LIU, Yong

Liquorice Root

Autumn sunset

lotus flowers flecked with

raindrop pearls

moonlight reveals

the rain has passed

a pair of mandarin ducks

shiver by the pool

above

leaning on the parapet

downcast without her lover

she wonders how to bear

such loneliness

together with her parrot

in its golden cage

she recites again

his parting words.


Partridge Omen

Jewelled hair-coil

green jasper pin

she’s skilfully presented

in natural green

radiant red

amply lined with ruffled silk

she sings just one song:

springtime

a song worth more than gold

beloved of emperors and nobles

focused on the melody

she hides her blushes

swaying to the sound of castanets

but can’t quite manage

to conceal her distress

her singing rises loud and clear

answering the moan of strings and pipes

at times her dark eyes

seem to return the gaze

of one or other in the audience

enslaving hearts

but each must understand

the longings that her song reveals

are there for someone else.


Butterflies in love with flowers

While I lean against the banister of a tall tower,

The breeze gently blows.

As I look into the distance,

The end of Spring arouses melancholy in my mind.

Surrounded by dewy grass at sunset,

I wonder who is able to understand my longing.

I would rather drink to intoxication.

One should sing when one has wine in hand,

But drinking to escape offers no reprieve.

I do not mind that my clothes are getting looser.

My lover is worthy of desire.

Enchanted by Immortals

Fresh out of childhood

my hair done in cloud-coils

I soon learned song and dance

bowed before feasting nobles

who shared my favours

casually bought my smiles

flashing their gold

now I’m afraid

my bloom will fade

from squandered days and nights

once sir, in your kind care

this flower would flourish

hand in hand we could wander

ten thousand li under sunset skies

I’d renounce forever

mist and blossom company

never again would you see me play

with morning clouds and evening rain

Magnolia Flower

Everyone admires you

but whenever I come close

you turn your haughty face away

if you care so little for me

why do we meet so often in my dreams?

please listen to me now

to save my feeble spirit from disaster

this poet’s heart is not too strong –

tug so hard and it’s sure to break

Moon of an Autumn Night

Once together

then parting

I told myself

no reason now to see her face again

then by chance

we met again at a feast

over wine and whispered words

brows furrowed

sighing deeply

she wakened all those past regrets

with brimming tears

she murmured in my ear

a thousand accusations:

how could you hold so many things

hidden in your heart?

I want to believe you can be true

with no entanglements

no choice now

I must decide

to spend more time with her

Outside the Curtain,

Her phoenix quilt

mandarin duck canopy

so close

I want to go in

but tasselled curtains brush the floor

the heavy door is still

I know that shuffle of embroidered shoes

muffled steps across the bedroom

her flaunted smile and chatter

that voice so graceful

fluent as a reed pipe

already dressed and made up

caressing the pipa

she sings of lover’s yearning

as if her heart confesses

outside the curtain listening

how much heartbreak have I earned?

she alone would understand

this wretchedness.

Song

She lowers her fragrant curtain

wanting to speak her love.

She hesitates, she frowns,

the night is too soon over!

Her lover is first to bed,

warming the duck-down quilt.

She lays aside her needle,

drops her rich silk skirt,

eager for his embrace.

He asks one thing:

that the lamp remain lit.

He wants to see her face.

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For long I stand at the window in the gentle breeze

Staring into infinity at spring melancholy

Somberly growing on the horizon.

In the fading light, mist-shimmer on the grass

Who can understand why I lean, wordless, on the balustrade?

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Song of Boiling Sea-Water

What do they live on, the people who boil sea water,

The women with no silk to weave, the men no plows?

How fragile the source of their livelihood!

When you finish boiling it in the cauldron, you pay it for taxes.

Spring and summer, year after year, the tide covers the shore,

When the tide recedes they scrape the sand into islands.

Dried by wind, baked by the sun, it grows more salt,

Washed with sea water, it makes a stream of brine;

As the brine thickens, they continuously sample the taste.

They go deep into endless hills to collect firewood

Regardless of panther tracks, tiger trails.

They depart with the sunrise and return at sunset;

Carried on the back or by boat, with no rest ever,

The wood they throw into the great furnace, blazing hot,

Burning by day, flaming through the night, until heaped up high

At last, is the snow they have made from the ocean's waves,

From pools of brine to flying flakes of frost.

For food to eat they had no choice but to borrow.

Now, weighed in at the official station, it brings a paltry price,

And every borrowed string of cash must be repaid with ten.

Around and around it goes and never stops

Government taxes still unpaid, the private rents now due.

They drive their wives, push their sons to work their share;

Their form is human, but their complexion is vegetable.

How bitter is life for the people who boil the water of the sea!

How can they make their parents rich, their sons not poor?

Under this dynasty not a creature loses its place;

I wish the royal kindness might spread to the shores of the sea,

Wash weapons and armor clean, put a stop to taxes in kind

So that our ruler may have a surplus and end the tax on salt.

In time of peace if the ministers will stick to salt!

We will be back to the happy days of Hsia, Shang, and Chou.

Bells ringing in the rain

Cicadas chill

Drearily shrill.

We stand face to face in an evening hour

Before the pavilion, after a sudden shower.

Can we care for drinking before we part?

At the city gate

We are lingering late,

But the boat is waiting for me to depart.

Hand in hand we gaze at each other’s tearful eyes

And burst into sobs with words congealed on our lips.

I’ll go my way,

Far, far away.

On miles and miles of misty waves where sail ships,

And evening clouds hang low in boundless Southern skies.

Lovers would grieve at parting as of old.

How could I stand this clear autumn day so cold!

Where shall I be found at daybreak

From wine awake?

Moored by a riverbank planted with willow trees

Beneath the waning moon and in the morning breeze.

I’ll be gone for a year.

In vain would good times and fine scenes appear.

However gallant I am on my part,

To whom can I lay bare my heart?