CHINESE POEMS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS: My Transations to English

The Late Shen Xiaxian

To your clear voice, who could echo in chorus or answer in verse?

Here on grassy paths gone to moss and weeds, if sought, you are not found.

Dreaming, from dusk into night, at the foot of Little Fu Mountain.

Water, a circle of jade; moon, a silver silk panel over the heart.

     --Du Mu

Summer Palace

Faded old travel palace.

Solitary red flowers.

Idle gray-haired ladies speak

of Emperor Li Long Ji.

   --Yuan Zhen

A River Village Moment

Done fishing.  Back home, not tying up the boat.

Sleeping sound in the light of the falling moon:

Should the night wind blow the boat away, away's

as far as the reeds of the nearby shallows.

     --Sikong Shu

Saying Goodbye on the Plain of Ancient Ruins

Grasses growing lush on the plain

year after year wither and flourish.

No wildfire can consume them all.

In winds of spring they grow again.

Their bright green reaches the far ruined wall.

Their fragrance flows over the ancient road.

Once again we say goodbye here,

a place lush with feelings of parting.

     --Bai Juyi

A QUESTION FOR LIU SHIJIU

Green bubbles in the new wine.

Red embers in a small stove.

Evening, and it looks like snow.

Could you drink a cup, perhaps?

     --Bai Juyi

In the Hills, a Plum Tree Flowers in a Small Garden

Blossoms all have shaken down, and alone

it casts a warm beauty over the garden,

whose slender shadows lie on shallow ponds.

A faint fragrance drifts under a dun moon.

Snowbirds, landing, look again, to see

what dusty butterflies would faint to know.

Lucky me, making friends with whispered verse—

who needs golden goblets or rhythm sticks?

--Liu Bu

Meeting is hard and parting is harder.

The east wind slackens and flowers wither.

The spring silk worm spins silk till it dies.

The wax candle sheds tears till it's ash.

Morning mirror, fretting over disordered hair.

Midnight chanting, not feeling the cold.

Penglai, the faerie mountain, is somewhere near.

Bluebird, would you spy it out for me.

     --Li Shangyin

South Lake is the sum of three rivers.

Mount Lu is the master of all hills.

White sand cleans the river course.

Green pines color the crag heads.

When did the water begin to flow?

When did the mountain begin to be?

Human fate is ever changing.

These forms are alone enduring.

In all the near and far of the cosmos,

present becomes past; this order lasts.

    --Chang Fangsheng

    The Cicada

In the first place,

however refined you are

and able to live on wind and dew,

they will never satisfy your hunger.

So why keep up your bitter cry?

By the fifth hour

your voice is weak and hoarse

in the green, indifferent tree.

I'm just a minor functionary,

a drifting twig.

And the old fields at home

lie wasted and full of weeds.

So thank you for reminding me

that my family has a long history

of pure character.

--Li Shangyin

	我 亦 舉 家 清	煩 君 最 相 警	故 園 蕪 已 平	薄 宦 梗 猶 汎	一 樹 碧 無 情	五 更 疏 欲 斷	徒 勞 恨 費 聲	本 以 高 難 飽	蟬

    Thoughts in the Cold

My guests have all gone,

the river rises to my doorstep,

cicadas cease whirring,

branches fill with dew:

a time when you fill my heart,

the time that passes while I stand

still beneath the Big Dipper,

more distant than spring.

Here beyond the edge

of your Nanjing sky

no messenger comes.

I am left with only

my dreams to divine

if you've found a new friend.

--Li Shangyin




To the Festival Plateau

Feeling oppressed toward evening,
I drive up to this ancient site.
The sun blazes a moment more
before the yellow dusk follows.
     --Li Shangyin


1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家

    The Spring Song of Lady Night

The spring woods

hold flowers of great beauty.

The spring birds

cause thoughts of great grief.

The spring breeze has also great feeling,

blowing open

my gauzy silk skirt.

--Anon., 300-600 C.E.

Lost, a whole army,

        before the gates of a city,

the year before last

        fighting the Yuezhi.

Lost, the torn, scattered tents,

        with no one to collect them.

There were only the tattered banners

        on horses straggling back.

Lost, any news of you,

        along the way from Tibet.

What offerings can I make

        if your fate is unknown?  

Lost, you and I to each other,

        whether or not you still live.

I offer these tears

        from far, far away.

          --Zhang Ji

This road here runs

     up to white clouds.

Spring is as long

     as the clear stream.

At times fallen petals

     float by,

flowing off

     on scented water.

My door idles

     on the mountain path.

My study's deep

     in willow shade;

my sleeves, sunlit

     on sunny days.

       --Liu Shenxu

    Autumn Song of Lady Night

Opening the window

to the autumn moon,

she puts out the candle,

slipping off her silk skirt.

And suppressing a smile

within the curtained bed,

she arches her body,

spreading orchid fragrance

    --Anon.

    Playing the Zheng for General Zhou

While playing the zheng

with millet-gold posts,

her fair hands moving

over the jade frame,

hoping that Zhou Yu

will turn and look,

every so often

she plucks the wrong note.

--Li Duan

She, who was in her rooms without sorrow,

turned out for spring, ascends the jade tower,

and, struck by a willow green in the field,

sighs for sending him off to seek titles.

--Wang Chiangling

Grasses grow rank around Red Bird Bridge.

Sun sets in the street of mansions.

Swallows from peeling painted eaves

swoop across the doorways of common folk.

--Liu Yuxi


1 朱雀橋邊野草花
2 烏衣巷口夕陽斜
3 舊時王謝堂前燕
4 飛入尋常百姓家

On the Qinhuai River

With moonlight on sand and mist on cold water,

I tie up by a tavern on the river.

I hear a girl sing, with nothing of his grief,

the captive king's "Blossom of the Inner Court."

--Du Mu

DRINKING ALONE

Wind blows snow straight across the window.

Curl around the stove, open the wine,

and, as a fishing boat in the rain,

Sail asleep down the autumn river. 

      --Du Mu

Number 14 of the 19 Music Bureau Poems

Gone and daily receding,

coming and daily more near.

Looking straight out the city gate:

mounds and hills, mounds and hills.

Ancient graves are plowed into fields.

Pine and cypress destroyed for kindling.

Winds of sorrow out of white poplars.

The swishing sound of the axe men.

Dwelling on returning home--

no track, no trace of a road.

No way there from this longing.

Life is without root or stem,

drifting like dust over sand,

then blown away by the wind.

This already wispy thing.

  --Tao Yuanming (Tao Qian)