Three Hundred Tang Poems #130-149
29 March 2022 07:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
larryhammerYes, another installment already. What can I say, these are my pandemic sanity-savers right now. So here, 20 more 5-character regulated verses:
130. Staying on the River in Tonglu, Sent to an Old Friend in Guangling, Meng Haoran
As mountains darken, I hear anxious apes.
The dark green river swiftly flows at night.
The wind is rustling leaves upon both banks.
The moon shines on a single lonely boat.
This Jiande’s not a native land of mine.
As I recall, my old friend’s in Weiyang—
So I will send off these two streams of tears
To distant you, within the Sea’s West Head.
宿桐庐江，寄广陵旧游
山暝听猿愁，
沧江急夜流。
风鸣两岸叶，
月照一孤舟。
建德非吾土，
维扬忆旧游。
还将两行泪，
遥寄海西头。
Tonglu and Jiande are nearby cities on the Fuchun River southwest of Hangzhou, Zhejiang, while Guangling and Weiyang are the central districts of Yangzhou, Jiangsu, in the Yangzi delta, about 200 miles north. The significance of using one pair of names in the title and another in the text escapes me. The sea’s western head is the Yangzi delta, west of the Yellow Sea.
131. A Poem on Leaving Imperial Official Wang Wei, Meng Haoran
Lonely, at last I ask, “What does this serve?”
For day after day I come back here in vain.
I want to leave and search for fragrant grasses,
Although this means a parting with a friend.
Of those in power, who supports each other?
A close friend’s really rare in the world.
We should only keep watch on the stillness,
Returning to close the old garden door.
留别王侍御维
寂寂竟何待，
朝朝空自归。
欲寻芳草去，
惜与故人违。
当路谁相假，
知音世所稀。
祗应守寂寞，
还掩故园扉。
As frequently mentioned in the previous installment, Meng stayed with his friend Wang during his one abortive attempt at getting an official appointment. Idioms: those in power is “[those who] withstand/bear the path,” i.e., on the path rising up the official ranks, and close friend is “know (their) sound/voice.”
132. Thoughts in Early Winter upon the Yangzi, Meng Haoran
Leaves scatter as wild geese pass on south.
North wind—it’s getting cold upon the river.
My house in Xiangyang, at the water’s bend,
Is far off, at the limit of Chu clouds.
This traveler’s tears for home have all run out.
A lonely sail, I watch the edge of heaven.
I’ve lost the landing and want to ask, “Where is it?”
Upon this level sea, evening is boundless.
早寒江上有怀
木落雁南渡，
北风江上寒。
我家襄水曲，
遥隔楚云端。
乡泪客中尽，
孤帆天际看。
迷津欲有问，
平海夕漫漫。
Xiangyang, Hubei, where the Han River does indeed make a bend, is near the northern border of the Chu region. The Yangzi in its lower half is wide enough that it’s often called a “sea.”
133. Climbing on an Autumn Day to the Temple above the Terrace of Lord Wu for a Distant View, Liu Changqing
An ancient terrace, broken up behind—
An autumn day, gazing at home in my heart.
The men are few who come to this country temple.
Sundered waters are seen through clouds and peaks.
The setting sunbeams slant on the former rampart
As tolls from cold stone bells fill empty woods.
Disheartening, those Southern Dynasty times:
Only the Yangzi’s lasted till today.
秋日登吴公台上寺远眺
古台摇落后，
秋日望乡心。
野寺人来少，
云峰水隔深。
夕阳依旧垒，
寒磬满空林。
惆怅南朝事，
长江独至今。
The terrace is in Yangzhou, Jiangsu, and the lord is Wu Mingche, a general of the southern Chen Dynasty who, like so many high officials during the turbulent Northern & Southern Dynasties period, eventually came to a bad end (in his case, captured by enemies). Liu Changqing is writing about 200 years after his death. Chime-stones were an ancient musical instrument, tuned pieces of rock or jade struck like a xylophone, being used at the temple as their bells.
134. Seeing Off Deputy Censor Li, Departing for Hanyang upon His Retirement, Liu Changqing
A drifter who once commanded an expedition
Departing south with a hundred thousand troops,
Task done, you came home, but to no estate—
Now old, you leave, longing for some Bright Era.
You stood alone—three borders stayed quiet—
Made light of life, knowing just your sword.
Upon the river vast, so vast, at Hanyang
Sun sets again: I ask you, where do you go?
送李中丞归汉阳别业
流落征南将，
曾驱十万师。
罢归无旧业，
老去恋明时。
独立三边静，
轻生一剑知。
茫茫江汉上，
日暮复何之。
Hanyang, Hubei, is where the wide Han River enters the even wider Yangzi. Slightly lost in translation: drifter renders an idiom meaning “destitute wanderer,” literally “drifting flow.”
135. At a Farewell Dinner for Wang Eleven, Traveling the South, Liu Changqing
I watch my lord in mist and waters broad,
Waving my hand, tears soaking all my clothes—
A flying bird who fades to who knows where.
Blue mountains blankly face the traveling man.
The Yangzi now: a single sail grown distant—
The setting sun: the Five Lakes in the spring.
Who sees me here upon this sandy islet
Together, with white duckweeds, feeling anxious?
饯别王十一南游
望君烟水阔，
挥手泪沾巾。
飞鸟没何处？
青山空向人。
长江一帆远，
落日五湖春。
谁见汀洲上，
相思愁白苹？
A farewell dinner would be the night before the departure, but the poem describes the departure itself—which makes me wonder just how many other seeing-off/farewell poems really are from the actual moment. The Five Lakes are Lake Tai and neighbors near Suzhou, west of modern Shanghai. Duckweed is a water plant that floats, minimally rooted, which makes it an ideal symbol for either a traveler or uselessness; this particular variety has white flowers.
136. Searching for the Hidden Residence of Daoist Chang in Nanxi, Liu Changqing
A single pathway passes through—
I see footprints on the mosses.
A white cloud rests on a quiet islet.
Spring grasses block the gate in the fence.
Rain passed, I gaze at pines’ appearance
And follow mountains to the spring.
Creekside flowers and meditation …
We face each other and do not speak.
寻南溪常山道人隐居
一路经行处，
莓苔见履痕。
白云依静渚，
春草闭闲门。
过雨看松色，
随山到水源。
溪花与禅意，
相对亦忘言。
Nanxi (“south creek”) County is in Sichuan.
137. Written on New Year’s, Liu Changqing
At New Year’s, home thoughts grow more urgent—
Heaven’s bound is tearfully lonely.
Old age has come, I’m still a lodger—
When spring arrives, this ‘guest’ moves on,
Like apes of the peaks from dawn to dusk.
Together, river willows are scenic.
Already I’m like that Changsha Tutor—
How many years from now will it be?
新年作
乡心新岁切，
天畔独潸然。
老至居人下，
春归在客先。
岭猿同旦暮，
江柳共风烟。
已似长沙傅，
从今又几年。
Written whilein exile on a demotional posting waaay south in what’s now Guangdong, thus calling himself a “guest.” The Changsha Tutor is Jia Yi, who was sent by Han Emperor Wen into exile to a demotional posting as Grand Tutor to the child king of the client kingdom of Changsha, covering what’s now Hunan, until he was recalled four years later.
138. Seeing Off a Monk Returning to Japan, Qian Qi
Following karma to visit this great land,
You made the journey, traveling to a dream.
The floating sky stretched far o’er the ocean blue—
Leaving the world, your dharma boat was light.
Like moon and water calmed through meditation,
Dragons and fish obeyed your Buddhist prayers.
I feel for the shadows of a single lamp—
Ten-thousand li are clear within your eye
送僧归日本
上国随缘住，
来途若梦行。
浮天沧海远，
去世法舟轻。
水月通禅寂，
鱼龙听梵声。
惟怜一灯影，
万里眼中明。
Lots of Buddhist imagery in this one, which I think comes through. Mistranslations as part of making that happen: karma is here probably better understood as “destiny” (they’re the same word in Chinese), and prayers is literally “voice.”
139. My Study in Gukou, Sent to Imperial Advisor Yang, Qian Qi
The streambed leads up to my thatch of reeds—
The white and pink clouds grow these curtains of creepers—
The bamboo is attractive after fresh rain—
The mountains are lovely in the slanting sun—
Mornings, herons often perch on the fence—
Evenings, autumn flowers frequently scatter—
A servant sweeps the narrow path through the vines …
I once hoped I’d be with a friend of old.
谷口书斋寄杨补阙
泉壑带茅茨，
云霞生薜帷。
竹怜新雨后，
山爱夕阳时。
闲鹭栖常早，
秋花落更迟。
家童扫萝径，
昨与故人期。
Not that he’s naming any names—he’s just sayin’ he’s disappointed. Gukou (“valley mouth”), near where Qian Qi grew up, is at the mouth of Wangchuan valley out of the Zhongnan Mountains. The creepers are climbing fig (Ficus pumila) and the vines some sort of ground-runner. While I like the imagery, this is one of those poems where the central antithetical couplets feel mechanical rather than organically handled.
140. A Happy Meeting in Huaishang with an Old Friend from Liangchuan, Wei Yingwu
Once your guest by the River Han,
We meet by chance—both of us drunk.
Clouds floating, one behind another—
Water flowing, a ten-year span—
Glad smiles, a feeling as of old—
Our hair is sparse and already grizzled.
Why haven’t I returned back north?
Huaishang faces autumn mountains.
淮上喜会梁川故人
江汉曾为客，
相逢每醉还。
浮云一别后，
流水十年间。
欢笑情如旧，
萧疏鬓已斑。
何因北归去？
淮上对秋山。
Huaishang on the banks of the Huai River is a district of what’s now Bengbu City, Anhui, and the town of Liangchuan was in what’s now Hanzhong, in southern Shaanxi—which is on the Han River. Lost in translation: the hair is specifically that on their “temples,” though this conventionally represents all the head. The implication of the final line is that the local autumn mountains are captivating.
141. Given the Topic “Evening Rain,” Seeing Off Li Zhou, Wei Yingwu
River from Chu within the rain of Wei—
A Nanjing bell tolls out the time of sunset—
In heavy mist, the sails are thickly layered—
Through gathering dusk, the birds slowly depart.
Haimen is deep—we cannot see it from here.
The far bank’s trees have moisture, nourishing.
We say farewell, our feelings without limit
And collars soaked just like in this fine rain.
赋得暮雨送李胄
楚江微雨里，
建业暮钟时。
漠漠帆来重，
冥冥鸟去迟。
海门深不见，
浦树远含滋。
相送情无限，
沾襟比散丝。
The Chu river is the Yangzi, which flows downstream to the territory of the rival Warring State kingdom of Wei, where it is raining. Haimen (“sea gate”) is at the mouth of the Yangzi, far enough away from Nanjing you wouldn’t expect to see it anyway, which is yet another indication that 深 has connotations that aren’t conveyed by the literal meaning deep. Idiom: fine rain is literally “scattered silk,” a reference to a line by Jin Dynasty poet Zhang Xie. The last line is comparing the wetness of their tears to that of the rain, with an implied comparison of their clothing to the river’s surface.
142. In Reply, After Receiving Cheng Yan’s “Impromptu on a Autumn Evening”, Han Hong
My bamboo mat receives the early wind—
An empty city, tranquil in the moonbeams—
The River of Stars—autumn—one wild goose—
Flat stones and beaters—night—a thousand households…
Awaiting that season, for it must be late,
My heart still hopes and borrows time from sleep:
I just now started chanting your elegant lines
And, losing track, already crows are cawing.
酬程延秋夜即事见赠
长簟迎风早，
空城澹月华。
星河秋一雁，
砧杵夜千家。
节候看应晚，
心期卧亦赊。
向来吟秀句，
不觉已鸣鸦。
The title is a slight mistranslation: more literally, it’s after the poem “was presented,” but that sort of respect-by-passive-voice sometimes comes across rather more awkwardly in English than it does in Chinese. Lost in translation: the mat is “oblong.” The season awaited (also readable as “festival”) looks to be New Years.
143. [Title Missing], Liu Shenxu
My road leads to the limit of white clouds.
Both springtime and the clear blue stream are long:
That season’s here, for flowers scatter now,
And from afar, the scent of flowing water.
My fence-gate faces toward a mountain path.
In the deep willows, I read of Buddhist halls—
Whenever bright sunlight reflects through this shade,
Clear radiance illuminates my robes.
阙题
道由白云尽，
春与青溪长。
时有落花至，
远隋流水香。
闲门向山路，
深柳读书堂。
幽映每白日，
清辉照衣裳。
There is some confusion over the poet’s name: my base text has 刘脊虚 Liu Jixu while every other text I’ve checked has 刘眘虚 Liu Shenxu, with a second character that’s rare and easy to misread/typo. Every other text and every published translation I’ve checked uses Shenxu except, significantly, Witter Bynner’s translation. Yet another example of why not to trust his.
Then there’s the poem’s title—it really is given as “missing,” as in lost at some point as opposed to just never given a title, the way Li Shangyin did for several poems. The second line uses 长 (cháng) in its senses of both physically and temporally long. Added in translation: Buddhist, though given the imagery and that the type of hall mentioned is often part of a temple complex, I think it’s a justifiable interpretation.
144. Meeting by Chance in an Inn an Old Friend from my Hometown on the River, Dai Shulun
The moon in the autumn sky again is full.
One night in a thousand, by the tower gate—
Meeting you once again here in Jiangnan
By chance, without a doubt, is like a dream.
Wind in the branches startles the magpie dark—
Dew on the grass bends over the cricket cold.
Halting our travels: that’s worth getting drunk—
Both loath to part until the bell at daybreak.
江乡故人偶集客舍
天秋月又满，
城阙夜千重。
还作江南会，
翻疑梦里逢。
风枝惊暗鹊，
露草覆寒虫。
羁旅长堪醉，
相留畏晓钟。
Jiangnan, “south of the river,” is the region south of the Yangzi—so, yeah, small chance. Lines 5-6 remind me of how, in anime, sometimes in an emotional moment we break away for a few seconds of nature imagery. Interpretation: crickets is literally “insects.”
145. Divided from Li Duan, Lu Lun
An old pass—withered grass is everywhere.
Our parting truly is one worthy of sorrow.
Your road heads out beyond the winter clouds—
This person will head back in evening snow.
An orphan, I wandered as a younger man—
After hardships, I came to know you late.
Concealing tears, I face you empty-hearted:
Where and when, in the wind-blown dust, will it be?
李端公
故关衰草遍，
离别正堪悲。
路出寒云外，
人归暮雪时。
少孤为客早，
多难识君迟。
掩泪空相向，
风尘何处期。
From context, this is a standard “seeing someone off” poem, conveyed with more intensity than typical (to the point of looking slashy), starting with the title: the “divided” sense of 公 has the specific sense of “divided into equal parts,” making this a parting like he’s being split from his other half. Note also a humble first-person referent and (lost in translation) an honorific you, literally “my lord/prince.”
146. Happily Meeting My Younger Cousin, then Saying Farewell, Li Yi
After the chaos, parted for ten years:
Only once grown up, we happen to meet—
I ask your family—am startled to realize—
You state your name—then I recall your face.
Since that time, everything has changed—
Our talking ceases with the evening bell.
Tomorrow it’s the Baling road for you—
The many autumn mountains again between us …
喜见外弟又言别
十年离乱后，
长大一相逢。
问姓惊初见，
称名忆旧容。
别来沧海事，
语罢暮天钟。
明日巴陵道，
秋山又几重。
The cousin is specifically a younger maternal first cousin. Lost in translation: it’s the cousin’s “former/younger” face. Idiom: everything has changed is literally “a green ocean thing,” understood as “a great change.” The last line is slightly elliptical, but that the “many layered” mountains will be between us is heavily implied. It’s irrelevant to understanding the poem, but for completeness, Baling is in Yueyang, Hunan.
147. Staying at a Yunyang Inn with Han Shen and then Parting, Sikong Shu
Old friend, the seas and rivers parted us,
Divided many times by mountains and streams—
We suddenly meet, and think that it’s a dream.
In mutual grief, we ask about the years.
Alone, the cold lamp shines upon the rain—
Deep, the bamboo’s dark with drifting smoke.
And now we have, next morning, such regret—
So toast this parting cup that we both treasure.
云阳馆与韩绅宿别
故人江海别，
几度隔山川。
乍见翻疑梦，
相悲各问年。
孤灯寒照雨，
深竹暗浮烟。
更有明朝恨，
离杯惜共传。
This is almost the same poem as #144—I think I slightly prefer this one, though. Yunyang was a county in what’s now Jingyang, Shaanxi, somewhat west of the capital. (Yes, Sikong is one of those rare two-character surnames.)
148. Happy My Cousin Lu Lun Is Visiting for the Night, Sikong Shu
A quiet night—no neighbors anywhere:
I dwell in the wilderness, my family poor.
Within the rain, the trees have yellow leaves.
Beneath the lamp, this man has whitening hair.
Because I’m alone, I’ve long since sunk in sadness,
Ashamed you visit me so frequently.
But all my life, I’ve had a part of you—
It’s like this: we’re Cai Clan relatives.
喜外弟卢纶见宿
静夜四无邻，
荒居旧业贫。
雨中黄叶树，
灯下白头人。
以我独沉久，
愧君相访频。
平生自有分，
况是蔡家亲。
As in #146, this is a younger maternal cousin. This is the Lu Lun who wrote #145—put this and that poem together, and you can get quite the shippy triangle going. Annent that, lost in translation: despite being younger, the cousin is addressed with the same honorific you used in #145. Added in translation: in sadness, to explicate the type of “sinking.”
149. Seeing Off Someone Returning North After the Rebels Were Pacified, Sikong Shu
The world in chaos, we left south together—
The times now peaceful, you head north alone.
Here in this foreign land, my hair’s grown white.
Back in our homeland, you will see blue mountains.
The daybreak moon shines through the broken rampart—
There’s many constellations in the pass—
Cold birds and withered grass—and everywhere
The anxious faces of my old companions.
贼平后送人北归
世乱同南去，
时清独北还。
他乡生白发，
旧国见青山。
晓月过残垒，
繁星宿故关。
寒禽与衰草，
处处伴愁颜。
The rebels were followers of An Lushan, and per commentaries this was written after the final defeat of the last remaining organized army in 763. And yes, pacified is literal—the euphemism is not only a modern English thing.
And that gets us three-quarters of the way through poems of this form. Coming up in the next installment is some prime Li Shangyin to wrestle with, so we’ll see how fast that goes.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
130. Staying on the River in Tonglu, Sent to an Old Friend in Guangling, Meng Haoran
As mountains darken, I hear anxious apes.
The dark green river swiftly flows at night.
The wind is rustling leaves upon both banks.
The moon shines on a single lonely boat.
This Jiande’s not a native land of mine.
As I recall, my old friend’s in Weiyang—
So I will send off these two streams of tears
To distant you, within the Sea’s West Head.
宿桐庐江，寄广陵旧游
山暝听猿愁，
沧江急夜流。
风鸣两岸叶，
月照一孤舟。
建德非吾土，
维扬忆旧游。
还将两行泪，
遥寄海西头。
Tonglu and Jiande are nearby cities on the Fuchun River southwest of Hangzhou, Zhejiang, while Guangling and Weiyang are the central districts of Yangzhou, Jiangsu, in the Yangzi delta, about 200 miles north. The significance of using one pair of names in the title and another in the text escapes me. The sea’s western head is the Yangzi delta, west of the Yellow Sea.
131. A Poem on Leaving Imperial Official Wang Wei, Meng Haoran
Lonely, at last I ask, “What does this serve?”
For day after day I come back here in vain.
I want to leave and search for fragrant grasses,
Although this means a parting with a friend.
Of those in power, who supports each other?
A close friend’s really rare in the world.
We should only keep watch on the stillness,
Returning to close the old garden door.
留别王侍御维
寂寂竟何待，
朝朝空自归。
欲寻芳草去，
惜与故人违。
当路谁相假，
知音世所稀。
祗应守寂寞，
还掩故园扉。
As frequently mentioned in the previous installment, Meng stayed with his friend Wang during his one abortive attempt at getting an official appointment. Idioms: those in power is “[those who] withstand/bear the path,” i.e., on the path rising up the official ranks, and close friend is “know (their) sound/voice.”
132. Thoughts in Early Winter upon the Yangzi, Meng Haoran
Leaves scatter as wild geese pass on south.
North wind—it’s getting cold upon the river.
My house in Xiangyang, at the water’s bend,
Is far off, at the limit of Chu clouds.
This traveler’s tears for home have all run out.
A lonely sail, I watch the edge of heaven.
I’ve lost the landing and want to ask, “Where is it?”
Upon this level sea, evening is boundless.
早寒江上有怀
木落雁南渡，
北风江上寒。
我家襄水曲，
遥隔楚云端。
乡泪客中尽，
孤帆天际看。
迷津欲有问，
平海夕漫漫。
Xiangyang, Hubei, where the Han River does indeed make a bend, is near the northern border of the Chu region. The Yangzi in its lower half is wide enough that it’s often called a “sea.”
133. Climbing on an Autumn Day to the Temple above the Terrace of Lord Wu for a Distant View, Liu Changqing
An ancient terrace, broken up behind—
An autumn day, gazing at home in my heart.
The men are few who come to this country temple.
Sundered waters are seen through clouds and peaks.
The setting sunbeams slant on the former rampart
As tolls from cold stone bells fill empty woods.
Disheartening, those Southern Dynasty times:
Only the Yangzi’s lasted till today.
秋日登吴公台上寺远眺
古台摇落后，
秋日望乡心。
野寺人来少，
云峰水隔深。
夕阳依旧垒，
寒磬满空林。
惆怅南朝事，
长江独至今。
The terrace is in Yangzhou, Jiangsu, and the lord is Wu Mingche, a general of the southern Chen Dynasty who, like so many high officials during the turbulent Northern & Southern Dynasties period, eventually came to a bad end (in his case, captured by enemies). Liu Changqing is writing about 200 years after his death. Chime-stones were an ancient musical instrument, tuned pieces of rock or jade struck like a xylophone, being used at the temple as their bells.
134. Seeing Off Deputy Censor Li, Departing for Hanyang upon His Retirement, Liu Changqing
A drifter who once commanded an expedition
Departing south with a hundred thousand troops,
Task done, you came home, but to no estate—
Now old, you leave, longing for some Bright Era.
You stood alone—three borders stayed quiet—
Made light of life, knowing just your sword.
Upon the river vast, so vast, at Hanyang
Sun sets again: I ask you, where do you go?
送李中丞归汉阳别业
流落征南将，
曾驱十万师。
罢归无旧业，
老去恋明时。
独立三边静，
轻生一剑知。
茫茫江汉上，
日暮复何之。
Hanyang, Hubei, is where the wide Han River enters the even wider Yangzi. Slightly lost in translation: drifter renders an idiom meaning “destitute wanderer,” literally “drifting flow.”
135. At a Farewell Dinner for Wang Eleven, Traveling the South, Liu Changqing
I watch my lord in mist and waters broad,
Waving my hand, tears soaking all my clothes—
A flying bird who fades to who knows where.
Blue mountains blankly face the traveling man.
The Yangzi now: a single sail grown distant—
The setting sun: the Five Lakes in the spring.
Who sees me here upon this sandy islet
Together, with white duckweeds, feeling anxious?
饯别王十一南游
望君烟水阔，
挥手泪沾巾。
飞鸟没何处？
青山空向人。
长江一帆远，
落日五湖春。
谁见汀洲上，
相思愁白苹？
A farewell dinner would be the night before the departure, but the poem describes the departure itself—which makes me wonder just how many other seeing-off/farewell poems really are from the actual moment. The Five Lakes are Lake Tai and neighbors near Suzhou, west of modern Shanghai. Duckweed is a water plant that floats, minimally rooted, which makes it an ideal symbol for either a traveler or uselessness; this particular variety has white flowers.
136. Searching for the Hidden Residence of Daoist Chang in Nanxi, Liu Changqing
A single pathway passes through—
I see footprints on the mosses.
A white cloud rests on a quiet islet.
Spring grasses block the gate in the fence.
Rain passed, I gaze at pines’ appearance
And follow mountains to the spring.
Creekside flowers and meditation …
We face each other and do not speak.
寻南溪常山道人隐居
一路经行处，
莓苔见履痕。
白云依静渚，
春草闭闲门。
过雨看松色，
随山到水源。
溪花与禅意，
相对亦忘言。
Nanxi (“south creek”) County is in Sichuan.
137. Written on New Year’s, Liu Changqing
At New Year’s, home thoughts grow more urgent—
Heaven’s bound is tearfully lonely.
Old age has come, I’m still a lodger—
When spring arrives, this ‘guest’ moves on,
Like apes of the peaks from dawn to dusk.
Together, river willows are scenic.
Already I’m like that Changsha Tutor—
How many years from now will it be?
新年作
乡心新岁切，
天畔独潸然。
老至居人下，
春归在客先。
岭猿同旦暮，
江柳共风烟。
已似长沙傅，
从今又几年。
Written while
138. Seeing Off a Monk Returning to Japan, Qian Qi
Following karma to visit this great land,
You made the journey, traveling to a dream.
The floating sky stretched far o’er the ocean blue—
Leaving the world, your dharma boat was light.
Like moon and water calmed through meditation,
Dragons and fish obeyed your Buddhist prayers.
I feel for the shadows of a single lamp—
Ten-thousand li are clear within your eye
送僧归日本
上国随缘住，
来途若梦行。
浮天沧海远，
去世法舟轻。
水月通禅寂，
鱼龙听梵声。
惟怜一灯影，
万里眼中明。
Lots of Buddhist imagery in this one, which I think comes through. Mistranslations as part of making that happen: karma is here probably better understood as “destiny” (they’re the same word in Chinese), and prayers is literally “voice.”
139. My Study in Gukou, Sent to Imperial Advisor Yang, Qian Qi
The streambed leads up to my thatch of reeds—
The white and pink clouds grow these curtains of creepers—
The bamboo is attractive after fresh rain—
The mountains are lovely in the slanting sun—
Mornings, herons often perch on the fence—
Evenings, autumn flowers frequently scatter—
A servant sweeps the narrow path through the vines …
I once hoped I’d be with a friend of old.
谷口书斋寄杨补阙
泉壑带茅茨，
云霞生薜帷。
竹怜新雨后，
山爱夕阳时。
闲鹭栖常早，
秋花落更迟。
家童扫萝径，
昨与故人期。
Not that he’s naming any names—he’s just sayin’ he’s disappointed. Gukou (“valley mouth”), near where Qian Qi grew up, is at the mouth of Wangchuan valley out of the Zhongnan Mountains. The creepers are climbing fig (Ficus pumila) and the vines some sort of ground-runner. While I like the imagery, this is one of those poems where the central antithetical couplets feel mechanical rather than organically handled.
140. A Happy Meeting in Huaishang with an Old Friend from Liangchuan, Wei Yingwu
Once your guest by the River Han,
We meet by chance—both of us drunk.
Clouds floating, one behind another—
Water flowing, a ten-year span—
Glad smiles, a feeling as of old—
Our hair is sparse and already grizzled.
Why haven’t I returned back north?
Huaishang faces autumn mountains.
淮上喜会梁川故人
江汉曾为客，
相逢每醉还。
浮云一别后，
流水十年间。
欢笑情如旧，
萧疏鬓已斑。
何因北归去？
淮上对秋山。
Huaishang on the banks of the Huai River is a district of what’s now Bengbu City, Anhui, and the town of Liangchuan was in what’s now Hanzhong, in southern Shaanxi—which is on the Han River. Lost in translation: the hair is specifically that on their “temples,” though this conventionally represents all the head. The implication of the final line is that the local autumn mountains are captivating.
141. Given the Topic “Evening Rain,” Seeing Off Li Zhou, Wei Yingwu
River from Chu within the rain of Wei—
A Nanjing bell tolls out the time of sunset—
In heavy mist, the sails are thickly layered—
Through gathering dusk, the birds slowly depart.
Haimen is deep—we cannot see it from here.
The far bank’s trees have moisture, nourishing.
We say farewell, our feelings without limit
And collars soaked just like in this fine rain.
赋得暮雨送李胄
楚江微雨里，
建业暮钟时。
漠漠帆来重，
冥冥鸟去迟。
海门深不见，
浦树远含滋。
相送情无限，
沾襟比散丝。
The Chu river is the Yangzi, which flows downstream to the territory of the rival Warring State kingdom of Wei, where it is raining. Haimen (“sea gate”) is at the mouth of the Yangzi, far enough away from Nanjing you wouldn’t expect to see it anyway, which is yet another indication that 深 has connotations that aren’t conveyed by the literal meaning deep. Idiom: fine rain is literally “scattered silk,” a reference to a line by Jin Dynasty poet Zhang Xie. The last line is comparing the wetness of their tears to that of the rain, with an implied comparison of their clothing to the river’s surface.
142. In Reply, After Receiving Cheng Yan’s “Impromptu on a Autumn Evening”, Han Hong
My bamboo mat receives the early wind—
An empty city, tranquil in the moonbeams—
The River of Stars—autumn—one wild goose—
Flat stones and beaters—night—a thousand households…
Awaiting that season, for it must be late,
My heart still hopes and borrows time from sleep:
I just now started chanting your elegant lines
And, losing track, already crows are cawing.
酬程延秋夜即事见赠
长簟迎风早，
空城澹月华。
星河秋一雁，
砧杵夜千家。
节候看应晚，
心期卧亦赊。
向来吟秀句，
不觉已鸣鸦。
The title is a slight mistranslation: more literally, it’s after the poem “was presented,” but that sort of respect-by-passive-voice sometimes comes across rather more awkwardly in English than it does in Chinese. Lost in translation: the mat is “oblong.” The season awaited (also readable as “festival”) looks to be New Years.
143. [Title Missing], Liu Shenxu
My road leads to the limit of white clouds.
Both springtime and the clear blue stream are long:
That season’s here, for flowers scatter now,
And from afar, the scent of flowing water.
My fence-gate faces toward a mountain path.
In the deep willows, I read of Buddhist halls—
Whenever bright sunlight reflects through this shade,
Clear radiance illuminates my robes.
阙题
道由白云尽，
春与青溪长。
时有落花至，
远隋流水香。
闲门向山路，
深柳读书堂。
幽映每白日，
清辉照衣裳。
There is some confusion over the poet’s name: my base text has 刘脊虚 Liu Jixu while every other text I’ve checked has 刘眘虚 Liu Shenxu, with a second character that’s rare and easy to misread/typo. Every other text and every published translation I’ve checked uses Shenxu except, significantly, Witter Bynner’s translation. Yet another example of why not to trust his.
Then there’s the poem’s title—it really is given as “missing,” as in lost at some point as opposed to just never given a title, the way Li Shangyin did for several poems. The second line uses 长 (cháng) in its senses of both physically and temporally long. Added in translation: Buddhist, though given the imagery and that the type of hall mentioned is often part of a temple complex, I think it’s a justifiable interpretation.
144. Meeting by Chance in an Inn an Old Friend from my Hometown on the River, Dai Shulun
The moon in the autumn sky again is full.
One night in a thousand, by the tower gate—
Meeting you once again here in Jiangnan
By chance, without a doubt, is like a dream.
Wind in the branches startles the magpie dark—
Dew on the grass bends over the cricket cold.
Halting our travels: that’s worth getting drunk—
Both loath to part until the bell at daybreak.
江乡故人偶集客舍
天秋月又满，
城阙夜千重。
还作江南会，
翻疑梦里逢。
风枝惊暗鹊，
露草覆寒虫。
羁旅长堪醉，
相留畏晓钟。
Jiangnan, “south of the river,” is the region south of the Yangzi—so, yeah, small chance. Lines 5-6 remind me of how, in anime, sometimes in an emotional moment we break away for a few seconds of nature imagery. Interpretation: crickets is literally “insects.”
145. Divided from Li Duan, Lu Lun
An old pass—withered grass is everywhere.
Our parting truly is one worthy of sorrow.
Your road heads out beyond the winter clouds—
This person will head back in evening snow.
An orphan, I wandered as a younger man—
After hardships, I came to know you late.
Concealing tears, I face you empty-hearted:
Where and when, in the wind-blown dust, will it be?
李端公
故关衰草遍，
离别正堪悲。
路出寒云外，
人归暮雪时。
少孤为客早，
多难识君迟。
掩泪空相向，
风尘何处期。
From context, this is a standard “seeing someone off” poem, conveyed with more intensity than typical (to the point of looking slashy), starting with the title: the “divided” sense of 公 has the specific sense of “divided into equal parts,” making this a parting like he’s being split from his other half. Note also a humble first-person referent and (lost in translation) an honorific you, literally “my lord/prince.”
146. Happily Meeting My Younger Cousin, then Saying Farewell, Li Yi
After the chaos, parted for ten years:
Only once grown up, we happen to meet—
I ask your family—am startled to realize—
You state your name—then I recall your face.
Since that time, everything has changed—
Our talking ceases with the evening bell.
Tomorrow it’s the Baling road for you—
The many autumn mountains again between us …
喜见外弟又言别
十年离乱后，
长大一相逢。
问姓惊初见，
称名忆旧容。
别来沧海事，
语罢暮天钟。
明日巴陵道，
秋山又几重。
The cousin is specifically a younger maternal first cousin. Lost in translation: it’s the cousin’s “former/younger” face. Idiom: everything has changed is literally “a green ocean thing,” understood as “a great change.” The last line is slightly elliptical, but that the “many layered” mountains will be between us is heavily implied. It’s irrelevant to understanding the poem, but for completeness, Baling is in Yueyang, Hunan.
147. Staying at a Yunyang Inn with Han Shen and then Parting, Sikong Shu
Old friend, the seas and rivers parted us,
Divided many times by mountains and streams—
We suddenly meet, and think that it’s a dream.
In mutual grief, we ask about the years.
Alone, the cold lamp shines upon the rain—
Deep, the bamboo’s dark with drifting smoke.
And now we have, next morning, such regret—
So toast this parting cup that we both treasure.
云阳馆与韩绅宿别
故人江海别，
几度隔山川。
乍见翻疑梦，
相悲各问年。
孤灯寒照雨，
深竹暗浮烟。
更有明朝恨，
离杯惜共传。
This is almost the same poem as #144—I think I slightly prefer this one, though. Yunyang was a county in what’s now Jingyang, Shaanxi, somewhat west of the capital. (Yes, Sikong is one of those rare two-character surnames.)
148. Happy My Cousin Lu Lun Is Visiting for the Night, Sikong Shu
A quiet night—no neighbors anywhere:
I dwell in the wilderness, my family poor.
Within the rain, the trees have yellow leaves.
Beneath the lamp, this man has whitening hair.
Because I’m alone, I’ve long since sunk in sadness,
Ashamed you visit me so frequently.
But all my life, I’ve had a part of you—
It’s like this: we’re Cai Clan relatives.
喜外弟卢纶见宿
静夜四无邻，
荒居旧业贫。
雨中黄叶树，
灯下白头人。
以我独沉久，
愧君相访频。
平生自有分，
况是蔡家亲。
As in #146, this is a younger maternal cousin. This is the Lu Lun who wrote #145—put this and that poem together, and you can get quite the shippy triangle going. Annent that, lost in translation: despite being younger, the cousin is addressed with the same honorific you used in #145. Added in translation: in sadness, to explicate the type of “sinking.”
149. Seeing Off Someone Returning North After the Rebels Were Pacified, Sikong Shu
The world in chaos, we left south together—
The times now peaceful, you head north alone.
Here in this foreign land, my hair’s grown white.
Back in our homeland, you will see blue mountains.
The daybreak moon shines through the broken rampart—
There’s many constellations in the pass—
Cold birds and withered grass—and everywhere
The anxious faces of my old companions.
贼平后送人北归
世乱同南去，
时清独北还。
他乡生白发，
旧国见青山。
晓月过残垒，
繁星宿故关。
寒禽与衰草，
处处伴愁颜。
The rebels were followers of An Lushan, and per commentaries this was written after the final defeat of the last remaining organized army in 763. And yes, pacified is literal—the euphemism is not only a modern English thing.
And that gets us three-quarters of the way through poems of this form. Coming up in the next installment is some prime Li Shangyin to wrestle with, so we’ll see how fast that goes.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
no subject
Date: 29 March 2022 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 29 March 2022 06:03 pm (UTC)