Tao Yuanming

Tao Yuanming (T’ao Ch’ien) resigned from his first bureaucratic appointment because it was too much work. The poems he wrote at the time said he only wanted to drink wine and tend his garden. Instead, he took a series of unimportant posts punctuated by long stretches at a family farm. His first wife died when he was young. He remarried, but his mother and sister died shortly after. Grief and instability in the capital convinced Tao to retire to the farm for good. He took his wife and five sons with him and spent the rest of his life in poverty, growing food and writing poetry to his friends. When he got drunk, he liked to play the zither even though it didn’t have any strings.

For thirty years I stayed at home
ignorant of the world’s goings-on
my loves were poetry and history
I had no ambition beyond my garden
why did I leave it all behind
for distant Jingzhou in the west
part from friends at the river
slap oars beneath a new autumn moon
as a cold wind rose at dusk
the night sky was clear and bright
what glimmered in the vault of heaven
shimmered on the surface of the river
thinking about my mission I couldn’t sleep
still traveling alone at night
I never cared for Shang-style songs
I’d rather stick with farming
toss my hat and go back to the village
not work for a salary or a rank
cultivate something real in a hut
perhaps become known for something good

I stopped near a village to live
I stopped to be idle and free
my place stops beneath tall trees
my steps stop inside a wicker gate
my favorite smell stops at the sunflowers
my greatest joy stops beside my sons
my entire life I’ve never stopped drinking
if I stopped I wouldn’t be happy
if I stopped in the evening I wouldn’t sleep well
if I stopped in the morning I couldn’t get up
day after day I thought about stopping
if I stopped my circulation might suffer
I only knew stopping wouldn’t be fun
I didn’t know stopping could be beneficial
once I realized stopping could be good
this morning I actually stopped
from now on if I can keep stopping
I’ll end up stopping on the shores of Fusang
where unblemished looks will stop on my face
and why should I stop at a million years

White hair covers my temple
my skin is no longer firm
I have five sons
and none of them cares about writing
Ashu is already sixteen
but too lazy to have a wife
Axuan is starting his studies
but hates the literary arts
Ayong and Aduan are thirteen
but can’t tell a six from a seven
and Tongzi is almost nine
but his interests are pears and chestnuts
if these are the wishes of Heaven
may it grant me at least that thing for my cup

The extravagance of autumn has faded
a cold wind has joined the dew
the climbing vines have stopped blooming
the leaves are all gone from the trees
since the cooler weather cleared the air
the edge of heaven looks higher
sadly the sound of cicadas is gone
replaced by that of passing geese
the ten thousand changes are all different
as if our lives weren’t hard enough
since ancient times we appear then vanish
the thought of this burned me inside
in order to relieve such feelings
I drank some wine and felt happy
I don’t know about a thousand years
just let me prolong one day

All things have their refuge
except solitary clouds
meekly vanishing into the sky
never to see twilight again
as morning mist replaces night fog
birds fly off together
taking their time leaving the woods
not failing to return by sunset
we think ourselves fit to follow old tracks
but how can we escape hunger and cold
when no one remains who knows our voice
what use is lamenting it’s over

I couldn’t want another life. This is my
true calling, working fields and mulberries

with my own two hands. I’ve never failed it,
and still, against hunger and cold, there’s

only hull and chaff. I’m not asking for more
than a full stomach. All I want is enough

common rice, heavy clothes for winter and
open-weaves for the summer heat—nothing

more. But I haven’t managed that. O,
it can leave you stricken so with grief.

And character is fate. If you’re simple-
minded in life, its ways elude you. That’s

how it is. Nothing can change it. But then,
I’ll delight in even a single cup of wine.

I live in town without all that racket
horses and carts stir up, and you wonder

how that could be. Wherever the mind
dwells apart is itself a distant place.

Picking chrysanthemums at my east fence,
far off, I see South Mountain: mountain

air lovely at dusk, birds in flight
returning home. All this means something,

something absolute. Whenever I start
explaining it, I’ve forgotten the words.