Short Poems

An old monk perches at the tip of a tree —
but this is only external samadhi!
Master Wu's brush is imbued with spirit,
but even he can't paint the Buddha-Nature!

Three feet of mud in this narrow alley:
no one comes to visit me, hidden in seclusion.
Whistling at the window, the wind keeps me from sleep;
dampening the stove, raindrops make poverty even worse.
On country roads, wild flowers greet the traveler,
on bridges spanning the river, willows see him off.
For now, I must lead this primitive life
and rest this exiled body as best I can.

Suddenly, warm weather, I change to lighter clothes.
Quietly, I stroll along the green banks.
The birds chirp, as if they had a complaint;
the flowers look saddened, as if lamenting some loss.
I remember the older generations for their integrity,
and stand in awe of the young for their talents.
I feel a natural love for the pleasures of the country:
I've never purposely hidden from the world of reputation!

Reflections in the river: trembling spring trees.
High-water marks: engraved on the evening sand.
Green reeds, three feet of rainwater;
red hibiscus, a hedgeful of blossoms.
Leave your country, and you still think of your country.
Return home, and you go on dreaming of home!
I have never had a desire for rank and salary:
why do I have to be so far from the capital?

There was no reason to expect sadness
to visit my little studio.
May I ask, who escorted sadness here,
who introduced it?
But no, it's just that the old year
never took its sadness away —
it's not that the new year
brought in a new supply.

Willow catkins beyond the garden wait for evening tides;
across the stream, leaves of peachtrees
border the red bridge.
It is dusk: as I gaze in concentration
at springtime like a river,
beyond the T-pattern blinds of the Ting Family house
it is the Six Dynasties again.

Pavilions of dance, terraces of song,
clusters of lovely silks!
Yet now, no traces of visitors,
only springtime wind.
" Treading the Green, " unlimited
feelings of lamentation
all absorbed into the setting orb
of the Southern Dynasties.

Narcissus and chrysanthemum —
lovely shapes together;
she places them in a porcelain vase,
two or three of each.
Bending low beside the little window
in flickering lamplight shadows,
my jade one has risen from her sick bed,
braving the cold air.

Clusters of cold-weather blossoms,
standing quietly:
each branch weighted with mottled beauty now.
I think of consulting you for tips on flower arrangement —
but here they are before my eyes, in lamplight,
against a white wall.

Write in a lively style, as fish swim in the water;
in the midst of substance, put in something light.
The ancients wrote books without using any theory:
writers of today can't write a thing
unless they have a theory.