惠崇春江晓景和春江晚景二首 On The Spring River at Dawn and The Spring River at Dusk

惠崇春江晓景(1/2)

原作: 苏轼

竹外桃花三两枝，春江水暖鸭先知。

蒌蒿满地芦芽短，正是河豚欲上时。

On “The Spring River at Dawn” (Poem One)

--inscription for a painting of Monk Hui Chong

Chinese original by Su Shi (11th AC)

New En. version+ annot. by Julia Min (2023)

old En. version by G. Osing, J. Min & H. Huang (1990)

When bamboos send out some peach blooms,

when reed and wormwood sprout fresh shoots,

and one wild duck calls out: “The water’s fine.”

Then surface the globefish, in the nick of time.

惠崇春江晚景(2/2)

原作: 苏轼

两两归鸿欲破群，依依还似北归人。

遥知朔漠多风雪，更待江南半月春。

On “The Spring River at Dusk” （Poem Two)

--inscription for a painting of Monk Hui Chong

Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC)

English version: Julia Min (2025)

A flock of swan geese set off, heading north,

but two, lingering, drop from the flight form.

The desolate desert lies in snow and wind;

better to stay longer in River South’s spring.

Notes:

1.     Reed and wormwood – In the original, lóu hāo (蒌蒿) and lú yá (芦芽, reed shoots) are both edible wild plants that sprout in early spring, traditionally foraged and eaten as seasonal delicacies.

2.     The duck – The original line (chūn jiāng shuǐ nuǎn yā xiān zhī, 春江水暖鸭先知) is a celebrated epigram: the duck is the first to know the river's warmth. This version re-enacts that knowledge as direct speech.

3.     Globefish – Also known as pufferfish or fugu, a dangerous and delicious delicacy that appears in spring. "In the nick of time" captures the original's sense of perfect seasonal timing (正是...时).

4.     Swan geese – The original hóng (鸿) refers to a large migratory goose, often associated with noble character and distant journeys.

5.     Lingering – The word yīyī (依依) carries warmth and reluctance — the same word used for lovers parting. These geese hesitate not from weakness but from attachment to the south.

6.     Drop from the flight form – The phrase captures both physical descent and emotional release.

7.     River South – Jiāngnán (江南), the region south of the Yangtze River, famous for its mild climate and early spring.

Appreciation:

Hui Chong (965–1017, Song Dynasty) was a monk and painter known for his landscapes featuring mountains and water, often adorned with geese and ducks. A collector likely sought inscriptions from Su Shi for two such paintings. Sadly, the artworks were lost — but the poems survived, and every schoolchild in China can still recite them.

Su Shi successfully put into living words the moment when all nature comes to life, feeding a single painted surface with physical sensation—a feast for the eye, for the ear, and for the taste buds. The painting is poetry in rhyming motion. The Song people would say: you can paint poetry, and you may also compose a painting with verse. (For your interest, the Western landscape painting genre did not emerge until the Renaissance, peaking in the Industrial Revolution.)

These two poems are not two versions of the same thing. They are two halves of a whole.

The first celebrates spring's arrival — rising yang. Bamboo sends out peach blooms. Reed and wormwood sprout fresh shoots. A duck calls out that the water is fine. Then the globefish surface — dangerous, delicious, perfectly timed. The tone is theatrical, outward, and vocal. Spring arrives as a performance.

The second contemplates spring's threshold — settling yin. A flock of swan geese sets off heading north, but two, lingering, drop from the flight form. Su Shi's eye catches the tender detail. The word yīyī (依依) in the original carries the warmth of reluctant parting — the same word used for lovers clinging to each other. These geese are not lost or weak. They hesitate because they realise something precious. Then comes the knowing twist: the northern desert still lies in snow and wind. Why rush? "Better to stay longer in River South's spring." This is not a command but a gentle counsel — from the poet, or perhaps from the geese themselves.

The first poem is a sunny smile. The second is a reluctant sigh. Together, they give us spring in full: the eagerness to arrive and the reluctance to leave. The two poems differ in tone because dawn differs from dusk, the rising yang from settling yin. That is not inconsistency — that is fidelity to nature. Su Shi, the Daoist-leaning gourmand, would have understood.

Literal rendering from Chinese to English is easier; recreation requires a poet's quality. When a poem crosses a millennium and languages, fidelity to words is simple; fidelity to experience demands a poetic touch.

This English version does not simply describe Hui Chong's lost painting. It re-enacts the act of unrolling the scroll of painting — leading the eye from peach blossoms to riverbank, then to water's surface in the first poem, and in the second, from the two who linger in the warmth of River South's spring to the departing flock to the distant desert.

Su Shi painted with verse. Here, he speaks again — and his voice lingers, like those two geese, a little longer in spring.

The feast continues… hehe.

Reference:

1. Blooming Alone in Winter by Gordon Osing, Julia Min, and Huang Haipeng, published by the People's Publication House Henan Province in 1990 (《寒心未肯随春态》戈登.奥赛茵，闵晓红，黄海鹏) (“Spring Dawn at the Hui Chong River” --“When old bamboo sets off a few peach blooms/And one wild duck calls out, “The water is fine!”/And onion tips and asparagus shoot green--/Then surfaces globefish, in the nick of time.”)

2. picture from baidu