Son Mountain 15: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Divining a far-flung place to dwell,

Peace of Heaven—there’s nothing more to say.

Gibbons cry from the cold mists of the valley,

glowing peaks merge into a grass gate,

leaves thatch the roof of a home in the pines,

a pond is channeled from a spring.

Content at last to drop the world,

picking ferns as the years fall away.

(from the translations of RP79, RH-78, BW-43)

Son Mountain 14: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

My home is below lush green cliffs

with weeds in the yard uncropped—

vines hang in spiraling loops,

ancient rock rises high and steep,

monkeys gather the highland fruit,

egrets fill their bills with fish from the pond.

One or two scrolls of the immortals

go murmuring under the trees.

(from the translations of RP22, RH-16, BW-72)

On Cold Mountain, Translations, and 19

There appears to be more than one cold mountain—the real cold mountain is an absolute cold mountain—the rest are but limited buddhist frauds.

Intent at this point is transcreate all or most of what i see as absolute cold mountain—maybe less than 10% of the collection—but who knows?

By reading three translations of a single poem, one sees the poem that hasn't been translated. I call this triangulating the translations.

Just got a book called 19 ways of looking at wang wei with 19 translations of a single poem. In cribbage it's impossible to get a hand of 19.

Father and uncle playing cribbage on a red picnic table at half moon lake—when one has zero for a hand, cards thrown in disgust crying "19!"

Cribbage hand can score up to 29—also no 25, 26, 27 but 28 & 29 are quite rare—20 thru 24 will be seen making the absence of 19 noteworthy.

So a 19-sided polygon is known as an enneadecagon or enneakaidecagon or anonadecagon. So i'm off anonadecagonning.

Son Mountain 13: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I’ve yearned to go to that eastern cliff

for numerous years until just now—

yesterday I climbed by means of vines

but halfway there was checked by mist and wind,

and the path was too narrow wearing clothes,

and the moss was too slick wearing shoes.

I stopped beneath a red perennial cinnamon tree

to sleep with a cloud for a pillow.

(from the translations of RP-9, RH-295, BW-75)

Son Mountain 12: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

In the mountains it’s cold

always cold and not just this year—

peaks upon peaks choked in snow,

deep dark woods hawking up mists,

things only begin to grow after the start of summer

and leaves fall before autumn begins.

Anyone who wanders here gets lost

looking and looking not seeing the sky.

(from the translations of RP-6, RH-67, BW-47, GS-3)

Son Mountain 11: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I came to sit on Cold Mountain

and stayed for thirty years—

yesterday I looked back on friends and relatives

but more than half had dropped to Yellow Springs,

slowly vanishing as fire burns a candle,

passing as a river always flowing.

This morning as I face my solitary shadow

quickly tears are running in two streams.

(from the translations of RP-53, RH-49, BW-85, GS-10)

Son Mountain 10: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Since I disappeared to Cold Mountain

I’ve lived off its fruits and berries—

what worry is there in a life

abiding in the elements of cause,

days and months flowing like a stream,

time sparking off of rocks.

The world can change with heaven and earth

but I’m content to sit within these cliffs.

(from the translations of RP-169, RH-170, GS-17)

Son Mountain 9: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

When someone sees Cold Mountain

all declare he’s wild and crazy—

his face isn’t much to look at,

his body is wrapped in rags and fur,

they don’t understand his words

and he doesn’t speak their words.

His reply to all these passersby:

come and gaze on Cold Mountain.

(from the translations of RP-218, RH-220, GS-24, BW-57)

Son Mountain 8: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

When looking for a place to dwell

Cold Mountain gives enduring shelter—

light winds blow through hidden pines

and closer it sounds better,

beneath them is a silver-haired presence

murmuring immortal words.

It’s been ten years since I’ve returned

forgetting the way I arrived.

(from the translations of RP-4, RH-20, GS-5, BW-50)

Son Mountain 7: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

People ask the way to Cold Mountain

but Cold Mountain isn’t attainable by road—

in summer the ice never melts,

when the sun’s out, it’s hidden by fog.

How did one like myself get here, you ask?

Maybe my heart and yours aren’t the same.

If your heart were the same as mine

you’d already be here inside.

(from the translations of RP-16, RH-226, BW-82, GS-6)