The hundred rivers day and night flow on,
we and all things following;
only the heart remains unmoved,
clutching the past.
translated by Burton Watson
Sung Dynasty
Written for My Own Amusement by Wang An-shih
I shut the door, hoping to drive off sorrow,
but to the very end sorrow refused to go.
Let a spring breeze come along, though, and then what happens?
I could beg sorrow to linger and sorrow would never stay!
translated by Burton Watson
Following the Rhymes of Chiang Hui-shu by Su Tung-p’o: written on a voyage home from exile shortly before he died.
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
from White Crane Hill by Su Tung-p’o: a nod to Confucius
All my life has been like this–
what way to turn and not run into blocks?
But Heaven has sent me a dipper of water;
arm for a pillow, my happiness overflows.
translated by Burton Watson
Tune: “Song of Picking Mulberry” by Ou-yang Hsiu
Ten years ago I was a visitor at the wine jar,
the moonlight white, the wind clear.
Then care and worry whittled me away,
time went by with astounding swiftness, and I grew old.
But though my hair has changed, my heart never changes.
Let me lift the golden flagon,
listen again to the old songs,
like drunken voices from those years long past.
translated by Burton Watson
from To the Tune of “Partridge Sky” by Su Tung-p’o in way of acknowledging the rain that fell this morning in Izmir
Thanks to the rain that fell at the third watch last night
I got another cool day in this floating life.
translated by Burton Watson
“Fallen faded petals” by Li Ch’ing-chao
Fallen faded petals the color of my rouge. . .
One year, another spring,
willow catkins lightly fly, bamboo shoots become bamboo
and alone and sad I face the garden’s new-sent green.
But though he’s not done roaming, that time must be near.
In a clear dream of last year come from a thousand miles
cloudy city, winding streams, ice on the ponds
for a while I gazed on my friend.
translated by James Cryer
from “At the lookout, plum blossoms scattered” by Ou-yang Hsiu
A small, a gentle sorrow,
yet a rush of staining tears.
The tower’s high, I won’t go near the railing.
Spring Mount’s as far as I could see from here:
you’ve gone beyond there now.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Tune: “Pure Serene Music” by Li Ch’ing-chao
Year after year in the snow
we’d pick plum blossoms while we drank,
Pulling at the petals to no good purpose,
drenching our clothes with pure white tears.
This year I’m at the end of the world,
strand by strand my hair turns grey.
Judging by the force of the evening wind
plum blossoms will be hard to come by.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
Thoughts from the Women’s Quarters by Li Ch’ing-chao
On her face, hibiscus lovely, an incipient smile.
Poised in flight, the jeweled duck’s beak. Incense wreathed
eyes alight, beneath the quilt she suspects
his frivolity hides a more expressive depth;
folds his elegant letter,
places it next her secret heart.
When the moon has gone,
the flowers in shadow,
I will come again.
translated by James Cryer
Leonard Durso 