Chinese 323 Visiting a Friend (2)

Meng Haoran/Meng Hao-jan (689-740)

"Stopping at a Friend's Farm"

 

My old friend prepares chicken and millet

And invites me to visit his home in the fields

Green trees enclose the country village,

Blue hills slope upwards from the outskirts.

Opening the window, we face fields and garden,

Lifting our cups, talk of mulberry and hemp.

Wait till the Autumn Festival comes again,

I will return in time for the blooming chrysanthemums.

(Daniel Bryant, tr., Sunflower Splendor, p. 95)

 

Mei Yaochen/Mei Yao-Ch'en (1002 - 1060)

"Back from Green Dragon, Presented to Xie Shizhi"

 

Away from you three or four years,

tall and skinny exactly as before,

only your beard a bit bushier and blacker,

in learning long ago a shoulder above me;

and I--old now, no more use,

white hair stringy, the top about to go--

the things I write are out of tune with the times;

a peaked wife, babies bawling, no more money--

luckily with the Classics I can while away the bright days;

wealth and power--why aim for the blue sky?

Drinking wine these days, I never take much;

before the cup's filled again my belly starts to churn.

Last night you and I drank and joked;

a few rounds and I'd nodded off.

Cocks crow, dogs bark, in my ears a buzzing;

I raise my head--the whole room spins around.

Up, I pull at my headcloth but it won't stay straight.

Hoist sail, let's be off to the gray sea's border!

or better, climb a whale and ride ten thousand li--

but I have no lightning, no whip of crackling thunder;

courage stumbles, my heart quails--should I take a nap?

In dreams once I come to a rush-grown shore.

I'll not be staying to drink with you again,

and who can manage to die drunk like the banished immortal?

(Burton Watson, tr., Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, pp. 337-8)

 

Su Shi/Su Shih (1037-1101)

"On the Winter Sacrifice Day I Visit Lone Mountain and the Two Monks Huiqin and Huisi"

 

The sky looks like snow; clouds fill the lake.

Tower and terrace flicker, and the hills come and go.

Through clear waters pebbles show, and I can count the fish;

There's no one for the woods are deep--just birds calling each other.

On this day of winter sacrifice, I do not go home to be with wife and children;

Seeking these men of the Way is in fact for pleasing myself.

Where do these men of the Way live?

Where road twists and turns, before the Jewel Clouds Mountain.

Lone Mountain, lonesomely cut off--who would build a lodge there?

With the men of the Way, possessing the Way, the mountain is not lonely.

Paper windows on a bamboo hut, deep within it is warm,

In hemp cassocks, they sit asleep on round mats.

Cold skies and distant road worry my servant;

He puts on the saddle, and hastens my way back, it's still in the afternoon when we get back.

Coming out of the mountain I turn to gaze where trees meet the clouds,

And just see a wild hawk circling over the pagoda.

This trip has been simple and bland, but the joy lingers.

Arriving home I am in a daze, proud of the dream.

I write this poem hurriedly to follow and catch what is slipping away

For a scene of purity is not to be captured once it escapes.

 

Zhou Mi/Chou Mi (1232-1298?)

To the Tune of San fan Dujiangyun (Cloud Crosses the River: With Three Interruptions)

 

A frozen brook, empty at year's end--

The shadows of geese in an expansive desolation

Fall on shallow water and on frigid sand.

That time we're riding on the nightly joy

On a lone boat in the cloud and snow

To visit an old acquaintance.

The woods have not shown any sign of green,

Tidings of flowery scent are warm, but in the mirror are frosty flowers.

Leaning on the high tower, we connected poems and called for more wine

As the colors of the night took away the crows.

 

Can I afford to lament?

Jade pendants clatter,

The mountains screen, and clouds clothe

As, again, a tiny boat goes down to east.

In recall the old garden, the cold sky, leaning on the bamboo,

And the thin sleeves and the silk shawl.

The poetry container is not the same as years go by

In early days, my poems were warm, like vibrating spring and sweet-smelling reeds.

I cast away my sorrows

As I alone pluck plum flowers along the brook.