Grateful to escape such grave illness,
I’m happy to wither away at the root,
let this lamp gauge darkening eyes,
my belt measure this thinning waist.
On a day of frost turning leaves red,
in a time of hair gone white as snow,
I may grieve over old age coming on.
But once old age ends, I’m grief-free.
translated by David Hinton
Po Chü-i
For the Beach Gulls by Po Chü-I
The crush of age is turning my hair white
and I’m stuck with purple robes of office,
but if my body’s tangled in these fetters,
my heart abides where nothing’s begun.
Happening on wine, I’m drunk in no time,
and loving those mountains, I return late.
They don’t know who I am. Seeing official
falcon-banners flutter, beach gulls scatter.
translated by David Hinton
from Madly Singing in the Mountains by Bai Juyi (Po Chü-I)
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of white Stone;
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills;
The apes and birds all come to peep,
Fearing to become a laughingstock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
On Ling-Ying Tower, Looking North by Po Chü-i
This high up, I begin to see how small our human realm is,
face distances and know the kingdom of perception is pure
emptiness. Turning away, I start home through the morning
markets–a kernel of darnel tumbling into the vast granary.
translated by David Hinton
Reply to Yüan Chen by Po Chü-i
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
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
Leonard Durso 