The Songs of Chu

by Gopal Sukhu

  With no good go-between at her side—

  In the hearts of far-away bird land her image daily fades.

  She would be willing to plead her own case, but finding no way,

  She faces the distant northern mountains and weeps,

  And gazes down on flowing waters and sighs.

  I yearned for these short nights of early summer,

  Yet dusk to dawn is long as a year.

  Despite the distance from here to Ying,

  My spirit goes there many times a night.

  Not knowing which roads were crooked or straight

  My spirit takes the moon and stars as guides,

  Looking for a direct route, but seeing none,

  Back and forth it wanders till it finds the way back.

  And why is my soul so doggedly faithful?

  The hearts of others are not like mine,

  My go-between is useless, she cannot make the match,

  And still you have no idea who I am.

  Luan:

  Against the long rush of the rapids,

  Against the current of the Jiang and Tan Rivers,

  Turning my madman’s eyes everywhere, I head south,

  To ease my heart for now.

  But a strangely gnarled rock towers before me,

  Hobbling my resolve,

  I hesitate, I waver,

  And advance cautiously.

  Now with lingering doubts,

  I spend the night in Beigu,38

  Agitated and confused,

  For in fact I’m but a wretched vagabond,

  A sad, sighing, bitter soul,

  A spirit yearning for someone far away,

  But the journey is too long and I live in an unknown place,

  And there are no matchmakers here.

  I made this song of my yearning

  For a moment’s diversion,

  But my sorry heart will not sing along—

  To whom, then, will I tell these things?

  5

  “A BOSOM FULL OF SAND”

  懷沙

  “HUAI SHA”

  Tradition has it that this poem is Qu Yuan’s suicide note. In Sima Qian’s biography, Qu Yuan composes (or recites) a slightly different version of it just before he jumps into the Miluo River. This takes place after a dialogue with a fisherman, who advises him to be less adamant and more adaptable. The episode involving the fisherman appears almost word for word in the Songs of Chu under the title “The Fisherman,” with a somewhat different ending—no “Bosom Full of Sand,” no suicide, just the fisherman floating downstream singing his Daoist advice. In the biography the story is presented as fact; in the anthology it is presented as parable. All of this renders the claim that “Bosom Full of Sand” is a real suicide note, or even the work of Qu Yuan, suspect.

  The title refers to the practice of filling one’s robe above the sash with sand in order make sure one’s body sinks in water. It was one of many methods available to those who preferred suicide by drowning. Some say that the title means “yearning (huai) for sand (sha),” “Sand” being one of the ancient names for the place that is now known as Changsha (Long Sands) in Hunan. The fact that there is little in the way of longing for any particular place in the poem would seem to disqualify that interpretation.

  A Bosom Full of Sand

  Summer’s virile fire rising,

  Plants and trees teeming, teeming,

  My heart wounded and keening,

  As I speed on the torrent to the south land.

  My eye wanders unpeopled vastness,39

  Its silence broad and tranquil,

  while grief’s cords bind me tighter,

  And my pain and poverty deepen.

  Yet looking within I find consolation,

  In a heart that though wronged maintains its control.

  They whittle the square to make it round,

  But eternal laws can’t be ignored.

  Altering principles with which we began

  Is what the noble-minded abhor.

  If it was clearly marked and mindfully inked,

  The plan as drawn we do not revise.

  A sincere heart on an unswerving path

  Is what the great extol.

  If Craftsman Chui40 had not taught how to cut wood,

  Who could make wheels round or arrows straight?

  Texts written in the blackest ink are hidden from view,

  Because the blind find them hard to read.

  And when Lou Li41 squints but slightly,

  The purblind think he cannot see.

  They change white to black,

  Invert the up and make it down.

  They keep the phoenix in a bamboo cage,

  While chickens and ducks dance through the air.

  They mix jadestones and pebbles in a pail,

  Level them off to weigh on the same scale.

  It is surely the stupidity of the cabal

  That blinds their eyes to any worth in me.

  Struggling under a heavy weight

  I’ve fallen into an uncrossable bog.

  The jin jade is in my hand, the yu jade,42 behind my lapels—

  To whom will I show them now?

  A pack of village dogs barking,

  Barking at what before they’ve never seen—

  Rejecting the extraordinary, suspecting the outstanding

  Is always the way of mediocrities.

  Mine is the simplest grain in the plainest wood, but deep.

  The crowd does not care for my unusual pattern.

  I am an abandoned pile of timber and lumber,

  You do not know what you have in me.

  Yet I redouble my benevolence, fortify my integrity,

  And with careful magnanimity increase my inner wealth.

  But Chonghua43 is no longer with us—

  Who now understands behavior such as mine?

  Long is the history of worthies who find no good ruler,

  And who knows why?

  Long gone are Tang and Yu44—

  Too distant even to yearn for.

  So I will break this bond and drop my anger,

  Restrain and steel myself.

  Though I suffer, my dream will never change,

  Let it be an ideal for others to follow.

  I proceed on my way and stop in the north,

  The dimming sun on its downward path.

  I’ll let go of my worries, find play in grief,

  My only limit, the great end.

  Luan:

  Yuan and Xiang, wide, surging rivers,

  swiftly flowing their separate ways,

  This long road hidden in the forest,

  Takes me to the far unknown.

  My character and will

  Keep me lonely and friendless.

  With Bo Le45 no longer with us,

  Who can judge a good horse?

  The span of each person’s life

  Is measured in advance.

  With heart set, but mind wide open,

  What have I to fear?

  But the blades keep cutting and the tears keep flowing,

  And I sigh and endlessly sigh.

  In this world’s muddy waters no one knows

  Who I am, nor will they let me speak my heart.

  Death, I know, cannot be refused,

  And so I will not grudge it a life.

  Let me clearly announce to the noble spirits,

  I will emulate you.

  6

  “LONGING FOR THE BEAUTIFUL ONE”

  思美人

  “SI MEIREN”

  David Hawkes thought this poem might be made up of two fragments, for it appears to break in the middle with the words “Spring opens,” which may be a clumsy attempt to write a song using various elements from the “Li sao.” Here, just as in the “Li sao,” the relationship between lovers is a metaphor for that between minister and ruler; plants stand for people, the wagon and the road it travels symbolize the state and how it is ruled,
and Peng and Xian figure as embodiments of spiritual and moral integrity. The suddenly shifting images and scenes are also rather similar to those in the “Li sao” as well as the Nine Songs.

  Longing for the Beautiful One

  Longing for the beautiful one,

  I stand staring wide-eyed, brushing away tears.

  The matchmaking has failed, my way is blocked,

  And I can’t send my words, even bound in a parcel.

  For me, the speaker of plain truth, only trouble and resentment,

  And to be stuck in a bog I cannot escape.

  Night and day I speak my heart out loud,

  But my dream sinks in the bulrushes and never reaches you.

  I would send you my words on a floating cloud,

  But when I ask Fenglong,46 he will not take them.

  I would have homing birds convey my message,

  But of course they fly too high and fast to stop for such a task.

  Gao Xin’s47 spirit power was so great

  That the Mysterious Bird delivered his engagement gift to Jiandi.48

  I would discard my principles to follow the vulgar,

  But I’m ashamed to change course and thwart my own will.

  Year after year I have suffered these wrongs.

  Yes, I am full of anger, but my heart is still unchanged.

  I would rather bear the suffering for the rest of my life—

  What other course could I even entertain?

  I know there is no smooth ride in old wheel tracks,

  But I refuse to take another route.

  Though my wagon has capsized, and the horses have fallen,

  My heart will always long for this one road.

  So, bridling Qi and Ji, I’ll yoke them to the wagon again.

  Zao Fu49 will drive them for us.

  Let us move forward slowly, don’t rush.

  Wait, for the time being, for the right moment.

  I point to the west side of Bozhong Mountain,50

  Let us meet there in the red and golden dusk.

  Spring opens, growing season

  Begins with the rise of the slow white sun.

  I’ll steal a moment of play to clear my heart,

  To forget my worries along the Yangtze and the Summer Rivers.51

  In the great thicket I pick fragrant angelica,

  And gather evergreens on the islet, root and all,

  Regretting I was born too late to meet the ancients—

  With whom will I enjoy these sweet-smelling herbs?

  The people here untangle knotweed to string through garden vegetables,

  And work them into double sashes.

  Banquet makings they luxuriantly wind around their waists,

  And, of course, they wither and fall.

  I tarry forgetting my worries, for now,

  Watching the strange ways of the southerners,

  Who when glad in their hearts,

  Pretend to be fighting mad.

  Where fragrant herbs and mud mix,

  Fragrant flowers will surely rise above it.52

  Their luxurious fragrance will carry far,

  For what fills within will gradually waft out.

  If you maintain integrity and character,

  You will be widely known, though you live out of view.

  Let creeping fig53 be my matchmaker?

  I’m afraid to lift my foot to climb the tree.

  Depend on lotus to be my go-between?

  I dread hoisting my robe to muddy my feet.

  I find no joy in climbing so high,

  And am incapable of sinking so low.

  Indeed it is my nature to never submit,

  So I pace the ground and do not act.

  I will follow the plan exactly as first drawn.

  My principles will never change.

  I will live in exile, if that is my fate, for I am nearing my end.

  I hope to use the time before sunset

  To travel through the south alone,

  For I long to see Peng and Xian.54

  7

  “I LOOK BACK IN SADNESS”

  惜往日

  “XI WANG RI”

  This is one of the poems that even premodern scholars doubted was written by Qu Yuan. As far back as the Song dynasty it was noticed that this poem, like “I Grieve When the Whirlwind” (Bei hui feng), holds up Wu Zixu as an exemplary figure. Wu Zixu, however, defected from Chu to Wu and thus would seem an inappropriate hero for a member of the Chu royal family like Qu Yuan. On the other hand, one text excavated from the Chu tomb at Guodian presents Wu Zixu as a hero.55 It is difficult to say at this point how sensitive Chu royals of the fourth century B.C.E. were about the case of Wu Zixu.

  Another reason for doubting that Qu Yuan wrote it is that it appears to follow closely the Shiji biography. Finally, as Galal Walker has observed, it borrows too much from a later work, “Mourning Ying,” to be considered an early work.

  I Look Back in Sadness

  I look back in sadness to the days when I was trusted,

  When I received your order to brighten the times,

  To continue the sage-kings’ task of enlightening the ruled,

  And clear up difficulties in interpreting the law.

  The kingdom was prosperous and strong, the law was enforced.

  After you entrusted governance to me, your loyal slave, you daily rejoiced.

  My heart was where you kept the royal secrets,

  And, even when I erred, you did not punish me.

  But though a heart so simple and honest never leaks,

  It attracted slander and envy.

  You dealt with me angrily,

  For you never distinguished the true from the false.

  They sealed your ears and eyes,

  Confused you with empty claims—deceived you.

  You drew no line between fact and fiction—

  You simply sent me far out of sight—and out of mind.

  You believed the filth of slanderers.

  Blinded by furious visions you punished me.

  Why did they cover me, your blameless, upright slave,

  With so much slander and abuse?

  Because I was reliable as the sun and the moon,

  And it put them to shame,

  Now I hide from them in a dark place.

  I look into the depths of the Yuan and Xiang Rivers,

  Steeling myself to jump in and drown.

  And though my body and name in the end disappear,

  I’d regret if my lord had never known the truth.

  Without standard to measure or eye to see

  You’ve let fields of fragrant herbs become the darkest swamp.

  Where can I show my love and regain your trust

  So that I can die in peace or stop living in vain?

  The only one barred at the gateway and hidden from view,

  Your honest slave is at a loss.

  I have heard that Baili56 was held captive,

  That Yi Yin57 worked in the kitchen,

  That Lü Wang58 was a butcher in Zhaoge,

  That Ning Qi59 sang as he fed oxen.

  If they had not met the likes of Tang, Yu, Huan, or Duke Mu,

  Who in the world would know of them?

  The King of Wu so believed slander he couldn’t tell sweet from bitter,

  But when Wu Zi60 died, his worries began.

  Only after Jia Zi’s61 loyalty reduced him to dry bones standing

  Did Duke Wen of Jin wake up and go to find him,

  And when he found him, he renamed the place for him,

  and declared it sacred,

  To repay a debt so vast.

  And missing the friend who had never left his side,

  He donned white hemp and wept.

  Some are so loyal they will die for you,

  Some, so skilled in deceit, you will never doubt.

  Not examining the facts

  You believed the slanderer’s empty claims—

&nb
sp; Now the flowers are mixed with the mud,

  And who even in the light of day can tell them apart?

  Why do fragrant herbs die early?

  Because they take no precautions when fine frost falls.

  You must be handicapped by hearing loss

  To allow slanderers and flatterers to gain ground by the day!

  Even in the past there were those who, jealous of the worthy,

  Claimed that basil and galangal were not good belt charms.

  Envious of the fragrance of the beautiful and refined,

  Momu62 made herself alluring and thought herself beautiful.

  Even if you have the beauty of a Xi Shi,

  Envious slanderers will enter and displace you.

  I wish to set forth the facts that show that behind my actions

  There was no intention to offend.

  It should be clear, in the light of day, that I was dealt with unjustly,

  As clear as the constellations in the night sky.

  Try not falling from a chariot drawn by thoroughbreds

  running wild without bridle and bit.

  Try controlling a raft racing downstream

  with no oars.

  Is it any different when you ignore the law

  and try to rule on whim?

  I would prefer escape by sudden death

  To seeing the next inevitable catastrophe.

  If I do not drown myself before finishing my plea,

  It is because I pity my benighted lord in his confusion.

  8

  “HYMN TO A MANDARIN ORANGE TREE”

  橘松

  “JU SONG”

  There are many theories about this poem. Most are based on the assumption that it is a work by Qu Yuan, which inevitably leads to attempts to locate what part of his political career it describes. Because it has no hint of the bitter disappointment we see in many of the other works attributed to him, some scholars assume that it was composed during his youth when his hopes and aspirations were still fresh and unthwarted. Some of those who subscribe to this theory even claim that Qu Yuan wrote it to praise himself. Others think that it was written when he was still an officer at court and that the poem is a kind of self-defense against slander. Still others think that it was written after his exile to the south, where he was inspired by the sight of mandarin orange trees growing there.

  The poem becomes much more interesting if we concentrate less on questions of authorship and politics and examine the lore behind its rhetoric. Wang Yi, his attempt at forcing it into the Qu Yuan story notwithstanding, provides a very good clue to its rhetoric. He cites an old Chinese belief according to which the mandarin orange tree (Citrus reticulata) grows south of the Yangtze River, but, if it is planted north of the Yangtze, it changes into the hardy orange (Poncirus trifoliata), which has similar leaves and blossoms but bitter fruit.63 He, however, began the tradition of thinking that the tree in the poem is growing in the south. I take the opposite view.