NEW YEAR
New Year's Day:
the ancient voice of a
nightingale.
SPRING
idyllic nights
and quiet days:
spring rains.
SUMMER
cold water, and
a couple of rice cakes:
it's summertime.
AUTUMN
morning glories
are tousled by
Autumn winds.
WINTER
lingering wind
and snow fall
upon me.
Evergreen woods and a rough-hewn shack.
The sun sets through clear sky.
I shed my hat as I walk alone,
Listening for songbirds.
No wild geese are flying
From whence my beloved lives.
But in my mind, we are close --
Close enough to touch.
Dark clouds stand over the sea,
But in moonlight river isles gleam.
My eyes and my words stop at
That great river that sprawls ahead.
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 fourth of the twenty-four poems.
The maples have grown old;
Orchards have begun to wither.
The reds and greens have faded.
Climbing the heights, I
Feel the chill of late Autumn.
A ceaseless pounding sound
Drowns out the setting sun.
Remembered sorrows flock
To mind, making new sorrows.
We are separated
By a thousand miles;
From our two distant places
We can't even meet in dreams.
The rain stops, and the sky clears;
One can see the twelve green peaks.
Speechless, who could understand
My angst, as I stand cliffside.
I can write of my grief, but
Will the clouds bring a reply?
Thousands of willow twigs beyond my bower sway;
They try to retain spring, but she won't stay
For long and goes away.
In vernal breeze the willow down still wafts with grace;
It tries to follow spring to find her dwelling place.
Hills and rills greened all over, I hear cuckoos sing;
Feeling no grief, why should they give me a sharp sting?
With wine cup in hand, I ask spring who won't reply.
When evening grizzles,
A cold rain drizzles.
Translation: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, pp. 146-147.
Old trees with tangled hanging tassels
by a deserted temple open to the river.
Rain, rain threw down the clay statues
and wind blew down this ancient building.
Wild birds nest in dusty shrines,
fishermen hold a bamboo lottery cup.
About to play the tune "Mountain Ghost," I stop:
the Verses of Chu make me too sad.
Translation: Barnstone, Tony and Ping, Chou. 2005. The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry: From Ancient to Contemporary. New York: Anchor Books.
Sound of water cascading over rock.
A silent mountain in the night.
Bright moonlight washes over the pines.
One thousand peaks, all in one color.
In the face of heavy morning cloud again
And drizzling evening rain,
Leaning on each other, rugged the hills remain.
The Gorge of Witch and lofty peaks
Lock in the Southern Palace rosy cheeks.
In spring the halberds move in force,
Maids in fair dress welcome heroes on horse,
To the riverside town they go only.
I come to the wasteland a thousand miles away,
With my shadow so lonely.
How can I become cheerful and gay?
It is said the Southern land is so high,
It nearly scrapes the sky.
To the capital I stretch my eye,
I see but misty water far and nigh.
When I drank in the hall,
My friends were talents all.
Songstresses sang with rosy face
And dancers danced with grace,
Drunk, they intoxicated the place.
Hearing the cuckoo's home-going song
All the night long,
Could I resist my yearning strong?
Translation: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, pp. 191-192.
One Hundred Poems of Kabir by Kabir
On this tree is a bird:
It dances in the joy of life.
No one knows where it is:
And who knows what the burden
Of its music may be?
Where the branches throw a deep shade,
There does it have its nest:
And it comes in the evening
And flies away in the morning,
And says not a word
Of that which it means.
None tell me of this bird
That sings within me.
It is neither coloured nor colourless:
It has neither form nor outline:
It sits in the shadow of love.
It dwells within the Unattainable,
The Infinite, and the Eternal;
And no one marks
When it comes and goes.
Kabir says, “O brother Sadhu!
Deep is the mystery.
Let wise men seek to know
where rests that bird.”
NOTE: This is the translation by Rabindranath Tagore from the 1915 text, One Hundred Poems of Kabir. This is poem #30 (XXX) of that volume.
It thrives in silence and with calm --
ephemeral and gossamer.
It's ever-flowing harmony,
gliding with a solitary crane,
wisping like the gentle breezes
that rustle and billow one's robe,
trilling softly like a bamboo flute.
How does one become one with it?
A chance meeting, lucked into, but
don't lunge forward, or it'll vanish.
When you think it's attainable,
it twists in your hand and is gone.
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 second of the twenty-four poems.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 