I hiked staff in hand beyond the pines and found myself on an emerald peak a flock of cranes were chasing a hawk tree shadows darkened the streams thorns made wild fruit hard to pick their scent made herbs easy to find thin smoke veiled the sinking sun red leaves shaded half the cliff -Stonehouse translated by Red Pine in The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse Where the jackalope roam I rode south of of Rawlins…
To get to the end the very end let it all go let it go foam piles up on a pair of lips moss grows thick on an ancient road a wooden horse flashes through the clouds a clay ox thunders beneath the waves a clear moonlit night amid ten thousand snowy peaks a hidden scent says spring has reached the winter plum -Stonehouse translated by Red Pine in The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse High…
Light Rain Blazing summer days: no force could bring them back. Clouds suddenly rising off the river, lovely, so lovely, ducks leave a bridge’s shadow, paddling into fine rain, and butterflies flutter out, frolicking in field breezes. The willow won’t survive nights and days much longer, and waterlilies will only open two or three more times. If the changing sights of a single year haunt your eye, why wonder that a palace lake is ash…
Wandering on Bushel Mountain Gazing all day into mountains, I can’t get enough of mountains. Retire into mountains, and mountains become your old masters: when mountain blossoms scatter away, mountains always remain, and in empty mountain streamwater, mountains deepen idleness. -Wang An-shih translated by David Hinton in Mountain Home Moment by moment do what needs doing The next stage of the route heads into the Great Divide Basin which is 144 miles of high plains…
Pond in a Bowl Breach cut in green-moss earth, it steals a distant flake of heaven. White clouds emerge in mirror; fallen moon shines below stairs. -Tu Mu translated by David Hinton in Mountain Home It’s the ocean flowing in our veins Today was a long ride into the high plains. It began on a paved side road out of Boulder that worked its way up a valley all ranch land to the foothills of…
The Han River Rich and full, all surging swells and white gulls in flight, it flows springtime deep, its green a crystalline dye for robes. Going south and coming back north, you grow older, older. Late light lingers, farewell to a fishing boat bound for home. – Tu Mu translated by David Hinton in Mountain Home Roll the ol chariot along My campsite was on the Green River, the largest flowing body of water I’ve seen in a…
Sent to a Master of Silence on White-Tower Mountain Knowing you’ve returned to White-Tower, I gaze into mountain distances, late skies clearing. Mind tranquil in a stone house, moon-shadow lingers across frozen lakes. Thin cloud feathers into scraps and away. Ancient trees fall and dry into firewood. Past midnight, who hears stone chimes? The cragged summit on West Peak is cold. -Chia Tao translated by David Hinton in Mountain Home We’re bobbing on the surface It was already…
I entered the mountains and my cares became clear serene at heart I let them all go the trees beyond my yard thin out in fall the stream before my door becomes louder when it rains I pick greens and boil tea when a fellow hermit arrives I give a neighbor monk chrysanthemums in a pot from town the gentry might have their fine food and clothes but they can’t match a mountain monk with…
XLIX The birds at play: when I can’t stand them any longer, I go sleep in my thatched hut. The cherries in the trees glow bright as the tips of burning incense, and the willow branches sway. Sun runs up green ridges. Sunlit clouds wash in the green pool. Everybody knows: if you want out of the dust, head up the south side of Cold Mountain. -Han Shan translated by J.P. Seaton in Cold Mountain…
67 The cold in these mountains is ferocious, has been every year since the beginning. Crowded peaks locked in perennial snows, recluse-dark forests breathing out mists, grasses never sprout before the solstice and leaves start falling in early August. This confusion includes a lost guest now, searching, searching—no sky to be seen. – Han Shan translated by David Hinton in Mountain Home Vast Tracks of Land Sunrise on the Boone Creek was achingly lovely; the…