IGNORANCE

Ignorance shed! Revealed - a world of woe!
Our love, now timeless, boundless, reaches out,
and finds we are lost, far from those we know.
Scorners and 'strangers to love' are all about.

Rejection of compassion brings no hurt;
our ego banished, thus we slander bear.
Dark looks and words, our eyes and ears avert.
We are at peace because we won't compare.

Like moonlight we reflect hot suns, now spent.
Selfless, soft voiced, at peace with one and all.
We covet naught and thus we are content.
Then bliss, if any person hears our call.

We long to hear each others music sweet.
Just knowing that we're loved, our songs repeat.

 NIGHT WITHOUT END

Night without end. I cannot sleep.
The full moon blazes overhead.
Far off in the night I hear someone call.
Hopelessly I answer, "Yes."

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth)

Hsin Ch'i Chi (1140-1207)



TO AN OLD TUNE

In my young days I never
Tasted sorrow. I wanted
To become a famous poet.
I wanted to get ahead
So I pretended to be sad.
Now I am old and have known
The depths of every sorrow,
And I am content to loaf
And enjoy the clear Autumn.

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth)

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Lan Ling (b. 1946)


A MELODY

I
 Wind shakes the grass.
Its upright posture
Is torn apart. A voice awakens
The ashes.
The news is written
On vanishing dew.

II
It encircles the reeds and flows
Along the two banks of the stream.
The reflection on the water
Has no light.
Suddenly a splash.
The shadow of a face
Descends like night on stone.

III
Leaning against the wind, he stands.
Grass withers between his brows.
The stars descend into the night river,
Emptied by the storm.
He who has never worn shoes
Has gone far away but is still inaudibly near.

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung)

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Liu Ch'u (156-187)



FROM THE MOST DISTANT TIME

Majestic, from the most distant time,
The sun rises and sets.
Time passes and men cannot stop it.
The four seasons serve them,
But do not belong to them.
The years flow like water.
Everything passes away before my eyes.

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth)

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Ping Hsin (b. 1900)



FOR THE RECORD

Given to my little brother

His right hand holds his slingshot,
His left a clay pellet.
He sits there, back against a pillar,
His legs straight, watching the sky
With his black eyes,
Stalking the crows that come
To steal the grapes from the arbor.
He intends to kill, but he cannot
Change his expression -- filled with affection.
When I suddenly caught sight of him
From the window,
My eyes filled with tears.

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung)
 

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