9th Century Chinese poetry

The Brocade Ch’in by Li Shang-yin

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The brocade ch’in has fifty strings: there’s no reason for it,
each string and bridge conjuring up another bloom of youth:

in a morning dream, Chuang Tzu’s confused with a butterfly,
and Emperor Wang’s death left his spring passion to a nightjar

scattered blood: moonlight on vast seas–it’s a pearl’s tear:
far off, Indigo Mountain jade smokes in warm sun: up close,

smoke vanishes: can this feeling linger even in a memory:
never anything but this moment already bewildered and lost.

translated by David Hinton

yet one more translation of one of his best known poems

Idle Song by Po Chü-i

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In moonlight, I envied vistas of clarity,
and in pine sleep adorned green shadow.

I wrote grief-torn poems when young,
plumbed the depths of feeling when old.

Now I sit up all night practicing ch’an,
and autumn can still bring a sudden sigh,

but that’s it. Two last ties. Beyond them,
nothing anywhere holds this mind back.

translated by David Hinton

Hsiang-yang Travels: Thinking of Meng Hao-jan by Po Chü-i

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Emerald Ch’u mountain peaks and cliffs,
emerald Han River flowing full and fast:

Meng’s writing survives here, its elegant
ch’i now facets of changing landscape.

But today, chanting the poems he left us
and thinking of him, I find his village

clear wind, all memory of him vanished.
Dusk light fading, Hsiang-yang empty,

I look south to Deer-Gate Mountain, haze
lavish, as if some fragrance remained,

but his old mountain home is lost there:
mist thick and forests all silvered azure.

translated by David Hinton

In the Mountains, Asking the Moon by Po Chü-i

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It’s the same Ch’ang-an moon when I ask
which doctrine remains with us always.

It flew with me when I fled those streets,
and now shines clear in these mountains,

carrying me through autumn desolations,
waiting as I sleep away long slow nights.

If I return to my old homeland one day,
it will welcome me like family. And here,

it’s a friend for strolling beneath pines
or sitting together on canyon ridgetops.

A thousand cliffs, ten thousand canyons–
it’s with me everywhere, abiding always.

translated by David Hinton

Night Chill by Li Shang-yin

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Trees surround a wide pool, the moon casts many shadows;
Beyond the wind-blown vine, in the village and on the bank,
the pounding of wash and the sounds of the flute.
In the west pavilion, the kingfisher quilt leaves a fragrance that fades;
All through the night, my sorrow turns toward the wilted lotus.

translated  by Eugene Eoyang & Irving Y. Lo

An Early Walk on Shang Mountain by Wen T’ing-yün

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Departing at dawn, carriage bells ajingle–
The traveler grieves for his ancestral home.
A cock’s crow, a thatched teahouse in the moonlight,
Human footprints on the frosted bridge planking,
Betel leaves fallen by the mountain road,
Orange blossoms bright on the station wall–
And so I dream a dream of Ch’ang-an,
Where ducks and geese settle, crowding the pond.

translated by William R. Schultz

Early Autumn in the Mountains by Wen T’ing-yün

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Here, next the mountain, the cold comes early,
Crisp and clear, the air in the thatched hut.
Barren trees admit the sun to the window,
The cistern, brimming full, is still and silent.
Fallen nuts mark the monkeys’ trail,
Dry leaves rustle to the passage of deer.
A plain zither–an untrammeled heart–
Hollowly accompanies the clear spring at night.

translated by William R. Schultz

A Spring Day in the Countryside by Wen T’ing-yün

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Astride a mount pawing misty sedge grass,
How can one be resentful of the vernal spring
Where butterfly wings dust the flowers at dawn
And the backs of crows glisten everywhere in the setting sun;
Where lush willows compete with the fragrant sash,
And melancholy hills tighten kingfisher eyebrows.
The feeling of separation, what is there to say
But that the heart is an endless river of stars.

translated by William R. Schultz

Untitled Poem 3 by Li Shang-yin

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East winds hush and sigh, and delicate spring rains arrive:
out beyond the lotus pond, there’s the whisper of thunder:

the golden moon-toad gnaws a lock open: incense drifts in:
jade tiger circles back, pulling silk rope to draw well-water:

the secret love of Lady Chia and young Han led to marriage,
and the Lo River goddess shared her bed with a Wei prince:

don’t hope for spring passion that rivals all those blossoms
burgeoning forth: an inch of longing’s just an inch of ash.

translated by David Hinton