Wen Fu 1: “Poetic Experience” [文賦一] by Lu Ji [陆机] [w/ Audio]

The poet stands in the Center
And stares into deep mysteries.
He's nourished by reading Classics
And tombs of the men in Histories.
He sighs as four seasons pass by
And thinks upon ten-thousand things.
He's saddened by Autumn's leaf drop
And gladdened by the tender Spring.
He feels Winter's frost on his heart,
Though his mind may be up in a cloud.
And when he sings of ancestors'
Heroic deeds, he belts the song aloud.
He combs through great literature
Just as he roams the forest wild,
But in search of a "natural" --
Shown in elegant phrase and style.
And it's just such thoughts and feelings
That set my brush and mind wheeling.

The Original Chinese:

佇中區以玄覽,頤情志於典墳。
遵四時以嘆逝,瞻萬物而思紛。
悲落葉於勁秋,喜柔條於芳春,
心懍懍以懷霜,志眇眇而臨雲。
詠世德之駿烈,誦先人之清芬。
游文章之林府,嘉麗藻之彬彬。
慨投篇而援筆,聊宣之乎斯文。

“Rain on Lotus” by Yang Wanli [w/ Audio]

Asleep on a leaf beneath lotus blooms,
Their fragrance floats across the misty lake.
Sudden rain - taps upon the canopy;
Its sound snaps me from sleep to wide awake!

The lotus is beaded with rain droplets --
Like pearls, drops roll together and apart;
The clear blobs coalesce like mercury,
Dripping to the river... back to their start.

“Spring Rain” by Natsume Sōseki

Spring rain:
a walk amid
wet willows.

“Night Mooring” by Zhang Ji [w/ Audio]

The moon sets; crows caw below frosty skies.
Boats, moored to maples -- lamps glow like cat eyes.
Cold Mountain Temple, outside Gusu's bounds:
The midnight bell cuts off soft water sounds.

“Circular Portrait” by Ikkyū [w/ Audio]

The monk’s entire body is present
in this great circle.
Xutang’s true face and eye
emerge from it.
The blind singer’s love song delights
flowers for ten thousand springs.

Translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi and David Schneider in Essential Zen (1994) HarperSanFrancisco.

“What Was Her Blondness Like” by Juhász Gyula [w/ Audio]

What was her blondness like? I can't recall,
But I do know the blondness of the fields,
When the wheat fields' grain ripen in the Fall,
And in this blondness her presence I feel.

What were her blue eyes like, I can't recall,
But I do know the blueness of the sky,
September morn, or later in the Fall,
And then again I do feel her nearby.

What was her silky voice like? Can't remember,
But in springtime, when fields begin to sigh,
I feel that Anna's voice is calling, tender,
From a past Spring that's as far as the sky.

Translation by Frank Veszely in: Hungarian Poetry: One Thousand Years. 2023. Manitoba, CA: Friesen Press.

“The great road has no gate” by Tiāntóng Rújìng [w/ Audio]

The great road has no gate.
It leaps out from the heads of all of you.
The sky has no road.
It enters into my nostrils.
In this way we meet as Gautama's bandits,
or Linji's troublemakers. Ha!
Great houses tumble down and spring wind swirls.
Astonished, apricot blossoms fly and scatter -- red.

Translated by Mel Weitsman and Kazuaki Tanahashi; printed in: Essential Zen. 1994. HarperSanFrancisco, p. 136.

Note: While Rujing was Chinese he was teacher to the prominent Japanese Zen Teacher, Dōgen Zenji, the latter published this and other poems, hence the dual categorization of it as Chinese and Japanese Literature.

“Wine Spring” by Pan Lang [w/ Audio]

I remember viewing the West Lake
While leaning on a pagoda rail.
The boats all clustered in threes or twos.
The islets under deep Autumn blues.

Flute song arose from among the cattails.
And a line of white birds - overhead - sailed.
I planned to fix my old fishing pole,
but clouds on water had my mind & soul.

“Nightfall on the Tisza River” by Géza Gárdonyi [w/ Audio]

Up comes the Moon on the river,
Trees and grass quietly quiver.
Near Szeged a wooded island,
Od fishing barque, tied to the land.

By the moonlight, on this barque, old,
Sat a fisherman I am told,
Played a tune as well as he might,
Played it well, well into the night.

On the Tisza, velvet darkness,
Starry sky, the stars numberless,
Spread a shroud studded with diamonds
Radiating starry light fronds.

May have been this very spot, hark!
Right under this rickety barque,
In the very depths of the deep
An ancient king's sleeping his sleep.

His coffin is gold and silver,
Of iron is made its cover.
Up the river is glistening,
Down the ancient king, listening.

Translation by Frank Veszely in: Hungarian Poetry: One Thousand Years. 2023. Friesen Press: Altona, MB, Canada.

“Ox” by Ikkyū [w/ Audio]

Among other creatures this is what I was.
Abilities depend on the realm;
realm also depends on abilities.
At birth I forgot completely by which path
I came.
I don't know, these years, which school
of monk I am.

Translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi and David Schneider in Essential Zen. 1994. HarperSanFrancisco.