Happiness inexpressive sometimes can be very simple: overhearing someone speaking the accent of your hometown in a metro station eight thousands miles away from the small village, or encountering W.S.Merwin’s new poem A Message to Po Chu-I on the front page of the New Yorker’s site.

A Message to Po Chu-I

by W. S. Merwin

In that tenth winter of your exile Read the rest of this entry »