Zen in Chinese Poetry

Mt. Chungnan Cottage

In middle age,
I became fond of the Way.

Now I'm old, and settled
in a Chungnan cottage.

Sometimes, I get the notion
to wander off by myself

to marvelous places
I alone know,

hiking to the stream's source;
sitting, watching clouds arise.

Sometimes, I come across
an old recluse.

We chatter and laugh
and forget to go home.

Wang Wei (701-761)
trans. from various sources

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Visiting the Temple of Accumulated Fragrance

Not knowing the way
to the temple,
I enter several miles
into cloudy peaks.

Ancient trees,
a deserted path –
deep in the mountains,
somewhere a bell.

The sound of a spring
choked by towering rocks,
the color of sunlight
chilled by green pines.

Near evening,
at the corner of an empty pool,
calm zen subdues
poison dragons.

Wang Wei
trans. from various sources

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A Spring Day at the Farm

Pigeons coo on the roof
apricot orchards
bloom white at the edge of town

the farmers are out with axes
pruning the mulberry trees
hoeing watercourses

swallows hunt up old nests
old men sit in the sun
almanacs on their laps

I have forgotten my glass of wine
thinking of lost friends,
dead friends,
in a blaze of old pain.

Wang Wei
trans. David Young

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Deer Fence

In the empty mountains
I see no one,
But hear the sound
Of someone's voice.

Slanting sunlight
Enters deep forest,
And shines again
On green moss.

Wang Wei
trans. Greg Whincup

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Seeking, but Not Finding the Recluse

Under pines,
I ask the boy;

he says, “My Master's gone
to gather herbs.

I only know
he's on this mountain,

but the clouds are too deep
to know where.”

Chia Tao (779-849)
trans. Mike O'Connor

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Poem Just Jotted Down

In the middle of the night,
I suddenly rise,

draw water
from the deep well.

White dew
covers the woods;

morning stars
dot the clear sky.

Chia Tao
trans. Mike O'Connor

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For a Buddhist Monk

In a tangle of mountains,
in autumn trees, a cave –
hidden within,
a magic dragon pearl.

Poplar and cassia
overlook a blue sea;
rare fragrances waft
from a stone pagoda.

A monk since youth,
you still have no white hair;
you enter upon meditation,
in a frost-streaked robe.

Here there is no talk
of the world's affairs –
those matters that make
wild the hearts of men.

Chia Tao
trans. Mike O'Connor

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Four Mountain Postures

Walking in the mountains
unconsciously trudging along
grab a vine
climb another ridge

Standing in the mountains
how many dawns become dusk
plant a pine
a tree of growing shade

Sitting in the mountains
zig-zag yellow leaves fall
nobody comes
close the door and make a big fire

Lying in the mountains
pine wind enters the ears
for no good reason
beautiful dreams are blown apart

Stonehouse (Shih wu, 1272-1352)   
trans. Red Pine

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From Mountain Poems

10.
Don't think a mountain home means you're free
a day doesn't pass without its problems
old ladies steal my bamboo shoots
boys lead oxen into the wheat
grubs and beetles destroy my greens
boars and squirrels devour the rice
when what happens isn't what you expect
forget it and turn to yourself

Stonehouse (Shih wu)
trans. Red Pine

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Off Hand Poem Written During The Seclusion Fast

Replenishing the censor, a servant
adds one stick of fragrant incense,

and I can still sit up, keep the bed
half clean with my deer-tail whisk.

Moving into my library for the sun,
I raise blinds, gaze into azure skies

and savor fruit tarts, fresh and sweet,
keeping warm in gentle old robes.

In easy contentment a tranquil life,
in idleness aplenty a joyful nature:

I don't cling to yes this and no that
or resist the play of motion and rest,

so what can tangle me in this world?
Heart empty, forgetfulness replete,

I'm old and sick and free of worry:
Mind is the master of its own cures.

Po Chu-I (772-846)
trans. David Hinton

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From The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain

32.
Who takes the Cold Mountain Road
takes a road that never ends
the rivers are long and piled with rocks
the streams are wide and choked with grass
it's not the rain that makes the moss slick
and it's not the wind that makes the pines moan
who can get past the tangles of the world
and sit with me in the clouds

230.
All I see are fools
piling higher gold and grain
getting drunk and eating creatures
imagining they're well-to-do
unaware of hell's abyss
seeking only Heaven's bliss
but with karma like Vipula
how can they escape disaster
suddenly the rich man dies
people crowd around in tears
then they hire some monks to chant
though such ghostly pay is void
and provides no future blessings
why support the hairless bunch
better to wake up in time
don't create a hell of darkness
be a tree that fears no wind
steadfast and unmoved by fate
tell the blockheads you might meet
read this over once or twice

Han Shan (@ 730)
Trans. Red Pine (Bill Porter)

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Reclusion, Late Summer

To this place of retreat
the world does not follow;
but many old ailments
heal here.

I polish words
of old poems;
view mountains,
and sleep outside my hut.

Colored clouds
cross the setting sun;
cicadas ring
in the leaves of trees.

With this
my heart again knows happiness;
and who would have thought it,
without wine or money.

Yao Ho (fl. 831)
trans. Mike O'Connor

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Returned from Yang-chou, Up the Hill to view the Snow

I.
There and back, ten days . . .
The boat returned, with the sun and the river.
Now, to view the snow, I'll go on up the mountain.
Lusting still for idleness, I won't go in the city.

Snow petals brighten the moon's dark face.
Freezing rain sings the Spring's song.
Overnight beside wild rapids
To sound the watches, a single swan.

II.
If you don't climb a thousand crags,
how can you learn
all things are empty?

The mountain's head is white and mine is too.
December dies, the year
runs out its string as all things do.

At the summit: one rude hut, the snow,
this lonely body, and the wind.
I lean on the rail, heart sudden struck
the moon rises from within Great River: there.

Yuan Mei (1716-1798)
trans. J.P. Seaton

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Untitled Poems by Shih-te

1.
I laugh at myself, old man, with no strength left
inclined to piney peaks, in love with lonely paths
oh well, I've wandered down the years to now
free in the flow, and floated home the same
a drifting boat.

2.
not going, not coming
rooted, deep and still
not reaching out, not reaching in
just resting, at the center
a single jewel, the flawless crystal drop
in the blaze of its brilliance
the way beyond

Shih-te (@730)
trans. James Sanford &.J. P. Seaton

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Winter Dusk at a Remote Temple

Approaching year's end,
east of the river
the weather turns cold.

At the wilderness temple,
dusk spreads
to river and sky.

No wine I know
can melt
this night.

I follow a monk,
who shuts
the gates early.

Lamplit walls
hold
stunted shadows.

Roof tiles
bearing snow
creak constantly.

Drifting about in the world,
I still have
a thousand li to travel;

but just now,
I want to lose myself
in the temple's pure chanting of sutras.

Jen Fan (late T'ang, @ 875)
trans. Mike O'Connor

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Untitled

The entire day I searched for spring but
spring I could not find,
In my straw sandals I tramped among the
mountain peak clouds.
Home again, smiling, I finger a sprig of
fragrant plum blossoms;
Spring was right here on these branches in
all of its glory!

Plum Blossom Nun (@ 600)
trans. Beata Grant

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Mourning My Teacher the Venerable Nun Zhiyuan

After submitting myself to her rigorous
training for several years,
A midday dream shattered awake, tears not
yet wiped away.
Alas, why did I have to be separated from my
teacher so soon?
The family pine tree has grown still and
knows no sorrow.

Since when have spring and fall passed
without me serving her?
I find myself imitating the birds crying over
the fallen branches.
Brokenhearted, I listen as again and again
they return my calls,
Then silently I shut the brushwood gate
against the wind and rain.

Yikui (1625-79)
trans. Beata Grant

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Living in Seclusion in The Nanyue Mountains (One of Twenty-Five poems)

The late autumn moon lights up the forest,
And mountain mists fill the secluded woods.
I love to look at the crystal clear landscape,
It helps me sustain an empty and clear mind.
On the flat moss, I can sit in stable meditation,
As the wind whips its way deep into the woods.
An old nun comes to see how I am getting along,
We light some incense, play a bit on the zither.

Xingche (b. 1606)
trans. Beata Grant

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