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寒山詩
Hanshan shi (Poems of Hanshan), 2 fascicles. Full title Hanshan shi ji
寒山詩集 ; also known as the Sanyin ji 三隠集 (Collection of the three recluses).
A collection of the poems of the three semi-legendary hermits Hanshan 寒
山 拾得
, Shide 豊干
, and Fenggan , who are said to have lived at or around the
國清寺
temple Guoqing si on Mount Tiantai 天台 . It is not known exactly
when Hanshan lived; estimates of his dates range from the seventh to the
ninth centuries. He is said to have written his poems on rocks and walls
around Mount Tiantai; these were later written down by Lü Qiuyin 閭丘胤
(n.d.), the traditional editor of the collection. Fascicle 1 of the text contains
Hanshan's poetry; fascicle 2 contains poems by Shide and Fenggan. There
are several editions of the work, all having a preface by Lü Qiuyin and a
postscript dated 1189 by Zhinan 志南 (n.d.) The earliest extant edition dates
from the Song. The collection is one of the most widely read works in all of
Chan literature.
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Tartalom Contents
Han-shan, Cold Mountain Poems
Translated by Gary Snyder
27 Poems by Han-shan
Translated by Arthur Waley
Han Shan
Translated by D. T. Suzuki
Han Shan
Translated by R. H. Blyth
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Little is known of Han Shan, not even his given name. While his poetry is well known and widely available,
his life is shrouded in mystery. The poet was a Zen Buddhist recluse who lived in the Tientai (T'ien-t'ai)
Mountains of Danxing (Tang-hsing), China, during the Tang dynasty (618–907); his name 寒山子
Hanshanzi [Kanzan shi] means, literally, "The Master of Cold Mountain." Han Shan lived on Cold Mountain
with his friend, Shi De (Shih-te). Known for their lighthearted manner, the two men were immortalized in
later pictures showing them laughing heartily.
Han Shan's poetry was introduced to China by a Tang government official, Lu Jiuyin (Lu Chiu-Yin), who
met the poet while visiting the local Buddhist temple. Han Shan wrote more than 300 poems, which he
inscribed onto trees, rocks, and walls. Lu Jiuyin took it upon himself to copy these poems, along with a few
poems by Shi De, and collect them in a single volume, collectively known as Hanshan poetry.
Han Shan's poetry is deeply religious. He wrote mainly on Buddhist and Taoist themes, specifically
enlightenment, in simple, colloquial language, using conventional Chinese rhyming schemes within the
five-character, eight-line verse form. Although his poetry was not groundbreaking, the imagery and spirit
of his poems in creating what scholar Burton Watson has called "a landscape of the mind" and his ability to
express Buddhist ideals have given Han Shan a place among the finest of Chinese poets.
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and then disappear. Judging from his poems, which abound with references to the Tao-te-ching and
Chuang-tzu, the Taoist classics, Han-shan was actually more of a Taoist recluse than a Ch'an monk.
PDF: Wandering Saints : Chan eccentrics in the Art and Culture of Song and Yuan China by
Paramita Paul
Thesis/dissertation, Proefschrift Universiteit Leiden. 2009, 310 p.
PDF: A Study on Imitating Activities of Hanshan Poems by Chan Buddhist Monks in Song
Dynasty by HUANG Jing-Jia
Journal of Literature and Art Studies, April 2013, Vol. 3, No. 4, pp. 204-212.
Synopsis: "Cold Mountain" is a film portrait of the Tang Dynasty Chinese poet Han Shan, a.k.a.
Cold Mountain. Recorded on location in China, America and Japan, Burton Watson, Red Pine
and the legendary Gary Snyder describe the poet's life and tell poems. A trickster, Han Shan
wrote poems for everyone, not just the educated elite. A man free of spiritual doctrine, it is
unclear whether or not he was a monk, whether he was a Buddhist or a Taoist, or both. It is
not even certain he ever lived, but the poems do.
Hanshan, The collected songs of Cold Mountain, Translated by Red Pine (Bill Porter).
Introduction by John Blofeld. Port Townsend, Washington, Copper Canyon Press, 1983;
Revised and expanded edition, 2000. 272 p. > Selections
http://home.olympus.net/~brewster/PDFs/ColdMtnInt.pdf
Xiang Chu. Cold Mountain Poems and Notes, Zhonghua Book Company, Beijing, 1997, 2000,
2010. [313 Cold Mountain Poems, 57 Pick-up Poems, 6 Big-stick Poems]
Selections
PDF: Cold mountain: 100 poems by the Tang poet Han-shan. Translated by Burton
Watson. Grove Press, 1962, 118 p.
PDF: Cold Mountain Poems: Zen Poems of Han Shan, Shih Te, and Wang Fan-chih, Tr. J.P.
Seaton, Shambhala, 2009, 136 p.
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Guffawing in the wilderness: 13 poems by Han Shan; rendered by George Ellison. La Crosse,
Wisc. : Juniper Press, 1977. xiii p. [250 copies handset & printed.]
Cold Mountain Transcendental Poetry by the T'ang Zen Poet Han-shan: 96 poems translated by
Wanderling Poet, M. A. (Kindle Edition) [The source for this English translation is Xiang Chu.
Cold Mountain Poems and Notes]
The View from Cold Mountain: Poems of Han-Shan and Shih-Te, Tr. by Arthur Tobias, James
Sanford and J.P. Seaton; edited by Dennis Maloney, Buffalo, N.Y.: White Pine Press, 1982, [38]
p.
WU Chi-yu 吳其昱 (1915-2011): “A Study of Han-shan”, T'oung pao, Vol. 45 (1957), pp.
392-450.
http://www.jiscjournalarchives.ac.uk/browse/brill/00825433_issues/45_1957.html
http://booksandjournals.brillonline.com/content/10.1163/156853257x00071
The China Which is Here: Translating Classical Chinese Poetry: A thesis by Lawrence
Kwan-chee Yung
at the University of Warwick, May, 1998
Chapter 8. Gary Snyder: The Mountain and the Mind, pp. 209-241.
http://wrap.warwick.ac.uk/36378/1/WRAP_THESIS_Yung_1998.pdf
A Study on Imitating Activities of Hanshan Poems by Chan Buddhist Monks in SONG Dynasty
http://www.davidpublishing.com/davidpublishing/Upfile/7/12/2013/2013071201173771.pdf
Schafer, Edward H. and Eoyang, Eugene, trans. "[Han Shan] Four Untitled Poems" IN
Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry, Indiana University Press, 1990,
p. 91.pp. 90-91.
Kahn, Paul. "Han Shan in English." Renditions, No. 25, Spring, 1986, pp. 140-175. [Contains
complete English bibliography.]
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No one knows what sort of man Han-shan was. There are old people who knew him: they say he was a
poor man, a crazy character. He lived alone seventy Li (23 miles) west of the T'ang-hsing district of
T'ien-t'ai at a place called Cold Mountain. He often went down to the Kuo-ch'ing Temple. At the temple
lived Shih'te, who ran the dining hall. He sometimes saved leftovers for Han-shan, hiding them in a
bamboo tube. Han-shan would come and carry it away; walking the long veranda, calling and shouting
happily, talking and laughing to himself. Once the monks followed him, caught him, and made fun of him.
He stopped, clapped his hands, and laughed greatly - Ha Ha! - for a spell, then left.
He looked like a tramp. His body and face were old and beat. Yet in every word he breathed was a
meaning in line with the subtle principles of things, if only you thought of it deeply. Everything he said had
a feeling of Tao in it, profound and arcane secrets. His hat was made of birch bark, his clothes were ragged
and worn out, and his shoes were wood. Thus men who have made it hide their tracks: unifying categories
and interpenetrating things. On that long veranda calling and singing, in his words of reply Ha Ha! - the
three worlds revolve. Sometimes at the villages and farms he laughed and sang with cowherds.
Sometimes intractable, sometimes agreeable, his nature was happy of itself. But how could a person
without wisdom recognize him?
I once received a position as a petty official at Tan-ch'iu. The day I was to depart, I had a bad headache. I
called a doctor, but he couldn't cure me and it turned worse. Then I met a Buddhist Master named
Feng-kan, who said he came from the Kuo-ch'ing Temple of T'ien-t'ai especially to visit me. I asked him to
rescue me from my illness. He smiled and said, "The four realms are within the body; sickness comes from
illusion. If you want to do away with it, you need pure water." Someone brought water to the Master, who
spat it on me. In a moment the disease was rooted out. He then said, "There are miasmas in T'ai
prefecture, when you get there take care of yourself." I asked him, "Are there any wise men in your area I
could look on as Master?" He replied, "When you see him you don't recognize him, when you recognize
him you don't see him. If you want to see him, you can't rely on appearances. Then you can see him.
Han-shan is a Manjusri (one who has attained enlightenment and, in a future incarnation, will become
Buddha) hiding at Kuo-sh'ing. Shih-te is a Samantabbhadra (Bodhisattva of love). They look like poor
fellows and act like madmen. Sometimes they go and sometimes they come. They work in the kitchen of
the Kuo-ch'ing dining hall, tending the fire." When he was done talking he left.
I proceeded on my journey to my job at T'ai-chou, not forgetting this affair. I arrived three days later,
immediately went to a temple, and questioned an old monk. It seemed the Master had been truthful, so I
gave orders to see if T'ang-hsing really contained a Han-shan and Shih-te. The District Magistrate reported
to me: "In this district, seventy li west, is a mountain. People used to see a poor man heading from the
cliffs to stay awhile at Kuo-ch'ing. At the temple dining hall is a similar man named Shih-te." I made a
bow, and went to Kuo-ch'ing. I asked some people around the temple, "There used to be a Master named
Feng-kan here, Where is his place? And where can Han-shan and Shih-te be seen?" A monk named
T'ao-ch'iao spoke up: "Feng-kan the Master lived in back of the library. Nowadays nobody lives there; a
tiger often comes and roars. Han-shan and Shih-te are in the kitchen." The monk led me to Feng-kan's
yard. Then he opened the gate: all we saw was tiger tracks. I asked the monks Tao-ch'iao and Pao-te,
"When Feng-kan was here, what was his job?" The monks said, :He pounded and hulled rice. At night he
sang songs to amuse himself." Then we went to the kitchen, before the stoves. Two men were facing the
fire, laughing loudly. I made a bow. The two shouted Ho! at me. They struck their hands together -Ha Ha!
- great laughter. They shouted. Then they said, "Feng-kan - loose-tounged, loose-tounged. You don't
recognize Amitabha, (the Bodhisattva of mercy) why be courteous to us?" The monks gathered round,
surprise going through them. ""Why has a big official bowed to a pair of clowns?" The two men grabbed
hands and ran out of the temple. I cried, "Catch them" - but they quickly ran away. Han-shan returned to
Cold Mountain. I asked the monks, "Would those two men be willing to settle down at this temple?" I
ordered them to find a house, and to ask Han-shan and Shih-te to return and live at the temple.
I returned to my district and had two sets of clean clothes made, got some incense and such, and sent it
to the temple - but the two men didn't return. So I had it carried up to Cold Mountain. The packer saw
Han-shan, who called in a loud voice, "Thief! Thief!" and retreated into a mountain cave. He shouted, "I
tell you man, strive hard" - entered the cave and was gone. The cave closed of itself and they weren't able
to follow. Shih-te's tracks disappeared completely..
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I ordered Tao-ch'iao and the other monks to find out how they had lived, to hunt up the poems written on
bamboo, wood, stones, and cliffs - and also to collect those written on the walls of people's houses. There
were more than three hundred. On the wall of the Earth-shrine Shih-te had written some gatha (Buddhist
verse or song). It was all brought together and made into a book.
I hold to the principle of the Buddha-mind. It is fortunate to meet with men of Tao, so I have made this
eulogy.
1
The path to Han-shan's place is laughable,
A path, but no sign of cart or horse.
Converging gorges - hard to trace their twists
Jumbled cliffs - unbelievably rugged.
A thousand grasses bend with dew,
A hill of pines hums in the wind.
And now I've lost the shortcut home,
Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
2
In a tangle of cliffs, I chose a place -
Bird paths, but no trails for me.
What's beyond the yard?
White clouds clinging to vague rocks.
Now I've lived here - how many years -
Again and again, spring and winter pass.
Go tell families with silverware and cars
"What's the use of all that noise and money?"
3
In the mountains it's cold.
Always been cold, not just this year.
Jagged scarps forever snowed in
Woods in the dark ravines spitting mist.
Grass is still sprouting at the end of June,
Leaves begin to fall in early August.
And here I am, high on mountains,
Peering and peering, but I can't even see the sky.
4
I spur my horse through the wrecked town,
The wrecked town sinks my spirit.
High, low, old parapet walls
Big, small, the aging tombs.
I waggle my shadow, all alone;
Not even the crack of a shrinking coffin is heard.
I pity all those ordinary bones,
In the books of the Immortals they are nameless.
5
I wanted a good place to settle:
Cold Mountain would be safe.
Light wind in a hidden pine -
Listen close - the sound gets better.
Under it a gray haired man
Mumbles along reading Huang and Lao.
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6
Men ask the way to Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain: there's no through trail.
In summer, ice doesn't melt
The rising sun blurs in swirling fog.
How did I make it?
My heart's not the same as yours.
If your heart was like mine
You'd get it and be right here.
7
I settled at Cold Mountain long ago,
Already it seems like years and years.
Freely drifting, I prowl the woods and streams
And linger watching things themselves.
Men don't get this far into the mountains,
White clouds gather and billow.
Thin grass does for a mattress,
The blue sky makes a good quilt.
Happy with a stone under head
Let heaven and earth go about their changes.
8
Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain
The pine sings, but there's no wind.
Who can leap the word's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?
9
Rough and dark - the Cold Mountain trail,
Sharp cobbles - the icy creek bank.
Yammering, chirping - always birds
Bleak, alone, not even a lone hiker.
Whip, whip - the wind slaps my face
Whirled and tumbled - snow piles on my back.
Morning after morning I don't see the sun
Year after year, not a sign of spring.
10
I have lived at Cold Mountain
These thirty long years.
Yesterday I called on friends and family:
More than half had gone to the Yellow Springs.
Slowly consumed, like fire down a candle;
Forever flowing, like a passing river.
Now, morning, I face my lone shadow:
Suddenly my eyes are bleared with tears.
11
Spring water in the green creek is clear
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12
In my first thirty years of life
I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles.
Walked by rivers through deep green grass
Entered cities of boiling red dust.
Tried drugs, but couldn't make Immortal;
Read books and wrote poems on history.
Today I'm back at Cold Mountain:
I'll sleep by the creek and purify my ears.
13
I can't stand these bird songs
Now I'll go rest in my straw shack.
The cherry flowers are scarlet
The willow shoots up feathery.
Morning sun drives over blue peaks
Bright clouds wash green ponds.
Who knows that I'm out of the dusty world
Climbing the southern slope of Cold Mountain?
14
Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,
People who climb here are always getting scared.
When the moon shines, water sparkles clear
When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.
On the bare plum, flowers of snow
On the dead stump, leaves of mist.
At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live
At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks.
15
There's a naked bug at Cold Mountain
With a white body and a black head.
His hand holds two book scrolls,
One the Way and one its Power.
His shack's got no pots or oven,
He goes for a long walk with his shirt and pants askew.
But he always carries the sword of wisdom:
He means to cut down sensless craving.
16
Cold Mountain is a house
Without beans or walls.
The six doors left and right are open
The hall is sky blue.
The rooms all vacant and vague
The east wall beats on the west wall
At the center nothing.
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17
If I hide out at Cold Mountain
Living off mountain plants and berries -
All my lifetime, why worry?
One follows his karma through.
Days and months slip by like water,
Time is like sparks knocked off flint.
Go ahead and let the world change -
I'm happy to sit among these cliffs.
18
Most T'ien-t'ai men
Don't know Han-shan
Don't know his real thought
And call it silly talk.
19
Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease -
No more tangled, hung up mind.
I idly scribble poems on the rock cliff,
Taking whatever comes, like a drifting boat.
20
Some critic tried to put me down -
"Your poems lack the Basic Truth of Tao."
And I recall the old timers
Who were poor and didn't care.
I have to laugh at him,
He misses the point entirely,
Men like that
Ought to stick to making money.
21
I've lived at Cold Mountain - how many autumns.
Alone, I hum a song - utterly without regret.
Hungry, I eat one grain of Immortal medicine
Mind solid and sharp; leaning on a stone.
22
On top of Cold Mountain the lone round moon
Lights the whole clear cloudless sky.
Honor this priceless natural treasure
Concealed in five shadows, sunk deep in the flesh.
23
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start,
Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
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24
When men see Han-shan
They all say he's crazy
And not much to look at -
Dressed in rags and hides.
They don't get what I say
And I don't talk their language.
All I can say to those I meet:
"Try and make it to Cold Mountain."
27 Poems by Han-shan
Translated by Arthur Waley
In Encounter , September 1954, pp. 3-8
The Chinese poet Han-shan lived in the 8th and 9th centuries. He and his brothers worked a farm that
they had inherited; but he fell out with them, parted from his wife and family, and wandered from place to
place, reading many books and looking in vain for a patron. He finally settled as a recluse on the Cold
Mountain (Han-shan) and is always known as "Han-shan." This retreat was about twenty-five miles from
T'ien-t'ai, famous for its many monasteries, both Buddhist and Taoist, which Han-shan visited from time to
time. In one poem he speaks of himself as being over a hundred. This may be an exaggeration ; but it is
certain that he lived to a great age.
In his poems the Cold Mountain is often the name of a state of mind rather than of a locality. It is on this
conception, as well as on that of the "hidden treasure," the Buddha who is to be sought not somewhere
outside us, but "at home" in the heart, that the mysticism of the poems is based.
The poems, of which just over three hundred survive, have no titles.
I.
From my father and mother I inherited land enough
And need not envy others' orchards and fields.
Creak, creak goes the sound of my wife's loom;
Back and forth my children prattle at their play.
They clap their hands to make the flowers dance ;
Then chin on palm listen to the birds' song.
Does anyone ever come to pay his respects?
Yes, there is a woodcutter who often comes this way.
II.
I have thatched my rafters and made a peasant hut;
Horse and carriage seldom come to my gate--
Deep in the woods, where birds love to forgather,
By a broad stream, the home of many fish.
The mountain fruits child in hand I pluck;
My paddy fidd along with my wife I hoe.
And what have I got inside my house?
Nothing at all but one stand of books.
III.
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IV.
Wretched indeed is the scholar without money;
Who else knows such hunger and cold?
Having nothing to do he takes to writing poems,
He grinds them out till his thoughts refuse to work.
For a starveling's words no one has any use;
Accept the fact and cease your doleful sighs.
Even if you wrote your verses on a macaroon
And gave them to the dog, the dog would refuse to eat.
V.
Wise men, you have forsaken me;
Foolish men, I haw.' forsaken you.
Being not foolish and also not wise
Henceforward I shall hear from you no more.
When night falls I sing to the bright moon,
At break of dawn I dance among the white clouds.
Would you have me with closed lips and folded hands
Sit up straight, xvaifing for my hair to go grey?
VI.
I am sometimes asked the way to the Cold Mountain;
There is no path that goes all the way.
Even in summer the ice never melts ;
Far into the morning the mists gather thick.
How, you may ask, did I manage to get here?
My heart is not like your heart.
If only your heart were like mine
You too would be living where I live now.
VII.
Long, long the way to the Cold Mountain;
Stony, stony the banks of the chill stream.
Twitter, twitter--always there are birds;
Lorn and lone--no human but oneself.
Slip, slap the wind blows in one's face;
Flake by flake the snow piles on one's clothes.
Day after day one never sees the sun;
Year after year knows no spring.
VIII.
I make my way up the Cold Mountain path;
The way up seems never to end.
The valley so long and the ground so stony;
The stream so broad and the brush so tangled and thick.
The moss is slipperT, rain or no rain;
The pine-trees sing even when no wind blows.
Who can bring himself to transcend the bonds of the world
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IX.
Pile on pile, the glories of hill and stream;
Sunset mists enclose flanks of blue.
Brushed by the storm my gauze cap is wet;
The dew damps my straw-plaited coat.
My feet shod with stout pilgrim-shoes,
My hand grasping my old holly staff
Looking again beyond the dusty world
What use have 1 for a land of empty dreams?
X.
I went off quiedy to visit a wise monk,
Where misty mountains rose in myriad piles.
The Master himself showed me my way back,
Pointing to where the moon, that round lamp, hung.
XI.
In old days, when I was very poor,
Night by night I counted another's treasures.
There came a time when I thought things over
And decided to set up in business on my own.
So I dug at home and came upon a buried treasure;
A ball of saphire--that and nothing less!
There came a crowd of blue-eyed traders from the West
Who had planned together to bid for it and take it away.
But I straightway answered those merchants, saying
"This is a jewel that no price could buy."
XII.
Leisurely I wandered to the top of the Flowery Peak;
The day was calm and the morning sun flashed.
I looked into the dear sky on every side.
A white cloud was winging its crane's flight.
XIII.
I have for dwelling the shelter of a green cliff;
For garden, a thicket that knife has never trimmed.
Over it the flesh creepers hang their coils;
Ancient rocks stand straight and tall.
The mountain fruits I leave for the monkeys to pick;
The fish of the pool vanish into the heron's beak.
Taoist writings, one volume or two,
Under the trees I read-- nam, nam.
XIV.
The season's change has ended a dismal year;
Spring has come and the colours of things are flesh.
Mountain flowers laugh into the green pools,
The trees on the rock dance in the blue mist.
Bees and butterflies pursue their own pleasure;
Birds and fishes are there for my delight.
Thrilled with feelings of endless comradeship
From dusk to dawn I could not dose my eyes.
XV.
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XVI.
The people of the world when they see Han-shan
All regard him as not in his right mind.
His appearance, they say, is far from being attractive,
Tied up as he is in bits of tattered cloth.
"What we say, he cannot understand;
What he says, we do not say."
You who spend all your time in coming and going,
Why not try for once coming to the Han-shan?
XVII.
Ever since the time when I hid in the Cold Mountain
I have kept alive by eating the mountain fruits.
From day to day what is there to trouble me?
This my life follows a destined course.
The days and months flow ceaseless as a stream;
Our time is brief as the flash struck on a stone.
If Heaven and Earth shift, then let them shift;
I shall still be sitting happy among the rocks.
XVIII.
When the men of the world look for this path arnid the clouds
It vanishes, with not a trace where it lay.
The high peaks have many precipices;
On the widest gulleys hardly a gleam falls.
Green walls close behind and before;
White clouds gather east and west.
Do you want to know where the cloud-path lies?
The cloud-path leads from sky to sky.
XIX.
Since first I meant to explore the eastern cliff
And have not done so, countless years have passed.
Yesterday I pulled myself up by the creepers,
But half way, was baffled by storm and fog.
The cleft so narrow that my clothing got caught fast;
The moss so sticky that I could not free my shoes.
So I stopped here under this red cinnamon,
To sleep for a while on a pillow of white clouds.
XX.
Sitting alone I am sometimes overcome
By vague feelings of sadness and unrest.
Round the waist of the hill the clouds stretch and stretch;
At the mouth of the valley the winds sough and sigh.
A monkey comes; the trees bend and sway;
A bird goes into the wood with a shrill cry.
Time hastens the grey that wilts on my brow;
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XXI.
Last year when the spring birds were singing
At this time I thought about my brothers.
This year when chrysanthemums are fading
At this time the same thought comes back.
Green waters sob in a thousand streams,
Dark clouds lie flat on every side.
Till life ends, though I live a hundred years,
It will rend my heart to think of Ch'ang-an.
XXII.
In the third month when the silkworms were still small
The girls had time to go and gather flowers,
Along the wall they played with the butterflies,
Down by the water they pelted the old frog.
Into gauze sleeves they poured the ripe plums;
With their gold hairpins they dug up bamboo-sprouts.
With all that glitter of outward loveliness
How can the Cold Mountain hope to compete?
XXIII.
Last night I dreamt that I was back in my home
And saw my wife weaving at her loom.
She stayed her shutde as though thinking of something;
When she lifted it again it was as though she had no strength.
I called to her and she turned her head and looked;
She stared blankly, she did not know who I was.
Small wonder, for we parted years ago
When the hair on my temples was still its old colour.
XXIV.
I have sat here facing the Cold Mountain
Without budging for twenty-nine years.
Yesterday I went to visit friends and relations;
A good half had gone to the Springs of Death.
Life like a guttering candle wears away--
A stream whose waters forever flow and flow.
Today, with only my shadow for company,
Astonished I fred two tear-drops hang.
XXV.
In old days (how long ago it was!)
I remember a house that was lovelier than all the rest.
Peach and plum lined the little paths;
Orchid and iris grew by the stream below.
There walked beside it girls in satins and silks;
Within there glinted a robe of kingfisher-green.
That was how we met; I tried to call her to me,
But my tongue stuck and the words would not come.
XXVI.
I sit and gaze on tiffs highest peak of all;
Wherever I look there is distance without end.
I am all alone and no one knows I am here,
A lonely moon is mirrored in the cold pool.
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XXVII.
Should you look for a parable of life and death
Ice and water are the true comparisons.
Water binds and turns into ice;
Ice melts and again becomes water.
Whatever has died will certainly be born,
Whatever has come to life must needs die.
Ice and water do each other no harm;
Life and death too are both good.
Introduction
Han-shan, the Master of Cold Mountain, and
his friend Shi-te, lived in the late-eighth to
early-ninth century AD, in the sacred Tien-tai
Mountains of Chekiang Province, south of the
bay of Hangchow. The two laughing friends,
holding hands, come and go, but mostly go,
dashing into the wild, careless of others reality,
secure in their own. As Han-shan himself says,
his Zen is not in the poems. Zen is in the mind.
1.
2.
3.
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4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
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9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
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14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
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19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
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24.
25.
26.
27.
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Han-Shan was the incarnation of the Mahabodhisattva Manjusri. His poems, of course, do not belong to
the School of Poetic Laws but to that of Naturalism and Spiritualism. He himself also confessed that he
neglected those Poetic Laws, as is said in his poem:
Hence, those who want to learn the methods of poetic rules, laws, rhymes, tones and antithesis, do not
pay deep appreciation to Han-Shan's poems. Because there were many well known poets in the same
generation of the Tung Dynasty when Han-Shan lived, the young poets neglected Han-Shan and followed
others. However, the Buddhists of China, both scholars and practitioners, do like his poems very much.
When I was young I could repeat many of his poems.
Nowadays his poems are respected by Hippies in the West and many new translations have been recently
published. Burton Watson has translated 100 of Han-Shan's poems, Bill Wyatts about 80, Arthur Waley 27,
and Gary Snyder 24, as far as I have learned. There might be some more translations in English, French
and German which I have not yet seen. Our Saint Han-Shan foretold that his poems will inspire the whole
world and this seems to become true.
Hippies call him The Ancient Chinese Hippie. The problem is whether or not an Ancient Hippie is the same
as a modern one. I therefore made a comparative study and from the content and purport of Han-Shan's
poems, I give some advice to the modern Hippie with a hope that every modern Hippie can possess the
same merits and characteristics as Han-Shan. That is why this booklet has the title it does.
The total number of Han-Shan's poems was 600 as his poem states:
But nowadays we can find only about 300 of his poems because they were written on cave walls, trees,
bamboo and walls, some of which had already vanished in his lifetime.
Here I have translated about eighty poems. They are selected from the Chinese edition as a witness to my
advice and hope that every Hippie will treat them as the teaching of Han-Shan himself and that some
advantages of spiritual life may be found therein.
I. Drop Out
A. Han-Shan the Mahabodhisattva dropped out completely and never dropped into any community. He had
two very affectionate friends. One was Feng Kan, an incarnation of the Buddha Amitabha; the other was
Shih-Teh, an incarnation of Samantabhadra. Both were working in the Kuo-Ching monastery. Feng Kan was
a rice-pounder and Shih-Teh was an errand-boy in the kitchen who collected the surplus food and kept it in
a bamboo for Han-Shan. But they never united together as a community. Han-Shan did not even like the
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Our modern Hippie, after dropping out of the plastic society, drops into a modern plastic society in which
there are no laws, rules, leaders, but only over-freedom which creates many dangerous situations such as
suicide, homicide, venereal disease, craziness, and so on, even more so than in the plastic society.
B. Han-Shan dropped out like a deer who has been wounded by a hunter and flees away, never touching
any man again. Modern Hippies drop out like fish when bait is swallowed. They are easily lured by some
party That is why some Chinese Hippies in California work for the Communist Party, being lured by $20 per
day! Try reading this poem of Han-Shan and take the example of the deer:
C. Han-Shan's dropping out resulted in his poverty, but the modern Hippies still take the good food of the
plastic society and use the modern things of the plastic society. Are not habits like movies and singing
inherited from the plastic society? Han-Shan begged--is there any modern Hippie who is really like a
beggar? Actually most Hippies are from the middle class; they have money to spend in the same manner
as other members of the plastic society.
My dear Hippies, try reading the following poems. Would not tears drop from your sympathetic eyes!
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D. Han Shan had passed through the hearing and thinking knowledges of Buddhism and was hastened by
the Truth of Impermanence to drop out for the purpose of having more time to practice Buddhism
diligently. But in Hippiedom, other than those few who have already become Buddhists, most Hippies
never see any kind of truth in religion and are driven by the industrial tension of their nation, difficult
examinations of college and the heavy responsibility of family to drop-out. They want only rest, relaxation
and laziness, and they have not meditated on the idea of impermanence. When they were rebelling, they
hoisted flags on which was written, "There is no cure for birth or death, but enjoy the interval." Their
definition of birth and death are the actual dates of one's birth and death and the whole lifetime between
those dates is the interval. But Buddhists say our life is only based upon inhalation and exhalation, when
one is stopped, life is finished. One realizes that one dies every second, there is no certain or confirmed
interval, so one has to utilize even a microsecond to practice the Dharma and one should not do any other
worldly tasks. That is why one must drop out completely. So many hungup people scarcely drop out
despite my tearful advice. If you have already dropped out, it is very rare and you must meditate on the
truth of Impermanence and practice the Dharma diligently. One should not be lazy. Please read the
following poems of Han-Shan carefully:
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II. Turn On
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One of his poems may be misunderstood to mean that he had taken drugs. But in my translation below,
the sentences are very clear:
The Chinese transliteration of what I translate as Gatha Pill is "Chia T'o". It is from hybrid Sanskrit and can
have two meanings, either translated from Gatha which means stanza, or from Agoda which means a kind
of medicine. The former meaning can take the latter as its metaphor as the Agoda can cure the poison, so
the stanza of Dharma (Gatha) can cure the mental poison. It was not a pill for longevity or for searching
for God. In a translation of this poem by a Westerner this was mistaken as a drug, but I translate it as
Gatha which means stanza, and it may be proved by the Buddha's saying in the Avatamsaka Sutra:
B. Han-Shan never turned on to free love. From the following poems we know what his idea concerning
women was:
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Han-Shan viewed those girls as all other things as impermanent. He did not live even with his own wife.
His poem quoted below can prove this:
What Dharmas was Han-Shan turning on to? The poems mentioned below have been classified. My good
Hippies may take them as good examples and practice the same as did Han-Shan himself or his
incarnations.
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D. Han-Shan turned on to the great compassion. Although he dropped out he never hated the Hung-ups as
deeply as modern Hippies do. My good Hippies, try to practice the Bodhicitta and great compassion, and
do not join any rebelling movement if you desire real fellowship with Han-Shan.
From the above poem we know he was so kind that he hoped to save others by living and practicing on the
peak together.
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E. Han-Shan turned on to meditation throughout his whole lifetime. Modern Hippies like meditation. But
they do not like to make preparation for it. They do not like to follow the many steps to reach it. Such an
important practice cannot only be found in poems. Please read my book Buddhist Meditation: Systematic
and Practical. All the preparation, steps, and methods, of Samatha and Samadhi are included within it.
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III. Tune In
A. Han-Shan tuned in to nature which has nothing to do with primitive life, long hair and long beards, but
the nature of landscapes and his own body and mind. He harmonized himself and identified himself with
nature. There is no differentiation between subject and object. Read the following poems:
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D. Han-Shan finally tuned in to his great Nirvana which is no-birth and no-death. Read the following
poems. They make this booklet an auspicious end of no-end.
Han-Shan-Tze,
Ever Thus!
Living alone,
No birth no death!!
Without turning on there would be no tuning in: without practice, no perfection. I have given much advice
upon the Buddhist course in the booklet entitled "Welcome Hippies Through This Way" (Booklet New No.
48). Please kindly refer to it.
Han Shan
Translated by D. T. Suzuki
Essays in Zen Buddhism, Third Series, 1953, pp. 160-161.
"Han Shan and Shih-te are two inseparable characters in the history of Zen Buddhism, forming
one of the most favourite
subjects of Sumiye painting by Zen artists. Han Shan was a poet-recluse of the T'ang
dynasty. His features looked worn
out, and his body was covered in clothes all in tatters. He wore a head gear made of
birch-bark and his feet carried a pair
of sabots too large for them. He frequently visited the Kuo-ch'ing monastery at T'ien-tai,
where he was fed with whatever
remnants there were from the monk's table. He would walk quietly up and down through the
corridors, occasionally talking
aloud to himself or to the air. When he was driven out, he would clap his hands and laughing
loudly would leave the
monastery."
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Han Shan
Translated by R. H. Blyth
Zen and Zen Classics , Volume 2: History of Zen. The Hokuseido Press, 1964. pp. 159-171.
I live in a village;
And everybody praises me to the skies,
But yesterday I went to the town.
Even the dog watched me suspiciously;
The people don't like the cut of my coat,
Or my trousers are too long or too short for them.
If an eagle is struck blind,
The sparrows fly openly.
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RISING EARLY
DIALOGUE
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AUDIENCE
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GARDENING IN AUTUMN
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REALITY
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DAY LABOR
BURIAL
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I DO NOT ANSWER
WHY I STARE INTO PUDDLES
HUMAN NATURE
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CONUNDRUM
DIVIDENDS
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Translated by Dongbo 東波
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Ha ha ha.
If I show joy and ease my troubled mind,
Worldly troubles into joy transform.
Worry for others--it does no good in the end.
The great Dao, all amid joy, is reborn.
In a joyous state, ruler and subject accord,
In a joyous home, father and son get along.
If brothers increase their joy, the world will flourish.
If husband and wife have joy, it's worthy of song.
What guest and host can bear a lack of joy?
Both high and low, in joy, lose their woe before long.
Ha ha ha.
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