I first started reading Chinese poetry in high school. transporting myself from small-town ’60s America into mountains and rivers without end.
Now I find myself going back to the first books I bought for myself back then and re-reading them (and me) through 60-something eyes.
Reading Chinese poets
When I was young, I imagined
how fine it would be to get drunk
in the moonlight by the river
in the company of Li Po.
Now, having grown long in the tooth,
I’d prefer a mountain hut like Hanshan’s,
but with my host gone off on a long ramble.
Who can think with all his chatter?
Note: unpublished draft
Funny how our pale
thoughts in the frosty midnight
leak out the bucket