(1037–1101)
To the Abbot of the Tung-lin Monastery
SOUND of the stream is his broad long tongue,
colors of the mountains, the Buddha’s body, pure.
In one night they’ll sing eighty-four thousand hymns of praise.
Some other day, will you lecture on them?
[J.P.S]
A Monk at Chi-hsien Temple Asked Me to Name a Hall There
PAST the eye: flourishing, withering, lightning and wind.
For longevity, what’s a match for red blossoms?
Where the abbot sits in meditation, he sees the hall, empty—
seeing what is, seeing what is empty: is is what is, empty.
[J.P.S.]
Written to the Tune of “An Immortal Approaching the River”
WINE at East Bank tonight, 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 gate, but nobody answered.
I leaned on my cane and listened to the river.
I hate it!—that even this body’s not mine alone . . .
Someday I’ll give it all up.
The night moves, the breeze writes
quietly in ripples on the water.
A little boat, leaving here and now,
the rest of my life on the river, on the sea.
[J.P.S.]