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A poem from the late Tang dynasty

Sadness at the hairs in the mirror is no longer new,

The stains on my coat are harder to brush away.

I waste my hopes by rivers and lakes, a fishing rod in the hand

Which screens me from Western sunlight as I look towards Ch'ang-an. 

 

Written by Tu Mu (803-52), a wandering poet of the Yangtse region, China. The sense I get from this poem is that fishing was a pastime in China 1200 years ago!

Posted on Saturday, January 19, 2008 by Registered Commenterflyfishertc in | Comments5 Comments share this:Digg Stumble Upon Add to sk*rtReddit

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Reader Comments (5)

That's a good find.

Sunday, January 20 | Unregistered Commenteropax

Where'd you find that please? It seems familiar, I used to read that era in translation and am wondering if it's in one of those books I have on the shelf.

Tuesday, January 22 | Unregistered CommenterBpaul

Hi
It's in a book called "Poems of the Late T'ang" translated by A C Graham and published by Penguin Classics in 1965. I think I picked up my copy in 1973.
There is a particularly good section on the poet Tu Fu and his Autumn Meditations dated 766.

kind regards,

Tuesday, January 22 | Registered Commenterflyfishertc

If you like this style may I suggest Kenneth Rexroth's translations from the Chinese. I really think his are some of the most eloquent and poetic I've read: "one hundred poems from the chinese" and "one hundred more poems from the chinese"

Bp

Wednesday, January 23 | Unregistered CommenterBpaul

Portland, Oregon 3 i 08

Anticipating the celebration of the Lunar New Year, my memory reached back to Indiana U Bloomington--as if fumbling in a back pack -- and touched how, working with literal translations of TU FU's work, I managed to render a few of the Master's poems from my own store of poetics. Curious, but my professor (a suave Chinese gentleman) was sufficiently impressed to send off three for publication in a journal dedicated to Tu Fu's 700th anniversary [1970]. When the editor found that I did not read Chinese, my poems were rejected. So be it: the snow here this morning was for an hour white cotton candy soon to melt on hard black maple twigs. Our disappointments must also melt, perhaps sweetly.

Sunday, February 3 | Unregistered CommenterFrederick G. Rodgers

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