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Sitting alone within a hidden bamboo grove plucking the qin repeating long howls in a deep forest no one knows bright moon illuminates the harmony "Nine Poems from Ancient China" are translated from one of China's most popular collections of traditional verse, the Qian Jia Shi ("Poems of a Thousand Masters") first compiled in the Song Dynasty (960-1279) by the poet Liu Kezhuang. Before he died in 1269 after some...

A strong desire to climb high No one comes to offer wine So forlorn for distant homeland chrysanthemums that must be in bloom near a field of war "Nine Poems from Ancient China" are translated from one of China's most popular collections of traditional verse, the Qian Jia Shi ("Poems of a Thousand Masters") first compiled in the Song Dynasty (960-1279) by the poet Liu Kezhuang....

At last at West Lake it's the sixth moon-month Wind light sights unlike any four seasons Sky-linked lotus leaves endless jade-blue Sun- light bright on water lily bloom reds of all hues "Nine Poems from Ancient China" are translated from one of China's most popular collections of traditional verse, the Qian Jia Shi ("Poems of a Thousand Masters") first compiled in the Song Dynasty...

A cloud is her dress       a flower her face             Spring wind through the threshold       stirs       deep peony-dew If unable to meet                       on a jade mountain peak we'll face at Jasper Terrace                 beneath the moon   "Nine Poems from...

Paper screen Rock pillow Square bamboo bed Hand tires book drops Long afternoon dreams Woke up smiling then laughed alone counting the notes of a fisherman's flute Waves billowing blue "Nine Poems from Ancient China" are translated from one of China's most popular collections of traditional verse, the Qian Jia Shi ("Poems of a Thousand Masters") first compiled in the Song...

Don't resent your exile Long ago I passed thru Min There are usually few wild geese in autumn but at night gibbons are common The road east becomes clouds mountains Skies south have mild miasmas One will naturally encounter the benevolonce of Dew-Rain tho travel with vigilance against...

Eighth moon-month Dongting autumn Xiao Xiang waters flow north To go home is a ten thousand li dream Traveler's sorrow through the fifth nightwatch No use opening a book when it's a matter of climbing a tower of wine Old friends all over Jing and Luo What day will wanderings...

Fragrant night shrine incense Forgot to go home Pine balm ancient temple door Bright lamplight from the abbot's room Beads bind the bhikkhus' robes White Sun teaches purity of heart Utpala Blue Lotus reveals the secrets of dharma No end to flowers falling from Heaven Birds...

then you go on dying dying in plaster then the pitch-black snow inside the womb goes on falling then the face is not while burning pain on the face is wound is not while the ripe age preserved by beheading is staying awake is not but sleeping more than a century is eyelids oozed the blue of eyes then even mask is not in the candlelight facial features are an early-winter field a plaster apple is summoning the pitch-black apple trees a plaster baby is summoning the...

since the undated neglected foul blood's due date since the year fell off a bed's edge edged you out since conceiving evil itself conceived what wraps two dripping fruit segments wraps a present too since solitude became your food name turns you into your own tenant since those turning their back on age turned back to a birthday since the nookied cloud sat on a naked spiral stair dazzlingly blue sex of a tigress surged to your sex countless sunken ships show...

I So hot then red trucks loaded with burning tongues forward forward again disappearing deep down inside escaped students rolling toward hometown Ah the summer of the era schools closed theaters closed weeds in parks loudspeakers over the basketball courts a revolution full blast in Mandarin only teenagers on the bank of an ancient river felt the call they opened their pants took hold of that little thing that had always brought them pleasure like cavemen drilling on a piece...

I read on the chair I write on the desk I sleep on the floor I dream beside the closet I drink water in spring (The cup is in the kitchen cupboard) I drink water in summer (The cup is in the kitchen cupboard) I drink water in fall (The cup is in the kitchen cupboard) I drink water in winter (The cup is in the kitchen cupboard) I open the window and read I turn on the light and write I draw the curtains and sleep I wake inside the room Inside the room...

Happened upon a pine forest Rock beneath perfect pillow for sleep No calendar sun within mountains cold ends year unknown "Nine Poems from Ancient China" are translated from one of China's most popular collections of traditional verse, the Qian Jia Shi ("Poems of a Thousand Masters") first compiled in the Song Dynasty (960-1279) by the poet Liu Kezhuang. Before he died in 1269 after some eighty-three years of...

The following is an extract from Diálogos de Salamina: un paseo por el cine y la literatura (Tusquets, 2003), a book of conversations between Javier Cercas, author of Soldiers of Salamis, and David Trueba, director and screenwriter of the film of the same name. The novel's narrator is also called Javier Cercas. Here the two writers are discussing the Spanish Civil War and its enduring influence on individuals, society and their own work. Javier Cercas: . . . There's a...

A company of moles following one leader roamed everywhere over the ruins that night. In that deeply silent time before the moon had risen, only the sound of their small rustlings mingled with the wind. The black mole in the lead was unconcerned about the dust that sullied his fine satin coat as he pulled away a smoke-blackened tile shard. He had a vague recollection that this had once been the stovepit of a fat woman. . . . Hidden amid the weeds and grass were many cracks and fissures....

until sky is like a breast popping out from a collar held by horrible hands your hands until slow death displays more distinct violence until a dead drunk fiddle has just shed its feathers until a bird flies into the snow-white structure of its own skull a pair of fleshless orbits stare outside the window staring wind twelve months' paralyzed blood thick smoke in the fireplace always seems like the last time blackening a horrible throat your throat...

My father used to be a surgeon. He was strong and healthy, and talked in a resonant voice. He would often stand at the operating table for ten hours at a time, but at the end of his shift his face would not show the slightest signs of fatigue, and as he walked back to our apartment his steps were loud and firm. Nearing home, he would often take a pee by the corner of the wall. His urine would splash noisily on the wall, like a sudden downpour of rain. When my father was twenty-five...

These stories are taken from a work-in-progress entitled Heart's Reason: Stories of Affection from the Liaozhai Zhiyi, edited and translated by Susan Wan Dolling. Liaozhai Zhiyi--literally, "Strange (Historical) Stories from a Studio for Leisurely Conversations"--is a posthumous collection of five hundred-odd entries that the author Pu Song-ling made into little books called juan and circulated among his scholar friends during the last thirty or so years of his relatively long life...

1 I wait forever For the wall To awake Leaves have fallen to the ground Leaving behind nothing but a bird and its nest Quiet on my birthday Withered grass on all sides Parched but still alive In the narrow lane crickets research their music My birthday comes in the fall I can only speak of The many stones cast down By the sun, a sign of the living 2 I began this wait Many years ago Snowflakes scattered across the concrete Ice on the pond...

Wang spent periods of seclusion throughout his life in many different places--but in his middle years he acquired his famous WheelRim River (Wang River) retreat in the WholeSouth mountains, just south of Ch'ang-an. It was there that the conjunction of Wang's painting and poetry coalesced in his famous WheelRim River Sequence, and a corresponding scroll painting: probably his best-known poem and painting. 1 ElderCliff Cove At the mouth of ElderCliff, a rebuilt house1...

1 The surviving alumni of Huaguang College might remember an event that happened on April 3, 1937. It was the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the college, and the celebration went on from early morning till late night, events including a tea party, a cocktail party, the unveiling of the bronze bust of the founder of the college, commemoratory speeches, and a performance of Much Ado About Nothing by the students' amateur dramatic troupe. It was a glorious page in the history...

I should declare in a steady and powerful voice that the world itself is just a prolonged "mew," which has been fried and served to us instead of a noble "moo." -V. Khlebnikov You ask me what America looks like? America looks like the Aegean Sea. In the West it is inhabited by tribes of bellicose Hollywood people. In the East there are trade cities of Phoenicians and New Yorkers. In the middle, there is a large archipelago of universities and colleges, and boats of cunningly smart...

1 There's an expression that describes me: timid as a mouse. That's what my teacher said, back when I was in primary school. It was one autumn, I remember, in Chinese class. Our teacher stood on the rostrum, wearing a dark blue cotton jacket over a clean white shirt. I was sitting in the middle of the front row, looking up at him. He held a textbook in his hand, and his fingers were coated with red, white, and yellow chalk dust. As he read the text aloud, his face and his hands and...

No one thinks of the flowers. No one thinks of the fish. No one wants to believe the garden is dying, that its heart has swollen in the heat of this sun, that its mind drains slowly of its lush memories. Our garden is forlorn. It yawns waiting for rain from a stray cloud and our pond sits empty, callow stars bite the dust from atop tall trees and from the pale home of the fish comes the hack of coughing every night. Our garden is forlorn. Father says: My time is past my time is past,...

Fourth Brother The cap's beak must have exerted a quiet pressure--Fourth Brother confidently approaches: "You on your way home too? You're Li family, NanPo, south slope, yes?" Of course he can tell, family even smile the same way. Under smile, other expressions of molecular genetics syncopate shrugs to the slow train's swaying rhythm. Sound blurs visuals, the background of the soft sleeper softens. Sun. Morning till noon, chatter gossip-- yellow soil, caves, people...