Collage
Qiang Village, Three Poems, Fall of 757, by Du Fu, trans. Burton Watson
31
Red clouds, their towering shapes move westward;
sun’s rays streak down to the level plain.
Bramble gate, sparrows and little birds chattering–
the traveler home from his thousand-mile trek!
My wife, amazed to see me alive,
recovers from her astonishment, wipes away tears.
A world in chaos, buffeted, tumbled,
by sheerest chance I’ve managed to make it back.
Faces of neighbors crowd the wall;
pitying, they add their sighs and exclamations.
As night deepens, we bring out candles,
face one another as though in a dream.
32
Along in years, barely managing to stay alive,
I came home to find pleasures few.
My dear boy won’t let go my knees,
afraid I’ll go off and leave him again.
I remember times gone by, hunting for a cool spot,
how we threaded among the pondside trees.
But now north winds howl and bluster;
wherever I turn, a hundred cares to needle me.
So good to know the grain’s been harvested,
to hear the wine trickling from the lees.
For now at least, enough to dip from,
to ease me in my declining years.
33
Our chickens start in squawking wildly–
the arrival of visitors sets them squabbling.
I shoo them into the trees, then for the first time
hear the knocking at my rustic gate;
four or five village elders
come to ask about my long absence, my long trip home.
Each carries something in his hand;
from tilted casks, muddy wine, and clear,
profuse apologies for the wine’s poor flavor:
“No one these days to work the millet fields,
wars and uprisings that never end,
all the young ones off to the eastern campaign.”
I ask if I may sing them a song,
sign of my deep gratitude in these troublesome times.
Song ended, I gaze upward with a sigh,
from those on four sides, tears streaming down.
Presented to Gao Shiyan, date uncertain, by Du Fu, trans. Burton Watson
37
Where was it we parted last,
to meet again, now both old men,
our long ago companions luckless as ever,
hiding our traces, alike in hardship and care?
Friends to talk literature with–since I lost them
I waste time acquainting myself with the wine seller’s stall.
Pent-up ambitions cherished for a lifetime,
seeing you, come back to me–no way to stop them!
View over the Plain (Qinzhou), by Du Fu, trans. Burton Watson
48
Clear autumn, no end to the view,
layers of darkness beginning to pile up:
the distant river blends its purity with the sky;
a solitary fortress shrouded in deep mist.
Trees all but leafless, the wind strips them further;
mountains far off, sun just sunk beyond.
Lone crane, why so long going home,
the groves already thick with crows.