Way’s been ruins a thousand years.
People all hoard their hearts away:
so busy scrambling after esteemed
position, they’d never touch wine.
But whatever makes living precious
occurs in this one life, and this life
never lasts. It’s startling, sudden as
lightning, a hundred years offering
all abundance. Take it! What more
could you hope to make of yourself?
translated by David Hinton
T’ao Ch’ien
from T’ao Ch’ien
But my soul is not fashioned like other men’s.
To drive in their rut I might perhaps learn:
To be untrue to myself could only lead to muddle.
Let us drink and enjoy together the wine you have brought:
For my course is set and cannot now be altered.
translated by Arthur Waley
Untitled Poem by T’ao Ch’ien
Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other
away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re frail,
crumbling more with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once
your hair flaunts that bleached streamer,
the road ahead starts closing steadily in.
This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I yet another guest leaving. All this
leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.
translated by David Hinton
from Drinking Wine by T’ao Ch’ien
Perhaps a man, in time, may get beyond the clothing
of conventional ideas. . .
translated by J.P. Seaton
from Wandering at Hsieh Creek by T’ao Ch’ien
This new year makes it fifty suddenly
gone. Thinking of life’s steady return
to rest cuts deep, driving me to spend
all morning wandering. And now, air
fresh and sky clear, I sit with friends
beside a stream flowing far away. Here,
striped bream weave the gentle current,
and calling, gulls rise over the lazy
valley. Eyes wandering distant waters,
straining, I make out Tseng Hill: it’s
meager compared to K’un-lun’s majestic
peaks, but nothing in sight rivals it.
Taking the winejar, I pour out a round,
and we start offering brimful toasts.
Who knows where today leads, or whether
things will ever be like this again?
After a few cups, my heart’s far away,
and I’ve forgotten thousand-year sorrows:
ranging to the limit of this morning’s
joy, it isn’t tomorrow I’m looking for.
translated by David Hinton
from Peach-Blossom Spring by T’ao Ch’ien
Wandering in the world, who can fathom
what lies beyond its clamor and dust. O,
how I long to rise into thin air and
ride the wind in search of my own kind.
translated by David Hinton
Together, We All Go Out Under The Cypress Trees In The Chou Family Burial-Grounds by T’ao Ch’ien
Today’s skies are perfect for a clear
flute and singing koto. And touched
this deeply by those laid under these
cypress trees, how could we neglect joy?
Clear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine
starts pious faces smiling. Not knowing
what tomorrow brings, it’s exquisite
exhausting whatever I feel here and now.
translated by David Hinton
from 9/9, Chi Year of the Rooster by T’ao Ch’ien
A thousand years may be beyond me,
but I can turn this morning into forever.
translated by David Hinton
Seeing Guests Off at Governor Wang’s by T’ao Ch’ien
Autumn days bitter cold, the hundred plants
already in ruins–now footsteps-in-frost
season has come, we climb this tower to
offer those returning home our farewell.
In cold air shrouding mountains and lakes,
forever rootless, clouds drift. And all
those islands carry our thoughts far away,
across threatening wind and water. Here,
we watch night fall, delighting in fine food,
our lone sorrow this talk of separation.
Morning birds return for the night. A looming
sun bundles its last light away. Our roads
part here: you vanish, we remain. Sad,
we linger and look back–eyes seeing off
your boat grown distant, hearts settled in
whatever comes of the ten thousand changes.
translated by David Hinton
from Steady Rain, Drinking Alone by T’ao Ch’ien
in this body long since lost to change,
my thoughts remain, quite silent after all.
translated by David Hinton
Leonard Durso 