Chinese original: 《澄迈驿通潮阁二首·其二》 苏轼 余生欲老海南村，帝遣巫阳招我魂。杳杳天低鹘(hú)没处，青山一发是中原。 At Sea-Tide Pavilion, Chengmai Post Station Poem Two Chinese original: Su Shi English version: Julia Min I planned to end here in this village of Hainan, When Heaven calls my spirit to the mainland. Where the falcon fades in the misty distance, The green horizon holds the Middle Kingdom. Notes: “this village of Hainan”: Hainan Island, where Su Shi was banished in exile and pardoned in 1100. ‘this’ is used for irony. “Heaven” / “my spirit”: ‘Wuyang’ in the original, a legendary spirit-summoner from the Chu Ci, is here a poetic image for the imperial pardon that called Su Shi back from exile. Heaven here implies the Emperor. “falcon”: a swift and fierce bird of prey, such as a falcon or hawk. “the Middle Kingdom” — the Central Plain of China, the cultural and political heartland from which Su Shi had been exiled. A localisation in translation for a familiar touch. Appreciation: There is a wonderful irony in the opening. Su Shi has apparently made peace with exile. After years at the far southern edge of the empire, he is ready to grow old in “this village of Hainan.” Then, just when he has accepted that fate, Heaven changes its mind. The imperial pardon becomes Wuyang, the spirit-summoner of the Chu Ci, come to call his wandering soul home. The conceit is grand, but the tone is almost playful—as if Su Shi were saying, Well, the Emperor finally remembered me! Then the excitement breaks into vision. A falcon disappears into the misty distance, and beyond it a faint line of mountains meets the low sky. After years of exile, the Central Plain is reduced to a thread on the horizon, yet that thread is enough to transform the entire landscape. The choice of the falcon is telling. Su Shi could have given us the familiar returning wild goose, the traditional emblem of the exile longing for home. Instead, he gives us a solitary, fierce bird of prey—one that does not migrate out of homesickness, but cuts through the sky on its own terms. There is something of Su Shi in that bird: not the weeping exile finally permitted to crawl home, but the untamed spirit that has survived the storm. The falcon vanishes at the very edge of sight, and beyond it the homeland on the horizon. The poem's emotional power lies in this sudden reversal—from resignation to astonishment, from the end of the road to the first glimpse of home. In this sense, it has a kindred spirit in Robert Herrick's “His Return to London”: London my home is, though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment; Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee! But where Herrick openly celebrates his return, Su Shi lets the excitement flicker through irony, myth, and the solitary flight of a falcon. And perhaps that is the most Su Shi-like touch of all: after surviving exile, he does not make a grand declaration of triumph. He simply turns northward, sees a thin, dark green line where the mountain ranges meet the misty blue sky, and knows his way home — seemingly plain, yet an inner calmness gained after turmoil. Reference: baike.baidu.com

Chinese Original：怨王孙.梦断漏悄 李清照（存疑） 梦断漏悄，愁浓酒恼。宝枕生寒，翠屏向晓。门外谁扫残红？夜来风。 玉箫声断人何处？春又去，忍把归期负。此情此恨此际，拟托行云，问东君。 The Dripping Clock Stops, Ending My Dream —to the tune of Yuanwangsun written by: Li Qingzhao (disputed） translated by Julia Min (2026） The dripping clock stops, ending my dream. The jade pillow chills, glimmering, the emerald screen. Alone at dawn, my heart flows a frozen stream. Still tipsy from last night’s drink, I call out to my girl: “Not a trace is seen, my fallen blossoms!” The answer is plain: “My lady, just the wind.” The flute player is gone, his melody with him. So missed, so beyond reach — now where is he? Lost to longing is another spring, still no sign of his returning. This waste, this yearning, this withering scene! Why must they gather before me when Spring is leaving? You roaming clouds above, can you please ask the Lord of East? Notes 1. A quintessential Song-dynasty boudoir lament, this ci has traditionally circulated under Li Qingzhao’s name, although some scholars argue it is the work of an anonymous master. 2. ‘dripping clock’: a water clock used in ancient China; 3. ‘jade pillow’: popular in China from BC to modern times; cheaper ones were made of ceramics, wood, stone, and bamboo; it was believed to benefit the brain by keeping it cool, also helped maintain long hairdos, and offered many other benefits as described in Chinese medicine. 4. ‘the flute player’: referring to a love story in the book Stories of Celestial Beings 《列仙传》. Here, it alludes to a legendary couple of perfect harmony, cut short to symbolise a permanently fractured romance and abandonment. 5. ‘the Lord of East’: the traditional Chinese deity or personification of spring. Since spring is associated with the east—the direction of wind, sunrise, renewal—the Lord of East is imagined as governing the season’s arrival and departure. Appreciation This lyric is likely part of her early-marriage-period works. Its elegant imagery and intimate female voice are certainly close to the world of the Shuyu Ci. Within a beautiful complex of a crafted chamber and garden, a lady emerges from a wine-clouded dream into the bitter clarity of dawn. The dripping clock falls silent; the jade pillow grows cold; the emerald screen begins to glimmer. The poem thus moves delicately from disorientation to recognition: waking means remembering that the promised return has not come. Its spatial progression is particularly smooth. From the chilly bedchamber, the poet’s attention passes outward to the courtyard, where the last blossoms have disappeared in the night wind. The little conversation—“Not a trace is seen, my fallen blossoms!” “My Lady, just the wind”—turns a commonplace morning discovery into a moment of desolation. The fallen blossoms suggest not only the departure of spring but also love and youth passing without a trace. In the second stanza, the vanished flute player and the silenced music deepen the sense of absence: its music has ceased because the player is gone. Nature and emotion finally converge—departing spring, withering beauty, wasted time, and an absent lover—before the roaming clouds are asked to carry her plea to the East God. The appeal is graceful, almost fanciful, yet beneath it lies quiet bitterness: spring has kept its appointed course, but the lover has not kept his promise. Nearly seven centuries later, Li Qingzhao’s chamber lament finds an English counterpart in Tennyson’s Mariana. Both enclose a solitary woman in a room where the clock, changing light, curtains, and declining garden become expressions of an absent lover. Tennyson states the sorrow directly: “The night is dreary, / He cometh not,” while Li allows the stopped clock, cold pillow, vanished blossoms, and departing spring to speak subtly for her.

Chinese original: 东风未肯入东门 苏轼 （正月二十日，与潘、郭二生出郊寻春，忽记去年是日同至女王城作诗，乃和前韵） 东风未肯入东门，走马还寻去岁村。人似秋鸿来有信，事如春梦了无痕。 江城白酒三杯酽，野老苍颜一笑温。已约年年为此会，故人不用赋招魂。 The East Wind Seems Late for the East Gate (composed on the 20th day after Chinese New Year during a spring excursion with my friends Pan and Guo. Remembering that we visited Queen’s Town and wrote poems on this day last year, I set this poem to the same rhyme.) Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (2026) The east wind seems late for the East Gate, We ride for last spring’s village, just the same. Like autumn geese we come—same time, same place; Like a spring dream, life fades, leaving no trace. The river town’s wine is homemade, strong in taste; Three cups brighten this country man's old face. A reunion each year — a promise we hold, No need for an epic poem to summon my soul. Notes 1. “The east wind.” The east wind traditionally heralds spring. Here spring is holding back, so the friends ride beyond the gate to seek it themselves. This playful pursuit establishes the poem’s quiet defiance: if spring will not come to them, they will go out and find it. 2. “Like autumn geese …” The central couplet balances two images. People resemble autumn geese: they return at the appointed season and keep faith. Events resemble a spring dream: once over, they leave not the faintest trace. The geese return; the vanished day cannot. 3. “No need for an epic …” The final line playfully invokes Qu Yuan’s The Summons of the Soul. Su Shi imagines his old friends in the north composing an elaborate poetic summons to call his wandering soul back from exile. Yet he has found companionship, wine and warmth in Huangzhou—and has already promised to repeat this spring outing every year. No lengthy persuasion is desired. Appreciation This poem reflects on returning to the same place and realising that everything can return except time. Su Shi wrote it on Jan 20, 1082 (lunar) during his Huangzhou exile. On the same date the previous year, he and his friends Pan and Guo had ridden beyond the East Gate in search of spring near Queen’s Town. Returning a year later, he recalls the earlier outing and echoes his earlier poem in the same rhymes. Su Shi observes rather than mourns. The friends ride out again, the wine remains strong, and his old countryman’s weathered face warms into a smile. Yet the previous year has vanished like a spring dream. The poem never declares sadness; it places the faithful geese beside the traceless dream and lets the distance between them carry the sorrow. Its artistry lies in a controlled progression. A playful contest between man and nature opens the poem: Spring delays her arrival, so Su Shi rides out in search of her. The central couplet deepens an ordinary excursion into a meditation on fidelity and impermanence. The poem then returns to the tangible world of wine and friendship, ending not in lament but in learned humour. The supposedly lost soul sounds more warmly alive than those who imagine it must be rescued. A striking similarity appears in the Roman poet Horace’s Ode 4.7. Both contrast the returning spring with irreversible human time and end with the idea of summoning a soul. Horace treats it solemnly: nature renews itself, while human life moves towards death. Su Shi answers impermanence with fellowship and wit. Across eleven centuries, the two poets confront the same truth yet embody different temperaments: Horace’s classical gravity and Su Shi’s resilient playfulness. Time leaves no trace, yet friendship returns faithfully. We return precisely because the past cannot. More than nine hundred years later, the poem still brings that vanished spring outing back—a small miracle life itself cannot perform. Reference: baike.baidu.com

Chinese original: 江城子·江景.凤凰山下雨初晴 (湖上与张先同赋，时闻弹筝）苏轼 凤凰山下雨初晴，水风清，晚霞明。一朵芙蕖，开过尚盈盈。何处飞来双白鹭，如有意，慕娉婷。 忽闻江上弄哀筝，苦含情，遣谁听！烟敛云收，依约是湘灵。欲待曲终寻问取，人不见，数峰青。 The River View —to the tune of The River Town （a social game with my friend Zhang Xian where we each compose a song lyric to the same tune on the same theme in the same surroundings — the lake, the intermittent zheng music from the distant Qiantang River） Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (2026) Finally, it clears up after rain, Beneath Phoenix Hill, over the clear lake. A breeze sails on ripples where sunset glows. On her prime, one lotus holds, blooming alone. Raindrops shimmer on her tender petals， —A nameless grace, untouched, unfolds. Whence come a pair of white egrets, lingering, As if to admire such a rare beauty on stream? Suddenly, a melody floats on a zheng’s strings, For whose ear—the melancholy of yearning? When clouds recede, mist lifts her veil, My eyes follow from the lake till the last note. Vaguely in the distance, I wonder beyond — If River Xiang’s spirit visits River Qiantang. Yet no player in view, no beauty is seen, Pretending, I turn to count the green peaks. Notes: 1. Zhang Xian (990–1078): A renowned poet and retired official, thirty-three years Su Shi's senior, with whom he shared a deep literary friendship during his Hangzhou years. 2. Zheng: A traditional Chinese zither with movable bridges, closely related to the qin. While the qin was the instrument of scholar-literati, the zheng was associated with refined elegance, feminine sentiment, and popular entertainment. 3. River Xiang's spirit: The goddess of the Xiang River in Hunan, a mythological figure associated with tragic love and watery lament, often invoked to suggest otherworldly beauty or sorrowful music. 4. Qiantang River: The river east of Hangzhou, separated from West Lake by a ridge of hills. In Su Shi's time, artificial canals connected the two, allowing sound to carry across the water — hence the zheng music is heard "from the river" while the speaker is on the lake. 5. Phoenix Hill: A hill at the southern edge of West Lake, named for its phoenix-like shape, separating the lake from the Qiantang River. For Appreciation Readers familiar with Wordsworth's The Solitary Reaper will find a kindred spirit in Su Shi's The River View — though Su Shi's 11th-century poem predates its Western counterpart by some seven hundred years. Both capture a moment when an unseen musician fills the landscape with song: Wordsworth's Highland girl in a Scottish valley, Su Shi's zheng player somewhere on the distant Qiantang River. The music is heard, yet its meaning remains mysterious. Wordsworth is haunted by a "melancholy strain" he cannot understand; Su Shi by a "melancholy of yearning" he cannot trace. Both turn at last to the landscape for consolation. Where Wordsworth carries the song in his heart long after it fades, Su Shi finds only silence, green peaks, and a heart quietly pretending not to care. The poem is structured around absences: the rain has cleared, the player has vanished, the goddess is only a vague suggestion. Yet these absences are not empty — they are filled with wonder, longing, and the fragile beauty of a world that refuses to be fully known. A key line — "For whose ear — the melancholy of yearning?" — captures the original's haunting openness, asking a question that never receives an answer. In the end, the speaker is left not with answers, but with a gesture: turning away, counting peaks. My decision to add "pretending" to the final image brings to the surface the internal tension implicit in Su Shi's original: the quiet performance of composure in the face of loss. The speaker pretends not to care, while the reader understands that they do. But here's the real question: is the poet pretending for the benefit of their companion Zhang Xian, for themselves, or for us, the readers? And does it matter, when the green peaks — indifferent, eternal — refuse to play along with any of it? What makes Su Shi's poem enduring is its refusal to resolve. The zheng music could be human or divine; the goddess could be real or imagined; the speaker's composure could be genuine or performed. The poem holds these possibilities in balance, trusting the reader to linger in the uncertainty. My translation aims to honour this openness while adding a quiet psychological depth — never betraying the original, but enriching it for the English reader. Whether it succeeds is, of course, for you to decide. Reference: baike.baidu.com

水调歌头·明月几时有 丙辰中秋，欢饮达旦，大醉，作此篇。兼怀子由。 苏轼 明月几时有，把酒问青天。 不知天上宫阙，今夕是何年？ 我欲乘风归去，又恐琼楼玉宇，高处不胜寒。 起舞弄清影，何似在人间！ 转朱阁，低绮户，照无眠。 不应有恨，何事长向别时圆？ 人有悲欢离合，月有阴晴圆缺，此事古难全。 但愿人长久，千里共婵娟。 When Was the Moon Ever So Bright? —to the tune of “Prelude to Water Melody” (Written for the Mid-Autumn Festival in 1076, after drinking alone through the night, and dedicated to my brother Ziyou.) Chinese original: Su Shi (11th century) · English version: Julia Min (2025) Based on the version by G. Osing, J. Min & H. Huang (1989) When was the Moon ever so bright? With a cup in hand filled with wine, I ask the vast, black-blue Empyrean. What year is it in Heaven tonight? Could I be taken there on a wind ride? But I fear it could be cold up so high in the riches of the Moon's jade palace. I’d rather dance a satire to the rhymes, along with the lonely shadow of mine for the simple earthly vibes of mankind. The Moon drifts past the red pavilion’s side, lowers her mellow gaze into my chamber, keeping me awake. Oh Brother, such is life! It’s been seven years since we were together. And when we’re apart, she’s full and bright! It’s a spell beyond heaven and mankind. The moon waxes and wanes, dims and shines. Life has ups and downs, greetings, goodbyes. May we, now and always, be blissful at heart, and join under the one Goddess when apart. （Other versions ( 许渊冲/林语堂)for your reference） Picture retrieved from Google Notes: 1. “What year …”: According to Chinese tradition, three days in Heaven equal three years on Earth, so time was considered differently in the celestial and earthly realms. 2. “The Moon”: According to legend, a palace called Guanghan stands on the moon and is home to the goddess Chang E. The personified Moon may therefore also evoke the Moon Goddess. Appreciation: Great poetry often springs from moments when life seems least generous. This ci lyric is a remarkable example. Written in Mizhou during the Mid-Autumn Festival of 1076, it emerged from one of the most difficult periods in Su Shi’s life. His opposition to Wang Anshi’s New Policies had distanced him from the imperial court, prompting him to request a regional posting. His beloved wife had passed away, and he had not seen his younger brother Ziyou for seven years. Yet from the political disappointment and personal separation came one of the most enduring poems in Chinese literature. The poem presents a quiet spiritual journey. It begins in wonder before the Moon, then rises towards the imagined jade palace in Heaven, where the poet briefly dreams of escaping the disappointments of the human world. The turning point comes in the impressive line, “… for the simple earthly vibes of mankind.” From that moment onward, the poem descends gently from Heaven back to Earth. Instead of seeking perfection beyond human reach, Su Shi embraces a deeper wisdom: our lives are precious not because they are flawless, but because they are shared. The poem closes not with escape but with a blessing that has comforted generations: though separated by great distances, those who gaze upon the same Moon on the same night remain connected through the silver vibes. Readers may recognise a similar movement in John Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn (1820). Keats, too, contemplates an ideal world of timeless beauty, untouched by change or decay. Yet the urn’s perfection is also strangely lifeless—a “Cold Pastoral,” forever removed from the warmth, sorrow, and imperfection of lived experience. Like Su Shi, Keats ultimately remains within the human world, accepting its transience as the very condition that gives love and beauty their deepest meaning. William Wordsworth arrives at a comparable insight from another direction. In poems such as Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey and Ode: Intimations of Immortality, he looks back with longing upon the visionary intensity of youth, only to discover that maturity offers its own richer gifts: memory, compassion, and quiet human affection. The celestial radiance may fade, but it yields a wisdom more deeply rooted in life itself. The emotional power of Su Shi’s ci lyric lies in this profound reversal. What begins as a longing to leave the human world ends in an affirmation of it. Nearly a thousand years later, families across the Chinese-speaking world still recite his closing lines beneath the Mid-Autumn Moon, connecting with loved ones far away. Few poems have travelled so far across time while remaining so close to the human heart. Reference: The old English version: 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) --"After Drinking All Night at the Bingchen Autumn Festival":"When was the moon ever so bright? I ask the blue-black empyrean./What year is it in Heaven? What year this evening?/Would that I could be taken there on the wind!/But I fear the cold riches of the jade moon's mansions,/So instead I'll dance a satire to my shadow, like nothing on earth.//The moon alters my red pavilion, threads through the silk door, keeps me awake;/Give-up hating realities, my brother; the moon grows fuller and brighter as we feel losses./ What else is it but sorrows, joys, partings and reunions,/As the moon is clouded or brilliant, empty or brimming./The arrangement is ancient, hardest to those seeking perfection./Now and always, peace to our hearts, sharing the same/far-away Goddess in the One Heaven.// Pinying and Word-For-Word Translation: shuǐ diào gē tóu - to the tune of Shuidiaogetou (bǐng chén zhōng qiū ，huān yǐn dá dàn ，dà zuì ，zuò cǐ piān 。jiān huái zǐ yóu ) - Bingchen year Mid-Autumn Festival, enjoy drinking to the next morning; heavily drunk, compose this ci, also miss Ziyou; míng yuè jǐ shí yǒu - bright moon when have; bǎ jiǔ wèn qīng tiān - hold a cup of wine and ask dark-blue sky; bú zhī tiān shàng gōng què - not know in Heaven Palace; jīn xī shì hé nián - this evening is what year; wǒ yù chéng fēng guī qù – I wish to fly on wind to return; yòu kǒng qióng lóu yù yǔ - but afraid jade towers jade mansions; gāo chù bú shèng hán - high place not bear the cold; qǐ wǔ nòng qīng yǐng - start dancing, make fun with my shadows; hé sì zài rén jiān - what like in human world; zhuǎn zhū gé - the moon turns around red pavilion; dī qǐ hù - lowers light into the crafted doors and windows; zhào wú mián – so much light, no sleep; bú yīng yǒu hèn – should not have hatred; hé shì zhǎng xiàng bié shí yuan – why is it often full and bright when we are parted; rén yǒu bēi huān lí hé – humans have sorrows joys departures reunions; yuè yǒu yīn qíng yuán quē – the moon is cloudy clear wax or wane; cǐ shì gǔ nán quán – such has been difficult for perfection since ancient times; dàn yuàn rén zhǎng jiǔ – only wish we have each other for a long time; qiān lǐ gòng chán juān -thousand li share Chanjuan;

念奴娇.赤壁怀古 原作: 苏轼（11世纪北宋） 大江东去浪淘尽，千古风流人物。 故垒西边，人道是，三国周郎赤壁。 乱石崩云，惊涛裂岸，卷起千堆雪。 江山如画，一时多少豪杰！ 遥想公瑾当年，小乔初嫁了，雄姿英发。 羽扇纶巾，谈笑间，樯橹灰飞烟灭。 故国神游，多情应笑我，早生华发。 人生如梦，一樽还酹江月。 Meditating on the Past at the Red Cliff —to the tune of “Niannujiao” Chinese original: Su Shi (11th century) English version by Julia Min (2025) Towards the East Sea flows the Yangtze River, Washing away forever, in the tides of time, All the heroes of the past we remember. By the west side of this rocky stronghold, Some say, in the Three Kingdoms’ mad era, Zhou Yu won the Red Cliff Battle on the River. What a majestic battlefield, shore to shore— Startling waves broke the banks like thunder; Jagged rocks pierced the shifting clouds in sky; So many warriors set forth and fought here. I recall Gongjin, a youth of radiant valour, Newly wedded to the fair Qiao, the young sister. With scholar’s silk cap and feather fan in hand, He chatted at ease as he claimed a great feat: The tides turned, sailed his burning boats over, Cao’s fleet jammed in smoke, doomed in fire. Here I stand, in regret, mocked by my grey hair, A mere wanderer, smiling at life’s grey humour. It’s all a dream: life or death, loss or success. I pour my wine before the Moon over the River. Notes: 1. “Some say”: The poet playfully pretends that the original battle took place here, at Red Nose Rock in Huangzhou, while attributing the belief to local people. This was not the first time Su Shi had performed such a naughty manoeuvre; those familiar with the stories surrounding his Imperial Examination may recognise it. The phrase gives him a narrow escape through playful ambiguity—the kind of naughty humour that a notable man like Su Shi could get away with without being misunderstood or condemned. 2. “Zhou Yu”: Zhou was his family name and Yu his registered birth name. Gongjin was the social name given to him when he came of age and used among his peers and friends. A celebrated general, he commanded Sun Quan’s principal force of approximately 30,000 men during the Battle of Red Cliffs. 3. “Qiao”: Xiao Qiao was the younger of the two daughters of the prominent Qiao family. She married Zhou Yu, while her elder sister, Da Qiao, married Sun Ce, the elder brother and predecessor of Sun Quan. 4. “Scholar’s silk cap and feather fan in hand”: The silk cap and feather fan formed a popular image of the cultivated scholar and composed strategist. Here they present Zhou Yu as a commander of effortless elegance, although the same image later became particularly associated with Zhuge Liang, Liu Bei’s celebrated strategist and the future chancellor of Shu Han. For Appreciation: If you have ever read English poetry from an age of glory and duty, you may have encountered the heroic poem The Battle of Maldon, which commemorates the fierce battle fought between the Anglo-Saxons and the Vikings in England in 991. Its best-known lines declare: “Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens.” Chinese poetry offers similarly heroic visions, and the Battle of Red Cliffs is among the most enduring. Interestingly, whenever the famous battle on the Yangtze River is mentioned, one of the first associations that may come to a Chinese reader’s mind is not the historical battlefield itself, but Dongpo’s Red Cliff and this heroic ci lyric, Meditating on the Past at the Red Cliff. This celebrated ci lyric was written in 1082, during the third year of Su Shi’s exile in Huangzhou, a river town in present-day Hubei Province. One of his favourite places for contemplation was Red Nose Rock, which then overlooked the Yangtze. Although it was not the site of the historical battle, Su Shi deliberately transformed its landscape into an imaginative battlefield suited to his theme. The Battle of Red Cliffs actually took place in 208, probably near present-day Chibi City, in Xianning, Hubei Province. There, the allied forces of Sun Quan and Liu Bei confronted the much larger army of Cao Cao. The precise numbers remain disputed, but the allies probably fielded around 50,000 men, while Cao Cao commanded a frontline force of between 100,000 and 200,000 men. The victory owed much to Zhou Yu’s command of river warfare, as well as to Cao Cao’s troops being weakened by disease and their unfamiliarity with fighting on water. The battle checked Cao Cao’s southern advance and helped establish the political balance from which the Three Kingdoms would emerge. In the poem, Su Shi again appears with a cup in hand. Comparing himself with the heroes of the historical epic, he mourns his own apparent insignificance and quietly hints at feeling unappreciated by the Throne. This theme appears frequently in works written during the downturns of his political life. Yet his poetry and prose, together with his calligraphy and painting, were widely admired for their artistic brilliance—even within the imperial court. It is no wonder that his writings made Huangzhou’s Red Nose Rock so famous that later generations renamed it Red Cliff, or, in full, Dongpo’s Red Cliff. This ci lyric has long been regarded as a representative masterpiece of the heroic, or haofang, school of ci poetry. It is among the earliest, greatest and most frequently quoted works in that bold style. Yet Su Shi’s transformation of the genre was not universally accepted. Later critics, most famously Li Qingzhao, objected to treating ci as though it were simply poetry written in another form. She argued that ci was an art in its own right, governed by its own musical patterns, tonal qualities and metrical discipline. In her view, some of Su Shi’s lyrics resembled irregular poems and did not always conform closely enough to the music. Her own works provide magnificent evidence for that understanding of ci: elegant, subtle, finely balanced and exquisitely suited to the intimate world of music, banquets and drawing rooms. The distinction may remind an English reader of the difference between poetry and song lyrics, the latter being words composed for music. As C. M. Bowra observed in Primitive Song, once words are accommodated to music, they acquire “not only lilt and balance, but tone and quality”; consequently, they must be chosen with particular care. Nonetheless, a mind like Su Shi’s could hardly be expected to remain confined by contemporary rules and etiquette. As Wang Anshi, then Prime Minister, is said to have remarked, “Are the rites meant for people like us?” (礼岂为我辈设哉). For Su Shi, the theme came first; everything else served as a supporting device. If an existing form did not serve his purpose, he reshaped it until it did. From such audacity emerged the heroic tradition of ci poetry—or, in a broad Western analogy, an expansive heroic mode standing against the more intimate and sentimental mode of Romanticism. · Other translators’ work for your reference: Memories of the Past at Red Cliff Tune: "Charm of a Maiden Singer" By Xu Yuanchong The Great River eastward flows, With its waves are gone all those Gallant heroes of bygone years. West of the ancient fortress appears The Red Cliff. Here General Zhou won his early fame When the Three Kingdoms were all in flame. Jagged rocks tower in the air, Swashing waves beat on the shore, Rolling up a thousand heaps of snow. To match the hills and the river so fair, How many heroes brave of yore Made a great show! I fancy General Zhou at the height Of his success, with a plume fan in hand, In a silk hood, so brave and bright, Laughing and jesting with his bride so fair, While enemy ships were destroyed as planned Like shadowy castles in the air. Should their souls revisit this land, Sentimental, his wife would laugh to say, Younger than they, I have my hair all turned gray. Life is but like a passing dream, I'd drink to the moon which once saw them on the stream. 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)（"Eastward flows the River, washing away in waves /Forever all the Heroes of the past. /On the west side of this old fortress, some people say, /General Zhou fought his Red Cliff Battle, in the time of Three Kingdoms./Roiling clouds are cut by savage cliffs, walls of water destroy the shore,/Throw up mist thick as a blizzard. /The River and the mountains make a magnificent scene! /How many heroes from the past are lost to us! // Long ago, when Gongjin was young, /And had just taken Little Qiao to wife… /Heroic, brilliant, with feathered fan and black silk, striped kerchief, /He laughed and talked on as the enemy’s warships’ smoke and ashes flew windward. /Visiting this old world now, how Zhou would laugh at my simpering, /Me, with grey hair far too soon from thinking. /It is such a dream. /I pour out my cup to honour the moon in the river. "） 2. The original calligraphy by Su Dongpo himself; 3. painting by Luo Zhenxian (罗振贤）from Google；

永遇乐. 明月如霜 (彭城夜宿燕子楼，梦盼盼，因作此词) 原文：苏轼 英译：闵晓红 明月如霜，好风如水，清景无限。 曲港跳鱼，圆荷泻露，寂寞无人见。 紞如三鼓，铿然一叶，黯黯梦云惊断。 夜茫茫, 重寻无处，觉来小园行遍。 天涯倦客，山中归路，望断故园心眼。 燕子楼空，佳人何在，空锁楼中燕。 古今如梦，何曾梦觉，但有旧欢新怨。 异时对、黄楼夜景，为余浩叹。 The Moon’s Frost White - to the tune of “Everlasting Joy” Chinese original: Su Shi ( 11th century) English version: Julia Min The moon’s frost white, the wind, freshly cool. An endless stillness — till a fish breaks the winding pool. Dews slide down lotus leaves, a loneliness without form. Three drumbeats from the dark mist; Then, one leaf falls. I’m startled awake from a deep sleep, a familiar sadness seizes me. Out in the garden I seek: Where is she—the beauty of my dream? I feel her everywhere, yet nowhere can she be retrieved. The night stretches long, far beyond my reach. Weary of the world, a wanderer strains his heart’s eye of hope towards the western mountains, seeking a sign of home. The Swallow Pavilion, long empty —where’s the beauty? Dust keeps its promises within; only abandoned nests remain. Past and present, just dreams that never cease. What gathers in the mind — old memories and new regrets. Someday, some visitor will climb my Yellow Pavilion. Before such a midnight scene, I wonder, will he sigh for me? Appreciation: According to a story passed down from the Tang dynasty, the Swallow Pavilion complex was built in Pengcheng (present-day Xuzhou) for Guan Panpan, a renowned singer and dancer and the beloved concubine of a military governor traditionally identified as Zhang Jianfeng. Later scholarship, however, suggests that the man may actually have been his son, Zhang Yin. With swallows gathering beneath its eaves, the pavilion acquired the name. After Zhang’s death, Panpan continued to live there for more than ten years, refusing to remarry and remaining faithful to his memory. Her story became an enduring poetic symbol of lost love, fidelity and happiness that could never be recovered. This ci lyric was composed in 1078, shortly after Su Shi completed his own architectural project, the Yellow Pavilion, during his tenure as governor of Xuzhou. According to the traditional preface, Su Shi spent a night in the Swallow Pavilion and dreamed of the brief appearance of Panpan’s spirit. Awakened suddenly, he walked throughout the little garden, searching for the beauty of his dream but finding her nowhere. The bright moon, a recurring motif in Chinese poetry, evokes the memory of a love once whole but now far beyond reach. Su Shi’s status deepens the poem’s melancholy. His position at court had become increasingly precarious amid fierce factional conflict. Daoist thought offered him solace, turning his mind towards nature and towards the western mountains of Sichuan. Throughout his life, the same tension persisted: whether to devote himself fully to official service or withdraw into reclusion. Yet Su Shi was ultimately a man shaped by his age and its currents—deeply engaged with the world and unable to relinquish public responsibility entirely for a Daoist life apart. The Swallow Pavilion also becomes a mirror of Su Shi’s own place in time. Past, present and future fold into one another. The poem thus moves beyond private sorrow towards a larger meditation on the dreamlike nature of human life, in which old joys and new regrets succeed one another without anyone ever fully awakening. A Western analogue may be found in Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey, where reflection before a familiar landscape becomes a meditation on memory, loss and the divided self across time. Both poets discover that a place is never merely a place: it gathers vanished lives, former selves and intimations of those who will come after. Reference: 古诗文网https://so.gushiwen.cn/ ChatGPT All pictures are selected from google search.

Chinese original: 满庭芳·归去来兮，清溪无底 苏轼 (余谪居黄州五年，将赴临汝，作《满庭芳》一篇别黄人。既至南都，蒙恩放归阳羡，复作一篇。） 归去来兮，清溪无底，上有千仞嵯（rèn cuó）峨。画桥西畔，天远夕阳多。老去君恩未报，空回首、弹铗（jiá）悲歌。船头转、长风万里，归马驻平坡。 无何，何处是？银潢（huáng）尽处，天女停梭。问人间何事，久戏风波。顾谓同来稚子，应烂汝、腰下长柯。青衫破、群仙笑我，千缕挂烟蓑。 Come Home, Come Home -to the tune “Courtyard in Full Bloom” (I spent five years in exile in Huangzhou. Upon leaving for a new post in Linru, I composed a poem to the tune of“Courtyard in Full Bloom”— a farewell to the people of Huangzhou. After arriving at Nandu, I received imperial permission to return to Yangxian, and wrote another in the same tune.) Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min ( Aug. 2026) Come home, come home, you wandering soul — I hear the stream, clear and deep beyond desire; I see the mountains, green and high beyond hold. A call from the crafted bridge on the west bank, Where the setting sun paints with softest gold. Yet how to repay the royal grace— such a regret! To my Lord, I tapped the sword for a song of old. Alas, turning south, my boat answers the call— Like a steed dashing through a smooth slope， A long wind sails me thousands of miles for home. Where is Land of Nothing, the land without woes? Up above, end of Starry River in the blue dome， The Weaver looks down, her shuttle on hold: How do you like the rocky waves of human stage? Why on earth muddle so long in a mortal place? To the page boy by my side, she asks in repose: Is the axe handle on your waist rotten long ago? Beneath a grand crowd of celestials on the clouds, Old Dongpo looks so ragged in a misty blue robe, Torn by storm, tested by frost under a straw cloak. Notes: 1. From Linru to Yangxian: Su Shi spent five years in exile in Huangzhou (1080–1085). Pardoned and offered a new post in Linru in 1084, he petitioned to retire to Yangxian and was granted permission while en route. The poem was written during his journey home. “Come home” echoes Tao Yuanming’s famous call to return. 2. The Weaver: The celestial Weaver, identified with Vega, pauses beside the Milky Way and looks down upon the mortal world. Her question gently mocks the ambitions and political struggles of human life. Appreciation: After five years of exile in Huangzhou, Su Shi could finally return to his dream home, Yangxian, where he owned land. Permission came just as he reached Shangqiu. The poem captures his deep relief: the prow turns, the wind rises, and the journey home opens before him. The clear stream, towering cliffs, and painted bridge of Yangxian become more than a landscape of home: they suggest release after years of political confinement. His “Land of Nothing,” drawn from the Zhuangzi, carries the journey beyond worldly purpose, expectation, and calculations toward the freedom of simply being. The journey home thus becomes a Daoist return to the self beneath ambition and worldly roles. Then the poem lifts playfully into the heavens. The Weaver looks down at the mortal who has spent so long playing on the stormy stage of the Song, wondering why anyone would linger so long in such a mortal world. The rotten axe-handle of Wang Zhi sharpens the joke: mortal time is brief, yet human beings can become so absorbed in its little dramas. The opening “Come home, come home” was inspired by Yeats’s The Stolen Child: “Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild.” The kinship is striking—the pull of water and wilderness, weariness with the ordinary world, and the dream of freedom. Yet Yeats’s child is summoned away, while Su Shi summons himself home. For him, return is not escape but a recovery of the true self. And then comes the delightful surprise: Old Dongpo, all ragged in his misty blue robe, standing before the immortals while they laugh at him. That laughter completes the poem’s Daoist wisdom. He does not become free by rising above the world, but by becoming more completely himself—amused by his own predicament and ready to return. To go home is, after all, not simply to reach a place, but to find the way back to the self that was there all along. Reference: baike.baidu.com

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

Chinese original: 书李世南所画秋景 (其一) 苏轼 野水参差落涨痕，疏林欹倒出霜根。 扁舟一棹归何处，家在江南黄叶村。 On Li Shinan's painting "An Autumn Scene" Chinese original: Su Shi ( 11th century) English version: Julia Min (Aug. 2026) The river wrote a poem in receding lines, along a thin grove, with frosted roots reclined. Where will it go, the leafy boat on the murmuring stream? To the South of Yangtse — a misty village dreaming in yellow leaves. Appreciation: In 1089–1090, Su Shi served as prefect of Hangzhou—a role that, in the Chinese tradition, made him the "parent" of his people. These were years of practical care: he dredged West Lake, built causeways, and tended to the rhythms of ordinary life. It was amid this quiet governance that he viewed an autumn landscape by the Northern Song painter Li Shinan and wrote this little poem. Rather than simply describing what he sees, Su Shi lets the painting come alive. The receding river leaves its "lines"; the sparse grove leans, its frosted roots exposed; and then a little boat appears, gliding through the painted landscape. As a magistrate who daily surveyed the livelihoods of farmers and fishermen, he would have recognised in this scene not a wilderness but a habitable world—water that sustained, trees that marked the seasons, and a boat that carried someone home. With the question "Where will it go?", the two-dimensional picture suddenly comes to life beyond the frame. We hear the murmuring stream, imagine the boat in motion, and wonder about the traveller aboard. Su Shi answers not with a place on a map, but with a dream of home: "a misty village dreaming in yellow leaves." The 黄叶村 ("Yellow-Leaf Village") need not be a real village. It is a poetic home conjured by the imagination—a place of quiet belonging somewhere south of the Yangtze. For a prefect who has known exile and displacement, it is also an image of a peaceful world: humble, ordinary, and deeply cherished. In a few strokes, Su Shi turns a painting into a little moving world of water, sound, distance, and longing. That leap from what the eye sees to what the heart imagines is quintessentially Su Shi. He does not merely look at a landscape; he enters it—and, for a moment, finds a home there. Reference: baike.baidu.com

Chinese original: 减字木兰花·己卯儋耳春词 苏轼 春牛春杖，无限春风来海上。便丐春工，染得桃红似肉红。 春幡春胜，一阵春风吹酒醒。不似天涯，卷起杨花似雪花。 Celebrating Spring at Danzhou —to the tune of Magnolia Flower (Shortened) Chinese original:Su Shi ( 11th century) English version: Julia Min ( Aug.2026) Spring wind sweeps in from the sea beyond. Spring rite at dawn wakes the farming bond: An ox of clay and a farmer with spring staff, For Spring God to paint peach a rosy charm. The streets sing with spring banners in delight. A whisper of spring sobers my drunken ride. When catkins go whirling like flying snow, The edge of the world now feels like home. Notes: 1. Spring ox and spring staff: Ritual objects used in the Spring Welcome Ceremony. A clay ox was struck with a coloured staff to symbolically awaken the land and begin the farming year, and in this poem, a farmer in clay was added in. 2. Spring God: A personification of the natural force that brings colour and life to the world, here invoked to "paint" the peach blossoms a rosy charm. 3. Spring banners: Festive decorations displayed during spring festivals, symbolising renewal and good fortune. 4. Edge of the world: Literally "edge of the sky." Su Shi wrote this while exiled on Hainan Island, then considered the southernmost limit of the civilised world — a place of banishment for disgraced officials. 5. Catkins like flying snow: Willow catkins were traditionally associated with parting and the fate of the wanderer — "rootless" and drifting. By comparing them to snow, Su Shi transforms exile into a new understanding. For Appreciation This lively little poem turns exile into an unexpected celebration of spring. Written on Hainan Island—the “edge of the world” for a banished Song official—Su Shi moves from the solemnity of spring ritual to wine, colour, wind and drifting willow catkins. There is no complaint or self-pity; instead, the poet meets exile with humour, imagination and an open heart. The poem opens with a playful art of repetition: the character for "spring" appears again and again — spring wind, spring rite, spring staff, Spring God — as if the very word itself could summon the season. He invokes the Spring God to work his magic, asking that the peach blossoms be painted the rosy colour of flesh. Then a whisper of spring wind sobers him, and the unfamiliar landscape begins to feel strangely familiar. The willow catkins flying "like snow" become the poem's quiet revelation. Hainan has no northern snow, yet nature has found another way to bring its memory southward. What first suggests separation becomes a vision of continuity: the foreign becomes familiar, and exile begins to feel like home. There is a gentle affinity here with William Wordsworth’s The Tables Turned, especially his invitation to “Let Nature be your teacher” and to bring “a heart / That watches and receives.” There is, almost surprisingly, a Daoist spirit in Wordsworth: wisdom comes not by mastering nature but by yielding to it and receiving what it offers. Su Shi does just that. He does not argue with exile; he watches the spring wind and the snow-like catkins, and lets nature quietly change his perspective. The poem’s charm lies in this lightness. Spring does not erase exile; it teaches him how to inhabit it. At the edge of the world, Su Shi discovers that spring belongs everywhere—and that even the remotest exile is still part of the world. If spring can find its way to Hainan, perhaps home is less a place on a map than a way of seeing. After all, who can exile a man from spring? Reference: baike.baidu.com

Chinese original: 儋耳 苏轼 霹雳收威暮雨开，独凭栏槛倚崔嵬。垂天雌霓云端下，快意雄风海上来。 野老已歌丰岁语，除书欲放逐臣回。残年饱饭东坡老，一壑能专万事灰。 Dan’Er, Hainan Island Chinese original: Su Shi (11th Century) English version: Julia Min (Aug. 2026) The thunder’s fury spent — the race is run; And so the rain clears for the setting sun. Up on a hill, by a cliff rail, a solitary soul, Whose heart still leaps to behold a rainbow: A hanging arch in the sky amid soft clouds; A sweeping wind from a sea without bounds. Old farmers’ songs of harvest fill the streets. A pardon decree has set the exile free. Yet Dongpo is content, no desire for more; I’d only wish for a country life in peace. A ravine of my own will suffice the old me, To be bound each to each by natural piety. Notes: 1.儋耳 (Dān’ěr): Su Shi’s place of exile in Hainan, where he was banished in the final years of his life. The poem was written when a decree seemed likely to permit his return. 2.Dongpo: Su Shi’s literary name, adopted from his beloved residence at Dongpo (“East Slope”) in Huangzhou (Hubei Province today). Here, “the old me” echoes his self-identification as Dongpo, the man who has learned to find contentment away from political life. Appreciation: This short poem captures Su Shi at a remarkable turning point. The storm has passed, yet his spirit remains wonderfully alive. His heart still leaps at the sight of a rainbow; he delights in the vigorous sea wind and shares the farmers’ joy in a year of plenty. There is nothing withdrawn or world-weary in this response to life. His spontaneous, unguarded nature remains intact, even after years of exile and political hardship. Yet something fundamental has changed. A pardon may set the exile free, but Dongpo no longer hungers for political advancement. What he longs for is a long-awaited return to a pastoral life, where he can reclaim his natural piety. This reflects a distinctly Daoist spirit: freedom from worldly striving, harmony with nature, and a return to simplicity. It also recalls Tao Yuanming (陶渊明), the great poet of reclusion, whom Su Shi admired so deeply that he wrote elsewhere, “I see my previous life in Yuanming"(江城子·梦中了了醉中醒). Across cultures and centuries, Wordsworth seems to answer Su Shi. His famous line, “The Child is father of the Man,” offers a striking parallel to Su Shi’s enduring truth: the spontaneous, unguarded heart of childhood endures the trials of adulthood. Wordsworth’s “natural piety” likewise suggests a return to an instinctive bond with nature, free from worldly calculation. Yet Su Shi makes the idea his own: his return to the pastoral is not an escape from life but a liberation from political striving—a return to the simple joys, human warmth, and open spirit that were never extinguished within him. The deliberate echo of Wordsworth’s line invites English-language readers to recognise a kindred spirit in Su Shi, drawing this distant poet closer to the heart. Reference: baike.baidu.com