Category Archives: Poetry

Drinking Alone With the Moon

by Li Bai (701-762)

My pot of wine among some flowers
I drank alone. No one to join me —
And then, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring my shadow and together make us three.

Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow haunted me emptily;
But still for a while I had these friends
To cheer me through the end of spring.

When I sang, the moon encouraged me.
As I danced, my shadow tumbled after.
And so before long, we were fine companions.
Then I was drunk, and we lost one another.

Should such goodwill ever be secure?
Perhaps we will meet again someday
along the River of Stars.

This is my rough translation. Another (probably far more accurate) version can be found here.

Edited to add (9/13/06): And here is another version; the best I’ve read so far:

In the middle of the flowering grove, one jug of beer.
Drinking alone – no friends or family near –
I raise my cup, invite the moon to join me.
Counting my shadow, we’re a party of three.

But moon’s a lightweight, doesn’t know how to drink,
And shadow simply matches me cup for cup.
For now, though, they’ll do just fine, I think.
Spring is here, my friends! Let’s live it up.

I start to sing; the moon sways to and fro.
I get up and dance – shadow reels in disarray.
Sober, we crave the company of some jolly fellow;
Drunk, each goes his separate way.

Freed of all ties, yet bound forever more,
Let’s get back together on the galaxy’s far shore.

Underwear Goes Inside the Pants

by Lazyboy (spoken word by Greg Giraldo)

You know we have more prescription drugs now.
Every commercial that comes on TV is a prescription drug ad.
I can’t watch TV for four minutes without thinking I have five serious diseases.
Like: “Do you ever wake up tired in the morning?”
Oh my god I have this, write this down. Whatever it is, I have it.
Half the time I don’t even know what the commercial is…
People running in fields or flying kites or swimming in the ocean.
I’m like “That is the greatest disease ever. How do you get that?”
That disease comes with a hot chick and a puppy.

[…]

Masterminds are another word that comes up all the time.
You keep hearing about these, these terrorists masterminds that get killed in the Middle East.
Terrorist masterminds.
Mastermind is sort of a lofty way to describe what these guys do, don’t you think?
They’re not masterminds.
“OK, you take bomb, right? And you put in backpack. Then you get on bus and you blow yourself up. Alright?”
“Why do I have to blow myself up? Why can’t I just…”
“Who’s the f*cking mastermind here? Me or you?”

The Stolen Child

by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s morefully of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world’s morefully of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you can understand.