5th Century Chinese poetry

Untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien

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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 their 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

Burial Songs: 2 by T’ao Ch’ıen

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I never had wine to drink, and now
my empty cup’s all depths of spring

wine crowned with ant-fluff foam,
but how will I ever taste it again?

Delicacies crowd altars before me,
and at my side, those I love grieve.

I try to look–it’s eyes of darkness.
I try to speak–a mouth of silence.

I once slept beneath high ceilings,
but a waste village of weeds is next:

leaving my gate behind, I’ll set out
and never again find my way back.

translated by David Hinton

This poem is for Natıg Damırov whose brother Orhan died in a car crash 10 days ago in Azerbaijan.

T’ao Ch’ien on his version of carpe diem

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The Way’s been in ruin a thousand
years. People all hoard their hearts

away: so busy scrambling for esteemed
position, they’d never touch wine.

But whatever makes living precious
occurs in this one life, and this

life never lasts. It’s startling,
sudden as lightning. These hundred

years offer all abundance: Take it!
What more could you make of yourself?

translated by David Hinton

New Corn by T’ao Ch’ien

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Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.

translated by Arthur Waley

from Written In The 12th Month, Kuei Year Of The Hare, For My Cousin Ching-yüan by T’ao Ch’ien

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Roaming through thousand-year-old books,
I meet timeless exemplars. I’ll never

reach their high principles, though I’ve
somehow mastered resolute in privation,

and there’s no chance renown will redeem
this poverty. But I’m no fool for coming

here. I send findings beyond all words:
who could understand this bond we share?

translated by David Hinton

“The Weary Road” Two Sections: Section 2 by Pao Chao

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Have you not seen the grasses on the riverbank?
They wither and die in winter, overspread the road in spring.
Have you not seen the sun above the city wall?
It grows dim, sinks, and disappears;
The next day it will come out again.
Now, at what time in my life can I be like this?
Once gone, I’ll forever perish in the Yellow Spring!
Life is full of bitterness and scant in joy;
To be high-sprited belongs to the prime of life.
There’ll always be money at my bedside to buy wine.
To be immortalized in bamboo or silk is not what I want:
Life or death, honor or debasement, I leave to heaven.

translated by Irving Y. Lo

“The Weary Road” Two Sections: Section One by Pao Chao

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Water spilled on level ground
Runs east, west, south or north, and whichever way it pleases.
A man’s life is also governed by fate,
Then why must we always sigh as we journey and grieve as we sit?
Drink your wine to please yourself;
Raise your cup and forswear singing “The Weary Road.”
But since a man’s heart isn’t wood or stone,
How could it be without feeling?
Thus I weep, I hesitate, I dare not speak.

translated by Irving Y. Lo