Three Hundred Tang Poems #224-260
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larryhammerThree Hundred Tang Poems (唐诗三百首: Táng shī sānbǎi shǒu) was first compiled in 1763 by Sun Zhu out of the massive Complete Tang Poems collection, covering works written during the Tang Dynasty* between roughly 600 and 900 BCE. It originally had 310 poems, but other editions have different numbers—most versions today have 320. All editions are arranged in eight-or-so parts by poetic form, including a handful of fixed forms, rhymed poems of arbitrary length, and folk-style poems (with variations on how some works are categorized).
Below the cut is a translation of Part 7 of this version, the jueju poems with four lines of five characters each—not coincidentally, the collection’s shortest poems. (Baby steps, baby.) These are very much apprentice work, and I don’t vouch for their accuracy. (Baby steps, he repeated.) Most have been revised, sometimes significantly, based on better understanding since initial drafts were posted here.
My translation priorities have been, in order, rendering the literal sense, matching rhetorical structures and tone, using as close to regular meter as I can manage without doing violence to those first two, and only after that, when I can manage it, including some form of rhyme. I’m dissatisfied that the last priority is last,** but I don’t yet have enough experience to judge what to sacrifice to match forms (see below). Although the originals are all in the same meter, translations use either a four or five beat line, usually the former, usually iambic, depending on what I can make work best for a poem. This, too, is not ideal. (Baby steps, he said firmly.)
In Middle Chinese, the second and fourth lines rhymed, and sometimes also the first, and there were four possible patterns for the tones of syllables. In modern Mandarin, after a millenium-plus of sound shifts, the rhymes are usually obscured and tone patterns completely botched—and there is no solid scholarly consensus on original pronunciations. As a result, pinyin transcription is all-but-useless for appreciating the original form*** and I give only the hanzi (simplified) characters.
As always, suggestions/discussions/corrections are welcome.
* Not counting one 14th century poem mistaken for an earlier work.
** Replicating the rhyme structure is all too often ignored in Chinese translations, skewing our impression of what the originals were like.
*** This is in striking contrast to the changes from Classical to Modern Japanese, where just about all sound shifts were regular, making modern-pronunciation transcripts, however inaccurate, at least useful.
224. Deer Enclosure, Wang Wei
Empty mountain—I don’t see anyone,
But hear the sound of someone’s voice.
Light returns to the deep forest,
Reflected up from the green moss.
鹿柴
空山不见人，
但闻人语响。
返景入深林，
复照青苔上。
The title is literally “deer fence.”
225. A Lodge in the Bamboo, Wang Wei
Alone in a quiet bamboo grove,
I play the qin, whistling long.
In the deep forest, no one sees
The bright moon come to shine on me.
竹里馆
独坐幽篁里，
弹琴复长啸。
深林人不知，
明月来相照。
The qin, a 7-stringed zither with a fixed bridge, was the prestige instrument of the scholar-official in his study. There was a long tradition, dating back to at least the Warring States period, of what in English is sometimes called “transcendental whistling” —that is, whistling long steady tones as a meditative exercise. Lost in translation: he’s making “repeated” long whistles.
226. A Leavetaking, Wang Wei
Beside the mountain, we’ve said farewell;
Sun sets, I close the wicker gate.
Next year, spring grasses will turn green—
Descendant of kings, will you return?
送别
山中相送罢，
日暮掩柴扉。
春草明年绿，
王孙归不归。
Descendent of kings is a second-person honorific not necessarily restricted to nobility.
227. Missing Each Other, Wang Wei
Those red beans growing in the South—
Come spring, so many on each branch!
I wish you’d gather more and more:
They’ll show we miss each other most.
相思
红豆生南国，
春来发几枝。
愿君多采撷，
此物最相思。
Hóngdòu berries (红豆, Abrus precatorius) were used as love tokens, but given this poem is cited all over when glossing that, I can’t tell if Wang Wei is reflecting or starting the tradition.
228. Miscellaneous Poem, Wang Wei
You yourself came from my hometown
And so should know my hometown’s state:
The day you passed by her silk window,
Did the cold plum wear its blossoms yet?
杂诗
君自故乡来，
应知故乡事。
来日绮窗前，
寒梅着花未。
Whose window was passed is a guess—absent other markers, omitted pronouns (and many are: classical Chinese, especially in poetry, was even more pro-drop than modern Mandarin) are usually most easily read as “my,” but the distance suggests a loved one.
229. Seeing Off Cui the Ninth, Pei Di
You are returning to the mountain depths
Where beautiful high peaks and vales await.
Don’t take as your example that Wuling man
Who stayed but briefly in Peach-Blossom Land.
送崔九
归山深浅去，
须尽丘壑美。
莫学武陵人，
暂游桃源里。
The legend of Peach-Blossom Land is related in #78, in which a fisherman from Wuling finds, up a hidden tributary, a community that has been cut off from the outside world since the Han Dynasty, but after he goes home to tell people about it, he can’t find the way again.
230. Gazing at the Zhongnan Mountains after It Snowed, Zu Yong
The cloudy peaks are elegant,
Piled snow floating high in the sky.
The forest brightens, showing clear;
Within the city, dusk grows cold.
终南望余雪
终南阴岭秀，
积雪浮云端。
林表明霁色，
城中增暮寒。
Zhongnan is the range visible south and west of the imperial capital of Chang’an.
231. Spending the Night on the Jiande River, Meng Haoran
A boat moored by a misty islet:
Day ends, a traveler’s grief renews.
The plains: a vast sky low to the trees—
The river clears and moon nears man.
宿建德江
移舟泊烟渚，
日暮客愁新。
野旷天低树，
江清月近人。
The poem is admired for depicting connections between heaven and earth. The for-once-actual-explicit person is often understood as a humble first-person referent—so the “traveler” is read as “this traveler,” and so on—and the grief is understood by convention as homesickness. There’s a few possible Jiande Rivers, but the consensus seems to be this one is an old name for a river near Luoyang.
232. Spring Dawn, Meng Haoran
Sleeping in spring, I missed the dawn.
Everywhere I hear birds call—
Last night, it was the wind and rain:
Who knows how many flowers fell.
春晓
春眠不觉晓，
处处闻啼鸟。
夜来风雨声，
花落知多少。
233. Night Thoughts, Li Bai
Before my bed, moonbeams so bright
I think it’s frost upon the ground.
I raise my head, gaze at the bright moon;
I lower my head, and think of home.
夜思
床前明月光，
疑是地上霜。
举头望明月，
低头思故乡。
This is sometimes given a raunchy reading: the moonlight-cum-frost is a naked bedmate, the moon(s) her breasts, and home between her legs.
234. Resentful Feelings, Li Bai
A beauty rolls the bead curtain up,
Then sits still, knitting her moth brows.
We only see her wet tear-stains—
We don’t know whom her heart regrets.
怨情
美人卷珠帘，
深坐蹙蛾眉。
但见泪痕湿，
不知心恨谁。
Having moth eyebrows (蛾眉 éméi) is a conventional descriptor for beautiful women—the comparison is to feathery antennae. “Regrets” could also be resents or hates—恨 (hèn) covers a range of emotions.
235. Eight-fold Formation, Du Fu
His exploits spread through all the Three-Part Kingdom,
Famed for making this Eight-fold Formation.
The river flows, the rocks remain immobile—
His lasting regret: he couldn’t conquer Wu.
八阵图
功盖三分国，
名成八阵图。
江流石不转，
遗恨失吞吴。
“He” is Zhuge Liang, premier of Shu (one of the Three Kingdoms succeeding the Han Dynasty empire) who despite his legendary strategic genius, didn’t win the game of thrones because of his kings’ bad decisions. Wu was a rival kingdom, centered on the lower Yangzi.
Commentaries disagree on whether his Eightfold Formation is a battle-troop formation (the easiest reading of 阵图) or a complex rock formation. Either way, it’s called “eightfold” from supposedly being based on the bagua, the eight trigrams. The rock formation, also called Stone Sentinel Formation and Stone Sentinel Maze, was on the shore of the Yangzi near the upper end of Qutang Gorge, and was supposedly designed by Zhuge to confuse and trap pursuing Wu troops (the incident is in chapter 84 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, written 750 years after Du Fu’s poem, but not Records of the Three Kingdoms, written 500 years before). (If you’ve ever met an “array” in a wuxia/xianxia/xuanhuan, this is a historical root of the concept.) Until it was flooded by the Three Gorges Dam, the formation was submerged during the spring runoff but revealed when waters fell in the autumn. Given the imagery of line 3 is relevant and that Du Fu lived nearby for a couple years, I’m inclined to take it as the rocks.
For more Zhuge Liang fanboying, see #182.
236. Climbing White Stork Tower, Wang Zhihuan
Sun nears the mountain, disappears;
The Yellow River joins the sea.
I want to see a thousand li
And so ascend another floor.
登鹳雀楼
白日依山尽，
黄河入海流。
欲穷千里目，
更上一层楼。
The tower was on a height overlooking the Yellow River, and had three stories. A li was roughly half a kilometer (today it’s defined as exactly that). The last line has become an idiom for scaling new heights. Literally it’s “one” floor, but context suggests the speaker is already partway up.
237. Seeing Off Ling Che, Liu Changqing
Dark green, the bamboo forest temple;
Somber, a bell tolls in the dusk.
You wear your broad-brim hat at sunset,
Returning alone to far green hills.
送灵澈
苍苍竹林寺，
杳杳钟声晚。
荷笠带斜阳，
青山独归远。
The temple is specifically Buddhist, and context suggests that Ling Che is on a pilgrimage. There’s a lot of semantic play in the original, only some of which comes through in translation.
238. Playing the Qin, Liu Changqing
Carrying clear from seven strings—
Silent, I hear cold wind through pines.
This ancient tune, although I love it,
Few people play it still today.
弹琴
泠泠七弦上，
静听松风寒。
古调虽自爱，
今人多不弹。
The mood the playing evokes alludes to a qin tune “Wind Through the Pines” (风入松), also later used for ci poetry.
239. Seeing Off the Honored Monk, Liu Changqing
A lone cloud carries a wild crane:
How could you dwell within the world?
Don’t be persuaded by Mt. Wozhou—
People already know that place.
送上人
孤云将野鹤，
岂向人间住。
莫买沃洲山，
时人已知处。
Mt. Wozhou, in Zhejiang Province, had a popular Buddhist temple that, according to legend, was founded by a senior monk who escaped the troubles of the Jin Dynasty by fleeing there on a crane.
240. Sent to Counsellor Qiu on an Autumn Night, Wei Yingwu
I think of you this autumn night,
Strolling and chanting in the coolness.
A pinecone falls on the empty mountain—
The hermit’s surely not asleep.
秋夜寄邱员外
怀君属秋夜，
散步咏凉天。
空山松子落，
幽人应未眠。
Sent to his former secretary, who had retired to become a Daoist hermit. Poetry was, at the time, chanted when read aloud.
241. Listening to a Zheng, Li Duan
Sounds of a zheng with golden bridges,
Bare hands before the jade chamber—
So Master Zhou would turn his head,
Sometimes she misplays a note.
听筝
鸣筝金粟柱，
素手玉房前。
欲得周郎顾，
时时误拂弦。
The zheng is another type of zither, one with movable bridges and between 12 and 20-odd strings (the Japanese koto and Korean gayageum are direct descendants). The “jade chamber” is a boudoir.
242. A Bride, Wang Jian
Her third day, she enters the kitchen,
Washes her hands, prepares the soup.
She doesn’t know his mother’s tastes,
So has his sister try it first.
新嫁娘
三日入厨下，
洗手作羹汤。
未谙姑食性，
先遣小姑尝。
Specifically, her husband’s younger sister. The title suggests reading this pronounless poem as third-person, but since otherwise it’d be more easily read as first-person, here’s that version: “On my third day, down in the kitchen, / I wash my hands and prepare the soup. / I don’t yet know his mother’s tastes, / So have his sister try it first.”
243. In the “Jade Terrace” Style, Quan Deyu
Last night, my girdle came untied;
Today, a good-luck spider floats.
I can’t give up my white face paint—
He might, my “chopping block,” come back.
玉台体
昨夜裙带解，
今朝蟢子飞。
铅华不可弃，
莫是篙砧归。
A “jade terrace” (玉台: yútài) is an upperclass woman’s quarters; here, the reference is to the type of semi-erotic poems collected in New Songs of the Jade Terrace. (“Mirror-stand” is probably a better way to understand 台 (tài), but terrace is the standard translation for the title/genre.)
The speaker is a wife or concubine whose husband has been traveling or otherwise absent from her for a long time. The name of the spider (a type of orb-weaver) is a homonym of happy event, making it a good omen—pointing by association to the girdle/belt coming loose as if undone by his hands. The chopping block is the type used in a beheading by axe, and via another homonym (that no longer works) was slang for husband. “Good-luck” and “he” are added to double-translate these meanings.
244. River, Snow, Liu Zongyuan
A thousand mountains, birds depart;
Ten thousand paths, footprints vanish.
A lone boat, straw rain hat, old man
Fishing alone, cold river, snow.
江雪
千山鸟飞绝，
万径人踪灭。
孤舟簑笠翁，
独钓寒江雪。
When I first worked through this, the most thoroughly imagistic poem of this set, I got shivers.
245. Summer Palace, Yuan Zhen
Deserted old summer palace—
The palace flowers are lonely red.
The white-haired palace maidens sit
And idly talk of Emperor Xuanzong.
行宫
寥落古行宫，
宫花寂寞红。
白头宫女在，
闲坐说玄宗。
行宫 (xínggōng) is literally an imperial palace used for short stays away from the capital. And yes, the poet really used 宫 (“palace”) three times out of 20 characters.
246. Invitation to Liu the 19th, Bai Juyi
Green lees in fresh unfiltered wine,
The red clay of the little stove.
Evening comes, it’s about to snow—
Can you come drink a cup or no?
问刘十九
绿蚁新醅酒，
红泥小火炉。
晚来天欲雪，
能饮一杯无
I love this type of graceful social verse. 蚁 (yǐ) is literally ant, but apparently was used for dregs/lees.
247. “He Manzi”, Zhang Hu
Her home’s three-thousand li away,
She’s served the palace twenty years—
But with one note of “He Manzi”
Two tears fall down before her lord.
何满子
故国三千里，
深宫二十年。
一声何满子，
双泪落君前。
He Manzi was a singer who offended Emperor Xuanzong and was executed. Sentimental songs soon circulated about her final performance pleading for mercy, one of which affects this experienced imperial handmaiden or concubine. The incident in the poem supposedly happened during the reign of Emperor Wuzong (r. 840-846), around a century later.
Lost in translation: she’s served in the “deep [within]” the inner palace. “A thousand miles” would be clearer in English, but that breaks the progression of 3 (三) → 2 (二) ⇒ 1 (一) → 2 (双).
248. Ascending to Leyou Plain, Li Shangyin
Early evening, out of sorts,
I drive up to the ancient ruins.
The setting sun seems endlessly good—
Except for the approaching dusk.
登乐游原
向晚意不适，
驱车登古原。
夕阳无限好，
只是近黄昏。
Leyou was the site of an imperial retreat built by the Han Emperor Xuan on an upland southeast of Chang’an (which was much smaller at the time) that nine centuries later was a) inside the city walls and b) just mounds. “Ruins” interprets this gloss into the text, instead of the more literal “plain/upland.”
249. Looking for the Hermit and Not Finding Him, Jia Dao
I asked the boy beneath the pine,
Who told me, “Master’s gathering herbs.”
I can but stand amid these hills,
Not knowing where in the clouds he is.
寻隐者不遇
松下问童子，
言师采药去。
只在此山中，
云深不知处。
Lost in translation: the clouds are deep and the herbs are medicinal. The last two lines can also be understood as continuing the boy’s answer.
250. Crossing the Han River, Li Pin
No news across the Wuling Mountains—
Now after winter, spring returns.
Approaching home, I’m getting nervous:
I don’t dare ask this man from there.
渡汉江
岭外音书绝，
经冬复立春。
近乡情更怯，
不敢问来人。
The Wuling (“Five Ridges”) Mountains are the border between Hunan and Guangdong provinces, the latter being where Li Pin’s hometown was. “Now” is interpretive, added as a connector.
251. Spring Complaint, Jin Changzu
Drive off the little oriole,
Don’t let it screech upon the branch.
It startled this one from her dream ...
I can’t depart for far Liaoning.
春怨
打起黄莺儿，
莫教枝上啼。
啼时惊妾梦，
不得到辽西。
“This one” translates the humble I used by a woman, especially when talking to a man. A common interpretation is that her husband is stationed in a Liaoning garrison on the northeast frontier, and she’d been dreaming of visiting him.
252. Song of Geshu, A Western Person
The Northern Dipper rises high,
Geshu wears his sword at night.
They’ve been spying on our horses
But don’t dare cross into Lintao.
哥舒歌
北斗七星高，
哥舒夜带刀。
至今窥牧马，
不敢过临洮。
Presented as an anonymous folk song from the northwest frontier in what’s now Gansu Province, where Lintao County is, but the formal exactness suggests a folk-style song written by one of the literati. Geshu Han was one of Emperor Xuanzong’s top generals. What the northern nomads or Tibetan raiders (commentaries disagree on who, as Geshu fought both in his career) daren’t cross is supposed to be the Tao River, though it’s worth noting that the western end the old Great Wall also passed through the county.
Lost in translation: the horses are in herds. Contrariwise, “rises” is padding to fill the meter.
253. Changgan Ballads 1, Cui Hao
O where, dear sir, might your house be?
This one lives in Hengtang precinct.
Please pause your boat a moment, sir—
Might we be from the same hometown?
长干行 首一
君家何处住，
妾住在横塘。
停船暂借问，
或恐是同乡。
(This is the start of a section of folk-song-styled poems (yuefu) that happen to also be five-character quatrains, placed in my base text at the end of this section—other editions put these with the other five-character yuefu in part 2. For now, I’m following my base text.)
First of a two-poem series. Changgan is not Chang’an the capital, but a city now within the borders of modern Nanjing—on the banks of the Yangzi, with lots of canals. The speaker uses the humble I used by women talking with men, and an honorific form for requesting he stop. “Precinct” is a guess, added by way of a gloss.
254. Changgan Ballads 2, Cui Hao
My house, it faces Jiujiang waters—
I come and go on the Jiujiang bank.
I too am a Changgan man,
Yet even as kids, we’ve never met.
长干行 其二
家临九江水，
来去九江侧。
同是长干人，
生小不相识。
Jiujiang (“nine rivers”) is a segment of the lower Yangzi near Changgan.
255. Jade Stair Complaint, Li Bai
The white dew falls upon the jade staircase:
In the long night, it soaks my fine silk stockings.
I withdraw, lower the crystal curtain—
Exquisite ... I gaze upon the autumn moon.
玉阶怨
玉阶生白露，
夜久侵罗袜。
却下水晶帘，
玲珑望秋月。
Female speaker, given the stockings. Untranslatable wordplay: the word for exquisite (玲珑: línglóng) is also an onomatopoeia for the clink of jewels.
256. Border Songs 1, Lu Lun
With golden arrow, eagle-fletched,
And ’broidered banner, swallow-tailed,
Standing out, he gives the command—
A thousand barracks shout as one.
塞下曲 首一
鹫翎金仆姑，
燕尾绣蝥弧。
独立扬新令，
千营共一呼。
First of a four-poem series. The arrow and banner are identified by names; I’ve instead translated the glosses.
257. Border Songs 2, Lu Lun
In the dark woods, a gust in the grass—
The general draws his bow at night.
At dawn, they search for his white fletching:
The arrow pierced deep into stone.
塞下曲 首二
林暗草惊风，
将军夜引弓。
平明寻白羽，
没在石棱中。
This is based on an incident in the biography of Li Guang in Records of the Grand Historian, during a nighttime tiger hunt. The gust is not from the arrow but the general’s target.
258. Border Songs 3, Lu Lun
A moonless night: wild geese fly high—
The nomad chieftain flees by night.
The general’s wish: Horsemen, pursue!
The thick snow coats their curving sabers.
塞下曲 首三
月黑雁飞高，
单于夜遁逃。
欲将轻骑逐，
大雪满弓刀。
Lost in translation: the would-be pursuers are specifically light cavalry. The sabers (弓刀: gōngdāo) are recurved like bows.
259. Border Songs 4, Lu Lun
The rough tent covers a fine banquet;
Raiders toast the triumphant return.
Drunk together, dancing in armor—
Thunderous drums shaking the landscape.
塞下曲 首四
野幕蔽琼筵，
羌戎贺劳旋。
醉和金甲舞，
雷鼓动山川。
The raiders/warriors are called Qiang, which today is the Mandarin name for a single non-Han ethnic group in western Sichuan, but in the past this was a catch-all term for several peoples living between the Han and Tibetan spheres of influence—thus leaving things generic.
260. Yangzi River Song, Li Yi
I married away to a Qutang merchant
Who’s wrong all the time about when he’ll come home.
Had I foreseen that the tide’s so dependable,
I would have married a tidewater boy.
江南曲
嫁得瞿塘贾，
朝朝误妾期。
早知潮有信，
嫁与弄潮儿。
The title is literally “south of the river song,” meaning the lands just to the south of the lower Yangzi, especially the delta. Qutang Gorge is the uppermost of the Three Gorges of the Yangzi, which means the husband is going away on extended journeys. The speaker uses the woman’s humble first-person pronoun (obscured by my loose rendering of the second line).
That was an interesting exercise, to say the least. I am continuing on with the next-shortest form of poems, ETA: which are posted here.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
Below the cut is a translation of Part 7 of this version, the jueju poems with four lines of five characters each—not coincidentally, the collection’s shortest poems. (Baby steps, baby.) These are very much apprentice work, and I don’t vouch for their accuracy. (Baby steps, he repeated.) Most have been revised, sometimes significantly, based on better understanding since initial drafts were posted here.
My translation priorities have been, in order, rendering the literal sense, matching rhetorical structures and tone, using as close to regular meter as I can manage without doing violence to those first two, and only after that, when I can manage it, including some form of rhyme. I’m dissatisfied that the last priority is last,** but I don’t yet have enough experience to judge what to sacrifice to match forms (see below). Although the originals are all in the same meter, translations use either a four or five beat line, usually the former, usually iambic, depending on what I can make work best for a poem. This, too, is not ideal. (Baby steps, he said firmly.)
In Middle Chinese, the second and fourth lines rhymed, and sometimes also the first, and there were four possible patterns for the tones of syllables. In modern Mandarin, after a millenium-plus of sound shifts, the rhymes are usually obscured and tone patterns completely botched—and there is no solid scholarly consensus on original pronunciations. As a result, pinyin transcription is all-but-useless for appreciating the original form*** and I give only the hanzi (simplified) characters.
As always, suggestions/discussions/corrections are welcome.
* Not counting one 14th century poem mistaken for an earlier work.
** Replicating the rhyme structure is all too often ignored in Chinese translations, skewing our impression of what the originals were like.
*** This is in striking contrast to the changes from Classical to Modern Japanese, where just about all sound shifts were regular, making modern-pronunciation transcripts, however inaccurate, at least useful.
224. Deer Enclosure, Wang Wei
Empty mountain—I don’t see anyone,
But hear the sound of someone’s voice.
Light returns to the deep forest,
Reflected up from the green moss.
鹿柴
空山不见人，
但闻人语响。
返景入深林，
复照青苔上。
The title is literally “deer fence.”
225. A Lodge in the Bamboo, Wang Wei
Alone in a quiet bamboo grove,
I play the qin, whistling long.
In the deep forest, no one sees
The bright moon come to shine on me.
竹里馆
独坐幽篁里，
弹琴复长啸。
深林人不知，
明月来相照。
The qin, a 7-stringed zither with a fixed bridge, was the prestige instrument of the scholar-official in his study. There was a long tradition, dating back to at least the Warring States period, of what in English is sometimes called “transcendental whistling” —that is, whistling long steady tones as a meditative exercise. Lost in translation: he’s making “repeated” long whistles.
226. A Leavetaking, Wang Wei
Beside the mountain, we’ve said farewell;
Sun sets, I close the wicker gate.
Next year, spring grasses will turn green—
Descendant of kings, will you return?
送别
山中相送罢，
日暮掩柴扉。
春草明年绿，
王孙归不归。
Descendent of kings is a second-person honorific not necessarily restricted to nobility.
227. Missing Each Other, Wang Wei
Those red beans growing in the South—
Come spring, so many on each branch!
I wish you’d gather more and more:
They’ll show we miss each other most.
相思
红豆生南国，
春来发几枝。
愿君多采撷，
此物最相思。
Hóngdòu berries (红豆, Abrus precatorius) were used as love tokens, but given this poem is cited all over when glossing that, I can’t tell if Wang Wei is reflecting or starting the tradition.
228. Miscellaneous Poem, Wang Wei
You yourself came from my hometown
And so should know my hometown’s state:
The day you passed by her silk window,
Did the cold plum wear its blossoms yet?
杂诗
君自故乡来，
应知故乡事。
来日绮窗前，
寒梅着花未。
Whose window was passed is a guess—absent other markers, omitted pronouns (and many are: classical Chinese, especially in poetry, was even more pro-drop than modern Mandarin) are usually most easily read as “my,” but the distance suggests a loved one.
229. Seeing Off Cui the Ninth, Pei Di
You are returning to the mountain depths
Where beautiful high peaks and vales await.
Don’t take as your example that Wuling man
Who stayed but briefly in Peach-Blossom Land.
送崔九
归山深浅去，
须尽丘壑美。
莫学武陵人，
暂游桃源里。
The legend of Peach-Blossom Land is related in #78, in which a fisherman from Wuling finds, up a hidden tributary, a community that has been cut off from the outside world since the Han Dynasty, but after he goes home to tell people about it, he can’t find the way again.
230. Gazing at the Zhongnan Mountains after It Snowed, Zu Yong
The cloudy peaks are elegant,
Piled snow floating high in the sky.
The forest brightens, showing clear;
Within the city, dusk grows cold.
终南望余雪
终南阴岭秀，
积雪浮云端。
林表明霁色，
城中增暮寒。
Zhongnan is the range visible south and west of the imperial capital of Chang’an.
231. Spending the Night on the Jiande River, Meng Haoran
A boat moored by a misty islet:
Day ends, a traveler’s grief renews.
The plains: a vast sky low to the trees—
The river clears and moon nears man.
宿建德江
移舟泊烟渚，
日暮客愁新。
野旷天低树，
江清月近人。
The poem is admired for depicting connections between heaven and earth. The for-once-actual-explicit person is often understood as a humble first-person referent—so the “traveler” is read as “this traveler,” and so on—and the grief is understood by convention as homesickness. There’s a few possible Jiande Rivers, but the consensus seems to be this one is an old name for a river near Luoyang.
232. Spring Dawn, Meng Haoran
Sleeping in spring, I missed the dawn.
Everywhere I hear birds call—
Last night, it was the wind and rain:
Who knows how many flowers fell.
春晓
春眠不觉晓，
处处闻啼鸟。
夜来风雨声，
花落知多少。
233. Night Thoughts, Li Bai
Before my bed, moonbeams so bright
I think it’s frost upon the ground.
I raise my head, gaze at the bright moon;
I lower my head, and think of home.
夜思
床前明月光，
疑是地上霜。
举头望明月，
低头思故乡。
This is sometimes given a raunchy reading: the moonlight-cum-frost is a naked bedmate, the moon(s) her breasts, and home between her legs.
234. Resentful Feelings, Li Bai
A beauty rolls the bead curtain up,
Then sits still, knitting her moth brows.
We only see her wet tear-stains—
We don’t know whom her heart regrets.
怨情
美人卷珠帘，
深坐蹙蛾眉。
但见泪痕湿，
不知心恨谁。
Having moth eyebrows (蛾眉 éméi) is a conventional descriptor for beautiful women—the comparison is to feathery antennae. “Regrets” could also be resents or hates—恨 (hèn) covers a range of emotions.
235. Eight-fold Formation, Du Fu
His exploits spread through all the Three-Part Kingdom,
Famed for making this Eight-fold Formation.
The river flows, the rocks remain immobile—
His lasting regret: he couldn’t conquer Wu.
八阵图
功盖三分国，
名成八阵图。
江流石不转，
遗恨失吞吴。
“He” is Zhuge Liang, premier of Shu (one of the Three Kingdoms succeeding the Han Dynasty empire) who despite his legendary strategic genius, didn’t win the game of thrones because of his kings’ bad decisions. Wu was a rival kingdom, centered on the lower Yangzi.
Commentaries disagree on whether his Eightfold Formation is a battle-troop formation (the easiest reading of 阵图) or a complex rock formation. Either way, it’s called “eightfold” from supposedly being based on the bagua, the eight trigrams. The rock formation, also called Stone Sentinel Formation and Stone Sentinel Maze, was on the shore of the Yangzi near the upper end of Qutang Gorge, and was supposedly designed by Zhuge to confuse and trap pursuing Wu troops (the incident is in chapter 84 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, written 750 years after Du Fu’s poem, but not Records of the Three Kingdoms, written 500 years before). (If you’ve ever met an “array” in a wuxia/xianxia/xuanhuan, this is a historical root of the concept.) Until it was flooded by the Three Gorges Dam, the formation was submerged during the spring runoff but revealed when waters fell in the autumn. Given the imagery of line 3 is relevant and that Du Fu lived nearby for a couple years, I’m inclined to take it as the rocks.
For more Zhuge Liang fanboying, see #182.
236. Climbing White Stork Tower, Wang Zhihuan
Sun nears the mountain, disappears;
The Yellow River joins the sea.
I want to see a thousand li
And so ascend another floor.
登鹳雀楼
白日依山尽，
黄河入海流。
欲穷千里目，
更上一层楼。
The tower was on a height overlooking the Yellow River, and had three stories. A li was roughly half a kilometer (today it’s defined as exactly that). The last line has become an idiom for scaling new heights. Literally it’s “one” floor, but context suggests the speaker is already partway up.
237. Seeing Off Ling Che, Liu Changqing
Dark green, the bamboo forest temple;
Somber, a bell tolls in the dusk.
You wear your broad-brim hat at sunset,
Returning alone to far green hills.
送灵澈
苍苍竹林寺，
杳杳钟声晚。
荷笠带斜阳，
青山独归远。
The temple is specifically Buddhist, and context suggests that Ling Che is on a pilgrimage. There’s a lot of semantic play in the original, only some of which comes through in translation.
238. Playing the Qin, Liu Changqing
Carrying clear from seven strings—
Silent, I hear cold wind through pines.
This ancient tune, although I love it,
Few people play it still today.
弹琴
泠泠七弦上，
静听松风寒。
古调虽自爱，
今人多不弹。
The mood the playing evokes alludes to a qin tune “Wind Through the Pines” (风入松), also later used for ci poetry.
239. Seeing Off the Honored Monk, Liu Changqing
A lone cloud carries a wild crane:
How could you dwell within the world?
Don’t be persuaded by Mt. Wozhou—
People already know that place.
送上人
孤云将野鹤，
岂向人间住。
莫买沃洲山，
时人已知处。
Mt. Wozhou, in Zhejiang Province, had a popular Buddhist temple that, according to legend, was founded by a senior monk who escaped the troubles of the Jin Dynasty by fleeing there on a crane.
240. Sent to Counsellor Qiu on an Autumn Night, Wei Yingwu
I think of you this autumn night,
Strolling and chanting in the coolness.
A pinecone falls on the empty mountain—
The hermit’s surely not asleep.
秋夜寄邱员外
怀君属秋夜，
散步咏凉天。
空山松子落，
幽人应未眠。
Sent to his former secretary, who had retired to become a Daoist hermit. Poetry was, at the time, chanted when read aloud.
241. Listening to a Zheng, Li Duan
Sounds of a zheng with golden bridges,
Bare hands before the jade chamber—
So Master Zhou would turn his head,
Sometimes she misplays a note.
听筝
鸣筝金粟柱，
素手玉房前。
欲得周郎顾，
时时误拂弦。
The zheng is another type of zither, one with movable bridges and between 12 and 20-odd strings (the Japanese koto and Korean gayageum are direct descendants). The “jade chamber” is a boudoir.
242. A Bride, Wang Jian
Her third day, she enters the kitchen,
Washes her hands, prepares the soup.
She doesn’t know his mother’s tastes,
So has his sister try it first.
新嫁娘
三日入厨下，
洗手作羹汤。
未谙姑食性，
先遣小姑尝。
Specifically, her husband’s younger sister. The title suggests reading this pronounless poem as third-person, but since otherwise it’d be more easily read as first-person, here’s that version: “On my third day, down in the kitchen, / I wash my hands and prepare the soup. / I don’t yet know his mother’s tastes, / So have his sister try it first.”
243. In the “Jade Terrace” Style, Quan Deyu
Last night, my girdle came untied;
Today, a good-luck spider floats.
I can’t give up my white face paint—
He might, my “chopping block,” come back.
玉台体
昨夜裙带解，
今朝蟢子飞。
铅华不可弃，
莫是篙砧归。
A “jade terrace” (玉台: yútài) is an upperclass woman’s quarters; here, the reference is to the type of semi-erotic poems collected in New Songs of the Jade Terrace. (“Mirror-stand” is probably a better way to understand 台 (tài), but terrace is the standard translation for the title/genre.)
The speaker is a wife or concubine whose husband has been traveling or otherwise absent from her for a long time. The name of the spider (a type of orb-weaver) is a homonym of happy event, making it a good omen—pointing by association to the girdle/belt coming loose as if undone by his hands. The chopping block is the type used in a beheading by axe, and via another homonym (that no longer works) was slang for husband. “Good-luck” and “he” are added to double-translate these meanings.
244. River, Snow, Liu Zongyuan
A thousand mountains, birds depart;
Ten thousand paths, footprints vanish.
A lone boat, straw rain hat, old man
Fishing alone, cold river, snow.
江雪
千山鸟飞绝，
万径人踪灭。
孤舟簑笠翁，
独钓寒江雪。
When I first worked through this, the most thoroughly imagistic poem of this set, I got shivers.
245. Summer Palace, Yuan Zhen
Deserted old summer palace—
The palace flowers are lonely red.
The white-haired palace maidens sit
And idly talk of Emperor Xuanzong.
行宫
寥落古行宫，
宫花寂寞红。
白头宫女在，
闲坐说玄宗。
行宫 (xínggōng) is literally an imperial palace used for short stays away from the capital. And yes, the poet really used 宫 (“palace”) three times out of 20 characters.
246. Invitation to Liu the 19th, Bai Juyi
Green lees in fresh unfiltered wine,
The red clay of the little stove.
Evening comes, it’s about to snow—
Can you come drink a cup or no?
问刘十九
绿蚁新醅酒，
红泥小火炉。
晚来天欲雪，
能饮一杯无
I love this type of graceful social verse. 蚁 (yǐ) is literally ant, but apparently was used for dregs/lees.
247. “He Manzi”, Zhang Hu
Her home’s three-thousand li away,
She’s served the palace twenty years—
But with one note of “He Manzi”
Two tears fall down before her lord.
何满子
故国三千里，
深宫二十年。
一声何满子，
双泪落君前。
He Manzi was a singer who offended Emperor Xuanzong and was executed. Sentimental songs soon circulated about her final performance pleading for mercy, one of which affects this experienced imperial handmaiden or concubine. The incident in the poem supposedly happened during the reign of Emperor Wuzong (r. 840-846), around a century later.
Lost in translation: she’s served in the “deep [within]” the inner palace. “A thousand miles” would be clearer in English, but that breaks the progression of 3 (三) → 2 (二) ⇒ 1 (一) → 2 (双).
248. Ascending to Leyou Plain, Li Shangyin
Early evening, out of sorts,
I drive up to the ancient ruins.
The setting sun seems endlessly good—
Except for the approaching dusk.
登乐游原
向晚意不适，
驱车登古原。
夕阳无限好，
只是近黄昏。
Leyou was the site of an imperial retreat built by the Han Emperor Xuan on an upland southeast of Chang’an (which was much smaller at the time) that nine centuries later was a) inside the city walls and b) just mounds. “Ruins” interprets this gloss into the text, instead of the more literal “plain/upland.”
249. Looking for the Hermit and Not Finding Him, Jia Dao
I asked the boy beneath the pine,
Who told me, “Master’s gathering herbs.”
I can but stand amid these hills,
Not knowing where in the clouds he is.
寻隐者不遇
松下问童子，
言师采药去。
只在此山中，
云深不知处。
Lost in translation: the clouds are deep and the herbs are medicinal. The last two lines can also be understood as continuing the boy’s answer.
250. Crossing the Han River, Li Pin
No news across the Wuling Mountains—
Now after winter, spring returns.
Approaching home, I’m getting nervous:
I don’t dare ask this man from there.
渡汉江
岭外音书绝，
经冬复立春。
近乡情更怯，
不敢问来人。
The Wuling (“Five Ridges”) Mountains are the border between Hunan and Guangdong provinces, the latter being where Li Pin’s hometown was. “Now” is interpretive, added as a connector.
251. Spring Complaint, Jin Changzu
Drive off the little oriole,
Don’t let it screech upon the branch.
It startled this one from her dream ...
I can’t depart for far Liaoning.
春怨
打起黄莺儿，
莫教枝上啼。
啼时惊妾梦，
不得到辽西。
“This one” translates the humble I used by a woman, especially when talking to a man. A common interpretation is that her husband is stationed in a Liaoning garrison on the northeast frontier, and she’d been dreaming of visiting him.
252. Song of Geshu, A Western Person
The Northern Dipper rises high,
Geshu wears his sword at night.
They’ve been spying on our horses
But don’t dare cross into Lintao.
哥舒歌
北斗七星高，
哥舒夜带刀。
至今窥牧马，
不敢过临洮。
Presented as an anonymous folk song from the northwest frontier in what’s now Gansu Province, where Lintao County is, but the formal exactness suggests a folk-style song written by one of the literati. Geshu Han was one of Emperor Xuanzong’s top generals. What the northern nomads or Tibetan raiders (commentaries disagree on who, as Geshu fought both in his career) daren’t cross is supposed to be the Tao River, though it’s worth noting that the western end the old Great Wall also passed through the county.
Lost in translation: the horses are in herds. Contrariwise, “rises” is padding to fill the meter.
253. Changgan Ballads 1, Cui Hao
O where, dear sir, might your house be?
This one lives in Hengtang precinct.
Please pause your boat a moment, sir—
Might we be from the same hometown?
长干行 首一
君家何处住，
妾住在横塘。
停船暂借问，
或恐是同乡。
(This is the start of a section of folk-song-styled poems (yuefu) that happen to also be five-character quatrains, placed in my base text at the end of this section—other editions put these with the other five-character yuefu in part 2. For now, I’m following my base text.)
First of a two-poem series. Changgan is not Chang’an the capital, but a city now within the borders of modern Nanjing—on the banks of the Yangzi, with lots of canals. The speaker uses the humble I used by women talking with men, and an honorific form for requesting he stop. “Precinct” is a guess, added by way of a gloss.
254. Changgan Ballads 2, Cui Hao
My house, it faces Jiujiang waters—
I come and go on the Jiujiang bank.
I too am a Changgan man,
Yet even as kids, we’ve never met.
长干行 其二
家临九江水，
来去九江侧。
同是长干人，
生小不相识。
Jiujiang (“nine rivers”) is a segment of the lower Yangzi near Changgan.
255. Jade Stair Complaint, Li Bai
The white dew falls upon the jade staircase:
In the long night, it soaks my fine silk stockings.
I withdraw, lower the crystal curtain—
Exquisite ... I gaze upon the autumn moon.
玉阶怨
玉阶生白露，
夜久侵罗袜。
却下水晶帘，
玲珑望秋月。
Female speaker, given the stockings. Untranslatable wordplay: the word for exquisite (玲珑: línglóng) is also an onomatopoeia for the clink of jewels.
256. Border Songs 1, Lu Lun
With golden arrow, eagle-fletched,
And ’broidered banner, swallow-tailed,
Standing out, he gives the command—
A thousand barracks shout as one.
塞下曲 首一
鹫翎金仆姑，
燕尾绣蝥弧。
独立扬新令，
千营共一呼。
First of a four-poem series. The arrow and banner are identified by names; I’ve instead translated the glosses.
257. Border Songs 2, Lu Lun
In the dark woods, a gust in the grass—
The general draws his bow at night.
At dawn, they search for his white fletching:
The arrow pierced deep into stone.
塞下曲 首二
林暗草惊风，
将军夜引弓。
平明寻白羽，
没在石棱中。
This is based on an incident in the biography of Li Guang in Records of the Grand Historian, during a nighttime tiger hunt. The gust is not from the arrow but the general’s target.
258. Border Songs 3, Lu Lun
A moonless night: wild geese fly high—
The nomad chieftain flees by night.
The general’s wish: Horsemen, pursue!
The thick snow coats their curving sabers.
塞下曲 首三
月黑雁飞高，
单于夜遁逃。
欲将轻骑逐，
大雪满弓刀。
Lost in translation: the would-be pursuers are specifically light cavalry. The sabers (弓刀: gōngdāo) are recurved like bows.
259. Border Songs 4, Lu Lun
The rough tent covers a fine banquet;
Raiders toast the triumphant return.
Drunk together, dancing in armor—
Thunderous drums shaking the landscape.
塞下曲 首四
野幕蔽琼筵，
羌戎贺劳旋。
醉和金甲舞，
雷鼓动山川。
The raiders/warriors are called Qiang, which today is the Mandarin name for a single non-Han ethnic group in western Sichuan, but in the past this was a catch-all term for several peoples living between the Han and Tibetan spheres of influence—thus leaving things generic.
260. Yangzi River Song, Li Yi
I married away to a Qutang merchant
Who’s wrong all the time about when he’ll come home.
Had I foreseen that the tide’s so dependable,
I would have married a tidewater boy.
江南曲
嫁得瞿塘贾，
朝朝误妾期。
早知潮有信，
嫁与弄潮儿。
The title is literally “south of the river song,” meaning the lands just to the south of the lower Yangzi, especially the delta. Qutang Gorge is the uppermost of the Three Gorges of the Yangzi, which means the husband is going away on extended journeys. The speaker uses the woman’s humble first-person pronoun (obscured by my loose rendering of the second line).
That was an interesting exercise, to say the least. I am continuing on with the next-shortest form of poems, ETA: which are posted here.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 04:53 pm (UTC)I'm sure you're aware, but there are significant differences in how language was used in these, compared to modern Mandarin. It's highly compressed and almost all words are a single-character long. (That so many words are two characters now came about because so many sounds were lost in the spoken language and they had to double up with synonyms to be less ambiguous with homonyms.) All by way of saying, these aren't great for learning Mandarin. Spurs to learning hanzi, though, they're good for that.
no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 05:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 04:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 04:46 pm (UTC)I'm hopeful that, with more experience, so I can judge better what to balance, I make the form stricter in English. Especially making all poems of one meter into all one meter. (That turned out to be easier to pull off, coming from Japanese.) I'm beginning to get a hazy sense of when a poem is tighter/more dense than others, which is a start.
Thanks for the kind words.
no subject
Date: 25 June 2019 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 September 2019 03:47 pm (UTC)I used "Sleeping in spring, I missed the dawn" as a title for a (fanfic) story ; would it be all right with you if I quote the entire poem in the story notes and link back to this page?
no subject
Date: 23 September 2019 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 September 2019 05:20 pm (UTC)