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

  My piece is called Back Home Again, and this preface was written in the 11th month, Yi year of the snake.

  Back home –

  with fields and gardens all weeds back home,

  how can I stay here, my heart a slave to the body?

  Why live this dismal life, this lonely grief?

  You can’t argue with what’s been done, I know,

  but the future’s there to be made. Not too far

  gone down this road of delusion, I can see

  where I’m right today, yesterday I was wrong.

  Far from home, the boat rocking on gentle

  swells, my robe snaps in billowing winds.

  Asking travelers how the road ahead is,

  I wonder how morning light can be so dim,

  but seeing our house, suddenly

  happy, I break into a run.

  Servants greet me gleefully,

  and my kids there at the gate.

  Our three paths are grown over,

  but pines and chrysanthemums

  survived. And taking everyone

  inside, I find wine waiting.

  Pouring a cup from the winejar, I smile, happy

  to see these courtyard trees. At the window

  my presumptions drift away south. How easily

  content I am in this cramped little place.

  Here, garden strolls bring joy day after day:

  our gate always closed, propped on my old-folk’s

  walking-stick, I go a little ways, then rest,

  and turning my head, look far away. Clouds

  leaving mountain peaks drift without a thought,

  and tired of flight, birds think of return.

  At sunset, light fading slowly away, I linger

  fondly over a lone pine, nowhere I’d rather be.

  Back home again —

  O let me keep to myself, my wandering ended.

  Let the world and I give each other up.

  If I left again, what would I go looking for?

  It’s loving family voices that make me happy,

  koto and books that keep worried grief away.

  And farmers here tell me spring has arrived. Soon,

  there’ll be work out in the western fields.

  Sometimes in a covered cart,

  sometimes rowing a lone boat –

  I’ll search out sheltered streams and quiet pools,

  follow mountain paths up through the hills.

  Trees revel in the joy of their lavish blossoms,

  and murmuring springs flow again. In these

  ten thousand things, each following its season

  away perfectly, I touch that repose in which

  life ends, done and gone.

  This form I am in the world can’t last much longer.

  Why not let things carry my heart away with them?

  What good is it, agonizing over the way things are going?

  Getting rich isn’t what I want. And who

  expects to end in some celestial village?

  My dream is to walk out all alone into a lovely

  morning – maybe stop to pull weeds in the garden,

  maybe climb East Ridge and chant, settling into

  my breath, or sit writing poems beside a clear

  stream. I’ll ride change back to my final home,

  rejoicing in heaven’s way. How can it ever fail me?

  UNTITLED

  I couldn’t want another life. This is my

  true calling, working fields and mulberries

  with my own two hands. I’ve never failed it,

  and still, against hunger and cold, there’s

  only hull and chaff. I’m not asking for more

  than a full stomach. All I want is enough

  common rice, heavy clothes for winter and

  open-weaves for the summer heat – nothing

  more. But I haven’t even managed that. O,

  it can leave you stricken so with grief.

  And character is fate. If you’re simple-

  minded in life, its ways elude you. That’s

  how it is. Nothing can change it. But then,

  I’ll delight in even a single cup of wine.

  TURNING SEASONS

  Turning Seasons is about wandering in late spring. Spring clothes are all made, and everything in sight is tranquil. I wander beside my shadow, alone, my heart a blend of delight and grief.

  1

  Turning seasons turning wildly

  away, morning’s majestic calm

  unfolds. Out in spring clothes,

  I cross eastern fields. A few

  clouds linger, sweeping mountains

  clean. Gossamer mist blurs open

  skies. Feeling the south wind,

  young grain ripples like wings.

  2

  Boundless, the lake’s immaculate

  skin boundless, I rinse myself

  clean. The view all distance,

  all distance inciting delight,

  I look deep. They say if you’re

  content you’re satisfied easily

  enough. Raising this winecup, I

  smile, taken by earth’s own joy.

  3

  Gazing midstream, longing for

  that clear Yi River, I see sage

  ancients there, taking in spring

  and returning carefree in song.

  What exquisite calm. I’d join

  them in a moment, but nothing’s

  left of their world now, only

  sorrow and distance. No way back,

  4

  I’m home day-in day-out, taking

  things easy. Herbs and flowers

  grow in rows. Trees and bamboo

  gather shade. My koto is tuned

  clear, and a half-jar of thick

  wine waits. Unable to reach that

  golden age Huang and T’ang ruled,

  I inhabit who I am sad and alone.

  FORM, SHADOW, SPIRIT

  Rich or poor, wise or foolish, people are all busy clinging jealously to their lives. And it’s such delusion. So, I’ve presented as clearly as I could the sorrows of Form and Shadow. Then, to dispel those sorrows, Spirit explains occurrence coming naturally of itself. Anyone who’s interested in such things will see what I mean.

  1 Form Addresses Shadow

  Heaven and earth last. They’ll never end.

  Mountains and rivers know no seasons,

  and there’s a timeless law plants and trees

  follow: frost then dew, vigor then ruin.

  They call us earth’s most divine and wise

  things, but we alone are never as we are

  again. One moment we appear in this world,

  and the next, we vanish, never to return.

  And who notices one person less? Family?

  Friends? They only remember when some

  everyday little thing you’ve left behind

  pushes grief up to their eyes in tears.

  I’m no immortal. I can’t just soar away

  beyond change. There’s no doubt about it,

  death’s death. Once you see that, you’ll

  see that turning down drinks is for fools.

  2 Shadow Replies

  Who can speak of immortality when simply

  staying alive makes such sad fools of us?

  We long for those peaks of the immortals,

  but they’re far-off, and roads trail away

  early. Coming and going together, we’ve

  always shared the same joys and sorrows.

  Resting in shade, we may seem unrelated,

  but living out in the sun, we never part.

  This togetherness isn’t forever, though.

  Soon, we’ll smother in darkness. The body

  can’t last, and all memory of us also ends.

  It sears the five feelings. But in our

  good works, we bequeath our love through

  generations. How can you
spare any effort?

  Though it may be true wine dispels sorrow,

  how can such trifles ever compare to this?

  3 Spirit Answers

  The Great Potter never hands out favors.

  These ten thousand things thrive each

  of themselves alone. If humans rank with

  heaven and earth, isn’t it because of me?

  And though we’re different sorts of things

  entirely, we’ve been inseparable since

  birth, together through better and worse,

  and I’ve always told you what I thought.

  The Three Emperors were the wisest of men,

  but where are they now? And loving his

  eight-hundred-year life, old P’eng-tsu

  wanted to stay on here, but he too set out.

  Young and old die the same death. When it

  comes, the difference between sage and fool

  vanishes. Drinking every day may help you

  forget, but won’t it bring an early grave?

  And though good works may bring lasting

  joy, who will sing your praise? Listen –

  it’s never-ending analysis that wounds us.

  Why not circle away in the seasons, adrift

  on the Great Transformation, riding its vast

  swells without fear or delight? Once your

  time comes to an end, you end: not another

  moment lost to all those lonely worries.

  SCOLDING MY SONS

  My temples covered all in white, I’m

  slack-muscled and loose-skinned for good

  now. And though I do have five sons,

  not one of them prizes paper and brush.

  A-shu is already twice eight, and who’s

  ever equaled him for sheer laziness?

  A-hsüan is fifteen, time studies began,

  but he’s immune to words and ideas.

  Yung and Tuan are both thirteen now,

  and they can’t even add six and seven.

  And T’ung-tzu, who’s almost nine, does

  nothing but forage pears and chestnuts.

  If this is heaven’s way, I’ll offer it

  that stuff in the cup. It needs a drink.

  9/9, CHI YEAR OF THE ROOSTER

  In all its reckless leisure, autumn begins

  its end. Cold – the dew-charged wind cold,

  vines will blossom no more. Our courtyard

  trees have spent themselves: they stand

  empty. Dingy air washed clean, clear sky

  heightens the distant borders of heaven,

  and now mourning cicadas have gone silent,

  geese call out beneath gossamer clouds.

  The ten thousand changes follow each other

  away – so why shouldn’t living be hard?

  And everyone dies. It’s always been true,

  I know, but thinking of it still leaves me

  grief-torn. How can I reach my feelings?

  A little thick wine, and I’m soon pleased

  enough. A thousand years may be beyond me,

  but I can turn this morning into forever.

  9TH MONTH, KENG YEAR OF THE DOG, EARLY RICE HARVESTED IN THE WEST FIELD

  For a life returned to the Way, you

  begin with food and clothes. Who can

  ignore what we need most, and still

  hope to find earth’s own composure?

  The task begun in early spring drags on,

  but then I see another year’s harvest,

  go out at dawn and, after an easy

  day’s work, haul grain home at dusk.

  Now, heavy dew and frost blankets this

  hill-country, and wind is turning cold.

  How could farm life be anything but

  bitter? No one avoids these troubles,

  but my arms and legs are so tired they

  ache. I couldn’t bear any more worries.

  I wash, then sit out beneath the eaves,

  relaxed, cheered by wine. How far away,

  hermits Chü and Ni a thousand years away,

  and we’re of one mind. All I want is

  more of the same, much more. Working

  your own fields is no cause for lament.

  THINKING OF IMPOVERISHED ANCIENTS

  1

  Ten thousand things, and yet nothing

  without refuge but lone cloud. Into dusk –

  vanishing into empty skies, into dusk,

  when will last light ever grace it again?

  Flushed dawn sky breaking through last

  night’s fog, birds take flight together:

  they venture carefully from the woods,

  and wing home again well before evening.

  Hoarding strength and guarding life apart,

  how could anyone avoid hunger and cold?

  If there’s no one left who understands,

  then that’s that: what would you mourn?

  2

  Bitter cold. The year ending like this,

  I sun on the front porch, my coat closed.

  There’s nothing left of our south garden,

  and dead limbs fill orchards to the north.

  I try the ricejar: not a grain. I peer

  inside the stove: no sign even of smoke.

  It’s late afternoon, classics piled nearby,

  but I can’t read in peace. This idle life –

  it’s not like Confucius in Ch’en, people

  half-starved, but they’re angry here, too,

  and say so. Is there any solace? All those

  ancients living this same enlightened life?

  WE’VE MOVED

  1

  I first wanted to live in South Village

  long ago – not for its ch’i-sited homes,

  but for its simple-hearted people, people

  who’d make mornings and evenings pure

  joy. And now, after years of dreaming,

  it’s finally happened. We’re poor, but

  who needs a spacious house? If it covers

  our beds and mats, that’s plenty enough.

  Neighbors stop in every now and again,

  our debates nothing but old times, small-

  talk. And we delight in strange poems

  together, explaining lines that elude us.

  2

  Spring and fall offer countless lovely

  days to climb mountains and write new

  poems. At each gate, greetings rise,

  and if there’s wine, it’s ladled out.

  After a day’s work, we each return home

  alone to relax. Or suddenly, friends

  coming to mind, we dress up and go out,

  and can’t get enough talk or laughter.

  There’s no better life, and no chance

  I’ll leave. Though it’s true we can’t

  live without food and clothes, working

  these fields will never shortchange me.

  DRINKING WINE

  There’s little to enjoy in this idle life, and already the nights are growing longer. I happen to have some illustrious wine, so I don’t let an evening pass without dipping some out. I down a few cups alone, facing my shadow, and suddenly I’m drunk again, scribbling out lines all at once to amuse myself. This began some time ago, so by now I’ve got lots of ink-covered paper. Though there’s no order to them, I thought the poems might be entertaining, so I’ve asked an old friend to write out a clean copy for me.

  1

  Vigor and ruin never stay put. Here,

  there – all things share in this alike.

  Farming melons, how could Shao live

  anything like that royal life he lost?

  Cold dies into hot, hot into cold.