The courtyard trees are suddenly dark
why didn’t my old friend come
it must be because he hates the heat
and spends his days on a frost-covered terrace
The glory of office comes with its burdens
retired life too means less time together
I watched for you from the upper story
until the blue ridges were almost black
translated by Red Pine
Chinese poet
worth posting again: Self-Portrait In Praise by Wang An-shih
Things aren’t other than they are.
I am today whoever I was long ago,
and if I can be described, it’s as this
perfect likeness of all these things.
translated by David Hinton
Untitled Poem by T’ao Ch’ien
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
The Boat-Pullers by Mei Yao-ch’en
Leg broken on the sandy shore, a goose
hobbles along like a man, wings splayed:
what will it do when evening rains come
and the cold wind starts ripping through?
Sodden feathers mud-strained, arched neck
shrinking back—it doesn’t utter a sound.
That’s their life exactly. Guess it’s better
than lugging weapons around some war.
translated by David Hinton
Thoughts as I Lie Alone by Wang An-shih
Alone, a noon dove calling in spring
shade, I lie in a valley of forest quiet.
Scraps of cloud pass, scattering rain,
and I listen, late in life, to its clatter.
Eyes full of red and green confusion,
our sad times unraveling my legacy,
there’s no word near these thoughts
still as Bell Mountain in its slumber.
translated by David Hinton
Leaving the City by Wang An-shih
I’ve lived in the country long enough to know its wild joys:
it feels like I’m a child back home in my old village again.
Leaving the city today, I put all that gritty dust behind me,
and facing mountains and valleys, feel them enter my eyes.
translated by David Hinton
With my goosefoot staff by Wang An-shih
With my goosefoot staff, I wander the stream winding around
East Ridge. When interest fades, I go home to bed. But in dream,
emperors Yao and Chieh sometimes appear: one noble, one vile.
So my practice isn’t over. There are a few last things to forget.
translated by David Hinton
Off-Hand Poem by Wang An-shih
It’s a blessing, the ten thousand things
spoken. Don’t forget even a single line,
for I’m sending in these words a place
far from this loud world of confusion.
translated by David Hinton
A Clear Stream in Ch’ih-chou by Tu Mu
I’ve played all day in the stream. Not twilight’s yellow
lights autumn’s destined coming, root of this white hair.
What is it I’ve trusted you to rinse a thousand times away,
until not, the dust fouling my brush-tip leaves no trace?
translated by David Hinton
Drinking Alone in a Small Garden by Li Shang-yin
Who could have knit the willow’s belts?
The flower buds are unwilling to open yet.
Only a pair of dancing butterflies are left;
Not a single person has come here.
I half unfold the dragon-whisker mat,
And lightly pour into the horse-brain cup.
Every year the arrival of spring is uncertain;
I have been deceived by the early blooming plum!
translated by James J.Y. Liu
