A fisherman’s taking his boat deep across the lake.
My old eyes trace his path all the way, his precise
wavering in and out of view. Then it gets strange:
suddenly he’s a lone goose balanced on a bent reed.
translated by David Hinton
12th Century Chinese poetry
Taking A Trail Up From Deva-king Monastery To The Guesthouse Where My Friend Wang Chung-hsin And I Wrote Our Names On A Wall Fifty Years Ago, I Find The Names Still There by Lu Yu
Meandering these greens, azure all around, you plumb antiquity.
East of the wall, above the river, stands this ancient monastery,
its thatched halls we visited so long ago. You a mountain sage,
I here from Wei River northlands: we sipped wine, wrote poems.
Painted paddle still, I drift awhile free. Then soon, I’m nearing
home, azure walking-stick in hand, my recluse search ending.
Old friends dead and gone, their houses in ruins, I walk through
thick bamboo, deep cloud, each step a further step into confusion.
translated by David Hinton
At Dragon-inception Monastery, Visiting Tu Fu’s Old House by Lu Yu
We’ve tossed aside the tranquil peace of those northern grasslands:
Mongol dust overran both capitals, left defenses burning, burning.
Adviser no more, grown old, your ten-thousand-mile life wandering. . .
Come here under cold skies, I listen to the sound of a river flowing.
translated by David Hinton
On the Wall-Tower above K’uei-chou at Night, Thinking of Tu Fu by Lu Yu
Done advising emperors, hair white–no one cared about
old Tu Fu, his life scattered away across rivers of the west,
chanting poems. He stood on this tower once, and now he’s
gone. Waves churn the same isolate moon. Inexhaustible
through all antiquity, this world’s great dramas just rise
and sink away. Simpleton and sage alike return in due time.
All these ice-cold thoughts, who’ll I share them with now?
In depths of night, gulls and egrets lift off sand into flight.
translated by David Hinton
Looking at a Map of Ch’ang-an by Lu Yu
My hair’s turning gray, but this devotion to our country remains.
South of the peaks, I’ve been gazing north into southern mountains
all year. To mount a horse, spear athwart: that’s where my heart is,
laughing at those chicken-shits digging moats around our capital. . .
Sun sinks away. Smoke comes windblown over ridges. It’s autumn,
and the sound of watchmen banging cookpots fills tumbling clouds.
Ravaged fathers in Ch’ang-an country go on grieving and looking
looking for the emperor’s armies coming back through the passes.
translated by David Hinton
At Cloud-Gate Monastery, Sitting Alone by Lu Yu
Northern mountains, and southern, too–I’ve wandered them all,
and if I look back, I see sixty-seven years of springtime festivals.
Today, given this far away into old age, all battered and broken,
I sit alone, lit incense fragrant, and listen to the sound of water.
translated by David Hinton
The Small Pond by Yang Wan-li
A spring’s eye of shadow resists even the slightest flow.
Among tree shadow, its lit water adorns warm clear skies.
Spiral of blades, a tiny waterlily’s clenched against dew,
and there at the very tip, in early light, sits a dragonfly.
translated by David Hinton
At Hsieh Cove by Yang Wan-li
The ox path I’m on ends in a rabbit trail, and suddenly
I’m facing open plains and empty sky on all four sides.
My thoughts follow white egrets–a pair taking flight,
leading sight across a million blue mountains rising
ridge beyond ridge, my gaze lingering near then far,
enthralled by peaks crowded together or there alone.
Even a hill or valley means thoughts beyond knowing–
and all this? A crusty old man’s now a wide-eyed child!
translated by David Hinton
On A Boat Crossing Hsieh Lake by Yang Wan-li
I pour out a cup or two of emerald wine inside the cabin.
The door swings closed, then back open onto exquisite
ranged mountains: ten thousand wrinkles unseen by anyone,
and every ridge hand-picked by the sun’s slant light.
translated by David Hinton
Crossing Open-Anew Lake by Yang Wan-li
A fisherman’s taking his boat deep across the lake.
My old eyes trace his path all the way, his precise
wavering in and out of view. Then it gets strange:
suddenly he’s a lone goose balanced on a bent reed.
translated by David Hinton
Leonard Durso 