Chinese Poetry
250+ Chinese poems from the period 200-1200
TRANSLATIONS
Matthew Flannery
Authors A-Z
Han Yu (768-824)
Bowl Pond
I
Such children, old men!
A bowl of water dug into the ground — a pond!
Its green frogs cry all night till dawn
like days gone by at Fangke fishing.
II
A pond in a dish no pond, you say? —
yet the lotus I planted are growing already.
Rain brings us ancient thoughts.
Come listen to it hiss. Then patter on leaves.III
Ceramic pond. Morning-clear water.
Insects, minute beyond number, name
vanish, dissolve without shadow, trace.
Fish in rows and columns glide.
IV
Tiny, shallow — this, a pond?
Yet frogs at midnight call each other
listen in secret, huddle for company.
Not always true the sexes war.
V
Darkening pond. Deepening skies go midnight blue.
To top its brim, several bottles of extra water.
Wait. Night deepens. The moon goes down.
My little pond floods with endless stars.
He Zhizhang (659-744)
Returning Home
A youth left; a man returns.
My country tongue remains; my hair recedes.
The children here no longer know me.
They smile; ask, from where I come.
Huang Tingjian (1045-1105)
Tune: “Wang Jiang Dong”
Line ten: geese, seen as messengers, are gone after autumn.
Misty trees west of the river
cloud my view
of the eastern bank.
But longings come and go in dreams
unconcerned
with flowing waves.
Under my lamp, countless letters:
who will come
to carry them off?
I hurry out to find wild geese —
but once again
autumn ends.
Tune: “Qing Ping Luo”
Where did spring go?
The lonely road is empty.
If someone knows where spring has gone
call it back to stay.
Because the spring can leave no tracks
ask the yellow bird —
but who can grasp his hundred cries
over hedge-rose blown?
Inscription on an Ink Bamboo Painting by My Honorable Aunt Li: I
In her room’s deep quiet fly brush and ink:
her old white head rules powerful arm.
Growing or dying, her bamboos seem real:
hang them high, and wind shakes the wall.
Written on Zichan’s “Dried Wood”
inscribed on a painting of old trees by Zichan
Line one: Kong (-fuzi) (Confucius) (551-479 BCE) and Mo (-zi) (fl. 479-438 BCE) had contradictory philosophies.
Line two: Yan Zhenqing (709-785), Yang Ningshi (873-954): major calligraphers.
Line three: the apparent original statement of a philosophical dictum of painting: an artist has nature within.
His powerful mind weighs works by Kong and Mo;
his written hand, like Yan and Yang’s, keeps wild geese company.
His chest holds valleys and mountains by nature
when he paints old trees that torment wind and frost.
Inscribed on Li Gongnian’s “Yan Ziling Fishing”
Li Gongnian (early twelfth century): a major painter.
Line one: Yan Ziling was an old friend of General Liu Shu before Liu became emperor (Wudi, r. 140-198 BCE) of the Han (206 BCE-220 CE). The new emperor offered his friend Yan high government office. Yan declined; preferred fishing the Tong River.
Line three: tripods: bronze vessels for conducting rituals that, harmonizing the state with heaven and earth, insured cosmic peace.
Close to Emperor Wu through life
yet always reluctant to serve in office
Yan told the court: order tripods.
Over Tong river, floss in the wind.
Jia Dao (779-849
Lamenting Boye
Lines three, four: dao: the “way” of Daoism. Chan: a native, esoteric form of Buddhism. Mixing religions is common in Chinese thought.
Lines seven, eight: “two tears fall”: As “man of the void,” Boye had transcended emotion; the author, not.
On his stone bed, new moss spreads:
here he lay for countless springs.
Touched by the dao, his writing remains;
his chan corpse, burned away.
Shut in his court: snowy pines.
Locked in his study: layers of dust.
Two tears fall. I hate myself:
how could I know a man of the void?
Sick Cicada
Line five: dew: believed to eat nothing more corporeal than dew and hence to have no stomachs, cicadas symbolize purity.
Sick cicada, you cannot fly;
slow, you crawl across my palm.
Tattered wings not yet broken
bitter song still ringing clear
the dew within your body cools
dusty flecks dot your eyes.
From eagle to oriole, birds flock
all with plans for hunting you.
Jiang Kuei (1155-1221)
Tune: “Yangzhou man”
Line twelve: poet Du: Du Mu (803-853; above). He and his work are closely associated with Yangzhou.
Down the Huai’s left bank spreads Yangzhou’s fame
a splendid view from Chuxi Pavilion
where horse unsaddled, I rest my way;
mile on mile, spring winds blow
barley, wheat, blue on blue.
Since barbarian steeds wheeled eyes from this river
wild trees, dry ponds
people tired of talking war….
Gradually, twilight.
Cold and clear, bugles blow
in the empty city.
The poet Du so loved this place,
should he return, anguished shouts.
His perfect poems of lovely women
his wondrous dreams in courtesans’ rooms
are hard to compare to feelings today.
Though Yangzhou’s twenty-four bridges remain,
in cold wave hearts, moons float silent.
When peonies bloom on the bridges’ rails
for whom do they redden, year by year?
Tune: “Qi Tian Luo”
Line one: Yu Xin: poet, 513-581. For another poem that mentions Yu, see Du Fu’s “Poetic Thoughts on the Traces of Antiquity: I” in the Introduction.
Line twenty: qin: a zither, the only instrument it was socially acceptable for a literatus to play.
“Concerning Sorrow” by Mr. Yu Xin
is a secret song in the cries of crickets.
As dew congeals on bronze steps
and moss creeps down stone wells
everywhere
their sad complaint
as a lonely woman, far from sleep
goes to a loom
in folding screens of mountains folded.
Cold night. Lonely. What does she feel?
Dark rain swells at my western window
drop by drop.
A single mallet, pounding clothes;
a travelers’ inn, welcoming autumn;
a summer palace, watching the moon…
countless things hurt human hearts
but the Book of Poems just mentions — crickets.
…laughter by the fence, shouts for light
searching children….
On strings of the qin, the cricket’s cry
grows note more sad by note.
Li Bo (701-762)
Sent Far Away
My lover once filled these halls with flowers
then left behind an empty bed.
Embroidered covers, rolled up, unused
have held her lingering scent for years
still her fragrance never leaves
still her figure never comes.
Longing grows. Sere leaves fail.
White dew spreads on blue-green moss.
The Sorrow of Jade Steps
Background: political metaphor. The neglected woman awaiting her absent lover is a neglected literatus seeking government service. Ignored by his emperor, he gazes from a distance at the imperial luminosity.
As white dew blossoms on jade steps
night seeps cold through silk stockings.
Upstairs, she raises a crystal shade
stares awhile at the jeweled moon.
Terrace of the King of Yue
Line one: Yue defeated Wu in 473 BCE. Both states numbered among the warring principalities nominally subject to the weak rule of the later Zhou dynasty (1122-221 BCE).
Wu is crushed. The King of Yue strides victorious:
assembled warriors stand in ranks for silk awards
palace women, massed like flowers, throng the halls.
From empty ruins, birds fly up.
Sailing Through Jingmen to See Off a Friend
Lines one, two: he sails down the Yangzi from Sichuan through Hubei and Henan (the ancient state of Chu).
Sailing through Jingmen’s distant reaches
I roam abroad in the lands of Chu
as mountains vanish, plains expand,
rivers rush through endless wastes
the moon whirls down, a flying mirror
the clouds loom like ranked pavilions.
Yet what do I love? The water from home
trailing my boat a thousand miles.
Sending Meng Haoran off to Guanling from Yellow Crane Pavilion
Meng Haoran (689-740; above): major poet; friend of the artist. Guanling: old name for Yangzhou, Jiangsu province. The Yellow Crane Pavilion is in Wuchang, Hubei, far up the Yangzi from Yangzhou.
My old friend, leaving Yellow Crane Pavilion in the west
sails this misty month of flowers down to Yangzhou.
Now the shadow of his lonely sail is lost among the blue-green hills.
I watch the empty Yangzi rise to meet the sky.
Listening to Monk Jun of Shu Play the Qin
Shu: Sichuan province. Qin: zither.
Line one: the famous qin “Luyi” was originally owned by the scholar and poet Sima Xiangru (179-117 BCE).
Line six: frost bells: significance, uncertain. The Classic of Mountains and Seas: “When the frost falls, the bells of Mount Feng resound.”
With a qin named “Green Brocade,” this monk of Shu
descends in the west from Omei peak.
Just for me, his hand strikes once:
hemlocks sigh in a thousand valleys;
like water cleansing a traveler’s heart
the echoes die on the frost bell’s rim.
Dusk. Green hills. Timeless feelings.
Over the land, rising layers of autumn cloud.
Seeking a Daoist Priest on Daitian Mountain and not Meeting Him
Line four: “no bell rings”: the priest is absent from his temple.
Dogs bark through water sounds.
Peach-blossom reds deepen with rain.
Occasional deer bolt through the woods.
By rushing streams, no noon bell rings.
Wild bamboo share color with the sky.
Waterfalls fly from bluegreen hills.
No one knows where he has gone….
I lean on a pine; sadder, on yet another.
Sitting Alone on Mount Jingting
Soaring birds fly off.
Floating clouds drift on.
Mount Jingting and I watch each other
till only the mountain is there.
Li He (791-817)
Cold in the North
Line one: the sunset.
Line two: as myths, dragons live on river bottoms; as symbols, they can mean fish.
One quarter black. Three purple.
Ice on the river: fish-dragons die.
Yard-thick bark bursts in patterns
hundredweight carts rumble on the river
coins of frost bloom large on the grass
what sword can slash this icy sky?
Wrestling at sea, waves, rising, crash.
Like jade rainbows, silent waterfalls hang in the hills.
Uneasy Feelings: III
Line one: South Mountain, symbol of longevity yet site of graveyards, lay shortly south of the capital, Chang’an.
How sad South Mountain is —
a deadly rain beats empty grass.
Out of Chang’an’s autumn nights
harsh winds blight the youth of spring
twilight lanes twist low and vaporous
boulevards writhe under blue-green trees
whose shadows shrink as the rising moon
engulfs South Mountain in lunar noon.
Lacquered grave lamps greet new guests;
fireflies flit by shadowy tombs.
Autumn Comes
Line three: green bamboo: books once were made from slats of bamboo knotted together.
Line seven: Bao Zhao (?-466): a poet who shared with the artist an affinity for macabre themes.
Line eight: Zhuangzi, Chapter 26: “Chang Hong died in Shu [500 BCE?] having been put to death unjustly. Three years later, his blood had turned to emerald jade.”
Wind in the wu trees embitters strong hearts.
Lamplit crickets: sound of cold white silk.
I thumb old books of green bamboo:
how vanquish worms from their powdery holes?
Night-tangled thoughts, bowels pulled taut
till cold rain soothes this scholar’s soul.
Ancient ghosts chant Bao’s poems from autumn graves
their angry blood, entombed a thousand years, gone green.
Song of a Heart Hurt
Line one: Chu: a state under the nominal and declining rule of the Zhou dynasty (1122-221 BCE) during its Warring States period (403-221 BCE). Its songs tended to be low-pitched, mournful.
My groans drone low, like the songs of Chu:
sick in the bone, heart hurt deep,
form autumnal, turning hair….
Wind and rain rage in the woods.
Orchid oil low, the lamp flickers blue
moth wings dance its failing light.
Mid ancient walls of frozen dust
my shackled spirit moans in dreams.Cold Evening in the Valley
Line four: River of Stars: Milky Way.
Line eight: flutes are made from bamboo.
A silver fox cries to the moon through mountain winds.
Forced by the cold, autumn clouds open blue void.
Like a billow of jade-blue smoke, like a wet, white parasol’s linen
turning till dawn, the River of Stars descends in the east.
Drowsing on riverbanks, egrets dream of winging geese:
webs of light — shades of silence — flecks of chaos.
Layered mountains rise in heaps of twisted dragons.
Though long stalks of bitter bamboo, I hear a flute.
Song of the Deep Past
Line five: in Chinese geological theory, sea floors rise to become land masses.
Line six: the founder (Shihuangdi, r. 221-210 BCE) of the Qin dynasty (221-206 BCE) did not take longevity lightly. Among various schemes, he had a bridge, now under water, built east into the ocean so he might be first to enjoy the life-preserving rays of the sun.
Line eight: during the Han (206 BCE-220 CE), bronze pillars supported statues holding bowls to collect the dews of immortality.
Down the plains, sunlight drains to western hills
whose green crowns soar to distant skies.
How long will the future become the past?
A thousand years: gone with the wind.
Seabeds change to rocky shores
on Qin’s bridge, fish blow bubbles
clear light wanders beyond the sky —
even bronze pillars follow the years.
Ode: On the Prefect of Yanmen
line five: Yixue was a district in Hopei province that included Yanmen and here is allusive. At the end of the Warring States period (403-221 BCE), Yixue was part of the ancient state of Yan, from whence the crown prince of Dan sent Jing Ke to slay the ruler of Qin, who was moving to conquer and unite the divided states of China. Despite his ultimate failure and the Qin’s eventual unification of China in 221 BCE, Jing Ke’s fatal (to him) effort became a model of self-sacrifice for the state.
Line seven: Yellow Gold Terrace: anywhere awards and promotions are conferred.
Swelling black clouds threaten the city
scales on gold battle-jackets glare in the sun.
Amid autumn’s burn, bugles thrill through towering skies
over frontier camps, scarlet purples to frozen night.
Half-furled over Yixuei, red flags fly
heavy with frost, cold drumbeats sink.
To repay the honors of Yellow Gold Terrace
wield Jade Dragon swords; die for our lord.
“Tang Tang”
Tang Tang”: title of a well-known song by Houzhu (r. 583-589), last emperor of the Chen dynasty (557-589). It tells of a neglected imperial concubine outshone in her emperor’s eyes by the phoenixine charms of her competition. Thus, this poem is a parable of imperial neglect: it complains of the emperor’s failure to recognize its author’s abilities, a common literary topos.
Line three, ff: plum petals, starving bugs, orchids are neglected talents; worms, peach leaves, phoenixes are sycophant officials who weaken the court.
Line seven: these hot springs were part of an imperial preserve built in 644 by Tang Xuanzong (r. 712-756) not far from his capitol Chang’an in Shensi.
“Tang Tang” echoes. Echoes again.
Plum petals, fragrant crimson, rotting, fall to ash.
For decades, hungry worms gnawed painted beams—
even starving bugs despise their yellow dust.
As orchids age, peach leaves lengthen.
Prisoned in courtyards: regal light.
At Huaqing springs, where stones heat water,
two-faced phoenixes trail the emperor.
Before Drinking Wine
Line three: dragon and phoenix: fish and chicken. Jade (white “mutton fat” jade) tears: dripping fat.
Line twelve: Liu Ling (d. 265+) was one of the willful, bibulous Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove (third century). His boy followed him with wine and, should he die, a shovel — with instructions to pour any remaining wine over his grave. Like the artist, few of this group lived long.
From glass cups
flows amber wine
once dripped from stills like red pearls.
Broiling dragon, roasting phoenix weep jade tears
thin curtains, thick drapes trap fragrant air.
Blow dragon-figured flutes
beat turtle-skin drums
white teeth sing
thin waists whirl.
Both day and spring approach youth’s end.
Peach petals fall. Red rain.
Go, drown yourself in drink each day —
no wine soaks earth as deep as Liu Ling’s tomb.
Song of a Beauty Combing Her Hair
Line one: Xishi: a beauty of the fifth century BCE.
Behind her cold silk drapes, this Xishi dreams till morning
dark sandalwood fumes still scent her tumbled hair.
Like shrieking jade, the well-winch creaks ee-ya!
shocking this lotus from almost finished sleep.
Behind her mirror’s phoenix doors lies autumn water’s light.
From her ivory bed, her loosened hair
drifts to the floor like fragrant silk
jade hairpins sliding silent down her glossy fall.
Her tiny hands knot old-crow colors —
no pin can rule this blue-black mane.
Spring winds rise. Weak, unhappy, frail
she is listless. Full-haired. Just eighteen.
Makeup complete, towering headdress canted just so
in clouds of skirts she roams, a wildgoose stalking sandy shores
silent. Aimless. Past the guests.
Down garden steps, she plucks a sprig of blooming cherry.
Li Jing (916-960)
Background: the artist was second emperor of the Southern Tang (939-975). His son was Li Yu (937-978, below).
Tune: “Shan Hua Zi”
Line eight: “Holds my rail”: a trope in which the grief-stricken stare out from railed towers or upper decks.
Lotus fragrance fades; jade leaves are failing;
west winds sadden troughs of green waves.
Time and light decay as one
hard to watch.
Jisai far. My dreams collapse in light rain.
Cold. Within my hut, jade pipes cease.
In pearling tears, how much grief
holds my rail?
Li Shangyin (813-858)
Rainy Night: Sent North
When I shall come? We have no date.
Once on mount Ba, night rains flooded the autumn ponds.
By your western window, trimming a lamp, when shall we meet
and talk of the night rains that flooded mount Ba?
Chang’e
near the end of a variant-ridden myth, Chang’e takes a pill of immortality that her husband Houyi (Archer Yi) had intended they share. Escaping his wrath by jumping from a window, she unexpectedly floats to the moon. Subsequently, Houyi built a palace on the sun. The pair thus came to serve as personifications of moon and sun, yin and yang. Chang’e’s new lunar immortality makes her the moon’s captive goddess, far from bluegreen earth.
Behind mica screens, candle shadows deepen.
The Milky Way falls slowly. The dawn star sinks.
Does the moon goddess regret stealing the elixir of life?
Green seas. Blue skies. Dark dark heart.
Luoyou Plain
Toward night, my mind grows ill at ease.
My cart rolls up this ancient plain.
The twilight sun grows sweet and deep.
Until the evening shadows come.
Li Yu (937-978)
Tune: “Yu Mei Ren”
Background: the artist was the third and last emperor (r. 961-975) of the Southern Tang dynasty (939-975) and its brilliant court, succeeding his father Li Jing (916-960; above). Acceding in 975 to the power of by the newly-founded Song (960-1279), the artist was too curmudgeonly to accept a good post under the Song emperor. As a result, he spent the remainder of his life under house arrest (976-978) writing poetry, much of it regarding “my lost kingdom.”
Line three: east wind: of spring.
Line eight: toward the east: China’s major rivers flow east.
Spring flowers; autumn moons. When will time end?
So much has happened in history.
Last night on my balcony — again, the east wind.
When the moon burns bright, I cannot bear thoughts of my lost kingdom.
My jade steps and marble rails endure;
the faces, pink with youth, are new.
So much sorrow.
It flows toward the east like a river at spring flood.
Tune: “Lang Tao Sha”
Line five: “No one comes” to visit the artist while under house arrest by the Song.
Line ten: Qinhuai: a small river among the homes of the elite on the southern edge of Nanjing, the artist’s old capital when he ruled the Southern Tang.
The past is full of sadness.
It will not go.
Fall winds whirl through the courtyard, moss climbs the steps,
my beaded curtain hangs idle.
No one comes all day.
My golden arms lie buried deep.
My ancient courage: yellow straw.
Night cold. Sky clear. Moonlight floods
my empty palace, whose jade walls, rising from shadow
still shine in Qinhuai stream.
Tune: “Zu Ye Ge”
Line three: the artist was the third and last emperor (r. 961-975) of the Southern Tang dynasty (939-975) and its culturally distinguished court.
No one can be free of sorrow or regret,
but must I bear the crushing of my soul?
Once more, in dream, I see my vanished kingdom.
I wake. Two tears descend.
Who was it climbed my palace towers with me?
Clear autumnal days are all I that recall.
All that was, is now a void.
The past is but a moment in a dream.
Tune: “Wu Ye Ti”
Lines four, five, six: parting from traveling friends, people often drank at pavilions on the outskirts of town.
Line seven: most major rivers in China run east.
Spring scarlet falls from flowering trees
too soon, too soon
in the cold morning rain, in the evening wind.
Rouged tears
detain me, drunk.
When shall we meet?
Sorrows endure like the rivers that flow ever east.
Tune: “Wang Jiangnan”
Note: two lyrics set to the same tune.
I
So much to regret.
Last night I dreamed
of my palace gardens
where chariots flowed like rivers, horses pranced like dragons
and moonlit flowers swayed in the breezy spring.
II
So many tears.
They cut my cheeks again.
Never let tears show your heart
nor mind old tears while blowing on the phoenix pipes
or break your heart again.
Tune: “Dao Lian Zu”
Line three: wet laundry, folded, was pounded with stones to squeeze out moisture.
The inner courtyard, still.
Its tiny garden, empty.
Blowing wind, pounding stones: fade, return.
The night is long; unendurable. Who can sleep
with noisy dark and moonbeams pouring through my open window?
Tune: “Lin Jiang Xian”
Spring dies; cherry petals blow.
Butterfly pairs, lightly powdered, turning, fly.
West of my hut, birds call the moon.
From jade hooks, gauze curtains hang.
Fog gathers evening sorrow.
My guests disperse. Deserted lane.
A thin mist blurs the grass.
In a metal phoenix, incense burns. Blossoming smoke.
Full of emptiness, gripping my silken belt
I turn my head toward endless sorrow.
Tune: “Pusa Man”
Line five: rain and clouds: acts of love.
Brass and reed in brittle concord, cold bamboo on treble:
tapered jade, her fingers slowly pluck new songs.
Red wine. Color of eye … our glances lock:
faster, autumn’s spreading ripples run.
Deep within embroidered doors, rain and clouds:
would they come and mingle with my heart.
Feast done. Again an empty hall
as misty dreams drift off through springtime sleep.
Tune: “Xiang Jian Huan”
My western home is lonely, silent. High up
the moon is a hook.
The courtyard deep; the wu trees, sad, empty,
enfold clear autumn.
No scissors sever
nor combing smooth
farewell’s sorrow
heart’s strange hurt.
Liu Caichuan (Ninth Century)
Three Poems to a Luogong Folk Song
Line 1, I: Qinghuai: the “mother river” of Nanjing.
I
If I dislike the Qinghuai’s waters
that much more I hate its boats.
Once, one took my husband off
a year ago. Or two.
II
And since the day he left that year
I dreamed he went to Donglu city.
But Donglu folks had yet to see him.
From Guangzhou: letters come.
III
Never marry a man of trade
nor waste gold pins on fortune tellers.
Every day, I stare down river
think other boats, his.
Liu Changqing (709-785?)
Searching South River for Daoist Monk Chang
Line seven: Chan: Zen.
Brisk with traffic, roads wind on;
mosses see just sandal tracks.
White clouds lean on quiet shores
sweet grass lush by idle gates.
When the rain stops — such colors of pine —
I cross the hills to the river head
where stream flowers show the heart of Chan
where facing you, words fall useless.
Encountering Snow, I Stay Overnight with My Fuyong Mountain Host
Evening comes. Blue mountains far.
Beneath cold skies, thatched huts are poor.
By scrapwood gates, dogs bark:
through snow and wind and night, someone comes.
Liu Yong (987-1053?)
Tune: “Ba Sheng Ganzhou”
Twilight. Hissing rains splash river and sky
rinsing autumn clean.
Winter winds raise their cry.
Stream and pass turn cold and lonely.
Yellowing sunlight withers my walls.
Reds fade, greens age
gently trembling, flowers die.
Only the Yangzi’s waves remain,
silent. Moving east.
Why climb these hills to see the view? Unbearable
this gazing toward the distant mists of home.
The urge to go is hard to curb
but years drift by; my steps are few
confused … irresolute … afflicted with delay.
A woman staring from her lonely chamber
again mistakes my boat against the sky.
How could she know I linger by my tower rail
my selfish heart a lump of clotted sorrow.
Tune: “Yu Lin Ling”
Cold cicadas chirr sadly.
Evening faces ranked pavilions.
A sudden shower lifts.
Listless, pavilioned near a city gate, we drink.
We linger, loving. Hurry up! our boatman shouts.
Holding hands, we gaze, damp-eyed.
Tear-choked. Silent.
I go sailing, sailing on a thousand waves
as twilight fog grows thick in southern skies.
In ancient days, parting hurt the deepest loves
without this clear bleak cold of autumn.
Last night, after wine, where did I wake?
On a willow bank in a dawn wind under a sickle moon.
The year goes.
Good weather, fine views mean little.
Days drown in a thousand sorrows.
With whom is there to speak?
Liu Zongyuan (773-819)
Walk on an Autumn Morning through South Valley by an Abandoned Village
Lines seven, eight: reflect a belief that animals, sensitive to human motivation, shy from malign intent.
Toward autumn’s end, cold thickens dew.
Rising at dawn, I walk still valleys.
Leaves fleck stream and bridge with yellow
trees decline in derelict towns
freezing flowers are thin and few
lonely springlets bubble and fade.
Long since, I broke with schemes and plots —
what right have I to startle young deer?
River Snow
A thousand hills block flying birds.
Ten thousand paths engulf men’s tracks.
In a lonely boat and banana leaf cloak, one old man
fishes alone. Cold river snow.
Lu You (1125-1210)
Drunk, I Sailed the Chutang Gorge While Watching Stonewall Falls
Chutang is one of three gorges on the upper Yangzi; all, difficult to navigate.
Our hundred-foot boat, a blue-green dragon
dancing from heaven astride the wind.
Sweeping ashore like rolling salt,
waves charging like horses gallop the gorge
my host drinks deep from his white jade cup
painted drums roar beneath ship’s banners
while over the stern, Fanxi city — already gone.
O what wonder!
are a thousand feet of sheer blue cliff
halved by a plume of flying silver
endless measures of flowing pearls
whose countless drops refresh my wine-red face
though the capital’s dust still stains my office robes.
Tune: “Chai Tou Feng”
Background: at 20, the artist married his cousin, Tang Wan. His mother forced their divorce. Ten years later, the artist and his former wife attended parties in the garden of the Shen family, who occasionally allowed the public into their private garden in Shaoxing, Zhejiang, the artist’s hometown. Tang Wan sent wine to the artist. He wrote this.
Your fine pink hands
hold Huangtun wine.
Regal willows tint the city with spring.
East wind’s evil
wears happiness thin.
New strands of pain injure my heart
each passing year.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Spring is the same
yet we grow thin:
hot tears wet thin silk.
Peach petals fall;
by ponds and pavilions, emptiness grows.
Once, we were bound by vows of marriage.
Now, will anyone bring you a simple letter?
No. No. No.
Shen Garden: Two Poems
After the death of his former wife, Tang Wan (see Tune: “Chai Tou Fen,” above), the artist returned to Shen garden, where he and Tang had met ten years after their divorce, and composed these poems. He was 75.
I
Painted bugles mourn. Beyond the city, sunlight falls.
In Shen garden, pond and terrace are changed.
Beneath spring bridges, green waves pound my heart:
once her frightened wildgoose shadow was reflected here.
II
Line three: Jishan mud: that is, Mount Guiji, where Tang Wan is buried.
The fragrance of my broken dream has thinned for forty years.
In Shen garden, willows grow too old to bloom.
Before this body crumbles into Jishan mud
I mourn once more her footprints lost in time.
Country Market
Line three: Fangweng: a literary name of the artist.
Singing and drinking and wild I sail my hat through country markets
astride my cow I watch South Mountain’s colors.
Who can grasp the reach of Fangweng’s heart
flowing beyond ten thousand miles of autumn sky?
Going from My Gate before Dawn One Autumn Night, I Feel the Chill
Lines three, four: after foreign tribes conquered north China in 1125, the artist favored military action to regain this area, a notion unpopular with a pacific government.
Thirty thousand miles of river flood eastward toward the sea.
Peaks of forty thousand feet reach up to touch the sky.
Since the tears of stranded countrymen congeal in foreign dust
I will scan the south again next year in hope of the emperor’s men.
To be Shown to My Sons
Line two: nine continents: divided China. Anciently, there were times when China had been split into something like nine regions. In the artist’s time, two.
Line four: shrine: the artist is soon to number among the family’s ancestors. His deathbed poem.
Death, definite. All else, empty.
I grieve for nine continents not yet one.
The day our army reconquers the north
tell my old ghost at the family shrine.