I sit alone on an empty step, the crystal dew is chill; As night grows deep a certain shadow falls upon my robe. From whence that sound of pestles pounding, hurrying the moon, Gazing down on a forlorn figure—heart about to break?
We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Just a short stay at the Capital But it is already the mid autumn festival Chrysanthemums infect the landscape Autumn is making its mark The infernal isolation has become unbearable here All eight years of it make me long for my home It is the bitter guile of them forcing us women into femininity We cannot win! Despite our ability, men hold the highest rank But while our hearts are pure, those of men are rank My insides are afire in anger at such an outrage How could vile men claim to know who I am? Heroism is borne out of this kind of torment To think that so putrid a society can provide no camaraderie Brings me to tears!
I swim in that long river And rest on its bank. I climb that high hillcrest And cut the wild thorn. Alas! I journey afar, Alone I travel, in utter solitude. I look up at that temperate wind And shed tears like the rain.
Time was, long before I met her, but longer still, since we parted, The east wind is powerless, for it has come and a hundred flowers are gone, And the silk-worms of spring will spin until they die And every night candles will weep their wicks away. In the morning mirror she sees her temple hair changing the color of clouds Chanting poems in the chill of moonlight. Oh, it is not so very far to Penglai O blue-birds listen, bring me what she says.
We present this work in honor of the Ching Ming Festival.
By this wall that surrounds the three Qin districts, Through a mist that makes five rivers one, We bid each other a sad farewell, We two officials going opposite ways…. And yet, while China holds our friendship, And heaven remains our neighbourhood, Why should you linger at the fork of the road, Wiping your eyes like a heart-broken child?
In the year tan-o, Fourth month, first month of summer, The day kuei-tzu, when the sun was low in the west, An owl came to my lodge And perched on the corner of my mat, Phlegmatic and fearless. Secretly wondering the reason The strange thing had come to roost, I took out a book to divine it And the oracle told me its secret: “Wild bird enters the hall; The master will soon depart.” I asked and importuned the owl, “Where is it I must go? Do you bring good luck? Then tell me! Misfortune? Relate what disaster! Must I depart so swiftly? And speak to me of the hour!” The owl breathed a sigh, Raised its head and beat its wings. Its beak could utter no word, But let me tell you what it sought to say: All things alter and change, Never a moment of ceasing, Revolving, whirling, and rolling away, Driven far off and returning again, Form and breath passing onward, Like the mutations of the cicada. Profound, subtle, and illimitable, Who can finish describing it?
Good luck must be followed by bad, Bad in turn bow to good. Sorrow and joy throng the gate, Weal and woe in the same land. Wu was powerful and great; Under Fu-ch’a it sank in defeat. Yüeh was crushed at K’uai-chi, But Kou-chien made it an overlord. Li Ssu, who went forth to greatness, at last Suffered the five mutilations. Fu Yüeh was sent into bondage, Yet Wu Ting made him his aide. Thus fortune and disaster Entwine like the strands of a rope. Fate cannot be told of, For who shall know its ending? Water, troubled, runs wild; The arrow, quick-sped, flies far. All things, whirling and driving, Compelling and pushing each other, roll on. The clouds rise up, the rains come down, In confusion inextricably joined. The Great Potter fashions all creatures, Infinite, boundless, limit unknown. There is no reckoning Heaven, Nor divining beforehand the Tao. The span of life is fated; Man cannot guess its ending.
Heaven and earth are the furnace, The workman, the Creator; His coal is the yin and the yang, His copper, all things of creation. Joining, scattering, ebbing and flowing, Where is there persistence or rule? A thousand, a myriad mutations, Lacking and end’s beginning. Suddenly they form a man: How is this worth taking thought of? They are transforming again in death: Should this perplex you? The witless take pride in his being, Scorning others, a lover of self. The man of wisdom sees vastly And knows what all things will do. The covetous run after riches, The impassioned pursue a fair name; The proud die struggling for power, While the people long only to live. Each drawn and driven onward, They hurry east and west. The great man is without bent; A million changes are as one to him. The stupid man chained by custom Suffers like a prisoner bound. The sage abandons things And joins himself to the Tao alone, While the multitudes in delusion With desire and hate load their hearts. Limpid and still, the true man Finds his peace in the Tao alone.
Discarding wisdom, forgetful of form, Transcendent, destroying self, Vast and empty, swift and wild, He soars on wings of the Tao. Borne on the flood he sails forth; He rests on the river islets. Freeing his body to Fate, Unpartaking of self, His life is a floating, His death a rest. And stillness like the stillness of deep springs, Like an unmoored boat drifting aimlessly, Valuing not the breath of life, He embraces and drifts with Nothing. Comprehending Fate and free of sorrow, The man of virtue heads no bounds. Petty matters, weeds and thorns– What are they to me?