larryhammer | Thirteen additional poems by Chinese ghosts

Even more ghost poems? Even more! Since my last installment, my translations have slowed down a little, in part because the entries are getting longer—as in not just longer poems but more of them, as part of a fuller story. Highlights this time include the most gloriously arrogant slam against brick-robbers ever, shamanism in action, and poems written on such places as a window and a pillar. (The poem on banana leaf will have to wait till the next installment.)

This installment rounds out Complete Tang Poems chapter 865 (headnotes), poems and exchanges given with historical dates, and continues into chapter 866 (headnotes), those without. The latter, honestly, are often more interesting. There’s also more of them, so the transition between chapters is not actually halfway through the collection, but more like just over a third.

On the Topic of a Small Mound in the Outskirts, Xiao Wei

Around 832, Xiao Wēi was a Middle Minister. After there was a death, Wéi Qixiu, the deputy militia commander west of the Zhe, frequently saw spirits strange. One day, alas, his servant said, “Third-rank official Xiao has come.” This third-rank official was indeed Wēi, who had just died that very day. Wēi was suddenly heard to sigh and say, “I arranged several days ago to descend to a small tomb in the outskirts (with) a single random-topic poem,” whereupon this newly made ghost recited the poem. Qixiu replied, “Sir, this poem concealed what was surely a prophecy.”

A new-set cover of rushes, east of a country stream—
Pine and catalpa shadows mix in a mournful manner.
In the world of man, the months and years are flowing water:
Why do we travel over and over this middle road?

题少陵别墅
作者：萧微
〈微，太和中职方郎中。浙西团练副使韦齐休死后，屡见灵异。一日，呼其家人曰：“萧三郎来。”三郎者，即微也。是日，微正死。俄闻微叹曰：“仆数日前至少陵别墅，偶题诗一首。”乃是生作鬼诗，因吟之。齐休曰：“足下此诗，盖是自谶。”〉
新构茅斋野涧东，
松楸交影足悲风。
人间岁月如流水，
何事频行此路中。

The Zhe River, now called the Qiantang, is the eponym of modern Zhejiang Province. A “cover of rushes” would ordinarily be understood as a thatched roof, but in terms of the prophecy it’s what’s growing on the burial mound.

Poem that Zhang Chui Presented in a Dream, Zhang Shenggong

Shenggong was the son of Zhang Ting, the Zhijiang county magistrate. Because his father had died, he lived in Zhijiang. A certain Zhang Chui, who was of lower rank, died while traveling in Sichuan. Shenggong did not wear white (in mourning, although) he knew of this. In 834, Shenggong dreamed during the daytime that Chui presented him a poem. Startled awake, he quickly wrote down the poem. Several days later, he died.

Sorrowful, so sorrowful—
The autumn hall seems centuries old.
If I’m alone in the boundless vast,
Still in the wilds I find cold food.

梦张垂赠诗
作者：张省躬
〈省躬，枝江县令汀之子。父死，因住枝江。有张垂者，下第客死于蜀，省躬未素识。太和八年，省躬昼梦垂赠诗一首，惊觉，遽录其诗，数日而卒。〉
戚戚复戚戚，
秋堂百年色。
而我独茫茫，
荒郊遇寒食。

“Even someone in the afterworld can get random offerings on Cold Food Day—so why didn’t you even wear mourning white for me, O family member?” Zhijiang is in Yichang, Hubei. Zhang Chui could be either of a lower official rank or younger cousin, but either way, he was due some observance of mourning even from relatives of higher status.

Unlike other ghost poems, this is ascribed to the recipient instead of the ghost. I’m unclear on whether this indicates the source of the story followed different practices, the editors were subtly casting doubt on the authenticity of the ghost, or the editors were careless.

Matching Lines, Three Men on Mt. Shang

Around 838, Liang Jing of Changsha passed the second-rank exams. The next day, at a post-station on Mt. Shang, he suddenly saw three men with very old-fashioned clothing and caps. They introduced themselves as Middle Minister Xiao, Infantryman Wang, and Governor Zhuge. They then brought out wine and invited Jing to drink with them, and to reply with matching lines (on the topics) ‘singing of the autumn moon’ and ‘light gradually brightening in the mountains.’ [TN: read the verses now] The Middle Minister asked Jing whether he would become an advanced scholar, and Jing (replied) that he was already a second-rank examinee. The Middle Minister laughed and said, “Second-rank—so you know how to write poetry!” Jing grew angry and scolded them. They startled and scattered, losing their existence there.

Matching Lines on the Autumn Moon
The autumn moon, round as a mirror. (Infantryman Wang)
The autumn wind, sharp like a knife. (Middle Minister Xiao)
The autumn clouds, gentle cotton. (Jing)
The autumn grasses, fine as hair. (Governor Zhuge)

Matching Lines on Daybreak
Secluded (also written ‘mountain’) trees, the lofty lofty shadows. (Middle Minister Xiao)
The mountain flowers, quiet quiet fragrance. (Infantryman Wang)
The mountain heavens, distant passing passing. (Governor Zhuge)
The mountain waters, quickly rushing rushing. (Jing)

作者：商山三丈夫
〈开成中，长沙梁璟举孝廉。次商山馆，忽见三丈夫，衣冠甚古，自称萧中郎、王步兵、诸葛长史。取酒邀璟同饮，联句咏秋月，山光渐明，复为联句。中郎问璟举进士乎，璟以举孝廉对。中郎笑曰：“孝廉安知为诗哉！”璟怒，叱之，惊散，失所在。〉

秋月联句
秋月圆如镜。〈王步兵〉
秋风利似刀。〈萧中郎〉
秋云轻比絮。〈璟〉
秋草细如毛。〈诸葛长史〉

天明联句
幽〈一作山〉树高高影。〈萧中郎〉
山花寂寂香。〈王步兵〉
山天遥历历。〈诸葛长史〉
山水急汤汤。〈璟〉

Well, well—I finally found a “matching lines” game, beloved of manhua and dramas. This is a thing for two or more people: one person recites a line of verse, and the next has to cap it as a couplet, usually in an antithetical way, and so on, with even-numbered lines rhyming. (There are more of these to come.) Second-rank exams were imperial-level exams that were less comprehensive than the ones testing for higher office (which are passed by advanced scholars). Their scope did not include writing poetry, which the minister gets sarcastic about, thus Jing getting mad.

Textual issue: as you can tell, these verses have a darned obvious pattern—the first character of every line is the same, except line one of the second set. I’ve left in the editorial note of the variant that has the right character, to show what that sort of thing looks like. Why the CTP editors took 幽 as the main reading, I have no idea.

So what’s a footsoldier doing hobnobbing with a minister and a governor? My guess is, being a demonstration that death is the great equalizer. This is something of a trope—there are more examples in the collection of a group of ghosts who are all officials or nobles plus one commoner.

Presented to Zhang Ting, Zheng Kou

In 873, as Zhang Ting passed a garden field, he came across a gold cup with a jade band (depicting) withered trees and the Three Essences. He sought out the house of a Confucian scholar, Liu, who said this belonged to someone who died 20 years ago, County Scholar Zheng Kou. Kou ordered a brush and wrote a poem, which he bestowed to Ting. Ting looked back, but saw only a worn tomb.

Once I sang the wind and howled the man in the moon,
Now I sing the wind and howl myself in the moon.
A worn tomb by the road where song and howling ceased—
What do you know today? There’s still a troubled spirit.

赠张珽
作者：郑适
〈咸通末，珽过圃田，遇金杯、玉带、枯树三精。邀至一儒流家，云是二十年前死者郑适秀才也。适命笔写诗一首赠珽，珽回顾，惟见一坏冢。〉
昔为吟风啸月人，
今为吟风啸月身。
冢坏路边吟啸罢，
安知今日又劳神。

Just a little connective tissue missing from that headnote, yah, such as when the dead Kou showed up. The Three Essences, a Confucian term, are the Sun, Moon, and Stars, thus seeking out a Confucian scholar. A County Scholar (literally “fine talent”) is someone who passed the county-level official exams. (Once someone passed those, he qualified to take the provincial-level exams and become a Provincial Scholar, which qualified him to take the imperial exams and become an Advanced Scholar.) Ambiguity to note: “sing/song” could be “moan” or “chant.”

West Pavilion Poems, (Four) Ghosts in Ganlu Temple

The year after the king of Southern Wu recaptured lands west of the Zhe (in 919), a Ganlu Temple monk was giving a sermon on a summer night with a bright moon when suddenly they saw several ghosts come out of the West Pavilion, sit down, and order wine. The south-facing ghost wore southern court robes, the west-facing ghost wore northern barbarian clothing, the north-facing ghost wore wide-sleeved robes, and the east-facing ghost wore crimson robes and many thin whiskers. They looked at each other, and one said, “Although each era’s court is unique, / Past and present are all the same— / The world of time is our lifespan, / But what’s the use, to learn this again?” Each of them praised these lines of their crimson-robed friend for a long time. The barbarian-clothed one said, “I request that we each summon up the approaching death of our former life in one statement, so that the generations can sing them—can we do this?” The others said, “We can.” At that, each inscribed four lines (on the pavilion wall?) and recited them. When the daybreak bell rang, they suddenly scattered.

Ghost in Northern Clothing:
Zhao Yi could write down rhyme-prose fu,
Zou Yang explained collected works—
But what a pity Xijiang waters
Couldn’t save a fish in the wagon-track.

Ghost in Wide Sleeves:
Greatness! —fish scales that cover the sea.
Largness! —fins that bestow the heavens.
One dawn mistake with wind and water:
Capsizing made meals of us ants and crickets.

Ghost in Southern Court Robes:
Merit and favor as good as of old—
To guard and retreat, I had no wisdom.
I’d waded great and treacherous currents:
This road was truly hard to follow.

Ghost in Crimson Robes:
Within the grasp of snakes and dragons, a phoenix on paper—
Retreating a thousand ells, that isn’t hard to desire—
Look back if you’ve departed: a net conceals an elder—
And more, what man exists who flaunts his writing talent?

西轩诗
作者：甘露寺鬼
〈吴王收复浙右之明年，甘露寺僧，夏夜月明持课，俄见数鬼自西轩出，坐定，命酒。南向一人，衣南朝衣，西向一人，衣北虏衣，北向一人，衣缝掖衣，东向一人，衣朱衣，清瘦多髯。相顾言曰：“朝代虽殊，古今一致，时世命也，知复何为？”各述朱衣者平生句，赞赏久之。虏衣者曰：“请各徵曩时临危一言，以代丝竹，可乎？”众曰：“可。”于是各赋四句，吟罢，晨钟鸣，倏散。〉

赵壹能为赋，
邹阳解献书。
可惜西江水，
不救辙中鱼。〈北衣者〉

伟哉横海鳞，
壮矣垂天翼。
一旦失风水，
翻为蝼蚁食。〈缝掖衣者〉

功遂侔昔人，
保退无智力。
既涉太行险，
兹路信难陟。〈南朝衣者〉

握里龙蛇纸上鸾，
逡巡千幅不将难。
顾云已往罗隐耄，
更有何人逞笔端。〈朱衣者〉

Southern Wu was one of the southern Ten Kingdoms of the post-Tang era—Ganlu (“sweet dew”) Temple in Zhenjiang, Jiangsu was in its territory. Robes with wide sleeves are worn by Confucian scholars, and crimson robes by certain officials. The many thin whiskers is such a perfect random detail—I love it. Again we have a set with several high-rank plus one low-rank ghost. Annotating the poems:

Zhao Yi and Zou Yang were scholar-officials of the Han Dynasty. A fu is a literary essay in occasionally metered and rhymed prose, sometimes translated as rhyme-prose or rhapsody—two of Zhao Yi’s have survived. A fish in a wagon track feels like a cultural reference I don’t have, but the image clearly evokes getting trampled under the wheel of a greater power.

Mr. Wide-Sleeves seems to evoke being capsized by the giant kun fish of folklore (or maybe just a whale, which was sometimes understood to have scales), but regardless the general sense is he ran afoul of a powerful person.

Mr. Court-Robes seems to have died from losing a round of court politics, which can indeed sometimes be fatal.

Dragons and snakes appear on imperial banners, suggesting Mr. Crimson-Robes-cum-Phoenix (NB: a red bird is the guardian of the south) also ran afoul of Powers That Be. The way he alludes to the other three poems (in reverse order!) ties the four together in their causes of death.

All in all, this feels rather more literary and constructed than most of these ghost stories.

Poem While Descended into a Shaman, Shao Ye

Shao Ye read in his study more than 10 li outside the Wengyuan county seat. After his death, the people of the county sacrificed to his spirit and the shaman held onto his head-cloth as he danced, when suddenly someone calling himself Elder Shao descended (into him). The people of the county immediately said, “Elder Shao was known as a singer of work-songs, could you make the effort of composing us a poem?” Because of this the shaman spoke wildly, intending to bring suffering to their ears, forcing out thoughts not in the classic form—that is, completing four lines. The rhymed lyric was grim and bitter, and although not comparable to old writings, from within this rural elder came the clear sound of an ill person, until you become moved to tears and exclaim with sighs.

In the green hills below the mountains, a youth of few years:
My hopes failed at that time, and I left my hometown.
In melancholy I can’t bear to look back and hope—
Away from the creek I gaze afar at my former study.

降巫诗
作者：邵谒
〈谒读书堂，距翁源县十馀里。殁后，县民祀神，巫持帻自舞，忽自称邵先辈降。县民即曰：“邵先辈异时号工歌咏者，能强为我赋诗乎？”以为巫妄言，欲苦之耳。巫略不经思，即成二十八字，词韵凄苦，虽老笔不逮，乡老中晓声病者，至为感泣咨叹。〉
青山山下少年郎，
失意当时别故乡。
惆怅不堪回首望，
隔溪遥见旧书堂。

Shao Ye was born in Wengyuan (in Guangdong, in the deep south, where shamanistic practices historically were more prevalent than in the north), the son of a minor county-level official. Despite failing the imperial exams, he entered the Imperial Academy as a student in 866, eventually becoming a teaching assistant and scholar (several prose works were lost, though four other poems survive in CTP). The dates of both his retirement to his hometown and death are not recorded, but given he’s an Elder, dating this story as “around 900 or a little after” is reasonable. Still, not being given a date makes it stick out in this chapter.

Presented to Retainer Lei, Shi Ke

Shi Ke from western Sichuan was good at painting, as well as work-songs and poems. When the Former Shu kingdom fell (in 925), he went to Kaifeng, where he made a sacrifice begging to be able to return, then expired on the road. Later, Retainer Lei received an imperial appointment in Hengyang. He encountered Ke when they shared lodgings, and was presented with a poem. Only after they parted did he realize (Ke) was already dead. When he arrived to take up his office, the government hall was exactly as Ke described.

Hengyang—yes, I left there exactly three years since:
The route in that direction goes extremely smooth.
A deep gate through the wall leaves all three Chus outside.
The hall is by a breeze-cooled pond, before five peaks.
The market’s to the west where traveling merchants come—
East, a bankside isle where swarm the fishing boats.
The official retires—he just shouldn’t have more work:
At Cinnabar Hill, behind the cave, see the Immortal.

赠雷殿直
作者：石恪
〈恪，西蜀人，善画，亦工歌诗。孟蜀亡，入汴供奉，乞归，道卒。后殿直雷承昊任衡阳，遇恪，与同宿，赠以诗。别去，始悟其已死，及到任，公宇一如恪言。〉
衡阳去此正三年，
一路程途甚坦然。
深邃门墙三楚外，
清风池馆五峰前。
西边市井来商客，
东岸汀洲簇钓船。
公退只应无别事，
朱陵后洞看神仙。

Former Shu was another of the Ten Kingdoms of southern China formed after the breakup of the Tang Dynasty, controlling the Sichuan basin until it was conquered by the Later Tang Dynasty. Kaifeng is in eastern Henan, while Hengyang is in southern Hunan, well south of the Yangzi—which is geographically confusing as it’s not really on the route between Sichuan and Henan. (It’d be Really Helpful if the town where they shared lodgings was named kthxbye.) The Three Chus are three more of the Ten Kingdoms, each including part of the territory of the Chu region—at that time, Hengyang was part of one of them, Ma Chu. Cinnabar Hill was one of the 36 Doaist Paradises, reputedly in Hengyang, also used generically as a fanciful name for a Doaist’s residence.

Offered to Gao Pian, Zhao Jing

Gao Pian was having a second outer city wall built, and many were sent to dig up ancient burial mounds to take their bricks. Upon one burial mound, a ghost howled at night who called himself Netherworld Official Zhao Jing. He offered a message, which roughly read, “Jing is an outstanding wandering spirit—receive the benefit of the palm of this Netherworld Official. Strive to build ten-thousand crenelated walls, but avoid this one you took from. If this mane-shaped tomb (stays) entirely sealed, I shall venture to overlook your boss’s shadow.” Appended to it on another strip was a poem:

I formerly defeated former rulers—
The rulers of today defeat me today.
Men’s lives concern a single generation:
What are you doing, bitterly raiding me?

This poem and Murong Chui’s “Replying to Taizong from Upon His Burial Mound” have many similarities. Because each was recorded in the chronicles, they were both preserved.

献高骈
作者：赵𤰳
〈骈筑罗城，多发掘古冢取砖。有一冢上鬼夜啸，自称冥司赵𤰳。献书，略曰：“𤰳一介游魂，叨掌冥司，希于万雉，免此一抔，倘全马鬣之封，敢忘龙头之庇。”并附一诗于后幅。〉
我昔胜君昔，
君今胜我今。
人生一世事，
何用苦相侵。
〈此诗与慕容垂冢上答太宗多同，以各载事迹，故两存之。〉

General and poet Gao Pian lived 821-887 (so technically this should have come before the previous couple poems, if not next to Murong Chui’s), and ordering his commandery to erect a second city wall as an outer layer of protection suggests a significant threat. If your device doesn’t render the ghost’s personal name 𤰳, it isn’t just you: it’s a very rare character not included in all fonts. In fact, AFAK it’s only used in tellings of this ghost story and lists of rare characters. Very old tombs had specific shapes, one of which was thought to look like a horse’s mane. Yeah IDK.

I love this. The ghost’s speech is thoroughly arrogant, with words used only by superiors talking to inferiors. I’m especially amused by the phrase 叨掌, “receive the benefit of (my) palm” —even more compact and high-handed than “Imma slap ya.”

Verse, (Man) Dressed in White on Mt. Jiuhua

Before the High Tang, Sir Yan was in seclusion on Mt. Jiuhua. While he strolled at night through the forest, there was a grown man in white clothing and a muslin head-cloth, appearing especially good-looking, around 50 years old, who followed a brook as he came, reciting (a poem) as if to himself while he walked. Sir Yan wanted to speak with him, but couldn’t catch up. The next day, Sir Yan asked the villagers what they knew, and they said: “That is a son of the Wu family, who became an advanced scholar. He was good at writing poems and died several years ago.”

Brook waters burble, burble, its sounds never ending—
The creek mound’s boundless, boundless, its wild flowers blooming.
I come and I depart, and people do not notice.
Returning, I face just the moon and empty mountain.

In Hedong, they record that an imp [TN: literally “little spirit”] presented Wei Qixiu with a poem that’s almost the same. It reads, “Brook waters splashing, splashing, its flow never ending— / Sweet grasses constant, constant, the wild flowers blooming. / I come and I depart, and people do not notice. / At yellow dusk I’ve only moonlight on green mountains.” This is also called “Poem of an Old Man on Mt. Hua,” which reads, “Brook waters murmur, murmur, its sounds are unending— / The creek flows boundless, boundless, the wild flowers blooming. / I come and I depart, and people do not notice. / Returning, I usually face the moon and empty mountain.”

吟
作者：九华山白衣
〈晋昌唐燕士隐九华山，夜步林中，有白衣丈夫，戴纱巾，貌孤俊，年近五十，循涧而来，吟步自若。将与之言，未及而没。明日，燕士问里人，有识者曰：“是吴氏子，举进士，善为诗，卒数年矣。”〉
涧水潺潺声不绝，
溪垄茫茫野花发。
自去自来人不知，
归时唯对空山月。
〈河东记无名小鬼赠韦齐休诗，与此正同。云：“涧水溅溅流不绝，芳草绵绵野花发。自去自来人不知，黄昏惟有青山月。”一作华山老人诗。云：“涧水泠泠声不绝，溪流茫茫野花发。自去自来人不知，归时常对空山月。”〉

Onward to ghost poems of chapter 866, which are more fantastic stories generally not tied to a historical date. Possibly because they’re more fantastic, in general I’ve been finding the overall quality of this chapter’s ghost stories better than the previous (poem thrown at a general notwithstanding). Not to mention, more women.

Mt. Jiuhua (“nine-flower”) in Anhui is a Buddhist retreat within nine peaks that form a basin vaguely resembling a lotus flower. In any context even remotely close to a ghost story, wearing white/undyed clothing usually indicates you’re dead, if you’re not a mourner. The “High Tang” period is a fuzzy term, but can be thought of as starting roughly around the restoration of Li family rule in 705, following Empress Wu Zetian’s forced abdication, and lasting till sometime during/after the An Lushan Rebellion, say 760 or so.

Poem Inscribed upon a Window, Ghost Standing in the Window

Classics Scholar Wang Shao was reading a book deep at night when a person stood in his window and asked to borrow a writing brush. Shao loaned him one, and he inscribed a poem upon the window. When he was done, all was still and noiseless, and thus (Shao) knew he hadn’t been human.

What person reads his books aloud beneath a window?
South Dipper is aslant, Big Dipper’s horizontal.
A thousand li—I think of home—I can’t return:
The spring wind is a slash in the gut, Shitou Town.

题窗上诗
作者：隔窗鬼
〈明经王绍，夜深读书，有人隔窗借笔，绍借之，于窗上题诗，题讫，寂然无声，乃知非人也。〉
何人窗下读书声，
南斗阑干北斗横。
千里思家归不得，
春风肠断石头城。

Wang Shao lived 743-814 and had a distinguished career as a scholar—his title literally means “proficient at the classics.” Upon the window could mean on the shutter or the paper panes. The Southern Dipper is a Chinese constellation roughly corresponding to Sagittarius, often mentioned in conjunction with the Northern aka Big Dipper of Ursa Major; their orientation implies it’s late at night in early spring. There’s a couple possible ancient cities named Shitou (“stone-top”), all long gone, but the best fit is the one within the modern borders of Nanjing in the south.

Poem on a Pillar, Ghost in Baling Inn

The old Baling Inn in Jiang’an had a single central hall and many strange creatures, and it had been locked up for 10 years. The hermit Liu Fang, staying in the mysterious building, heard a married woman and an old servant speaking, followed by a song. When the song was done, a poem was recited in response in a very mournful voice. The next day, awakening in that central hall, he saw (a? the?) poem written on the front of an east-side pillar, the ink still dark and fresh, and he understood it was by the person who came that night. Because of this, Fang inquired about the person, but in the end couldn’t learn anything.

My parents saw me off beneath the maple green—
I can’t recall how many times that maple has scattered.
Back then my hand was pierced by flowers on my clothes—
Today, as ashes, I just cannot bear to touch them.

柱上诗
作者：巴陵馆鬼
〈巴陵江岸古馆，有一厅，多怪物，扃锁已十年矣。山人刘方玄宿馆中，闻有妇人及老青衣言语，俄有歌者。歌讫，复吟诗，声殊酸切。明日，启其厅，见前间东柱上有诗一首，墨色甚新，乃知即夜来人也。复以此访于人，终不能知之。〉
爷娘送我青枫根，
不记青枫几回落。
当时手刺衣上花，
今日为灰不堪著。

Sometimes literary Chinese can be just a little too pro-drop. Was the poem by the woman, the servant, or another spirit? Who sang, and what was the song? What did the woman and servant say to each other? Heck, how’d this Liu Fang get into the locked building in the first place? Such the gaps. Well, to annotate one clear thing: Jiang’an is a district of modern Wuhan, Hunan.

Presented on Leaving An Feng, Xu Kan

Xu Kan of Shouchun and his friend An Feng decided at the same time to seek office in Chang’an. Feng went first, as Kan stopped at his old mother’s house. Ten years later, Kan suddenly arrived in Chang’an and invited Feng to go back with him. Feng declined, ashamed to return home because of his long drifting life, and (on parting) they presented each other with a poem. However, Kan had actually died at home three years before.

You’ve lived in Chang’an for a while,
Ashamed and not returning home.
I’m leaving Chang’an, parting from you,
Cut up from consoling my honored parent.
I didn’t expect and hate being parted:
In Yellow Springs, it’s hard to forget you.

Appendix
Presented by An Feng on Xu Kan’s departure:
Since I departed my native land,
I’ve spent ten years in Qin’s Xianyang.
Tears spent, I hurriedly calmed my blood
For hadn’t I met my one old friend?
Today, that former friend departs
This me ashamed of my drifting life.
With parting feelings we say our poems.
Hemp clothes again conceal my tears.
Weeping from parting, we part from each other,
Shortly before the coming of spring.

留别安凤
作者：徐侃
〈寿春人徐侃，与安凤友善，相期同觅举长安。凤先行，侃以母老中止。十年后，侃忽至长安，仍约凤同归，凤辞以久漂泊，耻还故乡，各为诗赠荅。然侃死于家已三年矣。〉

君寄长安久，
耻不还故乡。
我别长安去，
切在慰高堂。
不意与离恨，
泉下亦难忘。

〈附〉
安凤赠别徐侃
一自离乡国，
十年在咸秦。
泣尽卞和血，
不逢一故人。
今日旧友别，
羞此漂泊身。
离情吟诗处，
麻衣掩泪频。
泪别各分袂，
且及来年春。

The headnote doesn’t indicate who recited his poem first, but given An Feng doesn’t respond to Xu Kan’s admission that he’s in the Yellow Springs (the entrance to the afterworld of Chinese mythology) i.e. is dead, it must have been him. In episodes where both the living and dead have poems, the ghost’s is always given first, even when it’s clearly marked as a reply, which is then appended—which highlights that this is truly a collection of poems by ghosts, and not stories about ghosts that include poems.

FWIW, Shouchun is in Anhui. The “drifting life” and his cheap hemp clothing both imply that An Feng failed to get a position as an imperial official. Xianyang was the original capital of the Warring State of Qin, turned into a suburb of Chang’an after the latter was built a few miles to the east, shortly before the last Qin King became the first Qin Emperor. An Feng’s poem is something of a clunker, sometimes stuffing two synonyms for (de)parting into a line and avoiding vivid images.

Expressing My Feelings, Scholar Who Died While Traveling Mt. Shang

After Zu Yong’s grandson Jia failed his exams, he undertook a tour of Mt. Shang. One night, when the autumn moon was extremely bright, he lodged in an empty Buddhist temple. Suddenly a person emerged from behind the hall, saluted Jia, and respectfully sat down with him. They talked easily, conversing about the classics and chronicles, and he said, “This evening we came across each other by chance—it will be difficult to meet again, so I’ll bestow now two or three works expressing what’s in my heart.” Recitation complete, he recited them a second and third time. As the night was growing late, he then saluted and withdrew. The next day, Jia asked a neighbor, who said, “There, no one lives, not for several li in any direction, but there was a scholar who died there while traveling—he was buried at the Buddhist Hall up on the mountain, behind the south ridge.” Jia wrote down the story, hung it up, and departed.

1.
My home’s the station north of the road,
No neighbors for a hundred li.
Coming and going, none ask about me.
So silent, my mountain home in spring.

2.
South of the ridge, night’s bleak, so bleak—
Green pines and white poplar trees.
My family should have a dream of me …
If a traveler had the heart to tell them.

3.
The grasses white in Cold Dew season,
The mountain wild in the bright moonlight.
My bitter night recital complete,
This trembling candle and you are alike.

述懐
作者：商山客死书生
〈祖咏之孙价，落第后尝游商山，夜宿空佛寺中。秋月甚明，忽有一人自殿后出，揖价共坐语笑，说经史，云：“今夕偶相遇，后会难期，辄赋三两篇以述怀。”赋讫，再三吟之，夜久，遂揖而退。至明日，问邻人，云：“此前后数里并无人居，但有书生客死者，葬在佛殿后南冈山上。”价为文吊之而去。〉

[其一]
家住驿北路，
百里无四邻。
往来不相问，
寂寂山家春。

[其二]
南冈夜萧萧，
青松与白杨。
家人应有梦，
远客已无肠。

[其三]
白草寒露里，
乱山明月中。
是夕苦吟罢，
寒烛与君同。

Zu Yong was a scholar-official active in the mid-700s, so this is set in the second half of the century. The station the ghost inhabits is one of the post-stations for travelers to rest and change horses, set up at regular distances along the major roads. Premodern China had two concurrent calendars, the well-known 12-month lunisolar one, used for most civil purposes, and a solar one with 24 periods, used for astronomic and divinatory purposes (including reckoning when to add a leap-month to the other calendar to keep it in synch with the solar year). Cold Dew is the name of one of the solar calendar periods, running 8-22 October. That said, it’s possible to read that line literally, that the grasses “inside” i.e. “under” the dew look white.

Oh, that last line. Totally stuck that landing.

And with that shivery note, I’ll end this installment of ghost poems. Back with more in a bit. Including that above-mentioned poem written on a banana leaf.

---L.

Index of Chinese translations