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WAY OF THE WORD: Three Tang Dynasty Zen Poets January 4 th and 18th, March 1st, 7:30PM Henry Shukman, Roshi Joan Halifax Over three evenings, Roshi Joan Halifax and writer and Zen teacher Henry Shukman will explore the rich Zen poetry of three great Tang Dynasty poets – Wang Wei, Li Po, and Han Shan. This is an interactive seminar with an e-reader available to those who participate. Just show up! Donation. Upaya House livingroom

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Page 1: WAY OF THE WORD - Meditation | Buddhism | Retreats · explore the rich Zen poetry of three great Tang Dynasty poets – Wang Wei, Li Po, and Han Shan

WAY OF THE WORD: Three Tang Dynasty Zen Poets January 4th and 18th, March 1st, 7:30PM Henry Shukman, Roshi Joan Halifax Over three evenings, Roshi Joan Halifax and writer and Zen teacher Henry Shukman will explore the rich Zen poetry of three great Tang Dynasty poets – Wang Wei, Li Po, and Han Shan. This is an interactive seminar with an e-reader available to those who participate. Just show up! Donation. Upaya House livingroom

Page 2: WAY OF THE WORD - Meditation | Buddhism | Retreats · explore the rich Zen poetry of three great Tang Dynasty poets – Wang Wei, Li Po, and Han Shan

1: WANG WEI The Chinese poet and painter Wang Wei (699-759) was one of the greatest poets of the golden age of Chinese poetry, the T'ang dynasty (618-907). He was also regarded by later critics as the founder of the Southern School of landscape painting.

Wang Wei was known as Mo-chieh (or ch'i, the name Wei-moch'i being a transliteration of the Sanskrit name Vimalakirti, the great lay disciple of Buddha). He was born in P'u-chou (the present Fen-yang county in Shansi Province) into a family which had contributed 13 prime ministers to the T'ang court. Because the traditional family seat was in T'ai-yüan, Wang Wei is usually called a native of T'ai-yüan.

By the age of 15, Wang Wei was a skillful poet and musician. In 717 he won first place in the metropolitan examination in preparation for a government career, and in 719 he was awarded the highest degree in the examination system, the chin-shih. His long official career began immediately thereafter with his appointment as assistant director of the Imperial Directorate of Music; at the time of his death in 759, he directed the administration of 12 departments in the ministries of war, justice, and works. His career was not uneventful, however, and included demotion, exile, and forced service under the usurper An Lu-shan. Two personal losses also left a deep imprint: when he was about 30, his wife died childless, and Wang never remarried; 20 years later, the death of his mother left him grief-stricken. Though he continued to hold office, he tended more and more to withdraw from public society to the solace of his country home at Lan-t'ien along the Wang River. There, in the company of fellow poets, Buddhist monks, and other friends, he roamed the hills and waters, studied Taoism and the Buddhist sutras, wrote, and painted. Achievement as a Poet Wang Wei is sometimes classed as one of the three greatest poets of the T'ang dynasty (along with Tu Fu and Li Po). While he was neither as brilliant a craftsman as Tu Fu nor as exuberant a genius as Li Po, he excelled in imagery, and his poems often hold a subtle metaphysical flavor testifying to his long study of Buddhism. Many of his works are such perfectly crystallized visual images that they became favored subjects of later artists, as in this couplet: "White herons drift across flooded rice fields/ Yellow orioles warble in shadowed summer trees." Or: "I walk to where the waters end/And sit and watch the clouds arise." His Landscape Painting The great Sung poet, painter, and critic Su Shih (1036- 1101) said: "Taste Wang Wei's poetry - there are paintings in it; look at his paintings - they are full of poetry." Just as his older contemporary Wu Taotzu carried painting to new levels through his study of calligraphy, so too did Wang Wei achieve a breakthrough because of his understanding of poetry. His poems convey thought by means of carefully chosen visual images; his paintings borrow the same technique. That is, it is no longer solely the image with which the painter is concerned, but mood, rhythm, key, the ineffable qualities of expression that ultimately escape definition.

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Wang Wei English Translations

DEER PARK

Deep in the mountain wilderness Where nobody ever comes Only once in a great while Something like the sound of a far-off voice. The low rays of the sun Slip through the dark forest, And gleam again on the shadowy moss.

--tr. Kenneth Rexroth, 1990

**

Empty mountains: no one to be seen.

Yet - hear - human sounds and echoes.

Returning sunlight enters the dark woods;

Again shining on the green moss, above.

--tr. Gary Snyder, 1978

BIRDS CALLING IN THE RAVINE I'm idle, as osmanthus flowers fall. This quiet night in spring, the slope is empty. The moon comes out and startles the birds on the hill; They don't stop calling in the spring ravine. ANSWERING MAGISTRATE CHANG In my late years I am only fond of quiet, The ten thousand affairs do not involve my heart. I look to no long-range plans,

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Only the knowledge that I shall return to the old forests - The wind through the pines will loosen my belt, The moon in the mountains shine on my lute. You ask me, sir, the cause of success and failure: The fisherman's song carries deep into the mountains. PEACH BLOSSOM JOURNEY A fisherman's boat chased the water into the coveted hills, Both banks were covered in peach blossom at the ancient river crossing. He knew not how far he sailed, gazing at the reddened trees. He travelled to the end of the blue stream, seeing no man on the way. Then finding a crack in the hillside, he squeezed through the deepest of caves, And beyond the mountain a vista opened of flat land all about. In the distance he saw clouds and trees gathered together; Nearby amongst a thousand homes flowers and bamboo were scattered. A wood-gatherer was the first to speak a Han-era name, The inhabitants' dress was unchanged since the time of Qin. The people lived together on uplands above Wu Ling river, Apart from the outside world they laid their fields and plantations. Below the pines and the bright moon, all was quiet in the houses; When the sun started to shine through the clouds, the chickens and dogs gave voice. Startled to find a stranger amongst them, the people jostled around, And competed to invite him in and ask about his home. As brightness came, the lanes had all been swept of blossom; By dusk, along the water the fishers and woodsmen returned. To escape the troubled world they had first left men's society, They live as if become immortals, with no reason now to return. In that valley they knew nothing of the way we live outside. From within our world we gaze afar at empty clouds and hills. Who would not doubt that magic place, so hard to find? The fisherman's worldly heart could not stop thinking of his home. So he left that land, but its hills and rivers never left his heart, And eventually he again set out, and planned to journey back. By memory, he passed along the way he'd taken before; Who could guess the hills and gullies had completely changed? Now he faced only the great mountain where he remembered the entrance, Each time he followed the clear stream, he found only cloud and forest. Spring comes, and all again is peach blossom and water, No-one knows how to reach that immortal place. RETURNING TO SONGSHAN MOUNTAIN The limpid river runs between the bushes. The horse and cart are moving idly on.

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The water flows as if with a mind of its own. At dusk, the birds return to perch together. The desolate town is faced by an ancient ferry, And the setting sun now fills the autumn hills. Far below high Songshan's tumbling ridges, Returning home, I close the door for now. SEEING OFF YUAN THE SECOND ON A MISSION TO ANXI At Weicheng morning rain has dampened light dust. By the hostel, the willows are all fresh and green. I urge my friend to drink a last cup of wine; West of Yang Pass, there will be no friends. AT THE LAKE PAVILION On a skiff, I go to meet an honoured guest. Slowly, slowly, it drifts across the lake. Facing one another by the rail, we drink a cup of wine. On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom. HUAZI RIDGE A bird in flight goes on without limit. Joined hills are autumn colours again. From top to bottom of Huazi Ridge, Melancholy feeling has no end. JINZHU RIDGE Wingceltis and goldenrain shine at the empty bend, Fresh and green, rippling ever onward. The secret road leading up to Shangshan hill; Even the woodcutter does not know it. LILY MAGNOLIA ENCLOSURE The autumn hill gathers the remaining light. A flying bird chases its companion before it. The green colour is momentarily bright. Sunset mist has no fixed place.

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MENGCHENG COL I have a new house at Mengcheng's mouth. The old willow tree is full of grief. Who will come after I do not know; He will surely feel sorrow for those in the past. ONE-HEARTED When those red beans come in springtime, Flushing on your southland branches, Take home an armful, for my sake, As a symbol of our love. RANDOM POEM You also come from my home town, You must know all the home town news. At dawn, before the silken window, Is it too cold for plum blossom to show? FAREWELL Dismounting, I offer my friend a cup of wine, And ask what place he is headed to. He says he has not achieved his aims, Is retiring to the southern hills; Now go, and ask me nothing more. White clouds will drift on for all time. FAREWELL II We bid each other farewell beside the hill. As day meets dusk, I close the wooden gate. Next year, in spring, there will be green grass again, But will my honoured friend return? REPLYING TO SUBPREFECT ZHANG Now in old age, I know the value of silence,

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And the world's affairs no longer stir my heart. Turning to myself, I have no greater plan, All I can do is return to the forest of old. Wind from the pine trees blows my sash undone, The moon shines through the hills; I pluck the qin. You ask me why the world must rise and fall: Fishermen sing on the steep banks of the river. STOPPING AT INCENSE-STORING TEMPLE I did not know the incense-storing temple. I walked a few miles into the clouded peaks. No man on the path between the ancient trees, A bell rang somewhere deep among the hills. A spring sounded choked, running down steep rocks, The green pines chilled the sunlight's coloured rays. Come dusk, at the bend of a deserted pool, Through meditation, I controlled passion's dragon. FINE APRICOT LODGE Fine apricot was cut for the roofbeam, Fragrant cogongrass tied for the eaves. I know not when the cloud from this house Will go to make rain among the people. SOUTH HILL A light boat sets off from the southern hill; The north is hard to reach across the vastness. On the other bank, I look for my home; It cannot be recognised so far off. TEMPLE TREE PATH A narrow, sunless path to the temple tree, Deep and dark; abundant green moss. Wait by the gate when you’ve finished sweeping the yard, In case a monk should come down from the hill.

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2. LI PO Li Po (701-762) was one of the most popular Chinese poets, noted for his romantic songs on wine, women, and nature. Renowned as the “Poet Immortal,” approximately 1,100 poems of his remain today, though the attribution of many is uncertain. The western world was introduced to Li Po's works through the translations of Ezra Pound. There are many legends about how effortlessly Li Po composed his poems, even (some say especially) when drunk. He spent much of his life travelling, and is said to have drowned in the Yangtze River, having fallen from his boat while drunkenly trying to embrace (the reflection of) the moon.

Probably born in Central Asia, Li Po was the son of a rich merchant. His family moved to Jiangyou, near modern Chengdu in Sichuan province, when he was five years old. A precocious boy, he started writing poems early but disdained to take the official literary examination. His family background did not provide him with much opportunity in the aristocratic Tang dynasty; though he expressed a desire to become an official, he did not sit for the Chinese Civil Service examination.

Except for a period of seclusion in the mountains near home, he spent his youth in search of adventures abroad. Skilled in swordsmanship, he traveled extensively in Szechwan and, later, in his twenty-fifth year, went northward to central China, affecting a wild and free persona much contrary to the prevailing ideas of a proper Confucian gentleman. He was married in 727 to the daughter of a retired prime minister at An-lu in Hupei, where he stayed for the next 8 years, exploring and writing about the scenic rivers and lakes of the region.

In 735 Li started a long journey that took him northward to the central plains of the Yellow River and eastward to the coastal areas of the Yangtze. In 742 he went to the capital, Ch'ang-an, and was presented to the emperor, Hsüan-tsung, who showered him with favors. He was appointed a member of the Hanlin Academy and was lionized by fellow scholar-officials. At the zenith of his poetic power, he wrote some of his best-known songs for court festivities. He often frequented city taverns and got excessively drunk, thus earning the reputation, together with seven other notables of the court, as one of the "Eight Immortals of the Wine-cup." Two years later he grew tired of court life and left for another long period of travel.

After having settled his family in Shantung (he had remarried by this time), Li Po journeyed once again for ten years in northern and eastern China. In the poems of this period, he showed a growing interest in Taoism, which replaced his youthful ardor for chivalry. He was beset, however, by mundane troubles; though well received by local dignitaries impressed by his fame, he began to complain of a lack of money and property.

At the time of the An Lu-shan rebellion in December 755, Li Po moved his family to the Yangtze region, where he was involved for a short while in the unsuccessful uprising of Li Lin, Prince of Yung. As Li Lin's fleet sailed down the Yangtze, Li Po joined him in Kiukiang in early 757. After the prince's defeat by royalist troops, Li Po was imprisoned and threatened with execution. Later, his sentence was commuted to banishment to Yeh-lang, in the remote southwest interior. Li Po took a leisurely trip to his destination. Amnesty came when he was still on his way. He happily retraced his steps eastward and wandered in the Yangtze area for another 2 years. He died in Tang-t'u in southern Anhwei in December 762.

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Li Po English Translations Blue mountains to the north of the walls, White river winding about them; Here we must part, And go away through a thousand miles of dead grass. Mind like a floating wide cloud, Sunset like the parting of old acquaintances Who bow over their clasped hands at a distance: Our horses neigh to each other as we depart. --trans. Ezra Pound DRINKING ALONE BY MOONLIGHT A pot of wine, under the flowering trees; I drink alone, for no friend is near. Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon, For her, with my shadow, will make three people. The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine; Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side. Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave I must make merry before the Spring is spent. To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams; In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks. While we were sober, three shared the fun; Now we are drunk, each goes their way. May we long share our eternal friendship, And meet at last in paradise. --tr. Pound ABOUT TU FU I met Tu Fu on a mountaintop in August when the sun was hot. Under the shade of his big straw hat his face was sad-- in the years since we last parted, he'd grown wan, exhausted.

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Poor old Tu Fu, I thought then, he must be agonizing over poetry again. --tr. Hamill CLEARING AT DAWN The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped; The colours of spring teem on every side. With leaping fish the blue pond is full; With singing thrushes the green boughs droop. The flowers of the field have dabbed their powdered cheeks; The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist. By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud Blown by the wind slowly scatters away. --tr. Waley SHE SPINS SILK Far up river in Szechuan, waters rise as spring winds roar. How can I dare to meet her now, to brave the dangerous gorge? The grass grows green in the valley below where silk worms silently spin. Her hands work threads that never end, dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings. --tr. Hamill LISTENING TO A FLUTE IN YELLOW CRANE PAVILLION I came here a wanderer thinking of home, remembering my faraway Ch'ang-an. And then, from deep in Yellow Crane Pavillion, I heard a beautiful bamboo flute play "Falling Plum Blossoms." It was late spring in a city by the river. --tr. Hamill

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TO TU FU FROM SHANTUNG You ask how I spend my time --- I nestle against a tree trunk and listen to autumn winds in the pines all night and day. Shantung wine can't get me drunk. The local poets bore me. My thoughts remain with you, like the Wen River, endlessly flowing. --tr. Hamill QUIET NIGHT THOUGHTS Before my bed there is bright moonlight So that it seems Like frost on the ground: Lifting my head I watch the bright moon; Lowering my head I dream that I'm home. THE RIVER MERCHANT'S WIFE: A LETTER While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse, You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or suspicion. At fourteen I married my lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to a thousand times, I never looked back. At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled with yours For ever and for ever and for ever. Why should I climb the lookout?

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At sixteen you departed, You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies, And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful sounds overhead. You dragged your feet when you went out. By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses, Too deep to clear them away! The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the west garden; They hurt me. I grow older. If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang, Please let me know beforehand, And I will come out to meet you As far as Cho-fu-sa. --tr. Ezra Pound A FAREWELL TO SECRETARY SHUYUN AT THE XIETIAO VILLA IN XUANZHOU Since yesterday had to throw me and bolt, Today has hurt my heart even more. The autumn wild geese have a long wind for escort As I face them from this villa, drinking my wine. The bones of great writers are your brushes, in the School of Heaven, And I am a Lesser Xie growing up by your side. We both are exalted to distant thought, Aspiring to the sky and the bright moon. But since water still flows, though we cut it with our swords, And sorrows return, though we drown them with wine, Since the world can in no way answer our craving, I will loosen my hair tomorrow and take to a fishing boat. ** Gold painted jars - wines worth a thousand. Jade carved dishes - food costing more. I throw the chopsticks down, Food and wine are tasteless. Draw my magic sword, Mind confused, stare around me. See the ice floes block the Yellow River. Feel the snowfall shroud the T’ai-hang Mountains. Quiet again, I cast in dark waters, Find the fragile boat that might drift sunwards.

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Hard Journey. So many side-tracks. Turn after turn, and where am I? New breezes flatten down the waves ahead. I’ll set cloud sails, cross the Blue Horizon.

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3.HAN SHAN 730-850 Hanshan (literally "Cold Mountain", fl. 9th century) was a legendary figure associated with a collection of poems from the Tang Dynasty. He is honored as an incarnation of the Bodhisattva Manjusri in Zen lore. Biography Hanshan's premier English translator, Red Pine, favors a biography that places him in the 8th and 9th centuries CE, as a son of a noble family who, due to a foot deformity perhaps caused by a riding accident, never advanced very far in the bureaucracy. Implicated in the An Shi Rebellion, he fled, changing his name and seeking anonymity, eventually settling down far from the capitals, out in the hinterlands of the Taishan mountains, where he would spend his time as a hermit, writing the poems for which he is remembered. (This theory is highly speculative and not accepted by all scholars.)

Hanshan's poetry consists of Chinese verse, in 3, 5, or 7 character lines; never shorter than 2 lines, and never longer than 34 lines. The language is marked by the use of more colloquial Medieval Vernacular Sinitic than almost any other Tang poet. They are notable for their straightforwardness, which contrasts sharply with the cleverness and intricacy that marked typical Tang Dynasty poetry. Preface to the Poems of Han-shan by Lu Ch'iu-yin, Governor of T'ai Prefecture No one knows what sort of man Han-shan was. There are old people who knew him: they say he was a poor man, a crazy character. He lived alone, seventy Li (23 miles) west of the T'ang-hsing district of T'ien-t'ai, at a place called Cold Mountain. He often went down to the Kuo-ch'ing Temple. At the temple lived Shih'te, who ran the dining hall. He sometimes saved leftovers for Han-shan, hiding them in a bamboo tube. Han-shan would come and carry it away; walking the long veranda, calling and shouting happily, talking and laughing to himself. Once the monks followed him, caught him, and made fun of him. He stopped, clapped his hands, and laughed greatly - Ha Ha! - for a spell, then left. He looked like a tramp. His body and face were old and beat. Yet in every word he breathed was a meaning in tune with the subtle principles of things, if only you thought of it deeply. Everything he said had a feeling of Tao in it, profound and arcane secrets. His hat was made of birch bark, his clothes were ragged and worn out, and his shoes were wood. Thus men who have made it hide their tracks: unifying categories and interpenetrating things. On that long veranda calling and singing, in his words of reply Ha Ha! - the three worlds revolve. Sometimes at the villages and farms he laughed and sang with cowherds. Sometimes intractable, sometimes agreeable, his nature was happy of itself. But how could a person without wisdom recognize him?

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Red Pine translations: 283: Mister Wang the Graduate laughs at my poor prosody. I don't know a wasp's waist much less a crane's knee. I can't keep my flat tones straight, all my words come helter-skelter. I laugh at the poems he writes - a blind man's songs about the sun! 253: Children, I implore you get out of the burning house now. Three carts await outside to save you from a homeless life. Relax in the village square before the sky, everything's empty. No direction is better or worse, East just as good as West. Those who know the meaning of this are free to go where they want. 26: Since I came to Cold Mountain how many thousand years have passed? Accepting my fate I fled to the woods, to dwell and gaze in freedom. No one visits the cliffs forever hidden by clouds. Soft grass serves as a mattress, my quilt is the dark blue sky. A boulder makes a fine pillow; Heaven and Earth can crumble and change. Gary Snyder translations 1 The path to Han-shan's place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges - hard to trace their twists, Jumbled cliffs - unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew,

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A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I've lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up? 2 In a tangle of cliffs, I chose a place - Bird paths, but no trails for me. 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?" 4 I spur my horse through the wrecked town, The wrecked town sinks my spirit. High, low, old parapet walls Big, small, the aging tombs. I waggle my shadow, all alone; Not even the crack of a shrinking coffin is heard. I pity all those ordinary bones, In the books of the Immortals they are nameless. 5 I wanted a good place to settle: Cold Mountain would be safe. Light wind in a hidden pine - Listen close - the sound gets better. Under it a gray-haired man Mumbles along reading Huang and Lao. For ten years I haven't gone back home; I've even forgotten the way by which I came. 6 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. 8 Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,

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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 word's ties And sit with me among the white clouds? 9 Rough and dark - the Cold Mountain trail, Sharp cobbles - the icy creek bank. Yammering, chirping - always birds. Bleak, alone, not even a lone hiker. Whip, whip - the wind slaps my face. Whirled and tumbled - snow piles on my back. Morning after morning I don't see the sun. Year after year, not a sign of spring. 10 I have lived at Cold Mountain These thirty long years. Yesterday I called on friends and family: More than half had gone to the Yellow Springs. Slowly consumed, like fire down a candle; Forever flowing, like a passing river. Now, morning, I face my lone shadow: Suddenly my eyes are bleared with tears. 11 Spring water in the green creek is clear. Moonlight on Cold Mountain is white. Silent knowledge - the spirit is enlightened of itself. Contemplate the void: this world exceeds stillness. 12 In my first thirty years of life I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles, Walked by rivers through deep green grass, Entered cities of boiling red dust. Tried drugs, but couldn't make Immortal; Read books and wrote poems on history. Today I'm back at Cold Mountain: I'll sleep by the creek and purify my ears.

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13 I can't stand these bird songs. Now I'll go rest in my straw shack. The cherry flowers are scarlet, The willow shoots up feathery. Morning sun drives over blue peaks, Bright clouds wash green ponds. Who knows that I'm out of the dusty world Climbing the southern slope of Cold Mountain? 14 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. 15 There's a naked bug at Cold Mountain With a white body and a black head. His hand holds two book scrolls, One the Way and one its Power. His shack's got no pots or oven, He goes for a long walk with his shirt and pants askew. But he always carries the sword of wisdom: He means to cut down senseless craving. 16 Cold Mountain is a house Without beams or walls. The six doors left and right are open, The hall is sky blue. The rooms all vacant and vague. The east wall beats on the west wall At the center, nothing. Borrowers don't bother me In the cold I build a little fire When I'm hungry I boil up some greens.

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I've got no use for the kulak With his big barn and pasture - He just sets up a prison for himself. Once in he can't get out. Think it over - You know it might happen to you. 17 If I hide out at Cold Mountain Living off mountain plants and berries - All my lifetime, why worry? One follows his karma through. Days and months slip by like water, Time is like sparks knocked off flint. Go ahead and let the world change - I'm happy to sit among these cliffs. 19 Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease - No more tangled, hung up mind. I idly scribble poems on the rock cliff, Taking whatever comes, like a drifting boat. 20 Some critic tried to put me down - "Your poems lack the Basic Truth of Tao." And I recall the old timers Who were poor and didn't care. I have to laugh at him, He misses the point entirely, Men like that Ought to stick to making money. 21 I've lived at Cold Mountain - how many autumns? Alone, I hum a song - utterly without regret. Hungry, I eat one grain of Immortal medicine. Mind solid and sharp; leaning on a stone. 22 On top of Cold Mountain the lone round moon Lights the whole clear cloudless sky.

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Honor this priceless natural treasure Concealed in five shadows, sunk deep in the flesh. 23 My home was at Cold Mountain from the start, Rambling among the hills, far from trouble. Gone, and a million things leave no trace. Loosed, and it flows through galaxies, A fountain of light, into the very mind - Not a thing, and yet it appears before me: Now I know the pearl of the Buddha nature, Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere. 24 When men see Han-shan They all say he's crazy And not much to look at - Dressed in rags and hides. They don't get what I say And I don't talk their language. All I can say to those I meet: "Try and make it to Cold Mountain” 44 I usually live in seclusion but sometimes I go to Kuoching to call on the Venerable Feng-kan or to visit Master Shih-Te. But I go back to Cold Cliff alone, obeying an unspoken agreement. I follow a stream that has no spring; the spring is dry but not the stream. 71: Someone lives in a mountain gorge: cloud robe and sunset tassels, holding sweet plants that he would share. But the road is long and hard, burdened with regrets and doubts. Old and unaccomplished, called by others crippled, he stands alone steadfast.

Page 21: WAY OF THE WORD - Meditation | Buddhism | Retreats · explore the rich Zen poetry of three great Tang Dynasty poets – Wang Wei, Li Po, and Han Shan

113: My writing and judgment aren't that bad; but an unfit body receives no post - Examiners expose me with a jerk. They wash away the dirt and search for my sores; of course it depends on Heaven's will. But this year I'll try once more, a blind man who shoots for a sparrow's eye just might score a hit. ** My heart is like the autumn moon perfectly bright in the deep green pool nothing can compare with it you tell me how it can be explained ** Sitting alone in peace before these cliffs the full moon is heaven's beacon the ten thousand things are all reflections the moon originally has no light