11th Century Chinese poetry

I’m a Frightened Monkey Who’s Reached the Forest by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 5 Comments

I’m a frightened monkey who’s reached the forest,
a tired horse unharnessed at last,
my mind a void to fill with new thoughts;
surroundings are old to me–I see them in dreams.
River gulls flock around, growing tamer;
old Tanka men drop in to visit.
South pond lotus spreads green coins;
north hill bamboo sends up purple shoots.
Bring-the-wine jug (what does he know about wine?)
inspires me with a fine idea.
The spring river had a beautiful poem
but, drunk, I dropped it somewhere far away.

translated by Burton Watson

To the Tune of “Partridge Sky” by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Mountains shine through forest breaks, bamboo hides the wall;
withered grass by small ponds, jumbled cicada cries.
White birds again and again cut across the sky;
faint scent of lotus pink on the water.

Beyond the village,
by old town walls,
with goosefoot cane I stroll where late sunlight turns.
Thanks to rain that fell at the third watch last night
I get another cool day in this floating life.

translated by Burton Watson

Grasses Bury the River Bank by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 6 Comments

Grasses bury the river bank, rain darkens the village;
the temple is lost in tall bamboo–I can’t find the gate.
They’re gathering wood and brewing herbs–I’m sorry a monk is sick;
they’ve swept the ground and burned incense–it cleans my spirit.
Farm work not finished, though we’re into Little Snow;
lamps lit before the Buddha, signal of dusk–
lately I’ve developed a taste for the quiet life.
I think how we could lie and talk together through the night.

translated by Burton Watson

Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Living water needs living fire to boil;
lean over Fishing Rock, dip the clear deep current;
store the spring moon in a big gourd, return it to the jar;
divide the night stream with a little dipper, drain it into the kettle.
Frothy water, simmering, whirls bits of tea;
pour it and hear the sound of wind in pines.
Hard to refuse three cups to a dried-up belly;
I sit and listen–from the old town, the striking of the hour.

translated by Burton Watson

Bell and Drum on the South River Bank by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Bell and drum on the south river bank:
home! I wake startled from a dream.
Drifting clouds–so the world shifts;
lone moon–such is the light of my mind.
Rain drenches down as from a tilted basin;
poems flow out like water spilled.
The two rivers vie to send me off;
beyond treetops I see the slant of a bridge.

translated by Burton Watson