The Songstone

Last night I dreamed I was the Pope And wondered how on Earth I’d cope with Heaven, cos it’s very far from condom use in Africa or buggered boys on Boston’s shore, crusades in Languedoc, and more But then I thought: I am the Pope, the heir to Peter, mustn’t mope To keep alive, that’s my mission, bulls of worn-out superstition If only there were more like me: (from Hitler Youth to Holy See is not a huge conceptual leap) To Britain! And its hungry sheep! © Simon M Hunter 2010

Posted together with some other much better translations of various poems at Perpwalk Who is more fair than she? She lives alone, an empty valley home. She was from a good family, but they’re gone since discord came to Kuan; her brothers killed; their high estate now dearth. It is a callous world that scorns distress! Hope gutters like a candle - her husband’s eyes have kindled on fresh-bought jade; as morning glory curls he sees new smiles, while old love cries unheard. The spring was pure in its mountain pools but darkened in descent. She waits – her maid may come from selling jewels with straw again for the roof She picks some flowers, no more for her hair The pine tree’s needles fall from her numb fingers. She forgets the cold - wearing a thin silk shawl she leans at sunset by a tall bamboo © Simon M Hunter 2010

Not my poem, obviously, but I've transcribed it as I would read it. Thanks to Hic8ubique and DeadGod at the Guardian's Poem of the Week blog for comments and suggestions. © Simon M Hunter 2010