Ascending the Mountain
Translate Version 1:
*The Chinese version of this poem is written in the tone of the great Chinese poet Du Fu. I try my best here in this version of translation to carry on that tone.
No wind could bear back a word from home; no sky,
however pale and plain, can be called homeland.
I find some solace that, hearing the gibbons' cry,
I still wear a scholar's gown, only thin as parchment.
White are the shoals, white the river's sludge, white the gulls.
In youth I dove into these waters; they bleached my hair and made me old,
and even now that blanching will not fade.
This aged dynasty still wails like a child for falling timber, this aged dynasty too
has fallen into the Yangtze's surge.
All autumns shed their tears.
All friends will have forgotten my name.
My sickly body hauls up my soul once more,
to complete from the depths this bitter ascent.
My bleached hair has not yet lost its stain,
my wandering, ailing body can still journey on. But yet—
might the murky wine I've shunned my whole life long*
redeem that rusted cup from Chang'an's final night?**
*Du Fu stopped drinking wine later in life due to sickness and poverty.
**Chang’an, the original capital of the Tang Dynasty, was occupied by rebels. Du Fu was deeply sad and helpless witnessing the fall of the nation.
Translate Version 2:
*Here I experiment with a style that uses less lengthy sentences to see if more direct and powerful expression would help better express the vibes.
No wind carries letters.
No sky — aloof, plain — qualifies as homeland.
Gratitude: hearing the apes' wail,
this body still sheathed in a gown of paper.
White. The shoal. The river-silt. The gull-wing.
In youth I dove in. The water
bleached my hair.
The stain holds.
This long-aged dynasty — a child weeping for fallen timber —
this long-aged dynasty
also
falls
into the Yangtze's roll.
All autumns weep.
All friends forget my name.
This sick-drag of a body hauls the soul
up
from the deep
completing the ascent.
The bleach has not faded.
This wandering-sick frame still travels. And —
can the murky wine, sworn off for a lifetime,
buy back
that night in Chang'an
the rusted cup?
Original Poem:
登高
没有任何风能捎回书信，没有任何
天，哪怕清高而平淡，能称得上故乡
我庆幸我闻猿啼时
还着一身薄纸的长衫
白的沙洲，白的河泥，白的鸥鸟
我年轻时一头扎进河里染白了头发
到现在竟还没有褪色
这长龄王朝仍如哭孩悲啼落木，这长龄王朝
也落进滚滚长江水里去了
所有的秋天都流下眼泪
所有的朋友都将忘记我的名字
我的病体又拖拽着我的灵魂
再一次从深渊完成登顶
我染白的头发还没有褪色
我飘零的病体还可以暂行，以及
能否用我一生戒掉的浊酒
去赎回那夜长安城锈蚀的酒杯？