Chinese poet

Hsiang-yang Travels: Thinking of Meng Hao-jan by Po Chü-i

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Emerald Ch’u mountain peaks and cliffs,
emerald Han River flowing full and fast:

Meng’s writing survives here, its elegant
ch’i now facets of changing landscape.

But today, chanting the poems he left us
and thinking of him, I find his village

clear wind, all memory of him vanished.
Dusk light fading, Hsiang-yang empty,

I look south to Deer-Gate Mountain, haze
lavish, as if some fragrance remained,

but his old mountain home is lost there:
mist thick and forests all silvered azure.

translated by David Hinton

Autumn Thoughts: 1 by Meng Chiao

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1

Lonely bones can’t sleep nights. Singing
insects keep calling them, calling them.

And the old have no tears. When they sob,
autumn weeps dewdrops. Strength failing

all at once, as if cut loose, and ravages
everywhere, like weaving unraveled,

I touch thread-ends. No new feelings.
Memories crowding thickening sorrow,

how could I bear southbound sails, how
wander rivers and mountains of the past?

translated by David Hinton

In the Mountains, Asking the Moon by Po Chü-i

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It’s the same Ch’ang-an moon when I ask
which doctrine remains with us always.

It flew with me when I fled those streets,
and now shines clear in these mountains,

carrying me through autumn desolations,
waiting as I sleep away long slow nights.

If I return to my old homeland one day,
it will welcome me like family. And here,

it’s a friend for strolling beneath pines
or sitting together on canyon ridgetops.

A thousand cliffs, ten thousand canyons–
it’s with me everywhere, abiding always.

translated by David Hinton

Untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien

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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 their 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

Entering Tung-t’ing Lake by Tu Fu

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Ch’ing-ts’ao Lake is wrapped in serpent dens,
And White-Sand lost beyond Dragon-Back Island.
Ancient, cragged trees shelter flood-dikes
Here. Crow spirits dance, greeting these oars.

Returning, waves high and south winds strong, I
Fear sunsets. But tonight, a dazzling lake
Stretches into distant heavens–as if any moment,
On this raft of immortals, I will drift away.

translated by David Hinton

Returning Late by Tu Fu

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After midnight, eluding tigers on the road, I return
home below dark mountains. My family asleep inside,

the Northern Dipper drifts nearby, sinking low
on the river. Venus blazes–huge in empty space.

Holding a candle in the courtyard, I call for two
torches. A gibbon in the gorge, startled, shrieks once.

Old and tired, my hair white, I dance and sing out.
Goosefoot cane, no sleep. . . .Catch me if you can!

translated by David Hinton