347
mourning for those fallen in war

humans the smartest?
their bones lie as white as the rest

Spring to them nothing
soldiers lay their lives down

less than grass
remember Yao and Shun?

those kings cared about crops
more than killing

people here tear at the mountain
make iron for digging, for halberds, for death

a good thing earth nor sky pure gold
then war would be unending

348
dream of a sword

I dreamt about a sword last night
I hid it in my guts

I cannot bear to see your script
blood on the wall – the words won’t wash

you knock at my door
with unusual anger

blood dyes the dream
the wind takes the sword

I dread the justice of your cause
light in your eyes

your patience
as a ghost befits





349
thousand steps to the temple

so you implore heaven
several times on the way

before I’d made a hundred steps
big waves overwhelmed my eyes and my heart

balance was hard
at every step soul at sea

the old and the sick pity themselves
like driftwood we’re tossed worm scarred

like duckweed on the autumn’s ocean
morning like evening

sincerity is useless
intention has no meaning

words from this inch I tread below
how will they reach heaven’s ear?






350
relying on an ancestor to beg the government scholars for tea

when that beautiful flower withered
I lost the teapot
lost the will, my way

bright colours in the waters here
the mountain fragrant clad in bush

can you not conjure
something for me?

clouds cut the green
ground red with leaves fallen

this sick bowing man
has only this poem

with which to implore
justice on high





351
Fu Lang’s poems – none better

Fu Lang needn’t take all the steps
the rest of we poets are bound to

he’s already on the highest plank
there are none there to trip him

this is nothing to do with being prolific
one millimetre of white jade

puts the green stone to shame
this boy stole his father’s brush

to write, he begged for ink
to rub the stone

the whale in the ocean
flaps its tail, makes a whirlpool

and best of all knows when to stop
so as to not over-do things

for myself, I’m sad I lack such a son
I’m as proud as I’m jealous of this boy






352
Gu Mie, occupied city

Yue is the soil now
Wu is a ruin

the emperor’s kindness is wild

now to peace
and proclaiming

this fall and rise
and rise and fall
all must have a meaning






353
autumn day after the rain

rains overnight
bleak rain stands on stairs

all worries through my autumn heart
my feeble hair full of stars

my thinking now, past ambition?
friends scattered to their callings

if I drink from the spring
then surely I’m drunk

be cautious with the splendid houses
and with divining, with the sky

heaven is not obliged to answer
those few saws which are given

need not always apply






354
calling on the Zen master on a summer’s day

which of the sect’s founders my master?
this one preaches ‘no emptiness’

desire
the visible
and what’s not
– these are three jie

yu and se and wu se
worlds outside the Buddhist heart

the master sits between the skies
earth balancing beneath

the temple clear of ghosts and gods
the master’s body grass, green timber

I don my dusty robes
take the ever uphill track

ill fortune need not be your lot
consult the master

see in his bowl
writhing, the mass of poisonous dragons

the cage which held me?
blink and it’s gone




calling on the Zen master on a summer’s day 2

the day outside is fire
but in the temple autumn’s breeze
a mantra in the mouths of monks

I cannot be disciple here
my name’s hung
in Confucius’ hall






355
the Daoist wasn’t there when I went to visit

teacher, know your weapons travel
your bright fire’s hidden on three legs

the sun sets and the crane crosses over
mere shadows left to the world

one pill to take away death’s sting?
I think the Immortals more jealously

guard treasures no scholar has yet comprehended
brave works which drive the wind






356
explaining the ‘Wei Mo Jing’ sutra

the old tree’s just a few branches and leaves
the monk who leans on it’s real

on mountains the trees grow each as it will
straight crooked, no mirrors to see or conceal

Daoists and Buddhists shun disputation
hold the ‘Wei Mo Jing’ in their hands

they worry about their guests soon departing
when the sky comes suddenly bright

still there’s snow lying in flakes on our shoulders
wind washes the picture clean, winter shines

clearer than any sun’s squint
this sutra straightens the day