Chinese 323 Contemplating Nature (1)
Tao Qian/T'ao Ch'ien (365-427)
"Bearers' Songs"
III.
How boundless are the barren grasslands,
The white poplars moan in the wind.
Bitter frost penetrates the ninth month,
When they accompany me to the distant rural area.
All around no one dwells,
The lofty grave mounds alone loom high.
Horses lift up their heads to neigh,
The wind wails by itself.
Once the dark tomb is closed,
I shall never see the sunlight again for a thousand years.
Not being able to see the sunlight again for a thousand years,
Even sages and worthies can do nothing about it.
Those who have come to escort me
Will each return to home.
My relatives may still grieve over my death,
The others have already begun singing.
Dead and gone, what is there to say?
Let me entrust my body to the hillside.
"Home to Farm: No. 1"
Out of tune with the crowd since young:
My instinct: love of mountains
Chance mistake: fall into world's net.
One fall costs thirty long years.
Caged birds miss their home forest.
Pooled fish long for the deep.
I till the waste on the south side.
Still unhewn, I return to my farm.
Circling my house, some acres of land.
Thatched houses, eight or nine.
Elms, willows shade the rear eaves.
Peach, plum line out the front hall.
Hardly visible, distant villages.
Cloud-soft, smoke from hamlets.
Dogs bark in deep lanes.
Cocks crow above mulberries.
My house: not a speck of dust.
Empty rooms: much quiet leisure.
Too long in the shut cage.
Now given to return to nature.
(Wai-lim Yip. tr., Chinese Poetry, p. 164-5)
Xie Lingyun/Hsieh Ling-yün (385-433)
"On My Way from South Mountain to North Mountain, I Glance at the Scenery from the Lake"
At dawn I set out from the sunlit cliffs,
At sunset I take my rest by the shaded peaks.
Leaving my boat, I turn my eyes upon the distant sandbars,
Resting my staff, I lean against the lush pine.
The small mountain paths are far and deep,
The ring-like islets are beautiful and pleasing.
I view the twigs of tall trees above,
I listen to the torrents in the deep valley below.
The rocks lie flat, and the river divides its flow.
The forest is dense, tracks are buried and lost.
What is the effect of Nature's "deliverance" and "becoming"?
All things growing are lush and thriving.
Young bamboos are wrapped in green sheaths,
Fresh rushes embrace their purple flowers.
Seagulls play by the springtime banks,
Wild pheasants sport in the gentle breeze.
A heart that embraces natural transformations is never bored,
Yet the more I contemplate nature, the deeper my concerns get.
I do not lament that the departed is remote,
I only regret that I have no friend as companion.
Traveling alone is not what makes me sigh,
But to whom can I convey the reasons of my appreciation and dissatisfaction?
Xie Tiao/Hsieh T'iao (464-499)
"Visiting a Private Garden"
Dense flowers, choice trees,
Secluded orchids, verdant bamboos.
Above, their lushness makes ample shade,
Below, row after row, they cover the valley.
To the left, fields of fragrant plants as far as the eyes can see,
To the right, plains of aromatic grasses fill the view.
Mountains rise like rosy clouds, and are sheered off,
Waters are brilliant, they ebb and flow.
Now the dimness of spacious open-air chambers,
And the loftiness of the cloud-high lodge.
Wandering around corridors winding up and down,
Facing the deep, wide jade halls,
I ponder hot summer's end,
I look for the first breezes on clear autumn days.
His special favor lets us wander freely,
Meeting, talking, and strolling about at leisure here.
Now the morning sun rests on elms and willows,
Rosy clouds reflect the setting sun.
Lonely cicadas disperse,
Departing birds fly in rows.
Gentle breezes abound, the curtained hall is quiet,
Soothing shadows rise, the pavilion is cool.
Ivory utensils are laid out, along with jade ornaments,
We eat with orchid-patterned wares and drink cassia wine.
I look up at his noble bearing, beautiful beyond measure,
I revere his distinguished manner, as fine as jade.
Relying on his lofty command of literature, we engage in pure conversation,
As we prepare to chew our brushes and hold our pens.
This is as rich as looking at the boundless sea,
To visit the sage is to know our direction.
Wang Wei (701-761)
"Passing the Temple of Piling Fragrance"
I do not know the Temple of Piling Fragrance
Many miles into cloud-peaks.
Ancient trees; no man's path.
Deep in the mountains; where, this bell?
The sound of fountain, sobbing at perilous rocks;
The color of the sun, chilling green pines.
Twilight empties pool's bend,
Peaceful meditation controls virulent dragon.
"Traveling To Ganhua Monastery"
Kingfisher blue, the incense vapors blend;
Like a green jewel, the precious land is flat.
The dragon palace adjoins beamed dwellings,
Tiger caves next to its pillars and eaves.
In the peaceful valley, only the echo of pines;
Deep in the mountains there are no cries of birds.
Jasper peaks, facing the windows, cleave;
The golden stream, piercing the forest, sings.
The road to Ying goes to the end of the clouds;
On the rivers of Qin it clears beyond the rain.
The wild goose king holds the fruit in his beak as gifts,
And the deer woman strolls treading on flowers.
Mustering strength I leave my humble village
To return to the fold and lodge in the Conjured City.
Encircling the hedge wild bracken grows;
In the empty building mountain cherries bloom.
A fragrant meal of dark zizania kernels,
Fine vegetables, and green taro-root broth.
I vow to stay until their pure chants end,
Sitting correctly to study nonrebirth.
(Pauline Yu, tr. The Poetry of Wang Wei, p. 146)
"East River Moon"
The moon, spat from a mountain's broken mouth,
hangs remotely over my firewood gate.
A thousand trees share a hole in the damp sky
but then some black clouds pause overhead.
Sudden moonlight ties unsteady images to whiteness,
in cold dew the earth starts to breathe.
An autumn brook splashes in a still ravine
as blue mist breaks over deep rocks.
Purity flows into my dark dream
while cracked shapes hug the empty peaks.
Standing by my harp-room window over the pine river,
drowsy in the morning, I cannot think.
(Barnstone and Xu, trs., Laughing Lost in the Mountains: Poems of Wang Wei, p.21)