T’ao Ch’ien

untitled poem by T’ao Chien

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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: 7 by T’ao Ch’ien

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Color infusing autumn chrysanthemums
exquisite, I pick dew-bathed petals,

float them on that forget-your-cares
stuff. Even my passion for living apart

grows distant. I’m alone here, and still
the wine jar soon fills cups without me.

Everything at rest, dusk: a bird calls,
returning to its forest home. Chanting,

I settle into my breath. Somehow, on this
east veranda, I’ve found my life again.

translated by David Hinton

untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien about the passage of time

/ zdunno03 / 2 Comments

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

Written One Morning in the 5th Moon, After Tai Chu-pu’s Poem by T’ao Ch’ien

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It’s all an empty boat, oars dangling free,
but return goes on without end. The year

begins, and suddenly, in a moment’s glance,
midyear stars come back around, bright

sun and moon bringing all things to such
abundance. North woods lush, blossoming,

rain falls in season from hallowed depths.
Dawn opens. Summer breezes rise. No one

comes into this world without leaving soon.
It’s our inner pattern, which never falters.

At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.
A bent arm my pillow, I keep empty whole.

Follow change through rough and smooth,
and life’s never up or down. If you can see

how much height fills whatever you do, why
climb Hua or Sung, peaks of immortality?

translated by David Hinton

Untitled poem by T’ao Ch’ien

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

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 their 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

Burial Songs: 2 by T’ao Ch’ıen

/ zdunno03 / 4 Comments

I never had wine to drink, and now
my empty cup’s all depths of spring

wine crowned with ant-fluff foam,
but how will I ever taste it again?

Delicacies crowd altars before me,
and at my side, those I love grieve.

I try to look–it’s eyes of darkness.
I try to speak–a mouth of silence.

I once slept beneath high ceilings,
but a waste village of weeds is next:

leaving my gate behind, I’ll set out
and never again find my way back.

translated by David Hinton

This poem is for Natıg Damırov whose brother Orhan died in a car crash 10 days ago in Azerbaijan.

T’ao Ch’ien on his version of carpe diem

/ zdunno03 / 5 Comments

The Way’s been in ruin a thousand
years. People all hoard their hearts

away: so busy scrambling for 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. These hundred

years offer all abundance: Take it!
What more could you make of yourself?

translated by David Hinton

New Corn by T’ao Ch’ien

/ zdunno03 / 1 Comment

Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.

translated by Arthur Waley

from Written In The 12th Month, Kuei Year Of The Hare, For My Cousin Ching-yüan by T’ao Ch’ien

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Roaming through thousand-year-old books,
I meet timeless exemplars. I’ll never

reach their high principles, though I’ve
somehow mastered resolute in privation,

and there’s no chance renown will redeem
this poverty. But I’m no fool for coming

here. I send findings beyond all words:
who could understand this bond we share?

translated by David Hinton