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“Poetry is China’s greatest art,” writes translator Red Pine (Bill Porter), especially during the great dynasties of the Tang (618-906) and Song (960-1278). “The Chinese have ever since called this their Golden Age of Poetry.” It was also the golden age of Chan/Zen Buddhism in China.

“The Chinese word for poetry shih (詩) is nominally a combination of word (言) and temple (寺), but it’s origin is actually chih, made of the two characters for word (言) and to aspire, or heart-felt (志),” writes Red Pine. He translates the character for poem as “language from the heart.”

In these two dynasties, there were monk poets, hermit poets, government official poets, and emperor poets, and they wrote everywhere: on paper, rocks, cave and temple walls. They got inspiration from birds and animals, human relationships, water courses, history, weather, and wine. And always the narrative was one of human beings standing in a timeless time and spaceless space in the midst of the ever-changing and forever-moving Way.

These three poets are among the greatest in the Tang:

Du Fu (712-770), trained as a Confucian, is sometimes called the “poet-historian.” He was for many years a government official, serving on the front lines in war or in the capital, falling in and out of favor, depending on the imperial court and events of the times. He died in near poverty.

“Moonrise”

Thin slice of ascending light, arc tipped
Aside all its bellied dark—the new moon
appears and, scarcely risen beyond ancient
frontier passes, edges behind clouds. Silver,
changeless—the Star River spreads across
empty mountains scoured with cold. White
dew dusts the courtyard, chrysanthemum
blossoms clotted there with swollen dark.

Li Bai (701-762) was the Daoist of the three, and his poems often celebrated friendship, the wonders of nature, and the joys of drinking wine. He married several times into different wealthy families, but often gave his belongings away to friends, and failed at several attempts to serve in court. His life, like his friend Tu Fu’s, was greatly impacted by the disastrous An Lu Shan Rebellion of 755. It is said Li Bai drowned, falling out of a boat on his way to exile while one night trying to capture the moon in a drunken embrace.

“Waiting for Wine that Doesn’t Come”

Jade winejars tied in blue silk….
What’s taking the wineseller so long?
Mountain flowers smiling, taunting me,
it’s the perfect time to sip some wine,
ladle it out beneath my east window
at dusk, wandering orioles back again,
Spring breezes and their drunken guest:
today, we are meant for each other.

Po Chu-I (772-846), who also served as politician and artist, was the Chan-Zen Buddhist of the three greats. His poems advising stopping a needless military campaign and satire of greedy officials got him exiled from court several times. His poetry is known for its accessibility, and it is said if one of his servants could not understand a poem, he would rewrite it.

“Sick and Old, Same as Ever: A Poem to Figure it All Out”

Splendor and ruin, sorrow and joy, long life or early death:
when the human realm’s a figment of prank and whimsy,
is it really so strange if I’m a bug’s arm or a rat’s liver?
And chicken skin or crane plumage—what would It hurt?
In yesterday’s winds, I was happy to begin my long journey,
but today in all this sunlit warmth, I feel better.
And now that I’m packed and ready for that distant voyage,
what does it matter if I linger on a little while here.

—Jon Joseph

COME JOIN US on Mondays for koan meditation, dharma talk and conversation. Register to participate. All are welcome.

Jon Joseph Roshi, Director of San Mateo Zen Community