Chinese poems




Po Chü-i was born at T’ai-yüan in Shansi. Most of his childhood was spent at Jung-yang in Honan. His father was a second-class Assistant Department Magistrate. He tells us that his family was poor and often in difficulties.  (772-846)



My new Province is a land of bamboo-groves:

Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills.

The mountain woodman cuts an armful of them

And brings them down to sell at the early market.

Things are cheap in proportion as they are common;

For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle.

I put the shoots in a great earthen pot

And heat them up along with boiling rice.

The purple nodules broken,—like an old brocade;

The white skin opened,—like new pearls.

Now every day I eat them recklessly;

For a long time I have not touched meat.

All the time I was living at Lo-yang

They could not give me enough to suit my taste,

Now I can have as many shoots as I please;

For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo!




“Those who speak know nothing;
Those who know are silent.”
These words, as I am told,
Were spoken by Lao-tzŭ.
If we are to believe that Lao-tzŭ
Was himself one who knew,
How comes it that he wrote a book
Of five thousand words?



I have been ill so long that I do not count the days;
At the southern window, evening—and again evening.
Sadly chirping in the grasses under my eaves
The winter sparrows morning and evening sing.
By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed;
Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard.
By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me;
Just as if I had gone specially to meet him.
They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun;
They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar.
Tranquil talk was better than any medicine;
Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart.

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