Sung Dynasty

Seven Thousand Miles Away by Su Tung-p’o

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Seven thousand miles away, a gray-haired man;
eighteen rapids, one little boat:
hills recall Hsi-huan–thoughts roam far away;
“fearful” they call this place–it makes me want to cry.
A long wind follows us, bellying the sail;
rain-fed current bears the boat through rippled shallows.
With my experience, they ought to make me official boatman–
I know more of rivers than merely where the ferries cross.

translated by Burton Watson

Wine at East Bank by Su Shih

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Wine at East Bank tonight, I sobered up
then started over, getting drunk again.
Got home, a little fuzzy maybe close to three,
and the houseboy was snoring like thunder.
I knocked at my own gate, and nobody answered,
leaned on my cane and listened to the River running.

I hate it! that even this body’s not mine alone. . .
Someday I’ll give it all up.
The night moves, the breeze writes
quiet in the ripples on the water.
A little boat, leaving here and now,
the rest of my life, on the river, on the sea.

translated by J.P. Seaton

On the road to Ch’ang-an by Liu Yung

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On the road to Ch’ang-an my horse goes slowly.
In the tall willows a confusion of cicada cries.
Slanting sun beyond the isles,
and winds of autumn on the plain. Only
where the heavens hang,
the view cut off.

The clouds go back, but
gone, they leave no track.
Where is the past?
Unused to indulgence, a little
wine’s no consolation.
It’s not
as it was
when I was young.

translated by J.P. Seaton

Middle Years by Wang An-shih

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Middle years devoted to the nation, I lived a fleeting dream,
and home again in old age, I wander borderland wilderness.

Looking south to green mountains, it’s clear I’m not so alone
here; on spring lakes, they crowd my little-boat life all adrift.

translated by David Hinton

East Ridge by Wang An-shih

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Together we climb to this East Ridge lookout on New Year’s Eve
and gaze at the Star River, its length lighting distant forests.

Earth’s ten thousand holes cry and moan. That wind’s our ruin,
and in a thousand seething waves, there’s no trace of a heart.

translated by David Hinton

Gazing North by Wang An-shih

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Hair whiter still, I ache to see those long-ago northlands,
but keep to this refuge:goosefoot cane, windblown trees.

Pity the new moon–all that bright beauty and for whom?
It’s dusk. Countless mountains face each other in sorrow.

translated by David Hinton

Taking A Trail Up From Deva-king Monastery To The Guesthouse Where My Friend Wang Chung-hsin And I Wrote Our Names On A Wall Fifty Years Ago, I Find The Names Still There by Lu Yu

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Meandering these greens, azure all around, you plumb antiquity.
East of the wall, above the river, stands this ancient monastery,

its thatched halls we visited so long ago. You a mountain sage,
I here from Wei River northlands: we sipped wine, wrote poems.

Painted paddle still, I drift awhile free. Then soon, I’m nearing
home, azure walking-stick in hand, my recluse search ending.

Old friends dead and gone, their houses in ruins, I walk through
thick bamboo, deep cloud, each step a further step into confusion.

translated by David Hinton

6th Moon, 27th Sun: Sipping Wine at Lake-View Tower by Su Tung-p’o

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I

Black clouds, soaring ink, nearly blot out these mountains.
White raindrops, skipping pearls, skitter wildly into the boat,

then wind comes across furling earth, scatters them away,
and below Lake-View Tower, lakewater suddenly turns to sky.

II

Setting animals loose–fish and turtles–I’m an exile out here,
but no one owns waterlilies everywhere blooming, blooming.

This lake pillows mountains, starts them glancing up and down,
and my breezy boat wanders free, drifts with an aimless moon.

translated by David Hinton