Seven Heavens

 
 
Translations from the Chinese  Classics 
 
By Gregg  G. Brown 
Copyright   1988 
 
 
Published  by BLAST PRESS 

 

From the T'ung Shu: The Coin Prediction

 
 
When  the coin prediction faces south 
you are  in for it: unrelenting disaster. 
Lawyers  will take everything, 
there  is no chance of winning. 
Terrible deeds approach  you. 

Applying for a new  thing 
you  will lose what you have. 
No job.  No money. No place to go. 
Travel  is advisable. 
Marriage  unravels, 
you  will lose at your arraignment. 
A  missing person will not be found. 
You  will get no help from a nobleman, 
and no  visitors. 
 
 
 

A thousand sighs for Master Chen!

 
 
A  thousand sighs for Master Chen! 
A  thousand for that dead Immortal, Li. 
High  fame dismantled by men of rank; 
bitter  ideas erroding Heaven's mandate, 
shrinking their  years. 
Nobody  gets due respect while alive, 
the  next dynasty killing time in weak elegies. 
Great  men pitying each other like us: 
you in  Poughkeepsie, me in Minneola. 
 
  

Parted by the moving seasons, one sound.

 
 
Parted  by the moving seasons, one sound. 
Katydids. 
Night  chill invades the windscreen, 
intending autumn. The dark mat is  wet.  
Turning  the lamp out extinguishes the first dream; 
the  moon crooked, heaven endlessly dim. 
Midnight. Congealed stars.  Limitless thoughts. 
Getting  up to walk in the herb garden. 
 
 
 
 

I am a woman of the Heng-t'ang

 
 
I am a  woman of the Heng-t'ang. 
My  cassia-scented silks are red even in moonlight. 
The fat  moon gives my ear a pearl, 
a black  cloud my topknot. 
Whirlwinds in the  lotus 
engender spring on this  riverbank. 
Today,  blossoms in the reeds. 
Tomorrow, the maple goes  scarlet. 
At the  high dike 
northern men halt by  me: 
"Don't  point at the two ships 
on the  jade shore of Hsiang-yang! 
You  shall eat carp's tails, 
I shall  eat monkey's lips." 
 
 
 


 

Clouds intersect the lime mountain

 
 
Clouds  intersect the lime mountain, 
wind  follows rain; 
dawn  clouds lean over the river, 
slight  heat lifts towards the sun. 
Picking  out my hemp clothes, 
opening  the small mats again. 
Nothing  washes the late summer heat. 
This  afternoon, 2 or 3 empty glasses. 
 
 
 

Doubled curtains hang thick near the sheeted

 
 
Doubled  curtains hang thick near the sheeted 
mirror. 
No  bachelors cross the blue water 
to  preen before the young virgins. 
We  overhear ourselves saying how stupid love is. 
Disappointment is  lucid. 
Pitiless winds shake the chestnut  branches by the pond, 
no  scent of cassia after rain. 
She  lies down, straightening her dress in the dusk. 
Who  shares my endless dream of life with the goddess? 
 
 
 
 
 

The sad hills in the south marsh

 
 
The sad  hills in the south marsh 
are  visited by thin rain; 
a  ghost-breath of mist rises.
Here in Chang-an, how many  men 
have  grown old facing the midnight wind? 
A dim  track climbs toward the moon, 
black  branches curl against the roadside oak. 
The  shadows of the trees fly upward. 
A  chalky moon-dawn churns over the pale hills.
Snuffed fireflies greet the new  bride 
           with quieted light. 
I walk  into the secret tomb filled with swarming torches. 
 
  

Barbarian trumpets haul at the north wind.

 
 
Barbarian trumpets haul at the  north wind.
White dew on the Thistle  Gate 
               out-glitters the river. 
Sky  swallows the road to Kokonor. 

Tonight, the Great Wall is a  thousand miles of moonlight. 
 
  

Song of the Old Man of the Hills

 
 
I never  descend from the white hills 
      to the  valleys. 
My  crops cling to the hard slope, 
my  hand-ax culls the pines near at hand. 
The  gourd at my waist hauls water from this spring. 
What  force is there in scratched-down words? 
Let the  ignorant ignore the shifting sun and moon.
When the crooked oak or sorrowful  pine 
                         at last become my body, 
then I  will start counting down my years. 
 
 

12 Palaces

 
 
Desolate the provincial  palace: 
garden  flowers red in lonliness. 
On the  steps, 
                        white-haired harum girls 

Idly sit and talk of His Lord their  Majesty. 
 
 
 

This Song Will Kill Demons

 
 
Sun in  west hills, east hills dark. 
Chargers in the clouds race  tornado-touched. 
From  new symphony and flat kazoo, weak notes crowd. 
Flower-skirt startles the September  dust. 
I am  the shamaness whose bones flare death. 
 
Wings  touch the cassia leaves and a cassia-seed drops. 
The  blue racoon, crying blood, sees the cold fox starve. 
 
Rain  gods spur into autumn pools, 
       gold  dragons from the temple wall under them. 
Old man  Owl, demon-face among tree stumps, 
sits  amidst high laughter as green fire  
                    leaps up among his nest-twigs. 
 
 
 

Cubed sky: Black, purple, purple, purple

 
 
Cubed  sky: Black, purple, purple, purple. 
On  Yellow river, ice expands; fish and lizards die. 
Three-inch bark snaps against the  grain-edge, 
horse-carts move out on the bleak  ice. 
Frost  blooms on the grass in white coins, 
bright  swords bounce against sky-mist. 
Sharded  ice whirls in the sea's whirl. 
The  waterfall stands mute in that mountain, 
                                             hanging jade. 
 
 


 

24 hours in paradise, or less

 
 
24  hours in paradise, or less, 
among  men a thousand years have passed like dust. 
Black  and white chess pieces are set up on the marble board 
and the  empire has passed like a troubled wind. 
On the  way home out of these mountains, a woodcutter's 
axe  haft snaps as if eaten by the wind; 
Under  the stone bridge of his village, everything has changed: 
the  still span standing cinnabar-crimson over everything. 
 
 
 
 

The world is a house on fire, turning, turning

 
 
The  world is a house on fire, turning, turning; 
my body  a frosted pinetree in a rut 
                           flat on its back. 
Of  everything that moves, I notice, 
death  comes easiest to us. 
 
 
 
 
 

Deep dew fallen on the secret rose

 
 
Deep  dew fallen on the secret rose; 
Closed  eyes open that cry again. 
Nothing  here to bind the heart close; 
No  bloom can I cut for the mist of  pain. 
 
Cushioned grass beneath me, the  pine my cloak, 
The  wind a whispering skirt; 
The  water waits emptily for an empty boat, 
The  naked road for a coach as a shirt. 

A little girl is  singing 
In the  waiting evening: 
"I ride  a grand coach 
With  red laquered sides; 
Without  shoe or broach 
My love  on a dark horse sighs. 
 
"Where are true lovers'  hearts 
Bound  and wound? 
Beneath  the cypress, on West Mound, 
Beneath  the brooding ground." 
 
Cold  blue a candle flames, 
Straining its frail  light; 
On the  West Mound, rain 
Forced  by the wind in the night.  
 
Deep  dew fallen on the secret rose; 
Closed  eyes open that cry again. 
Nothing  here to bind the heart close; 
No  bloom can I cut for the mist of pain.  

End