Chinese 323 Drinking (1)Tao Qian/T'ao Ch'ien (365-427)
"Drinking Alone in the Rainy Season"
Whatever lives comes to its end at last,
From the beginning of time it has been so.
If immortals Song and Qiao once lived
Where do you suppose they are today?
The old fellow who sent this gift of wine
Said to drink it makes a man immortal.
I try a cup, and all my cares are gone,
More, and all at once I forget Heaven.
But is Heaven so far from this after all?
Nothing tops the one who trusts the True.
The cloud-high crane with wonderful wings
Can reach the ends of the earth in a moment of time.
Since I first embraced my solitary state
I have struggled through forty years.
I have long since surrendered my body to change
My heart is untouched--what more is there to say?
"On Stopping Wine"
My dwelling stops beside the city wall,
Rambling about I stop in idleness.
Sitting I stop beneath the high shade trees,
I stroll and stop inside my rustic gate.
My favorite food stops with garden mallows,
My greatest pleasure stops with my youngest son.
All my life long I never stopped drinking:
When I stopped there was no pleasure left.
If I stopped in the evening I could not sleep,
If mornings I stopped I could not get out of bed.
Every day I would be about to stop,
But if I stopped my pulse became erratic.
I only knew that stopping was no fun,
I did not know that stopping could be good.
Then I saw it would be good to stop,
And this morning stop I really did.
Starting now and from this final stop
I shall stop in the land of the immortals.
On my new face will stop the bloom of youth
And for a million years will never stop.
"Finding Fault with My Sons"
Over my temples the white hair hangs,
My wrinkled skin is past filling out.
Although five sons belong to me
Not one is fond of brush and paper.
Already Shu is twice times eight--
For laziness he has no match.
At A-Xuan's age one should study,
But love of letters is not in him.
Both Yong and Duan count thirteen years
And cannot add up six to seven.
Tongzi is getting toward nine
And all he wants are pears and chestnuts.
If this is the way it is fated to be,
Just let me reach for the Thing in the Cup.
(James Hightower, The Poetry of T'ao Ch'ien, p. 163)
"Drinking Wine: Twenty Poems"
Preface
Living in retirement here I have few pleasures, and now the nights are growing longer; so, as I happen to have some excellent wine, not an evening passes without a drink. All alone with my shadow I empty a bottle until suddenly I find myself drunk. And once I am drunk I write a few verses for my own amusement. In the course of time the pages have multiplied, but there is no particular sequence in what I have written. I have had a friend make a copy, with no more in mind than to provide a diversion.
VII
The fall chrysanthemums have lovely colors.
I pluck the petals that are wet with dew
And float them in this Care Dispelling Thing
To strengthen my resolve to leave the world.
I drink my solitary cup alone
And when it's empty, pour myself another.
The sun goes down, and all of nature rests
Homing birds fly chirping toward the grove.
I sit complacent on the east verandah
Having somehow found my life again.
VIII
In the eastern garden grows a green pine,
Its beauty hidden by surrounding growth
Until black frost destroys the other plants
Leaving lofty branches there revealed.
Among the other trees it goes unmarked
When isolated, everyone admires.
I lift my jug to hang on a cold branch
From time to time I stare into the distance:
Born into the midst of dream-illusion
Why should I submit to dusty bonds?
XIII
I always have two guests who lodge with me
Whose inclinations keep them far apart;
One is always getting drunk alone
One stays sober all the year around.
They Laugh at one another, drunk and sober,
And neither understands the other's words.
How very stupid is this hidebound fellow!
The drunkard's detachment seems wiser.
A word of counsel to the drunk guest:
Light the candles when the sun goes down.
XIV
Sympathetic friends who know my tastes
Bring wine jug when they come to visit.
Sitting on the ground beneath the pine tree
A few cups of wine make us drunk
Venerable elders gabbing all at once
And pouring from the bottle out of turn.
Aware no more that our own 'I' exists (note)
How are we to value other things?
So rapt we are not sure of where we are-
In wine there is a taste of profundity.
Bao Zhao/Pao Chao (?-466)
"The Weary Road" (No. 4 of 18 Poems)
Water spilt on level ground
Runs east, west, south and north.
A man's life is also ruled by fate,
Why must we sigh as we journey;
Grieve as we sit?
Pour out the wine and let us take our ease!
Raise our goblets, and sing no more
Of the weary road.
A man's heart isn't wood or stone,
How could it be without feeling?
I weep, I hesitate, and I swallow my plaint,
Not daring to speak.
Zheng Zhen/Cheng Chen (1806-1864)
"Responding to [Tao] Yuanming's 'Drinking Wine' Poems"
In the seventh month of the renyin year (1842), I returned home tired from the district office and did not wish to go out. Every time I drank several cups of wine, I would feel inspired to write something to respond to the poems by Tao [Qian]. By the tenth month, I had accumulated many, many poems. I have now discarded what was merely repetitious and saved enough to express my feelings.
X.
Sad, sad is the bird in a cage:
All its life, it chases the four corners.
Man is the quintessence of all things,
And yet he's confined to No Exit.
How does he compare with horses and oxen?
Driven alike by fame and profit.
Alas, he dies halfway on his journey home,
Without a single thing to call his own.
Is it that his mansion is not commodious?
It's only that no one can live there forever.
XI.
Born to cling to this human road,
Who can deviate from its path?
Twisting, turning, there's no other way.
Alas, both the Buddha and Lao Tzu
Exhausted all their ideas,
Only one day to stiffen and die.
Since dying for naught benefits no one,
Isn't it best to submit to life?
A pot of wine in front of you--
Is truly a priceless treasure.
Let me place myself always in the crowd
And watch you climb to the pinnacle.