A Single Spring (by Han Shan)

Today I translated this poem by Han Shan, the hermit-poet of Cold Mountain.  It's the last line of this poem that takes my breath away.  How many years lie within a single spring?  This for me captures the essence of early spring - a time filled by infinite possibility -- when all of life is crammed into a handful of days as the worms first begin turning the soil.

My home is spare

And well hidden

Dwelling far from

The earth's clamor

I tread on the grass

To make three paths

And gaze upon the clouds

Who are my nearest neighbors

The birds join me in song

There's no else to discuss

Any matters of Dharma

Each day bears the fruit

Of Karma's great tree

How many years I wonder 

Lie within a single spring 

    

The Dream Machine

It comes without instructions

Nor are any needed really

The design is intuitive

You just plug it in 

And close your eyes

Tightly or ever so slightly

It matters not a bit

The pillow rises and falls

As if breathing on its own

Part of a larger apparatus 

Which delivers dreams

Directly to your head

All of which are recorded

On a flash memory card

Retrievable periodically

Subject to overwriting and error

In accordance with an algorithm

First inscribed in the Book of the Dead

 

 

Spring Scene (by Du Fu)

This Du Fu poem (written in the mid 8th century) captures the mood of the moment for me -- the return of spring in a world that has not yet emerged from a period of disruption and ruin.  Why write poetry at a time of seeming social collapse?  Is it a sympathetic fallacy to suppose that a millennium or so hence someone may understand that much better how they are feeling?  

Spring Scene

The country lies broken though

Mountains and rivers remain

As spring returns to the city

Grasses and trees regain

The depth of green

But in the mood 

Of these days

Dew sprinkles the flowers

Like tears on the cheek

And the heart knows only regret

Watching the sparrow take flight

For three months 

The beacon fires have flared

Making a letter from home

More precious than gold

And my white hair grown

Thin from constant scratching

Won't even hold a pin