11th Century Chinese poetry

Feet Stuck Out, Singing Wildly by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 2 Comments

Feet stuck out, singing wildly, I beat an old clay tub;
singeing fur, roasting meats, like a northwest nomad.
Outriders shout through the market–you’ve come to fetch me;
on Fishing Point, sand is swept, wine jars set out.
Boys from the foothills crowd to watch us dance;
white bones by the river remember your kindness.
One cloud, a slanting sun–I gaze southwest
and envy crows that know the way back home.

POET’S NOTE TO THE POEM: Governor Chan came to visit me, bringing wine. Using a previous rhyme of mine, he composed a poem, and I responded with another poem in the same rhyme.

translated by Burton Watson

On First Arriving at Huang-chou by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Funny–I never could keep my mouth shut;
it gets worse the older I grow.
The long river loops the town–fish must be tasty;
good bamboo lines the hills–smell the fragrant shoots!
An exile, why mind being a supernumerary?
Other poets have worked for the Water Bureau.
Too bad I was no help to the government
but still they pay me in old wine sacks.

translated by Burton Watson

On a Boat, Awake at Night by Su Tung-p’o0

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain–moon floods the lake.
Boatmen and water birds dream the same dream;
a big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late–men and creatures forget each other
while my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats–I pity the cold mud-worms;
the setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
how long before you’ve lost it–a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout.

translated by Burton Watson

Written While Living at Dinghui Temple in Huangzhou, to the Tune of “Divination Song” by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

A broken moon hangs from a gaunt parasol tree.
The water clock has stopped, and people hush into sleep.
Who sees a hermit like me passing alone
like a shadow of a flying wild goose?

Startled and soaring off, I look back
with grief no one understands,
going from branch to branch, unwilling to settle,
and landing at last on a cold and desolate shoal.

translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping

Mid-Autumn Moon by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 6 Comments

Six years the moon shone at mid-autumn;
five years it saw us parted.
I sing your farewell song;
sobs from those who sit with me.
The southern capital must be busy,
but you won’t let the occasion pass:
Hundred-league lake of melted silver,
thousand-foot towers in the pendant mirror–
at third watch, when the songs and flutes are stilled
and figures blur in the shade of trees,
you return to your north hall rooms,
cold light glinting on the dew of leaves;
calling for wine, you drink with your wife
and tell the children stories, thinking of me.
You have no way of knowing I’ve been sick,
that I face the pears and chestnuts, cup empty,
and stare east of the old riverbed
where buckwheat blossoms spread their snow.
I wanted to write a verse to your last year’s song
but I was afraid my heart would break.

translated by Burton Watson

Beginning of Autumn: A Poem to Send to Tzu-yu by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 6 Comments

The hundred rivers day and night flow on,
we and all things following;
only the heart remains unmoved,
clutching the past.
I recall when we stayed at Huai-yüan Stop,
door shut against fall heat,
eating boiled greens, studying,
wiping away the sweat, you and I.
The west wind suddenly turned cold;
dried leaves blew in the window.
You got up for a heavier coat
and took hold of my hand:
We won’t be young for long–
I needn’t tell you.
Probably we’ll have to part,
hard to tell when success may come–
even then I felt a chill of sorrow,
and now when both of us are old–
too late to look for the Way.
This fall I began talks to buy some land;
if I build a house, it should be done by spring.
Nights at Snow Hall, in wind and rain,
already I hear you talking to me.

translated by Burton Watson

Seven Thousand Miles Away by Su Tung-p’o

/ zdunno03 / 2 Comments

Seven thousand miles away, a gray-haired man;
eighteen rapids, one little boat:
hills recall Hsi-huan–thoughts roam far away;
“fearful” they call this place–it makes me want to cry.
A long wind follows us, bellying the sail;
rain-fed current bears the boat through rippled shallows.
With my experience, they ought to make me official boatman–
I know more of rivers than merely where the ferries cross.

translated by Burton Watson

Wine at East Bank by Su Shih

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

Wine at East Bank tonight, I sobered up
then started over, getting drunk again.
Got home, a little fuzzy maybe close to three,
and the houseboy was snoring like thunder.
I knocked at my own gate, and nobody answered,
leaned on my cane and listened to the River running.

I hate it! that even this body’s not mine alone. . .
Someday I’ll give it all up.
The night moves, the breeze writes
quiet in the ripples on the water.
A little boat, leaving here and now,
the rest of my life, on the river, on the sea.

translated by J.P. Seaton

On the road to Ch’ang-an by Liu Yung

/ zdunno03 / 9 Comments

On the road to Ch’ang-an my horse goes slowly.
In the tall willows a confusion of cicada cries.
Slanting sun beyond the isles,
and winds of autumn on the plain. Only
where the heavens hang,
the view cut off.

The clouds go back, but
gone, they leave no track.
Where is the past?
Unused to indulgence, a little
wine’s no consolation.
It’s not
as it was
when I was young.

translated by J.P. Seaton