LI PO, and me
How Li Po felt about his mountain, I felt about his birds
who up and went. But none will remember me, how I feel,
for what has left and is not seen again, has no other purpose
than to be forgotten for its lack of consequence.
DU FU, and me
Because Du Fu’s hut is low and tiny, swallows
come in from the river bringing mud in their mouths
which get into his books. That is my problem too.
The only difference is: I am not Chinese.
DU MU, and me
We enter Shangshan early under lengthy clouds,
and over a bridge we hear sounds of divided waters
below. Sounds meant only for the dead, the dying.
I see Du Mu has gone ahead to wait for me.
If you have any comments on this poem, J. D. Heskin would be pleased to hear from you.