Poem
Lo Fu
FISH
Anyway, only a petal of the setting sun remains in his eyesThere’ll still be time tomorrow to break the mirror
He stands reverently at H-town
A poplar flies around him
Casually looking up, he sees
Bone ashes drifting from a chimney
Or is it butterflies?
He wrings his hands and ponders
As the whiteness beyond the window becomes a myriad of colors
He is the sole hero of a thousand tales
Washing his hands may only create another woe
Turning his palms up . . .
Look! Scales but no fins
What kind of fish are they?
Later, squatting under the eaves
He eats a fruit called the moon
Spitting the crushed seeds into the sky; they become stars
On the ice-cold tip of his tongue
Is the pure scent of burnt snow
Later, he kicks a stone, waltzes
Along the wall, around the mouth of a dried-up well
And looking down
He no longer sees his own face
© Translation: 2007, John Balcom
FISH
PLEASE ADD CHINESE
© 1968, Lo Fu
From: River Without Banks
From: River Without Banks
Poems
Poems of Lo Fu
Close
FISH
Anyway, only a petal of the setting sun remains in his eyesThere’ll still be time tomorrow to break the mirror
He stands reverently at H-town
A poplar flies around him
Casually looking up, he sees
Bone ashes drifting from a chimney
Or is it butterflies?
He wrings his hands and ponders
As the whiteness beyond the window becomes a myriad of colors
He is the sole hero of a thousand tales
Washing his hands may only create another woe
Turning his palms up . . .
Look! Scales but no fins
What kind of fish are they?
Later, squatting under the eaves
He eats a fruit called the moon
Spitting the crushed seeds into the sky; they become stars
On the ice-cold tip of his tongue
Is the pure scent of burnt snow
Later, he kicks a stone, waltzes
Along the wall, around the mouth of a dried-up well
And looking down
He no longer sees his own face
© 2007, John Balcom
From: River Without Banks
From: River Without Banks
FISH
Anyway, only a petal of the setting sun remains in his eyesThere’ll still be time tomorrow to break the mirror
He stands reverently at H-town
A poplar flies around him
Casually looking up, he sees
Bone ashes drifting from a chimney
Or is it butterflies?
He wrings his hands and ponders
As the whiteness beyond the window becomes a myriad of colors
He is the sole hero of a thousand tales
Washing his hands may only create another woe
Turning his palms up . . .
Look! Scales but no fins
What kind of fish are they?
Later, squatting under the eaves
He eats a fruit called the moon
Spitting the crushed seeds into the sky; they become stars
On the ice-cold tip of his tongue
Is the pure scent of burnt snow
Later, he kicks a stone, waltzes
Along the wall, around the mouth of a dried-up well
And looking down
He no longer sees his own face
© 2007, John Balcom
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère