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A Bug Trapped in a Bowl by Han Shan Read Poem

Encircled by peak on peak of life's dust,
man is a bug trapped in a bowl,
all day skittering up its sides,
ever falling back, never bounding out,
his imagined joys always beyond his reach,
his present miseries ever close by,
till eventually his little river of years dries up,
and old age takes teeth, takes hair, takes all.

Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna

A Bunch of Poor Scholars by Han Shan Read Poem

Here we languish, a bunch of poor scholars,
Battered by extremes of hunger and cold.

Out of work, our only joy is poetry:
Scribble, scribble we wear out our brains.

Who will read the works of such men?

On that point you can save your sighs.

We could inscribe our poems on biscuits
And homeless dogs wouldn't deign to nibble

Amid Thousands of Clouds by Han Shan Read Poem

Amid thousands of clouds and streams,
A happy idler, I loafe and invite my soul.

By day, I roam pine-green mountains;
At night, I sleep under sheltering rocks.

Though springs and autumns blow swiftly by,
My mind at peace doesn't clog with dust.

How happy the life that clings to nothing,
How hushed like the flowing of a river in fall.

--Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2010)
The poets of the T'ang Dynasty (618-907) frequently alluded to poems from the entire literary canon.

So, now and then, I find legitimate occasion to translate--with a word, phrase, or line from English poetry--the text at hand, as I did in this poem's second line, borrowing Whitman's famous line "I loafe and invite my soul.

" Whitman and Ha Shan are such kindred spirits that one could as easily translate Whitman into Chinese using Han Shan lines.

© 12 minutes ago, Stanton Hager

Born Thirty Years Ago (Tr. Snyder) Read Poem

Thirty years ago I was born into the world.

A thousand, ten thousand miles I've roamed.

By rivers where the green grass grows thick,
Beyond the border where the red sands fly.

I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting,
I read books, I sang songs of history,
And today I've come home to Cold Mountain
To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.

Translated from the Chinese by Gary Snyder

Born Thirty Years Ago by Han Shan (Tr. Hager) Read Poem

Born thirty years ago, I wandered
the world thousands and thousands of miles -
tramped the lush green grasses by many rivers
far as the swirling red sands beyond the frontier.

Seeking immortality, I concocted dangerous potions,
scoured sacred texts, labored long over epic poems.

At last, led to Cold Mountain, in its icy waters
I soaked my head & scrubbed the dust from my ears.

Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna

Climbing up the Cold Mountain Read Poem

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass.

The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain
The pine sings, but there's no wind.

Who can leap the world's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?

Cold Mountain Wonders (Tr. Snyder) Read Poem

Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,
People who climb here are always getting scared.

When the moon shines, water sparkles clear
When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.

On the bare plum, flowers of snow
On the dead stump, leaves of mist.

At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live
At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks.

Cold Mountain Wonders by Han Shan (Tr. Hager) Read Poem

Every climber of Cold Mountain stares
awed at its many marvels:
moonglitter splashes the ponds and streams;
winds swash and sigh in the grasses;
snow-blooms hang from wintry plum-trees;
bare branches snag clouds for leaves.

From spring's drench burst forth wonders
unknown by any--except he who can cross
rivers and creeks swollen with snowmelt.

Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan: Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna

Girls with Gold Hairpins by Han Shan Read Poem

In April when silkworms are not yet mature,
girls scamper about picking flowers.

Along the south wall they flutter after dragonflies
and fling stones at frogs bobbing in the stream.

Into their silk sleeves they stuff juicy plums;
with gold hairpins they dig up tasty bamboo shoots.

Let others quibble about what’s lovely;
Here is even lovelier than Cold Mountain!
Translated by Stanton Hager 2018
Note:
Han Shan wrote this poem when he traveled to a nearby city.

These girls, who happily gambol in April, in May will be indoors laboring to harvest silkworms.

The practice of breeding silkworms for the production of silk has been going on for at least 5,000 years in China.

Note:
Hairpins in the shape of a small knife were used for cutting hair.

Hiking Up Eastern Cliff by Han Shan Read Poem

I’d dreamed of scaling Eastern Cliff
for countless years times five!
Arrived at last, by hanging vines I began to climb,
but wind and fog halted me halfway to the top.

A narrow, brambly trail kept snagging my clothes,
and slick moss made my going all slog and stumble.

So, I quit and sprawled beneath a cassia tree
and fell asleep on a fleecy cloud for pillow.

I Climbed Cold Mountain to Sit by Han Shan Read Poem

I climbed Cold Mountain to sit awhile
and stayed for thirty years.

.

Recently, I returned to see family and friends
only to learn that most were long buried.

A lifetime gutters away like a candle flicker,
gushes away like a hurtling river.

Today, alone with my shadow,
tears spill and spill.

In a Tangle Of Cliffs (Tr. by Gary Snyder) Read Poem

In a tangle of cliffs I chose a place -
Bird-paths, but no trails for men.

What's beyond the yard?

White clouds clinging to vague rocks.

Now I've lived here - how many years -
Again and again, spring and winter pass.

Go tell families with silverware and cars
"What's the use of all that noise and money?

"

Lotus flowers Read Poem

Swine gobble dead men's flesh.

Men gobble dead pigs' guts.

Swine do not disdain the smell of men.

Men even talk about the scent of pork.

But –
Should a pig die – it is cast into the water.

Should a man die – the soil is dug to hide him.

Then –
Neither finds the one or the other to his taste.

Yet –
Lotus flowers will live in boiling water!

Men Ask the Way to Cold Mountain Read Poem

Men ask the way to Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain: there's no through trail.

In summer, ice doesn't melt
The rising sun blurs in swirling fog.

How did I make it?

My heart's not the same as yours.

If your heart was like mine
You'd get it and be right here.

Translated from the Chinese by Gary Snyder

My Dwelling at TianTai Read Poem

I divined and chose a distant place to dwell-
T'ien-t'ai: what more is there to say?

Monkeys cry where valley mists are cold;
My grass gate blends with the color of the crags.

I pick leaves to thatch a hut among the pines,
Scoop out a pond and lead a runnel from the spring.

By now I am used to doing without the world.

Picking ferns, I pass the years that are left.

My Pilgrim Staff and I by Han Shan Read Poem

Stretch on stretch of magestic crags and streams,
Blue-green haze surrounding sunset’s rosy clouds.

Muggy mountain mists soak my headband;
Dewdrops splash my straw-thatched coat.

On my feet, I wear tough, hemp hiking shoes;
In my hand, I grip my old hickory walking stick.

Before setting out, I gaze down on the vast expanse of dust
:
A realm of vacuous dreams that has ceased to entice me.

Note:
"Dust" in the 7th line is a word often used by Han Shan and other Buddhist monks to describe the illusory realm of worldly desires.

Translated by Stanton Hager 2018

On the HanShan Path Read Poem

The trail to Cold Mountain is faint
the banks of Cold Stream are a jungle
birds constantly chatter away
I hear no sound of people
gusts of wind lash my face
flurries of snow bury my body
day after day no sun
year after year no spring

People Ask the Way to Cold Mountain by Han Shan Read Poem

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
As if its thousand broken paths were a throughway!
Go, but on ice that not even summer melts;
Go, but blindly where mists blot the sun.

How is it, then, that I got here?

Because our natures are not alike--
If we had the same hearts and minds,
You'd now be sitting in my lap!
Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna.

People Call Me Crazy by Han Shan Read Poem

People hereabouts call me
"The crazy hermit of Cold Mountain.

"
They say: "His face is butt-ugly,"
"His rags smell of mange,”
“Everything he utters is jabberwocky,”
“Anything we say dumbs his ears!"
What do I reply?

"Climb Cold Mountain and sit with me awhile!"
Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)

Road to Cold Mountain by Han Shan Read Poem

A road to Cold Mountain?

Ridiculous! A "road"
Gashed by no hoof-scuff of horse or rut from cart?

How to follow the bends and crooks of zigzagging valleys?

How to link trail-splits where peaks vanish into peaks?

A "road" where millions of grass-blades weep tears,
And ten thousand windblown pines wail as one -
Where whenever, and again, you lose your way,
Of your body's shadow you must ask, "Where next?

"
--Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
( Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna.

Sad, Sad and Alone I Sit by Han Shan Read Poem

Sad, sad and alone, I sit.

Mists on dark mists murk my thoughts and feelings.

Thickspread clouds wrap Cold Mountain ever thicker;
Winds wailing from the valley's mouth wail ever louder.

Branch-swinging gibbons thrashing through the trees
Startle forest birds into chittering, chattering flights.

Age has grizzled my hair: how old, suddenly old, I feel.

At year's end, like falling snow, regrets pile on regrets.

--Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan: Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Photograph by Michael Kenna in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty (Cape Cod: 21st Edtions, 2009)
Han Shan was a C'han Buddhist (Zen) poet from China's T'ang Dynasty ( 618-907 AD ), but no one knows his birth and death dates.

We don't even know his birth name because, at age thirty, when he discovered Cold Mountain and decided to make it his home for the rest of his life, he took the name of his craggy habitation as his own:  Han (Cold) Shan (Mountain).

Spring-Enraptured Birds by Han Shan Read Poem

From spring-enraptured birds chirping all day,
At times I must retreat for quiet inside my straw hut.

Ah, but how radiant with pinks glint the cherry trees!
How lushleafed newdangle the willow boughs!
Morning sunlight flames between azure peaks;
Bright clouds rinse white wings in lakes of jade.

Who’d have dreamt that from this world's dust
I’d one day climb Cold Mountain and be here now.

--Translated by Stanton Hager
in
Huangshan Poems from the T'ang Dynasty
(Cape Cod: 21st Editions, 2009)
Two other translations:
2.

The birds and their chatter overwhelm me with feeling:
At times like this I lie down in my straw hut.

Cherries shine with crimson fire;
Willows trail slender boughs.

The morning sun pops from the jaws of blue peaks;
Bright clouds are washed in the green pond.

Who ever thought I would leave the dusty world
And come bounding up the southern slope of Cold Mountain?

--Translated by Burton Watson
3.

Bird-song drowns me in feeling.

Back to my shack of straw to sleep.

Cherry-branches burn with crimson flower,
Willow-boughs delicately trail.

Morning sun flares between blue peaks,
Bright clouds soak in green ponds.

Who guessed I’d leave that dusty world,
Climbing the south slope of Cold Mountain?

--Translated by A.

S.

Kline

The Sparrow's Beak by Han Shan Read Poem

White clouds hover high over craggy peaks;
wave after green wave billows to shore.

Nearby, a fisherman sings a plaintive song
over and over with each dip and pull of his oars--
Verse after verse until I can’t bear to listen,
as it saddens my heart.

Who says the sparrow’s beak is flimsy
when it spears so easily through my walls?

--Translated by Stanton Hager 2018
Note:
The final couplet alludes to a verse in the ancient Chinese anthology,
The Book of Songs
, where it is said that a sparrow’s small, fragile beak can break through walls: That is, the fisherman bears Han Shan no ill will, yet his song pierces holes of sadness in the poet's listening heart.

(Paraphrase of a Burton Watson footnote).

Photograph by Michael Kenna

Under a Green Cliff by Han Shan Read Poem

I live beneath Cold Mountain’s mossy green brow;
all about me flourish weeds & wildflowers I do not cut.

Spring’s new vines swirl down in twisting curls;
ancient cliffs rise tall, broad and sheer.

Monkeys clamber up trees to snatch succulent fruits;
egrets in inlets spear the water and gobble fish.

Leafing through one and another scroll by a Taoist master,
I relax beneath a tree and immortal
verses
mumble, mumble.

Poems by Han Shan

Harry

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