Poetry vol.71 no.1 - October 1947 - pg.23 - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=24836
How hard the year dies: no frost yet
On drifts of yellow sand Midas reclines
Fearless of moaning reed or sullen wave
Firm and fragrant still the brambleberries
On ivy-bloom butterflies wag
Spare him a little longer, Crone
For his clean hands and love-submissive heart</div>
<p>Haiku by Issa - https://archive.org/details/autumnwindselect0000koba/page/10/mode/2up</p>
<divclass="verse">Heedless that the dews
mark the passing of our day —
we bind ourselves to others
(Mi no ue no tsuyu to mo shirade hodashikeri - p.11 - spring)
O winds of autumn!
Nearer we draw to the Buddha
As the years advance
(Akikaze yo hotoke ni chikaki toshi no hodo - p.11 - autumn)
Floating weeds,
as blow the winds of the floating world —
drifting and drifting
(Ukigusa ya ukiyo no kaze no iu mama ni - p.18 - spring)
A blessing indeed —
This snow on the bed-quilt,
This, too, is from the pure land
(Arigata ya fusama no yuki mo Jodo yori - p.46 - winter)
Is this it, then,
My last resting place —
Five feet of snow!
(Kore ga maa tsui no sumika ka yuki goshaku - p.37 - winter)
On the hill of summer
Stands the slender maiden flower
In a solitary humor
(Natsuyama ya / Hitori kigen no / Ominaeshi - p.65 - summer)
Red dragon-fly —
He’s the one that likes the evening,
Or so it seems.
(Akatombo / Kare mo yubo ga / Suki ja yara - p.65 - autumn)
Heedless that the tolling bell
Marks our own closing day —
We take this evening’s cool
(Mi no ue no kane tomo shirade yusuzumi - p.39 - summer)</div>
<p>Some underlines in <em>19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei</em> by Eliot Weinberger, 2016, New Directions Publishing Corporation.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Great poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>p.3</p>
<blockquote>
<p>In its way a spiritual exercise, translation is dependent on the dissolution of the translator’s ego: an absolute humility toward the text.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>p.20</p>
<blockquote>
<p>As such, every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader’s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different — not merely another — reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.</p>
<p>[…] the poem continues in a state of restless change.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“To Autumn” verse 1 by Keats</p>
<divclass="verse">Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.</div>
