time moves on
one can’t resist it
muscles no longer as strong
as in my youth
the joints creak
less hair to blow
in that restless wind
the year ages
as do I
thankful still
for another day
a month a year
the gift of living
so grateful to accept
this day
again
aging
Shijo 2270 by U T’ak
In one hand I grabbed a bramble,
in the other a stick:
the bramble to block the advance of age, the stick to stay approaching white hair.
White hair, though,
outwitted me: it took a shortcut here.
translated by Kevin O’Rourke
from Strolling Along the Riverbank, Looking for Flowers: Seven Quatrains: One Section by Tu Fu
Masses of flowers and plants envelop the riverbanks;
Walking there, unsteady in my steps, I’m really afraid of spring.
My verses and my wine I can still manage:
There’s no need yet to look after this white-haired one.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
On a Painting of a White-Haired Old Man by Yuan Mei
Who’d paint a white-haired ancient?
I smile. I’d rather be a duck.
If you’re born with your head snow-white already,
no one can laugh and shout, “You’re getting old!”
translated by J.P. Seaton
Poking Fun at My White Hair by Wang An-shih
Long since afraid of tumbling like windblown thistledown
away, you hide in your cap, never dare leave. Spring wind
scatters you away, but never lasts long. And even thin,
flare incandescent beneath bright moon and stars and stars.
translated by David Hinton
White Hair’s Answer by Wang An-shih
Old age brings white hair. Heaven’s loom of origins works
like that. People never denounce summer’s endless green:
they love spring blossoms and those long days that follow.
But soon autumn leaves fall, and did ancients outlive that?
translated by David Hinton
Old now, tangled by Wang An-shih
Old now, tangled in human form, I’m done trusting wisdom.
Knowledge in ruins, I’ll follow farmland elders, live out my
hundred years like a child. What else could carry me clear
through, heal all these failures hacking and scarring my face?
translated by David Hinton
old pictures
the hair
darker
the eyes
clearer
the heart
lighter
back then
Cut Flowers by Wang An-shih
Getting this old isn’t much fun,
and it’s worse stuck in bed, sick.
I draw water and arrange flowers,
comforted by their scents adrift,
scents adrift, gone in a moment.
And how much longer for me?
Cut flowers and this long-ago I:
it’s so easy forgetting each other.
translated by David Hinton
untitled poem by T’ao Chien
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
