TRANSLATIONS OF SOME CHINESE CLASSICAL POEMS WITH BUDDHIST THEMES

The Temple of Teeming Fragrance,

measureless miles in summit clouds.

Ancient forest, a pathless way.

Deep mountains, directionless bell.

Spring water over jagged rocks.

Yellow sun on cool green pines.

Twilight, winding pool.  Quiet sitting

uncoils the poison dragon of the heart.

     --Wang Wei

Deer Fence

Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.
   --Wang Wei

In my old age, I want only peace.

The ten thousand things are not my concern.

I've no plans for the rest of my life

but to come back to this, my ancient woods.

Piney wind blows my girdle open.

Mountain moon lights upon the lute I play.

So where's the warp and weft of the world?

Fishermen's songs come far up the inlet.

     --Wang Wei

A Buddhist Retreat Behind Broken Mountain Temple

Clear, quiet dawn enters the old temple.
Early sun brightens the forest heights.
Crooked path comes to a secluded space.
A monk's cottage deep in flowers and trees.
Light through the mountains plays over bird flight.
A deep pool mirrors both sky and heart.
Ten thousand sounds of nature are suffused
with the one tone of the temple bell.
     --Chang Jian

Alt:  Ten thousand sounds of nature are resolved
         in the one tone of the temple bell.

TO A JAPANESE MONK RETURNING HOME

Destined to come seeking the source in China.

Your voyage here was like a dream of distance,

floating between heaven and the vast green sea.

Now, the vessel goes lightly that carries the Way.

Water and moon are solitary as your Zen.

Fish and dragons absorb the sound of your chanting.

The single lamp of your compassion, its light

returns to watchers at the heart of the world.

     --Qian Qi

TO SOUTH CREEK SEEKING DAO MAN CHANG IN HIS SECRET PLACE

All along the single path,

footprints in strawberry moss.

White clouds over quiet islands.

Spring grass latching the idle gate.

After rain, the look of the pines.

Up the mountain, the river’s source.

Sitting Zen in flowers by the creek.

Face to face, I forget what to say.

     --Liu Changqing