In human life the woes are many and the satisfactions few:
so seize the moment when you’re in your prime.
If one of us achieve a noble aim, the rest may take joy in it.
But best keep cash for wine on the bedside table.
Whether my deeds be scribed on bamboo and silk
is surely beyond my knowing.
Life or death, honor or shame? These I leave to High Heaven.
translated by J.P. Seaton
5th Century Chinese poetry
from Burial Songs: 3 by T’ao Ch’ien
Day won’t dawn again in a thousand years,
and what can all our wisdom do about it?
Those who were just here saying farewell
return to their separate homes. And though
my family may still grieve, the others
must be singing again by now. Once you’re
dead and gone, what then? Trust yourself
to the mountainside. It will take you in.
translated by David Hinton
and once again ’cause this is where I am now: TOGETHER, WE ALL GO OUT UNDER THE CYPRESS TREES IN THE CHOU FAMILY BURIAL-GROUNDS by T’ao Ch’ien
Today’s skies are perfect for a clear
flute and singing koto. And touched
this deeply by those laid under these
cypress trees, how could we neglect joy?
Clear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine
starts pious faces smiling. Not knowing
what tomorrow brings, it’s exquisite
exhausting whatever I feel here and now.
translated by David Hinton
Untitled Poem by T’ao Ch’ien
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
Sailing into the South Lake by Chan Fang-sheng
P’eng-li commands three rivers.
Mount Lu masters other hills.
White sand cleans the waterway.
Green pines cover hanging crags.
The water: since when, it flows?
This mountain: since when, its being?
Man’s fate changes from this to that!
These forms alone stay forever.
Within the distant reach of the cosmos,
Past, present, in order, first, last.
translated by Wai-lim Yip
from To Match the Prince of Lang-yeh’s Poem in the Old Style by Wang Seng-ta
Down the bright lane. no carriage that does not follow the rut;
on the somber road, who but ghosts go there?
Sages, wise men–they too have departed–
Hold life close, have no regret!
translated by Burton Watson
one last poem from Six Poems on Remembering by Shen Yüeh
I think of when she sleeps–
struggling to stay awake when others have retired,
undoing her sheer gown without waiting to be urged,
resting on the pillow till caresses find her.
Fearful that the one by her side is watching,
she blushes under the candle’s glow.
translated by Burton Watson
Here’s another, Lynn: Six Poems on Remembering: 2 by Shen Yüeh
I think of when she sits–
prim, prim before the gauze curtain,
sometimes singing four or five songs,
sometimes plucking two or three strings.
When she laughs, there’s no one like her;
when she sulks, she’s more lovely than before.
translated by Burton Watson
for Lynn at adminclouds because she asked: Six Poems on Remembering: Poem 1 by Shen Yüeh
I think of when she comes–
shining, shining, up the garden stairs,
impatient, impatient to end our parting.
Tireless, tireless, we talk of love,
gaze at each other but never get our fill,
look at one another till hunger is forgotten.
translated by Burton Watson
Not weak by nature, but still there are lines here, and a sentiment, I cannot help but relate to and admire: Poem without a Category, No. 7 by T’ao Yüan-ming
Sun and moon refuse to slow their pace;
the four seasons press and hurry each other onward.
Cold wind shakes the bare branches,
fallen leaves blanket the long lane.
Weak by nature, I feel myself decay with time’s passing,
the black hair at my temples already turned white.
Flecks of gray find their way into my head,
signs that the road ahead wll grow more and more narrow.
What is a house but an inn on a journey,
and I a traveler who must keep moving on?
Move on, move on–and where will I go?
My old home is there on the southern mountain.
translated by Burton Watson2
Leonard Durso 