Tag Archives: translated poetry

“I’ll be the tree…” by Sándor Petőfi [w/ Audio]

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I'll be the tree, if you'll be its flower;
 I'll be the flower, if you'll be the dew;
 I'll be the dew, if you'll be the sunshine
 That glistens as it unites we two.

If you, My Love, should become the Heavens,
  I'd be reborn as a star on high.
 Even if you turned into Hell, itself,
  I'd be damned, and I'd gladly fry.

The Original Poem in Hungarian:

Fa leszek, ha fának vagy virága.
Ha harmat vagy: én virág leszek.
Harmat leszek, ha te napsugár vagy...
Csak, hogy lényink egyesüljenek.

Ha, leányka, te vagy a mennyország:
Akkor én csillagá változom.
Ha, leányka, te vagy a pokol: (hogy
Egyesüljünk) én elkárhozom.

“Water Dragon Chant” by Ge Changgeng [w/ Audio]

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A screen of cloud veils the mountain,
 And cold monkeys squawk from green pines.
 Fungi abound, but seeds dormant,
 Searching for sprouts -- alas, in vain.
 Somewhere near there's a fairy cave
 Where flutes and lutes are often played.
 Its Way is overgrown with moss,
 And the old stone gate yields no clue.
 Where have all the fairy folk gone?

Looking back, there's an endless plain
 Where flowers fall like streaming tears.
 It's easy to grow old; Where is
 the messenger to bring some news?
 To tell who the Golden Phoenix charms?
 Waking from a deep, restless dream
 What remains are blooms on the stream.

“Jade Cup” by Zhang Ju [w/ Audio]

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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.

“With a Clean Heart” (Tiszta szívvel) by József Attila [w/ Audio]

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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.)

“The Joy of Words” by Lu Ji [w/ Audio]

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Writing is joy --
   so saints and scholars all pursue it.

A writer makes new life in the void,
   knocks on silence to make a sound,
   binds space and time on a sheet of silk
   and pours out a river from an inch-sized heart.

As words give birth to words
   and thoughts arouse deeper thoughts,
   they smell like flowers giving off scent,
   spread like green leaves in spring;
   a long wind comes, whirls into a tornado of ideas,
   and clouds rise from the writing-brush forest.

Translation by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping in The Art of Writing (1996) Boston: Shambhala.

“Without desire everything is sufficient” by Ryōkan Taigu

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Without desire everything is sufficient.
 With seeking myriad things are impoverished.
 Plain vegetables can soothe hunger.
 A patched robe is enough to cover this bent old body.
 Alone I hike with a deer.
 Cheerfully I sing with village children.
 The stream under the cliff cleanses my ears.
 The pine on the mountain top fits my heart.

Translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi and Daniel Leighton in Essential Zen (1994) HarperSanFrancisco.

“A One-String Harp” by Lu Ji [w/ Audio]

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When an author composes too short a poem,
  it trails off with a lonely feeling
  like looking down at solitude with no friends
  or peering into the vast sky, disconnected.
 One string on a harp is crisp and sweet
  but sings without resonance and harmony.

Translation by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping in: The Art of Writing (1996) Boston: Shambhala Publications.

“Under the Trees…” by Ikkyū [w/ Audio]

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Under the trees, among the rocks, a thatched hut:
   verses and sacred commentaries live there together.
 I'll burn the books I carry in my bag,
   but how can I forget the verses written in my gut?

Translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi and David Schneider in Essential Zen (1994) HarperSanFrancisco.

“Mulberry Picking” [採桑子] by Ouyang Xiu [w/ Audio]

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West Lake is beautiful from a small boat.
 Green water wends its way through the lotus,
 Sweet grass grows thickly all along the bank,
 Faint music wafts from unknown points ashore.

When the wind quits, the Lake is glassy smooth;
 The boat is perfectly still for a beat,
 Then its movement is betrayed by ripples
 And startled waterfowls' furious flapping.

Note: The title “Gathering Mulberry Leaves” was used by Xu Yuanchong for his translation. The Chinese title is: 採桑子 (Cǎi Sāngzǐ)

“Spring Dawn” (春曉) by Meng Haoran [w/ Audio]

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My Spring sleep is unswayed by dawn --
 Though birds are heard through screen, still drawn.
 Recalling night sounds of rain and wind,
 I wonder how the flowers have thinned?

Original in Chinese:

春眠不覺曉，
處處聞啼鳥。
夜來風雨聲，
花落知多少。