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: picture from sohu.com

东坡 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.04) 雨洗东坡月色清， 市人行尽野人行。 莫嫌荦确坡头路。（ 荦luò确 ） 自爱铿然曳杖声。（ 铿kēng…曳yè）   A Daily Walk at Dongpo, the East Slope Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min (2024)   The moon reglows after rain on East Slope, no more bustle, just an idler walking alone. It’s a rocky trail you never get on the street— and the clicking melody of my stick on stones. Appreciation: Dongpo (东坡, "East Slope")—the Daoist name Su Shi gave himself—was a barren hillside outside Huangzhou's old East Gate. For this disgraced politician, criminal exile, and accidental farmer, the muddy patch became an unlikely workshop for wisdom. As the idiom goes, out of the sloppy mess grows a pure lotus. His wife, Wang Fo, once said he had seen no enemy in his eyes. It all seemed natural—as if he were born with a broad mind and an optimistic heart. The five-year rocky journey (1079–1084) would have ruined most public figures. For Su Shi, it was a creative peak. Home is where the heart finds peace. This little poem offers a glimpse.   My translation aims to recreate an English poem that stands on its own: clean, four-beat lines, roughly iambic, with a self-possessed, slightly teasing, quietly joyful tone. "Reglows" is invented—the moon doesn't just shine again; it reglows, washed fresh by rain. "Idler" is gentle self-mockery (the busiest poet of his dynasty playing dumb). The rocky trail is no forced pun—just rough ground you never get on paved streets.   And that "And" before the last line? That's the Zen chuckle of an easy, breezy mind. It doesn't explain. It just adds: oh, and by the way—the music. The Daoist would say: the useless path is the most useful.   The East Gate and parts of the complex still stand today. I was fortunate to teach for three years at a normal institute, likely on the old East Slope itself. The Red Cliff was our morning reading venue. Every fibre of that landscape wove itself into my heart—without my realising it, until thirty years later. Reference: 1. Picture from Google search

西江月·平山堂 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.02) 千骑试春游， 小雨如酥落便收。 能使江东归老客， 迟留。 白酒无声滑泻油。   飞火乱星球， 浅黛横波翠欲流。 不似白云乡外冷， 温柔。 此去淮南第一州。   My Lantern Festival at Suzhou -to the tune of Nanxiangzi Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English version: Julia Min (Feb. 2024)   It’s a new world again, softened by the misty rain. Horses and carriages stream out, chasing spring. Why not linger with good wine in the river breeze? And more—                                                          This old boy feels ashore here in Yangtse’s east.   The sky’s vibrant with fireworks of rising stars, Over budding green hills, over rippling waters. Life down here is warmer than above the clouds. And still more—                                                         It’s Zhenzhou Town, Huainan’s best I’m bound for. Notes: 1. Lantern Festival： The Chinese New Year, usually in February, is a traditional festival celebrating the start of spring—hence also called the Spring Festival. The Lantern Festival falls on the 15th and final evening of the celebration, when people gather under the first full moon of the lunar year. It also marks the beginning of spring outings to the countryside. Bustling streets are decorated with colourful lanterns, often with riddles written on them; those who solve a riddle may win the lantern or another gift. The festive atmosphere peaks with lion dances, fireworks, dragon dances, parades, and other local celebrations. Every family eats small glutinous rice balls called  yuanxiao . The round shape of the food and the full moon together express people's best wishes for the new year: more family reunions and more fulfilment in life. 2. Yangtze’s east： Sometimes referred to as Jiangnan (literally "south of the river") in present-day Zhejiang Province, East China. Since the Song dynasty, the region east of the Yangtze has been considered the wealthiest area. The term "Jiangnan" became even more prominent after the Southern Song moved its political centre to Lin'an (present-day Hangzhou), which served as the de facto capital, the starting point of the Silk Road, the very centre for the first Renaissance (as recognised by scholars of Asian studies), and one of the most advanced places on Earth at the time. 3. Huainan's best: Referring to the Huainan East Circuit (today's Yangzhou area in eastern China). A "circuit" was an administrative division similar to today's province, with a population of 1.3 million at the time. Huainan East was considered one of the richest and most advanced regions in the Song dynasty, governing ten prefectures, with Yangzhou as the administrative centre and Zhenzhou recognised as the number-one town of Huainan. Appreciation: Throughout his life, two regions lingered in Su Shi's mind as ideal places to retire—a wish that never came true, much like Lord Xie's in his poem "Farewell to My Friend Canliao":   "I shall return on the waves of Yangtze River—a deal sealed like Lord Xie's to retire in the east."   Su Shi’s first wish was to return to his native place, Meizhou, at the foot of Mount Min, then considered the source of the Yangtze River in western China. The other wish was also a return, but to his adopted home in the east: the beautiful lower reaches of the Yangtze before it feeds into the East Sea. Since the Song dynasty, this has been the most popular choice among Chinese gentlemen, and it remains one of the most prosperous regions of China today.   This poem was likely improvised around 1085, after his exile in Huangzhou and before his new post in eastern China—perhaps during a Lantern Festival celebration, with a few cups of wine among friends. What a stroke of luck! After years of hardship, this old boy finds himself not in some desolate outpost but in Zhenzhou Town—crowned the finest in Huainan, surrounded by spring's first soft rain, good wine, and the cheerful bustle of lanterns and fireworks. There is a festive lightness in every line, a sense of being exactly where he belongs. Readers can easily feel the free and breezy vibes running through the poem—a lucky old man raising his cup to the full moon, grateful for warmth, friendship, and the simple joy of being alive.   The poem opens with a broad picture of a bustling town in his beloved East of the River, followed by night celebrations with lanterns and fireworks. "Life down here" implies his love for a life among the people, whereas "above the clouds" connotes the Forbidden City in the capital—a world of power, intrigue, and distance from the simple warmth of human community. But tonight, this old boy isn't looking up. He's right where the laughter is. Reference: baikebaidu.com picture from 逆水寒开发组 n.163.com

A Farewell Drink with Qian Mufu -to the tune of The Celestial Man by the River Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English version: Julia Min (Mar. 2024) Since we last parted at the capital’s gate, Three times we’ve changed the wood for fire. You roam the world not by choice but by fate, But still, the breath of spring in the same smile: An old well, deep and still, stirs no wave; An autumn bamboo with joints stands upright.   It’s a shame tonight will see you sail away, All alone under a pale moon and drifting clouds. When can we drink together again after today? And you, singing girl, don’t frown your brow: Life is just a long journey of toil and moil; And I, too, am a wanderer in the endless crowd. Appreciation: In 1091, Su Shi returned to govern Hangzhou in eastern China. It was a very productive time for him, not just in poetry but in his contributions to the city. His friend Mufu, however, was undergoing a downturn in his career, being assigned from the capital to Yuezhou, a populous place south of the Yangtse River, and then to Yingzhou, a desolate town up north that had been heavily struck by earthquakes, floods, and a long drought. The grim prospect of the challenging post as Yingzhou Governor could have crushed a gentleman’s hope for a promising career, but Qianmu was a man with a free and easy spirit, still able to stay optimistic with a smile about the hardship ahead. Dongpo deeply admired his sophisticated and mature personality, comparing him to a calm well surface and bamboo of upright integrity.   Then he felt a bit sad as the short reunion came to an end, sighing that his friend had to continue his journey up north. Well, sadness could touch him, but it never stayed with him for long, as we all know. His optimistic vigour would soon turn him to the sunny side, or at least, towards a broad-minded acceptance of sufferings, making peace with whatever comes along on his own journey. The whole poem is about his friend, but every line also reflects Dongpo himself.   My English version sought to breathe life into both the parting sentiment and the wry self-awareness of the original, letting Su Shi's voice speak through a different language — without smoothing over his quiet helplessness or humour. 临江仙.送钱穆父 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.03) 一别都门三改火， 天涯踏遍红尘。 一笑仍然作春温。 无波真古井， 有节是秋筠。   惆怅孤帆连夜发， 送行淡月微云。 樽前不用翠眉颦。 人生如逆旅， 我亦是行人。 Reference: picture from 知乎@李兆香

春宵 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.03) 春宵一刻值千金， 花有清香月有阴。 歌管楼台声细细， 秋千院落夜沈沈。   A Hymn to Spring Night Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English version by Julia Min  (Mar. 2024) One spring night values a thousand in real gold. In refreshing perfume the bustling blooms revel, as dreaming moonlight roves a secret grove. In drifting scent, a melody, so sweet— Flute notes fill the floodlit tower and terrace, rippling past a garden swing into my spring dream. Appreciation: We don’t know exactly when this lovely little poem was written—and that uncertainty makes it all the more inviting. Perhaps it came from a carefree spring night in Su Shi’s early or flourishing years, with friends, wine, and laughter all around. Or perhaps it was born of a quieter moment, when he stood slightly apart, watching joy unfold from afar. Which do you see? The poem leaves just enough space for your imagination to wander. Its opening line has long lived on as a cherished saying, reminding us that a single spring night can be worth more than gold—especially when love, youth, and beauty are in the air. The poem unfolds like a gentle current: from blossoms breathing their fragrance into the night, to moonlight drifting through a hidden grove, to music drifting from tower and terrace. Then, softly, it carries us past an empty swing and into a dream. And that’s where it lingers. Who was just there, laughing on the swing? Who returns, smiling, in that spring dream? The poem never says, yet somehow it feels as though we already know. Reference: picture from 搜狐号@残阳落幕

定风波·常羡人间琢玉郎 （王定国歌儿曰柔奴，姓宇文氏，眉目娟丽，善应对，家世住京师。定国南迁归，余问柔：“广南风土， 应是不好？”柔对曰：“此心安处，便是吾乡。”因为缀词云。） 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.01) 常羡人间琢玉郎， 天应乞与点酥娘。 尽道清歌传皓齿， 风起， 雪飞炎海变清凉。   万里归来年愈少 微笑， 笑时犹带岭梅香。 试问岭南应不好， 却道： 此心安处是吾乡。   My home is where my heart can find peace -to the tune “After the Storm” Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min （Jan, 2024) (My friend Dingguo Wang has a concubine named Rounu Yuwen. She was once a singing girl, beautiful and exceptionally eloquent. When Dingguo was banished to Hainan Island, she chose to go with him, leaving their old home in the capital. I asked her: “Life in the southern wastelands must be very hard, isn’t it?” She replied, “ My home is where my heart can find peace.” Moved, I composed this ci poem.) I often admire my friend, Dingguo, A man blessed with grace and more— A life companion, the fair lady Rounu, Whose voice comes from Heaven’s shore, Cool as a breeze across a snowing sea, A soothing relief in the summer heat. Their life down south must be just as hard, Yet the hardship failed to make a mark— A smile more fair with a faintly sweet scent, The fragrance of the island’s plum blossoms. “How could it be?” I asked. She smiled at ease: “My home’s where my heart can find peace.” Appreciation: This ci was composed in late 1085, when Su Shi returned to the capital from Huangzhou—a time of political reunion for the recalled conservative faction. Wang Gong (Dingguo) had just finished his banishment on Hainan Island. His concubine, Rounu, had endured the desolate south. She was not only skilled in dance and song but also a physician, trained by her father and his peers. south. She was not only skilled in dance and song but also a physician, trained by her father and his peers. One notices a quiet, endearing pattern across Su Shi's lines: a faint whiff of scholarly jealousy toward his friend Dingguo. Not the bitter kind, but the amused envy of a man who suspects the universe has a favourite. In Hundred Steps Rapids, in this very poem, and elsewhere, Su Shi acknowledges that Dingguo simply possessed a freer spirit and better luck. Rounu walked out of Hainan alive; Su Shi's own beloved Zhaoyun did not walk out of Huizhou. She died there, aged thirty-four, who, as his soulmate, once playfully chided him for being "a belly full of inappropriate things." Rounu was a living mirror of what Su Shi had lost. The poem is best known for its final line, which is not Su Shi's original creation but Rounu's own words. His brilliance lay in recognising an ordinary woman's wisdom and presenting it like a jewel set in plain silver. In that line—"My home is where my heart can find its peace"—we hear echoes of Tao Qian, who withdrew to his "garden and field" with a heart untangled, and Wang Wei, sitting alone in his bamboo grove, knowing the deepest hermitage is a state of mind. Perhaps Su Shi, listening, also heard Zhaoyun's voice—what she might have said if she had survived. The line has become a popular saying, keeping Dingguo and Rounu alive for a thousand years. A similar theme appears in the West: "Home is where the heart is." But Rounu got there first, and without a synthesiser. Reference: 古诗 文网 so.gushiwen.cn picture from 《希望之声》

八声甘州.寄参寥子 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.02) 有情风万里卷潮来，无情送潮归。 问钱塘江上，西兴浦口，几度斜晖？ 不用思量古今，俯仰昔人非。 谁似东坡老，白首忘机。   记起西湖西畔，正暮山好处，空翠烟霏。 算诗人相得，如我与君稀。 约它年、东还海道，愿谢公、雅志莫相违。 西州路，不应回首，为我沾衣。   Farewell to my Friend Canliao - to the tune “The Eight-Line Ganzhou” Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min (Feb. 2024) The wind arrives with such delight, Racing the roaring waves from ocean wide. With regret, it departs, Taking back to sea heart the receding tides.   I recall our good times at Xixin Port,                   Watching sunset clouds at Qiantang River mouth. Even for the greatest men of all time, A human life is but a twinkling of an eye. Yet Dongpo, too slow, did not know to let it go,  Not till this late, not till this old.   In poetry, our friendship budded and blossomed— Such a precious gift of life, such a blessing! We love West Lake, the misty views of West Hills, And the sunrays streaming through young leaves. Life is a humorous seesaw ride— Who knows where tomorrow leads?     I shall return on the waves down the Yangtze River, A deal sealed, as Lord Xie’s vow to retire in the east. Just let it be if things ran against our desire. Even at Xizhou Gate, don’t weep for the old me. Notes: 1.     Canliao  – the social name of the monk Daoqian, a lifelong friend of Su Shi (Dongpo). A man exceptionally versed in Buddhist scriptures and gifted in poetry, he followed Dongpo into exile in Huangzhou and helped him endure his first banishment. They were not merely friends but soulmates—each finding in the other a rare companion for exploring the nature of existence and savouring the quiet joy of verse. 2.     Xixin Port  – a place south of the Qiantang River near its mouth, now the Xilin community in Hangzhou. It was likely a favoured retreat where Dongpo and Canliao often wandered together, watching the sun set over the tidal bore—a panorama vast enough to hold both friendship and the fleetingness of glory. 3.     Qiantang River Mouth  – still renowned today for its majestic tidal bore, where roaring waters swallow the river as it flows into the sea. This scene has inspired countless works of art across Chinese history, and here it becomes a natural mirror for the ceaseless passage of time. 4.     Lord Xie  (Xie An, 320–385 CE) – a distinguished statesman of the Jin Dynasty. According to the  Book of Jin , he twice refused high court positions, preferring a life of seclusion at East Hill in Kuaiji (present-day Shaoxing, Zhejiang). The Chinese phrases  “the will of East Hill”  and  “rising again from East Hill”  originate from him. Only when imperial displeasure threatened his family did he accept the role of  Sima  (a title comparable to that of a prime minister) and achieve great success. Yet even at the height of power, he never abandoned his longing for a quiet return to the hills. To later generations of the gentry, Xie An became an icon of the detached spirit—a man who moved through the world’s clamour without being moved by it. The Jin Dynasty is also remembered for the elegance and eloquence of its scholar-official class. 5.     Xizhou Gate  – a city gate in what is now Nanjing. According to the  Book of Jin , Xie An had a beloved nephew who could not bear to pass by this gate, for it was there that his uncle had met his end. Even the sight of it would bring tears to his eyes. Dongpo invokes this poignant image to ask his friend: “ Do not weep for me. Appreciation: The year was 1091. Dongpo had been promoted once again—from Governor of Hangzhou to Head of the Hanlin Academy, a position akin to Secretary General to the Emperor and widely regarded as second only to the Prime Minister. Amid the shifting tides of court favour, he wrote this farewell poem to Canliao.   Intense in theme yet disarmingly simple in diction, the poem is so masterfully structured that it shines even among the finest farewell verses. Most poets are advised to begin gently—with something familiar or easy on the eye—saving the theme for the closing couplet. But Dongpo, in his profound mastery, opens with strength. He addresses the heart of his feelings right away: the joy of friendship, the sorrow of parting, and a philosophical insight into the ever-changing nature of all things under heaven. A powerful momentum runs through the poem—spanning both the horizontal reach of the present and the vertical depth of history. Scene and sentiment resonate as one, beautifully blending cherished memories of quiet, detached moments in nature with the shared pursuit of spiritual awakening.   Two natural images are carefully chosen to carry the theme. The first is the famed tidal bore at the Qiantang River mouth—majestic, unstoppable, and melancholy. It stands for the inexorable passage of time, a sorrow every human being shares. The second is the sunset over West Lake, with sunbeams flickering through budding green trees and casting a golden yellow shower over the misty hills. Some say the colour of friendship is golden yellow. Here, the bond between two lifelong friends shines in all its shades—passion, hope, intuition, wisdom, and a tangible glory like the sun itself. It is no accident that the great artist Van Gogh, who once said,  “How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun,”  used that very colour to paint his tender memories of precious moments with the one he loved.   In the end, Dongpo does not cling. He invokes the spirit of Lord Xie—a man who understood when to withdraw—and asks only that his friend not weep at Xizhou Gate. This is not resignation, but liberation. A broad-minded gentleman and an unbound spirit do not mourn departures; they carry the friendship with them, like sunlight remembered after sunset.   Reference: 《百度百科》 picture from《大纪元》

西江月·平山堂 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.02) 三过平山堂下， 半生弹指声中。 十年不见老仙翁， 壁上龙蛇飞动。   欲吊文章太守， 仍歌杨柳春风。 休言万事转头空， 未转头时皆梦。   My Visit to Pingshan Hall (in memory of my beloved teacher) -to the tune “The Moon over West River “   Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min  (Feb. 2024) This is my third visit to his Pingshan Hall. In a snap of fingers my life’s already half short. He’s left us for ten years, gone to heaven. Yet his cursive on the wall lives as a flying dragon. In memory of the mayor of those great writings, We sing his ci ‘weeping willows in spring wind’. Don’t say all things turn to nothing once one leaves. I’d say life itself is a dream, even before one leaves. Notes: 1. Pingshan Hall: the Hall of Mt. Ping (or Pingshan), a complex of halls and pavilions attached to the Daming Temple in Yangzhou. The site enjoys a panoramic view of the Yangtze River and a network of hills and lakes. If you would like to know more about the site, please refer to our translation in this series, “To Zhang Woquan at the Bracing Pavilion of Huangzhou” (Shui diao ge tou · to Zhang Woquan). 2. My beloved teacher: Lord Ouyang (Ouyang Xiu), who had the hall built and gave it its name when he was Mayor of Yangzhou. 3. A flying dragon: the Chinese dragon is a long, serpentine mascot. Cursive calligraphy can be as vivid as a dragon flying across the sky. ("... 手种堂前垂柳，别来几度春风？ 文章太守，挥毫万字，一饮千钟。...") Appreciation: Written around 1084, this little ci carries the weight of a lifetime. Su Shi, at last released from exile in Huangzhou, makes his way north and stops at Pingshan Hall—a place he loved, and a place haunted by memory. His beloved teacher, Lord Ouyang Xiu, built this hall decades ago. Now Ouyang has been gone for ten years. The poem opens with quiet wonder: a third visit, half a life already spent. Time moves not like water but like a snap of fingers. The teacher has left for heaven, yet his cursive script still dances on the wall—a flying dragon, fierce and alive. For English readers, Shakespeare says the same:  "Nor war's quick fire shall burn / The living record of your memory."  Art endures where flesh cannot. Su Shi then turns to Ouyang's own lyrics, singing "weeping willows in spring wind"—an act of loving homage, a conversation across death. And then comes the Daoist sigh:  Don't say all things turn to nothing once one leaves. I'd say life itself is a dream, even before one leaves.  Here, the enchanted duke Prospero in  The Tempest  speaks beside him:  "We are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep."  Neither poet despairs. The dream is not emptiness—it is release. If all is illusion, then loss is also illusion. What remains is gratitude: for the teacher, for the hall, for the flying dragon that still breathes on the wall. Elegy and enlightenment become one. Reference: baikebaidu.com 《朝中措.平山堂》 欧阳修（1007－107 2），字永叔，号醉翁 平山栏槛倚晴空，山色有无中。 手种堂前垂柳，别来几度春风？ 文章太守，挥毫万字，一饮千钟。 行乐直须年少，尊前看取衰翁。 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 by 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. At the end of the fishing rocks on the pier, I try to source clear water from the deep— The dipper steals the moon into my urn, The scoop feeds the kettle a share of stream.   Soon it boils to a creamy top, a snowy foam. Tea grounds puff out an aroma, rich and sweet. Then I pour a thin stream of spring to my bowl— A soothing sound, like breeze through pineries. The ‘three-bowl limit’ is never my cup of tea To kill long nights in a town, barren and bleak. 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 cream top of snowy foam : likely 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 end of the world", yet his poem is light, defiant, and intimate. The playful pun in line 11 ("my cup of tea") 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 respect the change of 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

六月二十日夜渡海 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.01) 参横斗转欲三更，苦雨终风也解晴。 云散月明谁点缀，天容海色本澄清。 空余鲁叟乘桴意，粗识轩辕奏乐声。 九死南荒吾不恨，兹游奇绝冠平生。   While Crossing the Strait on June‘s 20th Day Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English translation: Julia Min (Jan. 2024) The night fades; Hunter and Dipper dim away. At last comes the end of dark wind and rain— A cloudless moon over the beaming waves. No haze, no contrast, just nature’s seascape.   Nor regret for the deadly exile at World’s Edge, I lived it to the fullest, the most exotic quest— A true taste of Confucius floating on the sea, A touch of Xuanyuan’s melody and philosophy. Notes: 1. June: all the dates in Ancient Chinese literature refer to the Lunar Calendar, which is usually one month behind the Solar Calendar. So, 20 June is about the end of July on the Solar Calendar. 2. Hunter and Dipper: two of the most recognisable star constellations often mentioned in literature. 3. World’s Edge: Hainan Island was regarded as the furthest continent to the sea, hence often called in history as ‘the end of the world’. 4. Confucius ‘floating life on the sea’: originated from Confucius words: should my theory not be accepted by the Rulers of the states, I would have a floating life on the sea (据《论语·公冶长》载，孔子曾说： “道（王道）不行，乘桴浮于海。”) 5. Xuanyuan: the legendary Yellow Emperor (some simply call him ‘Huangdi’黄帝)， reign dates said to be 2697–2597 BC. One day, the Emperor played music from Dongting Lake (洞庭湖) and spoke about his understanding of universal rules, offering a profound insight into the mystic ways of change and transformation. Appreciation: It was the year 1100. After seven years of what one might politely call "forced retirement" on the tropical island of Hainan—then considered a death sentence—Dongpo finally received a pardon. The New Law and the New Party had, to everyone's relief, including perhaps their own, exhausted themselves. Su Shi and his fellow survivors were back on the Court's agenda.   He was sixty years old and only wished to settle in his beloved Changzhou, far from the political circus. Unfortunately, those seven years of tough living in the southern wilderness had taken their toll. He would have barely a year left to enjoy his newfound freedom. So this poem—written amidst the turmoil, heading north—is one of his last.   The excitement is unmistakable. Banishment to Hainan was, for all practical purposes, a quiet death warrant. To sail away from it was to be reborn. The opening seascape—clear skies, bright moon, shining waves—is not just a weather report. It is the mirror of a man watching his own spirit lift.   The final lines? Pure Dongpo. No bitterness. No revenge fantasy. Just a quiet, almost amused acknowledgment:  You sent me to the edge of the world to break me. Instead, I had the most extraordinary journey of my life. Thank you. One imagines his enemies, had they read this, feeling vaguely cheated.   Reference: baikebaidu.com 百度百科 picture from 每日头条-- 梧桐树边羽

送子由使契丹 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.01) 云海相望寄此身，哪因远适更沾巾。 不辞驿骑凌风雪，要使天骄识凤麟。 沙漠回看清禁月，湖山应梦武林春。 单于若问君家世，莫道中朝第一人。   Upon Ziyou’s Departure as an Envoy to Khitan Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English translation: Julia Min (Jan. 2024) North to south, a sea of clouds will set us apart. No need for tears over shared distance, near or far. Ride on, braving frost and snow in desert wind, And outsmart ‘The Chosen’ with a scholar’s art.   As you look back at the moon on Forbidden Place, Let the hills and lakes of home light your dreamy face. Should the king wish to know our family’s standing, Don’t hint we’re in the Middle Kingdom’s first place. Notes: 1.     Ziyou: the social name of Su Shi’s brother Su Zhe, also starting with ‘zi’, like Su Shi’s social name ‘Zizhan’, which defines the same generation. 2.     Khitan: a nation of herdsmen tribes in the north of the Song territory that established itself as Liao State for about 200 years. Strong in fighting on horseback, it had been a threat to the Song along the northern borders. A peace agreement was reached between the two countries, under which the Song contributed silk and silver to the Liao each year. 3.     ‘The Chosen’: the Xiongnu (Huns) claimed themselves as the tribe chosen by Heaven, their God. Here, the term refers broadly to the Qidan rulers. 4.     The Forbidden Place: referring to the Royal Palace in Bianliang, the capital of the Northern Song, also the centre of the Middle Kingdom (present-day Kaifeng). Appreciation: 1089 saw Su Shi’s return to govern Hangzhou for the second time amid his second rise in political status after his first banishment to Huangzhou. He was fifty-eight years old then, still the same man with the same character and eloquence, but now touched with more confidence and caution. As the Senior Scholar of the Hanlin Academy (翰林大学士)—similar to today's Secretary General of State—Su Zhe was sent by the Emperor to Qidan to celebrate the birthday of the Huns' Chief of State. It was a humiliating period in history when the Song, an old empire, had to pay tribute to a new nation of barbarian tribes.   Su Shi had every reason to feel concerned for his dear brother, as Qidan men had killed ambassadors before. Yet the last couplet is often singled out by critics for its bold claim that the Su family was the first in the Song. Modesty is embraced in Chinese culture as a very important virtue of a gentleman, so critics would comment that he shouldn't say it—even though the Su family was and had always been so throughout history, with three Su gentlemen in the "Eight Greatest Minds of the Tang and the Song": Su Xun (the father), Su Shi (the older son), and Su Zhe (the younger son). The translation can stand alone as a cohesive work—faithful to the original's tone, supported by clear historical and cultural notes, and framed by an appreciation that highlights the poem's subtle tension between brotherly concern and quiet family pride.   Reference: baikebaidu.com 百度百科 picture from 知乎@榆木斋

自题金山画像 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.02) 心似已灰之木， 身如不系之舟。 问汝平生功业， 黄州惠州儋州。   Inscribed on My Portrait at Jinshan Temple Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English translation: Julia Min (Feb. 2024) My heart is burned to ash, a tree laid low; My body drifts from shore, a floating boat. If you wish to know the life strokes I wrote, Go to Huangzhou, Huizhou, and Danzhou. Appreciation: This short poem is an improvisational piece, written when Dongpo saw a painting of himself by the renowned artist Gonglin (李龙眠, 字公麟). On the surface, it reads like a long sigh of despair over unfulfilled ambitions—a powerful mix of sadness and self-ridicule woven into twenty-four simple words, each capable of bringing a tear to your eye if you know his story. But here's the irony: he mentions none of the places where he achieved greatness with remarkable strokes of genius—Mizhou, Xuzhou, Hangzhou. Instead, he chooses the three places of his banishment: Huangzhou, Huizhou, and Danzhou. Places where he and his followers could contribute little as civil servants when the nation was in need. Places of failure. And yet—these are precisely where he became Dongpo. The phrase "a floating boat fully detached" suggests a Daoist state of mind freed from worldly attachments. For Dongpo, Daoism had always been a refuge, but he could never relinquish his caring nature. He was, after all, a man of the people and for the people. The irony is that he spent his life trying to build a successful political career, yet a thousand years later, his "side projects"—poetry, prose, painting, calligraphy, even the kitchen—have overshadowed the main achievement. He was unfulfilled in his political pursuits but fulfilled in everything else. Now, at sixty-three, with three banishments behind him and his health declining, he understood that his life's journey was drawing to a close. This poem reads like a summary of his life on his deathbed—or a farewell poem at a funeral. And, as it happened, he died just two months later. Life is implicit, like a book with no words but full of invisible energy. It seems all his experiences were designed for his strokes of genius in art creation. The ultimate irony? He chose to inscribe his legacy in the very places meant to erase him. Reference: picture from sohu.com - 《走进苏东坡的春天》