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

  It’s our Way, too. Nothing is immune.

  But those who understand it live their

  lives worry-free. Whenever chance

  brings along a jar of wine, they’ll

  take it, all delight as night falls.

  2

  The Way’s been in ruins a thousand

  years. People all hoard their hearts

  away: so busy scrambling for esteemed

  position, they’d never touch wine.

  But whatever makes living precious

  occurs in this one life, and this

  life never lasts. It’s startling,

  sudden as lightning. These hundred

  years offer all abundance: Take it!

  What more could you make of yourself?

  3

  I live in town without all that racket

  horses and carts stir up, and you wonder

  how that could be. Wherever the mind

  dwells apart is itself a distant place.

  Picking chrysanthemums at my east fence,

  far off, I see South Mountain: mountain

  air lovely at dusk, birds in flight

  returning home. All this means something,

  something absolute. Whenever I start

  explaining it, I’ve forgotten the words.

  4

  Colors infusing autumn chrysanthemums

  exquisite, I pick dew-bathed petals,

  float them on that forget-your-cares

  stuff. Even my passion for living apart

  soon grows distant. I’m alone, but after

  that first cup, the winejar pours itself.

  Everything at rest, dusk: a bird calls,

  returning to its forest home. Chanting,

  I settle into my breath. Somehow, on this

  east veranda, I’ve found my life again.

  5

  In the east garden, there’s a green pine

  overgrown with brush, its beauty shrouded.

  When frost comes, killing everything else,

  its majestic, towering branches appear.

  No one noticed it among the trees, but now

  it stands alone, they’re amazed. My winejar

  slung from a cold branch, I keep looking

  far away. Here, in the midst of this

  dreamed sleight-of-hand, what could ever

  tangle me in the world’s tether of dust?

  6

  People praise Yen’s benevolence, say

  Jung mastered the Way. So often empty,

  one died young. Always hungry, the other

  lived to a ripe old age. Their names

  outlived death, but they eked out such

  haggard lives. And renown means nothing

  once we’re dead and gone. Simple-hearted

  contentment – it’s all that matters.

  We coddle thousand-gold selves, but

  we’re only guests: change soon takes

  our treasure. Why not naked burial?

  People need to get beyond old ideas.

  7

  Old friends share my weakness. They come

  bringing full winejars, and spreading

  brambleweave mats, we sit beneath pines.

  After a few rounds, we’re drunk again,

  esteemed elders yakking away all at once

  and losing track of who’s pouring when.

  Soon, that sense of knowing I exist gone,

  nothing’s precious, nothing worthless.

  All distance, we’re lost where we are. O,

  this wine hides such bottomless flavors.

  8

  Too poor to hire help, we’re being taken

  over by a wilderness tangle of trees. All

  silence, birds drifting clear skies and

  isolate silence, there’s no sign of others.

  Time and space go on forever, but who

  lives even to a hundred? Months and years

  tighten, bustling each other away, and my

  hair was already turning white long ago.

  If we don’t give up failure and success,

  that promise we hold just turns to regret.

  WINE STOP

  I’ve stopped. Here in town, where idleness

  coming of itself stopped my far wandering,

  I’ve stopped sitting anywhere but deep shade

  and stopped going out my brambleweave gate.

  Cuisine stops with mallow. And kids – I’ve

  stopped enjoying anything so much as kids.

  I’d drunk nonstop my whole life through,

  knowing it all felt wrong when I stopped.

  I tried stopping at dusk, but couldn’t sleep,

  and stopping at dawn, I couldn’t get up.

  Day after day, I’d nearly start stopping,

  but it never stopped promising metabolic

  disaster. All I knew was it hurt to stop.

  I couldn’t see how much stopping offered,

  but this morning, the virtues of stopping

  clear at last, I managed a full, dead stop.

  Setting out from this wine stop, I’ll soon

  stop by that island of immortals, where

  youth stops stopping on pure faces. I won’t

  stop now for countless thousands of years.

  WANDERING AT HSIEH CREEK

  On the 5th day of the 1st month, Hsin year of the ox, the air was fresh and clear, and the earth lovely in its idleness, so I went out with two or three neighbors to wander at Hsieh Creek. There, sitting beside full-flowing water, we gazed toward the Tseng Cliffs. At dusk, bream and carp started leaping, their scales flashing. Gulls climbed into the still air, where they glided back and forth. Those southern mountains have been famous forever; they don’t need any more songs of praise. But the Tseng Cliffs rose from the water with their own distant, isolate beauty. Having a name we treasure, they made us think of the K’un-lun Mountains, peaks of immortality. Not satisfied with the pleasure of gazing at them, we began writing poems. And suddenly spirit-wounded, we lamented the way days and months pass away, for nothing can hold our years back.

  We wanted these poems to mark the occasion for us, so we each added our age and home village.

  This new year makes it fifty suddenly

  gone. Thinking of life’s steady return

  to rest cuts deep, driving me to spend

  all morning wandering. And now, air

  fresh and sky clear, I sit with friends

  beside a stream flowing far away. Here,

  striped bream weave the gentle current,

  and calling, gulls rise over the lazy

  valley. Eyes wandering distant waters,

  straining, I make out Tseng Hill: it’s

  meager compared to K’un-lun’s majestic

  peaks, but nothing in sight rivals it.

  Taking the winejar, I pour out a round,

  and we start offering brimful toasts.

  Who knows where today leads, or whether

  things will ever be like this again?

  After a few cups, my heart’s far away,

  and I’ve forgotten thousand-year sorrows:

  ranging to the limit of this morning’s

  joy, it isn’t tomorrow I’m looking for.

  TOGETHER, WE ALL GO OUT UNDER THE CYPRESS TREES IN THE CHOU FAMILY BURIAL-GROUNDS

  Today’s skies are perfect for a clear

  flute and singing koto. And touched

  this deeply by those laid under these

  cypress trees, how could we neglect joy?

  Clear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine

  starts pious faces smiling. Not knowing

  what tomorrow brings, it’s exquisite

  exhausting whatever I feel here and now.

  STEADY RAIN, DRINKING ALONE

  Life soon returns to nothing. The ancients

  all said it circles away like this. And if

  Sung and Ch’iao ever lived in this world

  wi
thout dying, where are they now? Still,

  my old neighbor swears his wine makes you

  immortal, so I try a little. Soon, those

  hundred feelings grow distant. Another cup,

  and suddenly I’ve forgotten heaven. O,

  how could heaven be anywhere but here?

  Stay true to the actual, yielding to all things,

  and in a moment, unearthly cloud-cranes

  carrying immortals beyond all eight horizons

  return. Since I first embraced solitude,

  I’ve struggled through forty years. And yet,

  in this body long since lost to change,

  my thoughts remain, quite silent after all.

  IN THE 6TH MONTH, WU YEAR OF THE HORSE, FIRE BROKE OUT

  In our thatched hut on a meager lane, I’d

  eluded illustrious guests. But a midsummer

  wind hit, wild and steady, and suddenly

  house and trees – everything caught fire.

  Not a roof anywhere survived, so we took

  shelter here, on this boat outside our gate.

  Fruits and vegetables are growing back now,

  though the panicked birds haven’t returned.

  Boundless – early autumn night boundlessly

  open, an almost-full moon drifts perfectly

  alone. Out in this night, thoughts far-off,

  a single glance gathers all nine heavens.

  I embraced solitude young, my hair scarcely

  tied-up. And now, forty years are suddenly

  gone. The body passes, an echo of change,

  but my lone spirit, at home in idleness,

  remains – pure and enduring, a singular

  element unto itself and harder than jade.

  I think of that world Tung-hu ruled, where

  surplus grain lay overnight in the fields

  and carefree people thumped full bellies,

  where they rose at dawn and returned each

  evening to sleep. An utter stranger to

  such things, I go on watering my garden.

  AN IDLE 9/9 AT HOME

  Spending an idle 9/9 at home, I think fondly of how the day’s name sounds like it’s saying ever and ever. Autumn chrysanthemums fill the dooryard. But without wine, their blossoms promising ever-lasting life are useless, so I trust my feelings to words.

  Life too short for so many lasting desires,

  people adore immortality. When the months

  return to this day of promise, everyone

  fondly hears ever and ever in its name.

  Warm winds have ended. Now, dew ice-cold,

  stars blaze in clear skies. And though

  the swallows have gone, taking their shadows,

  calling geese keep arriving. Wine dispels

  worries by the hundred, and chrysanthemums

  keep us from the ruins of age. But if you

  live in a bramble hut, helplessly watching

  these turning seasons crumble – what then?

  My empty winejar shamed by a dusty cup, this

  cold splendor of blossoms opens for itself

  alone. I tighten my robe and sing to myself,

  idle, overwhelmed by each memory. So many

  joys to fill a short stay. I’ll take my time

  here. It is whole. How could it be any less?

  READING THE CLASSIC OF MOUNTAINS AND SEAS

  It’s early summer. Everything’s lush.

  Our house set deep among broad trees,

  birds delight in taking refuge here.

  I too love this little place. And now

  the plowing and planting are finished,

  I can return to my books again and read.

  Our meager lane nowhere near well-worn

  roads, most old friends turn back. Here,

  I ladle out spring wine with pleasure,

  and pick vegetables out in the garden.

  And coming in from the east, thin rain

  arrives on a lovely breeze. My eyes

  wander Tales of Emperor Mu, float along

  on Mountains and Seas pictures. . . .

  Look around. All time and space within

  sight – if not here, where will joy come?

  CHA FESTIVAL DAY

  Seeing off the year’s final day, windblown

  snow can’t slow warm weather. Already,

  at our gate planted with plum and willow,

  there’s a branch flaunting lovely blossoms.

  When I chant, words come clear. And in wine

  I touch countless distances. So much that

  still eludes me – who knows how much when

  there’s such unearthly Chang Mountain song?

  SEEING GUESTS OFF AT GOVERNOR WANG’S

  Autumn days bitter cold, the hundred plants

  already in ruins – now footsteps-in-frost

  season has come, we climb this tower to

  offer those returning home our farewell.

  In cold air shrouding mountains and lakes,

  forever rootless, clouds drift. And all

  those islands carry our thoughts far away,

  across threatening wind and water. Here,

  we watch night fall, delighting in fine food,

  our lone sorrow this talk of separation.

  Morning birds return for the night. A looming

  sun bundles its last light away. Our roads

  part here: you vanish, we remain. Sad,

  we linger and look back – eyes seeing off

  your boat grown distant, hearts settled in

  whatever comes of the ten thousand changes.

  PEACH-BLOSSOM SPRING

  During the T’ai-yüan years [376–397 A.D.] of the Chin Dynasty, there was a man in Wu-ling who caught fish for a living. One day he went up a stream, and soon didn’t know how far he’d gone. Suddenly, he came upon a peach orchard in full bloom. For hundreds of feet, there was nothing but peach trees crowding in over the banks. And in the confusion of fallen petals, there were lovely, scented flowers. The fisherman was amazed. Wanting to see how far the orchard went, he continued on.

  The trees ended at the foot of a mountain, where a spring fed the stream from a small cave. It seemed as if there might be a light inside, so the fisherman left his boat and stepped in. At first, the cave was so narrow he could barely squeeze through. But he kept going and, after a few dozen feet, it opened out into broad daylight. There, on a plain stretching away, austere houses were graced with fine fields and lovely ponds. Dikes and paths crossed here and there among mulberries and bamboo. Roosters and dogs called back and forth. Coming and going in the midst of all this, there were men and women tending the fields. Their clothes were just like those worn by the people outside. And whether they were old with white hair or children in pigtails, they were all happy and of themselves content.

  When they saw the fisherman, they were terribly surprised and asked where he had come from. Once he had answered all their questions, they insisted on taking him back home. And soon, they had set out wine and killed chickens for dinner. When the others in the village heard about this man, they all came to ask about him. They told him how, long ago, to escape those years of turmoil during the Ch’in Dynasty [221–207 B.C.], the village ancestors gathered their wives and children, and with their neighbors came to this distant place. And never leaving, they’d kept themselves cut-off from the people outside ever since. So now they wondered what dynasty it was. They’d never heard of the Han, let alone Wei or Chin. As the fisherman carefully told them everything he knew, they all sighed in sad amazement. Soon, each of the village families had invited him to their house, where they also served wine and food.

  After staying for some days, the fisherman prepared to leave these people. As he was going, they said There’s no need to tell the people outside. He returned to his boat and started back, careful to remember each place along the way.

  When he got back home, he went to tell the prefect what had happ
ened, and the prefect sent some men to retrace the route with him. They tried to follow the landmarks he remembered, but they were soon lost and finally gave up the search.

  Liu Tzu-chi, who lived in Nan-yang, was a recluse of great honor and esteem. When he heard about this place, he joyfully prepared to go there. But before he could, he got sick and passed away. Since then, no one’s asked the Way.