The Selected Poems of Tu Fu Read online

  pleasure here. Music swelling to echo

  through canyons, not a poor man in sight,

  they were bathed by their choice women,

  women pampered with silks that come slowly

  from the hands of shivering farm wives. Their

  husbands are horsewhipped by tax collectors

  come demanding tributes for the palace,

  and our wise king, wishing his people well,

  sends baskets and bushels full of sincere

  gifts. With trusted ministers without principles,

  why squander perfectly good supplies?

  The number of august men dawn brings to court

  frightens any decent man. Even the emperor’s

  imperial-gold tableware, they say, has been

  divvied-out among blue-blooded families.

  In the central hail, incense lifts from jade-

  white bodies of dancing goddesses. Sable coats

  warm, a grieving flute harmonizing with clear

  pure koto songs, guests savor camel’s hoof

  soup, fragrant whipped kumquats, frosted

  coolie oranges…. The imperial-red gate:

  dumped wine and meat rank inside, the frozen

  dead by the road outside. All and nothing

  Here but a key and half-step different. How

  could such misery endured ever be retold?

  I turn north toward the Wei and Ching.

  At the flooded ferry-landing, I turn again.

  A seaful of water flooding from the west looms

  and summits to the edge of sight, and beyond—

  to K’ung-t’ung Mountain peaks. Once it wrecks

  the pillars of heaven, will anything remain?

  One bridge is still holding, its welcome

  trestlework a creaking howl and whisper

  in wind. The current flowing broad and wild,

  travelers manage to help each other across.

  My dear wife keeping wind and snow from our

  family in a strange place…. How could I

  leave them so long alone? Thinking we would

  at least be together again going without,

  I come home to the sound of weeping, wailing

  cries for my little son, stone-dead now of hunger.

  The neighbors sob in the street. And who am I

  to master my grief like some sage, ashamed

  even to be a father—I, whose son has died

  for simple lack of food? A full autumn

  harvest—how could I have known, how

  could the poor still be so desperate with want?

  Son of an untaxed family, never dragged off

  to make someone’s war, I have lived a life

  charmed, and still too sad. O, the poor

  grieve like a boundless wind in autumn trees.

  Those who have lost all for war wander

  darkly in my thoughts. Distant frontiers….

  The elusive engines of grief loom like

  all South Mountain, heave and swing loose.

  CH’ANG-AN II

  MOONLIT NIGHT

  Tonight at Fu-chou, this moon she watches

  Alone in our room. And my little, far-off

  Children, too young to understand what keeps me

  Away, or even remember Ch’ang-an. By now,

  Her hair will be mist-scented, her jade-white

  Arms chilled in its clear light. When

  Will it find us together again, drapes drawn

  Open, light traced where it dries our tears?

  CH’EN-T’AO LAMENT

  Now fine homes in ten prefectures have dead sons

  making water with their blood on Ch’en-t’ao Marsh.

  An early winter’s panoramic waste: crystal sky,

  the silence of war. Forty thousand dead in a day.

  Mongol battalions return. Their arrows bathed blood-

  black, drunk in the markets, they sing Mongol songs.

  And we face north to mourn, another day conjuring

  our army’s appearance passing into hopeful night.

  FACING SNOW

  Enough new ghosts now to mourn any war,

  And a lone old grief-sung man. Clouds at

  Twilight’s ragged edge foundering, wind

  Buffets a dance of headlong snow. A ladle

  Lies beside this jar drained of emerald

  Wine. The stove’s flame-red mirage lingers.

  News comes from nowhere. I sit here,

  Spirit-wounded, tracing words onto air.

  SPRING LANDSCAPE

  Rivers and mountains survive broken countries.

  Spring returns. The city grows lush again.

  Blossoms scatter tears thinking of us, and this

  Separation in a bird’s cry startles the heart.

  Beacon-fires have burned through three months.

  By now, letters are worth ten thousand in gold.

  My hair is white and thinning so from all this

  Worry—how will I ever keep my hairpin in?

  THINKING OF MY LITTLE BOY

  Apart still, and already oriole songs

  Fill warm spring days. Changing seasons

  Startle me here without you, my little

  Sage. Who talks philosophy with you now?

  Clear streams, empty mountain paths, our

  Simple village home among ancient trees….

  In grief thinking of you, sleep: sunning

  On the veranda, I nod off beneath blue skies.

  ABBOT TS’AN’S ROOM, TA-YÜN MONASTERY

  The lamp gutters and flares. Sleepless,

  the scent of incense delicate, my mind

  exacts clarity. In these depths of night,

  the temple looming, a windchime shudders.

  Blossoms veiled in heaven’s dark, earth’s

  clarity continues—fragrant, secretive.

  Jade String floats out beyond the roof, cut

  where the temple phoenix wheels and soars.

  Sutra chants drift from the hall. A bell

  sounds, lingering, resounding over the bed.

  Soon, dawn breaking across fertile plains,

  I will face brown dust and sand, and grieve.

  P’ENG-YA SONG

  I remember long ago slipping away

  in precarious depths of night. The moon

  bright on Po-shui Mountain, I eluded

  rebel armies and fled with my family

  far north by foot on P’eng-ya Road.

  By then, most people we met had lost all

  shame. Scattered bird cries haunted

  valleys. No one returned the way we came.

  My silly, starved girl bit me and screamed.

  Afraid tigers and wolves might hear,

  I cradled her close, holding her mouth,

  but she squirmed loose, crying louder still.

  Looking after us gallantly, my little boy

  searched out sour-plum feasts. Of ten days,

  half were all thunder and rain—mud

  and more mud to drag ourselves through.

  We didn’t plan for rain. Clothes ever

  colder, the road slippery, an insufferable

  day’s travel often took us but a few short

  miles by nightfall. Wild fruit replaced

  what little food we had carried with us.

  Low branches became our home. We left dew-

  splashed rocks each morning, and passed

  nights at the smoke-scored edge of heaven.

  We had stopped at T’ung-chia Marsh,

  planning to cross Lu-tzu Pass, when you

  took us in, Sun Tsai, old friend, your

  kindness towering like billowing clouds.

  Dusk already become night, you hung lanterns

  out and swung door after door wide open.

  You soothed our feet with warm water

  and cut paper charms to summon our souls,

  then called your wife and childre
n in, their

  eyes filling with tears for us. My chicks

  soon drifted away in sleep, but you brought

  them back, offering choice dishes of food.

  You and I, you promised, will be forever

  bound together like two dear brothers.

  And before long, you emptied our rooms,

  leaving us to joy and peace and rest.

  In these times overrun with such calamity,

  how many hearts are so open and generous?

  A year of months since we parted, and still

  those Mongols spin their grand catastrophes.

  How long before I’ve grown feathers and wings

  and settled beside you at the end of flight?

  JADE-BLOSSOM PALACE

  Below long pine winds, a stream twists.

  Gray rats scuttle across spent roof tiles.

  Bequeathed now beneath cliffs to ruin—who

  knows which prince’s palace this once was?

  Azure ghostflames flood shadow-filled rooms.

  Erosion guts manicured paths. Earth’s

  ten thousand airs are the enduring music,

  autumn colors the height of indifference.

  All brown earth now—the exquisite women

  gracing his golden carriage have all become

  their rouge and mascara sham. Of those

  stately affairs, one stone horse remains.

  Sitting grief-stricken in the grasses,

  I sing wildly, wiping away tears for life

  scarcely passes into old age, and no one

  ever finds anything more of immortality.

  THE JOURNEY NORTH

  Heaven and Earth are racked with ruin,

  sorrow and sorrow, no end in sight.

  Slowly, roads and haphazard lanes pass.

  Chimney smoke rare, cold wind merely

  drones on. All we meet are moaning

  wounded, bleeding still and muttering.

  I turn to watch flags and streamers over

  Feng-hsiang flare up at dusk and smother,

  then climb through foothills and cold

  hollows where cavalries stopped for water.

  The fields of Pin spread falling away

  into lowlands halved by the raging Ching,

  and the savage tiger we come upon

  splits gray cliffs apart with its roar.

  Chrysanthemums scatter autumn petals

  across stone scarred by ancient war-carts.

  And soon, clouds in clear sky shape ethereal

  joy. O, how quiet things apart contrive

  delight, even now. Slight jewels tossed

  among acorns and chestnuts, mountain

  berries have ripened to rich cinnabar reds,

  blacks deeper than lacquered bits of night.

  What falling rain bathes is weighted,

  whether bitter or sweet, with fruit.

  Here, my Peach Blossom nostalgia fills with

  remorse for life’s simplicity squandered.

  From upper slopes, I look out across cliffs

  breaking from disappearing valleys, to Fu-chou

  highlands—then hurry, making the river

  before my servant can leave ridgeline trees.

  Owls call from mulberries turning yellow.

  Ground squirrels, hands folded, stand about

  their burrows. Soon, in the gaping night,

  we cross battlefields of moonlight chilling

  white bones. Warriors at T’ung-kuan Pass—

  how quickly millions scattered into the past

  there. And half the people followed, broken

  Ch’in people mauled into strange other things.

  And I, fallen also among the Mongol dust,

  I return after a year to our thatched home,

  a queer sight of white hair, finding my family

  graced with countless mends and patches.

  In hushed litany with pine winds, a mourning

  brook shares our sobs. All that time

  pampered, all my delight—my little

  son wears a face whiter than snow now.

  Seeing his father, not even socks for his

  dirt and grime feet, he turns away and cries.

  In skirts sewn and pieced just to cover

  their knees, our two girls keep near my bed.

  Patchwork seascapes of billows and torn

  waves, their little cloaks are skewed

  odds and embroidered ends, a purple-phoenix

  potpourri among topsy-turvy sea gods.

  An old man, heartsick, worried and driven

  into bed vomiting and shitting for days—but

  I did manage a bag of silks for you, didn’t I?

  No more shivering from the cold, at least.

  Powder and mascara, too, the fine, frail

  wrappers untied, and quilts laid out gingerly.

  My poor, thin wife is all bright-eyed again.

  Her madcap girls merrily comb at their hair.

  Elfin studies of their mother, leaving nothing

  undone, they smear dawn make-up around with wild

  abandon. Soon rouge is plastered everywhere,

  and they are painting on demon-thick eyebrows.

  Returned large as life to my girls and boys,

  they nearly forget their hunger asking

  questions, bickering, tugging at my poor beard.

  How could I scold them? Buffeted still

  in the grief warring rebels spawn, I savor

  all this racket, this clamoring around.

  Tomorrow’s want looming, and I scarcely

  returned to comfort them, what could I say?

  MEANDERING RIVER

  1

  Spring diminished with each petal in flight, these

  Ten thousand wind-tossed flakes overwhelm me with grief.

  Now the last blossoms are passing before my eyes

  (All that anguish), I can’t afford to scrimp on wine.

  Kingfishers nest in small, lakeside pavilions. Beside

  Stately tombs at the park’s edge, unicorns lounge.

  Joy is the nature of things. Look closely—where is

  This fleeting consequence you’ve tangled your life in?

  2

  Day after day, I pawn spring clothes when court ends

  And return from the river thoroughly drunk. By now,

  Wine debts await me wherever I go. But then, life’s

  Seventy years have rarely ever been lived out. And

  Shimmering butterflies are plunging deep into blossoms

  Here. Dragonflies quavering in air prick the water.

  Drift wide, O wind and light—sail together

  Where we kindred in this moment will never part.

  DREAMING OF LI PO

  Death at least gives separation repose.

  Without death, its grief can only sharpen.

  You wander out in malarial southlands,

  and I hear nothing of you, exiled

  old friend. Knowing I think of you

  always now, you visit my dreams, my heart

  frightened it is no living spirit

  I dream. Endless miles—you come

  so far from the Yangtze’s sunlit maples

  night shrouds the passes when you return.

  And snared as you are in their net,

  with what bird’s wings could you fly?

  Filling my room to the roof-beams, the moon

  sinks. You nearly linger in its light,

  but the waters deepen in long swells,

  unfed dragons—take good care old friend.

  FOR THE RECLUSE WEI PA

  Lives two people live drift without

  meeting, like Scorpio and Orion,

  without nights like this: two friends

  together again, candles and lamps

  flickering. And youth doesn’t last.

  Already gray, we ask after old friends,

  finding ghosts—everywher
e, ghosts.

  It startles the heart, and twists there.

  Who dreamed it would be twenty years

  when I left? You weren’t married then,

  and look—already a proper little

  flock of sons and daughters. In gleeful

  respect for their father’s friend, they

  ask where I’ve come from. And before

  the asking and telling end, they are

  bundled off to help with soup and wine,

  spring scallions cut fresh in evening rain,

  steamed rice garnished with yellow millet.

  Pronouncing reunions extinct, you pour

  ten cups a throw to our health. Ten cups,

  and I’m drunk on nothing like your unfailing

  friendship. Tomorrow, between us in all

  this clamor of consequence, mountain

  peaks will open out across two distances.

  THE CONSCRIPTION OFFICER AT SHIH-HAO

  It was late, but out in the night

  when I arrived, he was collaring men.

  Her husband, the old inn-keeper, slipped

  over the wall, and she went to the gate.

  The officer cursed loud and long, lost in

  his rage. And lost in grief, an old woman

  palsied with tears, she began offering

  regrets: My three sons left for Yeh.

  Then finally, from one, a letter arrived

  full of news: two dead now. Living

  a stolen life, my last son can’t last,

  and those dead now are forever dead and

  gone. Not a man left, only my little

  grandson still at his mother’s breast.

  Coming and going, hardly half a remnant

  skirt to put on, she can’t leave him

  yet. I’m old and weak, but I could hurry

  to Ho-yang with you tonight. If you’d

  let me, I could be there in time,