The Collected Poems of Li He
Page 11
17
White steel cuts down green grain,
Between mortar-stones drop tiny leaves,19
Nowadays people want dainty-necked ponies,
Wealthy owners fear long-toothed steeds.20
18
Once Bo-luo looked at this horse,
Saw its hair grow in whorls on its belly.21
So far they’ve fed it on white grass—
When will it leap across the emerald hills?
19
This horse, whose native land is India,
Brought back scriptures to Xiao temple.22
We know this is a noble animal
That does not want to run round Zhang-tai street.23
20
Your double baldric, like a swallow-tail,
Your jewelled sword like Fish-gut itself.24
You want a horse can run a thousand leagues?
First try looking for the gleam in its eye.25
21
Tying up Prancing Yellow for a while,
The Fairy climbs his coloured tower.
The groom who waits with jade bridle and whip—
Why must he be banished to Gao-zhou?26
22
Blood-sweating steeds came to the royal house,27
Following the bells, shaking jade bridle-gems.28
Shao-jun rode one by the sea,
Yet in men’s eyes it was only a black mule.29
23
Emperor Wu longed to be god or immortal,
Smelting gold, he got nothing but purple mist,30
In his stables nothing but horses of flesh,
Not knowing how to mount the blue heavens.31
Song: Bearded Shen Playing His Tartar Horn
Preface:
Bearded Shen was the servant of a northern friend of mine. This northerner, who belonged to an old and honourable branch of the Li family, was entitled to offer sacrifice in the temple of the Prince of Jiang-xia.1 He had once committed some small offence or other, lost rank and been posted to a commandery in the north. He claims to be highly proficient in 5-word and 7-word verse: yet fame has for long eluded him. In the fourth month of this year, when I was a neighbour of his in the Chong-yi quarter of Chang-an, after pawning his clothes to buy wine, he invited me to join him in a drinking party. When our spirits were high and all of us well in our cups, he said to me: “Li Chang-ji! You can only write 7-word poems. You can’t handles 5-word poems. You may force the tip of your brush to write something, but you’ll never come with in miles of the verse of Tao Yuan-ming and Xie Ling-yun.” 2 After I had replied to this I asked if I could write a Song for Bearded Shen Playing His Tartar Horn. When I’d finished my song, all the guests started shouting for us to sing it together. My northern friend was quite delighted. He stood up, raised his goblet to toast me, and then called for his concubine, Hua-niang, to come out from behind the curtain and walk up and down paying her respects to the guests. I asked her which type of music she was best at. She replied that “Peaceful and Slow” was the mode she preferred. Then we sang my verses together, while Shen accompanied us, wishing me long life with his music.
Faces glowing from your wine, sir,
We savour the sound of the reeds,
Hua-niang, her hair in careful disarray,
Wakes from her sleep behind the screen.
Who cut the flute of Perfect Peace,3
Bored these holes like stars in the sky?
Piercing and sudden, a wind opening blossoms,
It sends the clouds scudding through the heavens.
Tonight the flowers of our years are falling,
Breaking my heart for days beyond recall.
My passions surge as wild as waves,
I sit here startled time and time again.
The northerner rides on a white horse,
Grasping his sword with orchid-tasselled haft.
He is strong and quick as a wild monkey,
Yet catches fireflies in tumbleweed.4
Song of the Old Jade-Hunter
Hunting for jade! Hunting for jade!
Only crystal-emeralds will do,1
For cutting into Shake-as-she-walks,2
Only to please the eye.
For an old man hungry and cold,
Even dragons must grieve,
The mist-hung waters of Indigo River3
Not clear, nor white.
On rainy nights, on the ridge of a hill,
He sups on hazel-nuts,
Blood that wells from a cuckoo’s maw
The old man’s tears.4
The waters of Indigo River are gorged
With human lives;
Men dead a thousand years
Still loathe these torrents.5
A steep hillside, wind in the cypress,
Whistle of rain—
On spring-dripping rocks he hangs from a rope,
Green curling and swirling,
Cold village, white thatched hut—
He frets for the children he loves,
On ancient terraces, steps of stone,
The Heartbreak grass.6
Ballad of an Aching Heart
Mournfully chanting, I study the sighs of Chu,1
My sick bones ache in lonely poverty.
Autumnal in aspect with hair turning white,
A tree whose leaves lament in wind and rain.
The lamp burns blue, its orchid-oil run dry,
Round its fading glow the flying moths are dancing,
On ancient walls the dust grows thicker still,
The vagrant spirit mutters through its dreams.2
Song: On the Lake
Girl with long eye brows crosses the sands,
Gathering orchids and iris.
Cassia leaves and smartweed spread
An ambient fragrance.
Drowsy with wine, idle all the white day
In a moored boat,
In a plum-breeze by the ferry she waves
Her singing-fan. 1
Jade forks of her swallow-hairpins gleam
In the clear canal,
The king of Yue’s handsome son
Sends her a delicate letter.2
Paper from Shu, wrapped in a kerchief,
Tells this cloud-haired girl,3
They will meet tonight when the water-clock
Has stilled its drops.
The Caves of the Yellow Clan
Treading like sparrows, they kick up the sand
With sibilant feet,
Horn-trimmed bows a yard in length,
Arrowheads of green stone,
Jet-black banners dip three times,
Bronze drums calling,1
High-pitched voices shrilling like apes,
They shake their quivers.
Coloured cloth around theirs hanks, half-slanting,
On river banks their war-bands muster
Gorgeous as arrowroot,2
In mist-wreathed mountain tarns at dusk
White alligators boom,3
Bamboo snakes and flying crawlers,
Spurters of golden sand.4
Quietly trundling their bamboo-horses,5
They slowly go home,
Leaving the government armies to kill
The natives of Rong-zhou.6
Song: The Screen
Butterflies lighting on China pinks—
Hinges of silver,
Frozen water, duck-head green—
Coins of glass,1
Its six-fold curves enclose a lamp
Burning orchid-oil.2
She lets down her tresses before the mirror,
Sheds her gold cicadas,3
Perfume of aloes from a warm fire,
Smoke of dogwood.4
Goblets of wine joined with a sash,
A new bride in raptures,5
Wind by moonlight blowing the dew,
Cold outside the screen,
As crows cry from the city walls,
The girl from Chu sleeps on.
&nbs
p; Walking through the South Mountain Fields
The autumn wilds bright,
Autumn wind white.1
Pool-water deep and clear,
Insects whining,
Clouds rise from rocks,
On moss-grown mountains.
Cold reds weeping dew,
Colour of graceful crying.2
Wilderness fields in October—
Forks of rice.
Torpid fireflies, flying low,
Start across dike-paths.
Water flows from veins of rocks,
Springs drip on sand.
Ghost-lanterns like lacquer lamps
Lighting up pine-flowers.3
Joys of a Princess Travelling in Battle Array
Bondmaids on horseback in linked chain armour
Of yellow bronze,
Silken banners on perfumed staves
With gold-painted leaves.
In He-yang city, drunk with wine,
The leader lingers,
Her graceful Purple Swallow whinnies,
Pawing the flowers.1
The pink-jade general of cavalry riding
Through her vernal camp,
Shaking a whip, mounts the green void
On her galloping steed.
A pale moon over the battlements
As the horns crow out,
Though the pennoned tent is not yet open,
They share the brocades.2
“After A Drinking-Party” Zhang-Che, My Elder, Once Presented Me with a Poem on This Theme. At That Time Zhang Was Serving as Adviser in Lu-Zhou.
Long-bearded Master Zhang
Is thirty-one,
A poet sent down from Heaven
With flowers for bones.
Who of our company could replace
This dragon-headed man,1
That a princess sent to hold
The fish-barb tablet?2
The green grass of Tai-hang
Has climbed your robe.3
Essays, memorials in your casket
Rolled tight as silk-worms:
Golden Portals, Stone Pavilion,
I know you will have,4
Horn of unicorn, fragrant cloves,
Dawn and dusk you’ll employ.5
But Chang-ji of Lung-xi
Is a wreck of a fellow,6
Waking from drunken sleep
With unquiet heart.
Coarse, linen clothes all tattered
Though it’s autumn in Zhao-cheng,7
Chanting poems the whole night long,
Till the east grows white.
Verses on Being Presented with a Length of Summer Cloth by the Mountaineer of Luo-fu.
Finely-spun and well-woven,
Sky in the rain-drenched river,
An Orchid Terrace breeze that blows
In rainy July.1
When the ancient Immortal of Luo-bo2
Brings this cloth from his cave,
From thousand-year-old benches of stone,
Demon weavers wail.3
Venom of serpents, thick and congealed,
Soaks the caverned halls,
Fish in the river will not eat,
Standing with mouths full of sand.4
I want to cut a foot of sky
Out of the river Xiang.5
Maidens of Wu, never dare to say
Your scissors are blunt.6
A Few Remarks Addressed to Huang-Fu Shih from the Jen-ho Quarter
From my father’s brother I’ve borrowed a horse,
With a lean and hungry look,
A kinsman has lent me a house of his,
With ruinous walls.
Round its courtyard’s bare and trampled earth
The rat-tracks run,
Over the fence grows a big date tree,
Its pendant reds all spoilt.
A gentleman from An-ding
Cut off his yellow ribbon,
Removed his cap-strings, shed his robe,
Drank wine day and night,1
He went back to his family
No white brush on his head,2
No wonder my reputation fell
Far behind others!3
In vain you deigned to call me friend
I offended your eyes,
Just when you were going to haul me up,
Your strong rope snapped.
With the Luo-yang wind to escort my horse
I rode the long pass,
But before the palace gates swung wide,
The mad dogs found me.4
Who would believe that Jian or Du
Were careless judges?5
Lonely on my traveller’s pillow
I watched spring grow old.
I came back home, all skin and bones,
A fleshless face,
A murrain lighted on my head.
My hair fell out.6
I’m going to play around with words
For the Office of Heaven,7
For who would pity a royal scion
Left unemployed?
Tomorrow, midway through the tenth month,
I’m heading west once more.8
In the Kong-tong hills I’ll be far from you,
Far as the sky.
Song of a Palace Beauty
Light of tapers, hung on high,
Shines through the gauzy air.1
In flowery chambers at night they pound
Red palace-wardens.2
The elephant’s mouth puffs incense forth,3
My Persian rug feels warm.
When Seven Stars hang over the city-wall,4
I hear the clepsydra’s gong.
The cold creeps in past the eaves-net5
As palace shadows darken.
Coloured simurghs on lintels of blinds
Bear scars from the frost.
Crying mole-crickets mourn for the moon,
Beneath hooked balustrades.
Crook-knee hinges and door-plates of bronze
Lock in this poor Zhen.6
In dreams I go through the gates of my home,
And walk sandy isles.
Where the River of Heaven falls to earth
Lies the Long Island road.7
I wish that my lord, who is dazzling bright
As the Great Light itself,
Would set me free to ride off on a fish,
Attacking the waves.
Hall After Hall
Hall after hall, hall after hall again!
Though pink has fled, plum blossom ash is fragrant.1
For ten long years wood-worm have bred
In painted beams,
What hungry beetles would not eat
Piles up in broken yellows.
Orchid petals wither,
Peach-leaves grow long.
Hanging blinds of the Palace
Block out imperial light
In Hua-qing hot springs, arsenic stone
Boiling the water,2
Where once a white phoenix wandered,
Following her lord.3
Be Sure to Take Care of Yourself Two Poems Written When I Escorted Young Li on His Way to Mount Lu.
1
No dish and platter in the wilds outside Luo-yang,1
Just a shaming old horse from a tumbledown stable.
The little goose will wing past Incense-burner Peak,2
Its shadow falling on the waters of Chu.3
The long boat will float moored upon clouds,
Below Stone Mirror, in the cold, autumn night.4
Even a man who was not sick for home
Would groan for sorrow, gazing at that moon.
2
Willows of parting at your horse’s head,5
On the highway, ash-tree buds like rabbit eyes.
We are going to endure a thousand-league parting,
All this suffering just for a peck of millet!
Southern clouds, northern clouds,
Block off my view,
My heart-threads ravelled as
spring’s pendant silk.6
Blue eaves and wheeling trees,
Moonlight floods my bed.
In dreams I see a hungry lad off to the provinces.
Your elder brother is now turned twenty,
The mirror tells him how his beard is rowing.
Three years ago he left our home—to come to this!
Begging rice at princes’ gates,
An utter failure.
In weed-grown drains, standing water
Bright as a blade,
In old willows south of the courtyard,
Cutworms breed.7
I worry about you, young
Traveller to the River,
Over fields of the waste the evening
Horns moan sadly.8
Let Wine Be Brought In!
For a lonely failure—a cup of wine.
The host lifts his goblet, pledging our health.
Zhu-fu was too poor
To return from the west,1
Though his family snapped the willows
In front of the gate.2
Long ago in Xin-feng,
Ma Zhou was a mere retainer,
Thinking heaven was desolate, earth grown old,
None knew his worth.
Yet a couple of lines
Dashed off in a moment of leisure,
Went straight to the throne
And won him imperial favour.3
My wandering soul has strayed away
Long past recall,
Yet at a single cock-crow
The sky will turn white.
A young man’s heart should strive to reach
The very clouds,
Who heeds a man who sits and wails
Out in the cold?
Long Songs After Short Songs
Long songs have split the collar of my robe,
Short songs have cropped my whitening hair.1
The king of Qin is nowhere to be seen,2
So dawn and dusk fever burns in me.
I drink wine from a pitcher when I’m thirsty,
Cut millet from the dike-top when I’m hungry.
Chill and forlorn, I see May pass me by,
And suddenly a thousand leagues grow green.
Endless, the mountain peaks at night,
The bright moon seems to fall among the crags.
As I wander about, searching along the rocks,
Its light shines out beyond those towering peaks.
Because I cannot roam round with the moon,