It has turned crystal clear lately
And flows away like a ribbon of smoke
With a music like a ten stringed zither.
The sound penetrates to my pillow,
And turns my mind to past loves,
And won’t let me sleep for melancholy.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung
8th-9th Centuries Chinese poetry
Weaving Love-Knots 2 by Hsüeh T’ao
Two hearts: two blades of grass I braid together.
He is gone, who knew the music of my soul.
Autumn in the heart, as the links are broken.
Now he is gone, I break my lute.
But Spring hums everywhere: the nesting birds
Are stammering out their sympathy for me.
translated by Carolyn Kizer
Weaving Love-Knots by Hsüeh T’ao
Daily the wind-flowers age, and so do I.
Happiness, long deferred, is deferred again.
Of sand and ocean, the horizon line
Lies in the middle distance of the dream.
Because our lives cannot be woven together,
My fingers plait the same grasses, over and over.
translated by Carolyn Kizer
Spring-Gazing Song by Hsüeh T’ao
Blossoms crowd the branches: too beautiful to endure.
Thinking of you, I break into bloom again.
One morning soon, my tears will mist the mirror.
I see the future, and I will not see.
translated by Carolyn Kizer
Han Shan tells why he came to Cold Mountain
Thirty years ago I was born into the world.
A thousand, ten thousand miles I’ve roamed.
By rivers where the green grass lies thick,
Beyond the border where the red sands fly.
I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting,
I read books, I sang songs of history,
And today I’ve come home to Cold Mountain
To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.
translated by Burton Watson
Han Shan speaks again
When I see a fellow abusing others,
I think of a man with a basketful of water.
As fast as he can, he runs with it home,
But when he gets there, what’s left in the basket?
When I see a man being abused by others,
I think of the leek growing in the garden.
Day after day men pull off the leaves,
But the heart it was born with stays the same.
translated by Burton Watson
Han Shan again
As long as I was living in the village
They said I was the finest man around.
But yesterday I went to the city
And even the dogs eyed me askance.
Some people jeered at my skimpy trousers,
Others said my jacket was too long.
If someone would poke out the eyes of the hawks
We sparrows could dance wherever we pleased.
translated by Burton Watson
again, Han Shan
Story on story of wonderful hills and streams,
Their blue-green haze locked in clouds!
Mists brush my thin cap with moisture,
Dew wets my coat of plaited straw.
On my feet I wear pilgrim’s sandals,
My hand holds a stick of old rattan.
Though I look down again on the dusty world,
What is that land of dreams to me?
translated by Burton Watson
and one more from Han Shan
Living in the mountains, mind ill at ease,
All I do is grieve at the passing years.
At great labor I gathered the herbs of long life,
But has all my striving made me an immortal?
Broad is my garden and wrapped now in clouds,
But the woods are bright and the moon is full.
What am I doing here? Why don’t I go home?
I am bound by the spell of the cinnamon trees!
translated by Burton Watson
another one from Han Shan
Cold cliffs, more beautiful the deeper you enter–
Yet no one travels this road.
White clouds idle about the tall crags;
On the green peak a single monkey wails.
What other companions do I need?
I grow old doing as I please.
Though face and form alter with the years,
I hold fast to the pearl of the mind.
translated by Burton Watson
Leonard Durso 