In loving devotion to this old guest among pine and bamboo, it
slept nights beneath my east window how many years? A colt
come from heaven’s stable, it’s turned dragon now and set out,
leaving only a lame little donkey for my wanderings in idleness.
translated by David Hinton
Chinese poet
To Chang Hsu after Drinking by Kao Shih
The world is full of fickle people
you old friend aren’t one
inspired you write like a god
drunk you’re crazier still
enjoying white hair and idle days
blue clouds now rise before you
how many times will you still sleep
with a jug of wine by your bed
translated by Red Pine
For the Beach Gulls by Po Chü-I
The crush of age is turning my hair white
and I’m stuck with purple robes of office,
but if my body’s tangled in these fetters,
my heart abides where nothing’s begun.
Happening on wine, I’m drunk in no time,
and loving those mountains, I return late.
They don’t know who I am. Seeing official
falcon-banners flutter, beach gulls scatter.
translated by David Hinton
from Madly Singing in the Mountains by Bai Juyi (Po Chü-I)
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of white Stone;
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills;
The apes and birds all come to peep,
Fearing to become a laughingstock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
On Ling-Ying Tower, Looking North by Po Chü-i
This high up, I begin to see how small our human realm is,
face distances and know the kingdom of perception is pure
emptiness. Turning away, I start home through the morning
markets–a kernel of darnel tumbling into the vast granary.
translated by David Hinton
Reply to Yüan Chen by Po Chü-i
You write out my poems, filling monestary walls,
and I crowd these door-screens here with yours.
Old friend, we never know where it is we’ll meet—
we two duckweed leaves adrift on such vast seas.
translated by David Hinton
After Lunch by Po Chü-i
After eating lunch, I feel so sleepy.
Waking later, I sip two bowls of tea,
then notice shadows aslant, the sun
already low in the southwest again.
Joyful people resent fleeting days.
Sad ones can’t bear the slow years.
It’s those with no joy and no sorrow—
they trust whatever this life brings.
translated by David Hinton
Idle Song by Po Chü-i
After such painstaking study of empty-gate dharma,
everything life plants in the mind dissolved away:
there’s nothing left now but that old poetry demon.
A little wind or moon, and I’m chanting an idle song.
translated by David Hinton
from My Thatch Hut NewlyBuilt Below Incense Burner Peak. I Chant My thoughts Then Copy Them Onto the Rocks by Po Chü-i
I admire how easily contentment comes
just sitting here in the midst of all this,
and marveling at the song of heaven.
I blend in a few tipsy words and let it
voice my nature: a far-country recluse
caught in nets of human consequence.
translated by David Hinton
Fallen Flowers by Li Shang-yin
From the tall pavilion the guests have all departed;
In the little garden flowers helter-skelter fly.
They fall at random on the winding path,
And travel far, setting off the setting sun.
Heartbroken, I cannot bear to sweep them away;
Gazing hard, I watch them till few are left.
Their fragrant heart, following spring, dies;
What they have earned are tears that wet one’s clothes.
translated by James J. Y. Liu
Leonard Durso 