“The Owl”
(by Jia Yi, 201-168 BCE)
The year was danwo,
it was the fourth month, summer’s first,
The
thirty-seventh day of the cycle, at sunset, when a owl flew
into my house.
On the corner
of my seat it perched, completely at ease.
I marveled at the
reason for this uncanny visitation
And opened a
book to discover the omen. The oracle yielded the maxim:
“When a wild
bird enters a house, the master is about to leave.”
I should have
liked to ask the owl: Where am I to go?
If lucky, let
me know; if bad, tell me the worst.
Be it swift or
slow, tell me when it is to be.
The owl
sighed; it raised its head and flapped its wings
But could not
speak—Let me say what it might reply:
All things are
a flux, with never any rest,
Whirling,
rising, advancing, retreating;
Body and
breath do a turn together—change form and slough off,
From disaster
fortune comes, in fortune lurks disaster,
Grief and joy
gather at the same gate, good luck and bad share the
same abode.
Though Wu was
great and strong, Fucai met with defeat;
Yue was driven
to refuge on Kuiji, but Gou Jian became hegemon.
Li Si
emigrated to become minister, but in the end he suffered the Five Punishments.
Fu Yue was
once in bonds, before he was minister to Wu Ding.
So,
Disaster is to
fortune as strands of a single rope.
Fate is past
understanding—who comprehends its bounds?
Force water
and its spurts, force an arrow and it goes far:
All things are
propelled in circles, undulating and revolving--
Clouds rise
and ran falls, tangled in contingent alternation.
On the Great
Potter's wheel creatures are shaped in all their
infinite
variety.
Heaven cannot
be predicted, the Way cannot be foretold,
Late or early,
it is predetermined; who knows when his time will be?
Consider then:
Heaven and
Earth are a crucible, the Creator is the smith,
Yin and Yang
are the charcoal, living creature are the bronze:
Combing,
scattering, waning, waxing—where is any pattern?
A thousand
changes, a myriad transformations with never any end.
If by chance
one becomes a man, it is not a state to cling to;
If one be
instead another creature, what cause is that for regret?
A merely
clever man is partial to self, despising others, vaunting ego;
The man of
understanding takes the larger view: nothing exists to take exception to.
The miser will
do anything for his hoard, the hero for his repute;
The
vainglorious is ready to die for power, the common man clings
to life.
Driven by
aversions and lured by desires men dash madly west or east;
The Great Man
is not biased, the million changes are all one to him.
The stupid man
is bound by custom, confined as though in fetters;
The Perfect
Man is tranquil, he takes his stand with Tao.
Divest
yourself of knowledge and ignore your body, until, transported, you lose self,
Be detached,
remote, and soar with Dao.
Float with the
flowing stream, or rest against the isle,
Surrender to
the workings of fate, unconcerned for self,
Let your life
be like a floating, your death like a rest.
Placid as the
peaceful waters of a deep pool, buoyant as an
unfastened
boat.
Find no cause
for complacency in life, but cultivate emptiness and drift.
The Man of
Virtue is unattached; recognizing fate, he does not worry.
But not
dismayed by petty pricks and checks!
(Translated
by J. R. Hightower)
From “Poems of
My Heart”
By Ruan Ji
(210-263)
I
Being
sleepless at midnight,
I rise to play
the lute.
The moon is
visible through the curtains
And a gentle
breeze sways the cords of my robe.
A lonely wild
goose cries in the wilderness
And is echoed
by a bird in the woods.
As it circles,
it gazes
At me, alone,
imbued with sadness.
2
In my youth,
I too was fond
of singing and dancing.
I went to west
to the Capital
And frequented
the Lis and the Zhaos.
Before the fun
came to an end,
I realized
time had been wasted.
On my return
journey,
I looked back
at the riverside district
Where I had
squandered a great deal,
So that not a
coin was left.
Coming to the
Tai-hang mountain path,
I was afraid
of again losing my way.
3
Inscribed on
your heart
Every inch of
the time at sunset.
Adjust your
sleeves, unsheathe a slender sword,
And look up at
the passing clouds.
Among them a
dark stork
Raises its
head and rattles its beak;
Darting aloft,
it vanishes into the sky.
Never again
will it be heard.
It is no
company for the cuckoos and the crows
That circle round
the Court.
4
Day and night
Revolve,
While my face
wrinkles
And my spirit
wanes,
But the sight
of injustice still pains me.
One change
induces another
That cannot be
dealt with by tact or wit.
The cycle goes
on for ever.
I only fear
that in a moment
Life will
disperse in the wind.
I have always
trodden on thin ice.
Yet no one
knows!
5
His influence—
The corching
sun or toreential river—
Extends a
myriad miles.
His bow hangs
in the tree
On which the
sun rests.
His word leans
against the place where the sky ends.
Mountains are
his whetstones;
And the Yellow
River just long enough to be his belt.
But in the
eyes of a wise recluse,
Size is of the
least importance.
For a giant
corpse
Only feeds
more vultures.
Perhaps it is
only for this
That heroes
and aspirants achieve fame and merit.
6
I will not
lean to ride a winged horse,
Fearing it
will leave me to weep at a lonely roadside.
I dive low or
fly high
To avoid the
trap of a net.
I float a
light boat
And gaze into
the boundless waves.
It is better
to forget in a river or a lake
Than to wet
one another with bubbles on stony dry land.
Seldom can I
be arrayed to look elegant,
My way is to
be sincere and prudent.
The ancient
immortals
Will help me
To survive
this long and fearful night.
(translated
by Michael Bullock et.al.)
The Return: A Rhapsody
Tao Qian (365‑427)
I was poor, and what I got
from farming was not enough to support my family. The house was full of
children, the rice‑jar was empty, and I could not see any way to supply the
necessities of life. Friends and relatives kept urging me to become a
magistrate, and I had at last come to think I should do it, but there was no
way for me to get such a position. At the time I happened to have business
abroad and made a good impression on the grandees as a conciliatory and humane
sort of person. Because of my poverty an uncle offered me a job in a small
town, but the region was still unquiet and I trembled at the thought of going
away from home. However, Pengze was only thirty miles from my native place, and
the yield of the fields assigned the magistrate was sufficient to keep me in
wine, so I applied for the office. Before many days had passed, I longed to
give it up and go back home. Why, you may ask. Because my instinct is all for
freedom, and will not brook discipline or restraint. Hunger and cold may be
sharp, but this going against myself really sickens me. Whenever I have been
involved in official life I was mortgaging myself to my mouth and belly, and
the realization of this greatly upset me. I was deeply ashamed that I had so
compromised my principles, but I was still going to wait out the year, after
which I might pack up my clothes and slip away at night. Then my sister who had
married into the Cheng family died in Wuchang, and my only desire was to go
there as quickly as possible. I gave up my office and left of my own accord.
From mid‑autumn to winter I was altogether some eighty days in office, when
events made it possible for me to do what I wished. I have entitled my piece
"The Return"; my preface is dated the eleventh moon of the year yi‑si
(405).
To get out of this and go back home!
My fields and garden will be overgrown with weeds ‑
I must go back.
It was my own doing that made my mind my body's slave
Why should I go on in melancholy and lonely grief?
I realize that there's no remedying the past
But I know that there's hope in the future.
After all I have not gone far on the wrong road
And I am aware that what I do today is right, yesterday wrong.
My boat rocks in the gentle breeze
Flap, flap, the wind blows my gown;
I ask a passerby about the road ahead,
Grudging the dimness of the light at dawn.
Then I catch sight of my cottage ‑
Filled with joy I run.
The servant boy comes to welcome me
My little son waits at the door.
The three paths are almost obliterated
But pines and chrysanthemums are still here.
Leading the children by the hand I enter my house
Where there is a bottle filled with wine.
I draw the bottle to me and pour myself a cup;
Seeing the trees in the courtyard brings joy to my face.
I lean on the south window and let my pride expand,
I consider how easy it is to be content with a little space.
Every day I stroll in the garden for pleasure,
There is a gate there, but it is always shut.
Cane in hand I walk and rest
Occasionally raising my head to gaze into the distance.
The clouds aimlessly rise from the peaks,
The birds, weary of flying, know it is time to come home.
As the sun's rays grow dim and disappear from view
I walk around a lonely pine tree, stroking it.
Back home again!
May my friendships be broken off and my wanderings come to
an end.
The world and I shall have nothing more to do with one
another.
lf I were again to go abroad, what should I seek?
Here I enjoy honest conversation with my family
And take pleasure in books and zither to dispel my worries.
The farmers tell me that now spring is here
There will be work to do in the west fields.
Sometimes I call for a covered cart
Sometimes I row a lonely boat
Following a deep gully through the still water
Or crossing the hill on a rugged path.
The trees put forth luxuriant foliage,
The spring begins to flow in a trickle.
I admire the seasonableness of nature
And am moved to think that my life will come to its close.
lt is all over ‑--
So little time are we granted human form in the world!
Let us then follow the inclinations of the heart:
Where would we go that we are so agitated?
I have no desire for riches
And no expectation of Heaven.
Rather on some fine morning to walk alone
Now planting my staff to take up a hoe,
Or climbing the east hill and whistling long
Or composing verses beside the clear stream:
So I manage to accept my lot until the ultimate homecoming.
Rejoicing in Heaven's command, what is there to doubt?
(translated by J. R. Hightower)