Su Dongpo

Su Dongpo (Su Tung-p’o) was the great poet of the Song dynasty, living about 300 years after the high-water mark of the Tang. A mildly successful bureaucrat, he was accused of treason after writing poems thought to be veiled criticisms of the emperor. Guards stormed his home in the dead of night and dragged him to prison. Over the next four months Su faced regular beatings as he awaited execution. Ultimately, he was spared death but sentenced to exile. Now poor, Su tended a farm on an eastern slope (dongpo in Chinese). When power changed at court, Su was recalled to the capital for a series of higher, better posts. He was exiled again for more slander, this time to an island. The recipe for Dongpo pork comes from one of his poems.

Heaven high above, the night air chill,
ranged stars crowd the sky, all in proper places,
big stars darting rays back and forth,
little stars busy as boiling water.
Heaven and humans don’t meddle with one another—
what does Heaven do anyway?—
but it’s our habit to insist on pointing at things
and one by one assigning them names.
Southern Sieve, Northern Dipper—
what are these but household utensils?
What would Heaven do with their like?
We’re the ones who decided to call them that.
Peer at things up close and you may learn their true form,
but guessed at from afar, they seem like something else.
Vastness such as this is beyond comprehension—
all I can do is sigh in endless wonder.

Wanderings of a lifetime—what do they resemble?
A winging swan that touches down on snow-soaked mud.
In the mud by chance he leaves the print of his webs,
but the swan flies away, who knows to east or west?
The old monk is dead now, become a new memorial tower;
on the crumbling wall, impossible to find our old inscriptions.
Do you recall that day, steep winding slopes,
road long, all of us tired, our lame donkeys braying?

It snowed in South Valley—a priceless sight.
I raced my horse to get there before it could melt,
pushing back branches, following the trail alone,
ahead of dawn, first to cross the ocher bridge—
to find roofs caved in, nowhere to spend the night,
villagers starving: their listless voices show it.
Only the twilight crow knows how I feel—
he flies up and the cold limb sheds a thousand flakes.

Ten years—dead and living dim and draw apart.
I don’t try to remember
but forgetting is hard.
Lonely grave a thousand miles off,
cold thoughts—where can I talk them out?
Even if we met you wouldn’t know me,
dust on my face,
hair like frost—

In a dream last night suddenly I was home.
By the window of the little room
you were combing your hair and making up.
You turned and looked, not speaking,
only lines of tears coursing down—
year after year will it break my heart?
the moonlit grave,
its stubby pines—

Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain—moon floods the lake.
Boatmen and water birds dream the same dream;
a big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late—men and creatures forget each other
while my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats—I pity the cold mud-worms;
the setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
how long before you’ve lost it—a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout.

Drank tonight at Eastern Slope, sobered up, drank again;
got home somewhere around third watch.
The houseboy snores like thunder;
I bang the gate but nobody answers.
Leaning on my stick, I listen to river sounds.

Always it irks me—this body not my own.
When can I forget the world’s business?
Night far gone, wind still, river creped in ripples:
I’ll leave here in a little boat,
on far waters spend the years remaining.

Black Muzzle, south sea dog,
how lucky I am to be your master!
On scraps growing plump as a gourd,
never grumbling for fancier food.
Gentle by day, you learn to tell my friends;
ferocious by night, you guard the gate.
When I told you I was going back north,
you wagged your tail and danced with delight,
bounced along after the boy,
tongue out, dripping a shower of sweat.
You wouldn’t go by the long bridge
but took a short cut across the clear deep bay,
bobbing along like a water bird,
scrambling up the bank fiercer than a tiger.
You steal meat—a fault, though a minor one,
but I’ll spare you the whip this time.
You nod your head by way of thanks,
Heaven having given you no words.
Someday I’ll get you to take a letter home—
Yellow Ears was your ancestor, I’m sure.