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
5th Century Chinese poetry
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
from Substance, Shadow, and Spirit by T’ao Yüan-ming
When the body perishes the name fades too–
thinking of it, my heart’s on fire!
Let us do good and win the love of ages after;
why not bend all efforts toward that?
Wine they say can wash away care,
but surely it cannot compare to such a goal!
transalated by Burton Watson
Presented in a Farewell to Secretary Fu by Pao Chao
The nimble swan plays in the river pool;
The lonely goose comes to roost on the island sand bar.
For a while by chance the two of us were close,
In thought and feeling together without a break.
Wind and rain blew us apart, east and west;
Once parted we drifted for ten thousand leagues.
I pursue my memories of the times we stayed together,
Your voice and appearance fill my mind and ears.
As the sun falls, the river isles grow cold;
Mournful clouds rise and enfold the heavens.
These short wings cannot soar aloft;
And hesitate here amid the mist and fog.
translated by Daniel Bryant
Jade Steps Plaint by Hsieh T’iao
Palace at dusk, the pearl blind is lowered,
Drifting fireflies glide and come to rest;
Through the long night I sew a fine silk jacket–
My thoughts of you, when will they end?
translated by Ronald C. Miao
Leonard Durso 