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
Po Chü-i
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 