DRINKING WINE

There’s little to enjoy in this idle life, and already the nights are growing longer. I happen to have some illustrious wine, so I don’t let an evening pass without dipping some out. I down a few cups alone, facing my shadow, and suddenly I’m drunk again, scribbling out lines all at once to amuse myself. This began some time ago, so by now I’ve got lots of ink-covered paper. Though there’s no order to them, I thought the poems might be entertaining, so I’ve asked an old friend to write out a clean copy for me.

1

Vigor and ruin never stay put. Here,

there – all things share in this alike.

Farming melons, how could Shao live

anything like that royal life he lost?

Cold dies into hot, hot into cold.

It’s our Way, too. Nothing is immune.

But those who understand it live their

lives worry-free. Whenever chance

brings along a jar of wine, they’ll

take it, all delight as night falls.

 

2

The Way’s been in ruins 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?

 

3

I live in town without all that racket

horses and carts stir up, and you wonder

how that could be. Wherever the mind

dwells apart is itself a distant place.

Picking chrysanthemums at my east fence,

far off, I see South Mountain: mountain

air lovely at dusk, birds in flight

returning home. All this means something,

something absolute. Whenever I start

explaining it, I’ve forgotten the words.

 

4

Colors infusing autumn chrysanthemums

exquisite, I pick dew-bathed petals,

float them on that forget-your-cares

stuff. Even my passion for living apart

soon grows distant. I’m alone, but after

that first cup, the winejar pours itself.

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.

 

5

In the east garden, there’s a green pine

overgrown with brush, its beauty shrouded.

When frost comes, killing everything else,

its majestic, towering branches appear.

No one noticed it among the trees, but now

it stands alone, they’re amazed. My winejar

slung from a cold branch, I keep looking

far away. Here, in the midst of this

dreamed sleight-of-hand, what could ever

tangle me in the world’s tether of dust?

 

6

People praise Yen’s benevolence, say

Jung mastered the Way. So often empty,

one died young. Always hungry, the other

lived to a ripe old age. Their names

outlived death, but they eked out such

haggard lives. And renown means nothing

once we’re dead and gone. Simple-hearted

contentment – it’s all that matters.

We coddle thousand-gold selves, but

we’re only guests: change soon takes

our treasure. Why not naked burial?

People need to get beyond old ideas.

 

7

Old friends share my weakness. They come

bringing full winejars, and spreading

brambleweave mats, we sit beneath pines.

After a few rounds, we’re drunk again,

esteemed elders yakking away all at once

and losing track of who’s pouring when.

Soon, that sense of knowing I exist gone,

nothing’s precious, nothing worthless.

All distance, we’re lost where we are. O,

this wine hides such bottomless flavors.

 

8

Too poor to hire help, we’re being taken

over by a wilderness tangle of trees. All

silence, birds drifting clear skies and

isolate silence, there’s no sign of others.

Time and space go on forever, but who

lives even to a hundred? Months and years

tighten, bustling each other away, and my

hair was already turning white long ago.

If we don’t give up failure and success,

that promise we hold just turns to regret.