Three Hundred Tang Poems #150-169
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larryhammerLast quarter of Part 5 (previously), making these the last of the 5-character regulated verses. Highlight of this section is Li Shangyin, who displays more personality than most poets but is as difficult as Du Fu to translate adequately, for entirely different reasons.
150. The Temple of the First King of Shu, Liu Yuxi
A mighty hero breathed on heaven and earth—
A thousand autumns, yet we shiver still.
Land split by force to make a ‘three-legged cauldron,’
He minted once again the five-zhu coin.
He gathered talent, and they founded a state,
Although his son did not seem worthy of it:
From desolate Shu, the song-girls came to dance
Before the palace of the king of Wei.
蜀先主庙
天地英雄气，
千秋尚凛然。
势分三足鼎，
业复五铢钱。
得相能开国，
生儿不象贤。
凄凉蜀故妓，
来舞魏宫前。
This is the funeral temple of Liu Bei (161-223), first king of Shu, one of the Three Kingdoms. Despite the second line, the poet is writing about 600 years after his death. A three-legged cauldron is an old symbol for the Three Kingdoms, stable only when all three were strong. The 5-zhu coin (worth 5/24 of a tael) was minted during the Western Han dynasty but went into abeyance during the interregnal Xin Dynasty. When Shu, then ruled by his by all estimates (including his father) incompetent son, Liu Chan, was conquered by the armies of Wei, general Sima Zhao had the Shu court’s singing-and-dancing girls perform before his ruler.
Just a wee bit of toxic masculinity there, that this last is considered the worst possible slam on Liu Chan.
151. An Old Friend, Dead in a Foreign Land, Zhang Ji of Jiangnan
Last year, in our campaign against the Yuezhi,
All of an army died beneath the walls.
All news was cut between that land and Han—
The living and the dead forever parted.
No one collected your discarded tent,
Your horse returned—I knew your broken banner.
I’d sacrifice, but you might be alive—
I’m weeping at this moment towards the horizon.
没蕃故人
前年伐月支，
城下没全师。
蕃汉断消息，
死生长别离。
无人收废帐，
归马识残旗。
欲祭疑君在，
天涯哭此时。
The Yuezhi originally were a nomadic people of central Gansu who, early in the Han Dynasty, were driven out by the Xiongnu and split into two branches—the larger migrated west through the Tarim Basin into Bactria, where they eventually became the Kushan Empire, while the smaller went south into Qinghai and Tibet, where they eventually merged into the Tibetan peoples and their name became a synonym for the Tibetan empire. Which city or fortress being battled under, let alone which campaign this was, is entirely unclear. Obscured in translation: the sacrifice is specifically a memorial ritual honoring the dead. (Author credit given this way to distinguish him from the author of #273, also pronounced Zhang Ji, though with a different tone.)
152. Given the Topic “Grasses of the Ancient Plains,” Saying Farewell, Bai Juyi
Lush, lush, the grasses on the plain—
Throughout the year, their glory withers.
A burning fire can’t exhaust them:
When spring winds blow, they grow again.
Spread far and scented, encroaching the road—
Clear green connecting wastes and cities.
Farewell again, descendent of kings:
Luxuriance fills this feeling of parting.
赋得古原草送别
离离原上草，
一岁一枯荣。
野火烧不尽，
春风吹又生。
远芳侵古道，
晴翠接荒城。
又送王孙去，
萋萋满别情。
Going by the number of novels and dramas with titles taken from its lines, this is a Really Well Known poem. Written when the poet was 16 and newly arrived in Chang’an, and it made for a splash of a career-starter. Lost in translation: the road is “old” and the descendent of kings (an honorific not necessarily restricted to scions of nobility) is the one departing.
153. A Traveler’s Inn, Du Mu
A traveler’s inn without a good companion:
I’m lost in thought, melancholy indeed,
And by the cold lamp ponder past events.
One wild goose rouses me from anxious slumber,
Returning me from distant dreams to daybreak.
A message from home arrived a year delayed.
A dark-green river—pleasing mist and moonlight—
A fishing boat is tied before the gate.
旅宿
旅馆无良伴，
凝情自悄然。
寒灯思旧事，
断雁警愁眠。
远梦归侵晓，
家书到隔年。
沧江好烟月，
门系钓鱼船。
The last two lines could be describing the scene outside, a dream, or home. Commentaries seem inclined to the last, but given the title, I prefer to understand the first. I’m impressed by how layers of past and present shift throughout the poem.
154. An Autumn Day Journeying to Chang’an, Inscribed in the Tower of the Tong Pass Post Station, Xu Hun
The red leaves in the evening look so dreary.
At the rest house, wine—a single ladle.
Broken clouds return to great Mt. Hua,
A scanty rainfall passes Zhongtiao Ridge.
Tree colors match the mountains in the distance.
The river splashes toward the distant sea.
Tomorrow I’ll arrive at the emperor’s home
But I still dream of cutting wood and fishing.
秋日赴阙题潼关驿楼
红叶晚萧萧，
长亭酒一瓢。
残云归太华，
疏雨过中条。
树色随山迥，
河声入海遥。
帝乡明日到，
犹自梦渔樵。
Tong Pass, near the confluence of the Wei and Yellow rivers, is the gateway between Shaanxi and the Central Plains. Idiom: in the title, he’s literally traveling to a “watchtower of the imperial palace,” which usually stands in for the entire palace or the capital itself. Rest houses for travelers, literally “long pavilions,” were set up every 10 li (5km/3mi) along the main roads. The road between Tong and Chang’an passes by both Mt. Hua and Mt. Zhongtiao (the latter now better known as Mt. Leishou).
I really like how the images of discontent and of smaller things coming to larger neatly reflect the speaker’s situation.
155. Early Autumn, Xu Hun
Through the long night float sounds of my clear se.
The western wind brings life to bright-green vines.
Last fireflies are settled on jade dew.
An early wild goose shakes the Milky Way.
The tall trees still are dense at break of day.
There’s even more far mountains when it’s clear.
South of the Huai, a single leaf drops down.
I’m aware of my age, of mists on the water.
早秋
遥夜泛清瑟，
西风生翠萝。
残萤栖玉露，
早雁拂银河。
高树晓还密，
远山晴更多。
淮南一叶下，
自觉老烟波。
Written as the first of a three-poem set—for the others, see here. The se was an ancient zither (ancestor of both qin and zheng/koto) with between 25 to 50 strings and moveable bridges. Idiom: the Milky Way is called “Silver River.” The Huai River is in Anhui, in the Yangzi delta region. That a single leaf falling tells the coming of autumn was a commonplace.
156. A Cicada, Li Shangyin
Here at the roots, since you can’t eat your fill,
You futilely resent your pointless noise:
By fifth watch, it’s infrequent, trailing off,
Although the whole tree’s green and still uncaring.
This lowly official’s just a ‘branch that floats’—
Back home, the weeds already have grown up.
Your troubled call reminds me most of all:
My family also is all poor but honest.
蝉
本以高难饱，
徒劳恨费声。
五更疏欲断，
一树碧无情。
薄宦梗犹泛，
故园芜已平。
烦君最相警，
我亦举家清。
It was believed at the time that cicadas ate wind and drank dew, which is difficult to do at the base of a tree. The fifth watch of the night corresponds to roughly 3-5 am. The floating branch is an idiom derived from a Warring States chronicle comparing an official getting reassigned every few years to a broken peach branch floating on a river. Lost in translation: the tree is “jade-green.” Added in translation: but honest by way of filling out a common idiom partially included.
Not only does Li Shangyin directly address something of nature, but with an honorific “you.” This is unlike any poem I’ve translated from Chinese—which underscores that he was indeed an original poet. He’s also just as difficult as Du Fu, though for different reasons, and for what it’s worth I had to render it more freely than usual to make it comprehensible.
157. Wind and Rain, Li Shangyin
Like in that wretched essay, “The Two-Edged Sword,”
I’ve bridle and anchor, and long for my end of years—
This yellow leaf’s still out in the wind and rain,
While those in blue towers play their flutes and strings—
A new pal met by chance in the frivolous world—
An old friend parted by our virtuous karma …
I’ll break this mood with Xinfeng wine and soothe
My worries with cups worth however many thousand.
风雨
凄凉宝剑篇，
羁泊欲穷年。
黄叶仍风雨，
青楼自管弦。
新知遭薄俗，
旧好隔良缘。
心断新丰酒，
销愁斗几千。
“Essay on the Two-Edged Sword,” about the vanity of wandering heroes, was written by Guo Yuanzhen for a competition ordered by Empress Wu Zetian, who was impressed enough she handsomely rewarded the author. A horse’s bridle and boat’s anchor are symbols of a traveling life. Xinfeng, near Chang-an, was famous for its fine i.e. expensive wine.
158. Fallen Flowers, Li Shangyin
At the high hall, the last guest leaves at last.
In the small garden, flurries of flowers fly.
I walk unsteady down the winding path
Where lofty gaps let slanting sunbeams through.
My belly’s sliced, I can’t yet stand to sweep—
Eyes pierced, I still desire her return.
My fragrant spirit looks to the end of spring,
For this place gives just this: my clothing soaked.
落花
高阁客竟去，
小园花乱飞。
参差连曲陌，
迢递送斜晖。
肠断未忍扫，
眼穿仍欲归。
芳心向春尽，
所得是沾衣。
Written after his mother’s death. The gaps are where flowers have fallen from the trees. His clothes are wet, as usual, because of tears.
159. Cold Thoughts, Li Shangyin
You left when waves were level with my threshold:
Cicadas rested, dew full on the branches.
I’ll ever carry memories of that season.
I lean upon the door as time moves on.
’Neath the North Dipper, spring’s far from you.
Here in South Hill, your messenger is late.
On Heaven’s shore, I keep divining my dreams—
Surely I’m wrong: you haven’t made new friends.
凉思
客去波平槛，
蝉休露满枝。
永怀当此节，
倚立自移时。
北斗兼春远，
南陵寓使迟。
天涯占梦数，
疑误有新知。
Just a touch insecure and jealous, are we? South Hill (name translated to bring out the parallel with the Dipper) is Nanling in Anhui, a little south of the lower Yangzi, where Li was stationed for a while.
160. North of Qingluo, Li Shangyin
Sun enters Yanzi in the west—
Thatched hut: I ask a lonely monk,
“Where in these scattered leaves are we?
How much further through those cold clouds?”
A single strike on dusk’s stone bell.
Upon the fence climbs just one vine.
Everyone’s in the dust of the world—
Why must I both love and hate it?
北青萝
残阳西入崦，
茅屋访孤僧。
落叶人何在？
寒云路几层。
独敲初夜磬，
闲倚一枝藤。
世界微尘里，
吾宁爱与憎。
Qingluo (“clear vines”) is a peak of the Wangwu Mountains in northwestern Henan, more or less due north of Luoyang. Lost in translation: it’s the “last/remaining” sun, and further “[on] the road.” Mt. Yanzi in western Gansu is the mountain where the sun supposedly entered the earth upon setting. The monk is specifically Buddhist, and the dust of the world is a Buddhist concept, signifying our attachments to existence.
161. Seeing Off Someone Traveling East, Wen Tingyun
A border wasteland—yellow leaves
Depart the vast and ancient pass.
There’s strong winds here at Hanyang Ferry,
And daybreak touches Yingmen Mountain.
Upon the river, how many people?
At the sky’s shore still a single skiff.
When will we see each other again?
A wine cup consoles my departure face.
送人东游
荒戍落黄叶，
浩然离故关。
高风汉阳渡，
初日郢门山。
江上几人在？
天涯孤棹还。
何当重相见？
樽酒慰离颜。
Lost in translation: the leaves are “scattering.” Hanyang in Hubei is a Yangzi crossing, Yingmen (also called Jingmen, see #101) is nearby. Given that setting in the central Yangzi valley, the frontier images are apparently strictly symbolic of his emotions.
162. Residing in Bashang in Autumn, Ma Dai
Here in Bashang, the wind and rain are calm.
I see each evening line after line of geese
And scattered leaves from unfamiliar trees.
Cold lamp at night—this solitary person—
Within the empty garden, white dew drips—
Beyond its lonely wall a rustic monk.
In these suburban lodgings it grows late—
How many years were spent to gain this life?
灞上秋居
灞原风雨定，
晚见雁行频。
落叶他乡树，
寒灯独夜人。
空园白露滴，
孤壁野僧邻。
寄卧郊扉久，
何年致此身？
Bashang was an eastern suburb of Chang’an where officials waiting for imperial appointments often lodged. The person is a humble self-reference.
163. Pondering Ancient Times on the Chu River, Ma Dai
A cold light gathers in the dewy air.
The last sun drops behind Chu hills.
Apes screech in trees by Dongting Lake.
I am in my ‘magnolia boat.’
The broad marsh births a shining moon.
Dark mountains crowd the tumbling streams.
Lord of the Clouds, I don’t see you.
All night long, I grieve for autumn.
楚江怀古
露气寒光集，
微阳下楚丘。
猿啼洞庭树，
人在木兰舟。
广泽生明月，
苍山夹乱流。
云中君不见，
竟夕自悲秋。
Written as the first of a set of three poems. The Chu River here refers to not, as usual, the Yangzi but the Xiang, which was the largest river entirely within the Warring State of Chu—it feeds into Dongting. A magnolia boat is not made of magnolia wood but rather a poeticism partaking of that flower’s elegance. The Lord of the Clouds is addressed in one of Qu Yuan’s shamanistic Nine Songs (from Songs of Chu) written in the 3rd century BCE—definitely “ancient” when pondered in the 9th century CE. Said Lord could here be a reference to Qu Yuan himself, who drowned not far away (in neighboring Milou River).
164. Writing on Border Matters, Zhang Qiao
No blowing horns break quiet autumn
And soldiers lean on garrison towers.
Soft breezes brush the grassy mound.
The bright sun sets behind Liangzhou.
No troops impede us through this desert—
Our tourists vanish across the border—
But foreigners’ feelings are like this water:
Forever wanting to flow on south.
书边事
调角断清秋，
征人倚戍楼。
春风对青冢，
白日落梁州。
大漠无兵阻，
穷边有客游。
蕃情似此水，
长愿向南流。
Idioms: the soft breeze is literally “spring(-like),” but since the setting is explicitly autumn translating that literally sounds really weird, and the mound is literally “green.” Said mound is understood from context as the tumulus of Wang Zhaojun, one of the Four Great Beauties married off to the Chanyu of the Xiongnu nomads, which puts us near modern Hohhot in central Inner Mongolia. Liangzhou is a fair ways due west of there in central Gansu, at the start of the Hexi Corridor and so also associated with the frontier. The contemporary foreigners being scaremongered are Tibetans, even though they were encroaching from the southwest not north, and the water would be the Yellow River of the Ordos Loop. Lost in translation: the desert is “great/vast.”
165. Thoughts on a Sichuan Mountain Road on New Year’s Eve, Cui Tu
It looks remote, this Sichuan road—
Dangerous travel, ten-thousand li,
Disordered mountains, snow patches at night.
My candle’s lonely—a foreign spring—
My flesh and blood are growing distant
As I instead turn towards my servants.
That which endures the ‘winds and anchors’
Tomorrow sees a year that’s new.
巴山道中除夜有怀
迢递三巴路，
羁危万里身。
乱山残雪夜，
孤独异乡春。
渐与骨肉远，
转于僮仆亲。
那堪正飘泊，
明日岁华新。
Then, as now, the lunisolar New Year was whenever possible observed with one’s family at home. Idioms: Sichuan is literally “Ba” in the title and “three Ba [districts]” in the poem (this was previously met in #43), Ba being an ancient province covering eastern Sichuan, and while flesh and blood is literally “bone (and) flesh.” Idiom translated literally: ‘winds and anchors’ represent the life of a traveler (compare “bridle and anchor” from #157).
166. A Solitary Wild Goose, Cui Tu
So many lines returned across the border
But this thin silhouette goes where alone?
Through evening rain it calls to those it’s lost—
To some cold pond it longs to descend at last.
It crosses the cloudy islet low in the dark,
Lonely together with the moonlit pass.
Surely it won’t encounter a hunter’s arrow—
Flying solo myself, I can but wonder.
孤雁
几行归塞尽，
片影独何之？
暮雨相呼失，
寒塘欲下迟。
渚云低暗渡，
关月冷相随。
未必逢矰缴，
孤飞自可疑。
This was written as the second of a 2-poem set. There’s a few poetic inversions in the original, of which I’ve tried the flavor to replicate. The arrow is a type tied with a silk cord, so the hunter can retrieve a fallen bird.
167. Spring Palace Complaint, Du Xunhe
When I was young, my beauty led me astray.
Too lazy to adorn myself before the mirror,
My looks no longer now receive his favor—
So teach this one your way of dressing up?
In the warm breeze, bird voices are jumbled—
In the high sun, the flowers’ shadows are layered.
Year after year those women by Yue streams
Recall when we once plucked lotus together.
春宫怨
早被婵娟误，
欲妆临镜慵。
承恩不在貌，
教妾若为容？
风暖鸟声碎，
日高花影重。
年年越溪女，
相忆采芙蓉。
The Spring Palace is the Crown Prince’s residence, and the speaker is one of his concubines. Yue is a term for the deep south in general, but there’s also an association with the Warring State kingdom of Yue and the legendary beauty Xi Shi (see #40). Lost in translation: the streams are specifically “mountain streams.”
168. Night Thoughts at Zhang Tower, Wei Zhuang
The clear se’s lamentation through the night,
Sinuous strings that mourn in wind and rain.
By a lonely lamp I hear a Chu-style horn
As the last of the moon descends behind Zhang Tower—
The fragrant grasses already fade again—
My old friend’s visit still is in the future—
Family letters cannot be delivered—
Autumn geese once more return to the south.
章台夜思
清瑟怨遥夜，
绕弦风雨哀。
孤灯闻楚角，
残月下章台。
芳草已云暮，
故人殊未来。
乡书不可寄，
秋雁又南回。
The tower was part of a palace (more usually called Zhonghua) in the Warring States kingdom of Chu, now in Jingzhou, Hubei. The Chu horn was a kind of bugle, generally considered to have a somber tone.
169. Looking for Lu Hongjian but Not Finding Him, Monk Jiaoran
He’s moved, and though it’s near the city
The footpath goes through hemp and mulberries.
Beside the hedge, chrysanthemums
Are not yet blooming though autumn comes.
I knock on the gate—no dog barks.
I have to ask his western neighbor,
Who answers, “He’s gone into the mountains
But he returns home every sunset.”
寻陆鸿渐不遇
移家虽带郭，
野径入桑麻。
近种篱边菊，
秋来未著花。
扣门无犬吠，
欲去问西家。
报到山中去，
归来每日斜。
Lu Hongjian, better known as Lu Yu, was the author of The Classic of Tea. Idioms: bloom is literally “show flowers” and sunset is “sun(light) slant,” and those aren’t the only examples of flowery language.
And now I feel like I’ve completed An Effort. (Of course, part of that is getting Covid in the middle of this batch.) Oofs! I’ve now translated 190-plus of the 320 poems in this collection, but since I started with the shortest poems, the remaining 120-odd poems consist of more than half of all lines of verse. So, onward, I guess.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
150. The Temple of the First King of Shu, Liu Yuxi
A mighty hero breathed on heaven and earth—
A thousand autumns, yet we shiver still.
Land split by force to make a ‘three-legged cauldron,’
He minted once again the five-zhu coin.
He gathered talent, and they founded a state,
Although his son did not seem worthy of it:
From desolate Shu, the song-girls came to dance
Before the palace of the king of Wei.
蜀先主庙
天地英雄气，
千秋尚凛然。
势分三足鼎，
业复五铢钱。
得相能开国，
生儿不象贤。
凄凉蜀故妓，
来舞魏宫前。
This is the funeral temple of Liu Bei (161-223), first king of Shu, one of the Three Kingdoms. Despite the second line, the poet is writing about 600 years after his death. A three-legged cauldron is an old symbol for the Three Kingdoms, stable only when all three were strong. The 5-zhu coin (worth 5/24 of a tael) was minted during the Western Han dynasty but went into abeyance during the interregnal Xin Dynasty. When Shu, then ruled by his by all estimates (including his father) incompetent son, Liu Chan, was conquered by the armies of Wei, general Sima Zhao had the Shu court’s singing-and-dancing girls perform before his ruler.
Just a wee bit of toxic masculinity there, that this last is considered the worst possible slam on Liu Chan.
151. An Old Friend, Dead in a Foreign Land, Zhang Ji of Jiangnan
Last year, in our campaign against the Yuezhi,
All of an army died beneath the walls.
All news was cut between that land and Han—
The living and the dead forever parted.
No one collected your discarded tent,
Your horse returned—I knew your broken banner.
I’d sacrifice, but you might be alive—
I’m weeping at this moment towards the horizon.
没蕃故人
前年伐月支，
城下没全师。
蕃汉断消息，
死生长别离。
无人收废帐，
归马识残旗。
欲祭疑君在，
天涯哭此时。
The Yuezhi originally were a nomadic people of central Gansu who, early in the Han Dynasty, were driven out by the Xiongnu and split into two branches—the larger migrated west through the Tarim Basin into Bactria, where they eventually became the Kushan Empire, while the smaller went south into Qinghai and Tibet, where they eventually merged into the Tibetan peoples and their name became a synonym for the Tibetan empire. Which city or fortress being battled under, let alone which campaign this was, is entirely unclear. Obscured in translation: the sacrifice is specifically a memorial ritual honoring the dead. (Author credit given this way to distinguish him from the author of #273, also pronounced Zhang Ji, though with a different tone.)
152. Given the Topic “Grasses of the Ancient Plains,” Saying Farewell, Bai Juyi
Lush, lush, the grasses on the plain—
Throughout the year, their glory withers.
A burning fire can’t exhaust them:
When spring winds blow, they grow again.
Spread far and scented, encroaching the road—
Clear green connecting wastes and cities.
Farewell again, descendent of kings:
Luxuriance fills this feeling of parting.
赋得古原草送别
离离原上草，
一岁一枯荣。
野火烧不尽，
春风吹又生。
远芳侵古道，
晴翠接荒城。
又送王孙去，
萋萋满别情。
Going by the number of novels and dramas with titles taken from its lines, this is a Really Well Known poem. Written when the poet was 16 and newly arrived in Chang’an, and it made for a splash of a career-starter. Lost in translation: the road is “old” and the descendent of kings (an honorific not necessarily restricted to scions of nobility) is the one departing.
153. A Traveler’s Inn, Du Mu
A traveler’s inn without a good companion:
I’m lost in thought, melancholy indeed,
And by the cold lamp ponder past events.
One wild goose rouses me from anxious slumber,
Returning me from distant dreams to daybreak.
A message from home arrived a year delayed.
A dark-green river—pleasing mist and moonlight—
A fishing boat is tied before the gate.
旅宿
旅馆无良伴，
凝情自悄然。
寒灯思旧事，
断雁警愁眠。
远梦归侵晓，
家书到隔年。
沧江好烟月，
门系钓鱼船。
The last two lines could be describing the scene outside, a dream, or home. Commentaries seem inclined to the last, but given the title, I prefer to understand the first. I’m impressed by how layers of past and present shift throughout the poem.
154. An Autumn Day Journeying to Chang’an, Inscribed in the Tower of the Tong Pass Post Station, Xu Hun
The red leaves in the evening look so dreary.
At the rest house, wine—a single ladle.
Broken clouds return to great Mt. Hua,
A scanty rainfall passes Zhongtiao Ridge.
Tree colors match the mountains in the distance.
The river splashes toward the distant sea.
Tomorrow I’ll arrive at the emperor’s home
But I still dream of cutting wood and fishing.
秋日赴阙题潼关驿楼
红叶晚萧萧，
长亭酒一瓢。
残云归太华，
疏雨过中条。
树色随山迥，
河声入海遥。
帝乡明日到，
犹自梦渔樵。
Tong Pass, near the confluence of the Wei and Yellow rivers, is the gateway between Shaanxi and the Central Plains. Idiom: in the title, he’s literally traveling to a “watchtower of the imperial palace,” which usually stands in for the entire palace or the capital itself. Rest houses for travelers, literally “long pavilions,” were set up every 10 li (5km/3mi) along the main roads. The road between Tong and Chang’an passes by both Mt. Hua and Mt. Zhongtiao (the latter now better known as Mt. Leishou).
I really like how the images of discontent and of smaller things coming to larger neatly reflect the speaker’s situation.
155. Early Autumn, Xu Hun
Through the long night float sounds of my clear se.
The western wind brings life to bright-green vines.
Last fireflies are settled on jade dew.
An early wild goose shakes the Milky Way.
The tall trees still are dense at break of day.
There’s even more far mountains when it’s clear.
South of the Huai, a single leaf drops down.
I’m aware of my age, of mists on the water.
早秋
遥夜泛清瑟，
西风生翠萝。
残萤栖玉露，
早雁拂银河。
高树晓还密，
远山晴更多。
淮南一叶下，
自觉老烟波。
Written as the first of a three-poem set—for the others, see here. The se was an ancient zither (ancestor of both qin and zheng/koto) with between 25 to 50 strings and moveable bridges. Idiom: the Milky Way is called “Silver River.” The Huai River is in Anhui, in the Yangzi delta region. That a single leaf falling tells the coming of autumn was a commonplace.
156. A Cicada, Li Shangyin
Here at the roots, since you can’t eat your fill,
You futilely resent your pointless noise:
By fifth watch, it’s infrequent, trailing off,
Although the whole tree’s green and still uncaring.
This lowly official’s just a ‘branch that floats’—
Back home, the weeds already have grown up.
Your troubled call reminds me most of all:
My family also is all poor but honest.
蝉
本以高难饱，
徒劳恨费声。
五更疏欲断，
一树碧无情。
薄宦梗犹泛，
故园芜已平。
烦君最相警，
我亦举家清。
It was believed at the time that cicadas ate wind and drank dew, which is difficult to do at the base of a tree. The fifth watch of the night corresponds to roughly 3-5 am. The floating branch is an idiom derived from a Warring States chronicle comparing an official getting reassigned every few years to a broken peach branch floating on a river. Lost in translation: the tree is “jade-green.” Added in translation: but honest by way of filling out a common idiom partially included.
Not only does Li Shangyin directly address something of nature, but with an honorific “you.” This is unlike any poem I’ve translated from Chinese—which underscores that he was indeed an original poet. He’s also just as difficult as Du Fu, though for different reasons, and for what it’s worth I had to render it more freely than usual to make it comprehensible.
157. Wind and Rain, Li Shangyin
Like in that wretched essay, “The Two-Edged Sword,”
I’ve bridle and anchor, and long for my end of years—
This yellow leaf’s still out in the wind and rain,
While those in blue towers play their flutes and strings—
A new pal met by chance in the frivolous world—
An old friend parted by our virtuous karma …
I’ll break this mood with Xinfeng wine and soothe
My worries with cups worth however many thousand.
风雨
凄凉宝剑篇，
羁泊欲穷年。
黄叶仍风雨，
青楼自管弦。
新知遭薄俗，
旧好隔良缘。
心断新丰酒，
销愁斗几千。
“Essay on the Two-Edged Sword,” about the vanity of wandering heroes, was written by Guo Yuanzhen for a competition ordered by Empress Wu Zetian, who was impressed enough she handsomely rewarded the author. A horse’s bridle and boat’s anchor are symbols of a traveling life. Xinfeng, near Chang-an, was famous for its fine i.e. expensive wine.
158. Fallen Flowers, Li Shangyin
At the high hall, the last guest leaves at last.
In the small garden, flurries of flowers fly.
I walk unsteady down the winding path
Where lofty gaps let slanting sunbeams through.
My belly’s sliced, I can’t yet stand to sweep—
Eyes pierced, I still desire her return.
My fragrant spirit looks to the end of spring,
For this place gives just this: my clothing soaked.
落花
高阁客竟去，
小园花乱飞。
参差连曲陌，
迢递送斜晖。
肠断未忍扫，
眼穿仍欲归。
芳心向春尽，
所得是沾衣。
Written after his mother’s death. The gaps are where flowers have fallen from the trees. His clothes are wet, as usual, because of tears.
159. Cold Thoughts, Li Shangyin
You left when waves were level with my threshold:
Cicadas rested, dew full on the branches.
I’ll ever carry memories of that season.
I lean upon the door as time moves on.
’Neath the North Dipper, spring’s far from you.
Here in South Hill, your messenger is late.
On Heaven’s shore, I keep divining my dreams—
Surely I’m wrong: you haven’t made new friends.
凉思
客去波平槛，
蝉休露满枝。
永怀当此节，
倚立自移时。
北斗兼春远，
南陵寓使迟。
天涯占梦数，
疑误有新知。
Just a touch insecure and jealous, are we? South Hill (name translated to bring out the parallel with the Dipper) is Nanling in Anhui, a little south of the lower Yangzi, where Li was stationed for a while.
160. North of Qingluo, Li Shangyin
Sun enters Yanzi in the west—
Thatched hut: I ask a lonely monk,
“Where in these scattered leaves are we?
How much further through those cold clouds?”
A single strike on dusk’s stone bell.
Upon the fence climbs just one vine.
Everyone’s in the dust of the world—
Why must I both love and hate it?
北青萝
残阳西入崦，
茅屋访孤僧。
落叶人何在？
寒云路几层。
独敲初夜磬，
闲倚一枝藤。
世界微尘里，
吾宁爱与憎。
Qingluo (“clear vines”) is a peak of the Wangwu Mountains in northwestern Henan, more or less due north of Luoyang. Lost in translation: it’s the “last/remaining” sun, and further “[on] the road.” Mt. Yanzi in western Gansu is the mountain where the sun supposedly entered the earth upon setting. The monk is specifically Buddhist, and the dust of the world is a Buddhist concept, signifying our attachments to existence.
161. Seeing Off Someone Traveling East, Wen Tingyun
A border wasteland—yellow leaves
Depart the vast and ancient pass.
There’s strong winds here at Hanyang Ferry,
And daybreak touches Yingmen Mountain.
Upon the river, how many people?
At the sky’s shore still a single skiff.
When will we see each other again?
A wine cup consoles my departure face.
送人东游
荒戍落黄叶，
浩然离故关。
高风汉阳渡，
初日郢门山。
江上几人在？
天涯孤棹还。
何当重相见？
樽酒慰离颜。
Lost in translation: the leaves are “scattering.” Hanyang in Hubei is a Yangzi crossing, Yingmen (also called Jingmen, see #101) is nearby. Given that setting in the central Yangzi valley, the frontier images are apparently strictly symbolic of his emotions.
162. Residing in Bashang in Autumn, Ma Dai
Here in Bashang, the wind and rain are calm.
I see each evening line after line of geese
And scattered leaves from unfamiliar trees.
Cold lamp at night—this solitary person—
Within the empty garden, white dew drips—
Beyond its lonely wall a rustic monk.
In these suburban lodgings it grows late—
How many years were spent to gain this life?
灞上秋居
灞原风雨定，
晚见雁行频。
落叶他乡树，
寒灯独夜人。
空园白露滴，
孤壁野僧邻。
寄卧郊扉久，
何年致此身？
Bashang was an eastern suburb of Chang’an where officials waiting for imperial appointments often lodged. The person is a humble self-reference.
163. Pondering Ancient Times on the Chu River, Ma Dai
A cold light gathers in the dewy air.
The last sun drops behind Chu hills.
Apes screech in trees by Dongting Lake.
I am in my ‘magnolia boat.’
The broad marsh births a shining moon.
Dark mountains crowd the tumbling streams.
Lord of the Clouds, I don’t see you.
All night long, I grieve for autumn.
楚江怀古
露气寒光集，
微阳下楚丘。
猿啼洞庭树，
人在木兰舟。
广泽生明月，
苍山夹乱流。
云中君不见，
竟夕自悲秋。
Written as the first of a set of three poems. The Chu River here refers to not, as usual, the Yangzi but the Xiang, which was the largest river entirely within the Warring State of Chu—it feeds into Dongting. A magnolia boat is not made of magnolia wood but rather a poeticism partaking of that flower’s elegance. The Lord of the Clouds is addressed in one of Qu Yuan’s shamanistic Nine Songs (from Songs of Chu) written in the 3rd century BCE—definitely “ancient” when pondered in the 9th century CE. Said Lord could here be a reference to Qu Yuan himself, who drowned not far away (in neighboring Milou River).
164. Writing on Border Matters, Zhang Qiao
No blowing horns break quiet autumn
And soldiers lean on garrison towers.
Soft breezes brush the grassy mound.
The bright sun sets behind Liangzhou.
No troops impede us through this desert—
Our tourists vanish across the border—
But foreigners’ feelings are like this water:
Forever wanting to flow on south.
书边事
调角断清秋，
征人倚戍楼。
春风对青冢，
白日落梁州。
大漠无兵阻，
穷边有客游。
蕃情似此水，
长愿向南流。
Idioms: the soft breeze is literally “spring(-like),” but since the setting is explicitly autumn translating that literally sounds really weird, and the mound is literally “green.” Said mound is understood from context as the tumulus of Wang Zhaojun, one of the Four Great Beauties married off to the Chanyu of the Xiongnu nomads, which puts us near modern Hohhot in central Inner Mongolia. Liangzhou is a fair ways due west of there in central Gansu, at the start of the Hexi Corridor and so also associated with the frontier. The contemporary foreigners being scaremongered are Tibetans, even though they were encroaching from the southwest not north, and the water would be the Yellow River of the Ordos Loop. Lost in translation: the desert is “great/vast.”
165. Thoughts on a Sichuan Mountain Road on New Year’s Eve, Cui Tu
It looks remote, this Sichuan road—
Dangerous travel, ten-thousand li,
Disordered mountains, snow patches at night.
My candle’s lonely—a foreign spring—
My flesh and blood are growing distant
As I instead turn towards my servants.
That which endures the ‘winds and anchors’
Tomorrow sees a year that’s new.
巴山道中除夜有怀
迢递三巴路，
羁危万里身。
乱山残雪夜，
孤独异乡春。
渐与骨肉远，
转于僮仆亲。
那堪正飘泊，
明日岁华新。
Then, as now, the lunisolar New Year was whenever possible observed with one’s family at home. Idioms: Sichuan is literally “Ba” in the title and “three Ba [districts]” in the poem (this was previously met in #43), Ba being an ancient province covering eastern Sichuan, and while flesh and blood is literally “bone (and) flesh.” Idiom translated literally: ‘winds and anchors’ represent the life of a traveler (compare “bridle and anchor” from #157).
166. A Solitary Wild Goose, Cui Tu
So many lines returned across the border
But this thin silhouette goes where alone?
Through evening rain it calls to those it’s lost—
To some cold pond it longs to descend at last.
It crosses the cloudy islet low in the dark,
Lonely together with the moonlit pass.
Surely it won’t encounter a hunter’s arrow—
Flying solo myself, I can but wonder.
孤雁
几行归塞尽，
片影独何之？
暮雨相呼失，
寒塘欲下迟。
渚云低暗渡，
关月冷相随。
未必逢矰缴，
孤飞自可疑。
This was written as the second of a 2-poem set. There’s a few poetic inversions in the original, of which I’ve tried the flavor to replicate. The arrow is a type tied with a silk cord, so the hunter can retrieve a fallen bird.
167. Spring Palace Complaint, Du Xunhe
When I was young, my beauty led me astray.
Too lazy to adorn myself before the mirror,
My looks no longer now receive his favor—
So teach this one your way of dressing up?
In the warm breeze, bird voices are jumbled—
In the high sun, the flowers’ shadows are layered.
Year after year those women by Yue streams
Recall when we once plucked lotus together.
春宫怨
早被婵娟误，
欲妆临镜慵。
承恩不在貌，
教妾若为容？
风暖鸟声碎，
日高花影重。
年年越溪女，
相忆采芙蓉。
The Spring Palace is the Crown Prince’s residence, and the speaker is one of his concubines. Yue is a term for the deep south in general, but there’s also an association with the Warring State kingdom of Yue and the legendary beauty Xi Shi (see #40). Lost in translation: the streams are specifically “mountain streams.”
168. Night Thoughts at Zhang Tower, Wei Zhuang
The clear se’s lamentation through the night,
Sinuous strings that mourn in wind and rain.
By a lonely lamp I hear a Chu-style horn
As the last of the moon descends behind Zhang Tower—
The fragrant grasses already fade again—
My old friend’s visit still is in the future—
Family letters cannot be delivered—
Autumn geese once more return to the south.
章台夜思
清瑟怨遥夜，
绕弦风雨哀。
孤灯闻楚角，
残月下章台。
芳草已云暮，
故人殊未来。
乡书不可寄，
秋雁又南回。
The tower was part of a palace (more usually called Zhonghua) in the Warring States kingdom of Chu, now in Jingzhou, Hubei. The Chu horn was a kind of bugle, generally considered to have a somber tone.
169. Looking for Lu Hongjian but Not Finding Him, Monk Jiaoran
He’s moved, and though it’s near the city
The footpath goes through hemp and mulberries.
Beside the hedge, chrysanthemums
Are not yet blooming though autumn comes.
I knock on the gate—no dog barks.
I have to ask his western neighbor,
Who answers, “He’s gone into the mountains
But he returns home every sunset.”
寻陆鸿渐不遇
移家虽带郭，
野径入桑麻。
近种篱边菊，
秋来未著花。
扣门无犬吠，
欲去问西家。
报到山中去，
归来每日斜。
Lu Hongjian, better known as Lu Yu, was the author of The Classic of Tea. Idioms: bloom is literally “show flowers” and sunset is “sun(light) slant,” and those aren’t the only examples of flowery language.
And now I feel like I’ve completed An Effort. (Of course, part of that is getting Covid in the middle of this batch.) Oofs! I’ve now translated 190-plus of the 320 poems in this collection, but since I started with the shortest poems, the remaining 120-odd poems consist of more than half of all lines of verse. So, onward, I guess.
---L.
Index of Chinese translations