The Selected Poems of T'ao Ch'ien Read online

  Indeed, T’ao wrote a brief autobiographical sketch imitating the form used for biographies in the Shih Chi (Records of the Grand Historian) and the Han Shu (History of the Former Han), where the lives of great political figures of old are recorded. But whereas the ancient histories recorded the official positions and historic deeds of their illustrious subjects, T’ao describes his uneventful life of poverty and idleness. By using this form, T’ao asserts the essential nobility of his life and, at the same time, invests the piece with a sure sense of farce:

  Biography of Master Five-Willows

  No one knows where he came from. His given and literary names are also a mystery. But we know there were five willows growing beside his house, which is why he used this name. At peace in idleness, rarely speaking, he had no longing for fame or fortune. He loved to read books, and yet never puzzled over their profound insights. But whenever he came upon some realization, he was so pleased that he forgot to eat.

  He was a wine-lover by nature, but couldn’t afford it very often. Everyone knew this, so when they had wine, they’d call him over. And when he drank, it was always bottoms-up. He’d be drunk in no time; then he’d go back home, alone and with no regrets over where things were going.

  In the loneliness of his meager wall, there was little shelter from wind and sun. His short coat was patched and sewn. And made from gourd and split bamboo, his cup and bowl were empty as often as Yen Hui’s. But he kept writing poems to amuse himself, and they show something of who he was. He went on like this, forgetting all gain and loss, until he came naturally to his end.

  In appraisal we say: Ch’ien Lou said Don’t make yourself miserable agonizing over impoverished obscurity, and don’t wear yourself out scrambling for money and honor. Doesn’t that describe this kind of man perfectly? He’d just get merrily drunk and write poems to cheer himself up. He must have lived in the most enlightened and ancient of times. If it wasn’t Emperor Wu-huai’s reign, surely it was Ko-t’ien’s.

  RETURNING TO MY OLD HOME

  We moved to the capital in another time,

  it seems, only leaving for home after

  six years. Today, our first day back,

  I grieve. Sad things are everywhere now.

  Terraced fields remain, still unchanged,

  but in the village, entire houses simply

  vanished. And out walking, I find old

  neighbors here mostly dead. I take my

  time, looking for what lasted, traces

  I linger over jealously. Day after day,

  life’s hundred years all flowing illusion,

  hot and cold hurry each other away.

  Facing old fears the Great Transformation

  will end me before ch’i’s breath leaves,

  I let go – let go and forget it all.

  A little wine still brings me to life.

  AFTER LIU CH’AI-SANG’S POEM

  I’d long felt these mountains and lakes

  beckoning, and wouldn’t have thought twice,

  but my family and friends couldn’t bear

  talk of living apart. Then one lucky day

  a strange feeling came over me, and I left,

  walking-stick in hand, for my western farm.

  No one was going back home: on those outland

  roads, farm after farm lay in empty ruins,

  but our thatch hut’s already good as ever,

  and you’d think our new fields had been

  tended for years. When valley winds turn

  cold, spring wine eases hunger and work,

  and though it isn’t strong, just baby-girl

  wine, it’s better than nothing for worry.

  Distant – as months and years pass away here,

  the bustling world’s racket grows distant.

  Plowing and weaving provide all we use.

  Who needs anything more? Away, ever away

  into this hundred-year life and beyond,

  my story and I vanish together like this.

  HOME AGAIN AMONG GARDENS AND FIELDS

  1

  Nothing like the others, even as a child,

  rooted in a love for hills and mountains,

  I fell into their net of dust, that one

  departure a blunder lasting thirteen years.

  But a tethered bird longs for its forest,

  a pond fish its deep waters. So now, my

  land out on the south edge cleared, I

  nurture simplicity among gardens and fields,

  home again. I’ve got nearly two acres here,

  and four or five rooms in my thatch hut.

  Elms and willows shade the eaves out back,

  and in front, peach and plum spread wide.

  Distant – village people lost in distant

  haze, kitchen smoke hangs above wide-open

  country. Here, dogs bark deep in back roads,

  and roosters crow from mulberry treetops.

  No confusion within the gate, no dust,

  my empty home harbors idleness to spare.

  Back again: after so long in that trap,

  I’ve returned to all that comes of itself.

  2

  So little out here ever involves people.

  Visitors to our meager lane rare, my

  bramble gate closed all day, this empty

  home cuts dust-filled thoughts short.

  And day after day, coming and going

  on overgrown paths, I meet neighbors

  without confusion: we only talk about

  how the crops are doing, nothing more.

  Mine grow taller each day, and my fields

  grow larger, but I can’t stop worrying:

  come frost or sleet, and it all falls

  into tatters, like so much tangled brush.

  3

  I planted beans below South Mountain.

  A few sprouted, then brush took over.

  I get up early to clear weeds, and

  shouldering my hoe, return by moonlight.

  The path narrow, the brush and trees

  thick, evening dew pierces my clothes.

  But they’re not too wet – just damp

  enough it reminds me never to resist.

  4

  Years never wandering mountains and lakes

  gone, elated again amid forests and fields,

  I take children by the hand and set out

  through woods and abandoned farmlands.

  Soon, we’re walking around aimlessly among

  gravemounds and houses deserted long ago,

  their wells and brick stoves still standing

  here among broken-down bamboo and mulberry.

  Someone is gathering firewood, so I ask

  where these people are, all these people.

  Turning toward me, he replies Once you’re

  dead and gone, nothing’s left. They say

  a single generation and, court or market,

  every face is new. It’s true, of course.

  Life is its own mirage of change. It ends

  vanished, returned into nothing. What else?

  AFTER KUO CHU-PU’S POEMS

  1

  Trees thick and full gathering pure

  midsummer shade out front, and wind

  coming in its season, gentle gusts

  opening my robe – I live life apart

  here. Cultivating idleness, I roam

  koto strings and books all day long,

  our vegetable garden full of plenty,

  last year’s grain holding out well.

  In making a living, we gain by limits.

  Wanting nothing beyond enough, nothing,

  I grind millet, make up a lovely wine,

  and when it’s ripe, ladle it out myself.

  Our son plays beside me. Too young

  to speak, he keeps trying new sounds.

  All this brings back such joy I forget

  glittering careers. White clouds drift

&nbs
p; endless skies. I watch. Why all that

  reverent longing for ancient times?

  2

  We had warm, wet weather all spring. Now,

  white autumn is clear and cold. Dew frozen,

  drifting mists gone, bottomless heavens

  open over this vast landscape of clarity,

  and mountains stretch away, their towering

  peaks an unearthly treasure of distance.

  Fragrant chrysanthemums ablaze in woodlands

  blooming, green pines lining the clifftops:

  isn’t this the immaculate heart of beauty,

  this frost-deepened austerity? Sipping wine,

  I think of recluse masters. A century away,

  I nurture your secrets. Your true nature

  eludes me here, but taken by quiet, I can

  linger this exquisite moon out to the end.

  EARLY SPRING, KUEI YEAR OF THE HARE, THINKING OF ANCIENT FARMERS

  1

  Though I knew southern fields in song

  long ago, I’d never walked out into them.

  Invariably hungry, Yen perfected wisdom,

  but how can I ignore spring breaking out

  here? At dawn, loading up my cart and

  setting out, I already feel far away.

  Birds sing, celebrating the new season.

  Cool winds bring blessings in abundance,

  and in these distances empty of people,

  bamboo crowds country paths. Now I see

  why that farmer laughing at Confucius

  lived so far away and never went back.

  My way seems childish to the world-wise,

  but what I nurture here never grows thin.

  2

  He’s still our master teacher, and right

  to say Worry about the Way, not hunger,

  but that’s far beyond my reach, so I’ll

  make this long hard work wisdom instead.

  Plow in hand, the season’s task my delight,

  I smile and coax the others on. Distant

  wind sweeping in across fields, delicate

  seedlings also wonder at this fresh life.

  Though I’m not sure of a good harvest,

  there’s joy enough in fieldwork itself,

  rest enough after spring planting. Here,

  where passersby never stop to ask the Way,

  we walk home at dusk. After sharing wine,

  simple thanks to neighbors, I chant poems

  late, then close my brushwood gate. I’ll

  take this farmland life anytime, anytime.

  IN REPLY TO LIU CH’AI-SANG

  In a meager home, guests rare, I often

  forget I’m surrounded by turning seasons.

  And now falling leaves fill courtyard

  emptiness, I grow sad, realizing it’s

  autumn already. Fresh sunflower thickets

  fill north windows. Sweet grains in south

  fields ripen. Though I’m far from happy

  today, I know next year may never come.

  Get the kids together, I tell my wife,

  it’s the perfect day for a nice long walk.

  WRITTEN IN THE 12TH MONTH, KUEI YEAR OF THE HARE, FOR MY COUSIN CHING-YÜAN

  At this distant, bramble-woven gate, my

  wandering come to rest, the world and I

  let each other go. Not a soul in sight.

  At dusk, who knows my gate sat closed

  all day? This year-end wind bitter cold,

  falling snow a thick, day-long shroud,

  there isn’t a trace of sound. I listen,

  eyes aching from all this white clarity.

  Cold seeping inside robes, cups and bowls

  rarely agreeing to be set out for meals,

  it’s all desolation in this empty house,

  nothing anywhere to keep our spirits up.

  Roaming through thousand-year-old books,

  I meet timeless exemplars. I’ll never

  reach their high principles, though I’ve

  somehow mastered resolute in privation,

  and there’s no chance renown will redeem

  this poverty. But I’m no fool for coming

  here. I send findings beyond all words:

  who could understand this bond we share?

  BEGGING FOOD

  Hunger came and drove me out. No

  idea where I’d end up, I went on

  and on, and coming to this village,

  knocked at some door. Seeing in my

  senseless muttering why I’d come,

  you gave all I needed, and more:

  we chatted on into evening, pouring

  cups of wine we downed in no time,

  and savoring the joy of new friends,

  we chanted old poems and wrote new.

  You’re kind as that woman who fed

  half-starved Han Hsin. But I’ll never

  rise to glory, never have anything but

  gifts from the grave to send in thanks.

  WRITTEN ON PASSING THROUGH CH’Ü-O, NEWLY APPOINTED TO ADVISE LIU YÜ’S NORMALIZATION ARMY

  I came of age out beyond all their affairs,

  taking comfort in koto and books. My robe

  simple, I delighted in life coming of itself,

  and though often hungry, spent years at ease.

  Then that sad surprise came, and I turned

  onto the well-traveled road, ending it all.

  Packed by morning, I left my walking-stick,

  and suddenly my fields and gardens were far

  away. Alone, vanishing boat drifting away,

  thoughts weaving endless threads of return,

  who could pretend this journey won’t be long,

  a thousand up-and-down miles long, and more?

  Eyes haggard from strange rivers and roads,

  I dream of my life among mountains and lakes.

  For now, birds free among high clouds may

  put me to shame, and fish roaming streams,

  but rooted deep in my native mindfulness,

  I’ve never been taken in by appearance:

  trusting the movement of change, I’ll return

  after all to that home solitude builds.

  AFTER AN ANCIENT POEM

  Distant, on this distant, hundred-foot high

  tower, four horizons open into plain view,

  open home at night for returning clouds

  and a room for birds in morning flight.

  Rivers and mountains filling sight, a lone

  plain stretches endlessly away. Long ago,

  illustrious men of renown, in noble-hearted

  gallantry, made their battleground here,

  and in a morning, their hundred-year lives

  over, they all went to the grave together.

  Clear-cut by those needing pine and cypress,

  looming gravemounds swell and dip into one

  another. There’s no one to tend crumbling

  tombs. And where are those wandering spirits

  now? Such glory is to be prized, no doubt,

  but we’ll always mourn the wounds later.

  BACK HOME AGAIN CHANT

  We were destitute. I worked hard farming, but we never had enough: the house was full of kids, and the rice-jar always empty. And though people have made their living like this for countless generations, I never quite caught on, so everyone kept pushing me to find government work. Finally I decided they were right, but had no idea where to begin. Before long I had to do some traveling, and some important people I met seemed impressed by me. Then, when my uncle took an interest in our bitter poverty, I found myself appointed to office in a small town. At that time, since the land was still full of trouble, I was leery about serving far away. But P’eng-tse was only thirty miles from here, and the receipts from government fields were enough to keep me in wine, so I took the job. The first few days went well enough; then all I wanted was to be home with my family again
. Why the sudden change of heart? My nature comes of itself. It isn’t something you can force into line. Hunger and cold may cut deep, but turning on myself that way felt like a sickness. Serving the public good, I was nothing more than a mouth and belly serving themselves. Seeing this, and thinking of the ideals I’d always held, I was sad and utterly ashamed of my fine public spirit. And yet, I still thought I should hold out until next year’s harvest before packing up and slipping away in the night. But soon my younger sister, Chang’s wife, died in Wu-chang, and forgetting everything in the rush to get there, I escaped, leaving my duties behind. After holding office more than eighty days, from mid-autumn into winter, I turned what happened into my heart’s content.