by Li He
Gold or metal (jin) 73
Red (hong) 69
Blue-green (ching) 68
True-green or emerald (lu) 48
Yellow (huang) 45
Luminescent blue-green or sapphire (bi) 26
Silver (yin) 21
Purple (zi) 25
Turquoise or kingfisher-blue (cui) 21
Black (hei) 11
Vermilion (zhu) 9
Azure (cang) 9
Russet or dark red (chi) 3
Cinnabar (dan) 3
Deep red (jiang) 3
Reddish-brown (zhe) 2
Greenish-white (piao) 2
Indigo (lan) 2
Powder-blue (piao-fen) 1
Rosy-red (cheng) 1
Blood-red (xue se) 1
Jet-black (dai) 1
He’s liking for white, a colour associated in China not with purity and virginity but with mourning and misfortune, is highly significant. To the Chinese, white is an unlucky colour, suggesting death and old age. In the Han system of correspondences it was linked with autumn, the west (and hence the setting sun), and the element metal, which interestingly enough ranks second in He’s list. Moreover, since “jade” as an adjective always means “jade-white” in Chinese and never “jade green,” the combination of white and jade—172 instances in all out of 615—represents a quite extraordinary preference for white. Even in the West, psychologists tend to associate a strong liking for white with psychic abnormality: in China, where white has many of the emotional overtones that in Europe would be carried by black, such a predilection would be considered morbid and ill-omened.
He’s landscapes, drenched in this white radiance, shine with an unearthly pallor.
In the ninth month, the great wilderness is white.
The entire mountain bathed in a white dawn.
Horses’ hooves trampling in white.
Autumn whitens the infinite heavens.
White grasses, dead beneath invading mist.
A white sky, water like raw silk.
Where endless desert merges with white sky.
Vast autumn gleamed white.
Jade mist on green water
Like pennants of white.
To an islet where white duckweed grows…
The cloud-towers are half-revealed,
Walls slant and white.
Above cold gardens, deserted courtyards,
A limpid, white void.
The white light returns to the Western Hills.
It is possible that He’s obsession with white was in some way connected with the premature and sinister whitening of his own hair, a physiological quirk which he refers to several times in his poems. He was haunted by the mystery of whiteness as another great poet, Lorca, was haunted by the spell of green.
Against this pallid background the other colours burn with a brilliant flame:
Under massing clouds red nets darken,
Over broken stones slant purple coins.
Beyond the frontiers like rouge from Yen,
Night’s purple congeals.
Who is this girl shedding vermilion tears?
Cold candles, kingfisher-green…
Smoky yellow mantles the willows.
A thousand hills of darkest emerald.
A flame-red mirror opens in the east.
His glittering sword lights up the sky,
Heaven turns sapphire.
On the scarlet walls hang girdle-gems of jade.
Under the white sun, a thousand hills
Look darkest green.
Black waters of the Pine Stream
Spawn new dragon-eggs.
Emerald smoke swirling…
Cold reds weeping dew…
What hungry beetles would not eat
Piles up in broken yellows.
Twilight purple freezes in the dappled sky.
Only black waters’ waves sobbivng at dawn.
Pattern of golden snakes on her dancing-rug.
Along with this striking use of colour goes a wholly personal imagery which, again, is unique in Chinese if not in world literature. The following images all occur in He’s verse, some of them several times: shrieking phoenixes; lonely simurghs; aging simurghs; shivering hares; old fishes; gaunt dragons; crying mole-crickets; weeping raccoons; dying foxes; white foxes barking; snarling dogs; wailing crickets; drooling lions; slavering griffons; whinnying and half-starved horses; crying crows; serpents riding a white mist; old turtles in jade wells; poisonous, horned dragons; demon-owls, and weeping bronze camels. The last figure leads us to the next class of imagery, that of normally inanimate objects which in He’s verse become endowed with a mysterious life of their own. This is the world of Tang ghost stories: swords that roar, swords that fly, painted dragons ridden by rain-elves, haggard straw-dogs, weeping statues and gargoyles peering out of stunted trees. It is but a step away from the realm of gods and spirits proper, ranging from cave-dwelling demons, mountain trolls, witches and Weird Crones to Nü Gua, the Purple King and the Mother who is Queen in the West. Against the flickering background of a hallucinatory universe, where mountains crumble away in the wind and land lurches out of the sea only to disappear again, He’s phantasmagoria dances wildly past. The only constant here is the inexorable passing of time: the dripping water-clock and the booming drum mark men’s progress towards the graves where the fireflies dance like corpse-fires, and lonely candles bum. Nor are men alone in their predicament. In the Buddhist vision of things, even the gods must perish; and He’s heaven is a place of funerals where the blessed themselves are borne in never-ending procession to the tomb.
Ultimately, He was at heart a mystic, as we might have guessed from his preoccupation with the Laṅkāvatāra, the central theme of which is the doctrine of self-realization (svasiddhānta) and inner enlightenment (pratyātmagati). Many of his poems are clearly records, not of hallucinations, but of genuine, if elementary, visions, in which he transcends the world of egoistic experience, the illusions of Māyā, entering a realm in which he contemplates a higher state of being than our own. Today, we have so completely lost touch with inner reality that very few of us can believe in its existence, a fact that makes it difficult for us to respond adequately to He’s greatest poems, where the vision shines the most resplendently. Nevertheless, we must realize that the world of his visions was not a mere fantasy into which he retreated from the miseries of “reality.” Rather, his Buddhist training enabled him to journey to places far removed from “the weariness, the fever, and the fret” of his existence without losing his orientation, while his poetic genius enabled him to describe vividly what he had seen.
He’s grasp of universal principles, his intuitive Knowledge, his sense of the ultimate identity (samatā) of the world-of-birth-and-death (samsāra) and Nirvana, is central, not peripheral, to his poetic art. He wrote verse ultimately not for aesthetic pleasure but to express what the Lankāvatāra calls pratyātmāryajñānagocara—the state of intuitive awareness of inner truth. It is perhaps this which makes the perceptive Western reader want to link him with that great sapiential tradition which includes Norwid and Blake, Rimbaud and Yeats. Though his visions are admittedly never more than two-fold (to use Blake’s term) they are intensely felt and realized, even if they do lapse at times when the spirit fails him into mere fantasy. His moments of epiphany occur when he realizes—to quote his favorite sutra—that “this world of error is eternity itself, truth itself” (“Bhrāntih śāśvata, bhrāntis tattvam”); when he glimpses as Yeats puts it, “the uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.”
To say this is not to overlook the fact that He’s poetry lacks the serene assurance of the mystic who has achieved realization and enlightenment. Since for much of his life he was a sick man, a great deal of his verse betrays all the feverish and heightened sensibility of the consumptive. In this he is very much of his age. As Yoshikawa Kōjirō remarks: “Tang poetry burns with intensity. The moment in which the poem is born is one of the most vital instants in a m
an’s life in his headlong plunge towards death. He must fix his eyes upon the instant and pour his feelings into it. The emotion must cohere, it must jet forth, it must explode.”
Never was this truer than of the poetry of Li He. In his sensuality and the despairing intensity with which he strives to hold the passing moment burning eternally in his art, like a frozen flame, he is akin to Keats: and like Keats—or Trakl, whom he also resembles—he is half in love at times with easeful death. He wrote in the shadow of the grave: and no philosophy, no religion, no consoling belief could quite keep out its ineluctable cold. Only at the white radiance of his own poetic visions could he warm himself for a while before making his final journey to those cypress-shadowed tombs where he had wandered so often during his brief lifetime like some pallid and melancholy ghost. Yet it would have been some consolation to him, I feel, to learn that now “after a thousand years in earth,” his “rancorous blood” shines forth in the light of day as emerald-jade.
Translator’s Note
The poems in this collection are arranged according to the order of their appearance in the Zhong-hua Shu-ju edition of the San-jia Li Chang-ji ge-shi (1760) of Wang Qi (Shanghai, 1959).
Most of the poems translated were originally written in either the five-character or the seven-character line. The former comes over well into English; but the latter tends to produce lines too long to be handled without clumsiness. In the seven-character line, the caesura normally falls after the fourth syllable thus:
Chui yan ye lao // ying bu er
Weeping willow leaves old // Orioles feed young.
I have therefore tried to resolve this problem by breaking the line into two at the caesure:
In the aging leaves of weeping willows
Orioles feed their young.
Change of rhyme occurs frequently in his poetry and has been indicated by beginning another stanza wherever a new rhyme occurs.
Classical Chinese poetry must take account of tone in its rhymes. Our poet was especially fond of level tone rhymes (447 rhyme-words) with oblique tone (240 words) and entering tone (125 words) rhymes, often in difficult rhyming categories, lagging not far behind. The “startling abrupt” musical qualities of his verse are famous. None of this, of course, can be brought over by the translator, but it is as well for the reader to know something of what he is missing. Finally, we should remember that over half of his poems are modelled after yüeh-fu ballads and were meant to be sung, not just chanted. Here our loss is doubly great, for we have been bereft of both the subtle music of the setting and the subtler music of the lyrics themselves.
POEMS
Song: Li Ping at the Vertical Harp
Silk from Wu, paulownia from Shu,
Strummed in high autumn,1
In the white sky the frozen clouds
Falling, not floating.
Ladies of the River weeping among bamboos,
The White Girl mournful2
As Li Ping plays his harp
In the centre of the Kingdom.
Jade from Mount Kun is shattered,
Phoenixes shriek,3
Lotuses are weeping dew,
Fragrant orchids smile.
Before the twelve gates of the city
The cold light melts,4
The twenty-three strings can move
The Purple Emperor.5
Where Nü Gua smelted stones
To weld the sky,6
Stones split asunder, sky startles,
Autumn rains gush forth.
He goes in dreams to the Spirit Mountain
To teach the Weird Crone,7
Old fishes leap above the waves,
Gaunt dragons dance.8
Wu Zhi, unsleeping still,
Leans on his cassia tree,9
As wing-foot dew aslant
Drenches the shivering hare.10
Song: Gossamer
In the aging leaves of weeping-willows,
Orioles feed their young,
The gossamer is vanishing,
Yellow bees go home.
Black-haired young men, and girls
With golden hairpins,
From goblets, powder-blue, are quaffing
A liquid amber.
Twilight over flower-decked terraces,
Spring says goodbye,
Fallen blossoms rise and dance
To eddying airs.
Elm-tree seeds now lie so thick
They can’t be counted,
Young Shen’s green money strewn along
Our city roads!1
Song: Returning from Guei-ji
When Yu Jian-wu was living, during the Liang dynasty (A.D. 502–57) he used to writes songs in the palace poetry style to harmonize with those of the Crown Prince. When the state was subverted, Jian-wu fled to hide from the danger in Guei-ji. Later, he was able to return home. I thought that he would have left some poems on this subject but none of them has been found. So I myself wrote this song after his return from Guei-ji to express his sadness for him.
Wilderness crumbles the yellow walls of pepper,1
Wet fireflies fill the palaces of Liang.2
Once poet to a prince in the Tai-cheng palace,3
I dream of bronze carriages under an autumn quilt.
Home again, Wu frost whitens my hair,4
My body grown old, like rushes in the pools.
Sleeplessly staring, his Golden Fish now lost,5
This wandering courtier must live in poverty.
Sent to Quan Qu and Yang Jing-zhi When I Left the City
Warm grasses, darkening clouds, compose
Ten thousand leagues of spring.
The palace flowers bid me farewell,
Caress my face.
I tell myself that a sword of Han
Should fly away.
Why does this homeward carriage bear
Only an ailing man?1
To Be Shown to My Younger Brother
Three years ago, I left my younger brother,
Already I’ve been home ten days or so.
Tonight we have the good wine of Lu-ling,1
And our yellow-covered books of long-ago.
I’ve managed to keep my ailing bones alive.
But in this world our troubles come in packs.
Why bother to ask who’s ox and who is horse?2
You throw your dice, then take your “owls” or “blacks.”3
Bamboo
Its patterns of light ripple over water,
Thrusting into air, it greenly shadows spring.
Flowers of dew beget the young bamboo,
Its frosty roots caressed by coloured moss.
Woven into mats, it’s damp with fragrant sweat,1
Cut into rods, it catches ornate scales.
Once it was used to make three-layered caps,
One section I present to you, my prince.2
Harmonizing with a Poem Written by Shen, the Imperial Son-in-Law, Entitled: “The Waters of the Royal Canal”
Flowing through the park, white water broad and deep,
Palace ladies put on their yellow patches.1
Winding round hills, its dragon-bones are cold,2
Brushing the banks, its duck-head green is fragrant.3
It startles concubines from fading dreams,
Cups stop circling, little goblets float.4
I was lucky enough to wander for a while
Beside this wavy stream with Master He.5
On First Taking up My Post as Supervisor of Ceremonies My Thoughts Turn to My House in the Mountains of Chang-gu.
Horses’ hoof-prints have been brushed away,
Back from the office, I must shut the gates myself.1
In the long saucepan, River rice is cooking,
On little trees the jujubes flower in spring.
Up on the wall I hang my lotus-sceptre.2
Inspect my pointed turban by the screen.3
I sent my dog to carry a letter to Luo,4
The crane fell
sick, regretting its wanderings in Qin.5
The tea is sealed away in earthen jars,
My mountain wine locked up with the bamboo stumps.
Nothing so fine as moonlight on a boat…
But who is punting on that cloud-filled stream?
Seventh Night
The Shores of Parting are dark this morning,1
The silken bed-hangings mournful at midnight.2
Magpies leave the moon of threaded silk,
Flowers fill the towers where clothes are aired.3
Up in the sky, half of a golden mirror,4
Down among men, we gaze at a jade hook.
In Qian-tang city, Su Xiao-xiao
Endures the autumn of yet one more year.5
Passing by the Hua-qing Palace
Spring moon, crows crying at night,
Palace screens shutting out royal flowers.
Under massing clouds red nets darken,1
Over broken stones slant purple coins.2
Jade bowls now filled with fallen dew,
Silver lamps have blackened antique silk.3
No news of late about the Prince of Shu,4
Around the springs young parsley grows.5
Song: Seeing off Shen Ya-zhi
(Together with an Introduction)
In the seventh year of the Yuan-he period (812) the poet and writer, Shen Ya-zhi,1 failed his Doctoral Examination in Calligraphy and went back to the River Wu. I was sad at his going, but had not the money to buy wine to console him. Furthermore, I was moved by his pleas. So I sang these stanzas as I escorted him on his way.
This talented man from Wu-xing2
Resents the winds of spring.
Peach blossom burgeons over the roads—
A thousand leagues of red!
With purple reins and a snapped bamboo3
On a small piebald nag,
He’s riding home to Qian-tang4—
East, then east again.
From criss-cross shoots of white rattan,
