growing old

Remembering by Yuan Mei

/ zdunno03 / 7 Comments

The years, their months
turn, grave and slow, their
fall and spring, again.

Mountain flowers, mountain leaves and
each time’s new.

Sometimes I sit alone
and smile upon the child I was,

in memory now distant
and a friend.

translated by J.P. Seaton

Untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

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

Returning to Lingao by Night by Su Shi

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Drinking at Eastern Slope at night,
I sober, then get drunk again.
When I come back, it’s near midnight.
I hear the thunder of my houseboy’s snore,
I knock but no one answers at my door.
What can I do but, leaning on my cane,
Listen to the river’s refrain?

I long regret I am not master of my own.
When can I just ignore the hums of up and down?
In the still night the soft winds quiver
On the ripples of the river.
From now on, I would vanish with my little boat,
For the rest of my life, on the sea I would float.