Chinese Translations IV
CHINESE TRANSLATIONS IV
These are English translations of Chinese poems about nature, the seasons, autumn, winter, spring, night, time, tears, flowers and love.
Seeking a Mooring
by Wang Wei
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A leaf drifts through infinite space,
a cold wind rends distant clouds.
The river flows seaward,
the tide repulses.
Beyond the moonlit reeds,
in unseen villages, I hear
fullers’ mallets
pounding wet clothing,
preparing for winter.
Crickets cry ceaselessly,
mourning the autumn frost.
A traveler’s thoughts
wander ten thousand miles
in such a night of strange dreams.
The tinkling sounds of bells
cannot disperse sorrows to come.
What will I remember
of this journey’s darkest hour?
Only ghostly veils of desolate mist
and a single fishing boat.
Ho Shuang-Ch’ing aka Shuangqing has been called “China's peasant woman poet.” She wrote in the 18th century.
To the tune “A Watered Silk Dress”
by Ho Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Deepest feelings are hardest to divulge.
How to reveal a hidden love?
Swallowed tears well up again, return.
My hands twist, wilted flowers.
I lean speechless against my screen.
I’m frightened by my figure in the mirror,
a too-thin, wasted woman.
Not a spring-time face,
nor an autumn face:
can this be Shuang-ch'ing?
To the tune “Washing Silk in the Stream”
by Ho Shuang-Ch’ing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The warm rain falls unfelt
like delicate silk threads.
The farmer cocks a flower behind his ear,
trundles the grain from his field
to the threshing-room floor.
I rose early to water his field,
but he snapped I was too early.
I cooked millet for him
with smoke-reddened eyes
but he snapped I was too late.
My tender bottom was sore the entire day.
Bitter Rain
by Wu Tsao
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitter rain drenches my courtyard
as autumn wilts into winter.
I have only vague feelings
I’m unable to assemble into poems
because words diffuse with the drifting clouds and leaves.
After the golden sunset the cold moon rises out of a dismal mist.
But I will not draw down the blinds from their silver hooks.
Rather, my dreams will fly with the wind,
suffering the bitter cold,
to the jasper pagoda of your divine flesh.
Keywords/Tags: nature, seasons, autumn, winter, spring, night, love, time, tears, flowers, rain, words, poems, dreams, wind
Copyright ©
Michael Burch
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