Li Bai

Li Bai (Li Po), sometimes called the Banished Immortal, was born in what’s now Kyrgyzstan and wrote wild poems emblematic of the ten thousand things and the world in motion. His reputation as a person is about the same. He loved wine distinctly, even for a poet. After a day of drinking, he was ordered before the emperor but was too far gone to speak. The guards splashed water on his face, and Li immediately began reciting poems that delighted the court. He had a family but spent most of his life traveling around the country looking for patrons. For a brief time he traveled with Du Fu, who was so impressed with Li that he wrote a dozen poems about him over the years. Li responded to a few. Li drowned on a drunken boat ride trying to catch the reflection of the moon.

It’s like boundless dream here in this
world, nothing anywhere to trouble us.

I have, therefore, been drunk all day,
a shambles of sleep on the front porch.

Coming to, I look into the courtyard.
There’s a bird among blossoms calling,

and when I ask what season this is,
an oriole’s voice drifts on spring winds.

Overcome, verging on sorrow and lament,
I pour another drink. Soon, awaiting

this bright moon, I’m chanting a song.
And now it’s over, I’ve forgotten why.

On this tower as I leave our homeland,
late autumn wounds thoughts of return,

and heaven long, a setting sun far off,
this cold clear river keeps flowing away.

Chinese clouds rise from mountain forests;
Mongol geese on sandbars take flight.

A million miles azure pure—the eye
reaches beyond what ruins our lives.

Dinner brings the savor of country fields,
and serving wine, we pour distant waters.

Watching the river flow east inexhaustibly
here, we can see how this farewell feels.

Leaving our departures behind, yesterday’s sunlight is light I couldn’t hold back,
and throwing my heart into confusion, today’s sunlight is light bringing tangled sorrows.

Facing ten-thousand-mile winds, autumn geese leaving,
we can still laugh and drink in this tower tonight,

chant poems of Immortality Land, ancient word-bones.
The clarity of Hsieh T’iao reappears here among us:

all embracing, thoughts breaking free into flight,
we ascend azure heaven, gaze into a bright moon.

But slice water with a knife, and water still flows,
empty a winecup to end grief, and grief remains grief.

You never get what you want in this life, so why not
shake your hair loose on a boat at play in dawn light?

I’m like some partridge or quail—
going south, then flying lazily north.

And now I’ve come to find you here,
a little wine returns me to the moon.