A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems Part 23

The money he gets by selling charcoal, how far does it go?

It is just enough to clothe his limbs and put food in his mouth.

Although, alas, the coat on his back is a coat without lining.

He hopes for the coming of cold weather, to send up the price of coal!

Last night, outside the city,--a whole foot of snow; At dawn he drives the charcoal wagon along the frozen ruts.

Oxen,--weary; man,--hungry: the sun, already high; Outside the Gate, to the south of the Market, at last they stop in the mud.

Suddenly, a pair of prancing hors.e.m.e.n. Who can it be coming?

A public official in a yellow coat and a boy in a white shirt.

In their hands they hold a written warrant: on their tongues--the words of an order; They turn back the wagon and curse the oxen, leading them off to the north.

A whole wagon of charcoal, More than a thousand pieces!

If officials choose to take it away, the woodman may not complain.

Half a piece of red silk and a single yard of damask, The Courtiers have tied to the oxen's collar, as the price of a wagon of coal!

THE POLITICIAN

I was going to the City to sell the herbs I had plucked; On the way I rested by some trees at the Blue Gate.

Along the road there came a horseman riding; Whose face was pale with a strange look of dread.

Friends and relations, waiting to say good-bye, Pressed at his side, but he did not dare to pause.

I, in wonder, asked the people about me Who he was and what had happened to him.

They told me this was a Privy Councillor Whose grave duties were like the pivot of State.

His food allowance was ten thousand cash; Three times a day the Emperor came to his house.

Yesterday he was called to a meeting of Heroes: To-day he is banished to the country of Yai-chou.

So always, the Counsellors of Kings; Favour and ruin changed between dawn and dusk!

Green, green,--the gra.s.s of the Eastern Suburb; And amid the gra.s.s, a road that leads to the hills.

Resting in peace among the white clouds, At last he has made a "coup" that cannot fail!

THE OLD MAN WITH THE BROKEN ARM

(A SATIRE ON MILITARISM)

At Hsin-feng an old man--four-score and eight; The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows--white as the new snow.

Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in front of the Inn; With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is broken.

I asked the old man how many years had pa.s.sed since he broke his arm; I also asked the cause of the injury, how and why it happened?

The old man said he was born and reared in the District of Hsin-feng; At the time of his birth--a wise reign; no wars or discords.

"Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to the sound of flute and song; Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow.

Then came the wars of T'ien-pao[71] and the great levy of men; Of three men in each house,--one man was taken.

And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to?

Five months' journey, a thousand miles--away to Yun-nan.

We heard it said that in Yun-nan there flows the Lu River; As the flowers fall from the pepper-trees, poisonous vapours rise.

When the great army waded across, the water seethed like a cauldron; When barely ten had entered the water, two or three were dead.

To the north of my village, to the south of my village the sound of weeping and wailing.

Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from wives.

Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribes Of a million men who are sent out, not one returns.

I, that am old, was then twenty-four; My name and fore-name were written down in the rolls of the Board of War.

In the depth of the night not daring to let any one know I secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm.

For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit; I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yun-nan.

Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt; I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home.

My arm--broken ever since; it was sixty years ago.

One limb, although destroyed,--whole body safe!

But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blow From evening on till day's dawn I cannot sleep for pain.

Not sleeping for pain Is a small thing to bear, Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead.

For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu River My body would have died and my soul hovered by the bones that no one gathered.

A ghost, I'd have wandered in Yun-nan, always looking for home.

Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering."

So the old man spoke.

And I bid you listen to his words Have you not heard That the Prime Minister of K'ai-yuan,[72] Sung K'ai-fu, Did not reward frontier exploits, lest a spirit of aggression should prevail?

And have you not heard That the Prime Minister of T'ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung[73]

Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war?

But long before he could win the war, people had lost their temper; Ask the man with the broken arm in the village of Hsin-feng?

[71] A.D. 742-755.

[72] 713-742.

[73] Cousin of the notorious mistress of Ming-huang, Yang Kuei-fei.

KEPT WAITING IN THE BOAT AT CHIU-K'OU TEN DAYS BY AN ADVERSE WIND

White billows and huge waves block the river crossing; Wherever I go, danger and difficulty; whatever I do, failure.

Just as in my worldly career I wander and lose the road, So when I come to the river crossing, I am stopped by contrary winds.

Of fishes and prawns sodden in the rain the smell fills my nostrils; With the stings of insects that come with the fog, my whole body is sore.

I am growing old, time flies, and my short span runs out.

While I sit in a boat at Chiu-k'ou, wasting ten days!

ON BOARD SHIP: READING YuAN CHEN'S POEMS

I take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle; The poems are finished: the candle is low: dawn not yet come.

With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark, Listening to waves that, driven by the wind, strike the prow of the ship.

ARRIVING AT HSuN-YANG

(TWO POEMS)

(1)

A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches; That is the gate in the western wall of the suburbs of Hsun-yang.

I have still to travel in my solitary boat three or four leagues-- By misty waters and rainy sands, while the yellow dusk thickens.

(2)

We are almost come to Hsun-yang: how my thoughts are stirred As we pa.s.s to the south of Yu Liang's[74] tower and the east of P'en Port.

The forest trees are leafless and withered,--after the mountain rain; The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists.

The horses, fed on water gra.s.s, are too weak to carry their load; The cottage walls of wattle and thatch let the wind blow on one's bed.

In the distance I see red-wheeled coaches driving from the town-gate; They have taken the trouble, these civil people, to meet their new Prefect!