A New Du Fu Translation

FACING SNOW


Battle cries, many new ghosts.
Old, alone--worry and grief.
Ragged clouds are low at dusk.
Snow swirls around and around.
Ladle and cup--green wine gone.
Dying embers--stove still red.
I sit, no news from anywhere,
my books blank with my sorrow.
     --my tr.

对雪

战哭多新鬼

愁吟独老翁

乱云低薄暮

急雪舞回风

瓢弃尊无绿

炉存火似红

数州消息断

愁坐正书空

duì xuě

zhàn kū duō xīn guǐ
chóu yín dú lǎo wēng
luàn yún dī bó mù
jí xuě wǔ huí fēng
piáo qì zūn wú lǜ
lú cún huǒ sì hóng
shù zhōu xiāo xī duàn
chóu zuò zhèng shū kōng

A New Wang Wei Translation

Surely you can say,
having come from my village,
if the winter plum
has already blossomed there
by the filigreed window.


You may have noticed that it's odd that this is in the Japanese tanka form--what with Wang Wei being Chinese.  I suppose it's because I didn't sit down to work on it, but just stumbled on a memory of this poem in my reverie while taking a shower.

TRANSLATIONS OF SOME CHINESE CLASSICAL POEMS WITH BUDDHIST THEMES

SITTING ALONE ON AN AUTUMN NIGHT


Alone, grieving over my graying hair.
In the empty hall, nearly nine o'clock.
Mountain fruit fall in heavy rain.
Grasshoppers sing in my lamplight.
Hair gone white can never go back.
Nothing can change to yellow gold.
Want to cast off age and illness?
      --Wang Wei

You need to study not being born.Some translators have "no rebirth" in the last line for what is most literally "no-birth."  But I think that with Wang Wei's Buddhism being the Dao-tinged Buddhism of Zen, he wouldn't have been so concerned with reincarnation.  Perhaps the the reference would have been more to the illusion of self, of ego, of something that came into being at a certain time and persisted in its essence all through one's life.  To not hang on to that illusion.





PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE

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 an 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

The First Week of May

first the redbud tree
and then the dogwood blossoms
may be poem enough

CAMBODIAN NEW YEAR, 1982

My wife seasoned our stew
with fish water, cat lemon,
and French garlic.
Don't eat it
with the crusty bread
she will serve you
for the holiday,
but with the steamed rice
that will make you strong.

Now that I'm limping,
the man who walks bent over
waves hello to me.

Long after her death,
a jar of her sweet relish.
A sour old woman.