PART THREE
Poetry of the T’ang Dynasty (618 C.E.–905 C.E.)
Introduction to Poetry of the T’ang Dynasty
THE T’ANG WAS MOST CERTAINLY THE GOLDEN AGE OF Chinese poetry, as Chinese critics and literary historians have always claimed. And in fact it is clear that China experienced, within the boundaries of the T’ang dynasty, a high level of accomplishment in all areas of human endeavor, from technology to science, from infrastructure (roads, flood control, and irrigation) to the decoration of everyday life (from everyday table ceramics and furniture to public buildings), from community social welfare to community entertainments (commercial storytellers, puppet shows . . . missionary preachers of a great variety of religions), and finally to great advancements in all of so-called high culture, including poetry. Perhaps, in the construction of a true golden age, the great arts come last. Art requires, at its foundation, education; starving nations, warring nations, don’t spend on education.
The greatest Chinese poets, those whose names are best known in the West—Wang Wei, Li Po, Tu Fu, and a dozen others—come from the middle of the T’ang, after 150 years of what was for the common people perhaps the most peaceful and prosperous time ever known by a human population in recorded history. They were the fruit of a time when education was not just honored but was also supported both by the state and by powerful and wealthy Buddhist churches. They were the product of a state that gave high state employment to poets. They were the product of a state so powerfully constructed that even when the fatal flaw of absolute despotism caused it to topple in midstep, more than a hundred years were required before it well and truly fell . . . and so well-trained poets, born and raised in a happy time, could bring their powers to bear upon war, suffering, injustice, brutality, and death. Finally it is a golden age of poetry to just the degree to which the T’ang’s poets vanquished these seemingly perennial demons of humankind.
China was, by 589, more divided by well-defended natural boundaries cloaked in near nation status (one for every defensible river crossing or impassible mountain range) than even earlytwentieth-century Europe. In a brilliant stroke of psychological warfare, the leaders of the armies that were to found the Sui Dynasty used a conscious appeal to the people of all these states through Buddhism, the one thing that their masses of ordinary folk held in common. Having achieved peace and unity, those same leaders, through a seemingly systematic program of foreign military aggression and grossly excessive moral corruption at court, squandered all of their political currency in less than forty years and, in 618, handed Li Yuan, first emperor of T’ang, a still more or less united state that was more than ready for new leadership. His son Li Shih-min, who was the power behind the throne from the beginning, settled the question of eventual succession when, with a band of loyal friends, he ambushed and killed his brother and set his father aside. China’s Golden Age was off and flapping on the dark leather wings of realpolitik. Strange as it might seem after this little summary, in the early years of T’ang reign Taoism was the state ideology (the family name was Li, a very common one in China, but also coincidentally the surname of the legendary founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu) . . . apparently Buddhism’s attachment to the Sui had ruined its fragrance, and Confucian scholars had yet to recover credibility after their centuries-long collaboration with evil rulers.
After a period of a little over sixty years, during which the T’ang made great strides in reconsolidating the wealth and power squandered by the Sui, the T’ang throne was usurped by a woman, Wu Tzu-t’ian, who ruled with extraordinary vigor and insight for twenty years. She was succeeded by perhaps the most famous of all Chinese emperors, Hsuan Tsung, also known and loved by the popular title Ming Huang, “the brilliant emperor”; he was indeed brilliant (maybe even as brilliant as Wu Tzu-t’ian), until senility combined with absolute power to let him nearly topple the dynasty in the middle of the eighth century. The imperial favorite of that moment, Yang Kuei-fei, helped a Turkish (mercenary) general capture the imperial capital and begin a rebellion that, despite some more strong leadership from the amazingly strong Li family line, never quite ended before the end of the dynasty in 906.
Amid these fascinating human dramas extraordinary cultural achievements marked every year of the T’ang, as if the peach trees of the utopian dreams of T’ao Ch’ien were blossoming and bearing fruit in every orchard in the land. Major advances took place in every field, from mathematics and engineering to finance and education. Confucian thought flourished, eventually recovering its position as the dominant state ideology, while Buddhism also flourished and grew strong, forming religious communities and providing social institutions, among them hospitals, orphanages, and old folks’ homes, which had never existed before. Education was fostered by Buddhist churches as well as by the state. Music and drama made major strides under imperial patronage, and painting and poetry both began to explore new avenues of expression and reached new heights in already traditional forms. The development of Buddhist thought and institutions in the T’ang is another area that will easily yield the interested reader a lifetime of interesting reading.
Finally, the imperial civil service examination system, begun in a rudimentary fashion in around 100 B.C.E., was strongly promoted by the usurping Empress Wu and then, amazing as it seems, was retained and even given an increasing role in the choosing of government officials of all sorts under the leadership of the great Ming Huang. The principle of meritocracy was strong in the Confucianism of Confucius and Mencius, so strong that it was enshrined in the central myth of Chinese culture, the story of Yao and Shun, the “emperors” who shunned their own offspring and chose instead the most able men of the empire as their successors. From the T’ang on, whenever the government itself was strong enough to enforce “civil” administration, the examinations made sure that most qualified men (of course women were excluded, even during the reign of Empress Wu) found employment in government. The Jesuits of Enlightenment Europe who saw this system at work in China in the Ming thought that its institution in Europe might head off the revolutions that aristocratic monopolization of governmental power did indeed play a role in igniting.
For the poetry enthusiast, the greatest “invention” of the T’ang was neither Buddhism nor the examination system, though poetic innovations may have had something to do with the success of both. Two types of poetry are identified particularly with the T’ang. The first, lu-shih, or “regulated verse,” was used in the highest level of the most important and prestigious of the civil service examinations. The other type, chueh chu, has been translated a number of ways but means simply a four-line verse, or quatrain. Since the economical qualities of the Chinese writing system allow these quatrains to be packed with meaning, my translations of them are sometimes driven beyond four lines of English.
Regulated verse was actually “invented” by Shen Yueh (441–515), a Buddhist-inspired scholar-official who was, of course, also a poet. He had been attempting to discover a means of translating into Chinese the supernaturally powerful Sanskrit prayers without losing the magical power of the sounds of the mantras, which were (and are) believed to call spirit beings to the aid of tantric Buddhist meditators. When his spiritual labors led to discoveries about the fundamental nature of euphony in the Chinese spoken language, such was the strength of the indigenous concept of wen for Shen Yueh that, devout Buddhist though he was, he turned with passion from his religion back to poetry and formulated extremely elaborate rules for the creation of euphonious poetry. To the ears of fellow poets, his formulas made perfect sense, and from the beginning of the eighth century until the beginning of the twentieth, when classical Chinese itself went out of fashion, no man who couldn’t write a proper piece of regulated verse would be considered a proper gentleman. Of course, a surpassingly beautiful piece of “verse” and a good poem don’t necessarily have much in common.
The standard eight-line regulated verse was used in the T’ang (and during some periods of later dynasties) as the basis of the literary examinations, by far the most prestigious of the several kinds of exams. While even lovers of Chinese poetry might be tempted to erupt in howls of derision at the thought of high government positions being granted to the best writers of greeting-card verses or “silly love songs,” in fact absolute technical perfection in the execution of the formal rules of versification was only the slightest of the demands of the examination poem. The topic of the poem generally required that the examination candidate demonstrate perfect memorization of the Confucian Classics, later historical and poetic works, and scholarly commentaries on all of them, as well as mastery of rhetoric and character etymology. An examination poem must “seem” like a silly love song while permitting a deep reading in which the “poet” candidate shows diplomatic skills in the presentation of delicate policy issues. Simply because we don’t have the resources to tie the poems to their topical issues, most examination poems from the T’ang are untranslatable. Fresh from the brush of the poet they were doubtless exciting reading, providing an excellent index not just of the candidate’s general learning and communications skills but of his intellectual and social sophistication and mastery of the diplomatic arts. A regulated verse on a well-conceived topic was an efficient way to find young men who could learn to govern: chun tzu.
Outside the examination system, the regulated form was used mainly for so-called occasional verse. Poetry was a part of every social occasion in China, and not just among the elite: for every young man who passed the examination there were literally thousands who began the education process and advanced far enough in it to develop a love of both the subject matter and the formal means. But it remains true that though even a wild man like Li Po wrote more than a few regulated verses (to prove he could?), most poets wrote most of their poems in less technically demanding forms. The yueh-fu, or old-style verse, flourished even during the period of greatest popularity of the regulated verse, and survived it.
The quatrain, sometimes created out of a variety of cuttings and pastings from the lines prescribed for the regulated verse, and sometimes just four lines of five- or seven-character yueh-fu, set the poet completely free. In some hands the quatrain was the perfect vehicle for a simple “snapshot” of a beautiful vista. In other hands it was used to provide a flash of pure spiritual insight.
It was a long period, the temporal home of a “Golden Age,” and T’ang was home to hundreds of skillful and inspired poets. There are all sorts of men: Ch’en Tzu-ang served the usurper Empress Wu; Meng Hao-jan, though he was a close friend of influential poets like Wang Wei and Li Po, failed the Exams and lived out his life in seclusion. Po Chu-i, made a blazing early reputation for himself with a poem that pandered to the Imperial family’s deep embarrassment about the senile Hsuan Tsung’s besotted love for his concubine Yang Kuei-fei, and redeemed himself in later life, heading, along with his close friend the poet Yuan Chen, a movement of poets who wrote poems committed to the cause of social justice, poems written in a language that could be understood when read aloud to ordinary folk. The list goes on and on . . . Including the six Zen poets grouped, without regard to chronology, at the end of the selection, there are thirty poets in this section of the anthology. A few of the poets I have selected for inclusion here are separated from oblivion by a single extant poem. In the twenty years since I translated the poem by Wang Han, I have been able to find no more about him than the poem and the poet’s name and dates, and I’m left to wonder whether he was a grizzled veteran or an imaginative courtier. And there are a few poets represented here by more than a dozen poems, and for whom there exists enough biographical material for a book or two. There is no reason to bother about assigning a label like “best” from among these poets, but it’s something we do, and something the Chinese do as well, though it appears they do it with a bit more of a sense of humor.
It comes down, first, to three . . . No one would doubt that Wang Wei, Li Po, and Tu Fu are in some perhaps indefinable way “better” than each and all of the other poets. The three are very different. Wang Wei was an aristocrat, born with a silver writing brush in his mouth. Of all the privileged among the Chinese poets of all periods of her history, Wang Wei made best use of his privilege. He was a musician of surpassing skill and a landscape painter so innovative that he can be said to have changed landscape painting from his time forward. He was also a patron of poets (he probably saved Li Po from execution), and, not least, patron of the Southern School of Zen Buddhism, the school from which arose both the Rinzai and the Soto schools known to modern scholars and practitioners alike. Most importantly, he was a poet of consummate skill. There is no doubt that Wang Wei’s chueh chu, his quatrains, are somehow something other than anyone else’s. Su Shih, the great Sung poet, said that Wang Wei’s poems are paintings, and his paintings, poems. More than a thousand years of readers have agreed. But there is more. Wang Wei’s readers almost invariably find themselves inside his poems. Something is happening here, and I don’t know what it is, except that I’m in the presence of surpassing poetic genius.
And yet Wang Wei doesn’t even get mentioned as best poet.
Li Po is the god of poetry. He called himself only the god of wine, and refused on the grounds of his superiority to answer a call from his Emperor. His poetry shows us, almost always, a person who is outside the world we live in, looking even farther outward at things we can’t even imagine. He dances with the moon and his shadow, making a three that’s not a crowd. He meditates upon a mountain until he and the mountain are One. And yet he is the absolute master of the description of human intimacy. It seems almost impossible that the delicate picture of a young love growing into maturity in “The Ballad of Ch’ang-kan” should have been written by a swashbuckling drunkard, and no less that that poet should also be in communication with Ch’u Yuan and his Fisherman. It’s more understandable to discover in “Drinking with a Hermit Friend in the Mountains” that in a single excellent, immortal quatrain this man has repeated himself three times in a single line, and then stolen a line from a history book he’s just been reading (or has memorized) almost word for word! There is, after all, the saying that all poets borrow, great poets steal. The vitality of a giant and the delicacy of a fairy prince. A freedom beyond most imaginations, and a rigorous artistic discipline that is, perhaps, even harder to imagine. No mere man could write so: so he is no man, but the spirit, the earthly presence, of the elemental power that is poetry.
Leaving room for another best poet: the best human poet, Tu Fu.
He loves his wife. He loves his children. He loves his ruler as a symbol of good government, and when that symbol fails, he shows his love for the people who are the purpose of good government. He loves wine, perhaps like T’ao Ch’ien, whose work he admires, he finds drinking and drunkenness interesting symbols, for both spiritual enlightenment and the rewards of power, sometimes simultaneously . . . He is without question the absolute, hands down, master of regulated verse. But he is not “formalist.”
Form is his servant, never his master. He loves and feels ever anxious about Li Po. Li Po loves him, teasing him for his discipline as he admires the poetic results. How to say it? He combines disciplined artistry with a simple humanity and deep commitment to human values, creating poems that show universal truths. To put it simply, Tu Fu is the ultimate embodiment of wen.
If you disagree with this high assessment of Tu Fu, you will find yourself in pretty good company. Li Po and Tu Fu both looked with favor upon T’ao Ch’ien. It was several centuries before anyone took Tu Fu seriously. Many later poets and readers favored Su Tung-p’o of the Sung Dynasty. But for the limitations of her life that may have taken some themes from her, Li Ch’ing-chao might have a serious following. Perhaps the best of the best lies unread in a library of Ming or even Ch’ing dynasty poets, presently condemned, without a fair reading, as a mere imitator, as many Ming and Ch’ing poets truly were. Ah, for another lifetime to spend reading poetry!
Climbing the Terrace of Yu-chou
Before, I cannot see the men of old.
Beyond, can’t see the men to come.
Ponder the infinite, Heaven and Earth.
Alone, confused, I melt to tears.
“Since you, my lord, left me”
Since you, my lord, left me,
all my labors . . . left undone.
Thinking of you, I am like the full moon;
night by night, my bright luster wanes.
Song of Liang-chou
Good wine of the grape: cup of night’s brightness.
To drink to the P’i-p’a, rushing on horseback.
If I fall, drunk, upon this sandy field, don’t laugh.
From all these frontier wars, how many have returned?
Passing the Night on the Chien-te River
My boat moored by misty isle,
sun sets, while a traveler’s grief rises.
Above vast plain, sky lowers among the trees.
In the limpid stream, the moon moves close.
Spring Morning
Spring, napped, unconscious of the dawn.
Everywhere, birdsong.
Night sounded, wind, and rain.
How many petals, now, are fallen?
Master I’s Chamber in the Ta-yu Temple
I-kung’s place to meditate:
this hut, in empty grove.
Outside the door, a pretty peak.
Beyond the stairs, deep valleys.
Sunset confused in footprints of the rain.
Blue of the void in the shade of the court.
Look, and see: the lotus blossom’s purity.
Know, thus: nothing tainted that man’s heart.
Palace Lament
Young wife in her chamber, so innocent of grief.
Spring morn adorned, she climbs blue tower,
where sudden she sees, along the lane, the willow’s colors,
and sorrows, now, she sent him off, in search of honors.
Bamboo Pavilion
I sit alone among the tallest of the tall bamboo,
pluck the lute, and whistle melodies, again.
This deep grove’s unknown to other men.
Bright moon, when it comes: we shine together.
Deer Park
Empty mountain, none to be seen.
Listen close and all you’ll hear’s
the birdsong sound of human language.
Sun’s come into this deep grove,
beginning again, it writes on gray-green lichen, upon stone.
In the Mountains
Ching gorge: the white rocks jut.
Cold sky: red leaves grow few.
The mountain road is bright, no rain.
Just azure emptiness: that wets the cloak.
Birdsong Torrent
The man at his ease: the cassia flowers falling.
Night quiet: spring mountain empty.
Moonrise: shocks the mountain birds.
Sometimes you’ll hear their cries, among spring’s torrents.
Dike of the Cormorants
Sudden, plunged down among red lotus,
again, he soars above the bright strand.
Alone, there standing: see the wings spread,
and the fish in his beak, on the floating log.
Lake Yi
With flute song, to the shore:
the setting sun, and I see you off.
On the lake, you looked back once:
white cloud, embracing the green mountains.
In Retirement at Chung-nan Mountain
To middle age I loved the Tao:
late now, I lodge on South Mountain
and when I’m up to it, I always go alone.
All this beauty, mine, in vain, alone.
All my triumphs, self-knowledge: empty.
Walking gets me where the waters narrow.
Sitting, I can see to when the clouds arise.
But if I should meet up with any old woodsman,
we’ll chatter and giggle with no thought of home.
Mount Chung-nan
Great primordial mountain, residing by
the star we know as Heaven’s Capital,
and linked, by range on range of peaks, to the sea.
White clouds, when I look back, close in.
Blue mists, as I enter them, are gone.
The pivot of the constellations’ turning:
the shaded gorge and sun-drenched ridge defining yin and yang.
I try to find a place to stay here,
across the stream, calling to the woodcutter.
Autumn Mountain Evening
Empty mountain, after rain,
the air of nightfall come to autumn.
Bright moon: among the pines, it’s shining.
Pure spring: over the rocks, it runs.
Bamboo rustles as the washing maids wend homeward,
and lotus stir as the fishermen’s craft do too.
If you will, you may still find spring’s fragrances.
You too, my gentle friend, may stay.
Mission to the Frontier
In a single cart, finding the way to the frontier,
beyond Ch’u-yan, past conquered states,
wandering grass beyond our borders:
a wild goose against this alien sky.
Vast desert! Lone spire of smoke stands straight.
Long dry river, setting sun rolls round.
At Desolation Pass we met a patrol,
“Headquarters camp’s at Swallow Mountain.”
Passing the Temple of Gathered Fragrance
Where is the Temple of Gathered Fragrance?
Just how many li away among those cloudy peaks?
Among the ancient trees, no paths for men.
Deep in the mountains, where is that bell?
The sound of the welling spring
is caught in the throat of the stony stream.
Blanched in sere sunlight
the pines look colder still.
In the thin winter dusk, by the dry lake’s edge,
I sit in meditation, taming poison dragons.
To Magistrate Chang
Late, I love only quiet;
things of the world no longer concern me.
Looking back, I’ve never known a better policy
than this: returning to my grove.
Pine breezes: loosen my robe.
Mountain moon: playing on my lute.
Sir, you ask guidance, rules for success and failure:
the fisherman’s song strikes deep up the cove.
Down to Chiang-ling
Morning, from the White Emperor City,
among the many colored clouds . . .
And then, a thousand li in a single day, to Chiang-ling.
From both banks, the apes’ cries, unceasing.
This little boat has gone beyond ten thousand mountain ranges.
Seeing Off Meng Hao-jan at the Pavilion of the Yellow Crane
Old friend, you said your good-byes to the west from this pavilion.
Through misted blossoms in the third month, you’ll go down to Yangchou.
Your lonely sail, a distant shadow, across the blue of mountains.
All I can see, the Long River, flowing, to the edge of the heavens.
East Mountain
I love East Mountain’s music.
I could stay a thousand years here or just never leave.
I’d wave my dancing sleeve,
and sweep clean the Mountain of the Five-Trunked Pine.
Drinking with a Hermit Friend in the Mountains
Together, we drink: mountain flowers, opening.
A cup, a cup, and then, to begin again, another cup!
I’m drunk, would sleep . . . you’d better go.
Tomorrow, come again, with your lute, if you will.
Sitting at Reverence Mountain
The flocks have flown high up and gone.
A single cloud fades into emptiness.
In meditation, endlessly, we two.
Then: only the Mountain of Reverence.
Thoughts of a Quiet Night
Before the bed, bright moonlight.
I took it for frost on the ground.
I raised my head to dream upon that moon,
then bowed my head, lost, in thoughts of home.
Jade Stairs Lament
Jade steps grow white dew.
Night, late, chills silken hose.
So let the crystal curtain fall . . .
In the tinkling, gaze upon so many autumn moons.
At Ch’iu-pu Lake
White hair! Three thousand yards of it.
And a sadness, a sorrow, as long.
I don’t understand. Where did my bright mirror
find all this autumn frost?
Ballad of the Voyager
Ocean voyager, on heaven’s winds,
in his ship, far wandering . . .
Like a bird, among the clouds,
gone, he will leave no trace.
Searching for Master Yung
So many cliffs, jade blue to scour the sky,
I’ve rambled, years uncounted,
brushing aside the clouds, to seek to ask the Ancient Way,
or maybe leaned against a tree to listen to a stream flow.
Among sun-warmed blossoms, the blue ox sleeps.
In the tall pines, the white crane naps.
Words came to me, with the river sunset:
alone, I came down, through the cold mist.
Seeing Off a Friend
Green mountains draw a line beyond the Northern Rampart.
White Water curls around the Eastern Wall.
This place? Good as any for a parting . . .
Ahead just the lonely briars where you’ll march ten thousand li.
Floating clouds: the traveler’s ambition.
Falling sun: your old friend’s feelings.
We touch hands, and now you go.
Muffled sighs, and the post horses, neighing.
Drinking under the Moon
Among the flowers, a jug of wine.
Drinking alone, without companion.
I raise the cup, invite bright moon,
and my shadow; that makes three.
The moon knows nothing of drinking.
My shadow merely follows me.
But I’ll play with moon and shadow,
joyful, till spring ends.
I sing as the moon dances.
I dance as my shadow tumbles.
Sober, when we found our joy.
Drunk, each goes his way.
Forever bound, to ramble free,
to meet again, in the River of Stars.
Ancient Air
I climbed high, to gaze upon the sea:
Heaven and Earth, so vast, so vast.
Frost clothes all things in autumn;
winds waft, the broad wastes cold.
Glory, splendor; always, ever,
eastward, seaward, flowing streams;
this world’s affairs, just waves.
White sun covered, its dying rays,
the floating clouds, no resting place.
In lofty wu-t’ung trees nest lowly finches.
Down among the thorny brush the phoenix perches.
All that’s left, to go home again,
hand on my sword I sing, “The Going’s Hard.”
Bathing
If it’s perfumed, don’t brush your cap.
Fragrant of orchid, don’t shake your gown.
This world hates a thing too pure.
Those who know will hide their light.
At Ts’ang-lang dwells a fisherman:
“You and I, let us go home together.”
A Farewell Banquet for My Uncle, the Revisor Yun, at the Pavilion of Hsieh T’iao
It’s broken faith and gone, has yesterday: I couldn’t keep it.
Tormenting me, my heart, today, too full of sorrow.
High wind sees off the autumn’s geese,
on their journey of ten thousand li.
Facing all this, it’s fitting we should drink upon the high pavilion.
Immortal letters, bones of the great age of Chien-an,
here Hsieh T’iao is clearly heard again.
All embracing, his thoughts fly free,
mount to blue heaven, caress the bright moon . . .
I grasp the sword and strike the water, still the water, flows.
Raise the cup to drown my grief, grief only grows.
Live as men live in this world, and find no satisfactions:
in the bright dawning, hair unbound, to float free in the skiff . . .
Ancient Air
Westward over Lotus Mountain . . .
Afar, far off: Bright Star!
Hibiscus blooms in her white hand,
with airy step she climbs to the realm of Great Purity.
Robed in rainbows, trailing a broad sash,
floating above as she brushes the heavenly stairs,
and invites me to mount the Cloud Terrace,
there to salute the immortal Wei Shu-ch’ing.
Ravished, mad, I go with her,
upon a swan to reach the Purple Vault.
There I looked down, on Loyang’s waters:
vast sea of barbarian soldiers marching,
fresh blood spattered on the grasses of the wilds.
Wolves, with men’s hats on their heads.
Ballad of Ch’ang-kan
My hair barely covered my forehead then.
My play was plucking flowers by the gate.
You would come on your bamboo horse,
riding circles round my bench, and pitching green plums.
Growing up together here, in Ch’ang-kan,
two little ones; no thought of what would come.
At fourteen I became your wife,
blushing and timid, unable to smile,
bowing my head, face to dark wall.
You called a thousand times before I answered.
At fifteen I carefully made up my face,
and swore that our dust and ashes should be one,
swore I’d keep faith like “the Man at the Pillar.”
How could I know I’d “climb the Watchtower” in fact?
For when I was sixteen you journeyed far,
to Chü-t’ang Gorge, by Yan-yü Rocks.
In the fifth month, there is no way through,
there where the apes call, mournful to the heavens.
By the gate, the footprints that you left,
each one has grown green with moss,
so deep, I have not swept them.
The falling leaves, the autumn’s wind is early,
October’s butterflies already come,
in pairs to fly above the western garden’s grass,
wounding the heart of the wife who waits,
sitting in sadness, fair face growing old.
Sooner or later, you’ll come down from San-pa.
Send me a letter, let me know.
I’ll come out to welcome you, no matter how far,
all the way to Long Wind Sands . . .
Ancient Air
Moon’s tint can’t be swept away;
the traveler’s grief? There’s no way to say it.
White dew proclaims from autumn robes.
Fireflies flit above the grasses.
Sun and moon are in the end extinguished;
Heaven and Earth, just so, will rot away.
A cricket cries in the green pine tree
he’ll never see grow old.
Potions of long life can only fool the vulgar;
the blind find all discernment hard.
You’ll never live to be a thousand,
and early anguish only leads to early death.
Drink deep, and dwell within the cup.
Conceal yourself there: you are your only treasure.
To the Tune of P’u-sa-man
Grove on the plain, sun, leaves, water, all interwoven in the mist.
The belt of cold mountains, heart-wounding green.
Sunset colors the high pavilion.
Someone sits there grieving,
on the jade stairs, waits, in vain.
Night birds flying, hastening home.
And how goes my way from here?
Inns, and inns,
inns and waystations.
Drinking Alone beneath the Moon II
If Heaven didn’t love Wine,
there wouldn’t be a Wine Star in Heaven.
If Earth didn’t love wine,
there wouldn’t be a Wine Spring on Earth.
Since Heaven and Earth both clearly love Wine,
how dare a mere drinking Man fear reproof?
The clear wine, I hear
will make you a Sage,
and some say the muddy’s
the way to fathoming true wisdom.
Since the Sage and the Wise were both drinkers,
what need have I to search for some Immortal Spirit?
Three cups: I break on through to the Great Way,
A jar full and I am Nature, Naturing!
If you want what’s worth getting: wine’s where it is.
Nothing doing for the stories of the sober . . .
Ancient Air
Deep in the gorgeous gloom the lotus grows,
to blossom fresh upon the morning air.
Its petals cover even the clarity of autumn’s flow,
its leaves spreading, blue smoke there.
But it’s in vain, this beauty that would overwhelm the world.
Who sees it? Who will say he saw?
And in its time the frost will come, chilling,
its deep red will wither, and its fragrance fade.
Poor choice it’s made of where to put its roots.
It would be seen to more advantage in a garden pond.
Ruins: The Ku-su Palace
The garden’s desert, crumbling walls, as willows green again.
Even the sweet song of spring’s a lament.
Nothing of what was, but the moon above the river,
moon that shone on a pretty face in the palace of the king of Wu.
Ruins: The Capital of Yueh
Kou Chien returned here, triumphant.
He had destroyed Yueh’s always enemy, the state of Wu.
Loyal warriors streamed home, armor all draped in Wu brocades
and court ladies waited, thronging, all the flowers of spring.
Now all: a covey of partridges, flushed, fly into the twilight.
Searching for the Taoist Monk Ch’ang at South Creek
His way, crossed by many lesser paths,
the moss, by sandal tracks.
White clouds lean, at rest on the silent island.
Fragrant grasses bar the idle gate.
Rain past, look: see clear, the color of the pines.
Out along the mountain, to the source,
flowers in the stream reveal Ch’an’s meaning.
Face to face, and all words gone.
Moonlight Night
Moon of this night, in Fu-chou,
alone in your chamber you gaze.
Here, far away, I think of the children,
too young to remember Longpeace . . .
Fragrant mist, moist cloud of your hair.
In that clear light, your arms jade cool.
When, again to lean together, by your curtain there,
alight alike, until our tears have dried.
Wayfarer’s Night
Sleep? And how could I?
This autumn night, unwilling to grow bright,
the curtain rolled, these fragments of moon shadow,
I’m pillowed high up: far off: the river sounds.
My stupid schemes: no clothes, no food.
The road run out, my life depends on old acquaintances.
My old wife wrote, filled many pages
that I should know she waits
and longs for my return.
Captive Spring
The nation is sundered; the mountains, the rivers, remain.
In the city, spring; trees and grasses, flourishing.
Touched by times passing, flowers drip my tears.
Pained at this separation, birds jar the heart.
Beacons of war have burned a full three months.
A note from home? I’d give a thousand gold for one.
My white hair, scratched ever thinner,
not enough left now for a hatpin.
House Cricket
House cricket . . .
Trifling thing,
and yet how his mournful song moves us.
Out in the grass his cry was a tremble,
but now he trills beneath our bed, to share his sorrow.
I lie still beside you, finding no release:
you, old wife, you suffer quiet through till dawn.
The song of our selves may move us, restless,
through long nights. The cricket’s song of autumn
holds us still.
Village by the River
Clear stream meanders by this hamlet, flowing.
Long summer days, at River Village, everything is ease.
Coming, going, as they please, the pairs of swallows soaring.
Mated, close, the gulls float with the stream.
My old wife draws a board for chess.
My son bends pins for fishhooks.
I’m often sick, but I can find good herbs.
What, beyond this, could a simple man ask?
Poem for Tso on His Return to the Mountains
“White dew,” we call the season when the yellow millet ripens,
ready for the sharing of an ancient promise.
It must already be ground fine.
It seems, may be, I’m just a little late arriving.
The flavor’s really not as fine as golden aster.
It’s tasty, nonetheless, flavored with green mallow.
Old time old man’s food . . .
Just the thought, and my mouth waters.
Song of the Bound Chickens
The little bond-slave binds our chickens for the market,
and the chickens being bound begin to struggle and proclaim.
The family’s up in arms because the chickens eat the ants,
never thinking that the market means the pot,
as far as chickens are concerned.
Ants, chickens: Man, which most deserves concern?
I told the bondman to unbind them.
No end here to the wars of ants and chickens.
I lean in this high place, eyes fixed
to the cold flow, to the River.
Facing Snow
Wailing war, so many fine young ghosts:
chanting sadness, one poor lame old man.
A chaos of clouds droops into the sunset:
a rush of snowflakes dances, whirling in the wind.
The wine pot’s pushed aside, cup empty of its green:
the stove abides, there coals glow red.
No news from anywhere gets through.
Sadness sits, to draft a letter
into emptiness.
Thinking of My Little Boy
Pony Boy, it’s spring, and we’re still parted.
The orioles sing, as if to warm away our troubles.
Parted from you: surprised as your birthday passes,
not a one to brag to of the clever things you do.
Water falls, there, by the empty mountain road,
by bramble gate, at Ancient Trees, the village where you dwell.
I think of you, and sleep’s the only antidote for grief.
I toast my back, bent, bowed,
beneath the smiling sunlight on the porch.
Remembering
“Pony Boy’s a good boy,” you’d say,
two years ago, when you learned to talk.
You asked, and learned, all my guest’s names,
and even chanted your old father’s poems.
In these disordered times, I ache at your smallness.
In a poor home, at least you know a mother’s love.
There’s no way now to lead you to a safe retreat,
nor even to know if this letter will get through.
Heaven and Earth are filled with martial banners.
Mountains and rivers grieve to war horn’s moan.
Just let me return, and find you safe:
from that day forth,
I’ll be a long time leaving.
Tsung-wu’s Birthday
This little boy, when did we meet?
High autumn, on this very day your birth.
And from the time I wrote of you from the capital,
your name’s been linked with mine in fame.
It’s poetry’s profession of this house.
Let others hand down love for lesser things.
For you, a thorough knowledge
of the essence of the Wen Hsüan,
and an end to searching after “pretty” things.
I’m fading fast, even as the feast begins:
I list to one side, can’t sit upright.
Sunset’s clouds break all apart.
Drop by drop I’ll pour them out, with drunken dignity.
To Show to Tsung-wu on New Year’s Day
You exclaim, that my hand should tremble.
I smile, that your young frame grows strong.
We’ve met this first moon many places,
scattered, chips on water, far from home.
And though the family’s poor as fallen leaves,
still, here’s cypress wine to greet the New Year.
And thought I’m frail and sick, there’s study too.
Take my instruction, son.
Though I’m shamed so little fame crowns this white head,
I can still build an essay, still write a poem . . .
Your toast to long life is all the more worth answering.
Yet, when I think of my brother,
gone, east of the river, there . . .
Though loud and high I sing,
the only lines that I can make are lines of tears.
Gone by Myself to the Riverbank, in Search of a Flower
(Seven quatrains)
I
By the river, by the flowers, tried.
If I couldn’t complain I’d go crazy.
I searched for Hu-ssu Jung, my jug mate:
He’s still out drinking! A full ten days
he’s left his own bed empty.
II
Secret blossoms, buds in dishabille: awesome
by the river. I go listing, reeling, really
afraid of spring. With poems and wine I can endure
the urge: the urge remains. No need yet
for help, this old white head.
III
Deep river, stillness of bamboo, two or three homes.
Busybody blossoms blush, sunset
on white, blooming. I know one way
to settle with the blaze of spring.
Go find the wine, and drink the sun down.
IV
Gaze east: the little hamlet, flowers fill the mist.
That house, Hundred Blossoms Hall’s high up, the more’s
temptation. But who would bring me wine, unstop
the bottle there. Call forth a beauty, to dance, before the couch.
V
By the grave of the abbot, Huang, east
of the river, in spring’s bright,
lazy, caged. Leaning on light breeze,
the peach, a single banner branch
opens on her own. You may love the deep fresh red:
I love the faded better.
VI
At the house of the madam, Huang,
flowers fill the well-worn paths.
A thousand buds, ten thousand blossoms
weigh branches down. Full of joy
some playful butterfly may dance.
Full of herself, some pretty oriole gives voice.
VII
If I couldn’t see the flowers, I’d
prefer to die. My only fear’s
that when they’re gone, my own life too
will hurry on. How easily, too easily
these flighty blossoms fall. O gentle buds:
consult with me, to part more carefully.
Quatrain
At riverside, spring’s celebration
done. I turn to find bright
battle flags. Wind rising. Spring.
The city’s dusk.
Watchtowers, fife and drum: spring’s
grief again.
Meandering Stream I
When one petal flies, spring’s a diminished thing:
wind wafts away ten thousand more, to grieve me.
I will watch what will be gone, these flowers, pass the eye,
and I won’t stint to stanch my wounds:
good wine shall pass these lips.
In small pavilions by the stream, kingfishers build their nests.
In the high tombs by the park, the unicorns are sleeping.
See clear the Rule of Things, and take your pleasure:
what use to be all bound up in thoughts of fame.
Meandering Stream II
On the way home from court each morning,
I’m pawning off my spring robes
and every day, I stay by the stream until
I’m almost too drunk to go home.
Wine debts are common; even I’ve got a few.
We’re supposed to live threescore and ten; not many do.
Delving the blossoms, the butterfly, I peer at him as he peers so deep within.
Dinting the water, the dragonflies,
touching, so lightly as they fly.
They say that even wind and light pass on,
are gone together with the stream.
Given, then, this small reward, I have no quarrel.
Facing My Wine at Meandering Stream
Outside the park, beside the stream, I might sit forever.
The crystal palaces are wrapped in chilly mist.
Peach blossoms wait, then follow willow’s flowers, falling.
The brown birds go, with the white birds, flying.
I get drunk, stay drunk; all Righteous men reject me.
I’m late to court, and it’s my due, that all True Men ignore me.
It’s only petty greed makes paradise so far . . .
And I’m old, and worn with sorrow, and still here.
Spring, Overnight in the Chancellery
The flowers hidden, by the palace walls, sun sets.
Songs sob of autumn, as the birds fly off to roost.
Stars lower near the doors of common folk.
The moon goes visiting among the people of the palace.
Sleepless, I hear the turn of golden keys,
and in the wind chimes find the jingling pendants of my horse.
At morning Audience I have words that must be said:
I ask myself again, if I should know, should I pretend to know,
“How goes the night?”
The Flowered Duck
O Flowered Duck, you’re spotted, but not stained.
Before the stairs each day, you, stately, waddle by.
The plumage of your wings proclaims your independence:
black and white (and nothing in between) too clearly seen.
Don’t you know the others are all jealous?
Careful not to startle watching eyes.
You’ve got your share of rice and millet.
Make up your mind: don’t be the first to quack.
Beginning of Winter
I sag with age: these martial robes are tight.
Coming home, cold’s colors deepen.
Fishing boats work up the rushing stream.
A hunter’s fire marks the high-perched grove.
Long as there’s sun, I drink by leisure’s pools.
When sorrows come, I’ll chant of ancient heroes.
Spears and halberds still can’t be laid by.
To stay, or to serve, which way
does the heart go from here?
Day after the Beginning of Autumn
The sun, the moon, they’re unforgiving:
once again two seasons, last night, shared a boundary . . .
Dark cicadas, ceaseless, cry . . .
Autumn’s swallows, guests, prepare to go.
All my life I’ve sworn to walk alone,
heart bound to disappointments, this half a hundred years.
To quit, or hold this post, it’s up to me;
what is it binds, what jails this body here?
Gazing on the Wasteland
Clear autumn: gaze no end.
Far, far off, rise towers of shadow.
Distant waters, pure as sky.
The lonely city deep in smoky clouds.
Leaves few, the more winds fell,
in mountain’s coils, sun sinking,
the single crane flies home: too late.
Dusk’s ravens fill the grove.
Lament for Ch’en-t’ao
First month of winter, ten counties’ gentle youths’
blood serves for water in the Ch’en-t’ao swamps.
Broad wilds, clear skies: no sounds of battle now.
Forty thousand volunteers, in one day, dead.
Then the Tartars returned, arrows bathed in blood,
still baying their barbarous songs as they drank in the markets.
The people turned away, standing weeping, facing north,
day and night their single prayer: our army may return.
The Press-Gang at Shih-hao Village
At evening, I found lodging in Shih-hao.
That night a press-gang came for men.
An old man jumped the wall,
while his wife went through the gate to meet them.
The officer cursed, so full of anger.
The old woman cried, so bitterly.
Then I heard her approach him and speak:
“Our three sons went off in defense of Ye-ch’eng,
now one has sent a letter home,
to tell us that the other two are slain.
He who remains yet clings to life.
They who have died are gone forever.
At home here there is no one
but a grandson at the breast,
and his mother, not yet able to leave him.
And anyway, she’s not a whole skirt to put on . . .
This old one, though her strength is ebbing,
begs you, sir, to let her come tonight,
to answer the draft for Ho-yang.
I might still help to cook the morning meal.”
Night lengthened, the voices died away,
dwindling to a sound like stifled sobs.
The sky brightened, I climbed back toward the path.
Alone, the old man made farewells.
Grief Again
(Four quatrains from a group of twelve)
I
All these petty statelets: still at lance and steed.
What’s my old garden like today?
Last visit, there were few I knew.
Now, there are more new battlefields
than old friends left.
II
Here I remain, a petty officer in exile
while the family needs me home to farm.
But the year grows late,
wild grasses, tall along the paths.
I’m afraid I’d miss my own rude gate.
III
Arrows, chased with gold!
Black oxtails on their banner poles.
Since this dusty wind first rose . . .
it’s been hard to travel.
IV
Barbarians. How can there be so many?
Shield and spear: unwilling to put by.
At the village gate, listen to the children
laugh and shout; play war.
Passing the Ferry
Mount Heng’s hard by.
The River Hsiang flows east from here.
Mild breezes draw the oarsman on,
and spring sun rises midst the mountain clouds.
I turn my head as we pass the ferry;
still, along the banks, many fine groves of maple.
Silver minnows struggle in the fine mesh nets;
Yellow birds proclaim, above, in joyous notes:
if even these tiny things know freedom from bondage,
ought not compassion be the very heart of man?
The jug remains; there is still wine.
My lute lies silent on my knees.
Sages, Worthies, too, lie still and mute, small lonely men.
I rest my eyes, and loosen my robes to the breeze.
On Seeing the Sword Dance Performed by a Disciple of Madam Kung-sun
Long ago there was a beauty, Kung-sun her name.
In a single gesture of her sword dance all the world was overthrown.
And Heaven and Earth bowed long before her.
Bending back, the bow of Great I’s shot, and nine suns falling.
Rising up, a heavenly being, aloft, on dragons soaring.
Approaching: she is lightning, thunder; holds the harvest of storm’s fury.
Staying: rivers and oceans, congealed, as clear light.
Deep red lips and pearl-sewn sleeves are quiet,
late now, from one disciple only does such fragrance come.
The lady of Lin-ying at White Emperor Town,
the fair dance to the old song, and the spirits soaring.
And when I asked and found whence came such art,
I pondered time, and change, and grew still sadder.
Ming-huang’s waiting maids; eight thousand,
and Madam Kun-sun’s sword dance stood premier.
Now fifty years, a single simple gesture of the palm,
dust in the wind, quicksilver, dusk, our Royal House.
The Pear Garden’s pupils, like the mist they all are scattered;
this lady’s fading beauty brightens the cold sun.
South of Gold Grain Hill, the trees: grown to full hand’s span.
Here in Chü-t’ang Gorge, the grasses wither.
The feasts, the pipes; songs end again.
The utmost joy, then sadness comes; moon rises, east.
The old man can’t know where he’s to go,
feet sore, wild hills, turning, deep in sorrow.
Meeting Li Kuei-nien South of the River
At the prince of Ch’i’s house, we met often.
At Ts’ui’s so many times, so many years,
I heard you sing.
Now . . .
How beautiful it is, here
South of the River
flowers fall. We meet again.
Thoughts While Traveling by Night
Slender grass, light breeze on the banks.
Tall mast, a solitary night on board.
A star falls, and the vast plain seems broader.
Surging moon, on the Great River flows.
Can fame grow from wen alone?
This servant of the people, now old and sick, must let that be.
Afloat, afloat, just so . . .
Heaven, and Earth, and one black gull.
Gazing from High on the Mountain on the Rainy Sea and Thinking of the Monks in the Yu-lin Monastery
From the mountain, rain upon the sea,
and dripping foam from the misty trees.
It looks as if, in that vastness,
those dark isles might any moment fly away.
Nature has angered the eight-headed spirit-serpent of the sea.
The rushing tides stir up the road of the clouds.
The true men ever fill my thoughts,
but a single reed can’t float across.
Sad thought of the times at Red Cliff
wishing I could harness the wild swans, and drive.
The Master of Hsiang Plays His Lute
So well he plays his cloud-topped lute,
we hear the Lady of the River.
The god of the stream is moved to dance in emptiness.
The traveler of Ch’u can’t bear to listen.
A bitter tune, to chill both gold and stone.
Pure notes pierce gloomy dark.
Deep green wu-t’ung brings sad thoughts on.
White iris there recalls a certain fragrance.
The waters flow, between Hsiang’s banks.
Mournful winds cross Lake Tung-t’ing.
Song done, and no one to be seen.
On the river, many peaks, all green.
The West River at Ch’u-chou
Alone, for love of hidden herbs, which flourish by the stream.
Above, the yellow oriole sings deep among the trees.
Spring’s flood tides, and rain, together, to this evening come.
No man at the ferry: boat drifts there, on its own.
On Mount Lang-ya
At Stone Gate there is snow, no trace of travel.
Pine Valley’s mists, so full of fragrances.
To the crumbs of our meal in the court, cold birds come down.
A tattered robe hangs on the tree; the old monk’s dead.
Northern Campaign
After T’ien-shan’s snows, cold desert wind.
Flute sounds all about, the going hard.
Three hundred thousand men, among these rocks,
this once, as one, together turn: gaze on the moon.
Song of the South of the River
Married to a Chü-t’ang river trader.
Morn, and morn, and tidings never come.
If I had only known how faithful tide can be . . .
Better to have wed a player
on the waves of the tidal bore.
Coming at Night to a Fisherman’s Hut
Fisherman’s hut, by the mouth of the river,
the water of the lake to his brushwood gate.
The traveler would beg night’s lodging,
but the master’s not yet home.
The bamboo’s thick, the village far.
Moon rises. Fishing boats are few.
There! Far off, along the sandy shore,
the spring breeze moving in his cloak of straw!
Moored at Maple Bridge
Moon sets, crow caws, frost fills the heavens.
River maples, fisherman’s fires, my eyes
face all this sadness.
Han Shan’s temple: here outside the walls of Gusu.
Middle of the night, bell’s tone, like a stone struck,
visits every traveler’s boat.
The New Wife
On the third day she went down to the kitchen,
washed her hands, prepared the broth.
Still unaware of her new mother’s likings,
she asked his sister to taste.
The City of Stones
Wrapped safe, it seemed, this ancient land, in mountains.
Now tides rise against the empty wall, ebb quietly.
East of the River Huai, same moon as of those days,
night grows again, upon the battlements.
Song of the Bamboo Stalks
Red blossoms: mountain peach, upon the heights.
Shu River: floods of spring caress the mountain, flowing.
The flowers bloom and fade, so like his love.
The waters run on endlessly: my sorrow.
Grass on the Ancient Plain
So tender, so tender, the grasses on the plain,
in one year, to wither, then flourish.
Wildfire cannot burn them away.
Spring breezes’ breath, they spring again,
their distant fragrance on the ancient way,
their sunlit emerald greens the ruined walls.
Seeing you off again, dear friend,
sighing, sighing, full of parting’s pain.
The Charcoal Man
The old charcoal man
cuts wood and seasons coals up on South Mountain.
Face full of ashes, the color of smoke,
hair white at the temples, ten fingers black,
sells charcoal, gets money, and where does it go?
For the clothes on his body and the food that he eats.
Yet sadly though those clothes are thin,
he’s so worried for the price of charcoal
that he prays the weather cold.
Last night, on the city wall, a foot of snow.
Dawn, he loads his cart, tracks over ice.
The ox tired, the man hungry, the sun already high,
south of the market, outside the gate, in the mud, they rest.
So elegant these prancing horsemen, who are they?
Yellow-robed official, with his white-robed boy.
Hand holds a written order, mouth spouts “The Emperor.”
They turn the cart. They curse the ox. Head north.
A thousand pounds of charcoal in that cart . . .
And if they commandeer, can he complain?
Half a piece of scarlet gauze, three yards of silk:
tied round the ox’s head, this charcoal’s price.
The Old Fisherman
The old fisherman spends his night beneath the western cliffs.
At dawn, he boils Hsiang’s waters, burns bamboo of Ch’u.
When the mist’s burned off, and the sun’s come out, he’s gone.
The slap of the oars: the mountain waters green.
Turn and look, at heaven’s edge, he’s moving with the flow.
Above the cliffs, the aimless clouds go too.
River Snow
A thousand mountains, no birds fly.
Ten thousand paths, no footprints.
Lone skiff, rush-cloaked old man.
Fishing alone, cold river snow.
Searching, and Not Finding, the Hermit
Beneath the pines I asked the boy.
“The master’s gone in search of simples . . .
He’s on the mountain over there:
clouds so thick, I can’t tell where.”
Passing the Night in a Village Inn
This bed’s pillow’s a stone in the stream
that runs from the wellspring to the bamboo’s pool.
The traveler has not slept, as midnight goes.
Alone, he listens: the mountain rain arrives.
Don’t Go Out, Sir!
Heaven’s dark,
the earth shut tight.
The nine-headed serpent feeds on our souls.
Snow and frost snap our bones.
The dogs, set loose, snarl to our scent,
licking their paws at the thought of the flesh
of men who go girdled in orchids.
When the emperor sends his chariot to bear you away,
then all your hardships will end.
Jade stars dot your sword, of yellow gold will be your yoke.
But though I go horseback, there is no way home.
The waves that drowned Li-yang stand tall as a mountain.
Venomous dragons glare at me, rattling their rings of gold,
and lions and griffins, slavering, drool.
Pao Chiao, a whole lifetime, slept on straw.
Yen Hui’s hair, at twenty-nine, was mottled white.
Yen Hui’s blood was not corrupted.
Nor had Pao offended Heaven.
Heaven feared those jaws would close,
therefore advanced them so . . .
Clear as it is, if you still doubt,
think on the madman who raved by the wall.
The Tomb of Su Hsiao-hsiao
On the solitary orchid, dew:
like tear-filled eyes.
Nothing to tie our hearts together.
Misty blossoms, I cannot bear to cut.
Grass for her carpet; pines, her roof.
The wind her robe and
water sounds her pendants.
There, painted carriages
are waiting in the night,
green candles cool,
weary with brilliance.
Beneath the Western Mound,
wind drives the rain.
Confession
Soul sunk in Chiang-nan, wandering with wine.
All beauties’ hearts are broken, if they fall into my hands.
Ten years dozing, Yang-chou dreams . . .
I have won a name among these pleasure houses:
they call me “the heartless man.”
Poem of Parting
Great love could seem indifference.
The only hint before the cup: we cannot smile.
Only the candle’s not heartless:
wept tears for us until the dawn.
Spring South of the River
Song of the oriole, a thousand li, reds brighten on the green.
Streamside village, mountains for walls, wind in the tavern banner.
Here, four hundred eighty temples, in the southern dynasties . . .
Now how many towers, terraces? The misting rain.
Traveling among Mountains
Far climbing Cold Mountain, rocky path turns.
There, where clouds grow, some man’s home.
I halt the carriage, sit adoring, evening, maple grove;
these frosted leaves: far redder than March bloom.
Coming Home
The children pull at my coat and inquire,
“You’ve come home, oh, why so late?
Who were you fighting with all these years,
to win that head of white hair?”
Untitled
Meeting is hard; parting, hard too.
The east wind’s feeble, yet the hundred flowers fall.
Spring silkworm spins its silk until it dies.
The candle sheds its tears till wick is ashes.
The morning mirror grieves. Clouds of hair are changing.
Song of the night, know moonlight’s cold.
From here to Mount P’eng the way’s not long
but the Green Bird is attentive, watches close.
Untitled
Phoenix tails, the fragrant silk, how many gauzy folds,
green filigrees, the canopy, late into night she sews.
The fan cuts the moon’s light, it cannot hide her blush.
The carriage goes, the thunder sounds, words can’t get through.
Long in silent solitude, as candle burns to dark.
Cut off, no word, and who would bring red pomegranate wine?
The piebald horse is tied as always to the trailing willow tree
but where is the southwest wind, where the good breeze?
Day of the Spring Sacrifice
Lake of the Geese at the foot of the mountain, rice and millet fat.
Henhouse and pigpen shut up tight.
Shadows of the mulberries grow long, the spring-fest ended.
Propped each on each, the drunken, wandering home.
Song of Lung-hsi
Sworn to the death to exterminate the Huns:
five thousand sable doublets on that alien ground.
Pity, by Lost River there, those bones,
men still, in the dreams of their lovers.
See a Friend Off to Wu
I see you to Ku-su.
Homes there, sleeping by the stream.
Ancient palace, few abandoned spots.
And by the harbor, many little bridges.
In the night market, lotus, fruit and roots.
On the spring barges, satins and gauze.
Know, far off, the moon still watches.
Think of me there, in the fisherman’s song.
Fording the Han River
Crags cut sound. No word past
winter’s gone. I come
with spring, and the closer
I come, the more afraid.
Don’t dare to ask
word of you.
Out of Place and Time: Six Zen Master Poets of the T’ang
IN THE T’ANG, SOUTHERN SCHOOL CH’AN (ZEN) BUDDHISM was adopted by perhaps the majority of traditional poets as the favored route to spiritual enlightenment. Even so, Zen poetry by monk practitioners remained something of a separate (and sometimes more than equal) poetic art, and thus I have decided to place the poems of the six most important monk-poets of the Golden Age in a special place, outside chronological order, or, as the Zen meditator is, outside of time.
Actually, the first three of the monk-poets weren’t even necessarily really monks. All three are essentially legendary figures. One, Wang Fan-chih, was the creation of Buddhist schoolteachers. He spouted pious doggerel for little kids’ primers. Another, of the same name, who like the first flourished in the the eighth century, was an urban wild man, what one would probably call a bohemian today. Their work was extremely popular in T’ang and Sung but then was totally lost, only to be rediscovered conflated, in the twentieth century in the famous temple library of T’unhuang, among materials sealed up around 1135 as the borders of the Chinese empire shrank. Only the latter’s work appears here.
The legendary Han Shan has been popular in China and Japan since the first appearance of his poems, also in the eighth century. Their reappearance in the translations of the great American Beat generation poet Gary Snyder helped, as much as Snyder’s often Zen-inspired poetry itself, to work a positive change in American culture. Translations of the poems of Han Shan’s legendary sidekick Shih Te, “the Foundling,” have appeared since Snyder’s translations of Han Shan.
Of the other three historical monk-poets, Chiao Jan (730–799) was a T’ang aristocrat turned monk who was witness in his youth to the greatest period of the Golden Age. His poetry is highly civilized and urbane, yet has a witty, even biting edge; it clearly owes much to the influence of the “wild men.”
The poetry in this section by Chia Tao (779–843), is presented here by his monk name, Wu Pen. He first witnessed the cataclysmic decline of the empire as a monk. Later, pulled I think by his bodhisattva oath (to strive to liberate all beings from suffering) rather than any vulgar desire for worldly success or fame, he served as a minor government official under the patronage of the nominally anti-Buddhist poet official Han Yu. The last poet in the group, Kuan Hsiu (832–912), became a monk at an early age, probably to avoid starvation. In his own lifetime he was regarded as the greatest poet of his age. His vigorously creative use of the vernacular influenced the greatest of the Sung poets, as did his courageous and aggressive social protest poetry (see, for instance, “Bad Government”). In addition he was a serious political thinker, among the first to propose a synthesis of Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism as a new ruling ideology. This was a pretty revolutionary idea. Sung thinkers took two centuries to fully embrace it. Also a portrait painter, Kuan Hsiu developed an individualistic style that made him an important figure in the history of Chinese graphic art as well. Sometimes a genius finds his time, and sometimes he doesn’t.
It may not be out of place to mention here that from the Sung dynasty on, Zen monasteries were centers of traditional culture. The brilliant and charismatic half-blind orphan dwarf who became the first emperor of the Ming was educated in a Buddhist monastery. In the Ming and Ch’ing, the last two traditional dynasties, a really significant proportion of the best traditional poetry was created by monks like Han-shan Te-ch’ing (also the last great commentator on Lao Tzu’s Taoist classic Tao Te Ching) and Ching-an, a monk and abbot who lived into the twentieth century.
I
A long time ago, before I was born
it was dark. There was nothing, I knew.
The Lord of Heaven made life for me,
but what did he give me life for?
Without clothes, I knew cold,
without food, I knew hunger.
Get back to the Lord of Heaven for me . . .
ask him could he please get me back to before I was born.
II
When I saw him die,
my guts were on fire:
not that I pitied him,
just that it might be my turn next.
III
Others go astride great chargers;
me, on my ass.
Then there’s the guy under a load of firewood.
I compare me to both.
IV
Nobody lives to be a hundred.
But they try to write rhymes that’ll last a thousand.
Forge an iron gate to fence out the demons:
demons watch, clapping, and laughing.
V
Wang Fan-chih wears his socks inside out,
everybody knows that’s all wrong.
But he’d rather poke you in the eye
than keep his feet in the dark.
VI
Having power need not warp your heart and mind,
but if you cheat folks, you put yourself in danger.
Just look at the fire on the wood:
once it’s burned up the fuel, the fire’s gone too.
I
Human beings live in the dirt,
like bugs in a filthy bowl.
All day long crawling around and around,
never getting over the edge.
Even spiritual masters can’t make it,
racking their brains for schemes and plans.
The months and the years, a running river:
then there’s the day you wake up old.
II
Parrots fly free in the western lands.
Forest huntsmen net them, bring them here.
Courtesans love to play with them, and so
they’re well known at court, in and out all day.
They’re given golden cages to dwell in,
but bolted in, their robes of plumes are ruined.
Better a swan, or a crane . . .
riding the winds high up, well known
to the clouds where they fly.
III
Mr. Wang’s degree says Flourishing Talent.
He loves to find fault with my poems.
He says I don’t follow the “regulations,”
and don’t use the “right” techniques.
He says I don’t use the four tones correctly,
and just stick in words any which way.
I laugh at what he calls poetry: a blind man’s
rhymes: lukewarm praise of the sun.
IV
Trying to talk light into dark mysteries:
all moon bright night,
searching reason, sun coming on to dawn.
Ten thousand schemes, just muddy tracks.
True magic, just to see the true self come:
true self, and the thus come Buddha, One.
V
The gorge is long, rocks, and rocks and rocks, jut up,
the torrent’s wide, reeds almost hide the other side.
The moss is slippery even without rain.
The pines sing: the wind is real enough.
Who’s ready to leap free of the world’s traces:
come sit with me among white clouds?
VI
My old landlady
got rich three or four years ago.
Used to be poorer than me,
now she laughs that I don’t have money.
She laughs that I’ve fallen behind.
I laugh that she’s gotten ahead.
Both of us laughing, no stopping us.
Landlady, and Lord of the West.
VII
How many T’ien T’ai mountain monks,
don’t really know what’s up,
and just talk idle nonsense?
I
You say, “If you want to be happy,
there’s no way but to be a hermit.
Flowers in the grove are better than brocade.
Every single season’s colors new.
Just sit by a cliff and turn your head
to watch the moon’s ball roll.”
And me? I ought to be at joyous ease,
but I can’t help thinking of the people in the world.
II
When I was young I studied books, and swordsmanship,
and rode off with a shout to the capital,
where I heard the barbarians had been driven off already . . .
there was no place left for heroes.
So I came back to these crested peaks,
lay down and listened to the clear stream’s flow.
Young men dream of glory:
monkeys riding on the ox’s back.
III
I’ve always been Shih Te, the Foundling.
It’s not some accidental title.
Yet I’m not without a family.
Han Shan is my brother.
Two men with hearts a lot alike.
No need for vulgar love.
If you want to know how old we are . . .
like the Yellow River, that’s unclear.
IV
You want to learn to catch a mouse?
Don’t try to learn from a pampered cat.
If you want to learn the nature of the world,
don’t study fine bound books.
The True Jewel’s in a coarse bag.
The Buddha nature stops at huts.
The whole herd of folks who clutch at appearances
never seem to make the connection.
V
My poems are poems;
some people call them sermons.
Well now, poems and sermons share one thing;
when you read them you got to be careful.
Keep at it. Get into detail.
Don’t just claim they’re easy.
If you were to live your life like that,
a lot of funny things might happen.
Inscribed on the Wall of the Hut by the Lake
If you want to be a mountain dweller . . .
no need to trek to India to find a mountain . . .
I’ve got a thousand peaks
to pick from, right here in this lake.
Fragrant grasses, white clouds,
to hold me here.
What holds you there,
world-dweller?
To Be Shown to the Monks at a Certain Temple
Not yet to the shore of nondoing,
it’s silly to be sad you’re not moored yet . . .
Eastmount’s white clouds say
to keep on moving, even
if it’s evening, even if it’s fall.
At Gusu
The ancient terrace now invisible:
autumn grasses wither, there
where once the king of Wu stood
proud and strong. A thousand
years of moonlight on the grass:
how often did he gaze upon it?
Now the moon will rise again,
but he will not. A world of men have
gazed, will gaze, upon great
Gusu Mountain. Here dwells a placid spirit.
Deer herd to blur men’s footprints.
Here too Hsi-tzu’s fair simplicity, seductive
lips brought an empire crashing down:
now, that all is change is clear:
at Cold Peak, a little heap of dirt.
Metaphor
My Tao: at the root, there’s no me . . .
yet I don’t despise worldly men.
Just now I’ve been into the city . . .
so I know I really mean that.
Good-byes
I’ve heard that even “men of feeling”
don’t treasure the feeling of parting.
Frosty sky drips a chill on the cold city wall.
The long night spreads
like water overflowing.
There’s the sound of the watch-horn, too.
The Zen man’s heart is empty, yes,
of all but these.
Sending Off a Friend amid the Cries of Gibbons
You’ll go ten thousand miles
beyond those western mountains . . .
Three gibbons’ cries, a chasm full of moonlight . . .
How long’s this road been here?
How many travelers
have wet their sleeves beside it?
A broken wall divides the drooping shadows.
Rushing rapids sing a bitter song.
In the cold, when we have finally parted,
it will be all the more wounding to hear.
Gazing at the Moon from South Tower
Moon tonight, and everyone’s moon-gazing,
but I’m alone, and in love with this tower.
Threads of cloud are shattered in the stream:
trailing willow is the picture of late fall.
As it brightens, you can see a thousand peaks.
Far off, the veins of ridges flow.
Mountain passes . . .
will I ever climb again?
I stand alone,
and let the border sadness rise.
After Finishing a Poem
Those two lines cost me three years:
I chant them once and get two more, of tears.
Friend, if you don’t like them . . .
I’ll go home, and lie down,
in the ancient mountain autumn.
Overnight at a Mountain Temple
Flock of peaks hunched up
and colored cold. The path forks
here, toward the temple.
A falling star flares behind bare trees,
and the moon breasts the current of the clouds.
Few men come to the very top . . .
One tall pine won’t hold a flock of cranes.
One monk here, at eighty,
has never heard tell
of the “world” down below.
Quatrain
At the bottom of the ocean: the moon,
bright moon, round as the wheel of the sky.
Just get a single hand full of this glory . . .
And you could buy a thousand miles of spring.
A Letter Sent
The family’s living up Brocade Creek,
while I’ve struggled off to this distant sea.
Of ten letters sent, maybe one gets through,
and when it does, it says another year’s gone by.
The Swordsman
Ten long years I’ve honed this sword:
frost white blade as yet untried.
Today, like any other gentleman,
it’s looking for injustice.
Extempore
Midnight, heart startled, I rise,
to take the path to Long Cascade:
the trees of the grove are swallowed in white dew:
a dipper of stars, in the clear dark sky.
Letter to the Wild Monk
Other than the birds, who loves you?
Lordly peaks, your neighbors.
White head cold pillowed on a stone.
Gray robe ragged but not soiled.
Chestnuts pile up on your path.
Monkeys circle where you sit.
If you ever set up another zendo,
I swear I’ll be the one who sweeps the floors.
Moored on Fall River
Banks like Lake Tung-t’ing, but the hills too steep.
Boat floats the clear stream, but the cold climbs in my berth.
White moon rides a high wind, and I can’t sleep.
Among the withered reeds, the fisherman’s a nightmare.
Spending the Night in a Little Village
Hard traveling, and then a little village, for the night:
a year of plenty, chickens, dogs, it’s raucous as a market town.
Come out to meet the stranger in the dusk:
whole families, laughing, happy:
beneath the moon, seining up fish from the pool.
To an Old Monk on Mount T’ien T’ai
Living alone where none other dwells,
shrine among the pines where mountain tints encroach,
this old man’s been ninety years a monk:
heart beyond the clouds a lifetime long.
White hair hangs down, his head’s unshaven:
clear black pupils smile deep mysteries.
He can still point to the orphan moon
for me alone, relaxing his discipline, this moment.
Thinking of the Old Mountains toward the End of Autumn
Used to live north of Square Hut . . .
Nobody knew my name.
Up through the clouds to harvest my grain,
climbing like an ant into the tree to pick the oranges.
Saw a tiger wander by that lonesome village . . .
Anyone could grow white-haired
living a life like that.
Song of the Palace of Ch’en
Think sad thoughts of other days,
those palace gates, overflowing . . .
Reckless feasting, feckless loves: no Sages, there.
Jade trees’ blossoms singing, there,
among a hundred flowers.
Coral jeweled, the very window frames,
sun from the sea, scattered jewels.
Great ministers to audience; Mi’Lord
still in his cups, and even when he’d sobered
few wise words got past his ears.
So. The Palace of Ch’en
is rubble in this farmer’s field,
and the peasant’s plow turns up the shards
of a courtier’s mirror.
Bad Government
Sleet and rain, as if the pot were boiling.
Winds whack like the crack of an axe.
An old man, an old old man,
toward sunset crept into my hut.
He sighed, sighed he, as if to himself,
“These rulers, so cruel: why, tell me
why they must steal till we starve,
and then slice off the skin from our bones?
For a song from some beauty
they’ll go back on sworn words;
for a song from some tart,
they’ll tear our huts down . . .
for a song, for a sweet song or two,
they’ll slaughter ten thousand like me, or
like you. You can cry as you will, let
your hair turn pure white,
let your whole clan go hungry . . .
no good wind will blow
no gentle breeze begin again.
Lord Locust Plague, and Baron Bandit Bug,
one east, one west, one north, one south,
We’re surrounded.”
On the Border: Three Poems
I
Mountains: no green
and no clean water.
poisonous wind, and
sands rank with blood stench.
Tartars on horseback
hate the birds, flying:
draw bows at will, to bring them down.
you can hear their cries
from above the clouds.
II
Gusts blow a cloud up, sudden
from the sand: we can tell the
Tartars are massing to cross the River Liao.
Gulping the dust of fear, here, now, us
border guards: sure we’re ghosts, already.
III
In Green Mound Cave, they say
a white wolf dwells.
Once in a while it comes out
looks east, and howls
and howls
and howls.
Paint that for me, if you can,
my painter friend.
Song of the Righteous Man
Born before me, born
before, I’ll never meet him.
He loved peace, but there was no peace,
so he set his brows like bolts of stars . . .
Yellow dusk, then rain and sleet
and sky like a bruise, like a cancer.
He’s gone, now, and
I’ll not know where.
Leaving It to You
Self-evident, truth mistakes no thing.
But my heart’s a long way from there
and no thing’s clear to me.
Yellow gold is almost all burned up
by my desire:
white hair grows beside the fire.
Bitter indecision, choose This, or maybe That:
even spirit speaks in riddles,
and it makes it hard to harvest
and it makes it hard to harvest
the essence of a single day.
Catch the wind, while you tether the shadows.
Faith, or a man who’ll stand by his word, is all
there is, there is no disputing.
Written in the Mountains
A mountain’s a palace
for all things crystalline and pure:
there’s not a speck of dust
on a single one of all these flowers.
When we start chanting poems like madmen
it sets all the peaks to dancing.
And once we’ve put the brush to work
even the sky becomes mere ornament.
For you and me the joy’s in the doing
and I’m damned if I care about “talent.”
But if, my friend, from time to time
you hear sounds like ghostly laughter . . .
It’s all the great mad poets, dead,
and just dropping in for a listen.
Late Autumn, Sent to a Gentleman at Wu-ch’ang
Heard you’re at War-Bright Town, living by the river:
cypress withers, even locust rots, in these wartime winds.
I know you’re addicted to poetry still:
the drug you crave is hard to come by in a place like that.
So I send this: frost sparkle and reed flowers,
in a tincture of bright moonlight.