Recent translations
David Lunde/span>
Words to the Tune
‘Spring in Wu-Ling’
Li Qingzhao
The wind dies down, the flowers
are all finished blooming,
though the damp earth is still pungent
with fallen petals.
Tiredly, I give my hair
its evening grooming.
His things are still here, but he is gone—
everything has ended.
I want to speak of my grief
but tears wash my words away.
They say that in Twin Streams
spring is still lovely,
and I think about going there
to drift in small boats on the water.
I only fear that these grasshopper boats
that sail upon Twin Streams
cannot support
this burden of sorrow.
[1135]
NB: This poem was written after the death of her husband. Twin Streams was a favored
resort of poets during the Tang and Song periods.
The imagery of the first stanza sets the tone with a metaphorical presentation of her loss, and the simple directness of the rest, ending in the image of the boat unable to support her sorrow is powerful. She makes me want to weep with her.
Retirement Benefits
Zhang Yanghao
Removed from office,
I retreat to the country,
abandoning my high ambitions.
Perhaps I am unfit,
lazy, undisciplined, not too bright,
since I didn’t realize until today
that I don’t miss them.
Strolling beside lakes and streams,
sporting in the mountains,
I can go anywhere I like now.
After thirty years of work,
this is what I’ve earned.
These undisciplined mountains
share my retirement plans.
Being retired from my teaching job of 34 years, I share his joy at being free, though I’m afraid that I still have ambitions.
Autumn Thoughts
Zhang Kejiu
At sky’s edge, white geese scrawl characters on cold clouds.
In my green phoenix mirror, a pale, hollow face.
The autumn wind last night blew in gusts of sadness.
I was thinking of you, how long since I’ve seen you.
Singing a melancholy song to myself, I opened my wine jug.
I burned the lamp wick down to a stub,
got half drunk on wine,
that kind of night.
This poem seems amazingly modern, and I love the first line.
Written for Someone
Guan Yunshi (1286-1324 CE)
A flight of geese struggles in
fighting the west wind;
I think of the thousand year tragedy
of the Southern Dynasties.
I spread my elegant writing pad
to record deep thoughts.
I’ve hardly begun
when my brush stops in the air—
my mind gone blank.
Once I could capture time and mood
at one swoop, without error.
Today, weary and miserable,
I have written two vain words
about mutual longing.
We’ve all been here.
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