by Li Bai
if you think of it, grab your ch’in and come again.
SENT TO MY TWO CHILDREN IN SHA-CH’IU
Here in Wu, mulberry leaves lush green,
silkworms have already slept three times.
My family’s stayed behind in Sha-ch’iu,
no one to plant Kuei Mountain fields,
no one to do spring work, and here I am
wandering rivers, more and more dazed.
A south wind carries my heart back, its
flight coming to rest outside the upstairs
drinking-room, where a lone peach stands,
branches in leaf sweeping azure mist.
I planted it there before leaving them,
and now three years have slipped away:
it’s already reached the upstairs windows,
but my travels haven’t brought me back.
Our darling P’ing-yang picks blossoms
and leans against it, picks blossoms
and looks for a father she can’t see,
her tears flowing the way springs flow.
And how fast he’s grown— little Po-ch’in
standing shoulder-high to his big sister!
My two kids under that peach together—
who comforts them with loving hugs now?
The sense of things blank, grief burning
through me day after day, I measure out
silk and write these far-away thoughts
sent traveling the Wen-yang River home.
IN THE STONE GATE MOUNTAINS, GONE LOOKING FOR YÜAN TAN-CH’IU
No plans to go looking for such solitude,
I set out on a whim, never mind distance.
Hiking up through boundless cliffs hard,
broad daylight’s fading away in no time,
and before I pass three or four mountains,
the path’s taken a million twists and turns.
In silence, deep silence, a gibbon shrieks.
I walk on and on, watching clouds build,
then a perfect moon clears towering pines,
opening autumn clarity into an empty valley.
There’s still old snow in ravines up here,
and cold streams begin among broken rock.
Countless peaks deep in heaven, I climb on,
gazing into them, but they’re inexhaustible.
Then Tan-ch’iu calls out in these distances,
and spotting me, breaks into a sudden smile.
Watchful, I cross into this valley, seeing
in it the ease you’ve mastered in stillness,
and soon we’re lingering out ageless night,
leaving talk of return for clear dawn light.
IMPROMPTU CHANT
Dinner brings the savor of country fields,
and serving wine, we pour distant waters.
Watching the river flow east inexhaustibly
here, we can see how this farewell feels.
WAR SOUTH OF THE GREAT WALL
Delirium, battlefields all dark and delirium,
convulsions of men swarm like armies of ants.
A red wheel in thickened air, the sun hangs
above bramble and weed blood’s dyed purple,
and crows, their beaks clutching warrior guts,
struggle at flight, grief-glutted, earthbound.
Those on guard atop the Great Wall yesterday
became ghosts in its shadow today. And still,
flags bright everywhere like scattered stars,
the slaughter keeps on. War-drums throbbing:
my husband, my sons— you’ll find them all
there, out where war-drums keep throbbing.
FAREWELL TO YIN SHU
We drink deeply beneath dragon bamboo,
our lamp faint, the moon cold again.
On the sandbar, startled by drunken song,
a snowy egret lifts away past midnight.
CHING-T’ING MOUNTAIN, SITTING ALONE
The birds have all vanished into deep
skies. The last cloud drifts away, aimless.
Inexhaustible, Ching-t’ing Mountain and I
gaze at each other, it alone remaining.
AT HSÜAN-CHOU, I CLIMB HSIEH T'IAO’S NORTH TOWER IN AUTUMN
This river town could be in a painting:
mountains at dusk, clear-sky views empty.
Two rivers inscribing a lit inlay of mirror,
a pair of fallen rainbows for bridges,
kitchen-smoke veins cold orange groves,
and autumn stains ancient wu-tung trees.
Who’ll remember someone facing wind
on North Tower, thinking of Hsieh T’iao?
AT HSIEH T’IAO’S HOUSE
A lingering, Ch’ing Mountain sun sinks.
It’s all silence at Hsieh T’iao’s home now:
sounds of people among bamboo gone,
the moon mirrored white in a pool empty.
Dry grasses fill the deserted courtyard.
Green moss shrouds the forgotten well.
Nothing stirs but the clarity of breezes
playing mid-stream across water and stone.
HEAVEN’S-GATE MOUNTAIN
Mountains set apart over the river,
two peaks face each other. Reflecting
chill colors of shoreline pine, waves
shatter apart into rock-torn bloom.
Heaven’s distant borders ragged, haze
beyond clear sky and flushed cloud,
the sun sinks, a boat far off leaving
as I turn my head, deep in azure mist.
ON HSIEH T’IAO’S TOWER IN HSÜAN-CHOU: A FAREWELL DINNER FOR SHU YÜN
Leaving our departures behind, yesterday’s
sunlight is light I couldn’t hold back,
and throwing my heart into confusion, today’s
sunlight is light bringing tangled sorrows.
Facing ten-thousand-mile winds, autumn geese leaving,
we can still laugh and drink in this tower tonight,
chant poems of Immortality Land, ancient word-bones.
The clarity of Hsieh T’iao reappears here among us:
all embracing, thoughts breaking free into flight,
we ascend azure heaven, gaze into a bright moon.
But slice water with a knife, and water still flows,
empty a winecup to end grief, and grief remains grief.
You never get what you want in this life, so why not
shake your hair loose on a boat at play in dawn light?
MOURNING OLD CHI, HSÜAN-CHOU’S MASTER WINEMAKER
Down there in graveland, old Chi
goes on making his Old Spring wine.
Dawn never cuts night short there,
but who comes to buy your wine now?
LISTENING TO A MONK’S CH’IN DEPTHS
Carrying a ch’in cased in green silk, a monk
descended from O-mei Mountain in the west.
When he plays, even in a few first notes,
I hear the pines of ten thousand valleys,
and streams rinse my wanderer’s heart clean.
Echoes linger among temple frost-fall bells,
night coming unnoticed in emerald mountains,
autumn clouds banked up, gone dark and deep.
MOURNING CHAO
Chao left our imperial city for his Japanese homeland,
a lone flake of sail. Now he wanders islands of immortals.
Foundering in emerald seas, a bright moon never to return
leaves white, grief-tinged clouds crowding our southlands.
DRUNK ON T’UNG-KUAN MOUNTAIN, A QUATRAIN
I love this T’ung-kuan joy. A thousand
years, and still I’d never leave here.
It makes me dance, my swirling sleeves
sweeping all Five-Pine Mountain clean.
ON AUTUMN RIVER, ALONG PO-KO SHORES
1
Where could evening wandering be so fine?
Here along Po-ko shores, the moon bright,
mountain light trembles on drifted snow,
and gibbon shadow hangs from cold branches.
Only when this exquisite light dies away,
only then I turn my oars and start back.
When I came, it was such bright clear joy.
Now, it’s all these thoughts of you again.
2
In the Po-ko night, a long wind howls.
Streams and valleys turn suddenly cold.
Fish and dragons roaming shoreline waters,
billows surge and waves swell everywhere.
Though heaven’s loaned its moon, bright
moon come soaring over emerald clouds,
I can’t see my old home anywhere. Heart-
stricken, I face west and look and look.
AUTUMN RIVER SONGS
1
Long like autumn, all desolate silence,
Autumn River will return you to sorrow.
Unable to gauge this wanderer’s sorrow,
I climb Ta-lou Mountain to the east
and gaze west into Ch’ang-an distances.
Looking down at the river flowing past,
I call out to its waters: So how is it
you’ll remember nothing of me, and yet
you’d carry this one handful of tears
so very far— all the way to Yang-chou?
2
Autumn River’s white gibbons seem countless,
a dancing flurry of leaps, snowflakes flying:
coaxing kids out of the branches, they descend,
and in a frolic, drink at the moon in water.
3
Wandering Autumn River in sorrow, I gaze into
Autumn River blossoms fiercely. Soon, it rivals
Yen-hsien for lovely mountains and streams,
and for wind and sun, it’s another Ch’ang-sha.
4
Of these thousand-fold Autumn River peaks,
Waterwheel Mountain’s unrivaled: heaven
tipped over, rock nearly pouring down,
and the water sweeps trees clean of moss.
5
There’s a flake of rock on Chiang-tzu Peak,
a painted screen azure heaven sweeps clean.
The poem inscribed here keeps all boundless
antiquity alive— green words in moss brocade.
6
A million rock-cedars spread away here,
a hundred million stands of privet trees,
and white egrets fill endless mountains.
But white gibbons on stream after stream
howl. Stay away from Autumn River:
gibbon cries shatter a wanderer’s heart.
7
Sentinel Rock mid-stream at Bird-Path Mountain,
Ancestor River appearing at Angler Bridge—
in wild water, the boat flies downstream,
mountain-flower scents rinsing my face clean.
8
The river’s a bolt of bleached silk,
and earth stretches away into heaven.
I can ride bright moonlight, ascend
on this wine-boat, gazing at blossoms.
9
The pellucid moon in crystalline water
brightening, a snowy egret takes flight.
He heard her gathering chestnuts. Singing
in the night, they share the road home.
10
Smelter fires light up heaven and earth,
red stars swirling through purple smoke.
In the moonlit night, men’s faces flushed,
worksong echoes out over the cold river.
11
Thirty thousand feet of white hair….
It seems grief began that long ago,
and yet, in the bright mirror I wonder
where all this autumn frost came from.
12
Hardly ashore at Clear Creek, I hear it:
clarity, a voice of such perfect clarity.
At dusk, in farewell to a mountain monk,
I bow in deep reverence to white cloud.
ON AUTUMN RIVER AT CLEAR CREEK, FACING WINE IN THE SNOWY NIGHT: ONE OF US CAN CALL OUT IN PARTRIDGE SONG
Loosening my sable cloak, I face
white-jade winejars. Snowflakes
melt into our wine, and suddenly
it seems night cold isn’t so cold.
A visitor here from Kuei-yang
calls mountain partridge. Clear
wind rustles bamboo at the window.
Peacock cries start breaking out.
This is music enough. Why tell
flutes and pipes our troubles?
CLEAR CREEK CHANT
It renders the mind clear— Clear Creek,
its water unrivaled for such pure color.
I can gaze into the bottom of its always
fresh repose. Is there anything like this
brilliant mirror in which people walk?
It’s a wind-painting birds cross through,
and at nightfall, shrieking monkeys leave
all lament over distant wandering empty.
VISITING SHUI-HSI MONASTERY
Heaven Temple, Shui-hsi Monastery:
east wall lit beneath cloud brocade,
sounds of a clear stream tumbling past,
green bamboo harboring tower rooms.
The day unfettered under a cool wind,
we recluse guests mostly take it easy:
we think of sable-fur robes, chat about
autumn frost-fall, though it’s only June,
old rock vines spreading, new leaves
opening on shoreline bamboo-shoots.
Chanting lazily, heart growing empty,
you think of all this and write lovely
lines. Everyone admires your poems,
rhymes floating boundless and clear.
Come here just this once, how is it I’m
content in Snow Mountain’s answer?
WAR, EXILE, AND LATER YEARS
(A.D. 755-762)
ON PHOENIX TOWER IN CHIN-LING
In its travels, the phoenix stopped at Phoenix Tower,
but soon left the tower empty, the river flowing away.
Blossoms and grasses burying the paths of a Wu palace,
Chin’s capped and robed nobles all ancient gravemounds,
the peaks of Triple Mountain float beyond azure heavens,
and midstream in open waters, White-Egret Island hovers.
It’s all drifting clouds and shrouded sun. Lost there,
our Ch’ang-an’s nowhere in sight. And so begins grief.
AT CHIN-LING
Tucked into the earth, Chin-ling City,
the river curving past, flowing away:
there were once a million homes here,
and red towers along narrow lanes.
A vanished country all spring grasses
now, the palace buried in ancient hills,
this moon remains, facing the timeless
island across Hou Lake waters, empty.
ANCHORED OVERNIGHT AT NIU-CHU, THINKING OF ANCIENT TIMES
On West River at Niu-chu, night comes
all deep blue heavens, no trace of cloud.
From our boat, I watch the autumn moon,
hopes that Hsieh An’s army will rescue
China empty. However immortal my song,
he’d never hear it, never come. At dawn,
we’ll raise our sails into wind, sunlit
maple leaves falling and scattering away.
AFTER AN ANCIENT POEM
Years turn suddenly. Frost thickening
on Mongol winds, heaven and earth
converge. Grasslands facing a winter
moon dead, the six-dragon sun falls
beyond western wastes. Comets scatter
ethereal light. Venus rises in the east.
And somehow we’ve flown to safety here,
a pair of duc
ks in foreign southlands.
In the old days, it was falcons and dogs
for killing, now it’s dukes and kings,
flood-dragons roaming all our waters,
fighting for ponds, seizing phoenixes—
and Northern Dipper never pours wine,
nor Southern Winnow fill with grain.
WRITTEN ON A WALL AT HSIU-CHING MONASTERY IN WU-CH’ANG
Now a monastery on southern river-banks,
this was once my northern kinsman’s home.
There’s no one like him now. Courtyards
empty, monks sit deep in temple silence.
His books remain, bound in ribbon-grass,
and white dust blankets his ch’in stand.
He lived simply, planting peach and plum,
but in nirvana, springtime never arrives.
DRINKING WITH SHIH LANG-CHUNG, I HEAR A FLUTE ON YELLOW-CRANE TOWER SING
Leaving Wu-ch’ang alone, an exile sent wandering away,
I gaze west toward Ch’ang-an, home nowhere in sight.
On Yellow-Crane Tower, there’s a jade-pure flute singing
in this river town, this fifth month, Plum Blossoms Falling.
9/9, OUT DRINKING ON DRAGON MOUNTAIN
9/9, out drinking on Dragon Mountain,
I’m an exile among yellow blossoms smiling.
Soon drunk, I watch my cap tumble in wind,
dance in love— a guest the moon invites.
9/10 GOINGS-ON
Yesterday was our grand scale-the-heights day,
and this morning I’m tipping the cup again.
Poor chrysanthemum. No wonder you’re so bitter,
suffering our revels these two days straight.
