“Song of the
Japanese Sword”
By Ouyang Xiu
Trans. Burton
Watson
Kunyi is far
away, unheard of any more;
They tell a tale
of jade-cutting, but who knows the truth?
A precious sword
recently has come from Japan;
A Yue merchant
procured it east of the spreading sea.
In a scabbard of
fragrant wood trimmed with fish skin,
Yellow and white
mingled in it: brass and bronze.
A hundred gold
pieces conveyed it to the collector’s hand;
He who wears it
can vanquish all devilish ills.
I have heard of
that country, there on a great island,
Its soil rich;
its customs good.
Its ancestor Xu
Fu tricked the men of Qin;
In search of
herbs, he tarried till the boys had grown old.
With him, he took
the hundred craftsmen and the five grains;
To this day, the
country’s crafts are marked by great skill.
From time to time
these people brought tribute to the former dynasty;
Their scholars
were often clever with verse.
When Xu Fu made
his voyage,
the Book of
Documents had not been burned,
So the complete
hundred sections must be preserved in Japan!
But their strict
laws will not allow it to be sent to China,
Where indeed
there is no one who can read the ancient texts.
That a Classic of
our former kings should be hidden among barbarians,
Beyond boundless
green waves where no passage lies!
It stirs a man to
feeling, it makes the tears well up—
What heart left
to talk of a little rusty sword?
*****
“Children”
by Su Shi
trans. Burton
Watson
Children don’t
know what worry means!
Stand up to go
and they hang on my clothes.
I’m about to
scold them,
But my wife egg
them on in their silliness:
The children are
silly but you’re much worse!
What good does
all this worrying do?
Stung by her
words, I go back to my seat;
She rinses a wine
cup to put before me.
How much better
than Liu Ling’s wife
Grumbling at the
cost of her husband’s drinking!
*****
“Clear Wind”
by Su Shi
trans. Burton
Watson
The clear wind—what
is it?
Something to be
loved, not to be named,
Moving like a
prince wherever it goes;
The grass and
trees whisper its praise.
This outing of
ours never had a purpose;
Let the lone boat
swing about as it will.
In the middle of
the current, lying face up,
I greet the
breeze that happens long
And lift a cup to
offer to the vastness:
How pleasant—that
we have no thought for each other!
Coming back
through two river valleys,
Clouds and water
shine in the night.
*****
“Who Says a
Painting Must Look Like Life?”
by Su Shi
Trans. Burton
Watson
[Written on
paintings of flowering branches
by Secretary Wang
of Yanling: two poems]
Who says a
painting must look like life?
He sees only with
children’s eyes.
Who says a poem
must stick to the theme?
Poetry is
certainly lost on him.
Poetry and
painting share a single goal—
Clean freshness
and effortless skill.
Pian Luan’s
sparrows live on paper;
Zhao Chang’
flowers breathe with soul.
But what are they
beside these scrolls,
Bold sketches,
with spirit in every stroke?
Who’d think one
dot of red
Could call up a
whole unbounded spring!
*****
“Thoughts on the
Last Night of the Month”
by Wang Anshi
(1021-1086)
trans. Burton
Watson
Night clouds—no sky
to be seen,
Much less the
stars and moon.
When the dark
city dust has settles,
The boom-boom of
the watch drum sounds.
Songs from an
upstairs room: customers still drinking,
Drunk enough by
now to be fearless of snow.
Weeping voices in
the alley: other men there;
Wind from their
directions brings muffled cries.
In the muddle and
confusion, each man meets his fate;
Joy or sorrow—which
should we prize?
Just now your are
taken up with Zhuangzi
And the wild way
he throws off the bonds of the world.
Home from work,
you bring out the wine,
Finger the lute
strings, adjust the pick.
For myself, I sit
alone doing nothing,
Facing the blue
lamp that flares and fades.
*****
“Working for the
Government”
by Wang Anshi
trans. Burton
Watson
Spring snow in
Da-liang—a cityful of mud:
Head the horse
into the setting sun, ride home again.
I know what my
life has been, and I can laugh—
A long long
thirty-nine of nothing [right].
*****
“Four Poems on
Country Life”
by Qin Guan (1049-1100)
trans. Burton
Watson
I.
At cock crow the
whole village rouses,
Gets ready to set
off for the middle fields:
Remind the wife
to be sure to fix some millet,
Shout to the
children to shut the gat behind us.
Spade and hoe
catch the morning light;
Laughter and hubbub
mingle on the road.
Puddles from the
night before wet our straw sandals;
Here’s wild
flower to stick in the bun of your hair!
Clear light
breaks through the distant haze;
Magnolia covers
the wandering hills;
In the empty
field, a brocaded pheasant preens.
The young people
have come like racing clouds;
Owl-like, an old
man squats on his heels alone.
The yellow earth
glistens from the rain that passed;
Clouds of dust
race before the wind.
Little by little,
the whole village gathers,
Calling greetings
from field to field.
The omens say it
will be a good month;
Let’s keep on
working, dawn to sundown!
*****
“To Qian Xie”
by Qin Guan
trans. Burton
Watson
Three years in
the capital, sidelocks gone grey;
From old branches
again I see new flowers unfold.
This daily
pawning of spring clothes—it’s not to buy wine;
Things are bad—at
home we eat mostly gruel.
*****
“On Lice”
by Mei Yaochen
(1002-1060)
trans. Burton
Watson
[Xie Shihou
pointed out to me that from ancient times there had
never been a poem
on the subject of lice, and urged me to try writing one.]
A poor man’s
clothes—ragged and easy to get dirty,
Easy to get dirty
and hard to keep free of lice.
Between the belt
and the lower robe is where they swarm,
Ascending in
files to the fur collar’s margin.
They hide so
cleverly—How can I ferret them out?—
Dining on blood,
making themselves at home.
My world, too, has
its sallies and withdrawals;
Why should I
bother to pry into yours?
*****
“Three Poems
Lamenting the Dead”
by Mei Yaochen
trans. Burton
Watson
I.
From the time you
came into my house
You never seemed
to mind being poor,
Every evening sew
till midnight,
Lunch ready a
little past noon.
Ten days and nine
we ate pickles;
One day—a wonder—we
dined on dried meat.
East and west for
eighteen years,
The two of us
sharing bitter and sweet,
Counting all
along on a hundred years’ love—
Who’d have
thought you’d be gone in one night!
I still remember
when the end came,
How you held my
hand, not able to speak—
This body,
thought lives on,
At the last will
join you in dust.
III.
The long-lived
and the short-lived there have always been.
How would I dare
challenge the azure sky?
Yet of all the
wives of the world I’ve seen,
None were like
her in beauty and worth.
If the stupid
alone are granted long life,
Still could she
not have been lent a few years?
And I watched
while my jewel worth a string of cities
Sank out of sight
in the nine-leveled springs.
*****
“On Seeing the
Mural in the Qianming Temple”
By Lu You
(1125-1210)
Trans. Burton
Watson
Temple built in
Tang times, set in a quiet alley,
Its famous mural
neglected—half preserved, half gone.
The stirring of
sparse bamboo, like endless rain;
The darkness of
an old roof, making its own chill:
When I cam
through the gate, repeated drums sounded first cal to lecture;
Now I summon my
horse, slanting sun all but fills the porch.
Consider well:
what appears, what fades, is surely fated:
A priceless painting
left to rot here on a crumbling wall.
*****
“To Show My Sons”
by Lu You
trans. Burton
Watson
In death I know
well enough all things end in emptiness;
Still I grieve
that I never saw the Nine Provinces made one
On the day the
king’s armies march north to take the heartland,
At the family
sacrifice don’t forget to let your father know.
*****
“The Stone on the
Hilltop”
by Lu You
trans. Burton
Watson
Autumn wind: ten
trees wither;
Spring rain: a
hundred grasses grow.
Is this really
some plan of the Creator,
This flowering
and fading, each season that comes?
Only the stone
there on the hilltop,
Its months and
years too many to count,
Knows nothing of
the four-season round,
Wearing its
constant colors unchanged.
The old man has
lived all his life in these hills;
Though his legs
fail him, he still clambers up,
Now and then
strokes the rock and sighs three sighs:
How can I make
myself stony like you?
*****
“Reading”
by Lu You
trans. Burton
Watson
[Reading Sima
Guang’s Comprehensive Mirror for the Aid of Government printed in tiny
characters known as “fly’s head.”]
If I want to
retire, don’t I have my five-acre farm?
The reason I go
on reading is for the sake of the people.
Though the strength
of my eyes by lamplight isn’t what it used to be,
I can still get
through twenty thousand fly’s head characters a night.
“Don’t Read
Books!”
by Yang Wanli
(1127-1206)
trans. Jonathan
Chaves
Don’t read books!
Don’t chant
poems!
When you read
books your eyeballs wither away,
Leaving the bare
sockets.
When you chant
poems your heart leaks out slowly
with each word.
People say
reading book is enjoyable.
People say
chanting poems is fun.
But if your lips
constantly make a sound
like an insect
chirping in autumn,
you will only
turn into a haggard old man.
And even if you don’t
turn into a haggard old man,
It’s annoying for
others to have to hear you.
It’s so much
better
To close your
eyes, sit in your study,
Lower the
curtains, sweep the floor,
Burn incense.
It’s beautiful to
listen to the wind,
Listen to the
rain,
Take a walk when
you feel energetic,
And when you’re
tired go to sleep.
******
“Songs of
Depression”
by Yang Wanli
trans. Jonathan
Chaves
I.
I don’t feel like
reading another book,
And I’m tired of
poetry—that’s not what I want to do.
But my mind is
restless, unsettled—
I’ll try counting
raindrop stains on the oilcloth window.
II.
I finish chanting
my new poems and fall asleep—
I am a butterfly
journeying to the eight corners of the universe.
Outside the boat,
waves crash like thunder,
But it is silent
in the world of sleep.