Farewell, My Dear Friend Dong Chuan Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English translation: Julia Min (Dec. 2023) A man of knowledge glows in spirit, Though dressed in basics, roughly made. Just let the golden senna pave your way After so many years with old schoolmates.   You’d be so proud, and surrounded by fans, As the Gold List has your name in fresh ink. Don’t worry about buying a horse in spring.      Ladies in carriages would seek you, I think. Notes: 1.     Golden senna: A summer flower that bloomed when candidates gathered in the capital to prepare for the imperial exam held in autumn. The city was so filled with these golden trees that a popular saying went: "It's a world of busy students in a world of golden senna." 2.     The Gold List: The royal roster of successful examinees. 3.     The horse … carriages: The exam took place in autumn, with celebrations held the following spring. Crowds would line the streets to cheer the winners, while the top scholar, called Zhuang Yuan, rode a decorated horse in procession. This day was also known informally as Dating Day, as unmarried ladies from noble families would watch from their carriages, seeking an ideal match. Appreciation: So there you are, Dong Chuan, young, brilliant, and completely broke.   Su Shi and Dong Chuan met during Su Shi's three-year probationary period—basically the ancient equivalent of grad school. Two young talents, fuelled by ambition and poetry, trading verses like we trade memes today. They got each other.   Dong Chuan was about to take the imperial examination. It was the ultimate career move, but getting there meant years of studying with no income, plus months of expensive rent in the capital. Su Shi knew the struggle—he and his brother had been there. So when he wrote this poem, he wasn't just being poetic. He was being a good friend. He starts with a line so good it's still quoted today:  " A man of knowledge glows in spirit." ( You might be wearing thrift-store robes, but your brain? Immaculate. Your vibe? Unshakeable.)   Then comes the gentle roast. Su Shi tells Dong Chuan: Relax. You'll crush this exam. Your name will be on the Gold List in fresh ink. Everyone will be talking about it. And don't worry about buying a horse come spring. The ladies in their carriages will queue up for you. Ha, Su Shi—one of the greatest poets in Chinese history—basically told his friend, Don't stress about money, bro. The girls will come.   It's a farewell poem, but more than that, it's a vote of confidence wrapped in a joke. Su Shi believed in Dong Chuan so completely that he could afford to tease him about the fame (and romance) waiting just around the corner. That's the kind of friendship that makes you smile, even a thousand years later.   So if you're young, grinding, your bank account is sad, but your dreams are not? This poem is for you. Su Shi is nodding: Now go get them. 和董传留别 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2023.12) 粗缯大布裹生涯， 腹有诗书气自华。 厌伴老儒烹瓠叶， 强随举子踏槐花。 囊空不办寻春马， 眼乱行看择婿车。 得意犹堪夸世俗， 诏黄新湿字如鸦。 Reference: m.gushiwen.cn picture from sohu.com/ 《每日一花》

江上看山 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英文版：闵晓红(2023) 船上看山如走马，倏忽过去数百群： 前山槎牙忽变态，后岭杂沓如惊奔。 仰看微径斜缭绕，上有行人高飘渺。 舟中举手欲与言，孤帆南去如飞鸟。 Watching Running Hills from a River Boat Chinese original by Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English version by Julia Min (2023) From our boat, the hills along the shores race past in hundreds, galloping like horses. Ahead, forever shifting, they change forms; Behind, in all directions, they startle forth.   The paths and trails form a maze of webbing, Where the travellers in the mist are drifting. I try to say hello and wave a distant greeting, But borne southward like a bird on high wind. Appreciation: It was a time of triumph. It was a time of loss. In 1057, Su Shi—barely twenty-one—soared to the top of the Imperial Examination, his name instantly known across the empire. His younger brother Su Zhe, just nineteen, followed close behind. Emperor Renzong took note of the two young prodigies, envisioning bright futures for them.   But fortune turned swiftly. In April, news arrived of their mother’s death. The ancient rites required a gentleman to observe twenty-seven months of mourning—no weddings, no official duties, no entertainment. In the Song Dynasty, this tradition was still absolute. The Su family retreated to Meizhou in the Sichuan mountains, and for a time, history records little of them. But youth does not stay still. By July 1059, the brothers were once again in motion, sailing east toward the capital with their father.   This poem was written on their boat as they left their hometown and descended the Yangtze toward Kaifeng. The rugged upper reaches of the Wu Mountains had inspired poets for centuries. Li Bai’s famous lines still echoed: “The cries of the monkeys linger behind while the boat flies past a thousand mountains.” But Su Shi, young and restless with genius, added something new—a playful illusion of mountains racing past like horses, while human figures on the shore drift in mist. From the stillness of the boat, the world outside appears to move, yet it is the traveller who is carried forward. This interplay of stillness and motion would deepen in his later work, evolving into something philosophical. In his poem “Inscribed on a Wall of Xilin Temple,” he later wrote:   “How can you see Mt. Lu’s every guise, When you yourself dwell in her very eye?”   But here, on that boat, the perspective was still fresh—discovered, not yet fully understood. A youthful spirit: to see the world shifting around you and trust what you find. 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) (“Looking at the Mountains from the River” – “From my little boat the mountains run like horses, /Pass by hundreds of head at a time./Ahead they change in all aspects continuously;/ Behind they herd wildly against the heavens./Suddenly on the path turning and slanting on the mountain,/I see travellers floating in high mists;/I try to wave, to make myself understood, saying good-bye,/But I’m off helplessly southward, myself a wild wing. ”) 2. baike.baidu.com 3. picture from Google

琴诗 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 闵晓红(2023) 若言琴上有琴声， 放在匣中何不鸣？ 若言声在指头上， 何不与君指上听？ The Sound of Qin Music   Chinese original: Su Shi / Han Yu English version: Julia Min   If the music lives within the Qin, Why can’t I hear it when locked in? If the notes stream through fingers, Then who needs a Qin to make a din? Analysis: Here lies a little allegory about the pre-eminence of the subjective—specifically, the artistically apprehended reality of music—over the mere objects of wood and fingers. The Song dynasty had a habit of embedding philosophical puzzles in art, and this poem (attributed to both Su Shi and Han Yu, which is itself a philosophical joke: if you can't agree on who wrote it, how can you agree on where the music lives?) carries on that tradition. There's likely an influence from Su Xun, the father, a famous essayist known for constructing sophisticated arguments with bold simplicity. He understood that art and actuality require each other—much like a qin requires both wood and fingers, yet remains neither.   This twining of opposites—static and dynamic, yin and yang, wood and flesh—applies to life as well. The world evolves in such a dance. If we were wise enough, we might discover the governing pattern in this little universe of ours. Then again, if we were truly wise, we might also laugh at ourselves for trying to find it. 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) （ “Qin —I hear you say the music's in the wood;/why can't I hear it when it's put away?/You say the music's in the fingers, good!/But could one listen to his hands all day?"） 2. picture from “洛水琴客” via《每日头条》

海棠 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英文版: 闵晓红(2023) 东风袅袅泛崇光， 香雾空蒙月转廊。 只恐夜深花睡去， 故烧高烛照红妆。 Ode to the Wild Crab-apple Bloom   Chinese original: Su Shi English Version: Julia Min   The moon sneaks around the corner of a porch For a glimpse of a glorious beauty she adores. The east wind slows down for her shy perfume In the dreamy waves of her beaming blooms. I light a long candle, fearing she’d drowse away; So I won’t miss a single moment of her grace. Appreciation: This poem was written in 1083. It can be read as pure enjoyment of a flowerholic—a man happily, helplessly besotted—over a blooming crab-apple tree in a neighbour's yard. Su Shi was then in Huangzhou, living in exile, farming like a common local, and had just taken the social name Dongpo, meaning "East Slope." The crab-apple was a species rare outside his native Sichuan. To find it blooming here, in a stranger's yard, must have felt like a memory made visible—a fragment of childhood smuggled into exile. One can almost see him leaning on his hoe, transported. The tree becomes a doorway back to the mountains of the west, to a self that existed before disgrace. It is, in every sense, a soothing moment.   But Su Shi, being Su Shi, cannot resist a second layer. The crab-apple carried another association, far more glamorous: Lady Yang, the Tang beauty Yang Guifei, beloved of Emperor Xuanzong. One morning, summoned to a royal banquet after a night of indulgence, Lady Yang knelt before the Emperor, slow to rise, her eyes heavy, cheeks flushed, hair loosened. The Emperor, who loved her in every shade, did not scold. He smiled and said, "She is not drunk. She is a crab-apple flower, drowsing in her sweet mist."   It is, one must admit, the most elegant excuse for a hangover in all of Chinese literature. And Su Shi invites us to see both: the flower as the poet's lost childhood, and the flower as a tipsy Tang beauty too lovely to reprimand. The poem holds both possibilities in perfect suspension. Is the speaker a nostalgic exile? A smitten aesthete? A man who simply cannot stop looking at something beautiful?   Perhaps all three. The crab-apple bloom becomes a mirror, reflecting whatever longing we bring to it. For the exile, it is home. For the lover, it is the beloved. For the flowerholic—well, for him, it is simply itself: a brief, beaming presence in the night, worth lighting a candle for, worth missing nothing of.   And if that devotion seems excessive? One might say the same of Lady Yang's Emperor. But excess, in the presence of true beauty, is not excess at all. It is simply appropriate.   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) “ Flowering Crabapple"--The east wind makes her dance and beam pure light/In the sweet mist of midnight as the moon declines./In dead of night I fear she’ll drowse away;/Light a long candle so she blooms till day.”) 2.Picture from Dragonsarmory.blogspot.com（龙军库博客）

题西林壁 原作: 苏轼 英文版: 闵晓红(2023) 横看成林侧成峰， 远近高低各不同。 不识庐山真面目， 只缘身在此山中。 Mt. Lu’s Every Guise — Inscribed on a wall of Xilin Temple   Chinese original: Su Shi English Version: Julia Min   Let the eye go: near is high, as far is low. Sidewise, spines of ridges; outward peaks. How can you see Mt. Lu’s every guise, When you yourself dwell in her very eye? Appreciation: In 1084, Su Shi was promoted. On his way to the new post, he detoured to Mount Lu to visit his old friend, the monk Can Liao. Business can wait. Mountains and monks cannot. The first lines seem simple. From one angle, a ridge. From another, a peak. Near, it towers. Far, it sinks. The mountain cannot decide what it wants to be—the geological equivalent of someone who poses differently for every photo.   Then the second couplet drops its bomb: You cannot see the mountain's true face because you are inside it. The one place you cannot see a mountain clearly is from the mountain itself. Like reading a book while trapped inside chapter three. The closer you are, the less you see.   Centuries later, William Blake wrote:   “To see a World in a Grain of Sand,And a Heaven in a Wild Flower.”   Both poets understand: truth shifts with every pair of eyes. The infinite hides in the small; the mountain hides in plain sight.   There is a funnier version. In John Godfrey Saxe's "The Blind Men and the Elephant," six blind scholars each touch one part and declare they know the whole. Su Shi's poem is the same insight, delivered without slapstick—but the laugh lands just the same. We are all that blind man. We are all standing somewhere.   The final couplet's popularity suggests we suspect our view is incomplete. We just need a poet to say it so simply that we smile and agree. After all, the only thing funnier than not seeing the mountain is thinking you do—while standing on it. 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) (“Inscribed on Xilin Temple”-- Sideways you see a spine of ridges, outward peaks./Let eye go: near is high as far as near is low./How can you hope to know Lu Shan’s true face?/Your physical self is dwelling in her eye.”) 2. picture from baidu-TA说

赠刘景文 原作: 苏轼 英文版： 闵晓红(2023) 荷尽已无擎雨盖， 菊残犹有傲霜枝。 一年好景君须记， 最是橙黄橘绿时。 To Liu Jingwen Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min (2023)   When lotus sheds no rain, winter’s call begins. Chrysanthemums fade, still braving icy wind.   Yet just nearby, a year’s best scene draws in— Where oranges turn gold, tangerines stay green. Appreciation: Liu Jingwen had outlived everyone. His father, a general who fell fighting the Huns; his brothers, his sisters—all gone. He stood alone, a solitary branch on a dying tree. The court gave him only a minor post, though Su Shi himself praised his talent and urged promotion. Perhaps they saw only his age. Two years later, Jingwen was dead, his dreams unfinished, remembered by just one friend—a poet who, in 1090, sat beside him and tried to show him something golden still remained.   Perhaps the two friends sat together that day by a pond, a pavilion sheltering them as they shared wine and verse, paintings and music—the elegant rituals of Song dynasty gentry. Perhaps the scene before them was exactly what the poem describes: flowers fading, yet nearby, branches heavy with gold and green.   But Su Shi saw beyond the surface. The lotus, shedding rain, speaks of purity enduring loss. The chrysanthemum, braving icy wind, whispers courage. And the oranges and tangerines—golden, green—glow with promise: good luck, prosperity, life persisting.   This is Su Shi's gift: to find light in autumn's decay, to remind a weary friend that beauty has not fled—it has only changed form. The poem's quiet wisdom endures: when winter calls, look closer. The best scene may be drawing in, right where you stand. 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) (“To Liu Jingwen”—“It’s new winter and the lotus sheds no rains; / Chrysanthemum brave the frost with withered blooms./So much the nearer draws another perfect scene,/Where oranges are yellow and the tangerine are green.”) 2. picture from Google

To the wild north we go (Upon returning late with Governor Liu from Mt South)  --to the tune of Xingxiangzi Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min   To the wild north we go, galloping across ponds and pools, over winding streams, shallow ripples for a feast of early spring views.   With wine come many toasts. Cheers of joy go over the moon— Long sleeves dancing in the breeze, Subtle scent swirling the hair loops.   On flying geese, the sunset softly glows. Soon, the crystal sky reclaims quietude. Home we go, but one stays behind, alone, Watching us cross a bridge over a light pool. For Appreciation: December 7, 1084. Su Shi and Governor 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 scents. Laughter echoed through white clouds. Nature and humanity, perfectly at ease. Then comes the evening. Geese cross the sunset. The sky reclaims its quiet. Time to go home. But someone stays behind. Alone on the mountain, feasting on the glimmering lights under the bridge where the governor and his followers were crossing. It is the same pensive mood Wordsworth would capture centuries later: "the bliss of solitude", where joy, already lived, now "flashes upon that inward eye." The watcher on Mount South is not sad—just present, letting the day replay one last time as the lights flicker home. The poem gives us no lesson. Just this: a lovely day, and someone wise enough to watch it fade, knowing that pleasure fills the heart again—long after the dancing ends. 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(2025) 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。 Reference: baike.baidu.com picture from google

红梅 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 新版及赏析: 闵晓红(2023) 怕愁贪睡独开迟， 自恐冰容不入时。 故作小红桃杏色， 尚余孤瘦雪霜姿。 寒心未肯随春态， 酒晕无端上玉肌。 诗老不知梅格在， 更看绿叶与青枝。 The Plum Blossom   Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min ( 2023)   Timorous, a late riser, she blooms alone in snow, fearing her icy look belies the style she knows. So she paints a peach-apricot hue, velvet-soft, on her slender boughs, braving snow and frost.   Her shy pride in cold veins isn’t for spring crowds. Yet, what drink turns her pearl-pale face to pink? The old poet knows not her grace profound —  Her black boughs need no green to stand proud. Notes: The old poet: referring to Shi Manqing（石曼卿）who wrote the verses – Let it (the plum tree) be a peach tree though it bears no green leaves; let it be an apricot tree, but its branches are black.”(“认桃无绿叶，辨杏有青枝”). Su Shi mocks Manqing’s understanding here. Appreciation: Su Shi painted what he loved. In his exile years at Huangzhou — cold, isolated, far from court — he painted bamboo, rugged stones, and always, the plum. She appears in his art not as decoration, but as a mirror: knotted branches, solitary blossoms, a spirit that endures without breaking.   But here, the plum is not the bold first messenger of spring that poets usually celebrate. She is the last to bloom — hesitant, unsure, painting herself peach-pink as if to apologise for being out of fashion. We almost miss her, there among the frost.   And then we look closer.   Beneath that soft blush lies something unshakeable: "her shy pride in her cold veins." (玉骨冰心literal meaning: jade bones, icy heart.) A strength that needs no green leaves to prove itself. A spirit that stands alone, and stands enough.   My English version tries not to translate those words but to trace that journey — from self-doubt to quiet pride. The plum here is not a symbol. She is a presence. Timid at first, then still. Then proud. By the final line, she needs nothing from us. It is an act of listening — across centuries, across cultures — and finding that the same flower still blooms. 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) “The Plum Tree” -- Timorous, a late sleeper, she blooms alone in winter,/Fearing, too, her icy look’s not the style of the season./So she sets out to make herself up like apricot petals,/On branches haggard from toughing the frosts and snow./Her heart’s cold doesn’t go with the fashions of spring./What does she drink that turns pure jade skin so happy a pink?/The old poet couldn’t change you to peach by any wish;/You can’t change a black bough or a leaf from what it deeply is. ”) 2. Baike.baidu.com (百度百科) 2. Picture from 博宝艺术网

满庭芳 . 蜗角虚名 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2023.12) 蜗角虚名，蝇头微利，算来著甚干忙。 事皆前定，谁弱又谁强。 且趁闲身未老，尽放我、些子疏狂。 百年里，浑教是醉，三万六千场。 思量，能几许？忧愁风雨，一半相妨。 又何须抵死，说短论长。 幸对清风皓月，苔茵展、云幕高张。 江南好，千钟美酒，一曲满庭芳。 Why all this hustle for a bubble of fame   --to the tune “Vibrant Garden”   Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (Dec. 2023)  Why all this hustle and bustle for a bubble of fame— as mighty as a fly’s eye, as tiny as a snail’s brain? Your fate was already set well before you came. So why still so obsessed with loss and success?   If I were blessed with a long age— a 100-year life span to spend, I’d set this soul free, let it be breezy and gay,     with 36000 rounds of nice wines, and 36000 sweet dreams at night.   Just think again, list out all the good and bad days, You’ll find half spent in sorrow, taken by the wind and rain. The River South here is a haven for pleasure and for social grace. Then, why spend this human life, Judging in complaint till strained?    Let’s party on the moss-laid carpet, dancing the wind of murmuring waves, with roaming clouds, a velvet canopy above, and the full moon, a glowing jade of love. Together we’d share many cups of fine drinks. Together, to the tune Vibrant Garden,  we sing, Notes: 1.     ‘a 100-year life span’: Chinese people believed that a standard life span is 100 years, and that an age over 80 is already regarded as a good ending, or, in other words, a reward for a blessed person. 2.     ‘River South’: here it refers to Hangzhou; Appreciation: The precise year of composition is yet to be confirmed—either around 1073 or, more likely, 1089 during Su Shi's second governorship of Hangzhou. Critics favour the later date: by then, he had endured banishment to Huangzhou, risen to the Emperor's Secretary General, and voluntarily left the Royal Court. The poem's deep philosophical grasp of fame and fate bears the weight of that journey.   Its structure is remarkable—a critical essay disguised as a lyric poem. Most poems usher the reader in through scene or description; this one strikes its subject from the first line, suggesting it may have been an immediate reaction to another work, or to the fierce cold war between his Old Party and the reformist New Party. The tone shifts dramatically—from a cynical indictment of power-chasing to spiritual freedom—coloured throughout by the sharp, like his father Su Xun’s essayistic style. The subject echoes Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage."   The poem was well received in the gentlemen's society, often recited at intellectual gatherings, and embraced equally by Daoists and Buddhists seeking to awaken from social attachments. It was carved on stone tablets across China, and several idioms derived from it still enrich the Chinese dictionary.   In my English version, "a bubble of fame" is inspired: it transforms the original's "虚名“（empty fame）into a visually engaging, immediate concept, while the rhyme of "mighty" and "tiny" in the opening couplet mirrors the original's paradoxical wit. The final image—"the full moon, a glowing jade of love"—honours both Chinese cultural resonance and English lyrical grace. Reference: 1. baike.baidu.com 2. picture from Google

初到黄州 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英文版及赏析: 闵晓红(2023) 自笑平生为口忙， 老来事业转荒唐。 长江绕郭知鱼美， 好竹连山觉笋香。 逐客不妨员外置， 诗人例做水曹郎。 只惭无补丝毫事， 尚费官家压酒囊。 Upon Arriving at Huangzhou Chinese original： Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') English version： Julia Min (2023) My whole life feels like a farcical stage, Growing oddly funny now with old age. A busy life, with mouths for me to feed; A lousy outcome from silly words’ deed.   The Yangtse embraces the town in a loop, Where river fish should taste just as good. I can also see bamboo groves on the hills, Where I should find tender, earthy shoots.   An outcast is seen to excel on waterways. An attendant role will keep troubles at bay. The little work I do is not worth the pay. The wine grain Lord gave is such a waste! Notes: 1.     In a loop: the town of Huangzhou was then surrounded on three sides by the Yangtse River, resembling a peninsula. Today, after a thousand years of change, the river has become noticeably narrower, and its course must have shifted, as it is now about a mile away from the ancient town wall and the Red Cliff. 2.     The wine grain: referring to Su Shi’s wage as a banished official, usually 2/3 paid in material and only 1/3 in cash.  The material he received was just a bag of grain for making wine. Appreciation: In February 1080, Su Shi and his family arrived in exile at Huangzhou, a remote town far from the capital, after 130 days in prison. It marked a new beginning—much like the promising spring landscape they encountered travelling south from the Yellow River to the Yangtze, the land of fish and rice. You might expect a more docile man to emerge, which would have disappointed us. No, the near-death experience strengthened his stoicism and fortitude, infused with dark humour. This resilience inspired a frenzy of romantic poems, representing the peak of his literary output. His calligraphy from this period, carved in stone at Red Cliff, shows a liberated spirit compared to earlier works.   He has always been loved for his optimism. Bright and breezy even now, he dreams of tasty fish and sweet bamboo shoots despite his fallen fortunes. The underlying satire is unmistakable—you almost wish he could hold his tongue to avoid future misfortune. As we know, he was later banished twice more, eventually to "the end of the world" (Hainan Island)—the furthest border the emperor could find to keep Su Shi's mouth shut. Imagine how influential he was.   This translation attempts to prioritise voice over literalism, hoping to let Su Shi's irrepressible personality shine through. The opening couplet—"My whole life feels like a farcical stage, / growing strangely funny now with old age"—seeks to establish his wry self-awareness, while "silly words' deed" tries to preserve the famous pun on "为口忙" (busy for my mouth/in trouble from my mouth). The closing line, "The wine grain my Lord gave is such a waste!", aims to maintain the original's ironic gratitude—accepting the Emperor's provision while gently mocking his own worthlessness. 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) ( “ Upon Arriving at Huangzhou -- My mouth’s always busy -- eating, composing, or speaking out, / And now I’ve aged and my position turned ridiculous. / Oh well, the fish taste just as good on the edge of town, / Where the bamboo groves and the sweet shoots are the earthiest. / It matters little that I’m useless, banished, barely a guest; / Poets are known to make great inspectors of waterways. / And the work I do can’t touch the pay I get. / That bag of wine they send is surely wasted.”) 2. picture from Google

狱中寄子由 （予以事系御史台狱，狱吏稍见侵，自度不能堪，死狱中，不得一别子由，故作二诗授狱卒梁成，以遗子由，二首。） 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 新版及赏析: 闵晓红(2023) 其一 圣主如天万物春， 小臣愚暗自亡身。 百年未满先偿债， 十口无归更累人。 是处青山可埋骨， 他年夜雨独伤神。 与君世世为兄弟， 更结来生未了因 。 From Prison, to My Brother Zi You (Intro: Imprisoned in the Censorate, roughly treated. I may not survive, and fear I will never see my brother again. I have written two last poems and asked the guards to deliver them to Ziyou.) written by Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') Revision+ annot. by Julia Min (2023) (first poem) The emperor is Heaven, our living saint, Who, like spring, gives all a new beginning. But I, in ignorance, have sought my own ruin. This body, tho’ not old, must pay for the “sin”- A debt, perhaps, rolled over from a prior life. I am sorry to leave you with a house of ten.   Don't seek a famous peak to mark my grave. Any green hill mound can settle what remains. Sorry to leave you alone to future dark rains, I wish to be a better brother, a better gentleman, Not just in the next life, but in many to spend, To honour our ongoing sibling bond without end. For Appreciation: The year 1079 marked a turning point, not just for Su Shi, but for the freedom of speech that China had cherished for centuries. Arrested in Huzhou, he was unjustly sentenced to the grim confines of the Censorate, ominously nicknamed "the Crows' Court" (乌台). His crime? Poetry. Just words, written in good faith, twisted by opponents into treason.   For over three agonising months, he languished, gripped by dread for his family's safety and future. Then a cruel misunderstanding deepened his despair. Before his imprisonment, he had made a pact with his son, Su Mai: ordinary food meant safety; a fish dish would signal a death sentence. When Mai was unable to deliver messages himself, he sent a friend instead—who, unaware of the code, brought a beautiful fish. Su Shi received it as a sign. Convinced his execution was imminent, he wrote two poems as his final words to his brother Su Zhe (Ziyou).   At forty-four, with ten mouths depending on him, the poems that emerged read like a deathbed will—heavy with sorrow, love, and the quiet dignity of a man facing the end. He begins with the required reverence for the Emperor, but the gratitude with an underlined hope for "new beginnings" lands uneasily from a prison cell. Then comes the couplet that reveals his state of mind:   “Don't seek a famous peak to mark my grave.Any green hill mound can settle what remains.”   This is not false modesty, but acceptance—a man letting go of legacy, asking only to be covered and forgotten. The satire some readers find here, that a famous poet's grave would become a peak whether he wished it or not, is present, but subtly muted. What matters more is what follows:   “I am sorry to leave you with a house of ten.”   The poem closes with a promise across lifetimes: to be a better brother, not just in the next life but in many to come. The fish that delivered false news had done its damage. But the words it inspired would survive—and so, as it happened, would Su Shi.   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) ( “ From Prison to my Brother Zi You" – "Noble Emperor Shengzong be praised! Everything is in spring./ Political foolishness brought me down this road to doom./ I’m not old yet, and still ask you to pay my debts. / I trouble you with my ten mouths to feed, and no home. / My body you can bury any place the hills are green. / A year from now you’ll grieve alone on nights it rains./ Listen, in this life and the next we will be brothers./ Our love’s not finished, not in this world or any other.”) 2. picture from the magazine

陈季常所蓄《朱陈村嫁娶图》 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 旧版英译:戈登.奥赛茵, 闵晓红, 黄海鹏(1990) 新版及赏析: 闵晓红(2023) 我是朱陈旧使君， 劝农曾入杏花村。 而今风物哪堪画， 县吏催钱夜打门！ “A Wedding Ceremony in Zhu Chen Village” - a painting collected by my friend Chen Jichang written by Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') old En. trans. by G. Osing, J. Min & H. Huang (1990) Revision+ annot. by Julia Min (2023) It was a village nestled in blooming apricot trees. As their governor, I cheered on men in their fields. Today, nothing there is the same as in this painting, Officers pound on the doors, hounding for tax money. Appreciation: On his way to Huangzhou after being released from prison, Su Shi passed Meicheng County and was lodged in the house of his friend Chen Jichang. There he was caught by the painting as alluded to in the poem. The country life was painted in the beautiful village dotted with apricot trees in full bloom - - a cozy memory he shared as he once inspected the village as their governor of Xuzhou. Unfortunately, such a joyous scene was no longer seen ever since the New Law was enacted, where the demanding officers would now take only cash not a share of crops for tax payment. Su Shi couldn’t help but sigh over the contrast, an obvious implication of his political stand with the common people. 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) ( “ n the Painting “Wedding Ceremony in Zhu Chen Village” --“I am Zhu Chen’s old local governor;/ I cheered on the peasants of Apricot-flower village in their fields.”/But today’s scene: how could it be the same painting?/Officials want only money, beat night into farmers’ doors. ”) 2. picture from Google