KANZAN

Translated by Gary Snyder EVERGREEN REVIEW, vol. 2, no. 6 (Autumn 1958). pp. 69-80. COLD MOUNTAIN POEMS: Twenty-Four Poems by Han-Shan. First Edition. Portland, Oregon: Press-22, 1970, [30] p. RIPRAP & COLD MOUNTAIN POEMS, San Francisco: Four Seasons Foundation, 1969. pp. 31-61. Preface to the Poems of Han-shan by Lu Ch'iu-yin, Governor of T'ai Prefecture No one knows what sort of man Han-shan was. There are old people who knew him: they say he was a poor man, a crazy character. He lived alone seventy Li (23 miles) west of the T'ang-hsing district of T'ient'ai at a place called Cold Mountain. He often went down to the Kuo-ch'ing Temple. At the temple lived Shih'te, who ran the dining hall. He sometimes saved leftovers for Han-shan, hiding them in a bamboo tube. Han-shan would come and carry it away; walking the long veranda, calling and shouting happily, talking and laughing to himself. Once the monks followed him, caught him, and made fun of him. He stopped, clapped his hands, and laughed greatly - Ha Ha! - for a spell, then left. He looked like a tramp. His body and face were old and beat. Yet in every word he breathed was a meaning in line with the subtle principles of things, if only you thought of it deeply. Everything he said had a feeling of Tao in it, profound and arcane secrets. His hat was made of birch bark, his clothes were ragged and worn out, and his shoes were wood. Thus men who have made it hide their tracks: unifying categories and interpenetrating things. On that long veranda calling and singing, in his words of reply Ha Ha! - the three worlds revolve. Sometimes at the villages and farms he laughed and sang with cowherds. Sometimes intractable, sometimes agreeable, his nature was happy of itself. But how could a person without wisdom recognize him? I once received a position as a petty official at Tan-ch'iu. The day I was to depart, I had a bad headache. I called a doctor, but he couldn't cure me and it turned worse. Then I met a Buddhist Master named Fengkan, who said he came from the Kuo-ch'ing Temple of T'ien-t'ai especially to visit me. I asked him to rescue me from my illness. He smiled and said, "The four realms are within the body; sickness comes from illusion. If you want to do away with it, you need pure water." Someone brought water to the Master, who spat it on me. In a moment the disease was rooted out. He then said, "There are miasmas in T'ai prefecture, when you get there take care of yourself." I asked him, "Are there any wise men in your area I could look on as Master?" He replied, "When you see him you don't recognize him, when you recognize him you don't see him. If you want to see him, you can't rely on appearances. Then you can see him. Han-shan is a Manjusri (one who has attained enlightenment and, in a future incarnation, will become Buddha) hiding at Kuo-sh'ing. Shih-te is a Samantabbhadra (Bodhisattva of love). They look like poor fellows and act like madmen. Sometimes they go and sometimes they come. They work in the kitchen of the Kuo-ch'ing dining hall, tending the fire." When he was done talking he left. I proceeded on my journey to my job at T'ai-chou, not forgetting this affair. I arrived three days later, immediately went to a temple, and questioned an old monk. It seemed the Master had been truthful, so I gave orders to see if T'ang-hsing really contained a Han-shan and Shih-te. The District Magistrate reported to me: "In this district, seventy li west, is a mountain. People used to see a poor man heading

from the cliffs to stay awhile at Kuo-ch'ing. At the temple dining hall is a similar man named Shih-te." I made a bow, and went to Kuo-ch'ing. I asked some people around the temple, "There used to be a Master named Feng-kan here, Where is his place? And where can Han-shan and Shih-te be seen?" A monk named T'ao-ch'iao spoke up: "Feng-kan the Master lived in back of the library. Nowadays nobody lives there; a tiger often comes and roars. Han-shan and Shih-te are in the kitchen." The monk led me to Feng-kan's yard. Then he opened the gate: all we saw was tiger tracks. I asked the monks Tao-ch'iao and Pao-te, "When Feng-kan was here, what was his job?" The monks said, :He pounded and hulled rice. At night he sang songs to amuse himself." Then we went to the kitchen, before the stoves. Two men were facing the fire, laughing loudly. I made a bow. The two shouted Ho! at me. They struck their hands together -Ha Ha! - great laughter. They shouted. Then they said, "Feng-kan - loose-tounged, loosetounged. You don't recognize Amitabha, (the Bodhisattva of mercy) why be courteous to us?" The monks gathered round, surprise going through them. ""Why has a big official bowed to a pair of clowns?" The two men grabbed hands and ran out of the temple. I cried, "Catch them" - but they quickly ran away. Han-shan returned to Cold Mountain. I asked the monks, "Would those two men be willing to settle down at this temple?" I ordered them to find a house, and to ask Han-shan and Shih-te to return and live at the temple. I returned to my district and had two sets of clean clothes made, got some incense and such, and sent it to the temple - but the two men didn't return. So I had it carried up to Cold Mountain. The packer saw Han-shan, who called in a loud voice, "Thief! Thief!" and retreated into a mountain cave. He shouted, "I tell you man, strive hard" - entered the cave and was gone. The cave closed of itself and they weren't able to follow. Shih-te's tracks disappeared completely.. I ordered Tao-ch'iao and the other monks to find out how they had lived, to hunt up the poems written on bamboo, wood, stones, and cliffs - and also to collect those written on the walls of people's houses. There were more than three hundred. On the wall of the Earth-shrine Shih-te had written some gatha (Buddhist verse or song). It was all brought together and made into a book. I hold to the principle of the Buddha-mind. It is fortunate to meet with men of Tao, so I have made this eulogy. THE COLD MOUNTAIN POEMS, tr. Gary Snyder 1 The path to Han-shan's place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges - hard to trace their twists Jumbled cliffs - unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew, A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I've lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up? 2 In a tangle of cliffs, I chose a place Bird paths, but no trails for me. What's beyond the yard? White clouds clinging to vague rocks. Now I've lived here - how many years -

Again and again, spring and winter pass. Go tell families with silverware and cars "What's the use of all that noise and money?" 3 In the mountains it's cold. Always been cold, not just this year. Jagged scarps forever snowed in Woods in the dark ravines spitting mist. Grass is still sprouting at the end of June, Leaves begin to fall in early August. And here I am, high on mountains, Peering and peering, but I can't even see the sky. 4 I spur my horse through the wrecked town, The wrecked town sinks my spirit. High, low, old parapet walls Big, small, the aging tombs. I waggle my shadow, all alone; Not even the crack of a shrinking coffin is heard. I pity all those ordinary bones, In the books of the Immortals they are nameless. 5 I wanted a good place to settle: Cold Mountain would be safe. Light wind in a hidden pine Listen close - the sound gets better. Under it a gray haired man Mumbles along reading Huang and Lao. For ten years I havn't gone back home I've even forgotten the way by which I came. 6 Men ask the way to Cold Mountain Cold Mountain: there's no through trail. In summer, ice doesn't melt The rising sun blurs in swirling fog. How did I make it? My heart's not the same as yours. If your heart was like mine You'd get it and be right here. 7 I settled at Cold Mountain long ago, Already it seems like years and years. Freely drifting, I prowl the woods and streams And linger watching things themselves.

Men don't get this far into the mountains, White clouds gather and billow. Thin grass does for a mattress, The blue sky makes a good quilt. Happy with a stone under head Let heaven and earth go about their changes. 8 Clambering up the Cold Mountain path, The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on: The long gorge choked with scree and boulders, The wide creek, the mist blurred grass. The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain The pine sings, but there's no wind. Who can leap the word's ties And sit with me among the white clouds? 9 Rough and dark - the Cold Mountain trail, Sharp cobbles - the icy creek bank. Yammering, chirping - always birds Bleak, alone, not even a lone hiker. Whip, whip - the wind slaps my face Whirled and tumbled - snow piles on my back. Morning after morning I don't see the sun Year after year, not a sign of spring. 10 I have lived at Cold Mountain These thirty long years. Yesterday I called on friends and family: More than half had gone to the Yellow Springs. Slowly consumed, like fire down a candle; Forever flowing, like a passing river. Now, morning, I face my lone shadow: Suddenly my eyes are bleared with tears. 11 Spring water in the green creek is clear Moonlight on Cold Mountain is white Silent knowledge - the spirit is enlightened of itself Contemplate the void: this world exceeds stillness. 12 In my first thirty years of life I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles. Walked by rivers through deep green grass Entered cities of boiling red dust. Tried drugs, but couldn't make Immortal;

Read books and wrote poems on history. Today I'm back at Cold Mountain: I'll sleep by the creek and purify my ears. 13 I can't stand these bird songs Now I'll go rest in my straw shack. The cherry flowers are scarlet The willow shoots up feathery. Morning sun drives over blue peaks Bright clouds wash green ponds. Who knows that I'm out of the dusty world Climbing the southern slope of Cold Mountain? 14 Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders, People who climb here are always getting scared. When the moon shines, water sparkles clear When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles. On the bare plum, flowers of snow On the dead stump, leaves of mist. At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks. 15 There's a naked bug at Cold Mountain With a white body and a black head. His hand holds two book scrolls, One the Way and one its Power. His shack's got no pots or oven, He goes for a long walk with his shirt and pants askew. But he always carries the sword of wisdom: He means to cut down sensless craving. 16 Cold Mountain is a house Without beans or walls. The six doors left and right are open The hall is sky blue. The rooms all vacant and vague The east wall beats on the west wall At the center nothing. Borrowers don't bother me In the cold I build a little fire When I'm hungry I boil up some greens. I've got no use for the kulak With hs big barn and pasture He just sets uo a prison for himself.

Once in he can't get out. Think it over You know it might happen to you. 17 If I hide out at Cold Mountain Living off mountain plants and berries All my lifetime, why worry? One follows his karma through. Days and months slip by like water, Time is like sparks knocked off flint. Go ahead and let the world change I'm happy to sit among these cliffs. 18 Most T'ien-t'ai men Don't know Han-shan Don't know his real thought And call it silly talk. 19 Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease No more tangled, hung up mind. I idly scribble poems on the rock cliff, Taking whatever comes, like a drifting boat. 20 Some critic tried to put me down "Your poems lack the Basic Truth of Tao." And I recall the old timers Who were poor and didn't care. I have to laugh at him, He misses the point entirely, Men like that Ought to stick to making money. 21 I've lived at Cold Mountain - how many autumns. Alone, I hum a song - utterly without regret. Hungry, I eat one grain of Immortal medicine Mind solid and sharp; leaning on a stone. 22 On top of Cold Mountain the lone round moon Lights the whole clear cloudless sky. Honor this priceless natural treasure Concealed in five shadows, sunk deep in the flesh.

23 My home was at Cold Mountain from the start, Rambling among the hills, far from trouble. Gone, and a million things leave no trace Loosed, and it flows through galaxies A fountain of light, into the very mind Not a thing, and yet it appears before me: Now I know the pearl of the Buddha nature Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere. 24 When men see Han-shan They all say he's crazy And not much to look at Dressed in rags and hides. They don't get what I say And I don't talk their language. All I can say to those I meet: "Try and make it to Cold Mountain."

27 Poems by Han-shan Translated by Arthur Waley In Encounter , September 1954, pp. 3-8 The Chinese poet Han-shan lived in the 8th and 9th centuries. He and his brothers worked a farm that they had inherited; but he fell out with them, parted from his wife and family, and wandered from place to place, reading many books and looking in vain for a patron. He finally settled as a recluse on the Cold Mountain (Han-shan) and is always known as "Han-shan." This retreat was about twenty-five miles from T'ien-t'ai, famous for its many monasteries, both Buddhist and Taoist, which Han-shan visited from time to time. In one poem he speaks of himself as being over a hundred. This may be an exaggeration ; but it is certain that he lived to a great age. In his poems the Cold Mountain is often the name of a state of mind rather than of a locality. It is on this conception, as well as on that of the "hidden treasure," the Buddha who is to be sought not somewhere outside us, but "at home" in the heart, that the mysticism of the poems is based. The poems, of which just over three hundred survive, have no titles. I. From my father and mother I inherited land enough And need not envy others' orchards and fields. Creak, creak goes the sound of my wife's loom; Back and forth my children prattle at their play. They clap their hands to make the flowers dance ; Then chin on palm listen to the birds' song.

Does anyone ever come to pay his respects? Yes, there is a woodcutter who often comes this way. II. I have thatched my rafters and made a peasant hut; Horse and carriage seldom come to my gate-Deep in the woods, where birds love to forgather, By a broad stream, the home of many fish. The mountain fruits child in hand I pluck; My paddy fidd along with my wife I hoe. And what have I got inside my house? Nothing at all but one stand of books. III. When I was young I weeded book in hand, Sharing at first a home with my elder brothers. Something happened, and they put the blame on me; Even my own wife turned against me. So I left the red dust of the world and wandered Hither and thither, reading book after book And looking for some one who would spare a drop of water To keep alive the gudgeon in the carriage rut. IV. Wretched indeed is the scholar without money; Who else knows such hunger and cold? Having nothing to do he takes to writing poems, He grinds them out till his thoughts refuse to work. For a starveling's words no one has any use; Accept the fact and cease your doleful sighs. Even if you wrote your verses on a macaroon And gave them to the dog, the dog would refuse to eat. V. Wise men, you have forsaken me; Foolish men, I haw.' forsaken you. Being not foolish and also not wise Henceforward I shall hear from you no more. When night falls I sing to the bright moon, At break of dawn I dance among the white clouds. Would you have me with closed lips and folded hands Sit up straight, xvaifing for my hair to go grey? VI. I am sometimes asked the way to the Cold Mountain; There is no path that goes all the way. Even in summer the ice never melts ; Far into the morning the mists gather thick. How, you may ask, did I manage to get here?

My heart is not like your heart. If only your heart were like mine You too would be living where I live now. VII. Long, long the way to the Cold Mountain; Stony, stony the banks of the chill stream. Twitter, twitter--always there are birds; Lorn and lone--no human but oneself. Slip, slap the wind blows in one's face; Flake by flake the snow piles on one's clothes. Day after day one never sees the sun; Year after year knows no spring. VIII. I make my way up the Cold Mountain path; The way up seems never to end. The valley so long and the ground so stony; The stream so broad and the brush so tangled and thick. The moss is slipperT, rain or no rain; The pine-trees sing even when no wind blows. Who can bring himself to transcend the bonds of the world And sit with me among the white clouds? IX. Pile on pile, the glories of hill and stream; Sunset mists enclose flanks of blue. Brushed by the storm my gauze cap is wet; The dew damps my straw-plaited coat. My feet shod with stout pilgrim-shoes, My hand grasping my old holly staff Looking again beyond the dusty world What use have 1 for a land of empty dreams? X. I went off quiedy to visit a wise monk, Where misty mountains rose in myriad piles. The Master himself showed me my way back, Pointing to where the moon, that round lamp, hung. XI. In old days, when I was very poor, Night by night I counted another's treasures. There came a time when I thought things over And decided to set up in business on my own. So I dug at home and came upon a buried treasure; A ball of saphire--that and nothing less! There came a crowd of blue-eyed traders from the West Who had planned together to bid for it and take it away.

But I straightway answered those merchants, saying "This is a jewel that no price could buy." XII. Leisurely I wandered to the top of the Flowery Peak; The day was calm and the morning sun flashed. I looked into the dear sky on every side. A white cloud was winging its crane's flight. XIII. I have for dwelling the shelter of a green cliff; For garden, a thicket that knife has never trimmed. Over it the flesh creepers hang their coils; Ancient rocks stand straight and tall. The mountain fruits I leave for the monkeys to pick; The fish of the pool vanish into the heron's beak. Taoist writings, one volume or two, Under the trees I read-- nam, nam. XIV. The season's change has ended a dismal year; Spring has come and the colours of things are flesh. Mountain flowers laugh into the green pools, The trees on the rock dance in the blue mist. Bees and butterflies pursue their own pleasure; Birds and fishes are there for my delight. Thrilled with feelings of endless comradeship From dusk to dawn I could not dose my eyes. XV. A place to prize is this Cold Mountain, Whose white clouds for ever idle on their own, Where the cry of monkeys spreads among the paths, Where the tiger's roar transcends the world of men. Walking alone I step from stone to stone, Singing to myself I clutch at the creepers for support. The wind in the pine-trees makes its shrill note; The chatter of the birds mingles its harmony. XVI. The people of the world when they see Han-shan All regard him as not in his right mind. His appearance, they say, is far from being attractive, Tied up as he is in bits of tattered cloth. "What we say, he cannot understand; What he says, we do not say." You who spend all your time in coming and going, Why not try for once coming to the Han-shan?

XVII. Ever since the time when I hid in the Cold Mountain I have kept alive by eating the mountain fruits. From day to day what is there to trouble me? This my life follows a destined course. The days and months flow ceaseless as a stream; Our time is brief as the flash struck on a stone. If Heaven and Earth shift, then let them shift; I shall still be sitting happy among the rocks. XVIII. When the men of the world look for this path arnid the clouds It vanishes, with not a trace where it lay. The high peaks have many precipices; On the widest gulleys hardly a gleam falls. Green walls close behind and before; White clouds gather east and west. Do you want to know where the cloud-path lies? The cloud-path leads from sky to sky. XIX. Since first I meant to explore the eastern cliff And have not done so, countless years have passed. Yesterday I pulled myself up by the creepers, But half way, was baffled by storm and fog. The cleft so narrow that my clothing got caught fast; The moss so sticky that I could not free my shoes. So I stopped here under this red cinnamon, To sleep for a while on a pillow of white clouds. XX. Sitting alone I am sometimes overcome By vague feelings of sadness and unrest. Round the waist of the hill the clouds stretch and stretch; At the mouth of the valley the winds sough and sigh. A monkey comes; the trees bend and sway; A bird goes into the wood with a shrill cry. Time hastens the grey that wilts on my brow; The year is over, and age is comfortless. XXI. Last year when the spring birds were singing At this time I thought about my brothers. This year when chrysanthemums are fading At this time the same thought comes back. Green waters sob in a thousand streams, Dark clouds lie flat on every side.

Till life ends, though I live a hundred years, It will rend my heart to think of Ch'ang-an. XXII. In the third month when the silkworms were still small The girls had time to go and gather flowers, Along the wall they played with the butterflies, Down by the water they pelted the old frog. Into gauze sleeves they poured the ripe plums; With their gold hairpins they dug up bamboo-sprouts. With all that glitter of outward loveliness How can the Cold Mountain hope to compete? XXIII. Last night I dreamt that I was back in my home And saw my wife weaving at her loom. She stayed her shutde as though thinking of something; When she lifted it again it was as though she had no strength. I called to her and she turned her head and looked; She stared blankly, she did not know who I was. Small wonder, for we parted years ago When the hair on my temples was still its old colour. XXIV. I have sat here facing the Cold Mountain Without budging for twenty-nine years. Yesterday I went to visit friends and relations; A good half had gone to the Springs of Death. Life like a guttering candle wears away-A stream whose waters forever flow and flow. Today, with only my shadow for company, Astonished I fred two tear-drops hang. XXV. In old days (how long ago it was!) I remember a house that was lovelier than all the rest. Peach and plum lined the little paths; Orchid and iris grew by the stream below. There walked beside it girls in satins and silks; Within there glinted a robe of kingfisher-green. That was how we met; I tried to call her to me, But my tongue stuck and the words would not come. XXVI. I sit and gaze on tiffs highest peak of all; Wherever I look there is distance without end. I am all alone and no one knows I am here, A lonely moon is mirrored in the cold pool. Down in the pool there is not really a moon;

The only moon is in the sky above. I sing to you this one piece of song; But in the song there is not any Zen. XXVII. Should you look for a parable of life and death Ice and water are the true comparisons. Water binds and turns into ice; Ice melts and again becomes water. Whatever has died will certainly be born, Whatever has come to life must needs die. Ice and water do each other no harm; Life and death too are both good.

How pleasant is Kazan's path with no track of horse or carriage, over linked valleys with unremembered passes and peak upon peak of unknowable heights, where the dew weeps on a thousand grasses and the wind moans to a single pine; now, at the point where I falter in the way, my form asks my shadow whence came we?

Men ask about Kanzan's path though Kanzan says his road is inaccessible, summer-skies where the ice has not melted, and sunshine where the mist hangs thick; how will you draw close to one like me when your heart is not as my heart? If only your heart were as my heart, then you would reach the centre.

The people of our times are trying to track down the path of clouds, but the cloud-path is trackless, high mountains with many an abyss and broad valleys with little enough light, blue peaks with neither near nor far, white clouds with neither East nor West; You wish to know where the cloud-path lies? It lies in utter emptiness.

Han Shan Translated by D. T. Suzuki Essays in Zen Buddhism, Third Series, 1953, pp. 160-161.

I think of the past twenty years, When I used to walk home quietly from the Kuo-ch'ing; All the people in the Kuo-ch'ing monastery-They say, "Han-shan is an idiot." "Am I really an idiot:" I reflect. But my reflections fail to solve the question: For I myself do not know who the self is, And how can others know who I am? I just hang down my head-- no more asking needed; For of what service can the asking be? Let them come then and jeer at me all they like, I know most distinctly what they mean; But I am not to respond to their sneer, For that suits my life admirably.

Han Shan Translated by R. H. Blyth Zen and Zen Classics , Volume 2: History of Zen. The Hokuseido Press, 1964. pp. 159-171.

My mother and father left me enough to live on, I have no need to grudge others their lands and fields. My wife works at the loom; creak! creak! it goes. My children prattle and play; Clapping their hands, they dance with the flowers, Rhey listen to the song of the birds, chin on hand. Who comes to pay his respects? A woodcutter, occasionally.

Beams with a thatch over them, - a wild man's dwelling! Before my gate pass horses and carts seldom enough; The lonely woods gather birds; The broad valley stream harbours fish; With my children I pluck the wild fruits of the trees; My wife and I hoe the rice field; What is there in my house? A single case of books.

I live in a village; And everybody praises me to the skies, But yesterday I went to the town. Even the dog watched me suspiciously; The people don't like the cut of my coat, Or my trousers are too long or too short for them. If an eagle is struck blind, The sparrows fly openly.

I was pretty poor before, Today I am wretchedness and misery itself. Everything is at sixes and sevens. I meet suffering everywhere I go. I often slip about on the muddy roads; I get belly-ache when I sit with my neighbours. when the tabby cat is lost, Rats occupy the rice-chest.

Here's a fine chap, strong in mind and body, He has the Six Accomplishments; But when he goes South he's driven North, And when he goes West he's sent away East,

Always floating like duckweed, Like 'flying grass," never at rest. You ask, "What kind of man may this be?" His surname is Poverty; the first name is Extremity.

Last night I dreamed I was back home again, And was looking at my wife weaving. She stopped the loom, and seemed deep in thought, And as though she had not the strenght to begin again. I called to her and she looked up at me, But did not recognise me, and stared vacantly. The years are many since we parted, And my hair is not the colour it used to be.

In the citadel there is a beautiful lady; The pearls at her waist tinkle silverly. Among the flowers she dandles a parrot, And plays the lute under the moon. The long tones of her song still linger after three months; The short dance,-- all come to see. But this will not continue forever; The lotus flower cannot bear the frost.

I live in a nice place, Far from dust and bustle. By treading the turf, I have three paths; The clouds I see I make my four walls. To help Nature express itself there are the voices of birds; Here there is nobody to ask about Buddhist philosophy. The Tree of the World is still growing; My short span of spring,-- how many years will it be?

The Way to Hanshan is a queer one; No ruts or hoof prints are seen. Valley winds into valley, Peak rises above peak; Grasses are bright with dew, And pine trees sough in the breeze. Even now you do not know? The reality is asking the shadow the way.

Quietly I visited a famous monk; Mountains rose one atfter another through the mist.

The master pointed out my way back; The moon, a circle of light, hung in the sky.

I dwell below boulders piled one upon another. A path fit for birds! It only prevents people form coming. The garden,-- can you call it a garden? The white clouds embrace ineffable rocks; How many times have I seen spring depart, seen winter come again? But avoid the dinner bell and banquets galore, Beware of names empty and profitless.

My hut is beneath a green cliff, The garden a wilderness; The latest creepers hang down in coils and twinings, Ancient rocks stand sharp and tall. Monkeys come and pick the wild fruits; The white heron swallows the fish of the pools. Under the trees I read some Taoist books; My voice intones the words and phrases.

These past twenty years!-- thinking of them, How I have walked quietly back from Kuoching Temple, And all the people of the temple Say of Hanshan, "What a nincompoop he is!" Why do they call me a fool, I wonder? But I can't decide the question, For I myself don't know who 'I" is, So how can others possibly know? I hang my head; what's the use of their asking? What good can thinking about it do? People come and laugh at me. I know quite well what they think of me, But I am not foolish enough to retort to them, Because they do just what I want them to do.

Chuangtse told us about his funeral, How Heaven and Earth would be his coffin. There is a time to die, And just one hurdle will do. Dead, I shall be the food of blow-flies; I won't give white cranes the trouble of mourning for me. To starve on Mount Shouyang,-It's a gallant life, a joyful death.

People ask the way to Hanshan, But there is no way to Hanshan. The ice does not melt even in summer, And even if the sun should rice, dense vapours clothe it round.

Encounters with Cold Mountain - Poems by Han Shan Translated by Peter Stambler Beijing, Panda Books, Chinese Literature Press, 1996

MY CANDLE GUTTERS IN A SUDDEN GUST If you were so dim in a former life, Today's life won't bring you light. If you suffer poverty's sting, Spread balm upon the life that once you led. If today you fail to find your way, You bequeath yourself a pathless wood. Two lives, two shores, a fast, broad stream, No sturdy boat at hand. Impossible!

I FOLLOW MY FINGER'S END HEAVENWARD Once, my back wedded to the solid cliff, I sat silently, bathed in the full moon's light. I counted there ten thousand shapes, None with substance save the moon's own glow. The pristine mind is empty as the moon, I thought, and like the moon, freely shines. By what I knew of moon I knew the mind, Each mirror to each, profound as stone.

RISING EARLY Why question the fate of the dew? The morning sun burns dew, and drowns in clouds. The holy mountain is not a palace But an inn.

Once you, innkeeper, Drive out desire, ignorance, hate, What remains? Enlightenment? Affliction? Dew is your model: nothing at all.

DIALOGUE Up I climbed to a cloudy observatory Where I met some priests, immortals all. You can't miss them: star caps and feathered capes, Much talk of dwwelling by the mountain streams. "Tell me," I said, "how one becomes immortal." "The Way, the Way," they murmured together. "Then, there's the Supreme Elixir, Yet to be found, the god's nectar. Till then, striding the Way, we wait for cranes" (Though one added, "Um ... we depart on fish.") And so I descended, thinking, "This makes no sense. If I aim my arrow at heaven, It falls back to earth just the same. If they're immortals, what do they do, Hungry ghosts, haunting their own dead bodies? "The mind," I said, "is moon-clear, the world and its thousand shapes but dreams to shine upon. The Elixir, then, is mixed in the mind." I left a message at the temple gate: No Masters here, but idiots and doubt.

IN EARLY SUMMER I OFTEN WALK HERE A beauty in our city, Wears pearls loosely pendant at her waist To wash her In their tintinnabulation. In the spring garden she teases Her parrot; she strums Her pi-pa, and the moonlight Scatters through the strings. All year her song enveloped our ears; We watched her trim dance A thousand times. No one thinks: one cold wind blackens the hibiscus.

AUDIENCE From my perch on Cold Mountain I have much to say. The world demurs, believing nothing. For them, the tongue was made for honey, Not the bitter oak - soul's balm - I peddle. Drifting downstream delights the simple mind; I send them up the narrows to the source. They carve themselves from wood, someone pulls the strings. And they fall exhausted from their single dance.

I PUT IT MOST SIMPLY Because I had the time, I sought a monk Though the climb was shrouded in ten thousand mists. The master kindly showed the way home, And the moon lit my path.

WITH MY HANDS DANGLING FROM MY CUFFS In their wisdom, the wise spurn me. In mine, I reject the stupid. Because I despise both your camps, Let us agree to avoid one another. I choose to bray at the cock-eyed moon, To dance through mountain clouds at sunrise. Why immure my hands in my sleeves, Lock up my tongue, And sit rigid as a chair? My hair cascades!

GARDENING IN AUTUMN No painted beams adorn my house, Green pines suffice. All one's life, its thousand efforts, Evaporate at once. Who looks well beyond, Builds the raft, directs it smoothly To the lotus blooms he craves?

Beneath the pines, tend to roots, Not blossoms.

WHAT CATCHES THE EYE? LUMINOUS THINGS Between the infinite height of Heaven And Earth's immeasurable density, All life struggles for primacy, Place, a red quelled hunger. All species connive another's ruin, Aiming precisely for belly heat. Name one who considers cause, effect: name A blind man who grasps the colour of milk.

THE LOST SCHOLAR What a mind he had! Master of footnotes, Retailer of all details. Sword tip, brush tip, Tip of the tongue -- all penetrating. Music, Horsemanship, archery, each one subdued. When he exhaled, we breathed deeply. Calamity: Once he found the meaning not just there, He fled in all directions, split hairs everywhere.

I DIG MY HEELS IN TIGHTER AND RIDE PAST The heart that moves the traveler Is the heart wounded by ruins: The dusty courtyard, the lintel fallen At the chamber door, a broken grave, A shadow scurrying beneath the tumbleweed, Wind brazen in the unpruned trees, The bones of daily men -- these I mourn -Unrecorded, unread, unmentioned anywhere.

I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING How just death is. Even as I picture you, Sturdy, tall, I drop my eyes

To your burial mound. Fine dust, like any man's. I think of a world unrelieved by dawn. I fail -- here, grass sprouts green each spring; Each heart breaking season arrives anew, And only the evergreen constantly grieves with me.

I SKETCH A MAP IN A CUP OF TEA Travelers wonder how to reach Cold Mountain. No road stretches so far; the streams end far below. Summer ice darkens the grees. Sunrise labours to burn off the mist. How did a gray squat thing like me arrive? I make my journey sitting still.

REALITY How transparent the emerald stream, Transparent the moonlight above Cold Mountain. In silence one sees through the soul, Space, and the composed world.

DAY LABOR One man steams a pot of sand for rice; His neighbor, thirsty, sinks a well. His brother cramps his strength, rubbing bricks Into -- he hopes -- perfect mirrors. The Buddha says we have on nature, That we are truly So. Think of that. Not struggle, but thinking makes it so.

CLAMBERING DOWN, I CANNOT LOOK BACK Yesterday, climbing to the summit, I risked the verge, and peered down a thousand feet. There, clinging to the edge, a single tree Gave way to wind, splintering.

In the sudden rain, its leaves scattered. The late sun fell on them, and they turned to dust. How might I prevent my sorrow Taking root in this decay?

BURIAL Peach blossoms yearn for a summer's life, Shivering before a slight breeze, paling. In each descent of the moon. Of all the ancients, Not one wakes when a bough stirs. Leaves of my book curl, and the edges brown In the fire that livens my mother's ashes. When I stumble my feet raise dust Where once the greenest sea rolled.

SUDDENLY, ONE DAY IS NOT LIKE ANOTHER Sprawled out on a boulder, I watch the icy stream swirl past -A small amusement, one of many: Daring the cliff's edge in settled fog, Receiving it as a place of rest; Tracing the shadows of trees inn the last sun; Looking inward at the earthworks of my mind As the lotus blooms there in the mind.

I DO NOT ANSWER WHY I STARE INTO PUDDLES Respectfully, I thought to live with my brother: I wore books in my sleeve, plowing fields. But my brother berated me; My wife found him wise. I have renounced this desert world. I read what love, roving. You there! A ladle's water, no more: Buoy this perch stranded in the carriage track.

HUMAN NATURE

The mushroom and the cricket decline within a day. Why then should I take it so to heart, Knowing life's brevity, that friends Endure decades before they perish? To think of perishing -- to think endurance -Saddens me, and sadness I cannot bear. What's left to a man to do? Slough off this cocoon and fly to the mountains.

THE PALLBEARER'S SONG Why all this infernal weeping, I ask? Why these tears, decorous as pearls? Parting is our nature; once separated, Only mourning comes again and again. And poverty, if that's your lot, Settles on you without explanation. We meet in the graveyard, all tears. What follows does not concern me.

POETICS ON COLD MOUNTAIN If you would read my poems, Prepare yourself well: be pure of mind. Open your tight-fisted heart; flatter None but honesty with your upright word; From the bag of Self, unpack evil, Refolding what remains, your Buddha-body. This is your first assignment. Do it now, And quickly. I speak an empire's law.

CONUNDRUM Sir, in my youth the emperor loved books; I studied arms and served without reward. In the next regime, I pondered books; The emperor cultivated military men. Now, having mastered books and war, Having served both war and books,

I've grown old. What is left to me? The emperor loves youth.

DIVIDENDS Some men love a bulging storehouse Just as the owl adores her brood. In time, the owlets eat their mother, And wealth consumes the man with interest. Fling coins abroad, sowing blessings; Plant them at your door and reap disaster. Having nothing to lose; lose nothing. An empty pocket swings at ease, like wings.

IN THE DEEP WOODS, ON MY HANDS AND KNEES You find a flower half-buried in leaves, And in your eye its very fate resides. Loving beauty, you caress the bloom; Soon enough, you'll sweep petals from the floor. Terrible to love the lovely so, To count your own years, to say "I'm old," To see a flower half-buried in leaves And come face to face with what you are.

MOONLIGHT CASTS SHADOWS OF ITS OWN I think of my travels, scenes Men seek to say they've seen them. Loving mountains, I conquered mountains, Loving water, I mastered a thousand streams, For fellowship, saw friends off at Pi Pa Valley, For sensibility, strummed my lute at Parrot Isle. How could I have known this broken pine awaited me, Where, knees hugged to my chest, I sit alone?

THE MOON IS NOT AN EMBLEM However remote in the night's depths, Stars incline towards each other in constellations. Amid the shadows of many rocks, I raise but one lamp, For the moon arches, drawing me out In radiance, every facet cooly lit. It is my mind, suspended.

AND IN THE EVENING, NOTABLE SILENCES At Cold Mountain, clouds enfold the sharp cliffs. Below, the river eddies around sharp stones. From here I hear the ancient fisherman Sing to his single oar, fashioning his wake. I do not choose to listen, but the mountain Pines at my secluded thought, nonetheless. The sparrow, unperturbed, brings twine From the old man's net, and busies himself on my wall.

Songs of Cold Mountain Translated by Red Pine 1 Towering cliffs were the home I chose bird trails beyond human tracks what does my yard contain white clouds clinging to dark rocks every year I've lived here I've seen the seasons change all you owners of tripods and bells what good are empty names 2 All you who read my poems guard your purity of heart let your greed be modesty your flattery be honesty put an end to evil karma trust your own true nature find your buddha body today do it as fast as an order

3 The Cold Mountain Road is strange no tracks of cart or horse hard to recall which merging stream or tell which piled-up ridge a myriad plants weep with dew the pines all sigh the same here where the trail disappears form asks shadow where to 4 Looking for a refuge Cold Mountain will keep you safe a faint wind stirs dark pines come closer the sound gets better below them sits a gray-haired man chanting Taoist texts ten years unable to return he forgot the way he came 5 My mind is like the autumn moon clear and bright in a pool of jade nothing can compare what more can I say 6 The mountains are so cold not just now but every year crowded ridges breathe in snow sunless forests breathe out mist nothing grows until Grain Ears leaves fall before Autumn Begins a lost traveler here looks in vain for the sky 13 "Brothers share five districts; father and sons three states." To learn where the wild ducks fly follow the white-hare banner! Find a magic melon in your dream! Steal a sacred orange from the palace! Far away from your native land swim with fish in a stream! 18 I spur my horse past ruins; ruins move a traveler's heart.

The old parapets high and low the ancient graves great and small, the shuddering shadow of a tumbleweed, the steady sound of giant trees. But what I lament are the common bones unnamed in the records of immortals. 26 Since I came to Cold Mountain how many thousand years have passed? Accepting my fate I fled to the woods, to dwell and gaze in freedom. No one visits the cliffs forever hidden by clouds. Soft grass serves as a mattress, my quilt is the dark blue sky. A boulder makes a fine pillow; Heaven and Earth can crumble and change. 28 This maid is from Hantan, her singing has the lilt. Make use of her refuge; her songs go on forever you're drunk don't talk of going stay until the morning comes where you sleep tonight her embroidered quilt fills a silver bed. 32. Who takes the Cold Mountain Road takes a road that never ends the rivers are long and piled with rocks the streams are wide and choked with grass it's not the rain that makes the moss slick and it's not the wind that makes the pines moan who can get past the tangles of the world and sit with me in the clouds 44 I usually live in seclusion but sometimes I go to Kuoching to call on the Venerable Feng-kan or to visit Master Shih-Te. but I go back to Cold Cliff alone observing an unspoken agreement I follow a stream that has no spring the spring is dry but not the stream.

47 Mistress Tsou of Tiyen and Mistress Tu of Hantan, the two of them equally old and sharing the same love of face, yesterday went to a tea. But poorly dressed they were shown to the back. Because their skirts were frayed, they had to eat leftover cake. 50 Show me the person who doesn't die; death remains impartial. I recall a towering man who is now a pile of dustthe World Below knows no dawn plants enjoy another spring but those who visit this sorrowful place the pine wind slays with grief. 71 Someone lives in a mountain gorge: cloud robe and sunset tassels, holding sweet plants that he would share. But the road is long and hard, burdened with regrets and doubts. Old and unaccomplished, called by others crippled, he stands alone steadfast. 81 I labored in vain reciting the Three Histories, I wasted my time reading the Five Classics, I've grown old checking yellow scrolls recording usual everyday names. "Continued Hardship" was my fortune "Emptiness" and "Danger" govern my life. I can't match riverside trees, every year with a season of green. 101 I recall the days of my youth off hunting near Pingling. An envoy's job wasn't my wish. I didn't think much of immortals; I rode a white horse like the wind! Chased hares and loosed falcons-

suddenly now with no home, who'll show an old man pity? 106 The layered bloom of hills and streams Kingfisher shades beneath rose-colored clouds mountain mists soak my cotton bandanna, dew penetrates my palm-bark coat. On my feet are traveling shoes, my hand holds an old vine staff. Again I gaze beyond the dusty worldwhat more could I want in that land of dreams? 113 My writing and judgment aren't that bad; but an unfit body receives no post Examiners expose me with a jerk. They wash away the dirt and search for my sores; of course it depends on Heaven's will. But this year I'll try once more, a blind man who shoots for a sparrow's eye just might score a hit. 117 I deplore this vulgar place where demons dwell with worthies. They say they're the same, but is the Tao impartial? A fox might ape a lion's mien and claim the disguise is real, but once ore enters the furnace, we soon see if it's gold or base. 122 Where clouds and mountains are piled to the sky the forest deep the road remote and travelers nonexistent far off I see the solitary toad clear and bright nearby a flock of birds chattering away an old man alone on a darkening ridge retiring to my hut I accept white hair but sigh that today and the years gone by are mindless, like the rivers flowing east. 180 I reached Cold Mountain and all cares stopped no idle thoughts remained in my head nothing to do I write poems on the rocks and trust the current like an unmoored boat.

204 Down to the stream to watch the jade flow or back to the cliff to sit on a boulder my mind like a cloud remains unattached what do I need in the faraway world. 230. All I see are fools piling higher gold and grain getting drunk and eating creatures imagining they're well-to-do unaware of hell's abyss seeking only Heaven's bliss but with karma like Vipula how can they escape disaster suddenly the rich man dies people crowd around in tears then they hire some monks to chant though such ghostly pay is void and provides no future blessings why support the hairless bunch better to wake up in time don't create a hell of darkness be a tree that fears no wind steadfast and unmoved by fate tell the blockheads you might meet read this over once or twice 234 Cold Mountain speaks these words as if he were a madman he tells people what he thinks thus he earns their wrath but a straight mind means straight words a straight mind holds nothing back crossing the River of Death who's that jabbering fool the road to the grave is dark and karma holds the reins 246 I recently hiked to a temple in the clouds and met some Taoist priests. Their star caps and moon caps askew they explained they lived in the wild. I asked them the art of transcendence; they said it was beyond compare, and called it the peerless power.

The elixir meanwhile was the secret of the gods and that they were waiting for a crane at death, or some said they'd ride off on a fish. Afterwards I thought this through and concluded they were all fools. Look at an arrow shot into the skyhow quickly it falls back to earth. Even if they could become immortals, they would be like cemetery ghosts. Meanwhile the moon of our mind shines bright. How can phenomena compare? As for the key to immortality, within ourselves is the chief of spirits. Don't follow Lords of the Yellow Turban persisting in idiocy, holding onto doubts. 247 In this village is a house a house without an owner earth gives rise to grass water appears as drops of dew fire ignites a gang of thieves wind whips up a black-cloud rain search inside for the occupant a pearl concealed in rags 253 Children, I implore you get out of the burning house now. Three carts await outside to save you from a homeless life. Relax in the village square before the sky, everything's empty. No direction is better or worse, East just as good as West. Those who know the meaning of this are free to go where they want. 259 I love the joys of the mountains, wandering completely free, feeding a crippled body another day, thinking thoughts that go nowhere. Sometimes I open an old sutra, more often I climb a stone tower and peer down a thousand-foot cliff or up where clouds curl around

where the windblown winter moon looks like a lone-flying crane. 264 I sit on top of a boulder the stream is icy cold quiet joys hold a special charm bare cliffs in the fog enchant this is such a restful place the sun goes down and tree shadows sprawl I watch the ground of my mind and a lotus comes out of the mud 269 Daily concerns are endless the addiction to life never stops grinding away the rock of the earth nobody gets a break seasons wither and change festivals suddenly pass answer the owner of the burning house ride the white ox outside 275 I've always loved Friends of the Way friends of the Way I've always held dear meeting a traveler with a silent spring or greeting a guest talking Zen. Talking of the unseen on a moonlit night searching for truth until dawn when ten thousand reasons disappear and we finally see who we are. 278 Today I sat before the cliffs I sat until the mists drew off a single crystal stream a towering ridge of jade a cloud's dawn shadow not yet moving the moons night light still adrift a body free of dust a mind without a care. 283 Mister Wang the Graduate laughs at my poor prosody. I don't know a wasp's waist much less a crane's knee.

I can't keep my flat tones straight, all my words come helter-skelter. I laugh at the poems he writesa blind man's songs about the sun! 293 Dressed in sky-flower clothes wearing tortoise-hair shoes clutching rabbit-horn bows they hunt the ghosts of delusion 307 Whoever has Cold Mountain's poems is better off than those with sutras. Write them up on your screen and read them from time to time.

The Poetry of Han-Shan Translated by Robert G. Hendricks 1 Whoever reads my poems Must protect the purity in his mind. Stinginess and greed must change into honesty day after day; Flattery and deceit must right now become the upright! Expel and banish, wipe out your bad karma; Return to rely on, accept your true nature. Today! You must attain the Buddha-body; Quickly! Quickly! Treat this just like it's imperial law!

28 Climb up! Ascend! The way to Han-Shan But on Han-Shan the roads never end. The valleys are long, with boulders in heaps and piles; The streams are wide, with grasses both wet and dump. The moss is slippery -- it has nothing to do with the rain; The pines sign and moan, but they don't rely on the wind. Who can transcend the cares of the world, And sit with me in the white cloud?

176 The place where I tarry and stay; Secluded and deepdifficult indeed to describe. Without any wind, creepers move on their own; There is no fog, yet the bamboo's always dark, in a haze. Valley streamsfor whom do they weep? Mountain cloudssuddenly on their own they pile up. At noon, I sit inside my hut; Just then I'm aware that the sun has started to rise.

311 In your house has the poems of Han-shan in it, They're better for you than reading sutras! Write them down on your screen, And from time to time take a look.

More Translations from the Chinese Ridiculous Hanshan road, Neither cart horse track! Torturous trail coiled between valleys, Stacked peaks impossibly high. Dew weeps from thick foliage, Wind drones moans in the pines. Baffled I lose my bearings, Beg my shadow to find me a trail. Translated by Dongbo

Ha ha ha. If I show joy and ease my troubled mind, Worldly troubles into joy transform. Worry for others--it does no good in the end. The great Dao, all amid joy, is reborn. In a joyous state, ruler and subject accord, In a joyous home, father and son get along. If brothers increase their joy, the world will flourish. If husband and wife have joy, it's worthy of song.

What guest and host can bear a lack of joy? Both high and low, in joy, lose their woe before long. Ha ha ha. Translated by Mary Jacob

This is my resting place; Now that I know the best retreat. The breeze blows through the pines, Sounding better the nearer it is. Under a tree I'm reading Lao-tzu, quietly perusing. Ten years not returning, I forgot the way I had come. Translated by Katsuki Sekida

People ask about Cold Mountain Way; There's no Cold Mountain Road that goes straight through: By summer, lingering cold is not dispersed, By fog, the risen sun is screened from view; So how did one like me get onto it? In our hearts, I'm not the same as you -If in your heart you should become like me, Then you can reach the center of it too. Translated by E. Bruce Brooks

A thousand clouds among a myriad streams And in their midst a person at his ease. By day he wanders through the dark green hills, At night goes home to sleep beneath the cliffs. Swiftly the changing seasons pass him by, Tranquil, undefiled, no earthly ties. Such pleasures! - and on what do they rely? On a quiet calm, like autumn river water. Translated by Peter Harris

Free between smoky vines and rocky cave, A lifelong self-content is all the Way. I feel an open joy in wilderness, Friend to the white clouds through each lazy day.

Paths there will be that don't lead to this world; Why climb when heart has no debts left to pay? All night I sit on a stone bed alone; Up the Cold Mountain the moon makes its way. Translated by Frederick Turner and Y. D .