Hoeing farmer, as heat haze roils,
His flowing sweat waters the soil.
All those who know food on a plate
Should feel each grain comes of that toil.
NOTE: The title of this poem (悯农, or Mǐn Nóng) is often translated as “Toiling Farmers,” though “Compassion for Farmers” or “Pity Farmers” would be closer to the literal translation.
burbling sounds:
water runs - unseen -
between polished rocks.
On the arid
desert's edge,
Stands a scrubby
shrubby hedge
That's always green
and never brown,
But it turns black
when Sun goes down.
blooms disheveled
by yesterday's storms,
shine brightly today.
Lonely and longing to travel;
All alone and lacking a tribe.
Like the crane up on the mountain,
Or the cloud that enshrouds its peak.
Like the portraits painted by past
Masters, of souls you couldn't have known.
Like a leaf drifting on swift winds,
Bounding through the boundless spaces.
You'll never be able to hold it,
But can hear the song it dances to,
Those who accept this can tune in,
And the signal will only get stronger.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the twenty-second of the twenty-four poems. This poem has been alternately titled “Abstraction,” “Elegance,” and “Drifting Aloof” by varied translators, but its original title is 飘逸.
swallows dogfight
out over the lake:
belly-bumping swells.
We cast our spells by way of words --
Each sound, sacred. Its magic blurred
By mundane ways and untrained ears --
Failure to feel one's way to tears.
So, we're lost upon silent seas
Even when one could hear with ease:
Because boundless is speech's spread,
And boundless, still, within one's head.
Some seek their way to the magic
By means that are truly tragic,
When all they really need to do
Is listen as it passes through.
My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight.
O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet.
Only let me make my life simple and straight,
like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
NOTE: This poem is sometimes titled, “My song has put off her adornments,” or – simply – Song VII.
the hills are greening,
after days of endless rain;
the landscape, edgeless.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 