full of grace

HOUSE SPARROWS

for Joe and U. T. Summers

Not of the wealthy, Coral Gables class
Of traveler, nor that rarified tax bracket,
These birds weathered the brutal, wind-chill facts
Under our eaves,
nesting in withered grass,
Wormless but hopeful,
and now their voice enacts
Forsythian spring with primavernal racket.

Their color is the elderly, moleskin gray
Of doggedness, of mist, magnolia bark.
Salt of the earth, they are;
the common clay;
Meek emigres come over on the Ark
In steerage from the
Old Country of the Drowned
To settle down along Long Island Sound,

Flatbush, Weehawken,
our brownstone tenements,
Wherever the local idiom is Cheep.
Savers of string, meticulous and mild,
They are given to nervous flight,
the troubled sleep
Of those who remember terrible events,
The wide-eyed, anxious haste
of the exiled.

Like all the poor, their safety
lies in numbers
And hardihood and anonymity
In a world of dripping browns and
duns and umbers.
They have inherited the lower sky,
Their Lake of Constants,
their blue modality
That they are borne upon
and battered by.

Those little shin-bones,
hollow at the core,
Emaciate finger-joints,
those fleshless wrists,
Wrapped in a wrinkled, loose, rice-paper skin,
As though the harvests of earth had never been,
Where have we seen such
frailty before?
In pictures of Biafra and Auschwitz.

Yet here they are,
these chipper stratoliners,
Unsullen, unresentful,
full of the grace
Of cheerfulness,
who seem to greet all comers
With the wild confidence
of Forty-Niners,
And, to the lively honor of their race,
Rude canticles of "Summers, Summers, Summers."

Anthony Hecht

Copyright © Anthony Hecht

Copyright © 2009 Ploughshares

life is but a dream

NIGHT ON THE GREAT RIVER

Meng Hao-jan

Translated by Gary Snyder, Kenneth Rexroth and William Carlos Williams

I

Steering my little boat
towards a misty islet,
I watch the sun descend
while my sorrows grow:
In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops,
But in the blue lake the moon is coming close.

translated by William Carlos Williams

II

Night on the Great River

We anchor the boat alongside a hazy island.
As the sun sets I am
overwhelmed with nostalgia.
The plain stretches away without limit.
The sky is just above the tree tops.
The river flows quietly by.
The moon comes down amongst men.

translated by Kenneth Rexroth

III

Mooring on Chien-te River

The boat rocks at anchor
by the misty island Sunset,
my loneliness comes again.
In these vast wilds the sky arches down to the trees.
In the clear river water, the moon draws near.

translated by Gary Snyder

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream.





Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,




Life is but a dream. 1

roadies

We're on the one road, sharing the one load
We're on the road to God knows where
We're on the one road,
it may be the wrong road
But we're together now who cares?
Northmen, Southmen, comrades all!
Dublin, Belfast, Cork or Donegal!
We're on the one road, swinging along, singin' a soldier's song!

Though we've had our troubles now and then
Now's the time to make them up again
Sure aren't we all Irish anyhow?
Now is the time to step together now

We're on the one road,
sharing the one load
We're on the road to God knows where
We're on the one road,
it may be the wrong road
But we're together now who cares?
Northmen, Southmen, comrades all!
Dublin, Belfast, Cork or Donegal!
We're on the one road, swinging along, singin' a soldier's song!

Tinker, tailor ­ every mother's son
Butcher, baker ­ shouldering his gun
Rich man, poor man ­ every man in line
All together, just like Auld Lang Syne!

We're on the one road,
sharing the one load
We're on the road to God knows where
We're on the one road,
it may be the wrong road
But we're together now who cares?
Northmen, Southmen, comrades all!
Dublin, Belfast, Cork or Donegal!
We're on the one road, swinging along, singin' a soldier's song!

Night is darkness just before the dawn
From dissensions, Ireland is reborn
Soon, will all United Irishmen
Make our land a Nation Once Again!

We're on the one road,
sharing the one load
We're on the road to
God knows where
We're on the one road,
it may be the wrong road
But we're together now
who cares?
Northmen, Southmen,
comrades all!
Dublin, Belfast, Cork or Donegal!
We're on the one road, swinging along, singin' a soldier's song! 1

I'd been poring over maps of the United States in Paterson for months, even reading books about the pioneers and savoring names like Platte and Cimarron and so on, and on the road-map was one long red line called Route 6 that led from the tip of Cape Cod clear to Ely, Nevada, and there dipped down to Los Angeles.

I'll just stay on all the way to Ely, I said to myself and confidently started. To get to 6 I had to go up to Bear Mountain. Filled with dreams of what I'd do in Chicago, in Denver, and then finally in San Fran, I took the Seventh Avenue Subway to the end of the line at 242nd Street, and there took a trolley into Yonkers; in downtown Yonkers I transferred to an outgoing trolley and went to the city limits on the east bank of the Hudson River.

If you drop a rose in the Hudson River at its mysterious source in the Adirondacks, think of all the places it journeys as it goes to sea forever -- think of that wonderful Hudson Valley. I started hitching up the thing. Five scattered rides took me to the desired Bear Mountain Bridge, where Route 6 arched in from New England. It began to rain in torrents when I was let off there. It was mountainous. Route 6 came over the river, wound around a traffic circle, and disappeared into the wilderness. Not only was there no traffic but the rain come down in buckets and I had no shelter. I had to run under some pines to take cover; this did no good; I began crying and swearing and socking myself on the head for being such a damn fool.

I was forty miles north of New York; all the way up I'd been worried about the fact that on this, my big opening day, I was only moving north instead of the so-longed for west. Now I was stuck on my northermost hangup. I ran a quarter-mile to an abandoned cute English-style filling station and stood under the dripping eaves. High up over my head the great hairy Bear Mountain sent down thunderclaps that put the fear of God in me. All I could see were smoky trees and dismal wilderness rising to the skies. "What the hell am I doing up here?" 2

(don't miss clive christy's blog to find another blogger who loves prints as much as i do. a continuing source of inspiration and, in the case of this post, image.)

in summer's eyes

1805

.さし汐も朝はうれしやとぶ乙鳥
sashishio mo asa wa ureshi ya tobu tsubame

high tide
and a happy morning...
swallows flying

1806

.蓮の花燕はとしのよらぬ也
hasu [no] hana tsubame wa toshi no yoranu nari

among lotus blossoms
the swallows don't
grow old

1807

.巣乙鳥の目を放さぬや暮の空
su tsubame no me wo hanasanu ya kure no sora

baby swallows in the nest--
eyes glued
on the evening sky

1807

.山里は乙鳥の声も祝ふ也
yama-zato wa tsubame no koe mo iwau nari

mountain village--
even the swallows sing
in celebration

1814

.乙鳥よ是はそなたが桃の花
tsubakura yo kore wa sonata ga momo no hana

swallows--
these peach blossoms belong
to you

david lanoue is who does so many of the wonderful issa translations i feature here, often with his commentary. just wanted to say thanks, david.