A Second Drink in the River Moon at Red Cliff --A prose poem Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Zizhan', art name 'Dongpo') English version: Julia Min (May 2024) It was the third full moon since our last drink on the river. On my way home to Linggao after my day’s work at Snow Hall, I ran into two friends heading home via Muddy Slope. The October frost had stripped the trees bare, and the ground was covered with fallen leaves. Then the shadow began to take form. In the serene blue realm above, a fair moon smiled down upon us, sending gentle vibes throughout the night. Soon we found ourselves humming the same hymn in praise of the radiant beauty. The slope seemed too short a walk. I sighed, “How often do we see such a breezy night with a beaming moon in a cloudless sky? Let’s not waste such a generous offer from Nature. But how can we celebrate without food and wine?” One friend opened his fish basket: “My day’s fishing has rewarded me with one fish at sunset. It has a big mouth and tiny scales like the River Song sculpin. Can you find some wine?” I hurried home, hoping my wife might have something. To my joy, she said, “You don’t know how lucky you will be! I have long saved about 2 litres to meet your urgent needs.” So here we were, with fish and wine, heading again towards the boat by Red Cliff. Only three months since our last visit, about the same time, same place, and same people on the same boat, yet we were greeted by a very different world. The river gurgled, splashing and splooshing against the cliff, a steep wall hundreds of metres high. The water level had now receded greatly, revealing many more rocks along the bank. The distant hills and mountains appeared higher, with the moon seeming smaller over a skyline clearer and broader. The tides pushed our boat towards the cliff. I ventured ashore for a climb, holding the corners of my robe to find footholds. Often, I had to hang onto vines and branches like a monkey to make my way through the bushes amid savage rocks. As I approached the raptors’ cliff nests – an uncharted territory never before visited by humans -- I had a bird’s-eye view of the Yangtze River at what is called the Palace of Fengyi, home of the water god. My two friends stayed safe on the boat, scared of the steep climb. The river's surface began to roll with white waves as the gusty wind grew, sending a chill down my spine. Again, I was by myself, completely off the beaten track. With a loud whistle, I found myself trembling in the surrounding bushes, followed by a long echo rippling through the valley. It was a breathless moment filled with fear and a nameless sadness. I realised the journey had to end halfway. So I went down to the boat and joined my mates. Together to the centre of the river we rowed, and let the little boat drift freely with the flow. Just as midnight was approaching, a shriek from some large bird pierced the serene world across the river. It was a crane, giant and lonely—with white wings the size of a wheel and a solid black tail like a Daoist's robe—who announced himself by flying past us, just missing the gunwale. Before long, we all went back home, settled and safe. Then, in a dream, a Daoist visited me. After a courteous bow, he asked me with a gentle smile: “Was it an enjoyable night at the Red Cliff?” I was curious and wished to know his name, but he lowered his head and silent he remained. “Oh my, my goodness! It was you last night, was it? You made a loud call and flew past our boat from east to west.” The Daoist only smiled back at me as he disappeared into the mist. Startled awake, I rushed out of the Lingao residence. There was no one in sight, just a vacant world, a void night… 后赤壁赋 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(2024.06) 是岁十月之望，步自雪堂，将归于临皋。二客从予，过黄泥之坂。霜露既降，木叶尽脱。人影在地，仰见明月，顾而乐之，行歌相答。已而叹曰：“有客无酒，有酒无肴，月白风清，如此良夜何？”客曰：“今者薄暮，举网得鱼，巨口细鳞，状似松江之鲈。顾安所得酒乎？”归而谋诸妇。妇曰：“我有斗酒，藏之久矣，以待子不时之须。”于是携酒与鱼，复游于赤壁之下。 江流有声，断岸千尺。山高月小，水落石出。曾日月之几何，而江山不可复识矣。予乃摄衣而上，履巉岩，披蒙茸，踞虎豹，登虬龙，攀栖鹘之危巢，俯冯夷之幽宫，盖二客不能从焉。划然长啸，草木震动；山鸣谷应，风起水涌。予亦悄然而悲，肃然而恐，凛乎其不可留也。反而登舟，放乎中流，听其所止而休焉。 时夜将半，四顾寂寥。适有孤鹤，横江东来，翅如车轮，玄裳缟衣，戛然长鸣，掠予舟而西也。须臾客去，予亦就睡。梦一道士，羽衣蹁跹，过临皋之下，揖予而言曰：“赤壁之游乐乎？”问其姓名，俯而不答。呜呼噫嘻！我知之矣。畴昔之夜，飞鸣而过我者，非子也耶？道士顾笑，予亦惊寤。开户视之，不见其处。 Notes： 1. Snow Hall: the residence Su Shi built in Huangzhou during his exile, named after a snow painting on its walls. 2. Linggao: Su Shi's temporary dwelling near the Yangtze River, where he lived before Snow Hall was built. 3. River Song sculpin: a famous fish from the Song River, celebrated in Chinese literature as a delicacy. 4. Palace of Fengyi: the mythical palace of Fengyi, the god of the Yangtze River in Chinese folklore. 5. The crane's black-and-white plumage: Its colouration mirrors the traditional attire of a Daoist priest—a black mantle over a white robe. This prepares the reader for the crane's transformation into a Daoist in Su Shi's dream. Appreciation: This prose poem serves as a companion to the previous one, sharing a similar background and continuing the thematic progression. Together, they have been celebrated as pioneering works of a new era, marking a new category — prose poetry — distinct from any previously written prose. Well, this is but one small brainchild among the many outstanding creations Su Shi produced during his dramatic lifetime… As the sister piece, this one would be expected to present some big philosophical ideas about the world, as in the first one. Some readers might feel somewhat disappointed after the first reading, as if it were an unfinished work, because no evocative point seems to have been made. Hence, contemporary critics favour the first one. But in the Song dynasty, this second piece was more embraced for its simplicity and symbolic resonance, because the ‘a vacant world, a void night’ evokes a larger, more boundless imagination compared with the ‘physical’ world we see. Like many paintings of the dynasty, it favoured a minimal use of paint, colours, and subjects to evoke diverse reactions in readers’ minds. Or you may say that artistic value arises from the collaboration between the artist and readers' creative minds. The more void left there, the more space for the imagination, the more adaptable and longer the value of the artistic work. This second moon-night drink with friends can be divided into three parts. The first part serves as a prelude, ushering readers back to the first boat drink, with a brief mention of his second wife, who had shared his hardships and understood his needs. The second part focuses on their experience aboard, ashore, and aboard – an implication of the ups and downs in his life: from a high official in the Royal Court to a common folk struggling for survival in the fields, and his quiet wish to be called back. It was early winter, a much drier season, when he could have a clearer view beyond – a reflection of his spiritual progress in his world outlook. The obstacles that had looked fearful had now become a minor issue before a stronger mind. The moon was small compared with mighty mountain ranges; the hidden stones in rocky waters were revealed when the water level changed — referring to the literary crime, a sheer setup by his opponents. Unexpectedly, the theme shifts from seasonal observation of nature to myth and theology, then to the celestial realm. It clearly indicates his persistent spiritual pursuit of a liberated, secluded lifestyle free of all worldly attachments. Well, we all know Dongpo loved the world so much that he would never, in reality, become a Daoist. It was just a thought, like a rippling stream in his mind, comforting and nourishing, but not a replacement. The shift from the real to the void, from humans to celestials, offers readers a more dynamic experience. It can also be seen as a duality that runs through many minds: seemingly conflicting, yet in need of each other like yin and yang, ultimately for balance and harmony in one’s life. Reference: 1. baike.baidu.com; 2. 《熊逸说苏轼.30讲》; 3. picture from “头条--墨语江湖;

临江仙·彩虹落九天 （写于与球友丁晓琦，Sherry 和Coral 新西兰的高尔夫之旅，游玩剑镇后 2026年4月22日） By Julia Min 宴坐剑镇山后， 层林尽染醉秋。 彩虹仙子卧云游。 一壶桂花酿， 酒酣忘归舟。 彩笔三挥天穹， 墨珠悄落坡头。 和风弄叶诉温柔。 仙乡新西兰， 何似在瀛洲？

东坡八首（第八首） (余至黄州二年，日以困匮。故人马正卿哀余乏食，为于郡中请故营地数十亩，使得躬耕其中，地既久荒，为茨棘瓦砾之场，而岁又大旱，垦辟之劳，筋力殆尽。释耒而叹，乃作是诗，自愍其勤。庶几来岁之入，以忘其劳焉！) 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.05) 马生本穷士，从我二十年。 日夜望我贵，求分买山钱。 我今反累生，借耕辍兹田。 刮毛龟背上，何时得成毡？ 可怜马生痴，至今夸我贤。 众笑终不悔，施一当获千。   Eight Poems on my Farm, the East Slope (8) (In our second year in Huangzhou, we often went hungry. My friend Ma Zhengqing, a poor scholar, negotiated with local officials to secure a piece of abandoned military land for us—about ten acres, long deserted, rocky and infertile. We worked ourselves ragged clearing rubble, thistles, and thorns, only to face a drought that threatened our crops. Now the long-awaited rain has come. I write these eight poems in gratitude for our teamwork, hoping our hard labour will be rewarded in the years to come and that we may one day be free of such toil.)   Chinese original by Su Shi English version by Julia Min (Apr. 2024)   Mr Ma is my friend, a poor scholar,          And a follower of mine for twenty years. Sincere is his wish for my rise to fortune, And for a share of land when he retires.   Now he is stuck with me in my bad luck. Working his socks off like a local farmer. It's like an attempt to make a winter coat By scraping fur from the back of a turtle.   Yet I remain a man of values in his eyes, And no one could ever change his mind. All these years, little have I given him, But a drop is paid in return for a spring. Appreciation: Ma Zhengqing was a poor scholar from Yongqiu—so poor, Su Shi once joked, that if they competed for poverty, "Ma would surely take first place." According to Su Shi's own account, Ma could not even afford to bury his own grandfather and father. As a young man, Ma served as Prefect of the Imperial Academy, a job he lost after Su Shi wrote a line of Du Fu's poem on his wall about a worthy scholar growing old in obscurity. Ma understood, and resigned that very day, choosing integrity over office.   When Su Shi was exiled to Huangzhou after the "Crow Terrace Poetry Case" in 1080, most acquaintances abandoned him. He was disgraced, stripped of rank and salary, with a starving family. It was then that Ma appeared. He negotiated with local officials for ten acres of abandoned military land—rocky, overgrown with thorns and rubble, but land. He also helped Su Shi build a modest house on the eastern slope, which Su Shi named "Snow Hall." From that plot and that house came the name "Su Dongpo."   Ma followed Su Shi for thirty-four years, rain or shine. That is why the teasing, self-mocking tone of this poem—"scraping fur from the back of a turtle"—conceals hidden tears. Su Shi knew how fortunate he was. The final lines speak the truth: "All these years, little have I given him, / But one drop is paid in return for a spring."   This reminds me of Shakespeare's Sonnet 18: "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee." Su Shi gave Ma something eternal—a place in his poetry. Through these lines, we still remember the poor scholar from Yongqiu who helped create "Su Dongpo."   Reference: 1. Picture from 360doc.com (海曲上人）

洗儿戏作 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 英译: 闵晓红(2024.04) 人皆养子望聪明， 我被聪明误一生。 惟愿孩儿愚且鲁， 无灾无难到公卿。   A Joke for the Baptism of my Newborn Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Zizhan', art name 'Dongpo') English version: Julia Min (Apr. 2024)   All parents want their sons to be clever, yet my cleverness has wrecked me forever. I pray this one be dull, be dense, even rude, as good fortune favours dummies and fools. Appreciation: The Chinese Baby Baptism (xǐ'ér 洗儿) is a traditional ceremony where a newborn is bathed for the first time three days after birth. While most parents and relatives wish for their child to become handsome, intelligent, and wealthy, Su Shi wanted his son to be stupid and simple-minded for a smooth life. This poem reflects his feelings after 103 days in prison, followed by banishment to Huangzhou, where his fourth son was born in 1083.   He understood that cleverness could make one a victim of one's own ingenuity. The poem is a joke, but the laughter is bittersweet. It echoes Daoist wisdom — "The great sage appears foolish" — and also reminds me of Forrest Gump, where Mama says, "Stupid is as stupid does." In a world that punishes the sharp, the dull-witted sometimes survive the longest. That is Su Shi's hard-won truth, wrapped in a smile for his newborn. The challenge in rendering this poem lies in preserving its ironic, self-mocking tone while keeping the language natural in English. Su Shi's original opens with a universal truth ("人皆养子望聪明") and then subverts it with personal bitterness ("我被聪明误一生"). The translation mirrors this structure: a flat statement followed by a colloquial, almost wry confession — "yet my cleverness has wrecked me forever." The repeated "be" in line three ("be dull, be dense, even rude") echoes the earnest "be clever" of line one, subtly hinting at performance rather than nature. The final line adopts a proverbial cadence — "good fortune favours dummies and fools" — to deliver the punchline with mock solemnity. Su Shi was joking, but only half. The translator's task is to let both halves show. Reference: 1. Picture from Google search

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

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

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