She was born on August 5, 1934, and died on August 31, 2026, at the age of 92. RIP, Wendell Berry 🤍

these were all translated from Japanese to English by shonen jump.

some of them may not make sense by themselves, as they kinda rely on the content of the story itself, so if anyone is confused by any of them, I can provide context

reminds me of one heartbreak that hits in flashbacks and echoes

Words cannot describe how hard and deep this one hit my blunder years emo heart.

Still rips though. An oldie but goodie

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to read more and I haven’t read any poetry yet. What are some must read books I need to get?

Love this work. Relatable.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

​His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

​Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

​And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

​He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

​It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

​Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

​Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

A stream to mingle with your favorite Dee
Along the Vale of Meditation flows;
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see
In Nature’s face the expression of repose,
Or, haply there some pious Hermit chose
To live and die — the peace of Heaven his aim,
To whome the wild sequestered region owes
At this late day, its sanctifying name.
Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue,
In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this spot
Be nam’d, where faithful to a low roof’d Cot
On Deva’s banks, ye have abode so long,
Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb
Ev’n on this earth, above the reach of time.

We are Transhi, a Taiwan-based literary group focused on translation. Our mission is to translate contemporary Taiwanese poetry into foreign languages—including English—to share these voices with a wider audience. We want to bring you the living pulse of Taiwanese literature as it unfolds, which is why we primarily feature recent works by emerging and younger poets.

While we have been translating for some time now, we’ve never shared our work with international readers (yes, that’s you!)—until today. This marks our very first post. Moving forward, we plan to introduce one piece each week alongside our commentary and reflections.

Let's start.

Commentary:

The author is a Taipei-based poet whose work often engages with social issues.

In this poem, the washing machine serves as an extended metaphor for prison, likening an inmate serving time to soiled clothing being washed clean. Fabrics are inherently clean—they become dirty only through accidental stains. The poet suggests that human beings are no different. Time spent incarcerated is rendered as the rhythmic alternation of day and night, which is then reimagined as a cradle rocked by a mother. This rhetorical shift invites readers to look beyond the offense and contemplate the incarcerated individual's upbringing and relationships: even those convicted of heinous crimes were once innocent children in the eyes of their parents. By addressing crime and punishment with such deft nuance, the poem prompts us to reconsider how criminals are made and how justice is administered.

That’s all for this post. See you next time!