by Tu Fu
Old friends with fat salaries have stopped writing,
And the kids, forever hungry, wear faces of cold despair.
About to fill some gutter, he is carefree, the madman
Grown old laughing at his growing steadily madder.
OUR SOUTHERN NEIGHBOR
Taro and chestnut remain. Our master of Chin-li,
Still less than destitute, sports a crow-peaked cap.
Well-versed hosts, your boys entertain merrily—
Even young birds, dining on the steps, feel at home.
The autumn river is four or five feet deep now,
And happily, skiffs here seat two or three. White sand,
Bamboo the color of kingfishers—in the village dusk,
We part, moonlight touching my brushwood gate anew.
BALLAD OF A HUNDRED WORRIES
Still a child’s heart at fifteen…. I remember
running back and forth, sturdy as a brown calf.
And in September, courtyard dates and pears ripe,
I could scramble up a thousand trees in a day.
How suddenly it all passed. Already fifty, I rarely
walk, or even get up. If not asleep, I sit resting.
Today, forcing small talk and laughter for a host,
I grieve over the hundred worries crowding my life.
And when I return, the house bare as ever, my poor
wife mirrors the look she knows too well on my face.
Silly kids, still ignorant of courtesies due a father—
crying at the kitchen door, angry, they demand food.
THROUGH CENSOR TS’UI
I SEND A QUATRAIN TO KAO SHIH
Half my hundred-year life gone—another
Autumn arrives. Hunger and cold return.
Ask the Prefect of P’eng-chou how long,
In such distress, one must await rescue.
MORNING RAIN
Sounding cold dawn skies, steady winds
Tatter visions of cloud over the river.
Ducks take refuge along the island. Among
Thickets, swallows find shelter from rain.
Huang and Ch’i both refused an emperor,
Ch’ao and Yu an empire. A cup of wine,
A thatched home—that I am here as today’s
Flawless morning passes gathers me in joy.
A GUEST ARRIVES
South of our home, and north, nothing but spring
Water everywhere, and gulls arriving day after day.
The path all blossoms I haven’t swept for guests,
Today, for you, I open my simple gate this first time.
Dinners so far from market are nothing special,
And wine in our poor home is old and unstrained,
But if you’ll drink with the old-timer next door,
I’ll call over the fence, invite him for what’s left.
ALONE, LOOKING FOR BLOSSOMS ALONG THE RIVER
1
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain—I’ve gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking, I find only an empty bed.
2
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine—even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
3
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings-on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring’s vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life’s affairs bon voyage.
4
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats—who could bear it?
5
East of the river, before Abbot Huang’s grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
6
At Madame Huang’s house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully—an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
7
I don’t so love blossoms I want to die. I’m afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let’s talk
Things over, little buds—open delicately, sparingly.
SPRING NIGHT, DELIGHTED BY RAIN
Lovely rains, knowing their season,
Always appear in spring. Entering night
Secretly on the wind, they silently
Bless things with such delicate abundance.
Clouds fill country lanes with darkness,
The one light a riverboat lamp. Then
Dawn’s view opens: all bathed reds, our
Blossom-laden City of Brocade Officers.
TWO IMPROMPTUS
1
Under the bright, limitless, country-air
Sun, spring’s water flows clear and steady.
Rushes stand everywhere along the bank,
And village paths trail from house to house.
Here, ever true to carefree ways, I follow
The master of cap-strained wine. Clear
To the end of sight, nothing bad—even
Sick many times over, my body is light.
2
Already mid-spring on the riverside,
Sunrise opens beneath blossoms again.
Hoping to see the bird, I look up. And
Turning away, I answer… no one there.
I read, skipping over hard parts easily,
Pour wine from full jars…. The old
Sage on O-mei is a new friend. He knows
It is here, in idleness, I become real.
NINE IMPROVISATIONS
1
Seeing all this wanderer’s sorrow, I cannot wake from
Sorrow: spring’s shameless colors crowd my pavilion.
Blossoms scattering so deep and reckless might at least
Teach these rhapsodic orioles they are trying too hard.
2
The peach and plum I planted aren’t ownerless.
A hermit’s wall is low, but still home. So like spring
Wind, never letting things alone: last night
It came tearing blossoms down by the branchful.
3
Knowing well how low and small my thatched study is,
River swallows come often. Their beaks clutching
Mud, they spatter my koto and books, and with these
Insects all-a-twitter, fly at whoever may be here.
4
March’s moon broken, April arrives. I grow old
Slowly, but how many springs can I have left now?
What is inexhaustible is beyond me. I leave it there,
Just empty this cup of life’s lingering limits.
5
Heartbreaking—a river spring ending. I stroll,
Cane and all, stopping along the fragrant bank.
Recklessly courting wind, willow catkins dance as
Flighty peach blossoms chase after the river current.
6
I never leave our village. Indolent, undeserving,
I call my son to close the gate, content. In these woods:
Thick wine, green moss, silence. Spring wind crosses
Jade-pure water. And out beyond, darkness falls.
7
Strewn poplar catkins carpet paths in white, and
Strung like green coins, lotus l
eaves dot the stream.
Pheasant chicks keep among bamboo roots, unseen.
On the sand, ducklings doze close beside mother.
8
West of the house, ready to pick, soft mulberry leaves.
Along the river path, wheat fine and delicate again….
How many times can spring turn to summer in one life?
Never leave them—wine lees fragrant and sweet as honey.
9
The willow sways outside my door—delicate,
Graceful as a girl’s waist at fifteen. Who was it
Saying just another morning, same as ever? The wild
Wind has torn hard at it, broken its longest branch.
FOUR RHYMES AT FENG-CHI POST-STATION:
A SECOND FAREWELL TO YEN WU
Ending our long farewell, separation begins
Here: a second grief, empty in mountains
So green. When will we stroll, drinking wine
Together again beneath last night’s moon?
Whole provinces in song for love of you,
Three reigns radiant with your talent—
I return to a river village, alone,
To nurture my crumbling years in silence.
WAYHOUSE
Outside this autumn window: dawn colors
And, high in leafless trees, wind again.
The sun appears beyond cold mountains;
A river flows through last night’s mist….
The enlightened reign abandons nothing.
Feeble and sick, already an old man—
Of life’s consuming ruins, how much for this
Wreckage of blown tumbleweed remains?
9/9, ON TZU-CHOU CITY WALL
This night of yellow-blossom wine
Finds me old, my hair white. Joys
I ponder lost to youth, I look out
Across distances. Seasons run together.
Brothers and sisters inhabit desolate
Songs. Heaven and Earth fill drunken eyes.
Warriors and spears, frontier passes….
All day, thoughts have gone on and on.
LEANING ON A CANE
Even in the city, come leaning on a cane,
I gaze at stream-side blossoms. Here,
Mountain markets close early, and riverboats
Gather at the bridge in spring. Lighthearted
Gulls flutter among white waves. Returning
Geese delight in blue skies. All things shade
Together in earth’s passion. But I, all
Disparate chill, I brood over years gone by.
FAREWELL AT FANG KUAN’S GRAVE
Traveling again in some distant place, I
Pause here to offer your lonely grave
Farewell. By now, tears haven’t left dry
Earth anywhere. Clouds drift low in empty
Sky, broken. Hsieh An’s old go partner.
Sword in hand, I come in search of Hsü,
But find only forest blossoms falling and
Oriole songs sending a passerby on his way.
OUTSIDE THE CITY
It is bitter cold, and late, and falling
Dew muffles my gaze into bottomless skies.
Smoke trails out over distant salt mines
Where snow-covered peaks cast shadows east.
Armies haunt my homeland still. And war
Drums throb in this distant place. A guest
Overnight in a river city, together with
Shrieking crows, my old friends, I return.
ADRIFT
As I row upstream past a tower, the boat
glides into its shadow. Even this far
west, the stately pines of Ch’eng-tu’s
widespread villages continue. And beyond,
out there in untouched country, autumn
colors heighten cold clarity. Mountain
snows bleached in its glare, sunlight
conjures exquisite rainbows among clouds.
Kids play along both banks. And though
nets and arrows are put away, the day’s take
taken, wherever lotus and chestnut remains
lie scattered, the roadside bustle goes on.
The fish are all scaled, but lotus-root
covered with mud sits unwashed. Nothing
changes with us. Craving delicate beauty,
we avoid the thick squalor of things.
Over my village: scattered clouds, lovely
twilight. Here, roosting hens settle in.
Each departure like any other, where is
my life going in these isolate outlands?
Fresh moonlight falls across my clothes. It
ascends ancient walls dusted with frost.
Thick wine ready to drink since time began,
war drums break loose east in the city.
OVERNIGHT AT HEADQUARTERS
Clear autumn. Beside the well, cold wu trees. I pass
Night in the river city, alone, candles guttering low.
Grieving in the endless dark, horns call to themselves.
The moon drifts—no one to see its exquisite color.
Wind and dust, one calamity after another. And frontier
Passes all desolation and impossible roads, no news
Arrives. After ten desperate, headlong years, driven
Perch to perch, I cling to what peace one twig holds.
RESTLESS NIGHT
As bamboo chill drifts into the bedroom,
Moonlight fills every corner of our
Garden. Heavy dew beads and trickles.
Stars suddenly there, sparse, next aren’t.
Fireflies in dark flight flash. Waking
Waterbirds begin calling, one to another.
All things caught between shield and sword,
All grief empty, the clear night passes.
SIX QUATRAINS
1
From the water east of our fence, sun
Ascends. North of home: mud-born clouds.
A kingfisher cries from bamboo heights,
And on the sand below, magpies dance.
2
Blossoms scatter, bees and butterflies
Stitching the lavish confusion with flight.
Perched in solitude, I plumb idleness—
What would guests come looking for?
3
For a new well—wellrope of braided palm
Leaves, drains cut through bamboo roots. Antic
Little boats are just tangled rigging; here,
Small paths weave our village into itself.
4
Streams swollen after headlong rains, late
Light caresses a tree’s waist. Two yellow
Birds keep hidden in their nest. Where
Shattered reeds float, a white fish leaps.
5
Bamboo needles our fence. Cane is toppled
In under eaves. The land turning to sunlit
Silk slowly, reeds and the river gone
White weave together in tracery shadows.
6
Moonlight across stone, the river flows.
At the brook’s mirage, clouds touch blossoms.
A perched bird knows the ancient Tao. Sails
Only drift toward night spent in whose home?
K’UEI-CHOU
CH’U SOUTHLANDS
Odd how spring in these Ch’u southlands
Arrives. The break between warm and cold
Comes early: nameless grasses on the river,
Whimsical clouds drifting among mountain peaks.
By the first month, bees are everywhere,
And birds singing much too early. It’s this
Cane keeps me from leaping onto a horse
Right now, not separation from my own kind.
IMPROMPTU
A river moon cast only feet away, storm-lanterns
Alight late in the second watch… Serene
Flock of fists on sand—egrets asleep when
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br /> A fish leaps in the boat’s wake, shivering, cry.
K’UEI-CHOU’S HIGHEST TOWER
Above the wall’s corner walkways, pennants and flags
Grieving, I stand on a soaring, mist and haze tower, alone.
In deep, fog-filled gorges, dragons and tigers sleep.
Turtles and crocodiles roam the clear, sunlit river.
The Great Mulberry spreads west to these hewn cliffs,
And Jo River shadows follow this current east. Whose child
Propped on a goosefoot cane lamenting this world? I turn
Away, white-haired descendant of nothing mourning parents.
BALLAD OF THE FIREWOOD HAULERS
K’uei-chou women, hair turned half-white, forty years
old, or fifty, and still sold into no husband’s home:
no market for brides in this relentless ruin of war,
they live one long lament, nothing but grief to embrace.
Here, a tradition of seated men keeps women on their feet:
men sit inside doors and gates, women bustle in and out.
When they return, nine in ten carry firewood—firewood
they sell to keep the family going. Old as they are, they
still wear shoulder-length hair in twin virgin-knots,
matching hairpins of silver holding mountain leaves and
wildflowers. If not struggling precariously up to market,
they ravage themselves working salt mines for pennies.