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Your achievements overshadowed any in the Three Kingdoms; most famous of all was your design for the Eight Formations. Against the river’s surge, they stand solid, immovable, a monument to your lasting regret at failing to swallow up Wu.
tr. David Lunde |
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.... .... Behind the gates of the wealthy food lies rotting from waste Outside it's the poor who lie frozen to death .... .... zhu men jiu rou chou lu you dong si gu .... |
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Tonight my wife must watch alone the full moon over Fu-zhou; I think sadly of my sons and daughters far away, too young to understand this separation or remember our life in Chang'an. In fragrant mist, her flowing hair is damp; In clear moonlight, her jade-white arms are cold. When will we lean at the open casement together while the moonlight dries our shining tears? tr. David Lunde |
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In front of K'ung-ming Shrine stands an old cypress, With branches like green bronze and roots like granite; Its hoary bark, far round, glistens with raindrops, And blueblack hues, high up, blend in with Heaven's: Long ago Statesman, King kept Time's appointment, But still this standing tree has men's devotion; United with the mists of ghostly gorges, Through which the moon brings cold from snowy mountains. (I recall near my hut on Brocade River Another Shrine is shared by King and Statesman On civil, ancient plains with stately cypress: The paint there now is dim, windows shutterless. . .) Wide, wide though writhing roots maintain its station, Far, far in lonely heights, many's the tempest When its hold is the strength of Divine Wisdom And straightness by the work of the Creator. . . Yet if a crumbling Hall needed a rooftree, Yoked herds would, turning heads, balk at this mountain: By art still unexposed all have admired it; But axe though not refused, who could transport it? How can its bitter core deny ants lodging, All the while scented boughs give Phoenix housing? Oh, ambitious unknowns, sigh no more sadly: Using timber as big was never easy! This poem was recited by the Poet Laureate of the United States Robert Pinsky to commemorate President Clinton's visit to China on PBS July 1998.
tr. David Hawks |
Birthplace of Wang Qiang |
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Through flocks of mountains, myriad valleys, I arrive in Jingmen, where Ming-fei was born and bred--* the village is still there. Once she left the crimson terraces, there was nothing but endless desert; only her evergreen grave is left to face the twilight. Portraits have recorded her spring-fresh face; the tinkle of girdle pendants heralds her soul's vain return by moonlight. For a thousand years the pipa has wailed in its alien tongue, as if its strings bemoan in song her tragic tale of grief.
tr. David Lunde |
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Zhu-ge's great name hangs over the whole world; the revered statesman's portrait awes with its sublimity. The empire carved into thirds hindered his designs, yet he soars through the ages, a lone feather in the sky. He is brother to such greats as Yi Yin and Lu Shang;* if he had established control, Xiao and Cao would be forgotten. But the cycle had passed; Han fortunes could not be restored. His military strategy a failure, his hopes dashed, his body perished. tr. David Lunde |
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Often a man's life is such that he seldom sees his friends, like the constellations Shen and Shang which never share the same sky. If not this evening, then what evening should we share this lamp light? How long can our youth and vigor last? The hair at our temples is already gray. We inquire about old acquaintances to find that half are ghosts-- shocked cries betray the torment of our hearts. How could I have known that it would be twenty years before I again entered your honored home. When we parted last you were yet unmarried; now your sons and daughters line up in a smiling row to greet their father's friend. They ask whence I have come but before I can answer all questions you chase them off to bring wine and cups. In the night rain, chives are cut for the freshly steamed rice mixed with yellow millet. Saying how difficult it has been for us to meet at last, you pour ten cups in a row! But even after ten cups I'm not drunk, being so moved by your lasting friendship. Tomorrow we will be separated by the peaks of mountains, each of our worldly affairs lost to the other's sight.
tr. David Lunde |
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Wagons rattling and banging, horses neighing and snorting, conscripts marching, each with bow and arrows at his hip, fathers and mothers, wives and children, running to see them off-- so much dust kicked up you can't see Xian-yang Bridge! And the families pulling at their clothes, stamping feet in anger, blocking the way and weeping-- ah, the sound of their wailing rises straight up to assault heaven. And a passerby asks, "What's going on?" The soldier says simply, "This happens all the time. From age fifteen some are sent to guard the north, and even at forty some work the army farms in the west. When they leave home, the village headman has to wrap their turbans for them; when they come back, white-haired, they're still guarding the frontier. The frontier posts run with blood enough to fill an ocean, and the war-loving Emperor's dreams of conquest have still not ended. Hasn't he heard that in Han, east of the mountains, there are two hundred prefectures, thousands and thousands of villages, growing nothing but thorns? And even where there is a sturdy wife to handle hoe and plough, the poor crops grow raggedly in haphazard fields. It's even worse for the men of Qin; they're such good fighters they're driven from battle to battle like dogs or chickens. Even though you were kind enough to ask, good sir, perhaps I shouldn't express such resentment. But take this winter, for instance, they still haven't demobilized the troops of Guanxi, and the tax collectors are pressing everyone for land-fees-- land-fees!--from where is that money supposed to come? Truly, it is an evil thing to bear a son these days, it is much better to have daughters; at least you can marry a daughter to the neighbor, but a son is born only to die, his body lost in the wild grass. Has my lord seen the shores of the Kokonor? The white bones lie there in drifts, uncollected. New ghosts complain and old ghosts weep, under the lowering sky their voices cry out in the rain."
tr. David Lunde |
at the FengJi Post Station |
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We have come far together, but here we must part; the green hills vainly echo my feelings. When will we again take wine cups in hand to stroll as we did beneath last night's moon? Every district sings sad songs at your leaving; three reigns now you have served with distinction. Now I must go back to my river village alone, and alone live out the rest of my days.
tr. David Lunde |
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You, General Cao Ba, descendant of Cao Cao, now live as a peasant, a cold-door commoner. Your ancestor's heroic age carved out kingdoms of old, and its cultural brilliance, its style, still survive in your work. To learn calligraphy you first studied Lady Wei; your only regret was not surpassing the great Wang Xizhi . You said, "Caught up in my painting, I give no thought to old age; riches and rank are to me no more than clouds floating by." Often summoned to court during the Kaiyuan period, frequently you ascended the dais to receive the Emperor's praise. In the Gallery of Famous Men the noble faces were fading; going to work with your brush you brought back their freshness. On the ministers' heads you repainted their hats of office, at the waists of the fierce generals, their great feathered arrows. The Duke of Bao and Duke of E-- so lifelike their hair bristles-- stand grim, bold and heroic, as if in the midst of battle. The late Emperor's imperial horse, Jade-Flower Dapple, had been painted by artist after artist, but none could capture his essence. One day he was led into the courtyard below the red steps of the palace; standing there by the palace gates he embodied the wind of the plains. At the Emperor's command you stretched white silk to paint on; calling up all of your skill, you formed the image in your mind. In a flash, from the nine-fold heavens, the true "dragon" emerged! At one stroke, the horse paintings of ages were obliterated. When the painting was taken up and hung above the throne, the horse on the wall and that in the yard gazed proudly into each other's face. Smiling, the Emperor hastened his aide to bring a handsome reward; stable-boys and grooms stood long-faced, jealous of His Majesty's favor. Your pupil Han Gan was long since shown all your techniques; he too can paint horses, horses in every stance imaginable, but Gan paints only the outer flesh, not the strength that lies beneath; his brush would dampen the spirit of legendary Hualiu! The General is a superb painter because he captures the essence. In the past you often rendered likenesses of distinguished men; in the present troubled times, uprooted and homeless, you are reduced to painting portraits of humble passersby. So desperate are your straits, you put up with the snubs of commoners-- never in the world has anyone been as poor as you! But look at the lives of famous men throughout history-- they too were forced to deal with endless frustrations.
tr. David Lunde |
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Matchless in breeding and beauty, a fine lady has taken refuge in this forsaken valley. She is of good family, she says, but her fortune has withered away; now she lives as the grass and trees. When the heartlands fell to the rebels her brothers were put to death; birth and position availed nothing-- she was not even allowed to bring home their bones for burial. The world turns quickly against those who have had their day-- fortune is a lamp-flame flickering in the wind. Her husband is a fickle fellow who has a lovely new woman. Even the vetch-tree is more constant, folding its leaves every dusk, and mandarin ducks always sleep with their mates. But he has eyes only for his new woman's smile, and his ears are deaf to his first wife's weeping. High in the mountains spring water is clear as truth, but when it reaches the lowlands it is muddied with rumor. Her serving-maid returns from selling her pearls; she drags a creeper over to cover holes in the roof. The flowers the lady picks are not for her hair, and the handfuls of cypress are a bitter stay against hunger. Her pretty blue sleeves are too thin for the cold; as evening falls she leans on the tall bamboo.
tr. David Lunde |
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Clear autumn at headquarters, wu-tung trees cold beside the well; I spend the night alone in the river city, using up all of the candles. Sad bugle notes sound through the long night as I talk to myself; glorious moon hanging in mid-sky but who looks? The endless dust-storm of troubles cuts off news and letters; the frontier passes are perilous, travel nearly impossible. I have already suffered ten years, ten years of turmoil and hardship; now I am forced to accept a perch on this one peaceful branch.*
tr. David Lunde |
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How to describe Tai mountain? Its green towers above all of Chi and Lu! Here the Creator concentrated divine beauty; its north and south sides split dark from dawn. Chest pounding, you reach the birthplace of clouds; bursting eyes fill with birds returning to nest. Someday I must climb to the very top, look down on all of the little mountains at once.
tr. David Lunde |
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At the home of the Prince of Qi I have often seen you, and in the hall of Cui Jiu, I have heard you sing. Truly these southlands boast unrivalled scenery- to see you once again when the flowers are falling.
tr. David Lunde |
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Hooded crows fly at night over the walls of Chang'an, uttering harsh cries above Welcoming Autumn Gate, then head for people's houses, pecking at the lofty roofs, roofs beneath which high officials scurry to escape barbarians. The golden whip is broken in two, the nine horses are run to death,* but it is still not possible for all of royal blood to flee together... In plain sight below his waist a precious ornament of blue coral, the pitiful prince stands weeping at the corner of the road. When I ask, he refuses to tell either name or surname; he only speaks of his desperation, and begs to become my slave. For a hundred days now he has lain hidden in brambles; there is no whole skin left on his entire body. But the sons and grandsons of Gao-zu all have the same noses- the dragon-seed, naturally, differs from that of ordinary men. Jackals and wolves in the city, dragons lurking in the wilds, the prince had better take care of that thousand-tael body!* I don't dare talk long here in plain view by the crossroads, but for the sake of my prince I will stay for a moment. Last night the east wind blew in the stench of blood, and camels from the east filled the former Capital.* The Shuo-fang veterans were known as skilled warriors, they always seemed so fierce, but now how foolish they look! It is rumored that the Son of Heaven has already abdicated, but also that the Khan is lending his support, that the men of Hua gashed their faces and begged to wipe out this disgrace. Say nothing! Someone else may be hiding and listening. Alas, Prince, you must be careful, stay on guard, and may the spirits of the Five Tombs* watch over you always. |
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Third day, third month festival, and the air fresh with spring; beside Serpentine Lake in Chang'an, many lovely women stroll. Their appearance is elegant, their thoughts lofty and refined, their complexions delicate, figures in perfect proportion. Their embroidered silk gowns glisten with spring light; golden peacocks and beasts of silver strut upon the fabric. What is it that they wear upon their heads? Jeweled headbands with kingfisher feathers, dangling to their hairlines. And what is it that we see upon their backs? Pearl-studded overskirts drawn tight at the waist. Among them are kin of the Pepper-flower Chamber* with its cloud-patterned curtains- the Duchesses of Guo and Qin, honored with the names of nations! A great roast of purple camel hump rises from a green cauldron, and crystal plates gleam with heaps of white-scaled fish. But the rhinoceros horn chopsticks,* long-sated, are slow to descend, and the belled knife-handles dance vainly above the roast. The flying steeds of the eunuchs hardly stir the dust, as they bear in eight exotic dishes from the Imperial Kitchens. |
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Sharp wind, towering sky, apes howling mournfully; untouched island, white sand, birds flying in circles. Infinite forest, bleakly shedding leaf after leaf; inexhaustible river, rolling on wave after wave. Through a thousand miles of melancholy autumn, I travel; carrying a hundred years of sickness, I climb to this terrace. Hardship and bitter regret have frosted my temples-- and what torments me most? Giving up wine!
tr. David Lunde |
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The city has fallen: only the hills and rivers remain. In Spring the streets were green with grass and trees. Sorrowing over the times, the flowers are weeping. The birds startled my heart in fear of departing. The beacon fires were burning for three months, A letter from home was worth ten thousand pieces of gold. I scratch the scant hairs on my white head, And vainly attempt to secure them with a hairpin. |
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Separation by death must finally be choked down, but separation in life is a long anguish, Chiang-nan is a pestilential land; no word from you there in exile. You have been in my dreams, old friend, as if knowing how much I miss you. Caught in a net, how is it you still have wings? I fear you are no longer mortal; the distance to here is enormous. When your spirit came, the maples were green; when it went, the passes were black. The setting moon spills light on the rafters; for a moment I think it's your face. The waters are deep, the waves wide; don't let the river gods take you. tr. Mike O'Connor |
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Clouds drifting the whole day; a traveler traveling who never arrives. Three nights you have been in my dreams; as your friend, I knew your mind. You say your return is always harrowing; your coming, a hard coming; Rivers, lakes, so many waves; in your boat you fear overturning. Going out the door, you scratch your white head as if the purpose of your whole life was ruined, The rich and high positioned fill the Capital, while you, alone, are careworn and dejected. Who says the net of heaven is cast wide? Growing older, you only grow more preyed upon. One thousand autumns, ten thousand years of fame, are nothing after death. tr. Mike O'Connor |
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