Hungarian Poetry: One Thousand Years (2023) Altona, Manitoba: Friesen Press, pp. 156-157.
NOTE: This poem got Attila expelled from university and preemptively scuttled any possibility of a career in academia. (Hence, my affinity for it. Any poetry that extracts such a cost is probably excellent poetry.)
Our closest relative, the Chimpanzee
Lacks our affinity to be fancy.
To them we are but pant-wearing buffoons
Who've lost all freedom to shoot the moon.
There once was a wee Asian Weaver Ant
Who lived on a big banana tree plant.
When they cut down his tree, a problem arose,
Moving to a rubber tree would be too on-the-nose.
The Blue Sheep must be ever so sad:
For of all the colors in which its clad --
None is blue; there're shades of brown, black, and white,
But blue must be symbolic, if judged by sight.
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church --
I keep it, staying at Home --
With a Bobolink for a Chorister --
And an Orchard, for a Dome --
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice --
I, just wear my Wings --
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton -- sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman --
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last --
I'm going, all along.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 