Short Poems

The False words of the Buddhists and Taoists

The false words of the Buddhists and Taoists
are a pack of lies!
Anyone who comprehends this truth
is a real Confucian scholar.
Stupid people are manipulated by other stupid people:
they make offerings of thousands in cash,
and don't get one iota of benefit!

The Wind sighs in the reeds — autumn on the rustic shore

The wind sighs in the reeds — autumn on the rustic shore.
His raincoat covered with raindrops, he returns alone in his boat.
Do not hate this place for its wind and its waves:
there are wind and waves everywhere, and everywhere, sadness.

Pines and cedars, a hundred feet of green, clinging to the earth

Pines and cedars, a hundred feet of green, clinging to the earth.
The hermit's robe is ragged, his hair, spotted with grey.
The desolate mountain is silent — no human voices here!
Among the wolves and tigers, he reads the Tao te ching.

The Mountain pavilion is silent — few people visit me here

The mountain pavilion is silent — few people visit me here.
The bramble gate is patched with mud, my clothes are patched with
leaves.
I never rise from my bamboo bench — my hair is white as snow;
I no longer have a mind to ask for the secret of Zen.

Among red leaves and green mountains, white clouds fly

Among red leaves and green mountains, white clouds fly.
White-shinned horses prance on beams of setting sunlight.
This scene — here before my eyes — is beautiful,
but so hard to put in a poem!
I just can't get the words right, it's driving me out of my mind!

The Rebels' cavalry are everywhere

The rebels' cavalry are everywhere:
our generals did battle over and over again.
Between heaven and earth, lost in broad daylight,
everything was hidden in yellow dust!
And so their blood flowed in rivers and lakes,
their bows and armor lay scattered, away from their bodies.
Who can write an ode, " Summoning Their Souls? "
I entrust my tears to the green reeds.

My thoughts flow in streams around this tower

My thoughts flow in streams around this tower;
the rain slants in, splattering the room.
Sadly I stare at clouds like mountains,
remembering home far away.
There tonight is celebrated the Festival of Mid-Autumn.

Cotton blankets let in the cold

Cotton blankets let in the cold,
dreams will not take shape;
in this hotel room the guttering lamp glimmers,
nearly goes out.
Midnight, two o'clock, four in the morning —
no human sounds at all.
I listen to the wind, listen to the rain,
listen to the sound of the pines.

In a hidden spot on the northern mountain

In a hidden spot on the northern mountain,
reached by a wooden bridge,
the mountain spirit quietly keeps watch
over a grove of flowering kuei .
Fearing that the autumn winds may blow the blossoms down,
I will sleep among these flowers tonight,
along with the cranes and gibbons.

A Traveler, I've been through a thousand changes

A traveler, I've been through a thousand changes.
Thinking of home, my insides turn over nine times!
Here in Yangchou they have good local wine:
What a pity that I'm drinking alone!