Strike your own evening drum, morning bell,
then shut the door. Lamp burning low by a solitary pillow;
gray ashes where just now you stirred the stove to red.
Lie and listen to raindrops spattering the window.
translated by Burton Watson
Chinese poet
Grasses Bury the River Bank by Su Tung-p’o
Grasses bury the river bank, rain darkens the village;
the temple is lost in tall bamboo–I can’t find the gate.
They’re gathering wood and brewing herbs–I’m sorry a monk is sick;
they’ve swept the ground and burned incense–it cleans my spirit.
Farm work not finished, though we’re into Little Snow;
lamps lit before the Buddha, signal of dusk–
lately I’ve developed a taste for the quiet life.
I think how we could lie and talk together through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
Eastern Slope by Su Tung-p’o
Rain has washed Eastern Slope, the moon shines clear;
where townspeople walked earlier, farmers pass.
Why mind jagged stones on the hillside path?
I like the ringing sound my stick makes when it strikes.
translated by Burton Watson
from Letting the Writing Brush Go Where It Will, Three Poems: Poem 2 by Su Tung-p’o
Old men scramble to get a look at my pointy black headcloth,
doubtless because it’s proof I once held a government post.
On the old river road, where it branches three ways,
I stand alone in slanting sunlight, while others now and then go by.
translated by Burton Watson
Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea by Su Tung-p’o
Living water needs living fire to boil;
lean over Fishing Rock, dip the clear deep current;
store the spring moon in a big gourd, return it to the jar;
divide the night stream with a little dipper, drain it into the kettle.
Frothy water, simmering, whirls bits of tea;
pour it and hear the sound of wind in pines.
Hard to refuse three cups to a dried-up belly;
I sit and listen–from the old town, the striking of the hour.
translated by Burton Watson
I Thought I’d End My Days in a Hainan Village by Su Tung-p’o
I thought I’d end my days in a Hainan village
but God sent Wu-yang to call back my soul.
Far, far, where sky lowers and eagles pass from sight:
a hairbreadth of green hill–the mainland there!
translated by Burton Watson
Bell and Drum on the South River Bank by Su Tung-p’o
Bell and drum on the south river bank:
home! I wake startled from a dream.
Drifting clouds–so the world shifts;
lone moon–such is the light of my mind.
Rain drenches down as from a tilted basin;
poems flow out like water spilled.
The two rivers vie to send me off;
beyond treetops I see the slant of a bridge.
translated by Burton Watson
Creek Crisscrosses the Meadow by Su Tung-p’o
Creek crisscrosses the meadow, banks scarred where water rose;
in sparse woods, frost-burned roots stick out at a slant.
Little boat with a single oar–where’s it going?
Home south of the river to a village of yellow leaves.
translated by Burton Watson
Birdsong Brook by Wang Wei
Mind at peace, cassia flowers fall,
Night still, spring mountain empty.
Moon rising startles mountain birds
Now and again sing from spring brook.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
To the Tune of “Mountain Hawthorn” by Zhu Shuzhen
Every year at the jade mirror stand,
it’s harder to paint myself into a plum flower.
You didn’t return home this year,
and each letter from across the Yangtze fills me with fear.
I drink less since our separation,
my tears exhausted in sorrow.
I see deep Chou clouds when I think of him in distance.
My man is far and the world’s edge is near.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
Leonard Durso 