I have finally got round to hunting around the internet for translations of poetry by Li Po , an 8th century Chinese poet.
He was much liked by Bukowski, was married twice and drank a lot. I don’t drink so much, but he has my sympathies.
I liked this one (I liked a lot of them), written to his best friend. It’s much like what I might write to mine.
You ask how I spend my time–
I nestle against a treetrunk
and listen to autumn winds
in the pines all night and day.
Shantung wine can’t get me drunk.
The local poets bore me.
My thoughts remain with you,
like the Wen River, endlessly flowing.