Taste
of Hanshan
(Cold Mountain)
Published by Alexander Goldstein
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Alexander Goldstein
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contents
PART ONE: Three Hundred And Eleven Poems of Master Han Shan
PART TWO: Fifty-four Verses of Master Shi De
Tian-tai Mountains are famous for their well-known reputation as a residence of saints and immortals. From ancient times adepts engaged in Chinese Buddhism and Daoism all longed for coming to Tian-tai. Richly endowed by nature, the mountain beauty spots produced unique harmonious culture, the striking prototypes of which were vagabond-poets Han Shan (Japanese "Kanzan") and Shi De (Jittoku). Once expelled from Guo-qing monastery Shi De was given a home at Mount Hanshan where Han Shan, his intimate friend and sworn elder brother, had resided for a half of century. Musing on Han Shan's poems one day, while lounging in the hot sun and sitting on a huge stone in front of the thatched hut, Shi De rolled off the top into the grass called by the master "Three Paths"; he then hauled himself back onto the boulder and began writing poems in Han Shan's voice with a bold and shameless humour worthy of his inspirer, deducing a formula that "Man’s life is nothing but drifting in the world." This is finely distilled the Daoist thinking of this transitory life; Dao embodies a belief that all our accomplishments, all our strivings and things we hold dear are simply nothing if we don't cultivate our minds. To follow the way of Dao is to calmly, even joyfully, let life have its way with us.
The whole things read like a treatise from Han Shan’s hand-scroll written by Shi De’s brush or, rather, his crude broom, with that special feeling that mysteriously refreshes and makes us gladly relaxed. For all their eccentricity and mysterious existence, Han Shan and Shi De exhibited great compassion, wisdom and have always inspired ordinary people to do good, avoid evil, and study the noble Buddha's Dharma. Hence, they were thought to be the reincarnations of Manjusri Bodhisattva and Samantabhadra Bodhisattva respectively.
(This Preface is written by the government official
Lü Qiu-Yin who, having assumed his post as prefect of Tai-zhou,
went to Guo-qing monastery located on Mount Tian-tai to visit two
masters by the name of Han Shan and Shi De, as such visit having been
recommended by Chan monk Feng Gan.)
"I was once appointed to serve in Tanzhou City and received a position as prefect there. The day I was about to depart, I had a bad headache. I called a doctor, but he couldn’t cure me and it turned worse. Then I ran into a Buddhist monk by the name of Feng Gan who said he had come from the Wu-tai Mountains especially to pay me a visit. I asked him to rescue me from my illness.
He smiled and said, 'There are only four elements with which the human body consists of: earth, fire, water, and wind. Your sickness comes from illusion. If you want to do away with it, you need some pure water.'
Someone brought water to the master who read an incantation and spat it on me. In a moment the disease was rooted out. Then he said, 'There are miasmas in Tai-zhou prefecture, when you get there take a good care of yourself.’
I asked him, "Are there any wise men in your area I could take as my master?"
He replied, 'When you see them you don’t recognise them, when you recognise them you don’t see them. If you want to see them, you can’t rely on their appearances. Then you can see them. There is Han Shan, incarnation of Manjusri Bodhisattva, who has attained enlightenment. Although he looks like a true tramp: his body and face are old and beat, his kerchief is made of birch bark, his clothes are ragged and worn out, and his shoes are wood, in a future incarnation he will become a buddha. He is hiding at Guo-qing monastery now. There is also his intimate friend Shi De ("Foundling"), incarnation of Samantabhadra Bodhisattva. They truly look like poor fellows and act like madmen. From time to time they go back and forth between their retreats deep in the mountains and Guo-qing monastery, where they work in the dining hall, tending the fire in the monastery’s kitchen, and the like.'
Upon saying so, he left.
I proceeded on my journey to my office in Tai-zhou, not forgetting this affair. Three days later I arrived at my official post; I went to the local temple and questioned an old monk. It seemed the master had been truthful, so I gave orders to see if Tang-xing district really contained men by the name of Han Shan and Shi De. The district Magistrate reported to me: 'In the district, seventy miles west, on a mountain people used to see a poor man heading off from the cliffs to stay awhile at Guo-qing monastery. In the monastery’s dining hall there is a similar man named Shi De.'
I made some arrangement and went in person to Guo-qing temple.
I asked some people around the temple, “There used to be a master by the name of Feng Gan here. Where is his cell? And where can I find master Han Shan and master Shi De?”
Abbot Zhan Ran spoke up, saying, 'Monk Feng Gan lived in back of the library. Nowadays nobody lives there; a tigress often comes and roars. . .'
Upon saying so, the abbot led me to Feng Gan’s yard. When we opened the door of his cell, we found nothing but the tigress’s tracks all around and written on the wall verse which read like this:
"Originally, there is not a thing,
Much less any
dust to flick off.
Once you can comprehend this,
You needn’t
sit tight any longer."
I asked the abbot, “When Feng Gan was here, what was his job?”
The abbot replied, 'He worked in the granary, grinding and pounding rice. At night he sang his childish songs to amuse himself.'
I also was advised that most likely Han Shan and Shi De were in the kitchen. We then proceeded to the kitchen. Before the stoves I saw two men who were facing the fire, laughing loudly. Accordingly, I politely bowed down, inquiring, "Master Feng Gan kindly directed me here to greeting you both. What should I do in order to receive your blessings?"
The two shouted at me: 'Ho!' They struck their hands together, giggling, 'Ha! Ha! Ha!'
The two men had a great laughter, shouting out, 'Feng Gan is a blabbermouth, a true blabbermouth! If you don’t recognise Amitabha Buddha, what good does it do bowing to us? Why be so courteous to us, poor vagabonds?!'
Then they gathered round, surprise was going through them. With one accord they exclaimed, 'Why has a high-ranking official bowed to a pair of clumsy clowns?'
So saying, they grabbed hands and ran out of the kitchen’s doors.
I cried, “Catch them!”
But they quickly ran away. Passing through the monastery’s gates, Han Shan sang his song which, they said, was addressed to me. It went like this:
"Your
brush might move about with great ease,
And in stature you might
be tremendously huge.
Still, being alive, you’re limited
with your own flesh,
But dead, you’ll become a nameless
hungry ghost.
From ancient times, like this there’ve been
many;
If you, sir, strive against it now, what good would that
do?
However, you can come to join me in the white clouds,
Where
I’ll teach you the violet fungus song of eternity."
I asked the monks, “Would those two men be willing to settle down at the temple?”
I ordered them to find a house, and to ask Han Shan and Shi De to return and live in the monastery. Han Shan, they said, went back to Mount Hanshan, also known as the Cold Mountain, or Frozen Peak.
Soon I returned to my district and made two sets of clean clothes, got some incense and sent the package to the temple, but the two masters didn’t return. So I had it carried up to Mount Hanshan. My packers saw Han Shan who called in a loud voice, 'Thieves! Thieves!' Shouting so, he retreated into a mountain cave. Before the cave closed up on its own he shouted, 'I’m telling you, men, strive hard!' He entered the cave and was gone. No one was able to follow him.
As for Shi De, his tracks disappeared completely, too. I ordered the abbot and the other monks to find out how they had lived, to hunt up the poems of Han Shan written on bamboo, palm’s leaves, trees, stones, cliffs, and also to collect those written on the walls of the village houses. Altogether there were more than three hundred long and short works. I have collected and edited them, bringing together in a single volume entitled "Three Hundred and Eleven Poems of Master Han Shan." On the wall of the Earth-shrine Shi De had written some gathas, the Buddhist chants, which were also brought together into another volume called "Fifty-four Verses of Master Shi De."
At first glance the collected poems only describe the wild scenery, mountains and rivers, the beauty of which is real, but hard to attain. Apparently, this is only an objective description of hermit’s life, but it is the character and feeling of men with a higher degree of awakening that made such description possible. The verses cover many themes and subjects: from poems that show a deep spiritual insight to poems of a more secular nature, from satire on society and vanity of human character to sorrow at transience of life and sufferings it causes. As the reader will see, Han Shan is morally indignant about a number of things that people in the world usually do. He dislikes the greed of the rich, he has no time for old men who marry young women and for those who do the reverse; he continually berates corrupt monks and speaks out strongly against those who surfeit fish and meat.
The following poetic works of two hermits are rich with so many parables of meditative states and spiritual awakening that there are more explicit exhortations to diligent practice and advanced instruction on self-cultivation that under their mystic influence I have held fast to the goal of Buddhahood. I have frankly accepted the teachings and put them into practice. It is fortunate to meet the people of the Dao in the course of crossing the great stream! So I have completed this long eulogy, which says:
"Bodhisattvas retreat to show their solidarity with poor men,
Dwelling on Mount Hanshan
And enjoying themselves the freewill style of life.
Their blushes are quenched and bodies withered;
Their only sackcloth protects them from any troubles;
Their speeches are neat, but contemplations
Accord with the principles of Dharma.
As long as the commoners are unpredictable,
These two are considered to be madmen.
Once coming over Tian-tai
And paying a visit to Guo-qing temple,
I saw them strolling along a passage,
Giggling and chuckling and rubbing their hands;
Now moving and now standing,
As if riveted to the spot, mumbling all the same words.
They were looking for some food in the kitchen
To take leftovers away.
Reciting their verses and sad songs,
In which they held up to shame the manners of many monks,
But never hesitating to castigate themselves
For the sake of freedom,
As long as folly to them is the priceless treasure.
Once starting to speak, apprehensions arise,
Growing up like layers of dust;—
And this is because of Guo-qing monastery’s rules and order
Where the whole setup is strictly determined from of old
How to bring up young novices and cultivate brotherhood.
They used to live on Mount Hanshan,
From time to time entering the monastery's gates:
Master Han Shan, incarnation of Manjusri Bodhisattva,
And master Shi De, incarnation of Samantabhadra indeed.
So I would like to make this eulogy,
Wishing to get out of circle of life and death."
-- Lü Qiu-Yin, Prefect of Tai-zhou
Written on the sixth lunar month of the third year of the reign of Emperor Jui-tsung
Three
Hundred And Eleven Poems of Master Han Shan
1
Of five-character a line verses I’ve written five hundred;
Of seven-character a line poems, there are seventy-nine;
The three-character a line strophes, I have twenty-one.
All together they come to six hundred works of mine
In the same vein written on the rocks of Cold Alp.
I praise myself, saying: 'You’ve got a good hand, pal!'
If you can comprehend my poems too,
You are just like the Buddha’s mother!
2
Worldly affairs—they wind us round and round;
Even those who cling to life sooner or later must resign.
If you want to grind to extinction all rocks in the great land,
When will you have time to lay your head?
The four seasons go round as they transmute and change;
All the eight solar terms run fast like rapids.
Before you can recover your burning house,
You first should ride a lot the white cow in the wasteland.
3
Once the rich meet in a high mansion—
Splendid lanterns—how dazzling and shining they are!
Here arrives one who has brought not a candle,
Hoping to get a place nearby the light.
He couldn’t even expect to be forced to leave,
To return to the dark and stay in the secluded spot.
Supporting others, does your brightness decline?
I’m surprised at those who are greedy for lighting up!
4
Whoever reads my poems and verses
Must protect the clarity of mind.
Avidity and greed predominate honesty day by day;
Flattery and ruse surpass the truth time and again.
Now drive away and exile all your badness
To go back to trust in and get the true nature!
Today you have attained the Bodhi-body
Induced to come forthwith by this Imperial Order!
5
How much funny is the way to Mount Hanshan!
Yet there are no trails of horses or carts.
Chained valleys—it’s hard to keep in mind all their turns;
Piled up peaks—no one knows how many layers there are.
The tears of dew shed on thousands of sorts of grasses;
The wind chants through pines, which are all of a kind.
At times like these, if you lose your pathway,
Your body ought to ask your shadow which way to go.
6
As he takes thought of the days of his youth,
For hunting he’d headed for the hills of Pingling.
A state envoy—this post was out of his wish;
As to be an immortal—that isn’t even worth talking!
Repeatedly whipping, he’d raced his snow-white steed,
Bawling out the hares and releasing his rock hawk.
Before he has realised, his life left mostly behind;
Now white-haired, who will take pity on him?
7
Brotherly relations tie together all the five regions;
Relations of fathers and sons underlie the three lands.
Before you try to lead a flock of ducks,
You first must exercise the track of a rambling hare.
The divine melon is only received in the dreams;
The sacred tangerines are cropped within a group of stars.
My native land—how distant it is and afar!
With fish I entrust myself to the rapid stream.
8
Even if you support yourself with the healing rhinoceros horn,
Or defend yourself with the belt of tiger's eyeballs,
Or make use of a twig of peach to keep yourself away from faults,
Or wear a necklace of garlic buds as an amulet,
Or warm your belly with dogwood wine,
Or empty your mind with thick broth of medlar. . .
In the end you will come back—there is no way to avoid death.
It’s just a waste of yourself—your search for long life.
9
Greedy people like to amass their properties,
Exactly like an owl which loves its nestlings.
Once growing up, the fledgelings eat their mother;
A lot of riches inevitably cause harmful end.
Get rid of them and blessings will appear;
But amass them and disasters arise.
Have no properties and you will have no disasters;
You can then spread your wings in the bluish clouds.
10
My home is nicely concealed in the depths;
The place I live is cut off from dust and hubbub.
The grasses I trample become my three rings of retreat;
The clouds I view make up my neighbours on the four corners.
To accompany my singing, there is the bird polyphony;
To ask about the Dharma, there is no one with whom I’d talk.
Today I’m like a long-lived stinking cedar;
Several years amount to one endless spring.
11
I firstly was an adherent of books and swords,
And only then I was blessed with wisdom of great men.
In the east my civil service received no rewards;
In the western campaign my weapon got me no fame.
I studied writings and I mastered my martial arts;
I mastered my martial arts and I studied writings.
Today I’m already too aged;
What is ahead of me is not worthy of mentioning.
12
His 'qin' and writing tackle must always be with him;
High rank and handsome salary—what is the good of that?
Rejecting imperial carriage, he followed his virtuous wife;
Instead of many privileges, he had gotten his filial son.
The wind blows, drying the wheat fields;
The waters overflow, keeping full the fishpond.
I often think of those little wrens,
Which manage to settle well on one single twig.
13
When Zhuang-zi spoke of his last roundup,
He said, “Heaven and Earth will be my coffin.
For my return—this has its proper time;
All what I need is just the bamboo screen.
When I’m dead I'll feed the bluebottle flies;
For mourning—no need to trouble white cranes.”
For those who chose to starve to death on Mt. Shouyang,
With their honest life, death was also joyful.
14
I speed up my horse to pass by the deserted city;
Deserted cities move the feelings of a stranger:
High and low, there are the old battlements;
Large and small, the ancient tombs are overall.
Shaking on its own—the shadow of a lonely tumbleweed;
Congealed for good—the wail hung at the burial trees.
What I lament—all bones of the mortals;
In the Annals of Immortals you'll never find their names.
15
People ask the way to Hanshan, Cold Mountain,
Yet there are no roads that get through to Hanshan.
Even in summertime the ice is not yet melted,
And though the sun comes up, the fog is still tight.
But how could someone like me arrive here?
My mind and yours, sir, are not the same indeed.
Otherwise, if your mind were like mine,
You would also get in this place.
16
In the city there is a maiden of beautiful brows;
Pearls at her waist—how they tinkle and jingle!
She plays with her parrot in front of the bloom;
She strums her pipa-lute beneath the full moon.
Her long song resounds for three months running;
Her short dance is to be seen by thousands of men.
There is no need for such a long tarrying—
A heat-loving hibiscus can't withstand cold, anyway.
17
The parrot’s dwelling is in the Western lands,
But with a huntsman’s net it is caught to be delivered.
A fair lady will play with it day and night;
Coming in and going out thru her bedchamber's curtain.
A golden cage is to store the living gift away:
Just lock it in, and it will lose its feathered clothes.
Much better is to be a wild goose or a white crane
To live up in the cloudy heavens.
18
A curtain of pearls hangs in the jade hall,
Behind which stays a graceful maiden.
In appearance she surpasses goddesses and deities,
Her complexion glows like plums and peaches.
At the Eastern inn the spring mist is thickening;
At the Western lodge the autumn winds arise.
Alas, but in another thirty years
She will resemble a pressed sugar cane.
19
Your brush might move about with great ease,
And in
stature you might be tremendously huge.
Still, being alive, you’re
limited with your own flesh,
But dead, you’ll become a
nameless hungry ghost.
From ancient times, like this there’ve
been many;
If you, sir, strive against it now, what good would
that do?
However, you can come to join me in the white
clouds,
Where I’ll teach you the violet fungus song of
eternity.
20
His parents left him plenty of properties:
And groves and fields—still, there's nothing to envy him.
My wife works at a shuttle—her loom goes creak, creak;
My son is at play with his babbling out mouth—'wa, wa.'
Clapping my hands, I urge the blossoms to dance;
Propping my chin, I listen to the birds sing.
Who can come and admire all this?!
Alas! Only the woodmen repeatedly pass me by.
21
When Heaven produces a tree of a hundred feet,
It can mostly be cut into long boards.
It’s pitiable that the worthy timber for beams and posts
Is wasted in some remote and secluded valley.
In spite of old age its core is still strong,
But in course of time its bark gradually getting peeling.
Once those who know worth come and take it away,
As it can still be used for some stable pillar.
22
Heaven is high—its highness is boundless;
Earth is thick—its thickness knows no extremity.
All living beings exist in between,
Relying on the power of Creation.
They all clash over the search for satiation and warmth,
Managing their plans to gobble up each other.
Cause and effect—neither known in detail,
As if a blind asks about the colour of milk.
23
My home is placed beneath the greenish cliffs;
My weed-covered yard I don’t cut anymore.
Fresh rattan hangs down in curling up;
Ancient boulders erect upright to the sunlight peaks.
Mountain fruits the monkeys pick;
Fish in the pond—the egrets hold in their bills.
With my immortal books—just a couple of scrolls,
I sit beneath a tree and read, mumbling and muttering.
24
The world has a lot of 'capable' men;
Poor fools! They work hard in vain.
They do not seek for coming good,
But only know to create bad cause.
'Five sins' and 'ten evils' are their kind,
'Three poisons' they take as their kin.
Once they meet death, they go straight to the hell
To be stuck there forever, like silver kept at the treasury.
25
The four seasons move on without cease:
Once year is gone, again a new one comes.
All things have alternations and successions,
Only Nine Heavens are out of destruction and decay.
Light in the east means dark in the west;
Blossom falls imply the coming bloom again.
It’s only a passenger in the Yellow Spring
Who enters the dark and does not come back.
26
A handsome lad of outstanding talents rides his horse;
Waving his whip, he points to the ‘young willows.’
He predicates his death day will never come,
To the end he is supposedly free from danger.
The four season flowers delight in themselves,
Yet one morning they wither and sallow.
Until his death he will be unable to enjoy
The finest cream of the teachings and treacle of cliffs.
27
Ages have passed to be replaced with the years of sorrow;
But springtime comes to refresh the colours of the things.
Mountain blossoms press a weeping flow from both sides,
While peaks and cliffs swing in dance with the blue mist.
Butterflies and bees, in their own way, speak of their joy;
As for the fish and birds, they are even more delightsome!
Roaming with my friend, my sentiments are not yet spent,
Till dawn I cannot get a wink of sleep.
28
I’ve heard it said that grief is hard to leave behind;
This saying, I would say, is not quite true.
Since the morning of yesterday I’ve drove it away,
But today I am completely tangled again.
This month comes to an end, but my grief has no limit;
The year starts afresh, and my sadness is also resumed.
Who surely knows that under this cap of reed
Is a sort of man that has been sad from long-ago?
29
If you want to find a place to make your home,
Mount Hanshan for long can keep you secure.
A slight breeze blows through secluded pines:
The closer you get the better it sounds in the air.
Beneath is a man with his grey hair
Who mumbles, reading "Huang-di" and "Lao-zi."
Ten years he’s been unable to return,
As he’s forgotten the way he used to come here.
30
There is a master who meals the rosy clouds;
His dwelling avoids any laymen's tracks.
As for his days, they are bleak and crisp—
His summertime is just like the autumn.
Desolated ravine—endless gurgle and splash;
Through tall pines the wind sighs and moans.
Amid them, if you sit still for some time,
You'll forget the worries of a hundred years.
31
Ascend along the way to Mt. Hanshan!
The roads of Mount Hanshan never end.
The vales are long, with heaps and piles of stones;
The streams are wide, with grass both dusky and damp.
Despite the ceased rain the moss is still slick;
The pines sing, yet never singing out of the winds.
Who can get over the cares of the world
And sit with me amid the white clouds?
32
My concubine lives in Hantan City—
The tune of her song rises and falls.
Since I live confidentially at that place,
The melody I’ve known well for long.
She used to say, “You're too drunk to get home.
Stay with me, the sun has not yet down.
In my lover’s bedchamber you can stay the night—
Embroidered quilts fill his silver couch."
33
You can paddle fast your three-mast boat,
And be good at riding your winged steed.
But you’ll never be able to attain my home,
Which is to say in the most secluded place.
My cave hides in the deep range of peaks,
Where clouds and thunders descend all days.
Since you’re not a master like Confucius, sir,
You don’t have ability in saving the world.
34
There are many wise scholars in this world
Who work hard, probing the abstruse writings.
In the Three Principles they stand all alone;
At the Six Arts they surpass other noblemen.
In style and spirit they are outstandingly rare;
In their excellences they go beyond the crowd.
But they don’t know the meaning of "Within,"
Just hunting for what is without in total disarray.
35
Being a man of wisdom, you ignore me;
When you're playing a fool, I ignore you!
In order to be neither stupid nor wise,
From now on, let’s cease to talk to each other.
With the night I sing at the bright moon;
With dawn I dance amid the white clouds.
But how can I manage to keep my cool
And sit tight with my sparse hair volitated in air?
36
My eastern house landowner is an old lady
Who’s been wealthy now for a couple of years.
In former days she even was poorer than me,
But today she laughs at my lack of money.
She laughs at me for being behind her,
While I laugh at her for being ahead of me.
If we won’t stop laughing at each other,
The Eastern side will be the Western side again.
37
There is a bird feathered with all the five colours,
Which perches solely in the wu-tong trees
And eats only the fruits of the bamboo shoots.
Gracefully it moves in full accord with rituals and rites;
Harmoniously it sings with proper notes and tones.
Last night it homed—why did it arrive?
It was because of you that it appeared for a while.
Hearing the tune of your strings and your voice,
It danced delightfully to meet the sunrise.
38
White clouds soar high over jagged peaks;
The green waters wash away in deep waves.
From here I hearken to an old fisherman—
Every now and then he beats out his oar-hymn.
Beat after beat—I cannot stand to hear—
It makes me have too many melancholies.
Who says "the sparrow has no horns?"
How else could it pierce thru my thatch roof?
39
This thatched hut shelters a man of grasslands;
In front of his door the horses and carts are few.
The thick forest behind gathers birds to nestle;
The vale streams are vast to shelter teeming fish.
The mountain fruits—he brings my kid along to pick;
The marshy fields together with his wife he ploughs.
And what do they have inside the house?
Nothing more than a bed filled with books and scripts.
40
At the end of the day you feel as if you are heavily drunk;
Fleeting time—never for an instant does it rest.
Buried, you will lie beneath daisy sod,
From where each daybreak looks so gloomy and black!
Upon your flesh and bones are finally scattered,
All your heavenly spirits and earthly souls will vanish.
If in next life your mouth won’t be blocked
With an iron ring of an obstinate buffalo,
It's not because of your reading the "Lao-zi" all the way.
41
The Six Extremities always tie the men's hands;
The Nine Regulations are treated dependently.
Those with talents are left behind amid the fields and lakes,
While all untalented lock behind them the hatches of retreat.
Despite the sunrise the cliffs are still in the dark;
The mist has already cleared, but the vale remains in dusk.
Amid the scene there are descendants of the great ancestors,
And each one wears no pants at all.
42
It’s so pitiful to look at such a handsome man
Whose stature is so much lofty and haughty.
In springs and autumns he is not yet thirty,
But for acquirements and arts—all sorts and kinds.
With his bridle of gold, he chases around with knights;
With vessels of jade he gathers together with noble friends.
In the whole lot he has only one kind of fault:
He doesn’t transmit the light of the inexhaustible lamp.
43
Remote and out of sight is the way to Mt. Hanshan:
Steep and abrupt are the brinks of the cold rapids;
Chirp and twittering—there is ceaseless roll call of birds;
Still and quiet—and what's more, there is not a soul.
Whispering and rustling—the wind blows in my face;
Layer upon layer—the snow piles up over my body.
Day after day I see the sun no more;
Year after year I welcome no spring to come.
44
Talking about food will not make you be fed anyway;
Speaking of clothes will not keep you out the cold.
The thing you need to be fed is rice;
Warm clothes will keep you out the cold.
Meanwhile, you don't know how to manage your many thoughts;
You only talk of the hardship you meet in seeking for the Buddha.
Turn around your mind and you will see where the true Buddha is.
Never look for him facing outwards!
45
I strain my eyes to see as far as the eyes can see;
White clouds are all around, like the boundless sea.
Owls and crows are so full, they can barely move,
While phoenixes starve, dashing around in twenty minds.
Fine horses and steeds cart gravel and stones,
While lame donkeys and jades are all in court.
Heaven is so high that we can’t hear the reason why
Small songbirds dwell around on the cold Canglang River.
46
Yesterday I rambled to the top of peak,
Viewing a thousand feet cliff left below.
On the edge of danger—one lonely tree;
Swayed in the wind, it is split for two branches.
Shaken by the rain, its leaves scattered and fell;
Dried out then by the sun, they turned into dust.
I heave a sigh, seeing that the luxuriant growth
Today has come to be a heap of grey ash.
47
Amid the layered cliffs I divined to live—
Just paths of birds and no laymen's traces.
What’s there inside of my yard?
Thick clouds embraced the deep rocks all around.
I am staying here for a few years,
Viewing the annual changes from spring to winter.
I appeal to all who possess bronze bells and tripods,
Saying, “An empty fame for sure does you no good.”
48
All youngsters—what do they worry about?
They worry about seeing their temples turn grey.
But when they turn grey, what then do they worry about?
They worry about seeing their days draw to a close.
Then they’ll head for the east to stay on Tai Mountain,
Or, being exiled to the north, hide on Bei-mang Peak.
How dare I take the liberty to speak these words out?!
Such words for sure will injure my guest in old age.
49
Two tortoises once rode a cart drawn by a calf.
But how come they stepped down to make fun?
A scorpion came over from the roadside;
Weary to death, he begged them to give him a ride.
Since not to carry him would go against humanity,
They took him on—the cart sank down under the weight.
As though it was a finger-snap, indescribably short,
They displayed their kindness being therewith stung.
50
In the third month, with silkworms still small,
Young ladies come to gather the blossoms.
A lattice on the wall—they play with butterflies;
Facing the waters, they toss out leap-frog pebbles.
Their silken sleeves chocked full of plums;
With golden hairpins they dig out shoots of bamboo.
Vying with each other, they talk about odds and ends;
As it goes, “This place is even better than home!”
51
These guys are so much 'busy and burdensome'—
It’s hard for them to handle what comes their way.
Their granary rice might be already rotten-red,
But they will never lend others even a pint of it.
They always change their minds and twist their ends;
Before buying raw silk they first pick out brocades.
But when their days draw to a close,
For mourners they will only have houseflies.
52
I have once seen a wise man, true scholar,—
So deep in knowledge and unbeatable in spirit.
No sooner selected for post
Than his good name passed ahead;
His five-character a line poems
Surpassed those of all the eminent poets.
As an official, he governed and reformed,
Excelling all his predecessors;
His conduct, righteous and correct,
Could not be improved by his followers.
But then he came to be greedy for fame, riches, and women. . .
As the saying goes, “For the broken tiles and the melted ice,
You cannot set them out on display.”
53
A white crane with a bitter peach in his beak
Flew over thousands of miles, stopping to rest only once.
Wishing to get to Mount Peng-lai,
He took this along as his foodstuff.
Before he arrived his feathers broke and fell,
Apart from the flock, his heart was dispirited and sad.
But when he returned home, his native nest,
He found out that his wife and kids no longer recognised him.
54
The family Shi had two sons—
With their skills they went to Qi and Chu to serve.
In civil and military affairs they both were very well-trained;
Relying on their masteries, they both got the right deal.
Master Meng then asked about Shi family's techniques—
“My children will instruct you by themselves,” was the reply.
But in Qin and Wei the Meng family’s sons both failed.
Truly, missing the right time we simply ride for a fall.
55
Accustomed to dwelling in a deep and remote spot,
I suddenly head off for the Guo-qing temple's site.
From time to time I pay a visit to Venerable Feng Gan;
And, as before, come to see Master Shi De.
Alone I return on the peak of Hanshan;
There is no one to talk with about unity and parity.
I use to explore the sourceless stream—
The source might be exhausted but the stream is not.
56
If all your previous life you were stupid and dull,
You couldn’t be completely enlightened today.
If now you are very poor,
It’s all of what you did in the past.
If in this life you still do not cultivate your self,
In your next life you’ll be in the same position.
When neither bank has a ferryboat,
The rapid stream is hardly possible to cross.
57
Bright and clean is the Lü family's girl;
She always was called “Never Mourn.”
She adores riding her piebald horse
And enjoys in paddling her lotus-gathering boat.
Kneeling, she sits on the green-bear seat;
Her body is wrapped round with a blue-phoenix mantlet.
It’s so sad that within one hundred years
She won’t avoid her return to the mounts and hills.
58
Master Cou’s wife was from Di-yan;
In Hantan lived the mother of one Mr. Du.
Both ladies were the same in age,
Even the same sort of servants for love they preferred.
Just last night they met at the reception
To compete whose clothes were less chic.
All because the one wore a little bit worn-out skirt,
She got to have all leftover pastry as a losing party!
59
Alone I sleep at the foot of the jagged cliff;
The steam and haze through the day do not dispel.
Sitting in my space filled with dark and gloom,
I’m cut off from any noise and clatter in mind.
In my dreams I go off to wander thru the Golden Gates;
As my soul returns, it passes along the Stone Bridge.
I've thrown away all what troubles me for long;
Uncorking now and then, my wine-gourd I hang to a tree.
60
All men have something to be useful;
In using things, each one has what is fit.
In using something, if you use it up,
It'll be just lack, even more, total deficit.
A round chisel with a square handle—
How sad! It was made for nothing.
To use an awarded steed to catch a mice
Is not as good as to use a lame cat!
61
Who lives forever and never die?
As for death, it comes to everyone.
Just yesterday he was eight feet in height,
Today he has turned into a pile of dust.
The Yellow Spring welcomes no sunrise,
While green grasses meet their springtime.
I wend to the place that broke my heart—
The groan in the pines is able to kill anyone.
62
Riding a red steed, with a coral whip in his hand,
He pushes it along the road toward Luoyang.
Presumptuous and insolent this handsome youngster
Who puts no stock in senility.
But steel grey hair will surely appear;—
Can this rosy face be maintained for long?
Just look at the Northern Bei-mang Peak—
This is your true Peng-lai, the isle of eternity!
63
All along I sit down on Mount Hanshan;
I have tarried here for thirty years now.
Recently I went to see my close friends—
A good half of them have wended to the Yellow Spring.
They slowly vanished, like remains of the burned wax,
To turn a long flow of life into the river of death.
This morning I've faced to face of my lonely shadow;
Before I know it my tears flowed down in two floods.
64
They call out each other as they're gathering roses;
It's sad to see the petals gone by the current.
Playing around, unaware of the setting sun,
They suddenly notice the violent wind gets up.
The waves gently cup the young Mandarins,
While billows toss up Tufted ducks.
At a time like this I rely on my boat and sole oar;
Amid vast and mighty waves my feelings never rest.
65
My mind is like the full moon in autumn,
Or a pool—clean and transparent like jade.
There is nothing to be comparable with it;
So, teach me the words I can use to describe it.
66
A flock of maidens are playing around in the setting sun;
A breeze comes up, filling the road with their fragrance.
Their skirts are decorated with the butterflies of gold;
The jade Mandarin ducks are stuck into their hairs.
Waited aside the slave-girls are dressed-up in red gauze;
Eunuchs wear trousers of purple brocade.
The maidens come to look at him who has lost his way;
With grey hair—his heart ties itself up in knots.
67
The weeping willows are hazy like in smoke;
Flying in wind petals—whirling about like sleet.
The husband lives apart, leaving his wife's district;
The wife resides in thinking of her husband's region.
Each one is at the opposite bank of the heavenly river;