11th Century Chinese poetry

Above the Yangtze by Wang An-shih

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A letter from long-ago shores arrives, saying
our village is tangled in sickness and hunger.

Why are they telling me, a ten-thousand-mile
wanderer, swelling my hundred-year sorrow?

No one cares about patching up ruined lives
now, and my lifework’s only turned to shame.

My sick eyes gaze off toward them. Night falls.
I trust myself to this little-boat life all adrift.

translated by David Hinton

Cut Flowers by Wang An-shih

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Getting this old isn’t much fun,
and it’s worse stuck in bed, sick.

I draw water and arrange flowers,
comforted by their scents adrift,

scents adrift, gone in a moment.
And how much longer for me?

Cut flowers and this long-ago I:
it’s so easy forgetting each other.

translated by David Hinton

At Lumen River Headwaters by Wang An-shih

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West of Lumen City, a hundred mountains rise ridge beyond ridge.
All trace of my life buried in these dark depths of haze and cloud,

it’s perfectly empty: that worry over white hair, over all I’ve done
and not done. In spring wind, the river lights up a ravaged face.

translated by David Hinton

Hymn by Wang An-shih

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Dawn lights up the room. I close my book and sleep,
dreaming of Bell Mountain and full of tenderness.

How do you grow old living with failure and disgrace?
Just go back to the cascading creek: cold, shimmering.

translated by David Hinton

Seeing the Year Out by Su Tung-p’o

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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

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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

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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

Wandering Bell Mountain by Wang An-shih

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Gazing all day into mountains, I can’t get enough of mountains.
Retire into mountains, and mountains become our old masters:

when mountain blossoms scatter away, mountains always remain,
and in empty mountain stream water, mountains deepen idleness.

translated by David Hinton