It’s been ages since I visited city markets,
and I’m past worry over disappointments.
It’s quiet. I gather blossoms, and awaiting
sage-masters, drink clouds at their source.
translated by David Hinton
Chinese poet
Across a thousand by Wang An-shih
Across a thousand hundred-twist trails through forest hills,
a painting’s wind-mist silvers autumn into a single color,
nothing left but the beauty of wandering out impulse here.
Red poplar-tears: what grief scatters them across streams?
translated by David Hinton
Self -Portrait 2 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
pure likeness of things themselves.
translated by David Hinton
Self-Portrait 1 by Wang An-shih
It’s all mirage illusion, like cinnabar-and-azure paintings, this
human world. We wander here for a time, then vanish into dust.
Things aren’t other than they are. That’s all anyone can know.
Don’t ask if this thing I am today is the thing I was long ago.
translated by David Hinton
A Friend in Mourning Visits River-Serene by Wang An-shih
Who ever lives our life’s full hundred years? It’s the body’s
grief. And gazing through spring wind, your eyes weep tears.
Birds in song, open blossoms–everything has its thoughts.
Don’t forget the poetry in mountain cherry and pied wagtail.
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
Parting in River-Serene by Wang An-shih
Gazing at each other, we’re held here.
Dusk lake tranquil, we sit hand in hand,
talk fallen silent. Slow, deep in radiant
moonlight, island after island emerges.
translated by David Hinton
Tune: Treading on Grass by Ou-yang Hsiu
At the post house lodge, plum flowers scattering,
by the valley bridge, willows coming out,
fragrant grass, warm wind that sways the traveler’s reins:
parting grief–the farther apart, the more endless it grows,
long and unbroken like a river in spring.
Inch on inch of gentle heart,
brimming, brimming, her rouge-stained tears:
the tower so tall–don’t go near, don’t lean on the high railing!
At the very end of the level plain–spring hills are there,
but the traveler’s even farther, beyond spring hills.
translated by Burton Watson
Tune: Song of Picking Mulberry by Ou-yang Hsiu
Ten years ago I was a visitor at the wine jar,
the moonlight white, the wind clear.
Then care and worry whittled me away,
time went by with astounding swiftness, and I grew old.
But though my hair has changed, my heart never changes.
Let me lift the golden flagon,
listen again to the old songs,
like drunken voices from those years long past.
translated by Burton Watson
Climbing Oxhead Mountain Temple by Tu Fu
I couldn’t stop thinking about mountains
step after step on my way to Oxhead
no longer held back by restrains
I was finally wandering without a plan
in the quiet of a flower-scented temple in spring
in the seclusion of a bamboo-veiled pond
where is that oriole singing
it hasn’t stopped the whole time
translated by Red Pine
Leonard Durso 