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
Po Chü-i
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
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
Dreaming of Long Ago by Po Chü-i
I’ve grown old since our farewell, bitterly cultivating the Tao,
refining the irreconcilable heart all the way into dead ash.
I thought I’d polished the memories of a lifetime clean away—
so how is it you came stealing into my dreams again last night?
translated by David Hinton
Village Snow, Sitting at Night by Po Chü-i
At the south window, my back to a lamp,
I sit. Wind scatters sleet into darkness.
In lone depths of silent village night:
the call of a late goose in falling snow.
translated by David Hinton
Early Autumn by Po Chü-i
Two grey hairs appear in the lit mirror,
a single leaf tumbling into the courtyard.
Old age slips away, nothing to do with me,
and when grief comes, who does it find?
Idle months and years emptying away,
loved ones from long ago lost to sight.
I’ll play with my girl here, my little girl:
we keep coaxing smiles from each other.
translated by David Hinton
The Pa River by Po Chü-i
Below the city, where the Pa River’s water flows,
spring comes like yeast-powder spiriting wine:
beaches feel soft as the Wei’s meandering shores,
and cliffs bring memories of T’ien-chin Bridge,
but fresh yellow willows dip their shadows here,
and tiny white duckweed blossoms scent the air.
Sitting beside swelling water, I scratch my head:
all this grief and sorrow, and whose is it anyway?
translated by David Hinton
Farewell to My Day Lilies and Cassia by Po Chü-i
No longer Prefect, this isn’t home anymore.
I planted day lillies and cassia for nothing.
Cassia renowned for enticing us to stay on,
day-lilies never making it sorrow forgotten:
they’re a far cry from this riverside moon,
come lingering our farewell step after step.
translated by David Hinton
On Hearing Someone Sing a Poem of Yuan Chen by Po Chü-i: Written long after Chen’s death
No new poems his brush will trace:
Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust
At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse–
Before I had time to catch the words
A pain had stabbed my heart.
translated by Arthur Waley
Looking through old photos, this poem of Po Chü-i came to mind: Pouring Out My Feelings after Parting from Yüan Chen by Po Chü-i
Drip drip, the rain on paulownia leaves;
softly sighing, the wind in the mallow flowers.
Sad sad the early autumn thoughts
that come to me in my dark solitude.
How much more so when I part from an old friend–
no delight then in my musings.
Don’t say I didn’t see you off–
in heart I went as far as the Green Gate and beyond.
With friends, it’s not how many you have
but only whether they share your heart or not.
One who shares my heart has gone away
and I learn how empty Ch’ang-an can be.
translated by Burton Watson
Leonard Durso 