Poems by 9th Century Chinese Poet Li He
Translation by Austin Woerner. Calligraphy by Heidi Wang.
Departing
In the east chamber,
I roll up my mat.
In my heart,
wide spaces.
I can stay here
no more.
White autumn
dissolves
over hills far away.
Light
already fills
the doorway
and the road. | 将发
东床卷席罢，护落将行去。
秋白遥遥空，日满门前路。 |
The View from Heaven
The hoary toad
and the age-gnarled hare
weep for aeons
the color of the sky.
There, a slanting
moonbeam reveals
a glimpse
of cloud-barred parapets.
Amid the peals
of her phoenix bangles
We meet
on cinnamon-scented lanes
as the glistening alabaster wheel
rolls up
through star-dappled void.
And below,
far below, at the feet
of the three fairy peaks,
continents submerged
and broad gulfs drained,
millennial rhythms
like a racing steed.
Nine provinces,
nine spots of smoke,
an ocean, a drop
from my cup. | 梦天
老兔寒蟾泣天色，云楼半开壁斜白。
玉轮轧露湿团光，鸾佩相逢桂香陌。
黄尘清水三山下，更变千年如走马。
遥望齐州九点烟，一泓海水杯中泻。 |
Leaving the Capital
Snow has fallen.
Laurel blooms
are few.
A raven, calling,
caught by a slingstone,
wings away.
At the gate,
I see myself
in a pool:
on donkey-back,
cap-strings trailing
as the wind gusts through.
Yes, it is good
to be home today.
But no title, no career—
what will I do?
She does not ask.
In the mirror,
one tear. | 出城
雪下桂花稀，啼乌被弹归。
关水乘驴影，秦风帽带垂。
入乡试万里，无印自堪悲。
卿卿忍相问，镜中双泪姿。
试万里：一作诚可重。
|
O Do Not Plant a Tree
O do not plant a tree
in the garden.
A tree—
four seasons of anguish.
In bed, alone.
In the south window,
moon.
This autumn
is no different
from the last. | 莫种树
园中莫种树，种树四时愁。
独睡南床月，今秋似去秋。
南床：一作南窗。
|
A Letter from Luzhou
When autumn finds you there
beyond the pass, then you will know
how cold it is here
in this place I have come to.
Along with the urgent dispatch, I enclose
this page, exhausted by my cares.
I lie in bed. The dawn is clear.
Paulownia trees, scattered, few,
are raining green. I can hear
the crows, calling from the battlements,
and somewhere out beyond the mist-laced mere
the long low notes of a horn and a faint tattoo
now and again. I push back my cap,
pull back the curtain. Broken and sere,
lotus leaves lie in the dried-up pool.
A few flakes of silver-blue
remain on the sill. Lichen
dots the steps like coins.
My wracked insides can no longer bear
the harsh assaults of vagrant wine.
A parting song has wound its way around the string.
The orchid has snapped beneath its weight of dew.
In the weeds, crickets lament.
On the roof-tiles of the eastern wing,
clumps of grass have sprouted here and there
and gargoyles lie askew.
By day I ride an aging mare,
but in my dreams,
the light off the river, the boat,
the island, the fine pepper-wine
and cassia-scented mead,
goblets crazy all the way down the table—
why, the perches and breams
had skinned us by the end
of the night, oh our jade-bangle banquets,
those bright, still years,
those roads I shared
with you, old friend.
| 潞州张大宅病酒，遇江使寄上十四兄
秋至昭关后，当知赵国寒。
系书随短羽，写恨破长笺。
病客眠清晓，疏桐坠绿鲜。
城鸦啼粉堞，军吹压芦烟。
岸帻褰纱幌，枯塘卧折莲。
木窗银迹画，石磴水痕钱。
旅酒侵愁肺，离歌绕懦弦。
诗封两条泪，露折一枝兰。
莎老沙鸡泣，松干瓦兽残。
觉骑燕地马，梦载楚溪船。
椒桂倾长席，鲈鲂斫玳筵。
岂能忘旧路，江岛滞佳年。 |
Li He was a ninth-century Chinese poet whose haunting, often disturbing verse earned him the titles “Ghost Poet” and “Daemonic Genius.” A child prodigy, he began writing verse at age six and was well-known by fifteen. After failing the imperial examinations, he fell into deep depression and died, at age 21. Legend has it that he was spirited away by an angel riding a red dragon.
Austin Woerner recently graduated from Yale University with a degree in East Asian Studies, and is now working as a freelance writer and translator in Brooklyn, NY. Currently, he is translating a novel, Tropic of Shadow by the expatriate author Su Wei, a tale of sexual and supernatural intrigue set in southern China during the Cultural Revolution.
Heidi Wang (王慧君) grew up in Taiwan, where she first indulged in the art of calligraphy. Although she is busy at work now as a scientific writer and a labeling strategist, she continues to find time to practice calligraphy. “Writing calligraphy has a calming effect on me in the midst of a storm of daily activities. It provides a way to expose my children to the beauty of the Chinese written language and to a greater extent, the Chinese culture.” She volunteers to write calligraphy as fundraising opportunities for her children’s schools and at charity events.
Published October 2008
