摊破浣溪沙。 病起萧萧两鬓华 原作：李清照 病起萧萧两鬓华，卧看残月上窗纱。豆蔻连枝煎熟水，莫分茶。 枕上诗书闲处好，门前风景雨来佳。终日向人多借借，木犀花 The moon climbs the screen, slowly waning — to the tune of Tanpo Huanxisha Chinese original:Li Qingzhao ( 12th century) English version: Julia Min The moon climbs the screen, slowly waning; Up from illness—my temples grey and thin. Cardamom simmers gently, pod and stem; I sip its warmth, avoiding tea while healing. By my pillow lie favourite books of poems; From my doorway, a landscape in misty rain. The osmanthus whispers, subtly composed; Her fragrance fills the day— a graceful refrain. For Appreciation: Traditionally dated to around 1132, this ci appears to have been composed while Li Qingzhao was recovering from a serious illness and the ordeal of her brief, disastrous second marriage. According to the traditional account, she courageously brought a case against Zhang Ruzhou, thereby securing their separation. Yet under Song law, a wife who accused her husband could herself be punished. Li Qingzhao was imprisoned and remained in custody for nine days before the intervention of Qi Chongli and other friends secured her release. She was then about forty-eight years old. Having survived bereavement, war, displacement, illness, and now this bitter marriage, she resolved—with spiritual resilience and practical wisdom—to reclaim her life. The poem carries the quiet cheer of one who has survived another trial. Grateful to have her life restored, she takes pleasure in convalescence: the books beside her pillow, the misty rain beyond her doorway, and the fragrance of her beloved osmanthus filling the day. Its happiness is neither exuberant nor carefree, but composed—the intimate contentment of solitude regained. Notes: “Cardamom”: In traditional Chinese practice, cardamom was boiled in water as a warming herbal preparation to dispel internal chill. Its aromatic pods and seeds were also used medicinally and as a condiment. “Avoiding tea while healing”: Traditional Chinese medical practice often advises against drinking tea while taking certain herbal preparations, in the belief that tea may lessen or alter their effects. “Osmanthus”: Osmanthus is traditionally associated with modesty, gentle grace, cultivated refinement, and nobility. Its small, inconspicuous flowers release an exceptionally pure and far-reaching fragrance.

鹧鸪天.林断山明（时谪黄州） 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译修改:闵晓红(2023) 林断山明竹隐墙，乱蝉衰草小池塘。 翻空白鸟时时见，照水红蕖细细香。 村舍外，古城旁，杖藜徐步转斜阳。 殷勤昨夜三更雨，又得浮生一日凉。 Bamboo veils my wall from dark grove to clear hills. — to the tune “ Francolin Sky” Chinese original by: Su Shi (11th Century) English version by: Julia Min ( Feb. 2023) Bamboo veils my wall from dark grove to clear hills. By the pool, in drooping grass, a cicada trills. White birds wheel through the air, far and near. Lotus blush in the mirror, a scent subtle and fair. Past the old village, outside the ancient town, My cane moves slowly as the sun goes down. How thoughtful was the rain that fell last night, To add another cool day to this fleeting life of mine. Appreciation: This ci poem, composed by Dongpo in early autumn 1083, captures a moment of sensory and spiritual cleansing after a rain shower. It emphasises the intimacy of this “sensory cleansing” by focusing on the observer’s singular, lived experience. Artistic and philosophical themes: Rich in country imagery and shaped by Taoist ideas, the poem suggests that true magic and fulfilment can be found in ordinary, everyday scenes. Sensory imagery: The poet guides our eyes and ears through the landscape, from the “bamboos veiling my wall from dark grove to clear hills” to the “cicada trills in drooping grass” and the vivid “blush” of lotuses reflected in the water. That small, persistent sound of a single cicada shifts the mood: in the quiet around it, we feel a moment of stillness and clarity — a reminder that “true magic” can lie in the smallest, most ordinary details. Transience and ease: The slow cane and unhurried steps evoke a deliberate, relaxed pace, the gait of someone who has made peace with change and difficulty. This calm movement through the countryside reflects a philosophical acceptance that softens the poet’s personal struggles. From universal to personal: In the final two lines, the scene turns inward. Like Wordsworth and, in another medium, Monet, Su Shi lets a “rich country scene” reflect truth back to the self. The thoughtful night rain becomes a gift, gracing this fleeting life with one more day of cool delight. In that brief ease, the world’s beauty and the poet’s own journey quietly meet. Reference: 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) (By walls hidden in bamboo I see past groved hills,/And I hear the tiny racket of cicadas in the withered weeds by the pool./Over and over, I see a white bird rising into the sky./Sweet lotus blooms look down to see themselves perfectly.//Walking past the village houses outside an old town,/My cane goes slowly and I turn to the setting sun./How kind and thoughtful was last midnight’s rain/To make my temporary life quite full again.) 2. Picture by ChatGPT;

A Farewell Toast to the Spring Season --a poem with borrowed verses (Jiju game) --to the tune of Nanxiangzi Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (Feb. 2025) A farewell toast to the spring season, An ancient grief on the fallen crimson. As a wanderer on the farthest margin, My heart, soaked in sorrow in Chu State, Quietly drains away, not to mention— The chasing tune on the flute and Qin! On the Homeview Stage, all music fades. The vibes linger, stirring homesick longing. For an outcast forgotten, not yet pardoned, The best view finds home in care-free minds. Every burning hope to embers it is spent. An inch of lifetime, an inch of burned incense. from Bilibili (哔哩哔哩） For appreciation: This is a recreation of Su Shi's ji ju (集句) poem to the tune of Nanxiangzi. The original was composed during Su Shi’s exile in Huangzhou (c. 1080–1084), a period of profound personal and political depression. Su Shi had been charged with "calumny against the Throne". The longer he stayed, the less hope he felt of being recalled. This poem captures that stillness of despair—the moment when hope begins to turn to ash. What makes Su Shi's original remarkable is its form. Every line except two is borrowed from Tang Dynasty poets—Du Mu, Du Fu, Xu Hun, and Li Shangyin. This was a sophisticated intellectual game, a performance of memory and wit. But beneath the game was genuine grief. Su Shi was not merely playing; he was weaving his own sorrow into the fabric of Chinese poetic tradition. When I sit with this poem, I am not "translating" a text. I am listening to a voice—a voice that has not stopped speaking across nine centuries. He is still here. He is still wandering, still waiting, still burning. My task is not to interpret his lines. My task is to let him speak again—in English, for English ears, in a new form that still carries his spirit. reference: 1.baike.baidu.com

江城子·梦中了了醉中醒 (陶渊明以正月五日游斜川，临流班坐，顾瞻南阜，爱曾城之独秀，乃作斜川诗，至今使人想见其处。元丰壬戌之春，余躬耕于东坡，筑雪堂居之，南挹四望亭之后丘，西控北山之微泉，慨然而叹，此亦斜川之游也。乃作长短句，以《江城子》歌之。) 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译及赏析: 闵晓红(2025年8月) 梦中了了醉中醒, 只渊明，是前生。 走遍人间，依旧却躬耕。 昨夜东坡春雨足，乌鹊喜，报新晴。 雪堂西畔暗泉鸣, 北山倾，小溪横。 南望亭丘，孤秀耸曾城。 都是斜川当日景，吾老矣，寄余龄。 I see my previous life in Yuanming --to the tune of Jiangchengzi (The poet Tao Yuanming visited the Tilted Valley on the fifth day of the Chinese New Year. He found a beautiful spot by a stream, enjoying the view of Mt. Zengcheng among hills and pavilions. He wrote 'The Tilted Valley,' which made it a famous destination. In 1082, I lived a simple farm life at Dongpo (East Slope). My home, the Snow Hall, stood by a creek that flowed from the west to the north hill, then turned southward through hills and pavilions. This place reminds me of the Tilted Valley, inspiring me to write this long-short verse lyric to the tune of Jiangchengzi.) Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (Aug.2025) I see my previous life in Yuanming， clear in dreams, awakened in drinking. We spent in vain many a life span— rising to fame, yet returning to land. The East Slope, soaked with rain last night, Awoke to a clear day amid magpies’ flight. The west side of Snow Hall hides a spring, Winding up north, then down, murmuring. Mt. Zengcheng rises in the distant south— Amid hills and pavilions, it stands proud. All but what he saw at the Tilted Vale —A place ideal for the rest of my tale. For Appreciation Su Shi was, by all accounts, a man who refused to stay down. Exiled, demoted, sent to the edge of the empire — and each time, he built a house, planted a garden, wrote poems, and made friends with commoners in the street. His political foes must have been furious. They sent him to the middle of nowhere, and he responded by having the time of his life. This poem is that spirit in miniature. He looks at his little farm on East Slope, hears a spring trickling past Snow Hall, sees a hill like the ‘Mt. Zencheng’ rising in the distance, and thinks: This is exactly what Tao Yuanming saw. Never mind that he's in exile, far from court, far from glory. He has rain on his fields, magpies in the morning, and a stream that winds north then south like it owns the place. What more could a man want? There's a quiet Daoist joke running through it all. The spring doesn't rush; it murmurs. The mountain doesn't boast; it stands. And Su Shi, instead of plotting his return to power, simply watches and compares his humble valley to the Tilted Vale of legend. He doesn't claim to have surpassed Yuanming — he just notes the resemblance, shrugs, and settles in for the rest of his life tale. That's not ambition; that's contentment. That's not defeat; that's wisdom. And the best part? He was right to wait. The emperors changed, as emperors do, and Su Shi was recalled to court, his talents once again in demand. But by then, he had already won — not by fighting, but by letting go. He had found his Tilted Vale from his slope of mud and stone, and no amount of political chaos could take that away. What a life! What a poem! What a man who could turn exile into a vacation and a stream into a mirror of paradise! Reference: picture from https://collection.sina.cn/yejie

行香子·北望平川 (与泗守过南山晚归作) 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译及赏析: 闵晓红(2026) 北望平川，野水荒湾。共寻春、飞步孱颜。 和风弄袖，香雾萦鬟。正酒酣时，人语笑，白云间。 飞鸿落照，相将归去。淡娟娟、玉宇清闲。 何人无事，宴坐空山。望长桥上，灯火乱，使君还。 To the wild north we go (Upon returning late from Mt South with Governor Liu) --to the tune of Xingxiangzi Chinese original by Su Shi (11th Century) English version by Julia Min (Mar. 2026) To the wild north we go, Galloping where shallow waters flow. Across the plain on winding streams, We chase spring and all her new dreams. With wine comes many a toast. To the clouds, cheers and laughter float— In the soft breeze dance the long sleeves, On the curled tresses swirls a scent sweet. The wild geese fade into the sunset’s pale glow. The crystal heaven falls into serene repose. Homeward we go, but one sits on the hill at ease, Drinking the view of us crossing a floodlit stream. For Appreciation: December 7, 1084. Su Shi and Prefect Liu Shiyan of Sizhou had spent the day roaming Mount South in Xuyi. As twilight fell, this poem came—spontaneous as laughter, light as the breeze that opens it. The first lines gallop. We are instantly swept into the joy of a spring outing: ponds and streams, ripples and views. Two friends searching for beauty together, the suburban water landscape glistening around them. Up on the mountain, a pavilion welcomed them. Wine flowed. Sleeves danced. Entertainers added music and swirling fragrance. Laughter echoed through white clouds. Nature and humanity, perfectly at ease. Then comes the evening. Geese winged in the sunset glow. The sky reclaims its serenity. Time to go home. The lasting power lies in the unnamed "one." While the governor's retinue crosses the lit bridge in a clamour of lanterns towards town, an unknown figure remains behind—seated alone in the mountain stillness—apart yet alert, unseen yet seeing. Never explained, never justified, this watcher embodies the Daoist and Chan ideal of effortless presence: being without striving, abiding without clinging, at ease with the world's passage. In that silent observer, we catch a rare glimpse of Su Shi's inner weather—a mind that, even amid official burdens and political storms, repeatedly turns toward stillness, watchfulness, and the deep accord of things as they are. It is a mood that would find an echo centuries later in Wordsworth's "bliss of solitude," when joy, once lived, "flashes upon that inward eye." The watcher on South Mountain is not sad, nor nostalgic. He simply remains present, letting the day's happiness settle into contemplation as the lantern lights drift homeward through the dusk. Reference: baike.baidu.com picture from google

汲江煎茶 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.01) 活水还须活火烹，自临钓石取深清。 大瓢贮月归春瓮，小杓分江入夜瓶。 雪乳已翻煎处脚，松风忽作泻时声。 枯肠未易禁三碗，坐听荒城长短更。 Brewing New Season Tea on a Spring Stream Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min(Jan. 2024) The finest tea is brewed over a fresh fire, With water drawn from a flowing stream. Beyond the fishing rocks, the tip of the pier, I seek clear water from the very deep— The dipper steals the moon into my urn, A share of spring to the pot the scoop feeds. Soon it boils to a creamy crest, a snowy foam. The tea breathes a fragrance fresh and sweet. A thin creek pours, singing into my bowl— The melody of the wind through pine trees. For the long nights in a town, barren and bleak, The ‘three-bowl limit’ won’t be my cup of tea. Notes: 1. new season tea: likely referring to Grain-Rain Tea in spring, a conventional preference of southern Chinese green tea lovers. Tea leaves picked before the Grain Rain (mid-April) taste refreshing and have a delicate fragrance, while those after the season are rich and sweet, with a more sophisticated aroma, often used to make black tea. Su Shi could be making teas with the postseason Grain Rain tea. 2. a creamy crest, a snowy foam: referring to matcha (tea grounds/powder抹茶) made from tencha (碾茶) in a small wooden or stone tool. Boiling tea leaves won’t produce a creamy top, but tea grounds do. 3. ‘three-bowl limit’: a well-known remark by Lu Tong (卢仝), a poet from the Tang Dynasty – “the first bowl moistens the mouth. The second bowl drives away loneliness. The third bowl opens your mind to creativity. …” Appreciation: This tea poem was composed during spring in 1100 on Hainan Island — "the end of the world," as ancient Chinese writers often called it. The new-season tea was likely from local friends or students. Though banished as far as his political opponents could manage on the Song map, Su Shi found peace of mind within his surrounding world, wild and desolate as it was. Tea culture has been a vital part of Chinese tradition, much as silk adorns fine garments. In just a few lines, Su Shi paints a moving picture of tea-making during the Song Dynasty — a scene that clearly differs from today's methods. Introduced to Britain largely during the colonial period, tea was highly appreciated by the upper class in its early decades before becoming affordable to common people. I vividly recall a 1998 visit to a castle in Scotland, where I saw a crafted tea drawer that locked away tea to prevent servants from stealing it — tea was a privilege for masters and their guests only. A similar understanding of tea's civilising power appears in the words of William Gladstone (British Prime Minister, 1809–1898), though his poem "Brew a Cup of Tea" takes a different tone — not the shared wild stream of Su Shi, but a private solace from a troubled world: “When the world is all at odds./And the mind is all at sea,/Then cease the useless tedium/And brew a cup of tea./There is magic in its fragrance,/There is solace in its taste;/And the laden moments vanish/Somehow into space./And the world becomes a lovely thing!/There's beauty as you'll see;/All because you briefly stopped/To brew a cup of tea.” Su Shi asks for no locked drawer, no escape from the world. He brings his kettle to the stream, steals the moon in his dipper, and brews not despite his exile — but within it. That is the difference between tea as a privilege and tea as a companion. My English version does not seek literal fidelity but living presence. Su Shi wrote from exile at the edge of the world, yet his poem is light, defiant, and intimate. The playful pun in line 11 ("won’t be my cup of tea" instead of “never enough for me/satisfy me”) is a deliberate wink to the contemporary reader. Dongpo was never a man to be limited by rules or formalities; He would wish his lines to reach contemporary hearts, not remain locked in scholarly amber. Just as the Bible has been simplified into countless versions to accommodate changes in readership, so must a book or a poem to stay alive. That is Nature's Way. Reference: baikebaidu.com 百度百科 picture from the website: 《澎湃新闻》澎湃号·湃客

For the Dragon Boat Festival —to the tune of “Silk-Washing Stream” Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (2026.5 26) A blooming scent seeps thru her green silk. It is tomorrow—the Dragon Boat Festival. In a bath of spring’s sweet herbs, she’ll glow. The river will be perfumed by all on the ripple. Twined on her fair arm are threads of rainbow. Hanging in her hair loops, the charms of hope. In beauty she shines, in grace she roams, Forever ever, may she be the love of my soul. For Appreciation Su Shi wrote this for the Dragon Boat Festival, a day traditionally marked by bathing in fragrant herbs, wearing rainbow-colored silk threads, and hanging small charms to ward off evil. The poem captures not only the sensual pleasures of the festival — the light sweat on silk, the sweet orchids, the perfumed river — but also a tender, almost timeless wish: that the beautiful woman before him may be cherished for a thousand years. Despite its festival setting, the poem is deeply personal. It was written during Su Shi’s exile in Huizhou, addressed to his concubine Wang Zhaoyun, who accompanied him into the southern wilderness. The poet’s gaze moves from her body (sweat, arm, hair) to the natural world (herbs, river, ripples), and finally to a wish that transcends time. This blend of the intimate and the eternal is the classic Su Shi — a man who found grace in exile and turned daily rituals into prayers. My translation does not seek word-for-word fidelity. Instead, it undertakes something more interesting: to live inside the poem’s mood and music, and to remake it in English with equal measures of elegance, warmth, and restraint. The original Silk-Washing Stream is a six-line ci lyric, traditionally sung. My English version breaks the poem into two stanzas of four lines each, with irregular rhyme and rhythm. This is not a failure of fidelity but a recognition that English poetry has different bones: it breathes differently. The language is deliberately simple, almost plain. No archaisms, no exoticisms. The poem trusts its images — a ripple, a thread, a charm — to carry the weight of tradition. Chinese original: 浣溪沙·端午 宋·苏轼 轻汗微微透碧纨，明朝端午浴芳兰。流香涨腻满晴川。 彩线轻缠红玉臂，小符斜挂绿云鬟。佳人相见一千年。 Reference: baike.baidu.com

醉翁操·琅然 （琅琊幽谷，山水奇丽，泉鸣空涧，若中音会，醉翁喜之，把酒临听，辄欣然忘归。既去十余年，而好奇之士沈遵闻之往游，以琴写其声，曰《醉翁操》，节奏疏宕而音指华畅，知琴者以为绝伦。然有其声而无其辞。翁虽为作歌，而与琴声不合。又依《楚词》作《醉翁引》，好事者亦倚其辞以制曲。虽粗合韵度而琴声为词所绳的，非天成也。后三十余年，翁既捐馆舍，遵亦没久矣。有庐山玉涧道人崔闲，特妙于琴，恨此曲之无词，乃谱其声，而请于东坡居士以补之云。） 琅然，清圆。 谁弹? 响空山。 无言，惟翁醉中知其天。 月明风露娟娟，人未眠。 荷蒉过山前，曰有心也哉此贤。 醉翁啸咏，声和流泉。 醉翁去后，空有朝吟夜怨。 山有时而童颠，水有时而回川。 思翁无岁年，翁今为飞仙。 此意在人间，试听徽外三两弦。 Sonorous, like Pebbles Dancing on Stones --to the tune “ The Drinking Lord” Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (Mar. 2025) （Langya Valley is a green paradise of rolling mountains and flowing streams, where my mentor Ouyang Xiu relished the natural melodies and the company of friends over wine. A decade later, a musician, Master Shen Zun, was inspired by Xiu’s work and visited the valley with his qin, leading to the creation of the successful ci tune “The Drinking Lord”, which sensationally captured the sound of a running stream. Xiu loved the music and wrote a beautiful ci-poem for the tune. However, the rhyming lines seemed to drift apart from the musical notes. According to “The Ci-songs of Chu State”《楚词》, many musicians tried to create new tunes for the ci poem, but the music was often overshadowed by the verses. Now, over thirty years since their passing, Cui Xian, a master of qin music and a Daoist monk from Lushan Mountain (Daoist name ‘Jade Stream’), came to me in Huangzhou seeking a ci-poem to fulfil his desire to complete Shen’s ci-tune.） Sonorous, like pebbles dancing on stones， Softened in echo thru the valley, it’s fulfilled. The soothing breeze whispers on moonlit hills. Who’s playing? Only our Drinking Lord knows. The music vibrates the hearts of dreaming dews. Even the best ears on earth are overwhelmed. It’s a silent symphony on a Master’s fingers— grace of the celestial, solace for sleepless souls. Xiu chanted here to the stream’s high and low. Now he’s gone, his vibes linger on silent notes. Mountains may turn bare, then green again. Rivers may run backward, though very rare. Xiu has left us forever, to the isle of celestials, Yet we miss him still, chanting his ci-poems. This tune holds his earthly joy in a proud glow, Listen: it weaves a few strings beyond the flow. photo from www.aboluowang.com Notes: 1. “The Drinking Lord” (醉翁) – The Chinese term Zuì Wēng was coined by Ouyang Xiu as a self-deprecating yet dignified persona when he penned his famous prose, “The Drinking Lord’s Pavilion”. Zuì means "drunk" while Wēng means "old man" or "lord." There is no equivalent role in the English world. Translations such as "the old drunkard" or "the drinker" either sound crude or reduce the original to something overly generic. "The Drinking Lord" shows a strategy of foreignization — preserving the cultural specificity of the original and inviting the English reader to encounter it on its own terms. 2. "Pebbles dancing on stones" – A creative expansion of the original 琅然，清圆 ("sonorous, clear and round"), evoking the stream of Langya Valley while capturing the crisp, flowing notes of the qin. 3. "Master's fingers" – Refers to Cui Xian (Jade Stream), the qin master who brought the tune to Su Shi. 4. "Grace of the celestial" – A Daoist-inflected phrase. "Celestial" is preferred over "heaven" to avoid unintended Western religious connotations. 5. "Dreaming dews" / "sleepless souls" – A deliberate splitting of Su Shi's 月明风露娟娟，人未眠 ("moonlit, wind and dew so fair, men not yet asleep"). The dews dream; the listeners are sleepless. Both are moved by the music. 6. "Isle of celestials" – Rendering 飞仙 (flying immortal), evoking the Daoist belief that enlightened beings transcend death. 7. "Strings beyond the flow" – Rendering 徽外三两弦. The qin has frets (徽); playing "beyond the frets" produces ethereal overtones. Here, it also suggests music beyond the stream, spirit beyond death. Appreciation: Su Shi wrote this ci as an elegy for his mentor Ouyang Xiu, "The Drinking Lord." Decades earlier, in Langya Valley, Ouyang Xiu had a pavilion built where he drank with friends and wrote his famous prose, The Drinking Lord's Pavilion. Later, the musician Shen Zun visited the valley and composed a qin tune that captured the stream's sound, which he also called "The Drinking Lord." Ouyang Xiu loved it and wrote verses for it, but the words and music never fully aligned. More than thirty years after both men had passed, the qin master Cui Xian (Daoist name: Jade Stream) came to Su Shi with Shen Zun's score, seeking new lyrics. This poem was Su Shi's response. The poem opens with sound: "Sonorous, like pebbles dancing on stones" — an image both auditory and visual, the pebbles evoking the very stream that inspired the tune. The music softens through the valley, fulfils it. Who plays? "Only our Drinking Lord knows." But he is gone. The paradox is quiet and deep. The second stanza rises to a climax: "It's a silent symphony on Master's fingers — / grace of the celestial, solace for sleepless souls." The paradox of a "silent symphony" echoes the Daoist ideal of music beyond sound. The line, stripped of initial articles, reads like an inscription — chiselled, lapidary, final. Then the turn: "Xiu chanted here to the stream's high and low. / Now he's gone, his vibes linger on silent notes." The word "vibes" is deliberately modern — suggesting vibration, lingering resonance. Mountains may turn bare, then green again. Rivers may run backward, though very rare. These lines echo Su Shi's original precisely, conveying the near-impossibility of such a loss, yet also the Daoist acceptance that even mountains erode. Nothing is permanent — except, perhaps, art. The final stanza resolves: Xiu flew to the isle of celestials, yet we still chant his ci poems. The tune holds his earthly joy "in a proud glow" — not mournful, but celebratory. And the last line invites us to “Listen: it weaves a few strings beyond the flow." The qin's harmonics beyond the frets. The music beyond the stream. The spirit beyond death. And this translation, beyond the original Chinese. Throughout, this version chooses foreignization over domestication. "The Drinking Lord" is not a familiar English phrase — deliberately so. The reader pauses. That pause is where understanding begins. The original is Chinese. It asks to be met on its own terms. Here, the pebbles dance. The dews dream. The sleepless find solace. And the Drinking Lord, though gone, lingers in every note beyond the flow… Reference: baike.baidu.com

一丛花·初春病起 苏轼 今年春浅腊侵年，冰雪破春妍。 东风有信无人见，露微意、柳际花边。 寒夜纵长，孤衾易暖，钟鼓渐清圆。 朝来初日半衔山，楼阁淡疏烟。 游人便作寻芳计，小桃杏、应已争先。 衰病少悰，疏慵自放，惟爱日高眠。 My Sick Recovery to Early Spring --to the tune of “A Patch of Flowers” Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (Nov. 2024) This spring comes early to a land of snow, Hardly in view but east wind starts to blow. She gives subtle signs with pussy willows, And gentler grace on the drums and bells. My bed keeps me warm with just one quilt, Though the night still feels long and cold. While the town is dreaming in misty air, A new sun rises, biting the tip of the hill. Peach and apricot buds will swell to sprout. The juice for spring outings will roll bubbles. There’ll be nothing for me—so weak and old. I’ll keep the bed from running away at home. photo by Cathy Hampton For Appreciation: This poem offers a unique perspective on spring from a forty-year-old man recovering in his sickbed. The year is 1076, and Su Shi serves as governor of Mizhou (today's Zhucheng, Shandong). A cheerful vibe dances in the air—a new sun rises, bringing hope for himself after long illness, and for townspeople embracing traditional spring outings after a long, cold winter. Stanza one moves from the vast to the intimate, from winter to the whisper of spring. "Hardly in view but east wind starts to blow"—the east wind, traditional herald of spring in Chinese literature, arrives before any visible proof. Spring here acts like a fantasy, a quiet magic working on the land. She gives "subtle signs with pussy willows," those soft, furred buds that appear almost from nowhere, and casts "gentler grace on the drums and bells"—as if even sound itself is softening. Then the turn inward: "My bed keeps me warm with just one quilt, / Though the night still feels long and cold." The word "still" is not a hinge but a deepener. It adds a layer of duration, of endurance, of winter's refusal to leave. Stanza two opens outward again—town dreaming, new sun rising, the ‘biting the tip of the hill’, the swelling buds, the rolling bubbles of young hearts. Then the dash. The pause. The quiet turn inward: "There'll be nothing for me—so weak and old." Su Shi was forty—hardly old. But illness ages a person overnight. This is not a complaint. It is an honest whisper to oneself, spoken after a long pause. And yet the poem does not become sad. Because the bed is still warm. The sun still rises. Su Shi's laughter runs through everything—even exile, even sickness. The bed running away is an English humour, idiomatic and tender—alone in the morning, watching the sun climb while he chooses to stay. That choice is the poem. To find the warm spot and lie down in it, fully, without apology. The English version stands on its own, not a translation but a recreation, as if Su Shi breathes through me, bringing it to life for contemporary readers. He’ll like it, do you agree? Reference: baike.baidu.com

A Night Walk at Chengtian Temple Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Zizhan', art name 'Dongpo') English translation & annotation: Julia Min (Nov. 2024) On the night of October 12 (Chinese calendar), during my fourth year in Huangzhou, I was about to undress for bed when moonlight poured in through the window. A quiet happiness grew within me, longing for a moonlit walk with a close friend. I headed to Chengtian Temple, where Zhang Huaimin was also at his window, as if expecting me. Together, we stepped into the courtyard, now glowing like a shimmering pool of algae intertwined with water nymphs—a crystal dream world. When I took a closer look, I realised it was only a reflection of the pine trees and the surrounding bamboo. Every evening, the moon rises into the sky, and in every corner, bamboo and pine meet the eye. What’s rare is the sight of two such idlers walking at midnight… Notes: 1. Chengtian Temple: The historical site today is in the south of Huangzhou, Hubei Province. 2. Zhang Huaimin: social names Woquan and Mengde, a native of Qinghe, Hebei. He was a close friend and follower of Su Shi. Like many of Su Shi’s other followers, he was banished to Huangzhou, where he stayed at Chengtian Temple for six years. Su Shi wrote another famous ci poem for him – “To Zhang Woquan at the Bracing Pavilion of Huangzhou”《水调歌头.黄州快哉亭赠张偓佺》 https://www.rhymesandvibes.com/post/to-zhang-woquan-at-the-bracing-pavilion-of-huangzhou-1 Analysis: I have included this 84-word prose poem in my selection because it has appeared in the Chinese school textbook for many years. It was written in 1083 (the sixth year of Yuanfeng, the era name of the Song emperor Shenzong Zhao). Dongpo and his followers were still on parole for an indefinite period. While many other famous figures would write poems to express their depression, Dongpo always found the strength to accept whatever came his way and transcend to a new spiritual level. Hardship not only toughened him but also moulded his character, broadening his outlook and freeing his spirit with a Daoist sense of humour. What I love about him—compared with other politicians and poets—is that no matter what unbearable situation his political rivals put him in, he could always find fun or some form of satisfaction. As his first wife commented, Su Shi didn't see an enemy in anyone. So here, in this desolate place, he was again rich in friendship and contented with what Mother Nature offered him. Hardship, after all, is just reality waving hello—and Dongpo waved back. This quiet resilience drew followers from both the political arena and among the common people. Even the moon, you might say, had no choice but to keep him company. The only regret—if you can call it that—was that they were supposed to be fully occupied with official duties for the nation, yet here they were, arranged by fate (or comedy) to enjoy such a long, unscheduled leisure. As a Zen master might put it: Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. Dongpo's version? Before exile: moonlit walks. After exile: moonlit walks, but with better jokes. He didn't know then that the forthcoming assignment would place him in a high post near the throne, and that all his followers would flock back to the capital soon after. Such is the cosmic punchline: just when you learn to enjoy the detour, the road puts you back on the main highway. Dongpo would have laughed—and probably written another poem. 记承天寺夜游 (日记） 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 元丰六年十月十二日夜，解衣欲睡，月色入户，欣然起行。念无与为乐者，遂至承天寺寻张怀民。怀民亦未寝，相与步于中庭。庭下如积水空明，水中藻、荇交横，盖竹柏影也。何夜无月？何处无竹柏？但少闲人如吾两人者耳。 Reference: baike.baidu.com（百度百科） 百度百科.TA说 -- “脑洞趣味历史”

Qiantang River tides and Lushan misty rain Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (Dec. 2024) Qiantang River tides and Lushan misty rain— A hunt of desire and distance drains the mind. Once there, your curious eye will only find: Qiantang River tides and Lushan misty rain. from KKnews.cc (每日头条） Analysis: The Zen humour under the line is associated with the three stages of life in spiritual transcendence. It resonates with the famous lines from Wei Xing, a Zen master, who said: “Before studying Buddhism, I saw the mountain and the river just as they appeared to me. After studying Buddhism, the mountain was not just a mountain, and the river was not just a river. Now, the mountain and the river are still the mountain and the river. The third stage seems to have no difference from the first, as in this poem, where the last line is a simple repetition of the first.” Yes, the external world remains the same, but the monk is no longer the same monk. With a profound understanding of Buddhism, his inner world is transformed to a whole new level. He was enlightened and found peace of mind. Simple words for profound philosophy -- typical of Zen’s way of presenting life. Legend has it that this is his last poem, written for his son Su Guo, who was about to start his career in government. Whether Su Shi wrote it is still debated, but the tone, theme, and popular story behind it make it likely his work. 庐山烟雨浙江潮 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 庐山烟雨浙江潮， 未至千般恨不消。 到得还来别无事， 庐山烟雨浙江潮。

Farewell to Lingju on Double 7th Festival --to the tune “Celestial lovers on the Magpie Bridge” Chinese original: Su Shi English version & annotation: Julia Min (Sept. 2024) Unlike the foolish weaver bound to mortals, fallen to her cowherd, to the earthly sorrow, A young soul, Prince Jin, rose up on Mt Gou when his mind was free from worldly control. He flew on a crane while waving to the people. His flute phoenix tune reached Moon’s cradle. Legend says a rainstorm sent a bamboo boat From the sea to Starry River’s rippling flow. Perhaps in a past life, we were very close, Meant to meet here and drink until mellowed. Life is a floating leaf in a clime unforetold— Who knows where we’ll meet after you go? Notes: Lingju — Chen Lingju, a close friend of Su Shi (Su Dongpo), to whom this poem was addressed. Double Seventh Festival (Qixi) — Often called Chinese Valentine's Day, celebrated on the evening of the 7th day of the 7th lunar month. It honours the annual reunion of the Weaver and the Cowherd. The Weaver and the Cowherd — A legendary love story. The Weaver, a celestial maiden, fell in love with a mortal cowherd. They married and had two children, but Heaven punished them by separating them across the Starry River (the Milky Way). Only on the night of the Double Seventh Festival may the family reunite, crossing a bridge formed by magpies. Ziqiao (Prince Jin / Wang Ziqiao) — According to legend, Wang Ziqiao (Prince Jin) became a celestial immortal on Mount Gou (today's Mt Songshan in Henan Province). People witnessed him flying on the wind while playing his flute — the legendary "phoenix tune." Appreciation: This poem offers a distinctive and elevated perspective on the theme of lovers' day, making it deeply resonant and original. It was composed in the evening at a farewell party on the Double Seventh Festival — Chinese Valentine's Day. While other gentlemen indulged in charming verses about youthful, erotic love, Su Shi steered attention away from the stereotyped theme of earthly joy. Instead, he elevated the discourse to a transcendent theme: freeing oneself from earthly attachments that bind the pure soul — a Daoist pursuit of ascending beyond the mortal cycle of reincarnation into the celestial realm. Thus, in Su Shi's understanding, the Weaver and her Cowherd are not romantic heroes but foolish souls bound by attachment. The poem serves as his wake-up call to fellow mortals. The Dao applies not only to romantic relationships but also to kinship and friendship. Meetings and partings are but natural expressions of karma — a system of cause and effect. There is no need for excessive sentiment. Take it lightly. Accept what comes. Once you overcome the obstacles on your path, your spirit transcends to a new level, drawing closer to a freer soul. Similar ideas appear throughout Su Shi's poetry, such as in "How I Compare the New Arrivals in a Life Journey" (《和子由渑池怀旧》), also translated elsewhere on this site. 鹊桥仙·七夕送陈令举 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 缑山仙子，高清云渺， 不学痴牛騃女。 凤箫声断月明中， 举手谢、时人欲去。 客槎曾犯，银河微浪， 尚带天风海雨。 相逢一醉是前缘， 风雨散、飘然何处？ Reference: m.gushiwen.cn(古诗文网）