Chinese Poetic Writing

by Francois Cheng

  In another letter addressed to Wang Ji-pu, he affirms:

  The poet Dai Rong-zhou said, “A scene created by a true poet is equal to the Blue Field that, warmed by the sun, releases an ethereal mist, a sort of emanation from the jade that the sun harbors. This scene one contemplates from afar without ever reflecting that one can come no nearer.” How apt is this remark! Image beyond the realm of images. Landscape that ordinary words never capture.

  This “landscape beyond landscapes” praised by Si-kong Tu recalls the Median Void (the Three) that philosophy describes.

  Pursuing this ideal of a poetry whose resonance goes beyond the simple explicit word, Yan Yu, of the Song period (11th–13th c.), in his Cang-lang shi-hua (“Concerning the Poetry of Cang-lang”), forcefully pleads:

  Poetry is made with building materials without any connection with book learning. It brings a flavor that simple reasoning cannot provide. Of course, without having read many books and mastering the process of reasoning, one can hardly hope to reach the summit of poetic creation. It is important, above all, nonetheless, to “not be engaged on the path of reason alone” and to “not be trapped in the net of words….” Poets, at the apogee of the Tang, were animated by an inspired leap, where passion and taste were foremost. What comes from these resembles the gazelle who leaves its horns hanging among tree branches; it is fully there but leaves no tangible tracks leading to its capture. There poetry has a marvelous transparency. The scintillating effect that it has can no more be captured than a sound suspended in the air, than the colors of objects, than the moon reflected in water or the face behind a mirror. There, where words stop, thought is indefinitely prolonged.

  Based on certain extracts, drawn from an ensemble of texts that one may consider “foundational,” we see that the image, as the space where the spirit of man and the spirit of the world come together, is at the center of the theoreticians’ preoccupation. Also, starting with the Song and notably under the Ming and the Qing, in countless shi-hua (“treatises on poetry”), which from that point on constituted a specific genre, there appeared the notion of qing-jing (“feeling-landscape”). This notion, which had already been set forth in other terms, as we have seen, by a Hai-kong or a Si-kong Tu, was consecrated as a unitary concept in the work of Wang Fu-zhi (1619–1692). This author, in his Xi-tang-yong-ri xu-lun, says:

  Feeling and landscape have different names; actually, they are inseparable. In the poems of the highest order, there is an unavoidable symbiosis. Besides, one discovers among the best poems cases where there is landscape in the feeling and feeling in the landscape. Beyond this union in a poetic composition, the principal role belongs to the yi (idea, intention, vision, imagination). On the model of the general who commands an army, it is the yi that gives coherence and meaning to the poem. Li Bai and Du Fu are great because one finds very few of their poems to lack yi. Impregnated with yi, all things, even the smallest—mists and clouds, springs and rocks, flowers and birds, mossy trees or embroidered silks—take on a life and are clothed in magic.

  In the eyes of Wang Fu-zhi, emotion, always, is deployed as a landscape; and the landscape, moved by a vital nudge, is truly endowed with feeling.

  From this point on, literary theorists began to examine in great detail, with the help of concrete examples, the ways in which “feeling” and “landscape” provoke each other, arrange each other, complete or substitute themselves for each other. Wang Guo-wei (1877–1927), the last in that tradition, put forth in his Ren-jian ci-hua (“Essay on Poetry”) the following remarks:

  Beyond the feeling-landscape, there is a superior state that transcends it and which one calls jing-jie. On this level, one can distinguish a state where the ego is still present, as when the poet says: “Afflicted, I ask the flowers, they don’t answer me; a thousand red petals take flight beyond the swings” or “The solitary pavilion preserves the pre-spring cold; among the cries of doves the setting sun darkens” and another state, more rare, where the ego is no longer present, as if reabsorbed in the lived or contemplated vision that the poet would be unable to obtain except in a deeply rooted quietude: “To pluck chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge; South Mountain to appear without care…1

  The “feeling,” the “landscape,” the “present self,” the “absent self,” in combining themselves together with multiple nuances, form a large array of typical verses that are also poetic figures. These imply, as we have said, the subtle connection between subject and object. And it is here that it seems necessary to present the two basic procedures of Chinese stylistics, which have in some sense given rise to all the others—in this sense, their importance equals that accorded to the two major figures, metaphor and metonymy, by Western rhetoric—to know the bi and the xing, that are ordinarily translated as “comparison” and “incitation.” Their existence goes back practically to the origins of Chinese poetry. They are, in effect, part of the tradition of commentaries on the Shi Jing, “Book of Songs.” Their first mention is found in the preface that Mao Chang, at the beginning of the Han (2nd c. B.C.) wrote for his collected commentaries. Since then, an abundant literature has been produced, in which their definition and application are discussed. More specifically concerning the xing, this will in turn give rise to other combinations: xing-xiang, xing-wei, xing-qu….We are not going to address this subject in detail, as our study is not historical in its focus. We will be content to give the two figures a simple definition and to illustrate them with two examples, also simple, without forgetting to underline in passing the signification that they bear. 2

  The bi (comparison) is used when the poet appeals to an image (from nature in general) to embody an idea or feeling that he would like to express. Conversely, one makes use of the xing (incitation) when an element of the perceptible world, a landscape, a scene, arouses in him a memory, a latent feeling or an as yet unexpressed idea. Through this definition, one sees that, beyond any consideration of a stylistic order, what is implied more profoundly in these two figures is the ever-renewed rapport between man and the world. They are not merely procedures in an “act of discourse,” they aim at arousing in language a circular movement that ties together subject and object—this last, in reality, is envisaged as a subject. In Chinese, the term subject-object is expressed as “host-guest.” The image born in the exchange of the two partners is thus not just a simple reflection; it is something that brings about a revelation that permits internal mutations. In this movement, the bi embodies the subject-object process, that which comes from man and goes towards nature, while the xing introduces the inverse object-subject process, which leaves nature to return to man. All poetry making an appeal to these two, sets in place in its own way the great Dialogue that the Tao, always, seeks to encourage.

  In the poetry of the Tang, the bi and the xing are widely used. Below, we give two examples with the moon as the central image. This illustrates well the ternary relation Man-Earth-Heaven which is of concern to us here. In effect, the moon, as a celestial presence, transcends time and space. While looking at it from the earth, men separated by distance or time, at the same time think upon this original unity. On the other hand, from its luminous roundness that comes after waning she evokes plenitude. It is not without reason that the moon has become the figure chosen to symbolize the idea of reunion (tuan-yuan) and that of happiness without shadow (yuan-man). As an example of bi, we cite this quatrain by Zhang Jiu-ling (673–740):

  Since you have left lord

  I no longer have the heart to work

  My being is like the full moon

  Which wanes night after night

  Another famous quatrain of Li Bai (701–762) illustrates the xing well:

  Before the bed, bright moonlight

  I took it for frost on the ground

  Raised my head to gaze upon bright moon

  Bowed my head, and thought of home

  In the second example, it is truly the image of moonlight coming from heaven and associated with the frost on the earth, that perm
its the poet not only to think of the place where he was born, but effectively to have the impression of being there.

  Leaving the two Chinese figures, we have evoked their equivalents in the Western tradition which are metaphor and metonymy. To the extent that our study is situated in general semiology, where it is addressed to readers who are not sinologists as well, we would not be able to dispense with these two figures to sum up the facts in the pursuit of our analysis of the images. They will have the ability to render an account of it more directly.

  According to the traditional definition, the metaphor, based on analogy, consists of using a symbolic image to represent an idea or feeling. In this sense, metaphor can be considered as close to bi, with the distinction perhaps that, on the Chinese side, the bi is inserted in a generalized system. The metonym, founded on contiguity, consists in associating ideas or images with close ties. In this sense, it can be called the xing. There as well, the difference resides in the fact, it seems to us, that metonymy is more a process in discourse than an explicit relationship between the object and the subject.

  As for metaphors, it may be said, almost as a banality, that Chinese poetry is extremely metaphorical, if only because of the impressive number of metaphors that it contains. Even in ordinary language one can detect the abundance of metaphorical expressions the Chinese use in the attempt even to express abstract ideas. The cause for this can certainly be found in the specific conception of the universe, but equally in the very nature of the writing itself. We have shown, at great length, in the Introduction, that the ensemble of the ideograms, both through the relations they have with the signified objects and through the relations they have between each other, constitute a metaphoro-metonymic system. Each ideogram is potentially a metaphor. This fact concerning the language has been favorable for the formation of numerous metaphorical expressions, and the morphological structure of the ideograms predisposes this even further: each ideogram being invariable and forming a unity, it enjoys a great deal of liberty in how it is combined with other ideograms. Bringing together two or more ideograms (or the images that they carry) often offers a striking contrast and creates rich connotations, better than would be possible in a denotative language.

  We give several examples of metaphorical “figures” common in the language:

  (a) Ideograms (or characters) composed of two elements:

  heart + autumn = melancholy, sadness

  heart + milieu = loyalty, to be loyal

  man + tree = rest, to rest

  man + word = confidence, fidelity

  (b) Terms with two characters forming metaphors:

  heaven – earth = universe

  drum – dance = encourage, incite

  lance – shield = contradiction

  hand – foot = fraternal feeling

  (c) Phrases forming symbolic expressions:

  red dust: things of this world, vanity of glory

  spring wind: success, satisfaction

  evergreens or erect bamboo: rectitude, purity

  water flowing east: passage of time

  wild goose flying west: separation, regret

  full moon: reunion of separated ones

  Poets frequently appeal to these evocative figures. But, in reality, it is often in poetry that their origin is found. Poetic language and ordinary language feed off of each other; if it is true that this fact is true of all language, it has a particular application in Chinese. From the beginning, poetry there has exercised a sacred function, in ruling over the rites. Poetry was a major component at all religious festivals, all feasts, and all social exchanges. No banquet, walk, or reunion of friends ended without each of the participants writing a poem, on a rhyme chosen by group acclamation.

  Beyond this, starting with the Tang era, poetic composition was part of the program for the imperial exam. Poetry thus became a major activity of Chinese society. It is this which endowed the language with metaphorical figures, by organizing them as a vast ensemble of structured symbols. Thanks to this, a very large part of nature is in some fashion inventoried, appropriated, tamed.

  Chinese poetry, because of this successive integration, can be considered to be a common popular resource enriched by the contributions of the poets throughout its long history (lasting thirty centuries, without interruption); it is a true collective mythology that has been thus brought about. Across this network of symbols, one could say the poet was trying to break the closed signifier/signified circuit and to establish another relationship between signs and things through the play of analogy and of internal relation.

  One can, however, ask oneself if such an ensemble of codified and conventional symbols does not reduce poetry to a sort of academicism founded on clichés, to the detriment of the creation of personal figures. This danger certainly does exist. Let us nonetheless emphasize the following fact (a fact that we are going to verify in the rest of this chapter): by the rich ties that exist “naturally” among metaphors, these last form in their turn a metonymic network, which is reinforced by a whole system of correspondences deriving from the Five Elements. Depending upon this open network, the poet is precisely in a position to avoid the danger of clichés, to combine, in the essential part of a poem, often astutely, always “metonymically,” existing metaphors with a view to provoke, on a higher stage, so to speak, other metaphors—a sort of metaphor of metaphors—and through that to achieve unexpected and renewed significations.

  Presuppositions

  In a poem entitled “Night of Moon” (Moonlit Night), Du Fu, imprisoned in Chang-an (the Tang capital) during the An Lu-shan Rebellion, evokes the memory of his wife, who lives far from him, and he imagines her dreaming for a long time under the moon. There we find the following lines:

  Fragrant mist | chignon of dampened cloud

  Pure light | cool arm of jade

  The images “chignon of cloud” and “arm of jade” are conventional. In the poetic tradition, one compares, in effect, the woman’s hair to a bouquet of clouds; the image of jade serves to describe the arms of a woman with smooth and clear skin. Images that have become almost banal, so often have they been used. Here, nonetheless, thanks to other images that accompany them, they seem completely new, and even necessary. In the first line, “chignon of cloud” is associated with “fragrant mist”; the two images contain atmospheric elements. Their common nature gives the impression that one was evoked by the other. The verb “dampen,” which ends the line, comes very close to accentuating their link by mixing them in an undifferentiated whole. In the same way, in the second line, the image “jade arm” naturally follows that of “pure light”; this light, projected by the moon (which can also be referred to as “jade disk”), can just as well be perceived as emanating from the woman’s naked arms. The verb “to cool,” which evokes a moonlit night, seems also to describe the sensation one has when touching a piece of jade. Thus, the conventional metaphors not only avoid reducing the lines to clichés, but permit, when they are ingeniously combined, to create internal and necessary links between the images and to maintain them thus, from one end to the other, on the metaphoric level. If we pursue our observation still further, we see that the interest of the two lines is not limited to the metaphoric realm. These lines have the gift of transforming the images they carry into “acts.” We recall that that night, the poet, far from his wife, is also standing beneath the moon, surrounded by mist. Through the “mist,” he has the impression that he can, in effect, by contiguity, touch the “cloud-chignon.” And, still through contiguity, he can, because of the lunar light, caress the “jade arm” of his wife. Beyond the objective description, the poet lets us feel his desire to break the fetters of distance, so as to move, through the magic of signs, towards an open present.

  Du Fu excels in associating the “ready-made” images to make from them an effect that is both logical and unexpected. In two other very famous lines, he denounces social injustice by describing the inequality that separates the lives of the rich and the poor. He b
rings into opposition often conventional images: “Red door” (= wealthy household), “wine-meat” (= to eat well, feast), “paths or roads” (= without hearth, vagabondage), “white bones” (= unburied dead):

  Red doors | wine-meat rotten

  Scattered paths | freeze-die skeletons3

  The first line describes the luxurious course of life in the houses of the wealthy (red doors) where they let (leftover) meat rot after the feast, there is so much of it. The second line sets the scene for the poor, dead of hunger and cold on the road. Instead of using descriptive words such as “houses of the rich,” “feast,” “without shelter,” “abandoned dead,” the poet makes use of a series of metaphors available in the language. One is first struck by the contrasting images in the two lines; “red doors” and “icy roads” are in opposition along the interior-exterior polarity, “meat” and “bones” along the living-dead polarity; the two lines are opposed in their entirety by their contrast between the colors red-white. Then, one’s attention is drawn by the linking together of the images: the image of the red door leads to the meat dripping blood; the rotting meat seems to be none other than the flesh of the poor in decomposition (in Chinese, the same word is used both for “meat” and [living] “flesh”).

  Red door → red blood of the meat → rotten meat → decomposing

  flesh → skeletons

  Here we have a metaphorical language founded on both the associative and oppositional, also proceeding from internal engendering.

  Another type of figure, which Du Fu gladly uses, consists of proper nouns (of people and of places) that, in Chinese, lead back often, if not always, to a referent.

  In a poem4 written soon after his arrival in Cheng-du in which the last line describes the appearance of the town (bursting with flowers) after a good rain, Du Fu very aptly and with humor uses another traditional name for the town: “Mandarin-in-brocaded-robe.”