Short Poems

Master Shih's medical fame, because of Master Ch'en,
has now reached here, to me.
In the mountains he walks, collecting herbs,
then sits in the market, with gourds of them to sell.
He has loved almond trees for over ten years,
and has planted a grove of several hundred.
As for me, my one illness is my craze for chess:
tell me, can your arts cure this?

At water's edge, clouds float up:
lonely city in sunset dark!
On ten thousand mountains, autumn leaves fall;
I sit alone, here beside a lamp.
Beneath white dew, river reeds droop;
in western winds, cicadas chirp.
Passes, mountains, the moon tonight:
a flute plays with mournful sound.

I remember when you shared my insomnia:
how can I bear to cast you off today?
In joy, you were with me, beside the chilly window;
in sorrow, you added to the depth of my old room.
Now I must read in neighbors' reflected light;
I will sink into dream beneath Buddha's altar lamps.
I've no regrets that the orchid-oil is gone—
those clever rats no longer will invade.

The wine of parting flowed and flowed,
flooding the fork in the road!
Now the drinking is done, and we have no choice
but to go our ways, east and west.
There is only the setting sunlight which stays with me:
full of feeling, it follows my horse's hoofs all the way down the road.

All of you are seeing me off, east of the Emperor's city;
sitting on horseback, we pass wine cups,
braving the north winds.
Do not complain that the willows are so withered
it's hard to pluck a good branch:
there is plenty of springtime spirit
right here in these cups of wine!

I remove my court gown and part from the Emperor's precincts
to make my way through Five Lakes' misty waters
in a little boat!
Friends, don't look upon me as a man becoming an immortal:
I was old and sick, without ability, and simply had to quit!

In the past when I saw friends off
I'd think of going home myself—
my homesick thoughts would fly a thousand miles
every day and night.
Looking back, the last three years,
how many partings here?
The only difference is that now
tears need not dampen my robe.

Beneath the Shrine of the Three Loyal Ones
the sunset light is clear:
how many times, my feelings at this station
as I said good-bye to friends!
Today, all of you are saying good-bye to me:
you probably are feeling what I felt back then.

Nothing comes
from him,
not so much as a note
asking,
“Do you remember
the pledge of love
we made?”—
so distant has he become.

John, John of Ottenhaw!
When he was wild he knew no law:
The devil in him drove him round
To plague the lives on English ground.
Away from him ran wife & maid,
And slammed the doors & peeped afraid:
In twos & threes the keepers went:
He thanked them for the compliment.