Classic Poem

Wu Wei grew old and died,
he's no longer to be seen;
in vain do scholars of painting in our world
sigh in admiration!
I look at this handscroll,
Painting of River and Mountains:
exalted floating, vision
that approaches the Void!
I imagine that when he moistened his brush
and touched it to the silk,
wine-drunk, with the brushstrokes
his spiritual bones stuck out.
Over ten thousand miles of blue sky,
oceans and mountains move,
in the empty room in broad daylight
clouds and fog float forth.
Land-spits crumble, banks collapse,
swallowed by ranges of waves;
islands and islets cast reflections
churning up whirlpools below.
Along the river, ten thousand boats
all set out at once;
in midstream — whistling, whistling —
wind whips up their sails!
Crashing waves and thundering tides —
this can't keep up for long;
fishermen and boatmen, each of them
anxiously looks back.
Parting geese — from afar
this seems the Seven Marshes;
falling blossoms — one might mistake it for
the entrance to Peach Blossom Spring.
Among misty peaks, old and hoary,
are limned two old men:
their faces, hair, clothes, and caps
all quite coarse and ugly.
Stones and forests, sand and grass
filled with dots and washes:
as I unfold the painting
I hold paradise in my hands!
I remember how in the hung-chih years (1488ÔÇô1505)
Wei's art was in a class by itself.
He found patrons of ten thousand carriages,
and was summoned to the houses of nobles.
The rich and powerful of the capital
lionized this man,
though when they were dissatisfied
they often cursed at him.
It's always been this way — the gifted
ignore their own well-being;
and so in misfortune and poverty
his life came to an end.
Alas! Master Wu will never paint again;
after his death, his works have become quite rare.
A fragment of mountain, a leftover stream —
each sheet costs a fortune;
you could not buy a single one
for even a hundred in cash.
The present scroll has been transmitted
between the heavens and earth:
looking at it, Master Wu! I see your real face.