the sun
comes goes
as do thoughts
of home
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mountain poem 2 by Han-shan Te-ch’ing
A hundred thousand worlds are flowers in the sky
a single mind and body is moonlight on the water
once the cunning ends and information stops
at that moment there is no place for thought
translated by Red Pine
untitled mountain poem 1 by Han-shan Te-ch’ing
I follow my impulsive feet wherever they might go
my body is a pine tree surrounded by the snow
sometimes I simply stand beside a flowing stream
sometimes I chase a drifting cloud past another peak
translated by Red Pine
a vow made
It’s funny how you don’t think of someone for years until an email from an old friend tells you they are gone, and then, just like that, her face and all the faces you both knew a thousand years ago come flooding in. All the late night conversations in kitchens over coffee, the parties that raged from one night to the next, the in-jokes, the mugging, the partners changing and the pet turtles in a bowl named for all of you, these things, that had lay buried for years in some recess of the mind, are once again vivid, and painful, and funny, and precious, and you can’t stop remembering and wishing you had added more pictures of her, of them, all these long years that are now irretrievable once again.
And so you resolve in your mind, your heart, that you will not let that happen with those still present in what remains of this short interval between light and dark. This, a vow made in the early hours as the sun sneaks its way into the world.
Delighted That The Monk Chien-chou Has Come A Long Way To Visit Me by Ch’i-chi
He and I both nearing seventy,
what does it mean to meet like this?
The age of a sage king has yet to arrive,
but partings and rebellions–we have plenty of that!
Though the gate to detachment is hard to attain,
days of leisure pass quickly.
For the rest of our lives, aside from writing letters,
we’ll just be at the beck of the poetry devil.
translated by Burton Watson
some things in life
there are some things
in life
you cannot avoid
and fate
is one of them
for fate is defined
by character
and character
is fate
a piece of heaven
dogs bark
on the street
down below
the cat sleeps
undisturbed
clutching my left arm
his piece
of heaven
Seeing the Year Out by Su Tung-p’o
Want to know what the passing year is like?
A snake slithering down a hole.
Half his long scales already hidden,
how to stop him from getting away?
Grab his tail and pull, you say?
Pull all you like–it does no good.
The children try hard not to doze,
chatter back and forth to stay awake,
but I say let dawn cocks keep still!
I fear the noise of watch drums pounding.
We’ve sat so long the lamp’s burned out.
I get up and look at the slanting Dipper.
How could I hope next year won’t come?
My mind shrinks from the failures it may bring.
I work to hold on to the night
while I can still brag I’m young.
translated by Burton Watson
Bright Moon, When Did You Appear? by Su Tung-p’o
Bright moon, when did you appear?
Lifting my wine, I question the blue sky.
Tonight in the palaces and halls of heaven
what year is it, I wonder?
I would like to ride the wind, make my home there,
only I fear in porphyry towers, under jade eaves,
in those high places the cold wind would be more than I could bear.
So I rise and dance and play in your pure beams,
though this human world–how can it vie with yours?
Circling red chambers,
low in the curtained door,
you light our sleeplessness.
Surely you bear us no ill will–
why then must you be so round at times when we humans are parted!
People have their griefs and joys, their togetherness and separation,
the moon its dark and clear times, its roundings and wanings.
I only hope we two may have long long lives,
may share the moon’s beauty, though a thousand miles apart.
translated by Burton Watson
New Year’s Eve: Spending the Night Outside Ch’ang-chou City by Su Tung-p’o
From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping–both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s Eve? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold–the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light–I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
Leonard Durso 