Sung Dynasty

A Hundred Days, Free to Go by Su Tung-p’o

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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

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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

Feet Stuck Out, Singing Wildly by Su Tung-p’o

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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

On First Arriving at Huang-chou by Su Tung-p’o

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Funny–I never could keep my mouth shut;
it gets worse the older I grow.
The long river loops the town–fish must be tasty;
good bamboo lines the hills–smell the fragrant shoots!
An exile, why mind being a supernumerary?
Other poets have worked for the Water Bureau.
Too bad I was no help to the government
but still they pay me in old wine sacks.

translated by Burton Watson

On a Boat, Awake at Night by Su Tung-p’o0

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Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain–moon floods the lake.
Boatmen and water birds dream the same dream;
a big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late–men and creatures forget each other
while my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats–I pity the cold mud-worms;
the setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
how long before you’ve lost it–a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout.

translated by Burton Watson

Written While Living at Dinghui Temple in Huangzhou, to the Tune of “Divination Song” by Su Tung-p’o

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A broken moon hangs from a gaunt parasol tree.
The water clock has stopped, and people hush into sleep.
Who sees a hermit like me passing alone
like a shadow of a flying wild goose?

Startled and soaring off, I look back
with grief no one understands,
going from branch to branch, unwilling to settle,
and landing at last on a cold and desolate shoal.

translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping

Mid-Autumn Moon by Su Tung-p’o

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Six years the moon shone at mid-autumn;
five years it saw us parted.
I sing your farewell song;
sobs from those who sit with me.
The southern capital must be busy,
but you won’t let the occasion pass:
Hundred-league lake of melted silver,
thousand-foot towers in the pendant mirror–
at third watch, when the songs and flutes are stilled
and figures blur in the shade of trees,
you return to your north hall rooms,
cold light glinting on the dew of leaves;
calling for wine, you drink with your wife
and tell the children stories, thinking of me.
You have no way of knowing I’ve been sick,
that I face the pears and chestnuts, cup empty,
and stare east of the old riverbed
where buckwheat blossoms spread their snow.
I wanted to write a verse to your last year’s song
but I was afraid my heart would break.

translated by Burton Watson

Beginning of Autumn: A Poem to Send to Tzu-yu by Su Tung-p’o

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The hundred rivers day and night flow on,
we and all things following;
only the heart remains unmoved,
clutching the past.
I recall when we stayed at Huai-yüan Stop,
door shut against fall heat,
eating boiled greens, studying,
wiping away the sweat, you and I.
The west wind suddenly turned cold;
dried leaves blew in the window.
You got up for a heavier coat
and took hold of my hand:
We won’t be young for long–
I needn’t tell you.
Probably we’ll have to part,
hard to tell when success may come–
even then I felt a chill of sorrow,
and now when both of us are old–
too late to look for the Way.
This fall I began talks to buy some land;
if I build a house, it should be done by spring.
Nights at Snow Hall, in wind and rain,
already I hear you talking to me.

translated by Burton Watson