I Can Live Without Meat in Food (for Monk Huijue at his Green Bamboo Veranda) Chinese original: Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Zizhan', art name 'Dongpo') English translation & annotation: Julia Min (Jan. 2025) I can live without meat in food, But can’t without bamboo in view. Without meat body will lose weight, Without bamboo life will lose taste. It’s easy to gain a good weight, But not so to gain a good taste. It seems a stubborn lofty pretence, And you may laugh at what I say. If you munch in his noble presence, You won’t ascend the Yangzhou Crane. Su Shi's painting on stone and bamboo Notes: Yangzhou Crane: borrowed from a story in The Fables of Ying Yun（《殷云小说》）, where a group of ambitious young gentlemen boasted about their future plans in Yangzhou. One wished to attain a high position in the government, another said he would become extremely wealthy, but the third wanted to fill his pockets with silver and gold and fly a crane to the immortal world. Well, you know the result -- the crane wouldn't be able to fly with a heavy load. You can't have everything in life. Analysis:   This little poem serves as another example of the Song’s way of presenting profound philosophical ideas through simple, everyday language. As a result, the first four lines have become idiomatic expressions in Chinese. The poem reads like prose, with a tone that contrasts the theme of virtuous pursuit with vulgar tastes in human life, or perhaps offers an insight into the awareness of the ultimate purpose in this lifetime. The bamboo tree has been recognised as one of the Four Gentlemen (along with plum blossom, chrysanthemum, and orchid) in China. It symbolises noble elegance, upright honesty, and steadfast loyalty.   Yu Qian was a county within the territory of Lin'an City (in Hangzhou). There was a temple where Su Shi often spent time with Monk Huijue. The two friends would often enjoy tea in the bamboo yard and explore the value and virtues of social and natural worlds to better understand Zen ideas. This poem was written when Su Shi visited during his inspection of the county’s governance as the magistrate of Hangzhou.   Of the Four, he favours bamboo the most, as seen in his paintings. He even began using red paint for his bamboo artworks, which then established a unique style. I believe this is another example of his artistic focus on the theme rather than the form. 於潜僧绿筠轩 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 宁可食无肉，不可居无竹。 无肉令人瘦，无竹令人俗。 人瘦尚可肥，士俗不可医。 旁人笑此言，似高还似痴。 若对此君仍大嚼，世间那有扬州鹤? Reference: gushiwen.cn picture from google

江城子 · 密州出猎 原作：【宋】苏轼 老夫聊发少年狂， 左牵黄，右擎苍， 锦帽貂裘，千骑卷平冈。 为报倾城随太守， 亲射虎，看孙郎。 酒酣胸胆尚开张， 鬓微霜，又何妨？ 持节云中，何日遣冯唐？ 会挽雕弓如满月， 西北望，射天狼。 Hunting Outside Mizhou -to the tune of Jiangchengzi Chinese original: Su Shi ( 11th Century) English old version: G. Osing, J. Min & H. Huang(1991) English new version: Julia Min (2023) This old boy's truly young at heart and mind, A retriever by left hand, a falcon on the right. In coats of fur and hats of brocade we ride, Thousands of hoofbeats swept the hills in sight. Like Sun Quan, the great archer, I’d shoot a tiger, To reward the town for following me to the site.   My old heart is fearless again, fired with wine. Does it matter that frost crowns my temples high? When will Feng Tang arrive with a tally in hand To order this  governor who’s ready to fight? Like the round moon, I’d tighten the bow; To the northwest, I’d shoot Sirius down! Notes: 1. Another title of this ci poem is “On Hunting.”“Mizhou” in the title is in today’s Jucheng County, Shandong Province. 2. 'this old boy': referring to himself at the time when he was forty years old. 3. 'Sun Quan': refers to Sun Quan of the Three Kingdoms Period, who was famous for hunting on horseback, especially for his driving off a tiger by throwing his empty weapon in its face in a famous episode in folklore. Like his father, Sun Quan was considered one of the best archers at the time. 4. 'Feng Tang': the governor of Yunzhong (under Emperor Wen of Han) who defeated an invasion by the Huns. When asked to report the tally of enemies killed, the governor exaggerated the number by six and was disgraced and sentenced to heavy punishment, including the loss of his governorship. Feng Tang, who interceded on behalf of the governor for the return of his post, arranged for a second, true tally to be brought forth, and the episode became famous for dramatising honesty in government. An tally was an order issued by the emperor to generals and envoys. A tally to Yunzhong would be one for the Yunzhong Prefecture in the Han Dynasty, a county in Inner Mongolia today. 5. 'Sirius': the brightest star in the northwest sky from where our poet had the event. It is used here as a symbol for the invaders, mainly the Mongols. For Appreciation: As governor of Mizhou (Nov. 1074 – Nov. 1076), Su Shi and his friends went hunting after their festive tour to a sacrificial ceremony. It is one of the poet's most heroic and vigorous ci poems, with the theme being inspiringly patriotic and dramatically bold and ambitious. Readers might also notice the poet's light-hearted pleasure in his success in public leadership, which reveals, both in reality and spirit, his optimistic enthusiasm for a dedicated official career serving the people.   The first stanza again focuses on the event, while the second stanza reflects on the day’s theme, offering his hindsight. The poetic vibe connects with a heroic tone that was seen as a challenge to the elegant and graceful style of the existing sentimental ci school. Alternatively, you could argue that Su Shi deliberately filled this gap with a heroic style, which was badly needed during the constant threats from the Huns and the Jin at the western and northern borders. The contrasting styles created a perfect balance of yin and yang, enriching the world of ci poetry and establishing it as a more independent and complete literary form, further distinguished from purely poetic works in literature.   Another piece in the same style is his “Meditating on the Past at the Red Cliff” ( 《念奴娇 . 赤壁怀古》), which is included in this selection, along with recital and analysis. Enjoy! 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) (“Hunting Outside Mizhou"-- "This old boy's truly young at heart at the sight:/My left hand's led by a retriever, a falcon rides my right./In coats of fur and hats of silk brocade we ride, / Thousands of hoofbeats over a low bridge./The whole town's turned-out to follow its governor, watching./When I shot my tiger, the people surely saw heroic Sun Chuan.// Fired with the wine, my old heart became fearless once again. /What does it matter if, truth to tell, frost covers my temples./When will honest Feng Tang come with the tally that saves the governor?/I will pull the bow tight and round as the moon when it is fullest./Northwest I aim; I shoot the invading Tianlang Star.") 2. Other versions for your reference（许渊冲） http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_1534238f70102xgt4.html Pinyin and word-for-word translation: jiāng chéng zǐ . mì zhōu chū liè - to the tune of Jiangchengzi (outside Mizhou hunting) lǎo fū liáo fā shǎo nián kuáng - old man is being in youth's exuberate spirit; zuǒ qiān huáng ，yòu qíng cāng - left hand lead yellow hunting dog, right hold eagle; jǐn mào diāo qiú - silk brocade cap marten coat, qiān qí juàn píng gāng - thousand horses sweep smooth the ridge; wéi bào qīng chéng suí tài shǒu - to thank the whole city follow the governor; qīn shè hǔ ，kàn sūn láng - myself shoot tiger, let people see Sun Chuan; jiǔ hān xiōng dǎn shàng kāi zhāng - heated wine with breast bravery still open; bìn wēi shuāng ，yòu hé fáng ？- temples slightly frosty, what does it matter; chí jiē yún zhōng - hold a tally to Yunzhong; hé rì qiǎn féng táng ？- what day send Feng Tang; huì wǎn diāo gōng rú mǎn yuè - would draw carved bow like a full moon; xī běi wàng ，shè tiān láng - northwest looking shoot Sirius Star;

声声慢·寻寻觅觅 原作：李清照 寻寻觅觅，冷冷清清，凄凄惨惨戚戚。  乍暖还寒时候，最难将息。  三杯两盏淡酒，怎敌他、晚来风急？  雁过也，正伤心，却是旧时相识。    满地黄花堆积。憔悴损，如今有谁堪摘？  守著窗儿，独自怎生得黑？  梧桐更兼细雨，到黄昏、点点滴滴。  这次第，怎一个愁字了得！ Where? Where should it go, the lonely soul? - to the Tune Shengshengman original by Li Qingzhao ( 12th century) 1st En. trans. by: G. Osing, J. Min & H. Huang (1991) En. revision by: Julia Min ( 2025) Where? Where should it go, the lonely soul? Too dreary in miseries, in daydreaming! Gone is the world's warmth, its cold Now holding my very being. Would a few cups of wine soothe the chill That also violates the heart of evening? You flying geese in the rising air Were once our loved go-betweens. With whom shall I pick the chrysanthemum Shrinking and withering, now all fallen? Am I to spend forever tonight At my window here, alone again, Watching at dusk, in the parasol trees, The misty air turning inexorably to rain? No word is desolate enough To imitate this joyless scene! Notes: 1. ‘flying geese’: wild geese in the sky bear a symbolic meaning in Chinese culture, representing messengers for lovers and families to send their love and regards to each other. 2. ‘parasol trees’: the autumn tree, which hardly bears any leaves, usually symbolises melancholy and loneliness in Chinese poetry. For appreciation: Some collections call this ci "Autumn Thoughts." It was apparently composed in August 1129 upon her husband’s death, and her sorrows had become multiple, so far as she could tell, permanent. She was distraught, yet she perhaps exerted great effort to uphold her dignity while writing. What strikes Chinese readers most is that the original verses start with four lines that use purely the repetition of 7 words (14 words in total), resonating later with repetition (4 words) in the second stanza. “Repetition in word and phrase and in idea is the very essence of poetry,” Theodore Roethke writes in Some Remarks on Rhythm (1960). It’s one of the most intoxicating effects as it accrues expectation or desperation. Peter Sacks writes in The English Elegy (1987), “Repetition creates a sense of continuity, of an unbroken pattern such as one may oppose to the extreme discontinuity of death.” In addition, interdental consonants are widely used from beginning to end, with a total of 57 in this 97-word poem. Together, they create the impression that she’s holding and pressing hard her deep sorrow over her husband’s death during the country’s turmoil, which is like adding snow to a frosted ground. The artistic effect is multiplied through the application. No poet ever before used 14 words in repetition in a poem, and you could rarely find a Chinese poem with so many interdental phonetic sounds. Many poets have tried the techniques, yet nobody has met Li Qingzhao’s standards. She has again proved herself the greatest master of Ci. We, as the translators, pale in comparison for sure. We regret not being able to find a more perfect presentation of such arts in the English language. Again, Lu Xun’s words are ringing in the ear: Poetry can’t be translated. So, we proceed, aiming to fail interestingly but with promising prospects, or to succeed modestly in sparking cross-cultural interest.   · Other translators’ work for your reference:   Slow slow tune By Lin Yutang (林语堂）   So dim, so dark. So dense, so dull. So damp, so dank, so dead! The weather, now warm, now cold. Makes it harder than ever to forget. How can thin wine and bread. Serve as protection, Aganinst the piercing wind of sunset? Wild geese pass overhead. That they are familiar. Makes it more lamentable yet!   The ground is strewn with staid . And withered petals; For whom now should they be in vases set? By the window shut, guarding it alone. To see the sky has turned so black! And on the Cola nut. To hear the drizzle drone. At dust: pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat! Is this a mood and moment only to be called "sad"? Reference： 1. Forever Tonight at My Window by Gordon Osing, Julia Min and Huang Haipeng published by the People's Publication House Henan Province in 1991 ( "To the tune of Shengshengman" -- Where? Where should the cold soul go?/Too lonely, dreary dreaming./Gone is the world's warmth; its cold/now holds my very being./Will three cups of wine soothe/the wind violating the heart of evening?/You swallows leaving in riming air/were once our loved go-betweens.// With whom shall I pick the yellow flowers/now fallen or withering?/Am I to spend forever tonight/ at my window alone again,/ watching, in the parasol tree the mists/turning inexorably to rain?/No word is desolate enough/to imitate this joyless scene!) picture from google;

千秋岁 . 次韵少游 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) 岛外天边，未老身先退。 珠泪溅，丹衷碎。 身摇苍玉佩，色重黄金带。 一万里，斜阳正与长安对。 道远谁云会，罪大天能盖。 君命重，臣节在。 新恩犹可觊，旧学终难改。 吾已矣，乘桴且凭浮于海。 A Poem to Echo Shaoyou’s Ci Rhymes — to the tune ‘Live a Thousand Years’ Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (May, 2025) To the end of the world I am driven; Across the strait lies Hainan Island. Tears, the last gift of loyalty, are drained, With a dim hope of being resummoned. This gentleman remains in decent shape, Spotless his gold belt and his jade pendant. With the Chang’An’s vibes the sunset rhymes, Thousands of miles towards the mainland. The Emperor’s order may be a challenge, But I warrant his courtier’s value retained. My voice falls quiet across the distance; My ‘Sins’ are no concern, safely contained. A stubborn old nut can never bend, Even under the grace of a royal pardon. Better to drift on the sea, led by the wind. Free from ambition, free from illusion. For Appreciation: This was composed in the year 1100, just before Su Shi crossed the Qiongzhou Strait. There, he received a newly written ci-poem from Shaoyou. It was a downturn period when all his followers of the Old Party were banished even further from the Capital. This ci-lyric is recognised as the last spark of his heroic poems. It feels a bit stretched, though, when compared with his other heroic poems such as “Hunting at Mizhou”《密州出猎》or “Meditating on the Past at Red Cliff”《念奴娇.赤壁怀古》. The political punishment had taken its toll on his ambitious spirit, though he made an effort to comfort Shaoyou (Qin Guan, his favourite student). The fire in his spirit waned, then flared, and in the end became detached, enriched with a cynical, self-ridiculing humour. A similar scenario often appears in other artistic forms, particularly in Chinese calligraphy, where even a subtle change in style can reveal fundamental shifts in the artist’s mental state, as calligraphy cannot be disguised with colours or other properties. The last two lines enrich our association with the great saint Confucius, highlighting Su Shi’s mindset of living a detached life as a commoner. Reference: baike.baidu.com

西江月.梅花 苏轼 玉骨那愁瘴雾，冰姿自有仙风。 海仙时遣探芳丛。倒挂绿毛么凤。 素面翻嫌粉涴，洗妆不褪唇红。 高情已逐晓云空。不与梨花同梦。 My Plum Blossom --to the tune of “The West River Moon” written by Su Shi En. trans. by Julia Min (Jul. 2025) Her jade blossom thrives in celestial vibes. Her crystal heart clears the miasma mist. Her sweet scent drifts to the fairy island, Attracting little fairies, green nut-hatches. A born beauty will need no make-up tips. No snow or rain can fade the cherry lips. She’s a cloud at dawn, free of attachments, Never sharing a dream with pear blossoms. For Appreciation Every verse in this poem celebrates the plum blossom, yet each line is also an elegy for Zhaoyun, one of the most remarkable women in Su Shi's life. Born in the enchanting city of Hangzhou, she entered the world of music and dance at twelve. Historical accounts record her admiration for the celebrated poet Dongpo, and at fourteen, she became his companion. Zhaoyun's life was marked by hardship. Twice, she was persuaded to stay when Dongpo was exiled. When she finally joined him, she followed him to the remote frontier of Huizhou, where the rugged landscape and miasmic climate took a heavy toll on her health. Stricken by malaria, she died there at thirty-four. Though her years were few, she faced adversity with quiet courage, leaving a legacy of grace, loyalty, and inner strength. In her later years, Zhaoyun turned wholeheartedly to Buddhism. As death approached, she recited the famous verse: "All conditioned things are like dreams, bubbles, shadows, dew, and lightning." In that moment, Dongpo understood that she had released all earthly attachments. He later reflected that she had come into his life to repay a karmic debt, and that when her task was fulfilled, she departed beyond his reach. Grieving yet accepting, he wrote: She's a cloud at dawn, free of attachments, never sharing a dream with pear blossoms. The contrast between pear and plum blossoms is deeply significant. Pear blossoms bloom amid the abundance of spring, in a world bustling with beauty, fashion, and fame. Plum blossoms, by contrast, flower alone in the snow, enduring winter's cold before spring arrives. In this image, Dongpo likens Zhaoyun's spirit to the plum blossom itself—pure, steadfast, and brave, quietly shining in the face of adversity. Among the three important women in Su Shi's life, Zhaoyun was the youngest, yet perhaps she understood him most deeply. More poems were written for her than for any other. Even his celebrated poem A Moment from Shine to Rain on West Lake (饮湖上初晴后雨) is traditionally associated with her. After her death, a profound loneliness entered his life, and his poetry took on a quieter note. Fate continued to weave poignant parallels between their lives. Zhaoyun died of malaria in Huizhou, and years later, Dongpo succumbed to the same illness. He also died on the same calendar date as their son, Dun. In his final years, when the Emperor offered him a high office, he declined, choosing instead a quiet life in Changzhou, not far from Zhaoyun's native region by Lake Tai. After a lifetime of glory and adversity, he finally let go of worldly concerns, choosing the peace of staying close to the memory of the woman who had shared his hardships and understood his heart. Reference: http://www.360doc.com 洋房居士

行香子 . 秋与 苏轼 昨夜霜风, 先入梧桐。 浑无处、回避衰容。 问公何事，不语书空。 但一回醉一回病，一回慵； 朝来庭下，飞英如霰， 似无言、有意伤侬。 都将万事，付与千钟。 任酒花白，眼花乱，烛花红。 The Message of Autumn --to the tune of Xingxiangzi written by Su Shi (11th Century) En. version by Julia Min (May.2025) The first message of Autumn is the parasol when last night the leaves turned yellow. The Wind also found me lost in the frost. He greeted me, asking why so sick and old. Speechless, in the air I wrote: “seized by sickness, lost in drinking, and fallen with my lazy soul.” This morning, I woke up to a falling world. The courtyard has turned into a snowfield. It could be the Wind’s wordless response： I’m getting to the end of my life cycle. No hope, so let my life be the drink I fill, soaked in wine, dazed in sight, and watching the wick flower consumed, alone. photo from “小话诗词” For Appreciation: Autumn frost and wind in Chinese literature are often associated with the helpless transition from youth or prime years to old age. The sentiments here reflect Su Shi's (Dongpo's) melancholy over his life and health, and his despair over his political ambition. This poem was most likely composed after the death of his concubine and soulmate Zhaoyun (王朝云) during his second banishment, further south to the border town of Huizhou (today's Guangdong Province). For readers familiar with Su Shi, this may come as a shock. He was not a man easily crushed. The optimistic Dongpo was always able to get back on his feet quickly, finding consolation in local cuisine, in wine, in the company of friends. But this time was different—his world was gone forever with the wind. He had to give it all up. Little did he realise that this pessimistic mood would attract something even worse — his third banishment to the most desolate place of all, Hainan Island, known as the "End of the World." The poem moves through three stages. First, the wind's question — why so sick and old? — met with silence and a confession written in air: sickness, drinking, a lazy soul. Second, the dawn revelation: the courtyard has turned into a snowfield, the wind's wordless response that he is reaching the end of his life cycle. Third, the acceptance: no hope, so let my life be the drink I fill — soaked in wine, dazed in sight, watching the wick flower consumed, alone. That final image is the heart of the poem. The wick does not simply burn. It flowers — opening, spending, consuming itself in a small, useless beauty. And he watches it alone. Not resigned. Not protesting. Just present, at the end, a tender, self-aware idleness. As for translation: a poem is not for translation but for recreation. A good version must stand on its own for the target reader. "He greeted me, asking why so sick and old" — not a deviation but an addition that serves the poem's emotional logic. The original simply asks, "What's the matter, sir?" Supplying the greeting shows the Wind's respect for 公 (sir) and creates a brief pause before the painful question. That slowdown makes the silence that follows — speechless, in the air I wrote — land harder. Reference: baike.baidu.com

行香子. 丹阳寄述古 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) 携手江村，梅雪飘裙。 情何限、处处消魂。 故人不见，旧曲重闻。 向望湖楼，孤山寺，涌金门。 寻常行处，题诗千首。 绣罗衫、与拂红尘。 别来相忆，知是何人。 有湖中月，江边柳，陇头云。 Special Memories (A letter to Shugu from Danyang) -to the tune of Xingxiangzi written by Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') En. trans. by Julia Min (Apr.2025) I recall the village along the river’s flow. Plum petals floated on dress hems like snow. Not the same company today but same notes, singing of the old spots—each melts my soul— Lake Tower, Goldrush Gate, and Temple Solo. Some places bear hundreds of ci we composed. If dusted by the silk sleeve, again they’d glow. Guess who’d been thinking of me in Hangzhou? Fellow poets, friends of old, and maybe also — The crest crown, lake moon, and river willows. Notes： 1. Ci: A classical Chinese lyric form written to set musical tunes. Unlike regulated verse (shi), ci has irregular line lengths, mimicking natural speech. Su Shi was a master of the form, here using the tune Xingxiangzi. 2. The silk sleeve: A famous story lies behind this line. During the Tang dynasty, the poet Li She (李涉) once had his poems stolen by a young admirer who later brushed dust from a wall to reveal the verses, then recited them back to him. By Su Shi's time, "dusting the silk sleeve" had become a literary trope for the tender act of rediscovering old poems — brushing away neglect to let the words breathe again. In this poem, the gesture is imagined. 3. Lake Tower (望湖楼) – A famous pavilion on the eastern shore of West Lake in Hangzhou, where poets gathered to watch rain and moonlight over the water. 4. Goldrush Gate (涌金门) – An ancient gate in Hangzhou's city wall, near West Lake. Its name refers to the story of a local official who once washed gold from the river sands — a name that shines with prosperity and legend. 5. Temple Solo (孤山寺) – The temple on Solitary Hill (Gu Shan), a small island in West Lake. "Solo" captures both the hill's isolation and the poet's loneliness after parting from his friend. 6. The crest crown, moon lake, and river willows – These three images condense the famous scenery of Hangzhou: the mist-veiled ridges of the surrounding hills (here "crest crown" suggests clouds resting on peaks like a crown), the moon reflected in West Lake, and the willows drooping along the Qiantang River. In traditional Chinese poetry, such landscapes are not mere backgrounds — they become the only faithful witnesses to friendship when human companions have scattered. 7. Hangzhou – The magnificent lakeside capital of the Southern Song dynasty (later), but in Su Shi's time, a beloved provincial posting where he served as magistrate and made lifelong friends. The city's misty hills, rain-swept pavilions, and endless willow-lined shores became synonymous with youthful fellowship and literary revelry. For Appreciation: In the 1070s, the Song dynasty poet Su Shi served as a magistrate in Hangzhou alongside his close friend Chen Shugu. They wandered through river villages together, composing poems on every walk. This poem — written after Su Shi left Hangzhou and sent as a letter from Danyang — is an elegy for that friendship. The opening is deceptively simple: " I recall the village along the river’s flow." "I recall" unlocks the poem's true architecture: memory as the only bridge between Danyang and Hangzhou, between the poet and his absent friend. The rest of the poem now rests on that single, perfect verb. "Plum petals floated on dress hems like snow" — a single image holds an entire season, an entire companionship. Then the present enters: "Not the same company today, but same notes." The music is familiar, but the friend beside him is gone. The poem now oscillates gently between past and present, memory and loss. What follows is the emotional core. The old spots are sung back to life, and each one "melts my soul" — not mere sadness but dissolution, the self-softening at the edges under the weight of memory. Then come the three places: Lake Tower, Goldrush Gate, and Temple Solo. "Temple Solo" echoes the poet's loneliness: a lone hill in West Lake, as he stands alone in Danyang. The second stanza moves from memory to inscription. The two friends composed "hundreds of ci" — the very song form of this poem. "If dusted by the silk sleeve, again they'd glow" — the poems remain hidden like gold, waiting for a touch to waken them. That touch belongs to the absent friend, or to memory itself. Then the quiet question: "Guess who'd been thinking of me in Hangzhou?" leads not to a sad answer but to a warm one: "Fellow poets, friends of old, and maybe also — / The crest crown, lake moon, and river willows." Not just people. The place itself remembers him. The crown-shaped hill. The moon over the lake. The willows along the river. Hangzhou has not forgotten. And in that quiet "maybe also", Su Shi allows himself a small, tender consolation — not happiness, but the knowledge that somewhere, the river still flows, and someone — or something — still thinks of him. My translation aims to capture the poem's spare music. Short lines, plain diction, and a few delicate surprises allow an 11th-century Chinese lyric to feel newly born in English. The poem becomes what it always was: a letter that arrives centuries late and finds us still listening. Reference: baike.baidu.com

如梦令·有寄 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) 为向东坡传语：人在玉堂深处。 别后有谁来？雪压小桥无路。 归去，归去！江上一犁春雨。 A Message to My East Slope —to the tune of Rumenglinling written by Su Shi (11th AC, social name 'Dongpo') En. trans. by Julia Min (Apr.2025) Pass my regards to my pals by East Slope. Tell them I’m doing well serving the Throne. Is the snow cleared on the bridge and road? Has any friend visited the Hall of Snow? How I wish to return, back to Huangzhou, To plough my spring field as river rain grows. photo from zhuanlan.zhihu.com是但庵文“江上一犁春雨” Notes： East Slope (东坡) – The name of Su Shi’s farm in Huangzhou (modern Huanggang, Hubei), where he reclaimed land and built a small cottage after being exiled. He later adopted “Dongpo” (Su Dongpo) as his literary name. Serving the Throne – A reference to Su Shi’s appointment at the Hanlin Academy (翰林院) in the capital, a prestigious but demanding position close to the emperor. The original poem uses “Jade Hall” (玉堂), a poetic name for the academy. Snow Hall (雪堂) – The studio Su Shi built at his East Slope farm. He painted snow scenes on its walls, hence the name. It became a symbol of his rustic ideal. Huangzhou – The remote county (in present-day Hubei) where Su Shi was exiled from 1080 to 1084. East Slope was located there. After his pardon and return to court, he continued to long for this simpler life. Appreciation This poem, written in colloquial language, reads like a casual short message to a friend—or perhaps to the local prefect of Huangzhou. On the surface, it is light and breezy. But beneath the lines lies a fascinating undercurrent of feeling. By the time Su Shi wrote this, he had finally been pardoned by the Emperor and restored to a respected position at court, serving in the Hanlin Academy—the intellectual and administrative heart of the Song Dynasty, home to the empire’s most prestigious scholar-officials. One might expect him to be content. Yet the poem reveals otherwise. The first half is cheerful and inquisitive: Has anyone visited my Snow Hall? Is the road clear? It is the voice of a man looking back fondly on his old home. Then comes the shift. In the last two lines, his longing to return to country life awakens. This persistent longing was, in fact, never absent throughout Su Shi’s entire career. The poem makes you wonder: was life at court still difficult, even after his pardon? Or is this simply a warm-hearted message meant to comfort the friends he left behind on East Slope? Perhaps both. And that ambiguity is precisely what gives this short lyric its quiet power. Reference: baike.baidu.com

Royal Banquet on Lantern Festival Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (Feb. 2025) Gathered in Jianzhang Palace Hall, The faint moon and stars begin to fall. A gentle wind from the censer sends A scent with only our Heaven lends. Bright Hall sees courtiers craning heads, —a red cloud tending Jade Palace’s steps. from bakke.baidu.com For appreciation: Su Shi composed this four-line, one-stanza poem (jueju 绝句) in response to the Emperor's request for a poem on a festive occasion. In 1093, he was called to the Court from Yangzhou. At that time, he served as the Minister of the Military Department and was newly appointed as the Minister of Rites. As the Emperor's favoured courtier once more, he was experiencing a gratifying moment near the Throne. The poem is a simple piece of praise, yet it captures the vibrant atmosphere of the Bright Hall and offers a glimpse into how courtiers attended to the Throne—a portrayal of a unified central government during a flourishing era of the Song Dynasty. It unveils a joyful world akin to Heaven itself. 上元侍宴 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 淡月疏星绕建章， 仙风吹下御炉香。 侍臣鹄立通明殿， 一朵红云捧玉皇。 reference: 1.baike.baidu.com

惜春悯秋歌 （2021.9有感于高尔夫球场关闭） 作者：悯秋 春到袋鼠岛， 不见游春潮。 球场都关闭， 鸟兽来筑巢。   后院勤练习， 切杆碎玻璃； 推杆地毯缓， 挥杆不知远。   新冠何时了？ 神仙不知晓。 人类不醒悟， 天帝也发怒。   长江水倒流， 台风往北走； 核潜艇得订， 贸易战不停。   中秋还未到， 封城已六遭。 花好月也圆， 离合品悲欢。   新冠已征服， 地球五大陆。 惜春春即去， 悯秋秋已暮。

A Note for Flaky Delight Chinese original: Su Shi(11th Centuary) English version: Julia Min (Feb, 2025) With a gourd bottle on my thigh, without a care in my mind, I sat down for a sip of wine, a toast to flowers in the wild. Pan’s watered wine kills my time. I now desire your Flaky Delight. from wapbaike.baidu.com (“舌尖上的苏东坡”） Analysis: There's an interesting story behind this little poem. One day, Su Shi was invited to dinner by Scholar Ho in Huangzhou. A local pastry was served with tea. Dongpo loved its flaky texture and asked, "What is this called? How is it so flaky and delightful?" Ho replied, "It doesn't have a name — but now it does. You've just named it. How about 'Flaky Delight'?" Ho then served a local rice wine from Pan's brewery. Su Shi tasted it and laughed: "Pan must have mixed it with water by mistake." The guests shared his humour, and henceforth Pan's wine was known as "Watered Wine." This poem was likely written during a carefree moment before his favourite crabapple tree in Huangzhou, a very poor period when he could barely feed his family. He loved his modest wine and grew accustomed to Pan's Water Wine. The flaky pastry has since become a famous local specialty called "Dongpo's Flaky Delight," still sold in local supermarkets today. The poem reads almost like a note sent with his servant on an errand: fetch some Flaky Delight to go with the wine. At first glance, the poem seems plain — like much Song Dynasty art. But the hidden message depends on the reader's knowledge of the poet. Su Shi became famous at twenty-one. His works were widely sought after. Even his political rival Wang Anshi would constantly ask for Su Shi's latest compositions. Now imagine how his opponents would read this poem from exile: He's cast aside, doing nothing at all in Huangzhou. Let him stay just like that. We can carry out the New Law without interference. Su Shi knew this. The poem quietly satirises his own ambition to serve the people of the Song. Wandering without a care in the world is surely not what he wanted then. But here he is — toasting to flowers, drinking watered wine, begging for pastry. That's the dark humour beneath the lightness. Do you agree? 为甚酥诗 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 野饮花前百事无，腰间唯系一葫芦。 已倾潘子错注水，更觅君家为甚酥。

食荔枝 原作: 苏轼（字子瞻, 号东坡居士; 11世纪北宋） 罗浮山下四时春，卢橘杨梅次第新。 日啖荔枝三百颗，不辞长作岭南人。 Feasting on Lychee at Huizhou Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min(Jan. 2025) The year sits in spring at the foot of Luofu. Endless loquats and bayberries swell anew. Three hundred lychees as my daily fruit— May I live in the wilder south for good? Appreciation: Nothing in life could torture Su Shi for long before he found something delicious to cheer him up. Fresh out of prison and banished to Huangzhou during the Chinese New Year of 1080, he shrugged and wrote: “Oh well, the Yangtse embraces the town in a loop, Where the river fish should taste just as good. There are also bamboo groves over the hills, Where I should find many sweet and earthy shoots.” Classic Dongpo: exile as a culinary scouting mission. In 1094, they tried harder. He was banished even further south to Huizhou, near the border of modern Guangdong — a punishment generally understood as a slow death sentence. But the 57-year-old poet took one bite of a local lychee and perked right up. Who needs the capital when you have fruit that would make Empress Yang Yuhuan (she of the famous horse-delivered lychees) weep with envy? You have to almost admire his political enemies. They threw everything at him — prison, poverty, poisonous swamps, the literal edge of the empire — and what did they get back? Poems. Popular poems. Poems that went viral (well, as viral as hand-copied scrolls could get in the 11th century). The more they punished him, the more the gentry adored him. The more they adored him, the more jealous his rivals became. So they did what any rational, level-headed political faction would do: they sent him to Hainan Island — the "End of the World" — hoping that tropical heat, hunger, lack of medicine, and utter isolation would finally shut him up. It didn't. On the surface, this little lychee poem is a cheerful note from a man who has discovered perpetual spring and bottomless fruit. Many readers see it as a Daoist embrace of rustic simplicity, a nod to Tao Yuanming's peach-blossom paradise. And that's not wrong. But read the last line again. "May I live in the wilder south for good?" It's a question, not a declaration. A wistful, almost teasing question. Asked of whom? Perhaps of the Emperor. Perhaps of his enemies. Perhaps of himself. You wanted me gone. Here I am. And guess what — the lychees are fantastic. That's the dark humour beneath the sweet flesh. Su Shi knew exactly what he was doing. And somewhere in Hainan, nibbling on a coconut, he was probably laughing.