Xina Tang 618-960
Zhang Jiuling 678-740
AÑORANDO, BAJO LA LUNA, A MI LEJANA AMADA
Sobre el piélago se eleva
la luna con resplandor.
La contemplamos tú y yo
desde dos extremos del país.
Melancólico, lamento
que la noche sea larga,
y te añoro apasionado.
Apago el candil:
me encanta la luz de la luna.
Me cubro con la capa y salgo.
La siento mojada con el rocío.
Me aflige no poder recoger
un puñado de luz y ofrecértelo.
Regreso y me tiendo en el lecho.
Ojalá te vea en el sueño.
Meng Haoran 689-740
MATÍ DE PRIMAVERA
Dormo i no m’adono de l’alba
fins que sento la conversa dels ocells.
Anit els embats del vent i de la pluja.
Qui sap quantes flors deuen haver caigut.
Wang Wei 699-759
Li Bai 701-762
Du Fu 712-770
Liu Zongyuan 733-819
River Snow
A thousand mountains. Flying birds vanish.
Ten thousand paths. Human traces erased.
One boat, bamboo hat, bark cape -an old man
alone, angling in the cold river. Snow.
Liu CHangQing 725-786
VISITA AL TAOÍSTA CHANG, EN EL ARROYO NANQI
A tu cabaña me lleva la senda
con musgo de frescas huellas.
Nubes blancas cuelgan
sobre la silenciosa duna.
Fragantes hierbas ocultan
tu puerta entreabierta.
Pasada la lluvia,
los pinos lucen más verdes.
Vagando entre los cerros,
llego al nacimiento de un arroyuelo.
Meditación, flores, aguas.
Nos vemos. ¿Qué te iba a decir?
Ya no me acuerdo. Ni hace falta.
Bai Juji 772-846
Yuan Zhen 779-831
Late Spring
Calm day through the thin curtain, swallows talking fast.
Pairs of fighting sparrows kick up dust on the steps.
Wind at dusk, a brushwood gate swings shut.
Flowers drop their last petals. No one notices.
Han Shan finals s7
210
Talking about food won’t fill your stomach.
Talk about clothing won’t keep out cold.
To be full, eat rice.
To stay warm, wear clothes.
Those who don’t understand
complain it’s hard to get help from Buddha.
Look inside your heart. That’s where Buddha is.
Don’t look for him outside.
237
This life is lost in dust.
Like bugs in a bowl
we all day circle, circle
unable to get out.
We’re nothing like immortals.
Our sorrows never end,
years and months flow off like water
and in an instant we’re old men.
262
In this world people live then die.
Yesterday morning I was sixteen,
healthy with a strong life force.
Now I’m over seventy,
strength gone, body withered.
A flower in spring
blossoms at dawn. At night it dies.
Sikong Tu 837-908
Twenty-four Styles of Poetry
The Placid Style
Dwell plainly in calm silence,
a delicate heart sensitive to small things.
Drink from the harmony of yin and yang,
wing off with a solitary crane,
and like a soft breeze
trembling in your gown,
a rustle of slender bamboo,
its beauty will stay with you.
You meet it by not trying deeply.
It thins to nothing if you approach,
and even when its shape seems near
it will turn all wrong inside your hand.
The Potent Style
Green woods, a wild hut.
Setting sun in the transparent air.
I take off my head cloth, walk alone,
often hearing the calls of birds.
No flying swan brings me messages
from my friend traveling so far.
Yet the one I miss isn’t far.
In my heart we are together.
Ocean wind through emerald clouds.
Night islets and the moon, bright.
After one good line, stop.
A great river spreads across your path.
[These last lines suggest the dangers of saying too much, of overwriting, If you go on too long, Sikong Tu warns, you walk right out of the style, whereas a good line stops you like a great river, and echoes profoundly inside of you This effect can be described by two lines from Tang poetry: “The song is over, the musician gone, / but the river and green mountains keep singing.]
The Implicit Style
Without a single word
the essence is conveyed.
Without speaking of misery
a passionate sadness comes through.
It’s true, someone hidden controls the world;
with that being you sink or float.
This style’s like straining full-bodied wine
or like a flower near bloom retreating into bud.
It is dust in timeless open space,
is flowing, foaming sea spume,
shallow or deep, cohering, dispersing.
One out of a thousand contains all thousand.
The Carefree and Wild Style
Abide by your nature,
honestly and unrestrained.
Whatever you pick up makes you rich
when candor is your friend.
Build your hut below a pine,
toss off your hat and read a poem.
You know if it’s morning or evening
but have no idea what dynasty it is.
Do what fits your whim.
Why bother to achieve?
If you free your nature
you’ll have this style.
Li Xang ling sIX
EN LLEVAR-SE
El vent i la rosada són lleus aquest matí.
Sola, em llevo entremig de la seda lleugera.
L’oriol prou refila, riuen flors al camí:
ah, per a qui ha vingut, enguany, la Primavera?