Collection of Poems Written by Xiaoren1 in His First Month Online (The Too-Not-For-Children Ones Are Excluded)

Without wine, meals have no flavor; without poetry, wine has no interest. Having drunk up the water of a thousand rivers, how can one utter a single word?

Clouds confuse and mist obscures the old pavilion pool; her longing and his love remain unresolved. What day will the spring night see your rising again? Across the river, wind and rain are all lustful verse.

Spring comes but flowers won't bloom; rain scatters but birds still cry. The moon surges through the waters of a thousand rivers — who can say what is high and what is low?

In the human world, life's grievances are empty — wine, lust, wealth, fame — desires all differ. Why does Eden have its forbidden fruit? Who seeks sin, dreaming in heaven?

When nature is frequent, thought grows frequent too; when thought is frequent, the tongue grows poor. Heaven and earth are but a single sheet of paper — each character, a star.

The wallet is nearly dry — who will fill it up? The poetry forum has its Springs and Autumns — yet it's the Kangxi-Qianlong era again.

Traces of the Great Wall still visible; what a pity the Epang Palace is already gone. The First Emperor had many benevolent policies — he just buried some rotten scholars.

Where in heaven and earth is there not purity? Confucius the Second deleted poems and falsely claimed sagehood. From then on, heaven and earth had but one color — a thousand years and yet ten thousand years of flourishing.

Climbing the west tower alone, the moonlight cool; Jinling spring rain drips on red blossoms. A thousand years of refined scholars across the divine continent — winning a landscape ten thousand miles long.

A thousand years of great scholars, so many — yet none compares to a single commoner. Even hearing the dharma is still at one remove — who is attached to applause?

Xiaoren is no sir — just a floating duckweed on the vast sea. The four great elements have yet to settle — drifting with waves and riding the swells.

No need to look at the appearance — naturally an ugly freak. Sallow-faced and bony-thin — but the heart is still quite wicked.

Why play these games? The lofty gentlemen never get things right. Tang wind linked with Song rain — a thousand years and still no clearing.

Qi is deviant, heart is deviant, nature too is deviant — deviant and straight coiled like a snake. Green mountains don't necessarily carry flowing water — above, floating clouds half-conceal them.

A guest within the net of red dust — what traps me is this knowing. Without knowing, heaven and earth are vast — everywhere, wonders of their own.

Without mind, mind has already settled — yet mind settled is neither being nor nonbeing. Being and nonbeing both unsettled — still only halfway there.

Burdened in the red dust by this body — who is not a corpse-bearer? Body comes, body goes, with nowhere to rest — heaven and earth always retain one point of truth.

Lofty scholars are all old men — Xiaoren's head is not yet old — Lofty scholars often lie about lazily — Xiaoren must rise early
Lofty scholars gnaw on book covers — Xiaoren's belly is full of grass — Too much grass to chew the cud — can't even think straight
Though just a rice weevil — can't tell millet from paddy — Sees a beard and calls him "sir" — sees a bosom and calls her "ma'am"
Always making jokes — everywhere a living treasure — Body like a three-inch nail — bone-thin, skin pallid
Shoes covered in bird droppings — clothes covered in fleas — Never scrapes off the dried mud — never sweeps the filthy dust
Has one more bad habit — wants to hug everyone on sight — Regardless of beauty or ugliness — young lady or village crone
Day and night, clouds tumble and rain falls — features already withered — Looks like it won't be long — before being wrapped in white shroud
Not a single redeeming quality — but one good thing — Doesn't eat the emperor's grain — doesn't wear the master's coat
No incense burned at temples — no prayers at churches — No yearning for heavenly halls — no longing for overseas islands
Not-dharma in the dharma of dharma — not-Dao in the Dao of Dao — No heart and no lungs — not a worry in the world
Hair black or hair white — teeth black or teeth bright — Xiaoren or lofty scholar — all are made of clay
The lofty scholar does nothing special — eats, pisses, and bathes — Once the great name is established — everything goes upside down
Shark fin secretly scooped with rice — eating jujubes in front of others — Watching the sun set at South Mountain — under moonlight, visiting the madam
Inner sage blows hot air — outer king stirs the paste — Talks literature and talks war — opens his mouth and rhetoric pours out
Looks down on everyone — tests anyone he meets — His tone bigger than the sky — wants to protect the people
In the end, just a rotten skin-bag — better to blow up a bunker — Or maybe stuff in some medicine — tie it up and let it dry
Five thousand years from now — might be studied and debated — Why emulate the First Emperor — vainly preserving one's youth
Dig a hole on the hilltop — wield an iron pick at the grave mound — Bury heaven and bury earth — who says heaven and earth are vast
Don't plant catalpa on the north hill — don't plant oak on the south — The wild goose's claw leaves no trace — who cares how vast heaven and earth are

Please again and again — the great men always get their way. The Yellow River's water won't clear — a thousand years and still no peace.

Wind is high, rain still fierce — every household shuts its doors. The Yellow River, thousands of miles — how much soil sinks in its current.

Don't take chapters out of context — it's neither form nor vessel. If you don't look at a thousand years of bamboo — every one of them is a cruel magistrate.

After three rounds, none have scored — could work as a Viagra sales manager. Chickens, ducks, cows, sheep, pigs, mules, horses — from today, all under heaven are one family.

Can poetry reach the heights of Yellow Crane Tower? That's beyond my ability — equality and freedom are all detestable. Ghosts and monsters, humans and demons each have their preferences — which Enlightenment figure can serve as a beacon?

As if playing, as if gaming — how can form and qi bind you? The wild goose flies a thousand miles away — who still insists on boring through?

A wanderer of the three realms — neither gods nor ghosts are deluded. On the day before King Yama's court — even without wine, we'll sit face to face.

On stage and below the stage, it's all a show — who among them is drunk? Illusory people create illusory scenes — don't try to interpret their meaning.

Has the summer heat ever truly oppressed? It's just people going topsy-turvy.
Water and fire, their natures like illusion — fish and shrimp throw themselves into the cauldron.
All things, their forms both empty and existent — circles and squares, what binds what?
Glass and clay are one body — perpetually reflecting and shimmering.
People are blind not because of their eyes — it has nothing to do with light being strong or weak.
Trees dense or sparse — the cicada's tune is hard to rely on.
Dusty thoughts chase after carriages — how can outlines be preserved?
Prosperity flourishes then declines — love has always been thin.
In the great furnace between heaven and earth — birth and death, who can grasp them?
Parting thoughts ride the wind away — passing over mountains and ravines.
No self, no non-self — if you don't understand, don't force interpretations.

Ascending the hall: Airs, Elegantiae, Hymns; under the covers: Jin Ping Mei. Confucius the Second's descendants are thriving — always occupying the high platform.

The four great elements combine by chance — following karma, each goes east or west. The tide comes, spring waters rush — unaware they've already crossed the dyke.

Xiaoren asks the moderator: which words cannot be uttered? In the grand mansion with deep gates, what kind of tree should be planted? If one plants wrong, will one be reported to the authorities?
My ears have been hard of hearing all my life — I can't hear the drum before the hall. Blind and cannot see — the rules and squares on the pillars. I only feel the road ahead is dark — as if there are knives and axes.
In short, for us common folk — left or right, it's all suffering.

Colors and claws — all spoken for the blind. One should speak in one's native tongue — slavishly copying the ancients is mere parrotry.

When the mind gives rise to demons, demons arise of themselves — when will it ever end? Looking ahead at the road to the Yellow Springs — how many seconds remain?

Heaven and earth are clean everywhere — where does filth come from? All things are equal without difference — only the mediocre cling to love. The lotus boat is empty and void — it can carry anything.
Recognize the treasure within your robe — don't be obstructed by words.

Discussing matters without being stuck on the matter — yes is still yes. Stuck on the matter without discussing it — just treat it as a game. The lofty pavilion doesn't find itself filthy — the latrine doesn't pinch its nose.
Heaven and earth are spacious everywhere — where can one not sleep?

Without spear and without head — the mediocre oppose themselves. Heaven and earth are but floating bubbles — nobody is worthy.

Under the First Emperor's blade, tens of thousands of corpses — Li Si carved inscriptions on stone. It's just that the book-burning was too soft-hearted — later generations of the poetry forum surpassed their predecessors.

Pitiful guest within the net — spinning in confusion.
Who dwells among the four great elements? Who enters heaven and earth's cauldron?
Form and spirit, empty and existent — what binds, what is bound?
Arising from conditions, not a unity — like illusions, reflecting and shimmering.
In confusion, knowing begins with objects — worries arise from youth.
The five aggregates are falsely woven — form and vessel cannot be relied on.
Dusty thoughts chase after conditions — the three realms, desolate and vast.
Habitual tendencies dissolve as one walks — don't let the field of merit grow thin.
The blind turtle crosses the bitter sea — how can the floating log be found?
Vainglory is a dream in a mirror — in an instant, boat and ravine are gone.
Where is the poor man's robe? — The bright pearl is there, truly there.

Under the First Emperor's blade, a ghost — on the internet, a person beside the axe. Don't blame it on the red dust within — there are so many ass-kissing ministers nowadays.

The Human King and the Demon King — who among them lacks logic? Why must one always be right? Nobody is going to get worked up over you.

The Human King and the Demon King — who among them doesn't serve the people? It's just that when it's time to pay the bill — they want copper and they want silver.

The character for "official" has two mouths — always making up stories. No wonder the reports are full of — nothing but fake numbers.

Warning after warning — handing out big hats at the sight of a head. No one is worth cursing — not even a bandit.

Open schemes and hidden schemes — no reasons needed. As long as the officials have mouths — the Yellow River can flow westward.

Moderator and Xiaoren — naturally quite different. The moderator wears a feathered cap — Xiaoren doesn't have a copper coin.

Hands err but the heart does not — foolish the person, more foolish the love. Next year when flowers send their word — together we'll plant bamboo branches.

Games in the mirror raise dust indeed — why take everything so seriously? The snow-print remains briefly, the wild goose long gone — don't look at phantom shadows and add needless anger.

Rain ends, the long sky clear and pure — set sail departing from the distant bay.
Vast waves ten thousand miles away — shattered sun stirs golden shimmer.
Clouds dry on trees at heaven's edge — wind shifts the mountains on the sea.
Come drink the ocean's boundless wine — and sprinkle once to intoxicate the mortal world.

In August, treading the waves across the grey-green sea — whale-surges, cruel waves swallowing the distant sky.
Raging dragons crack stone, clouds spew ink — startled steeds overturn carts, the sun loses its red.
Since ancient times, heroes have had fire-blood — today's personages are all gold and bronze.
The great Peng spreads its wings, embracing the cosmos — through ten thousand kalpas, heaven and earth are shaken in one tremor.

Pick up the brush and stand a thousand words — why need a draft in the belly? Poetry is also prose — don't draw a circle and imprison yourself.

The prophet dies before his time — a hundred generations leave their branches. Fooling gods and fooling ghosts — everywhere playing at miracles.

Forced to change one's name — why are heaven and earth so blind? Smash the sun and moon to pieces — and heaven and earth will find their own peace.

The Way of Heaven is originally nothing — suffering gathers in emptiness and existence.
The void shatters of itself — clinging to it like straw dogs.
Mountains are and are not mountains — shedding the collar, no elbows left.
Without true contemplation — don't pretend to roar like a lion.

Death is illusion as life is illusion — who would torment themselves over every affair.
Even dharma-marks should be abandoned, let alone non-dharma — the oars must be left behind, how much more the ferry-boat.
A thousand carts of yellow scrolls still blind the eyes — that single point on the spiritual terrace has nothing to do with conditions.
Within the bounds of Great Tang there is no knowledge — when has the bright mirror ever hung outside its own reflection.

To be great, one must be large — above and below are always reliable. The autumn wind is not for the leaves — it just carries away the red clouds.

Not yet divided but already split — wasting mouth and tongue for nothing. On the Eastern Sea, raging fire — another track left in the void.

Here comes one-thirty again — Xiaoren must duck out first. Haven't yet eaten lunch — already breathing my last.

Red peach dances with light sleeves — zither and lute sing in harmony. From before the hall, a dark fragrance drifts — stirring waves across the entire sky.

Vast, vast is the universe — yet it can't hold a few characters. Sun and moon are originally colorless — once they enter the eyes, they breed incidents.

Better to banter a bit less — there should be some substance in the belly. A puff of pure smoke through the nostril — beats eating jujubes.

Wearing straw and dark shades — iron palm skimming over water. Without eyes, heaven and earth are vast — planting bean sprouts in fire.

What cannot be said is best left unsaid — saying it only wastes the tongue. How dare the wronged wife speak — there isn't even June snow.

The mountain flies but clouds don't move — the wind stops but shadows still drift. Brushing the sea, whales overturn the waves — heaven and earth fit in one gourd.

Light flows, the sky's reflection clean — mountain sounds remote as emptiness. A single path unknown to man — flickering in and out of the evening clouds.

Unborn, rejoicing all day long — where does the doubt of birth and death come from? — Doubt arises because one clings to having — having clings, and thus entanglement begins
Floating clouds: fame for ten thousand ages — dung and earth: tombstones for a thousand years — This body has nowhere else to lodge — not yet settled, already departed
Willows lingering by the riverside — deer calling in the forest — Every day is a good day — every hour is the hour of blossoming
The tide rises and falls again — the moon waxes and wanes — The world has not so many troubles — why fuss about action or inaction
Don't steal the pearl upon the dust — don't cling to wonders in the dharma — Can the bright pearl belong to "having"? — To say "nothing" is also foolish
When having and nothing are both abandoned — one is still in the ghost-realm of thought — Sit and watch heaven and earth turn — stand and watch heaven and earth hang
Wild geese fly, wind over water — flowers fall, moonlight on the branch — Every dharma is unstained — not a mote of dust is left behind
Vast and boundless, the mundane and sacred dissolve — serene, entering joy and sorrow — Birth and death met with a single laugh — purity and filth, both left to be
Birth-and-death: the grace of sentient beings — purity-and-filth: the compassion of sentient beings — Empty flowers perform the Buddha's work — the illusory mirror plays with the Demon Master
To face calamity, a thousand bodies go — through hardship, one vow follows — Is Avici Hell empty or not yet empty? — Is Bodhi attained or not yet attained?
The song of the qin, naturally serene and drifting — don't peer into the moon for answers