The poems from Clouds and Mist in a Cup of Tea《茶汤里的烟云》诗辑

A curled leaf, wrapped in mountain mist and morning fog,
uncurls its body in boiling water,
shedding its shy creases,
unfurling all its tenderness.

The meeting of leaf and water
is a fated union.
It asks no name,
makes no distinction between good or evil, beauty or ugliness,
but pours clear bitterness and mellow sweetness
evenly into every cup.

Some sip lightly and understand:
this is joy, aged in time’s hidden cellar.
Some gulp it down,
leaving only bitterness on their tongue.
But those who truly know
can hear the leaf whisper in the water,
telling stories of its growth
and the purest taste of life.

Wisps of tea mist rise,
as if smiling upon the many faces of human life.
Silent always,
it hides the truth
in every sip,
awaiting the destined heart
to read slowly and savor deeply.

The beauty of calligraphy
is like a silent poem,
a painting alive with movement.
On a sheet of xuan paper, ink releases its fragrance,
the brush glides like a dancer on tiptoe,
leaving gentleness and resilience,
the feelings of the heart flowing through horizontal and vertical strokes.

Its beauty lies in spirit:
a dot falls like a boulder from a peak,
a horizontal stroke like ranks of clouds stretching a thousand miles,
a vertical stroke like a withered vine ten thousand years old.
Together these varied forms
compose living characters,
carrying the weight of millennia,
of history and culture.
Through ink and brush
you converse with the ancients,
you resonate with Heaven and Earth,
you touch the still strength within.

The beauty of calligraphy
is found as well in the living flow of brushwork,
like walking meditation, like Chan contemplation:
Spreading the paper, grinding the ink, lifting the brush, setting it in motion—
every gesture relaxed and aware.
It is a ritual through which life turns inward,
the flowing beauty of our deepest nature.

Beneath your Bodhi tree, O Buddha,
I long to become a blue lotus,
my petals unfolding,
lightly touching the traces of your footsteps.

The ancient temple, silent for centuries,
guards the gaze you left upon this world.
The wheel of time turns like a voiceless rain,
nourishing the compassion in the Bodhisattva’s heart.

You sit beneath the Bodhi tree,
becoming a cool breath,
bringing stillness
to my fevered world.

Your smile is a beam of light,
piercing through the mist of the soul,
guiding me through the noise of life
back to the refuge within.
I long to lose myself in your wisdom,
so that my soul may rest
in the embrace of your compassion.

I walk a road founded on craving,
and dwell in a fortress forged of anger.
Wildflowers blaze across the hills—
a wild celebration of the deluded heart.

In this dusty Saha world,
I offer a blessing free of ill will:
may all beings be free from suffering,
their hearts turning toward peace.

Yet the heart caught in samsara
remains enamored of illusory forms.
The vehicle of Nirvana reaches out
a hand of liberation.

With enamored eyes
I gaze deeply upon the Saha world,
upon the dusty road
beneath the wheel of the formless.

The joys and sorrows that once were
become blossoms of Bodhi.

Through the long river of samsara,
may love and compassion
remain forever with this heart.

Between firewood, rice, oil, and salt,
a faint light of awakening hides.
Every small task is an unopened koan.
Your fingertips, working over the desk,
are weaving the warp and weft of awakening.
You need not wait to leave life behind
to find the gate of awakening.

In the instant awareness opens,
the white tea in your hand comes alive.
When tea fragrance passes through the throat,
it is no mere aroma,
but a dialogue between life and the living leaf,
awareness made tangible in this very moment.
The richness of the tea, the moisture on lips and teeth
all are known directly in the meeting of sense and experience.

True awakening
is our inner nature slowly stirring within life,
like morning mist drifting across a stream.
When drinking tea, know you are drinking tea;
when working, know you are working.
Let each moment carry the clarity of awareness.
This is how life becomes practice,
and practice flows into life.

The Way hides in the smallest gestures of daily life:
in the crisp clink of bowls and chopsticks,
in the dust stirred by a broom,
in the tea mist rising as water is poured,
in the warmth of a cup passed from hand to hand.

Every moment of sincerity
is a knock upon the gate of the Way.
No need to ask for whom you act,
no need to wait for a result.
Like a sunflower growing toward the sun,
it does so with no ulterior motive.

Awareness is the finest staff of Chan.
Lean on it through the unfamiliar lanes of everyday life.
When sweeping, let the heart rise and fall with the broom.
When brewing tea, let awareness follow the tea as it flows.
When meeting others, let sincerity flow through your words.
The stillness within movement
is the most genuine practice of all.

Mindfulness is the anchor of the heart,
cast into the waters of the present,
so it cannot be swept away by waves of distraction.
Concentration is like bedrock:
while tides of thought rise and fall,
it keeps its steady shape.

Gentleness is not the softness of compromise,
but the strength of a spring breeze passing over ice.
Neither rigidly resisting
nor dissolving with the current;
in this state the mind unfolds,
like branches bathed in even sunlight.
To guard the heart with mindfulness
is what true composure looks like.

Mindfulness is the heart’s steadying remedy.
Amid turmoil, it keeps us clear,
like moonlight spreading across a lake:
illuminating the ripples,
while guarding the stillness at its core.

We come into the world bare,
our palms empty, not even a wisp of wind held fast.
We leave it just as bare,
our fingers still empty,
unable to take even a single fallen leaf.

What we call “possessions”
are only passing guests in life.
Houses are but resting inns,
wealth a stream that flows on,
even love, hate, anger, and delusion
all but clouds lodging briefly in the heart.

Since there is no true gain or loss,
why not loosen the grip of your hands?
Let sunlight fall into your palms,
let fragrance drift across your sleeve.
Live each moment
as gratitude for a gift received:
laugh without reserve,
love without restraint,
watch a sunset in full wonder
as if you never thought to pack it
into your traveling bag.

The meditation cushion
is a patch of open ground for acceptance,
where restlessness may settle,
where worries may sit.
No need to drive them away, no need to reshape them
like rain passing across a window lattice:
just watch, and it flows on.

True meditation practice
is not entangled in gain or loss,
nor wavering between right and wrong.
Hold no expectations of anything,
not even awakening.
Let it be like waiting quietly
for a flower to bloom.

Exhale, like a stream slipping over stones
neither hurried nor slow, tracing a steady curve.
Inhale, like a spring bud pushing through frozen earth
silent and even, carrying a balanced strength.
With each breath in and out,
emotions sink gently with the current,
like murky water
settling into clarity.

Let mindfulness be the shadow of breath.
Inhaling, watch thoughts gather and disperse like clouds,
neither chasing nor rejecting—only knowing clearly.
Then let wholesome qualities flow with the breath,
seeping into every vein,
like sunlight threading through leaves,
bathing body and mind in warmth.

Exhaling, turn this fullness
into a wind sweeping over the hills,
blowing into every corner in need.
There is no need to choose a destination;
let a compassionate vow ride the breath,
spreading naturally through the hearts of all beings.
Each inhale, each exhale is practice
within the rise and fall of breath,
completing a gentle cycle of benefiting oneself and others.

Confusion is the starting point of practice,
like a mountain path shrouded in fog—
precisely where the way is unclear,
there, leave footprints of awareness.
Setbacks are not stumbling blocks,
but stepping stones beneath your feet,
letting the gaze of practice reach farther.

Mistakes are the soil
where practice takes root.
The sting of error
awakens sleeping vigilance.
Do not rush to erase the marks;
let them stand as bright signposts,
guiding the heart toward clarity.

Enlightenment never dwells in perfect dreams.
When you can accept what remains imperfect,
life can blossom from the cracks.
The ground of practice is not a spotless hall;
it is covered with the marks of ordinary life.
Pain is light cast into the fog,
so that even an imperfect life
is lit from within.

When a problem weighs as heavy as a boulder,
tightening even your breath,
lay down a cushion
and sit upon it.
No need to rush to lift it,
no need to force it apart;
just sit with it,
listen to the rise and fall of your breath.

Give each other some space,
like two trees standing apart:
roots linked in the soil,
branches each spreading freely.
In that distance lies the chance to see clearly:
the sharp edges of the problem
slowly take shape,
the heart softens from its strain.

Every problem is a gift from life,
an awakening hidden beneath a hard shell.
When you cease resisting
and simply watch,
you will see it quietly changing
from stumbling block to stepping stone,
from shackle to key.

Weights that exceed what you can bear
come only to remind you
to stop,
to face yourself with care.
In the meditative stillness of sitting together,
the problem is no longer an end,
but a path toward awakening within.

You accept yourself,
and sit with yourself.
You accept your problems,
and sit with your problems.
You accept your unease,
and sit with your unease.
You accept your illness,
and sit with your illness.
You accept your foolishness,
and sit with your foolishness.
You see mountains, rivers, and the great earth,
and sit in stillness with all things.
In meditation, simply observe things as they are,
until the world is nothing more
than one breath in, one breath out.

When my gaze meets yours,
you are already there
like a mountain rising through clouds.
I lower my gaze and sit,
sharing the quiet beauty of this cushion with you.

When your breath brushes past my ear,
you are already there
like wind moving through the forest.
I attune my breathing,
letting my heart’s rhythm blend with yours.

When my fingertips touch the warmth of the cup,
the tea is already there
like moonlight steeped in water.
I lift it, sip lightly,
letting the tea’s fragrance unfold in the stillness of Chan.

When my palm feels the steadiness of the earth,
the earth is already there
like a silent sage.
I lower and settle my body,
sharing in its steadiness.

Seated on the cushion,
my heart breathes with all things.
In this moment of awareness,
we become part of each other.
All that exists
is a companion in shared practice;
with each breath,
our inner nature comes to wholeness.

Our hearts are like the potter’s wheel,
turning without pause.
Every moment,
body and mind draw in impressions,
gather skills,
and shape the image of self.
You may fashion yourself into a poet,
weaving dreams with words;
or into an artist,
painting the world in color.
You may become a Chan master,
realizing truth in silence,
or an engineer,
building futures with wisdom.

As water mixes with clay,
and a potter sets it on the wheel,
we can be shaped into countless forms:
a simple, ancient teapot,
or an elegant flower vase.

What form life takes depends wholly on the wisdom of the heart.
With mindfulness and awareness as our material,
and the Dharma-water of compassion and love flowing through,
we shape a life toward wholeness,
completing its living chapter.

Longing for freedom as unbound as wind,
crossing the vast expanse of time and space,
untouched by worldly fetters,
unimprisoned by the passing years.

The heart, like the wind,
brushes mountains, rivers, and lakes,
listens to the voices of all things,
sweeps across green meadows,
threads through forest canopies
where leaves whisper and shadows dance.

The heart, like the wind,
smiles at joy and sorrow,
at partings and reunions.
It clings not to the splendor of the past,
nor fears the fog of the future.
It steps freely,
wandering into boundless wilderness.

Let the heart fly with the wind,
free and untethered,
merging into the far horizon
where sea and sky meet.

Life is like a notebook,
recording all that happens—
right and wrong,
good and evil,
beauty and flaw.
Each moment inscribes its causes and conditions.

You can choose
to nourish your life with compassion
in every present moment.
Or you can choose
to let negativity fill its pages,
allowing harmful emotions to rule your days.

It is all in your hands.
If you wish life to unfold
as a beautiful scroll,
then connect with the world through love,
welcome each day with a smile,
treat those beside you with sincerity.
When every thought springs from love,
life will blossom into beautiful flowers and fruit.

Preconception is a frame drawn in advance;
no matter how vivid reality is,
it is cut into rigid shapes.
Release fixed views of self,
as if wiping dust from a window,
and let things appear as they truly are,
shining into the heart.

The mind’s imaginings are clouds in the sky—
lively to look at, yet unable to grasp the essence.
If you keep walking on clouds,
your feet will never touch solid ground.
Life in the present is a rushing river,
each second reshaping its spray.
Impermanence is not a synonym for chaos,
but the very form of flow.

Clinging to past experience
is like hauling a heavy anchor
that leaves you unable to move in the current of the present.
Yet the opportunity in each moment
is vivid and fleeting.
Causes and conditions are like dandelions in the wind:
seemingly without order, yet each follows its own path.

To meet the moment
is to unfurl your sail in the direction of the wind.
To hold the moment
is to keep the boat’s center steady among the waves.
To use the moment
is to let each action follow the rhythm of now,
neither veering left nor right.
In flow you find the fulcrum of balance—
this is the Middle Way.

Patience is a chair you offer a problem;
let it sit and slowly tell its story.
Troubles magnified by imagination
shrink beneath a steady gaze,
like reefs revealed at low tide,
their true shapes uncovered.

Do not let fear steer your course;
it always sails into fog.
Hold fast to patience as your compass,
and you’ll find fear is but a passing wind;
once it has blown through,
the sky remains clear.

Search within the problem
for the gift it hides:
perhaps a resilience you had not noticed,
perhaps a turning you had overlooked.
When understanding takes the place of resistance,
the situation changes its face;
from hardship may sprout fresh shoots,
within difficulty may glow a gentle light.

Like contemplating an evening washed with rain,
where dark clouds and afterglow each have their own beauty,
in the moment of acceptance you discover:
the present is a painting full of meaning.
And you—
both the viewer
and part of the scene.

While your feet rush through daily errands,
let your heart sit quietly on a cushion
like a wind chime under the eaves:
however fierce the gusts,
it keeps its own rhythm.

No matter how busy you are,
spare a glance for the grass on the sill.
Even if the keyboard rattles loudly,
don’t forget to hear the rhythm of your breath.
Do not let haste sweep away your calm within;
it is a resting place for the weary,
the anchor that steadies chaos.
However crowded your hours,
leave a corner for the heart,
where moonlight can fall in,
where the spirit of Chan can take root.

One who clings to pain
will always dwell with pain.
One who clings to illness
will forever live inside it.
But a healthy, joyful heart
is ever reaching to embrace the good.

A healthy soul
always holds an empty cup,
ready to catch the flower fragrance carried on the wind.
Even in a driving storm,
it hears raindrops from the eaves
as the drumbeats of awakening.
Let the soil of suffering
grow roots that turn toward the sun.

Teach your ears to dive
into the spaces between words,
where unsaid tides
rise and fall.
The weight of a pause
outweighs a thousand words piled high.

Teach your eyes to see through visible outlines,
to read where light and shadow cross,
to recognize the elusive shapes that hide:
the sigh suspended on trembling lashes,
not yet fallen,
the half-secret leaking
through tightened fingers.

This is another way of seeing and hearing.
Within the territory of silence,
truth takes shape without a sound,
growing
into its clearest contours.

Preconception is a pair of tinted glasses:
put them on,
and mountains lose their true green,
waters fade from their clarity.

Habit is an invisible wall.
When it hems in your steps,
even the liveliest breeze
cannot enter the closed chamber of the heart.

The beauty of all things is free by nature:
flowers bloom at their own rhythm,
whether or not they are watched;
the moon scatters the same clear light,
whether or not it is admired.
It is our assumptions and habitual inertia
that give them labels
and draw their boundaries.

But if you can remove the glasses,
push down the walls,
and let the naked gaze meet things themselves,
you’ll discover:
in every vein of a fallen leaf
there hides its own poetry,
and every dancing mote of dust
carries the rhythm of freedom.
Beauty has always been waiting
for a mind free of preconception
to see things as they are.

Suffering is a gift with sharp edges;
joy, a parcel sweetened with honey—
both delivered by impermanence,
knocking at life’s door.

You cannot choose what the package holds,
but you can choose the expression you wear
as you open it:
to frown and refuse,
or to accept with a smile.

Let your smile become the vessel of the heart:
able to hold the cold of a downpour
and the warmth of the sun.
When every change is received with gentleness,
life is no longer a passive drift,
but a voyage steered by your own hands,
charting your own course
through the currents of impermanence.

The deception of others is like dust—
brush it aside, and the original outline reappears.
More dangerous is the net we weave ourselves,
its warp and weft made of “should” and “must,”
trapping truth at its center,
using illusory expectations as honey
to feed the self that refuses to wake.

When the “I” becomes the greatest deceiver,
every word of self-consolation is a dull blade,
slowly cutting at the roots of life.
This harm hides deep in consciousness,
unseen, unfelt,
yet it quietly erodes the heart’s ability
to discern its direction.

So rather than guarding against the winds outside,
polish the mirror within.
See each thought in its true form.
Do not let your own attachments trip you—
that is the strongest armor
life can wear.

Practice need not be strung tight like a bowstring.
Allow yourself a touch of ease.
Sit on the cushion as if on your own doorstep—
not to become a Buddha,
not for enlightenment,
but simply to let the stiffness of the heart
unwind in a relaxed posture.

When thoughts come, let them come,
like clouds drifting through the sky—
no need to drive them away.
The inner cosmos has its own winds;
there is no need to carve out paths for them;
they will come and they will go.

The moment before tea is a pause for settling.
Do not chase after thoughts,
do not rush to finish the tea.
Simply rest in the warmth of this tea.
Let me practice in this leisurely way—
not posing, not holding anything in,
like wild grass growing in the field.
Freedom itself
is my best posture.

There are moments
when human nature shines with purest light
like snow falling into a silent wilderness,
like the crisp crack of a spring bud breaking frozen earth.
Enough to make a fading soul
clutch once more at the ember,
igniting a whole spring in its eyes.

And there are moments
when it tears open a dark seam
with the finality of ink flung into clear water,
like the cold hardness of hail striking a flower bud.
It can drag vibrant life
into a lightless sea,
turning cries for help
into soundless bubbles.

Between these two poles
hang the scales within each of us:
on one side, the warmth of redemption;
on the other, the weight of descent.

When wind brushes softly across my fingertips,
I close my eyes
and listen quietly to the currents within.
Anxiety surges,
tension pulls beneath awareness,
sorrow spreads through the heart.
They are built from layers of ancient fear,
painful energies carried by the body.
Relaxation is not easy;
still, we try to practice in each present moment.

As awareness wakes from a dream,
the breath lets the heart relax.
Inhaling draws joy’s breeze
into every cell;
exhaling releases sorrow and worry
from each one.

Let the corners of your mouth lift gently.
Let a smile, like dandelion seeds,
ride the wind into every corner
waiting to be awakened.
When the first glimmer of light blooms at your brow,
the whole world
will be warmed by love.

I like
to let life move through mountains, forests, and waters.

I like
to let life flow like wind through streets and alleys.

I like
to let life’s steps reach every corner of the world.

The beauty of life is its flow.
I have left nothing behind in this world,
nor can I carry anything away.
Like the clouds in the sky,
passing across this earth,
vanishing into the air,
only to be born anew
somewhere else.

Set it down
that smug cleverness of yours.
Before nature’s boundless wisdom,
it is no more than a flicker of candlelight.

Nature carries hidden codes of wonder;
every inch of earth, every stretch of sea
holds within it the power to heal itself.

A flower’s withering is not the end:
its petals return to soil,
gathering strength for a new bloom.

A river winds around obstacles,
cleansing its muddied waters through every bend.

Do not, in the name of love,
extend a hand to control.
What seems a gentle bond
is in truth a shackle on freedom.

The wind
is freedom’s messenger,
moving unbound through the world.
When you ride with the wind,
you break free of worldly fetters.
As you weave through the forest,
each stride light as a swallow,
as if walking among clouds.

To ride the wind
is to chase the distant horizon,
to let it guide your course
into the unknown,
where the most beautiful vistas await.
In the wind
you can hear the soul’s call:
the yearning for freedom,
the direction of dreams.

To ride the wind
is to open yourself to the courage deep within,
to embrace the fullness of life.
Let the wind of loving-kindness
move with you through life.
Cast off the shackles of the heart;
set out on a journey to explore within.
Let the wind become your wings,
lifting you toward
the boundless stars.

At the eaves of an old courtyard house,
the remnants of years tremble lightly.
Moss spreads across green bricks,
inking circles of time.
Wind and rain beat down
on burdens of attachment.
In the mud, footprints deepen, then fade.
Bare feet press through endless delusions,
pebbles pressing against the calluses on my palm.
Alone in the courtyard,
sandalwood smoke drifts with the wind,
dreamlike, illusory.
Fingers brush the lingering warmth and fragrance of tea;
charcoal beneath the kettle
slowly warms an unspoken past.
Through an empty, still heart
flow pain and joy, worry and sorrow—
the sparest landscape of the human world.

Each sweet-tart fruit was nature’s own gift.
The pear blossom
The village brimmed with vitality,
is the purest moonlight held at the heart’s tenderest point.
filled with bright, innocent laughter.
Each time I recall childhood,
Birdsong and the fragrance of flowers,
those years return wrapped in its sweetness.
barking dogs and crowing roosters—
In a haze of memory, childhood collides with now,
all were lively notes of the hills,
quietly meeting my gaze.
breathing life into the quiet village.
My hometown
These fragments of childhood
was a Peach Blossom Spring cradled gently by pear trees.
are pearls carefully kept,
Pear trees filled the front and back
glimmering across the river of years.
of our old, rustic courtyard compound.
Now, cradling a cup of our own aged white tea,
When spring breezes stirred,
every lingering sip is steeped in longing for home.
the pear blossoms woke like spirits,
trees upon trees, clusters upon clusters,
all bursting into bloom.

Pear branches crossed the lintel bearing the inscription
Shidu Ernan,
petals white as snow drifted over the walls.
Mist veiled the distant terraced tea hills,
blossoms dotted the hills, forests, and village.
For a moment,
the whole world was tinted
with a dreamy, poetic glow.

The village then
was like a pastoral scroll unrolled:
villagers scattered among hills and fields,
children rolled up their pant legs by the stream,
chasing one another through the clear water,
splashes catching sunlight,
shimmering into a starry river.

In autumn, children sought wild fruit,
returning with arms full, joy overflowing.