Chinese Poetic Writing
Page 19
Staying: rivers and oceans, congealed, as clear light.
Deep red lips and pearl-sewn sleeves are quiet.
Late now, from one disciple only does such fragrance come.
The lady of Lin-ying at White Emperor Town,
The fair dance to the old song, and the spirits soaring.
And when I asked and found whence came such art,
I pondered time, and change, and grew still sadder.
Minghuang’s waiting maids; eight thousand,
And Madam Gongsun’s sword dance stood premier.
Now fifty years, a single simple gesture of the palm,
Dust in the wind, quicksilver, dusk, our Royal House.
The Pear Garden’s pupils, like the mist they all are scattered;
This lady’s fading beauty brightens, the cold sun.
South of Gold Grain Hill, the trees: grown to full hand’s span.
Here in Qu-tang Gorge, the grasses wither.
The feasts, the pipes; songs end again.
The utmost joy, then sadness comes; moon rises, east.
The old man can’t know where he’s to go,
Feet sore, wild hills, turning, deep in sorrow.
* * *
(Note for this page–this page) This poem bears a preface in which the poet relates the circumstances that inspired him to write it. In 767, at Kui-zhou in Si-chuan, Du Fu was present at a sword dance performed by Li shi-er niang, of Lin-ying. Having learned from her that she was a disciple of the great Madam Gong-sun, he remembered that while still a child (in 717), he had had the rare pleasure of admiring the performance of the celebrated dancer himself. Through the destiny of Gong-sun (linked with the fate of the dynasty), he rediscovers his own. The last image of the poem, the old man hobbling alone on the mountain, contrasts ironically with the dazzling dance described at the beginning.
In the same preface, the poet remarks that the great calligrapher Zhang Xu (675–750) discovered the secret of his art inspired by the dancing of Gong-sun; he does this to show the fascination that the dancer held for her contemporaries and also to suggest the important idea in Chinese aesthetics of the correspondences among the arts.
QIAN QI
Gazing from High on the Mountain on the Rainy Sea and Thinking of the Monks in the Yu-lin Monastery
From the mountain, rain upon the sea,
Dripping foam from the misty trees.
It looks as if, in that vastness,
Those dark isles might any moment fly away.
Nature has angered the eight-headed spirit of the sea.
The rushing tides stir up the road of the clouds.
The true men ever fill my thoughts,
But a single reed can’t float across.
Sad thoughts of the times at Red Cliff
Wishing I could harness the wild swans, and drive.
QIAN QI
The Master of Xiang Plays His Lute
So well he plays his cloud topped lute,
We hear the Lady of the River.
The god of the stream is moved to dance in emptiness.
The traveler of Chu can’t bear to listen.
A bitter tune, to chill both gold and stone.
Pure notes pierce gloomy dark.
Deep green Wu-tong brings sad thoughts on.
White iris there, recalls a certain fragrance.
The waters flow, between Xiang’s banks.
Mournful winds cross Lake Dong-ting.
Song done, and no one to be seen.
On the river, many peaks, all green.
* * *
This poem bears comparison to the myth of Orpheus. The rhythm of the song orders all nature, and death itself is vanquished, for, if the musician himself has disappeared, his song continues to resound, forever ineffable.
Line 2: the Lady of the River = At the death of the legendary Shun, one of his wives threw herself into the River Xiang, and became the goddess of its waters.
BAI JU-YI
The Charcoal Man
Old charcoal man
Cuts wood and seasons coals up on South Mountain.
Face full of ashes, the color of smoke,
Hair white at the temples, ten fingers black,
Sells charcoal, gets money, and where does it go?
For the clothes on his body, the food that he eats.
Yet sadly though those clothes are thin,
He worries for the price of charcoal, prays the weather cold.
This night, upon the city wall, a foot of snow.
Dawn, he loads his cart, tracks over ice.
The ox tired, the man hungry, the sun already high,
South of the market, outside the gate, in the mud, they rest.
So elegant these prancing horsemen, who are they?
Yellow-robed official, white-robed boy.
Hand holds a written order, mouth spouts “The Emperor.”
They turn the cart, they curse the ox, head north.
A thousand pounds of charcoal in that cart
And if they commandeer, can he complain?
Half a piece of scarlet gauze, three yards of silk:
Tied round the ox’s head, this charcoal’s price.
* * *
Line 14: Yellow-robed official = agent of the imperial requisition.
LIU ZONG-YUAN
The Old Fisherman
Old fisherman spends his night beneath the western cliffs.
At dawn, he boils Xiang’s waters, burns bamboo of Chu.
When the mist’s burned off, and the sun’s come out, he’s gone.
The slap of the oars: the mountain waters green.
Turn and look, at heaven’s edge, he’s moving with the flow.
Above the cliffs the aimless clouds go too.
MENG JIAO
Song of the Departing Son
Loving mother; the thread in her hand,
Will become the cloak of the wandering son.
His departure approaches; the stitches grow smaller,
And smaller, in fear he’ll stay long.
Who would say an inch of longing, like an inch of grass
Could ever requite the radiant sun of spring.
* * *
Last line: sun of spring = maternal love.
LI HE
Autumn Comes
Wind in the plane tree startles the heart; the grown man, bitter.
By dying lamp the “spinning wheels” weep cold white threads.
Who’ll ever read these words, this green bamboo?
Till he banish the worms, gnawing powdery holes.
Thoughts tangle, this night, but heart’s at last set straight.
Cold rain, a fragrant soul, come to console the poet.
On autumn tomb a ghost chants Bao Zhao’s poem:
His angry blood, a thousand years beneath the earth, green jade.
* * *
Line 2: spinning wheels = metaphorical name for crickets.
Line 3: Before the invention of paper in the second century, books were written on slips of bamboo bound together.
Line 7: Bao Zhao, a fifth-century poet. A passage of his poem “Lamenting in a Cemetery” goes as follows:
Rich or poor, all will know the same fate,
Be their desires frustrated or fulfilled.
The dew, as it falls, speeds the end of the dawn.
Waves fall toward the eternal night.
LI HE
Don’t Go Out, Sir!
Heaven’s dark, The earth shut tight.
The nine-headed serpent feeds on our souls.
Snow and frost snap our bones.
The dogs set loose, snarl to our scent,
Licking their paws at the thought of the flesh
Of men who go girdled in orchids.
When God sends his chariot to bear you away,
Then all your hardships will end.
Jade stars dot your sword, of yellow gold will be your yoke.
But though I go horseback, there is no way home.
The wave
s that drowned Li-yang stand tall as mountains.
Venomous dragons glare at me, rattling their rings of gold,
And lions and griffins, slavering, drool.
Bao Jiao, a whole lifetime, slept on straw.
Yan Hui’s hair, at twenty-nine, was mottled white.
Yan Hui’s blood was not corrupted.
Nor had Bao offended heaven.
Heaven feared those jaws would close,
Therefore advanced them so…
Clear as it is, if you still doubt
Think on the madman who raved by the wall,
Writing the “Heavenly Questions.”
* * *
Line 3: The nine-headed snake of Zhao Hun (Calling the Soul) in “The Songs of Chu.”
Line 7: men who go girdled in orchids = virtuous men; cf. “The Songs of Chu.”
Line 12: Li-yang, a district in An-hui, which was transformed into a lake in a single night (see Huai-nan-zi).
Line 15: Bao Jiao, a hermit of Zhou who imposed such rigid rules of virtuous conduct upon himself that he died of hunger.
Line 16: Yan Hui, the favorite disciple of Confucius. Like Yan Hui, Li He had prematurely white hair, and died young.
Last line: Qu Yuan (340–? B.C.) wrote his “Heavenly Questions” drawing his inspiration from frescoes he had seen in the ancestral temple of the kings of Chu.
LI HE
Libation or the King of Qin
The King of Qin astride his tiger, wanders the eight poles.
His sword’s blaze shines in emptiness, cleaving heaven’s blue.
Xi He strikes the sun, a tinkling of glass.
Kalpas’ ashes flown and gone, now times of peace again.
As the dragon’s head spouts wine, enticing the Wine Star,
Golden zithers murmur in the night.
Feet of the rain walk Lake Dong-ting, to the music of the pipes.
Merry with wine he orders the moon to turn back on her course.
Beneath dense silver clouds the halls of jasper shine.
By palace gates the watchman cries first watch.
In the painted-tower phoenixes of jade sing prettily
Sea silk, red patterned, a fragrance light and pure.
The Yellow Birds in their reeling dance sink in the cup of a thousand tears.
Immortals, by the candle trees, wrapped in fine wax smoke,
In goddess Green Lute’s drunken eyes, tears pool.
* * *
Line 3: Xi He = driver of the chariot of the sun.
Line 4: In Buddhism the kalpa is a unit of measure of one cosmic cycle. At the end of each kalpa the universe is reduced to ashes.
Line 13: A variant in the texts suggests that this may be translated either as “Yellow Birds” or as “beautiful girls dressed in yellow.”
LI HE
The Tomb of Su Xiao-xiao
Solitary orchid, dew,
Like tear filled eyes.
Nothing to tie our hearts together.
Misty blossoms, I cannot bear to cut.
Grass for her carpet,
Pines, her roof;
The wind her robe, and
Water sounds, her pendants.
There, painted carriages
Are waiting in the night,
Green candles cool,
Weary with brilliance.
Beneath the Western Mound,
Wind drives the rain.
* * *
Su Xiao-xiao was a famous singing-girl of Qian-tang, Hang-zhou who lived during the Southern Qi dynasty (479–502).
LI HE
Lament: So Brief the Morning
Flying light, the flying light…
I bid you, take one cup of wine.
I do not know blue heaven’s height.
How broad the yellow earth!
Only the moon’s cold, sun’s warm,
Enough to cook a man.
Eat bear paws and grow fat.
Eat frogs, and waste away.
Where is the Spirit Lady,
And where the One itself?
East of the sky the Ruo tree,
Down in the earth, the dragon, torch in mouth.
I’ll cut off the dragon’s feet.
I’ll gnaw his flesh,
That he rise no more at dawning,
At dusk he lie not down.
Then the old men won’t die,
Nor young men cry.
Why swallow yellow gold,
Or down white jade?
Who is Ren Gong-zi,
Among the clouds, on his white mule?
Liu Che, in Mao-ling tomb, a pile of bones.
Ying Zheng, in his coffin of catalpa, rotting.
And all that abalone, wasted.
* * *
(Note for this page) In the most vehement terms, the poet decries the brevity of life. He proposes to slay the dragon that draws the chariot of the sun, recovering for man both plenitude and peace. He rails, however, against those whom he considers to have followed false paths in their search for immortality, men like Liu Che (Emperor Wu-di of the Han) and Ying Zheng (better known as Qin Shi Huang-di, the notorious first emperor of Qin). The latter died while on a journey: the ministers who accompanied him, desiring to keep his death a secret until they could return to the capital, surrounded the imperial carriage with rotten abalone in an attempt to mask the odor of the decomposing corpse.
LI HE
Song of the Sword of the Collator in the Spring Bureau
In the elder’s coffer, three feet of water,
Of old it dived deep in Wu Lake, beheading the dragon.
A slash of moon’s brightness, shaves cold dew.
White satin sash, spread flat, not rising to the breeze.
The sharkskin hilt is ancient, all bristling thorns.
Sea bird, temper flowered blade, white pheasant’s tail.
Truly this, sharp shard of Jing Ke’s heart
May it never shine among the characters of the Spring Bureau.
Knotted strands of coiling gold hang from the hilt.
Magic brightness; it could sunder Blue Fields Jade.
Draw, and the west’s White King will quake
And wail, his demon mother, in the autumn wilds.
* * *
Li He had a cousin who was employed as a collator in the Spring Bureau, a sort of secretariat to the crown prince.
Line 7: Jing Ke was a “knight errant” who became famous for his brave attempt at the assassination of the emperor of Qin.
Last line: Liu Bang, founder of the Han dynasty, is supposed to have killed a giant serpent that crossed his path. The same night an old woman appeared to him in a dream, crying and lamenting that he had killed her son, the White Emperor of the West.
* * *
We have not attempted a translation of this poem, but see our analysis on this page–this page concerning the function of symbolic images.
Ci
(Lyric Poetry)
BAI JU-YI
Hua-fei-hua
Flowers. Are they flowers?
Mist! Is it the mist?
Midnight, come
Bright morning, gone.
Come like spring dreams, not for long.
Gone, like dawn’s clouds, beyond finding.
LI BAI
Pu-sa-man
Grove on the plain spreads, woven with mist.
Belt of cold mountains, heart-wounding green.
Sunset colors high pavilion.
Someone sits there grieving.
On the jade stairs, waiting, vain.
Night birds flying, hasting home.
And how goes my way there?
Inns, inns, and way stations.
* * *
This is the song of someone traveling far from his native land. The landscape (the woven work of mist and trees, the belt of mountains) recalls his loved one; the jade staircase alludes to the woman who waits. The “inns and way stations” of the translation are, in the original, kiosks set up at varying interval
s (usually roughly five to six li, about two miles) all along the route for the traveler’s rest.
WEI ZHUANG
Ye-jin-men
Spring rain, enough.
This ditch all a freshet, new green.
Beyond the willow jade-winged herons fly.
They bathe each other, playing in the sun.
The azure screen rolled high,
The railing stretches on.
Light clouds, calm waters, mist, trees plume:
The tiny heart, eyes, endless space.
WEI ZHUANG
Pu-sa-man
All men agree that Jiang-nan’s good:
Wanderers grow old here.
Spring waters, bluer than the sky
Painted boats, in the rain’s song, dozing.
Beside the urn of wine, one like the moon,
Arms bright as frost and snow.
Until I’m old I won’t go home.
Going home, I’d leave a torn-our heart behind.
* * *
The poet was born in the north; like so many other poets, he discovered the charms of Jiang-nan (“South of the River”).
Line 8: one like the moon = a beautiful young woman.
WEN TING-YUN
Geng-lou-zi
Willow boughs long,
The spring rain fine.
Beyond the blossoms, distant, the clepsydra sounds
Frightened, the brants of the passes.
Awakened, the rooks upon the city wall.
On the painted screen, gold partridges.
Perfumed mist, faint traces,
Seep through the gauzy curtain.
Pavilion and pool, pleasures of some other day.
Behind the red candle,
Hangs the embroidered curtain.
I dream of you, and you don’t know.