西江月.黄州中秋 My Moon Festival at Huangzhou

西江月.黄州中秋

原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋）

英译: 闵晓红(2024.03)

世事一场大梦，

人生几度秋凉。

夜来风叶已鸣廊，

看取眉头鬓上。

酒贱常愁客少，

月明多被云妨。

中秋谁与共孤光,

把盏凄然北望。

My Moon Festival at Huangzhou

-to the tune The Moon over River West

Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Zizhan', art name 'Dongpo')

English version: Julia Min (2024)

Life is nothing but a fleeting dream,

easily shattered in cold or in heat.

Thru the porch, ruffling my grey temples,

the wind whistles, shedding more leaves.

Poor wine cannot attract eager crowds.

The moon is often shrouded by clouds.

With whom shall I share the festive night?

 —A toast to the north sky, in misty eyes.

Appreciation:

What does a man write after touching bottom?

In September 1080, Su Shi emerged from 103 days in a dark prison pit—falsely accused, stripped of rank and dignity. He was not certain he would see another sunrise or full moon. From a trusted high official, he became a pariah exiled to Huangzhou, holding a meaningless title with a meager salary, lodged in a temple.

This poem—his first Moon Festival at Huangzhou—is not yet the voice of the free-spirited sage. It is a man still bleeding.

"Life is nothing but a fleeting dream"—not abstraction, but raw wound. The dream has just shattered. Autumn chill creeps through temple walls; humiliation burns in his chest.

"Thru the porch, ruffling my grey temples"—his hair turned quickly. Only 43, but shock ages overnight. The wind that sheds leaves also sheds illusions. Status, wealth, the throne's favour—all falling.

"Poor wine cannot attract eager crowds." Bitter self-mockery. He knows why no one comes. Not the wine's fault. His own. He is poison now—a disgraced official, dangerous to know. The festival of reunion mocks his solitude.

"With whom shall I share the festive night?" No one. The toast to the north sky—toward Kaifeng, toward the emperor who abandoned him, toward friends he may never see again—raised with misty eyes. Not weeping. Mist. A great mind does not cry on paper.

This is not yet the Su Shi who would write "To the East Sea flows the Yangtze River" or "Who says time cannot go back to youth?" That man needed years in Huangzhou—farming, drinking, laughing with locals, burying his own dead child. This poem is the first autumn, the first moon festival, the first breath after the noose.

And that is its value. A great mind not triumphant, but stunned. Not enlightened, but hurting. Not rising above, but sitting alone in a temple, watching leaves fall, toasting north with misty eyes.

The insight—"life is a dream"—is there, but not enough. Not yet. Loneliness remains. Humiliation remains. But he writes it down. That is the seed of recovery. A great mind begins to rise not by denying the setback, but by naming it, quietly, in four simple stanzas.

Later, he would laugh. That night, he was human.

Reference:

1. picture from sohu.com