mandarins
i overcame my fear of translating chinese poetry in 2002. i was intrigued with the idea i had formed of the life of a chinese gentleman, a mandarin, classically trained in the literature. it was a time when poems were written by everyone who was educated, and that to me seemed to be a wonderful thing.
i determined to partake in such a life and imagined that translating the poetry they shared with each other would allow me to become closer to what it must have been like to have lived back then in the middle kingdom, the center of the world. and the murphy spirit felt free to join in when he wished, adding his particular bits to the ongoing poetic confab.
strike a running stream with a sword
the greenest of greens, grass by the river
woe indeed for this tumbleweed
autumn’s end when dew comes heavy as frost
drinking deep into the night i waken still drunk
when in my cups i seek only joy
wild grass covers miles upon miles
have you not seen the grass by the river
i come out the front door at sunset
singing a sad song to keep from weeping
over come with sorrow, deep into gloom
look up high to see blue sky’s end
my middle years led to an inner peace
pour water onto a level ground
those who are gone are slowly forgotten
since i’ve grown old quietude is what i seek
mountain empty after fresh rains
out of tune with the crowd since i was young
with golden scissors i cut the purple wool
gentle spring rain and fresh green grass
there sits a golden well under the buttonwood leaves
i was born in the wrong time
ask me why i stay in the evergreen forest
the long slim grass on shore bends in a light wind
li po once wrote a poem about water’s temple
over the hills there are vines with fruit
the cold wind clear blows
at night at home and i can’t sleep
the woods in spring are bursts of flowers
what can you say to the sorrow-filled traveler
the green mountains stretch across to the north of town
warblers sing along all the roads for a thousand miles
last evening the yellow west sky was aglow in the mist
the ocean wind blows rain
the cold of spring is good for sleep
i have decided to quit talking
from the mountains at night come sad cries
i love the way of life of master meng
my old friend, meng hau-ran, my master, leaves
spirits of the sea are aroused
sitting here drinking all this wine,
at dawn we leave the city of the white emperor
though the nation is broken apart
i can’t see the flowers by the low wall
the guard drums throb through the night
the good rain comes in its good time
river is still yet blue again
the freezing glare of dew
it was just last night
i am the great desert
we pause, the horse and i, to drink
it’s a typical wei city morning
when northern grasses shine like emerald beads
we were sworn in as warriors
she stands by the open window
standing outside on the steps of jade
stars, the sun’s tears flung against the void
how can this day go right
jade fingers pluck vermillion strings
i once heard a monk of shu
the earth this day is thin with mist
white flesh, jade bones
for the jade cord stars dip toward horizon
here i sit in the decayed splendor
rang li ben’s daughter,
inviting young nephew for wine
the temple of lonely mountain is north
smoke of mist cradles the cold water
moon slips over the mountains
i don’t know the way
so you came to the middle kingdom
the whole path up the mountain
build your house in the middle of people
i have labored too long in service
there is no rustle in these woods
it is the dark of early evening
i hear the first cricket
i look up an empty mountain
up in the dark of the pines
thick all around, louring thickness of cloud
i remember when i was young and fit
in the past
strike a running stream with a sword
you will never cut the water
my thoughts of you as you wander
are as unending as the river
since we parted the grass outside our gate
brown in the fall is now green with spring
i brush it away but it only grows back
densely covering your last foot prints
i cry for the lack of my lover
i am like a peach tree at the bottom of a well
for whom will the blossoms smile
you are like a new moon high in the sky
unwilling to shower me with your light
i cannot recognize myself in the mirror
having grown so thin since you left home
if only i had a magic bird
to fly to you with my heart
li tai bo
the greenest of greens, grass by the river
leaves upon leaves, trees in the garden
bloom among blooms, the girl in the tower
bursting with brightness, there in the window
flashing her fairness, fresh tint of rouge
thinnest of thins, she puts forth her hand
once she was a singing house girl
but now she’s the wife of a wandering man
the playboy has left, has never returned
an empty bed, how hard it is alone to keep
han dynasty
woe indeed for this tumbleweed
all alone, in this world alone
long ago severed from its roots
day after day finding no rest
to the east or west a thousand ways
to the north or south ten thousand paths
a whirlwind, sudden up to the clouds
is this up here the extent of the sky
suddenly deep, down in a sink hole
suddenly out, a gust blows me away
to send me to the middle of fields
first to the east or is it the west
then to the north , but perhaps it is south
drifting along, what can i cling to
sudden is death, yet i can only persist
blown to the outlands, i careen and stumble
blown over lakes i slow in my flow
who knows, can feel all my distress
i would rather be grass in the woods
to be burnt deep brown in the autumn
not that i would escape from my pain
but then i could feel all of my roots
cao zhi
autumn’s end when dew comes heavy as frost
i rise early to walk in the hidden ravine
yellow leaves cover an old bridge
by a deserted village with ancient trees
quiet, alone with a few cold flowers
i can barely hear the gurgle of a hidden spring
my planning mind is left far behind
what is it that spooks a passing deer
liu cong yuan
drinking deep into the night i waken still drunk
and return home in the small still hours
my servant lies abed snoring his thunder
he doesn’t answer the knock on the door
i lean on my staff and listen to the river
i have long felt this body beyond my control
when will i leave this bee-hive of life
the wind now quiet, the waves calm and smooth
would there were a small boat moored here
to drift on the river into the sea, all my remaining years
su dong po
when in my cups i seek only joy
who has the time to swallow his sadness
recently i decided that all my old books
were useless, a true waste of my time
last night, drunk again, beside an old pine
i asked the tree about my drunken path
it seemed to wish to hold me up
i pushed it aside to be on my way
xin qi ji
wild grass covers miles upon miles
the wind in the poplars soughing their breath
a harsh frost comes in the ninth month’s middle
i say goodby to visit the outlands
i look four directions and see no man
only old slabs bemarking the tombs
my horse neighs, his head to the sky
the wind itself brings a bleak sadness
the dark chambers around all once closed
never again see the fingers of dawn
never again see the fingers of dawn
no man on earth can change this fact
all the mourners who came gone their own way
though relatives may come to visit and grieve
al the others here have already sung
where goes the song after one’s death
beneath the earth on a shoulder of mountain
tao qian
have you not seen the grass by the river
wither in winter, grow full rug in the spring
have you not seen sun rise above wall
to sink to nothing in the evening
only to appear fresh new next morning
whenever can i achieve what i ought
once i die i’m eternally gone
in this life is much suffering, small joy
the first bloom of life is fertile
one must work with others in common aim
beside one’s bed keep the money for wine
forgo rank and name, forget all of that
life, death, high, low, leave them to heaven
bao zhao
i come out the front door at sunset
and watch you walk past my home
in full make-up with your hair piled high
fragrance permeates, fills the street
ii
sweet fragrance comes from perfume
fine make-up overpraises your grace
heaven above does not deprive me
let’s me discern the you underneath
iii
last night with your hair unbrushed
black silk tossed over both shoulders
you sitting curled on your knees
which part without a heavenly grace
iv
long, long night and unable to sleep
bright clear moon heartbreakingly bright
calling, i seem to hear someone calling
yes, yes, i answer, into empty air
“zi ye” songs
southern dynasties
singing a sad song to keep from weeping
looking far away and not going home
heartsick for my old country place
sour thoughts clot and, fester inside
desire to go back but nobody there
desire to cross river but no boat here
feelings so deep cannot be explained
guts turn cartweels, grind and churn
from yue fu collection of ballads from han dynasty
over come with sorrow, deep into gloom
we hold hands, seek common pleasure
climb to clouds, seek terraced gardens
follow mountain trail to mushroom tower
distant trees peek through the mists
wisps of smoke silk weaving silk
fish roil surface new lotus leaves
birds flit away, last flowers fall
drink up last of new spring wine
gaze long at green mountain walls
xie tiao
look up high to see blue sky’s end
look far below to thin river’s bend
look within to eternal silence
look without til patterns appear
magnificent nature true change at work
ten thousand voices singing their tune
each pitch pipe cut to its own length
calm welcome here so none is strange
wang xi zhi
my middle years led to an inner peace
i built a home on a southern hill side
where often i tend to walk out alone
to wonderful scenes only i shall know
to follow the stream to its spring source
to sit to see the fresh clouds rise
once i met an old man in the woods
we talked and laughed and forgot all time
wang wei
pour water onto a level ground
it will run away north, east, south, west
life itself has its own direction
why spend time sighing or grieving
drink up, drink to free one’s feeling
raise a toast and sing an old song
the heart was not born made of stone
swallow sad sounds, do not speak
bao zhao
those who are gone are slowly forgotten
those who come near are gradually learned
sit and gaze far away outside the gate
mounds upon mounds stretch in the distance
all the ancient graves plowed into fields
pines and cypress cut into firewood
the wind in the poplars make a sad sound
a scything, a swath of cutting down men
how deeply i long to return to my homeland
how deeply i yearn, and finding no road
from 19 old songs
han dynasty
since i’ve grown old quietude is what i seek
the myriad concerns of man pass me by
looking deep within i discern no other plan
than to return once again to these deep woods
the winds in the pines loosen my girdle
the moon on the mountain hears the strum of my lute
you ask me the path to find life’s pattern
listen to the fisherman sing in his cove
wang wei
mountain empty after fresh rains
air of evening first hint of fall
moon shines bright upon thick pines
clear stream flows over slick smooth stones
voices intrude, girls with their washing
water plants move with fishermen’s boats
here and there fragrant grass is yellow
nobility will never leave this scene
wang wei
out of tune with the crowd since i was young
my instinct was all for the love of mountains
by luck’s chance i fell into the world’s dusty net
that one fall cost me the last thirty years
the caged bird sings the loss of the forest
the fish in the pool long for remembered deeps
now i seek fresh land at the wilderness edge
to return to simple ways of my old garden farm
there are ten acres or so surrounding this house
my thatched hut neighbors number ten or so
elms and willows shade my back eaves
peaches and plums lie outside my front hall
far in the distance the smoke of a village
thin and wispy it can hardly be seen
dogs bark just down the old rutted lane
the rooster crows from the top of a mulberry tree
i keep my home spotless, swept clean of dust
my rooms empty for the hush of solitude
kept too long in the crowded cage of life
i can now relax and return to my nature
tao qian
with golden scissors i cut the purple wool
i make soft shoes for the one i serve
i will turn them into a pair of fairy birds
that will fly away into his private rooms
yau yue hua
gentle spring rain and fresh green grass
i look at these and tears stain my sleeves
i whisper shy words of separation to the east wind
then no more words interrupt the melodies of the sheng
we are separated, so far away; separated, so far away
my pillow is always wet since we parted so long ago
i climb to the balcony and watch the misty rain in the north
i turn around and weep to the lonely southern moon
yau yue hua
there sits a golden well under the buttonwood leaves
a plain woven rope hangs from the sturdy central beam
the young beauty has risen yet dawn is still not come
she cleans a silver vase in the cold autumn water
yau yue hua
i was born in the wrong time
my life one long tortured dream
sorrows have filled all my seasons
frowns lasting deep, deep into every night
life goes on, and on, and on
a never ending spinning wheel
one can stop a wheel to make it rest
but i cannot stem the pining of my heart
my life confused and aimless
just like a knot of tangled threads
but then threads can be unraveled
but my confusion never, never finds its end
my bedroom is empty, empty
my dresser covered thick with dust
i am ever listless without you
forget even to care, care for myself
i was lucky, lucky to have met you
i chose to serve you all my life
we shared the fragrance of our hair
we exchanged precious gifts, gifts of jade
sworn, sworn under the roof of heaven
we wished to be as man and wife
but sorrow has been our share in life
our bodies touch no longer, no longer touch
i have stopped eating, cannot sleep
my hips cannot hold up my belt
my golden skin has lost its luster
my eyes are red, red…my hair untended
i put on my socks as if to start a journey
but too many rocks stand in my way
no desire to talk, talk with other people
i find my only companion is my lonely self
i have caged too much anguish in my heart
you are the one i wish to talk to about it
one day, if you are able to read these words
i will be content and can die, die without anger
yau yue hua
answering why in the mountains
ask me why i stay in the evergreen forest
and i will smile a soundless ease
up here peach blossoms leave on the water’s flow
up here are no men and heaven near earth
li tai bo
murphy sipping his morning coffee
traveling at night writing my feelings
the long slim grass on shore bends in a light wind
the tall mast towers above me, alone
the stars hang low to touch the broad sweep of shore
the moon jumps through the sky, the mighty river flows
what name have i made for myself as a poet
now i’m too old and sick, worthless i must quit my office
i sit here floating, floating, and to what end
between all the earth and the sky is but this skittering tern
du fu
murphy flushed from playing his guitar
li po once wrote a poem about water’s temple
old gnarled trees, high mountains all around
tall buildings with covered galleries, the wind
almost drunk, almost sober, i wandered there three days
i was red flowers, white flowers; i was mountain, i poured rain
du mu
murphy patting his head while rubbing his belly
over the hills there are vines with fruit
over the hills there are vines with fruit
the dew is river of water each night
i see an apple in a tree
how blush of ripeness touches brow
how lucky is this chance we meet
i climb to taste her in her tree
over the hills there are vines with fruit
the dew each night is wet, so wet
i see an apple in a tree
its ripeness blushes wide on brow
how lucky is this chance we meet
i climb to taste her in her tree
book of songs
jou dynasty
murphy settling down to his afternoon guiness
the cold wind clear blows
how white the clouds that fly
the ground is brown with fallen leaves
how southern is the vee of geese
how pleasing is the orchid flush
how florid are the olid mums
now i wish someone for me
someone i’ll never forget
how fun it is to cross on ferry
across the wide fen river
to make it out to deep midstream
and crash white waves in cresting
how sharp the song, how deep the drums
how water sings when oars put forth
how pleasant is my current state
though my brow be deep in worry
i’m still young with a young man’s heart
yet how can i escape old age; yes, how
emperor wu
murphy calmly eying the bar’s aquarium
at night at home and i can’t sleep
i rise to play my steel guitar
i peek through curtains to glow of moon
a breeze blows freshly through my gown
there a lone goose honks the wild
birds fly around the northern woods
and i, left here too, pace my rooms
with close damp throat, alone and sad
murphy neglecting to answer his telephone
ruan ji
the woods in spring are bursts of flowers
but trilling birds speak to me of grief
the fresh raw wind makes feelings strong
my thin silk skirt blows up and open
murphy in his houri heaven
anonymous
climbing the mountain at serpentine island
what can you say to the sorrow-filled traveler
come to see the sea, to feel dawn breeze
no one has found the end of the waves
no one has touched deep sea’s bottom
then i hear in my mind a song of pleasure
it makes me smile despite sad feelings
now i will roam the jasper green sands of these islands
wander on and on to the peaks of the red dirt mountains
murphy at peace in his special reading chair
ye ling lun
the green mountains stretch across to the north of town
the white water creek winds under the eastern wall
when he leaves this place, once he’s gone
he will be blown by the wind ten thousand miles
i see in the clouds how far he must go
i see the setting sun in my friends greeting
i must wave my hand and see him off
now his horse neighs, neighs he’s ready to go
murphy lapsing into his texas drawl
li tai bo
warblers sing along all the roads for a thousand miles
flowers toss wings of red on their green carpet
the villages are walled under a mountain or next to the river
wine banners fly high in the full winds of spring
in all these southern dynasties there are these treasures
four hundred eighty temples with their lands
how many of these high buildings have spring so wet
to loom through such mist in the middle of rain
murphy sitting by his window and looking at trees
du mu
on the wall of north tower after snow
last evening the yellow west sky was aglow in the mist
but later in the night after a calm with no wind came the storm
i felt only that my bedclothes had been splattered with water
i did not know the courtyard was heaped up with white grains
in the hour before dawn color came to the curtains of my study
the half moon at the eaves blanketed the cold sound of silence
ipaced the north tower, looked up and saw horse-ears mountain
everything was snowed under except the two top tips
murphy aching for the warmth of summer
su shr
the ocean wind blows rain
i’m stymied from my morning walk
all along the road i see
there is now mud, no longer dust
the flowers hide away, willows droop
spring dawdles along its way
who knew i would like it like this
that i’m still yet more lazy than spring
murphy after a solid three minutes of meditation
lu you
the cold of spring is good for sleep
and dawn of sun slips by unnoticed
the nesting birds are now everywhere
they twitter tweet their happiness
last night came pelting rain and wind
it stopped my sleep and frightened me
all the flowers holding their heads up high
how many are now crushed and fallen
murphy watching the olympics on tv
meng hau ran
year’s evening
return to southern mountains
i have decided to quit talking
sending thoughts to the northern palace
i shall write no more letters
i have a nice place in the southern mountains
i can now afford to return to that nest
no matter it isn’t as ornate as i live here
the sovereign i must serve finds me wanting
the aura of rectitude is not visited here
i must abandon the thoughts of that road
i have been sick these last few years
and i remember the kindnesses of friends
grew ever more seldom as i grew ill
older now i have other thoughts out front
silver hair spurs my dreams to the real
i am now old, and ever more old
this last summer is the indian’s promise
to last just enough for this rest of the year
to smile the few fair days that might now remain
i spend this time within my brooding thoughts
i dwell on sorrow in the cold of the night
i have the warmth of covers yet i cannot sleep
the view out my window is growing dark with pines
though resplendent with a glowing moon
i wait out night, stare out window, empty
murphy sipping rotgut with the plebes
meng hau ran
to friends at yang jou
written on the tung lu river
from the mountains at night come sad cries
the apes are howling out there and the blue water flows
the wind fluffs the leaves on both sides of the river
this boat sails alone in the bright night of moon
i have no fealty for this part of the country
but i remember that last time here with all of you
i allow both trails of all these my tears
i send them to join with the winds as they flee
to the western reach of sea, to all of you far away
murphy sliding on skis with arthritic knees
meng hau ran
i love the way of life of master meng
he is famous as a free wind blowing below heaven
in his youth he abandoned the trappings of office
now he has white hair and lives in the clouds among pine trees
he lies beneath the moon besotted with sagacity
he loses himself amid fields of flowers and serves no lord
how can i aspire to the height of his mountain
down here i can only bow to the whiff of his clear fragrance
murphy rereading his variorum edition of yeats
li tai bo
my old friend,meng hau-ran, my master, leaves
he’s off to the east from here at yellow crane tower
the misty rain evaporates to flowers of spring
he goes down the river to yang-jou
his lonely sail dims to distant shadow
vanishing in the edge of blue of sky
i can only see that the long river goes on
flows from here still yet, along to heaven’s edge
murphy sustaining the attack as he plays his etude
li tai bo
spirits of the sea are aroused
evil beings shriek the wind in swirls
waves beat on heaven’s gate
code magic stone, blow hole in wall
how compare the crashing of these waves
around hang zhou when they niagara crash
these splat like a wave of mountains
shedding snow; they’re here, it comes
murphy walking slow to meet the dawn
li tai bo
sitting here drinking all this wine,
i didn’t even notice when it got night
i notice now the flowers
they’ve shed upon my clothes
drunk, i rise from torpor, walk
toward the moon glimmering in water
birds have all gone home to roost
looking around, i see lonely people
murphy consulting his thesaurus reluctantly
li tai bo
at dawn we leave the city of the white emperor
here we are high, close to clouds pregnant with rain
in only one day we run a thousand miles
and i return to jyang ling, pardoned and important
in all this way, from both riverbanks
i hear incessant howling of the gibbons
already now the river has carried my light boat
between piled up mountains upon mountains
murphy watching his cholesterol as he should
li tai bo
though the nation is broken apart
the mountains remain and the rivers still run
the city in spring is deep with grasses
and the trees have filled with leaves
but in feeling this momentous time
there are tears which sprinkle the flowers
this wrong feeling intrudes, is resented
the birds as they twitter shock the heart
for three months now, continually
the beacon fires have been ablaze
i would give almost anything for a letter from home
even ten thousand in gold if i had it
my old white head is scratched and snatched
the hair is wimpy and short, thinner
i go to pin it up with my hat pin
and i can barely manage to make it stick
murphy stranded in queens without the fare home
du fu
spring night vigil
palace chancellory
i can’t see the flowers by the low wall
the evening has hidden their color
a low whish whush of birds
returning to their righteous roost
i sit and notice the stars’ slow shift
up there above these ten thousand doorways
the moon is beside god’s highest heaven
its brilliance blanches the walls i touch
i will not lie down and be sleeping on duty
i must be awake for emperor’s song
i must be at one with the wind
the sound must be for the marriage of heavens
tomorrow at the first ray of sun
i have this sealed document to present
several times already i whispered to the night
how goes the clock, how goes the clock
murphy schlepping for everyone else
du fu
remembering family in the moon light
the guard drums throb through the night
no one can travel more, we’re lucky we’re here
on the borderlands with an autumn moon
and the only friend heard is a lonely wild goose
the dew of this night glows bright
white in its crustal iciness
so bright the moon as in my youth
when it rose above where i was born
i remember all my younger brothers
they are scattered by these pains
i have no family left to counsel
no one to ask if they live, or die
i send letters to where they might be
i know my words still can’t reach them
the only thing i might add
there is no end to the fighting
murphy sipping his cool plum wine
du fu
the good rain comes in its good time
especially spring when all is born
borne on the wind it soaks through the night
in a steady wet that comes without sound
the country lanes wander under dark water clouds
the boats on the river cover their bright fires
in fresh morning light the puddles are red
and flowers flourish in old cheng-du
murphy knowing that summer comes next
du fu
river is still yet blue again
birds in the air flash a bit more white
mountains once again have turned toward green
flowers i love will soon catch fire
now i see that yet one more spring
will again happen, and pass
when will i ever get to see my old home
what year will it be when i finally return
murphy having been too long in the front lines
du fu
the freezing glare of dew
withers the leaves of the maples
here in witch gorge, below witch mountain
it is dark, thick air, forlorn
the waters of the river splash around
waves beating against waves
they seem to leap toward sky
above the mountains loom black clouds
that reach down to darken earth
the clumped chrysanthemums open again
oozing the tears of yesterdays
once moored, my lonely boat holds fast
tied to the heart like this old garden
we are cold here and need new clothes
quickly flash our scissors and tape
here we are in white emperor city
spending evenings softening our new rough silks
murphy sitting quietly as is his wont
du fu
it was just last night
a cold north wind
blew into china
blew through her mountain passes
a northern cloud
lay on the borderland
as bright harvest moon
brightened the western mountains
i came to call to arms
for all our brave young leaders
to stand and face and kill
to stand against those animals
we must annihilate them
let not one get back
to that northern desert
let not a single horse return
murphy meandering in his pet swamp
marshall yen wu
i am the great desert
where the sands flow like dry snow
i gallop beneath yen mountain
where moon seems to hook the sky
when will gold of the sun
put reins to guide this head of mine
running swift and sure i glow
in clear, cool air of autumn
murphy imagining a totem animal
li he
we pause, the horse and i, to drink
river holds cold water of october
wind knifes through my coat
water chills and fills our guts
bank is broad stretch of level sand
sun is down but not yet sunk
in growing dark we plod on
see in the gloaming lights of lin tan
for the past few days we fought the enemy
battles running along the shadow of the long wall
we all feel our spirits grow in our breasts
our will to win is high, prevails
this yellow dust here is as it was there
the not long ago of the blood and the noise
white bones lie scattered, disordered
among the tumbleweed and squat mesquite
murphy reading the reports of his commanders
wang zhang ling
it’s a typical wei city morning
the dust knocked down by morning rain
near the local inn all is green
the nascent green of willows
i ask again, and then once more
just one cup, empty one cup of wine
when you get out to yang pass
you’ll have no old friends out there
murphy pacing himself for the next ordeal
li tai bo
when northern grasses shine like emerald beads
these western mulberries droop full green
thinking if i will ever return to you
brings toss and turn, gut wrench of thought
i know you don’t feel this stirring wind of spring
how can it from there blow my bed’s silk gauze
murphy working slowly up the ladder
li tai bo
we were sworn in as warriors
to sweep away all enemies
and not to worry about ourselves
we were five thousand strong
our uniforms lined with marten fur
with brocade vests, all ground into frontier dust
pitiable that our bones were resting
in the sandy banks of the spring river
that is never fixed but always changes
the only part of us still left
are in the bedroom dreams
of those we left behind
murphy disdaining to kill, merely counting coup
zhen dau
she stands by the open window
the clear skies of autumn glow
effulgent is the moon
she walks slowly back across the room
dowses candle with a practiced hand
slither sound is silk, drops her skirt
there is an inwardness to her smile
the curtains drawn in the eyes
from what lies deep, deep within
she lies back and reaches up toward me
her body’s breath is orchid on the wind
murphy saying good night to his lady fair
anonymous
six dynasties period 300-600 ad
standing outside on the steps of jade
a sparkling dew is formed
the night is long, grows colder
gauze silk stockings hold nothing out
going inside she lowers her blinds
lowers slow their water essence
the glittering crystals become jewels
splinters of the autumn moon
murphy trimming the wick on the kerosene lantern
li tai bo
stars, the sun’s tears flung against the void
inside, the candles held by silver
empty wine cups, and i stand out here waiting
i open the gate and wander out for a while
i open the gate and stand again within the pale
dawn is about to happen and he’s not here
the moon falls away behind the mountain
the stars disappear within the glow
and he finally doesn’t come
the mist blows the willow’s leaves
they billow in soft drumbeats
and a magpie flies away
murphy about to be four cubed
yau yue hua
how can this day go right
my fears are too real to be held
my new husband who took me away
faces the old whom i still love
i want to laugh and break down crying
both, but i can do nothing
only now do i truly think true
that the life we lead is hard
murphy inspecting the floor for scratches
princess le zhang
jade fingers pluck vermillion strings
the tone grinding deep then clear
i know the fingers of the syang river consorts
the ones who tell how hard life can be
first thunder roars a bluster
the cold of wind hard strong
after splatters soft of evening
a rain that showers long
near one hears a cataract
from mountain just greening
far one hears the black crane
swooping from deep blue sky
night is full and dark, the song ends
i will not last long in this despair
the cold of morning to come chills the orchids
the courtyard moon breathes a frost of air
murphy setting table for the feast
madame meng
hearing the lute of a monk of shu
i once heard a monk of shu
play the lute called green brocade
it was late in the afternoon
e mei peak glowed in the dusk
when he began to move his hands
i heard the murmurs of all the pines
from here to there ten thousand valleys
whispering through the there i was
my roving mind was flowing waters
that rang with bells of splintering frost
i did not notice when it got dark
the evening in fall brings an always dark
murphy gettin’ jiggy with the beat
li tai bo
lyrics to “tipsy in the flowers’ shade”
the earth this day is thin with mist
under clouds lowering and thick
this sad and endless day
i’ve buried the incense smells
the curling wisps crawl out their metal home
the turtle censor made of gold
the town is filled with people
harvest moon gathering here again
last night deep in the dark
the cold frost reached my pillows
the thin silk curtains of my bed
today grows dim as i sing my wine
and sit by the eastern fence
the yellow of dusk and after
there is a secret fragrence
seeping out through my sleeves
and don’t believe for an instant
this spirit is not melting down
the curtains undulate as do my bones
this old flower with its withered petals
murphy breaking off his simultaneous translation
li jing rau
the wind has grown still
late spring air still smells of dust
and the flowers just now withering
still make your presence known
this day, this evening
i tiredly comb my hair
i have your things
i don’t have you
so all things end
and whatever i say
will only bring tears
and i can’t stop their flow
there are those who say
our special place
on the double creek lake
is still lovely late in spring
but if my canoe
were to venture there
i only fear its lightness
couldn’t carry the load
murphy making his to-do list for tomorrow
poetess li jing rau
white flesh, jade bones
they both are pure and cool
no bead of sweat spoils the skin
the wind freshens over the water palace
its subtle flavor stirs the room
opens the embroidered curtains
bright sliver of the moon glints
peeks straight down to her
this person who cannot sleep
she leans across her pillow
her hairpin knocked sideways
the hair at her temples tousled
she gets up slowly and walks
reaches with her pale white hand
there are no sounds from the courtyards
no doors opening or closing
time is felt as the milky way’s flow
then a question thought
how late are we into the night
it is between eleven and one
for the jade cord stars dip toward horizon
the moonlight begins to dim
she counts on her fingers how long
how long til the west wind comes
how long yet for the flowing of her years
those that the nights have yet to swallow
murphy freshly bathed and shaved
su shr
here i sit in the decayed splendor
a traveling palace long since abandoned
it is desolate, it is old
i walk to watch the flowers
they too are lonely in their glory
they are intensely red
i notice the white hairs of the women
those left behind with the dust
nowhere else to pledge their feet
these women are easy in their gait
they sigh and sit, tell their tales
and always about sywan dzung, now gone
murphy throwing his tarp over a tallish shrub
yuan ren
rang li ben’s daughter,
the mad fox poet, sings
her hair is in its full crowned glory
her broad sleeves dress for the chu palace
alone she paces her courtyard
seeking the coolness of the night
on the steps she takes her jade hairpin
rhythmically taps a bamboo tree
her voice rings clear in only one song
the moon shine is crisp like the frost
murphy staying home from the parade
gau shr
inviting young nephew for wine
nephew, i have some fresh new wine
it has the green ant scum, unfiltered
we have a little fire stove in the corner
t’s one made from the reddish clay
it’s getting darker, toward evening
the sky is pregnant with snow
take time for one small, hot drink
just one cup with me tonight
murphy watching the warblers passing through to the south
bai ju yi
the temple of lonely mountain is north
the graceful jya pavilion west
i notice the water calms
then a wet scurry of little cloud feet
the early warblers are here and there
they squabble for space in the warm trees
the swallows over there are building a nest
they swoop to peck the spring mud
the disordered flowers confuse my eye
then slowly make the case for natural
the grass so new it barely covers ground
not deep enough yet for a horse’s hooves
i most admire this eastern side of the lake
and i can never get here too often
i sit in the fresh green willow’s shade
snug on this bank of white sand
murphy finishing another book of unpublished poetry
du mu
tied up at the mouth of the jin huai
smoke of mist cradles the cold water
light of moon cradles the sand
this damp night we are moored at jin huai
snug and silent near the house of wine
the singing girls are singing “courtyard flower”
they are oblivious to our nation ruined
it was so when the last emperor of the zhen
hiding from his foes called for song
murphy staring out the window at the wind-swept trees
du mu
moon slips over the mountains
cawing crow announces night
chilling frost engulfs the sky
along the river rustle maple leaves
the fires for all the fish bob way off there
i watch in sorrow as i drowse
i’m just outside soo chow
the city walls on the near side
the temple on cold mountain way off there
time is stiff and still at midnight bell
the round of sound pealing reaches boat
the deck on which this traveller frets
murphy worrying a score in the practice of learning it
rang ji
i don’t know the way
to fragrant mountain top
for several miles now
i’ve walked in cloudy mist
the path before me is alone
i have only the old trees for comfort
from deeper into the mountains
comes clear a ringing bell
then spring sound is swallowed
by all the towering rocks
a glimmer of sun seems chilled
by the sullen green of the pines
the evening thins the clouds
i reach a bend in stream, an empty poool
the settled fullness is accepted
and water stills the fevered mind
murphy waiting for the barmaid while she is reprimanded
wang wei
seeing off a brother to the southern islands
so you came to the middle kingdom
in your search for belief
the path when it comes
shapes a floating dream
heaven above your soaring senses
far away the blue, blue sea
one leaves the world in clicks
the boat of buddha always light
fish dragons below all else
listen to chants , sanskrit sound
then love comes to cherish
point of light burns the eye
ten thousand miles but a step
when depth of heart is stirred, made bright
murphy answering an old shaman’s heart felt question
jian ji
the whole path up the mountain
creek, walk, creek, walk
moss covers everything
many clogs have left their even marks
there comes a break in the trees
a small island open to the sky
there is a white cloud
resting above in quiet
the herbs are flower smells
that block the unused gate
behind a damp of rain still clings
the pines are dark, dark green
i have followed up the mountain
and reached pure water’s source
the flowers by the water
have flounced their zen of calm
as i face their blatancy of self
i can almost forget i talk with words
murphy sitting up late with an old sick cat
lou zhang jing
build your house in the middle of people
but don’t listen to the sound of traffic
just try to imagine how to do this
let your heart go to somewhere out of the way
to pick chrysanthemums in a small garden
and look up over everything else to mountains
you can see sun’s glorious leaving
you can see birds fly home to roost
then you can know that to hear anything
you want to hear, forget the words
murphy sitting at the kitchen table
tao qian
i have labored too long in service
my habit neat, my seal-cord tied
how fortunate to have been banished here
sent out to the southern tribes
now i walk fields slowly in this neighborhood
the smallish local farms which cluster here
i’m different in an exact way
like a traveller from the mountains
the plow of morning cuts the dewy grass
the oar at night catches rock in stream
meeting noone as i amble freely
i sing the anthem of the blue south sky
murphy wondering why myth stories have such meanings
lou zong yuan
there is no rustle in these woods
for many miles they’ve been still
all the beaten paths show nothing
wind and storm, but no tracks
there is a small old boat on the river
reed cloak, bamboo hat, an old man
the snow falls lightly on the water
alone with the fish out in the cold
murphy thinking in diminished ninths
lou zong yuan
stuck on lotus mountain in the snow
it is the dark of early evening
dark green of mountain in the distance
the sky is cold and blows
the hut is thatched and poor
from within the brushwood gate
a barking dog alerts the world
out from the wind and snow
someone struggles home this night
murphy rushing fro and to
lou zhang jing
i hear the first cricket
tonight he chirps
there he is again
now quiet
the lamp is dying
there it goes down
there almost gone
it flares
i look out the window
i see the dark
i smell the rain
it is wet
now i know the sound
banana leaves
the rain drips down
murphy recalling a pet cat who died when he was young
bai ju yi
i look up an empty mountain
there is nobody up there
the only thing i hear
the people sound behind me
the sun returns its angle
it looks again into the forest
there the green moss
the light shines its exact green
murphy watching the erection of a skyscraper
wang wei
up in the dark of the pines
i asked the young man where the master was
he’s out picking medicine plants
he’s gone, he’s not here right now
the only thing he could say was
he’s in these mountains here
probably up in the clouds
i don’t know where he goes
murphy looking out the window on the 25th floor
ya dau
“louring clouds” is a poem on thinking of a friend. my wine cup is full of new wine and the trees in the garden are filled with blossoms. i have no way to get what i yearn for and sorrow creeps into my heart.
louring clouds
i
thick all around, louring thickness of cloud
a fine spitting rain befits the season
in all directions the same dank gloom
the road beyond, mud, impassable
take a quiet ease at the east window
fresh spring wine fills my cup—i drink alone
my great good friend too far away to come
i scratch my head, settle in to linger on
ii
the louring clouds are thick all around
the season greets with its fine spitting rain
a steadiness of gloom stretches in all directions
the nearby roads are now turned into rivers
fresh spring wine, i have plenty of fresh spring wine
i sit in idle quietude beside my eastern window
wishing for someone to drink with and be here with me
but no carriage or boat is of any use at all
iii
the trees loom out in the eastern garden
their branches thickened now to bloom
each single blossom cries out for my attention
each one i note evokes fresh a feeling response
the people have a favorite saying
the sun and moon both march toward change
yet here i sit in vain waiting for a boon companion
to come sit with me and share, to rehash our lives
iv
birds are on the move, flitting through the trees
some rest for a while here in my courtyard
they fold their wings and idly take their ease
they fill the air with the sweetness of their song
not that there is no one else that i think of
but it is you i think of quite the most
my yearning grows stronger the more i sit here deprived
why should my desire bring such sorrow to my heart
murphy on a cruise ship befogged in the harbor
tao qian
i remember when i was young and fit
i was happy whatever came my way
my ambitions then were limitless
i thought i could spread my wings and soar
but months and years passed me by
snd wore away this glad certitude
now i feel no joy within life’s pleasures
and my life is filled with worry
the vigor of my youth is well into its ebb
and each new morning brings its fresh ache
the boat on this river is now rushing along
pulling me along with no oar to resist
how much further is my wandering way
til i come to where i stop and stay
the ancients begrudged the loss of a speck of time
and when i think of them i begin to fear for myself
murphy waiting for the border guards to check him through
tao qian
shen nong attacked the bu shui
the yellow emperor attacked zhuo lu
and then captured chi you
yao attacked huan dou
shun attacked the three miao
yu attacked gong gong
tang attacked the xia
ging wen attacked chong
king wu attacked zhou
and duke huan of qi used war
to take control of the empire
knowing all this i have to ask
who has not gone to war
in olden times chariots raced axle to axle
states were bound by their words
the empire stood as one entity
ttreaties were made north to south
alliances were consummated west to east
yet the weapons were never stored away
the literary scholars all showed craft and guile
but the lords were unsure and became confused
then a thousand troubles came all at once
too many to be handled with certainty
before the laws and statutes kept order
but people began to practice deceits
writings became murky and duplicitous
and the people became increasingly impoverished
superior and inferior became resentful of each other
the common people had nothing on which to rely
fancy words of the scholars no longer carried clear meaning
warfare increased among men and then grew more
specious arguments were heard, fancy uniforms were worn
and still there was no decision, no end to war
in spite of overweening praise and ornate rhetoric
the empire was in complete disarray
tongues rotted from ill use, ears no longer listened
nothing was able to be done to alleviate the misery
all spoke of righteousness and fidelity
but the empire was still torn asunder
consequently
culture was eschewed and warfare became the norm
brave warriors were generously supported
armor strapped on, weapons sharpened
everything was sacrificed for victory in battle
su qin 4th century bce
reluctantly read as his advice to king hui of qin with the admonition that he felt this abjuration of war would not be acted upon. it wasn’t.
murphy thinking of the romans sowing salt in the fields of carthage
murphy sipping his morning coffee
murphy flushed from playing his guitar
murphy patting his head while rubbing his belly
murphy settling down to his afternoon guiness
murphy calmly eying the bar’s aquarium
murphy neglecting to answer his telephone
murphy in his houri heaven
murphy at peace in his special reading chair
murphy lapsing into his texas drawl
murphy sitting by his window and looking at trees
murphy aching for the warmth of summer
murphy after a solid three minutes of meditation
murphy watching the olympics on tv
murphy sipping rotgut with the plebes
murphy sliding on skis with arthritic knees
murphy rereading his variorum edition of yeats
murphy sustaining the attack as he plays his etude
murphy walking slow to meet the dawn
murphy consulting his thesaurus reluctantly
murphy watching his cholesterol as he should
murphy stranded in queens without the fare home
murphy schlepping for everyone else
murphy sipping his cool plum wine
murphy knowing that summer comes next
murphy having been too long in the front lines
murphy sitting quietly as is his wont
murphy meandering in his pet swamp
murphy imagining a totem animal
murphy reading the reports of his commanders
murphy pacing himself for the next ordeal
murphy working slowly up the ladder
murphy disdaining to kill, merely counting coup
murphy saying good night to his lady fair
murphy trimming the wick on the kerosene lantern
murphy about to be four cubed
murphy inspecting the floor for scratches
murphy setting table for the feast
murphy gettin’ jiggy with the beat
murphy breaking off his simultaneous translation
murphy making his to-do list for tomorrow
murphy freshly bathed and shaved
murphy throwing his tarp over a tallish shrub
murphy staying home from the parade
murphy watching the warblers passing through to the south
murphy finishing another book of unpublished poetry
murphy staring out the window at the wind-swept trees
murphy worrying a score in the practice of learning it
murphy waiting for the barmaid while she is reprimanded
murphy answering an old shaman’s heart felt question
murphy sitting up late with an old sick cat
murphy sitting at the kitchen table
murphy wondering why myth stories have such meanings
murphy thinking in diminshed ninths
murphy rushing fro and to
murphy recalling a pet cat who died when he was young
murphy watching the erection of a skyscraper
murphy looking out the window on the 25th floor
murphy on a cruise ship befogged in the harbor
murphy waiting for the border guards to check him through
murphy thinking of the romans sowing salt in the fields of carthage