Rain has washed Eastern Slope, the moon shines clear;
where townspeople walked earlier, farmers pass.
Why mind jagged stones on the hillside path?
I like the ringing sound my stick makes when it strikes.
translated by Burton Watson
Su Tung P’o
from Letting the Writing Brush Go Where It Will, Three Poems: Poem 2 by Su Tung-p’o
Old men scramble to get a look at my pointy black headcloth,
doubtless because it’s proof I once held a government post.
On the old river road, where it branches three ways,
I stand alone in slanting sunlight, while others now and then go by.
translated by Burton Watson
Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea by Su Tung-p’o
Living water needs living fire to boil;
lean over Fishing Rock, dip the clear deep current;
store the spring moon in a big gourd, return it to the jar;
divide the night stream with a little dipper, drain it into the kettle.
Frothy water, simmering, whirls bits of tea;
pour it and hear the sound of wind in pines.
Hard to refuse three cups to a dried-up belly;
I sit and listen–from the old town, the striking of the hour.
translated by Burton Watson
I Thought I’d End My Days in a Hainan Village by Su Tung-p’o
I thought I’d end my days in a Hainan village
but God sent Wu-yang to call back my soul.
Far, far, where sky lowers and eagles pass from sight:
a hairbreadth of green hill–the mainland there!
translated by Burton Watson
Bell and Drum on the South River Bank by Su Tung-p’o
Bell and drum on the south river bank:
home! I wake startled from a dream.
Drifting clouds–so the world shifts;
lone moon–such is the light of my mind.
Rain drenches down as from a tilted basin;
poems flow out like water spilled.
The two rivers vie to send me off;
beyond treetops I see the slant of a bridge.
translated by Burton Watson
Creek Crisscrosses the Meadow by Su Tung-p’o
Creek crisscrosses the meadow, banks scarred where water rose;
in sparse woods, frost-burned roots stick out at a slant.
Little boat with a single oar–where’s it going?
Home south of the river to a village of yellow leaves.
translated by Burton Watson
A Hundred Days, Free to Go by Su Tung-p’o
A hundred days, free to go, and it’s almost spring;
for the years left, pleasure will be my chief concern.
Out the gate, I do a dance, wind blows my face;
our galloping horses race along as magpies cheer.
I face the wine cup and it’s all a dream,
pick up a poem brush, already inspired.
Why try to fix the blame for trouble past?
Years now I’ve stolen posts I never should have had.
*written on his release from prison
translated by Burton Watson
Rhyming with Tzu-yu’s “At Mien-ch’ih, Recalling the Past” by Su Tung-p’o
Wanderings of a lifetime–what do they resemble?
A winging swan that touches down on snow-soaked mud.
In the mud by chance he leaves the print of his webs,
but the swan flies away, who knows to east or west?
The old monk is dead now, become a new memorial tower;
on the crumbling wall, impossible to find our old inscriptions.
Do you recall that day, steep winding slopes,
road long, all of us tired, our lame donkeys braying?
translated by Burton Watson
Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune by Su Tung-p’o
I’m not ashamed at my age to stick a flower in my hair.
The flower is the embarrassed one, topping an old man’s head.
People laugh as I go home drunk, leaning on friends–
ten miles of elegant blinds raised halfway for watching.
translated by Burton Watson
Feet Stuck Out, Singing Wildly by Su Tung-p’o
Feet stuck out, singing wildly, I beat an old clay tub;
singeing fur, roasting meats, like a northwest nomad.
Outriders shout through the market–you’ve come to fetch me;
on Fishing Point, sand is swept, wine jars set out.
Boys from the foothills crowd to watch us dance;
white bones by the river remember your kindness.
One cloud, a slanting sun–I gaze southwest
and envy crows that know the way back home.
POET’S NOTE TO THE POEM: Governor Chan came to visit me, bringing wine. Using a previous rhyme of mine, he composed a poem, and I responded with another poem in the same rhyme.
translated by Burton Watson
Leonard Durso 