Three Hundred Tang Poems #197-209
23 May 2023 07:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
larryhammerA third installment of seven-character regulated verse. In my previous dispatch, I described this set as “a bunch of random dudes milling about in the valley between Du Fu Plateau and Li Shangyin Range.” In my defense of that somewhat dismissive characterization, I note that it’s completely accurate. Topics include a complaint about being wrongfully demoted, a plea for official patronage, praise for a Daoist retreat, a dang-I-miss-ya-bro lament, a soldier’s wife missing her husband, a retired soldier missing his comrades (with bonus slice-of-riverboat-life details), imperialism from a mopey frontier administrator, reflections on an ancient battle site (visited in autumn as per regulation), a three-part elegy for a departed wife, a gaze-at-the-moon-while-thinking-of-my-scattered-family thing, and an enigmatic outcrop of Li Shangyin’s craggy id. Which is not to say these are bad poets. But they are totally random, with only one a Name Author aside from Li Shangyin himself (spoiler: Bai Juyi).
These are, as usual, revised from rougher drafts posted in my other journal (and will no doubt be revised in the future).
197. After Arriving at Parrot Island from Xiakou, Gazing towards Yueyang in the Evening: Sent to Deputy Censor Yuan, Liu Changqing
There’s no waves at this sandy isle, and no haze either—
This southern traveler’s yearnings grow, yes, vaster still.
At Hankou, evening sunlight slants across this “bird”
While Dongting’s autumn waters are far, joining the sky.
A lonely city, backed by mountains—horns blowing in winter.
Lone garrison by the river—boat anchored for the night.
Jia Yi presented a petition, worried for Han,
And was demoted to Changsha—a grief ever since.
自夏口至鹦洲夕望岳阳寄源中丞
汀洲无浪复无烟，
楚客相思益渺然。
汉口夕阳斜渡鸟，
洞庭秋水远连天。
孤城背岭寒吹角，
独戍临江夜泊船。
贾谊上书忧汉室，
长沙谪去古今怜。
Xiakou is now part of Wuhan (as is Hankou), and Yingwu (“parrot”) Island is a sandbar in the Yangzi nearby (see #170). Yueyang on the shore of Lake Dongting (see #114), over 100mi/160km away i.e. not visible. Qu Yuan is associated with that area, however, and like Jia Yi (see #196) he was demoted—in his case, from the court of the Warring State of Chu—for also trying to do the right instead of politic thing. (Every time I translate one of these very Confucian poems lamenting someone getting in trouble for doing the right instead of politic thing, the more interesting I find that #99 was included in this collection, in which Du Fu is counseled to do the politic thing.) Normally I’d not translate the island’s name as it’s just a place name, but line 3 wordplays on it.
198. Presented Beneath the Palace Watchtower to Middle Secretary Pei, Qian Qi
Mid-spring as yellow orioles fly to Shanglin Park,
The city that’s forbidden at dawn is dark, so dark.
The Changle clock-chime fades amid the outside blooms.
The willows by Dragon Pool seem deep within the rain.
Warm sunlight’s not dispelled—it’s the poor road I resent—
I cherish the heavenly Han, holding his “sun” in my heart—
Ten years since I presented rhymes, yet never good chances.
My shame: pleading to hold my white hair with a fine pin.
赠阙下裴舍人
二月黄鹂飞上林，
春城紫禁晓阴阴。
长乐钟声花外尽，
龙池柳色雨中深。
阳和不散穷途恨，
霄汉长怀捧日心。
献赋十年犹未遇，
羞将白发对华簪。
Pei is unknown but he has the same title as Middle Secretary Jia Zhi (#177-8), fairly high up in the Secretariat. Shanglin (“above the woods”) gardens and Changle (“long happiness”) palace were from the Han Dynasty, here used as stand-ins for Tang equivalents—which suggests some there’s political sensitivity in obliquely critiquing a dearth of good postings. “Presenting rhymes” refers to Sima Xiangru presenting a rhymed-prose rhapsody (fu) to Han Emperor Wu by way of proving his fitness for office, later taken as a prototype for the imperial examinations and used as a highfalutin’ term for passing them. (The exams did in fact include a poetry composition portion.) A hairpin was used to fasten a cap of office to a hair-bun on top of the head, and its fineness implies higher office, at a level it’s shameful to beg to finally achieve once old.
TL;RD: Can I please have a better job before it gets embarrassing?
199. Sent to Li Dan and Yuan Xi, Wei Yingwu
Last year among the flowers I met you both, then parted.
Today the flowers bloom again, a full year later.
The future’s dark, so dark—hard for me to assess.
Spring doldrums deep, so deep—alone I go to sleep.
I’ve many illnesses—I think of the fields of home.
This town has refugees—I am ashamed of my wages.
I understand you long to come and visit me.
I’ve watched from the West Tower the moon make many circuits.
寄李儋元锡
去年花里逢君别，
今日花开又一年。
世事茫茫难自料，
春愁黯黯独成眠。
身多疾病思田里，
邑有流亡愧俸钱。
闻道欲来相问讯，
西楼望月几回圆。
200. Inscribed in Xianyou Monastery, Han Hong
From this immortal lookout, look at Wucheng Tower:
The landscape cold, so cold, rain pausing for the night.
The distant mountains merge in evening with Qin trees—
The sounds of pounding announce it’s autumn to the Han Palace.
The sparse pine shadows fall on the still and empty altar
And thin grass fragrance guards the small and tranquil cave.
Why would you seek for it outside the mortal world?
The realms of men can simply have this Cinnabar Hill.
同题仙游观
仙台初见五城楼，
风物凄凄宿雨收。
山色遥连秦树晚，
砧声近报汉宫秋。
疏松影落空坛静，
细草香闲小洞幽。
何用别寻方外去？
人间亦自有丹丘。
The Daoist monastery in question is on Mt. Song in Henan, not far from the traditional frontier of the Qin region (modern Shaanxi). Wucheng (“five city”) Tower was a place of worship supposedly built by the Yellow Emperor, to which Xianyou (“wandering immortal”) is being flatteringly compared. The pounding from washing summer-weight clothes before storing them for winter is a canonical sound of autumn. Daoist temples often had a cave used for certain rites, and a “cinnabar hill” is a dwelling for a Daoist immortal.
201. Spring Feelings, Huangfu Ran
Orioles twitter, swallows speak, announcing the new year.
To Mayi and Longdui, the road is how many thousands long?
My family lives in the towered city, neighbor to Han Park—
My heart, it follows the bright moon, arriving in Tartar skies.
Within my desk your brocade words reveal your long resentment.
Upstairs the “flowered sprays” are laughing—yet I sleep alone.
So let me ask you, heavenly mounted general Dou Xian:
When will the banner you command at Mt. Yanran return?
春思
莺啼燕语报新年，
马邑龙堆路几千？
家住层城邻汉苑，
心随明月到胡天。
机中锦字论长恨，
楼上花枝笑独眠。
为问天戎窦车骑，
何时返旆勒燕然？
The speaker is a woman whose husband is on a tour of duty on the northern frontier, using Han Dynasty details as a way of safely criticizing imperial frontier policy. Mayi (“horse district”), now Shuozhou in northern Shanxi, was in Han times an important post on the border with the Xiongnu Empire of the steppes. Longdui (“dragon pile”) is the name of several desert and saltpan formations, here used generically for the northern desert beyond the steppes. In this context “brocade” means fancy, standard flattery to a social superior, and the “words” are in his letters. Dou Xian was a general of the Eastern Han who defeated the Xiongnu Empire in a series of battles across the steppes culminating at Mt. Yanran, in modern central Mongolia, after which he returned home.
202. Arriving at Ezhou at Night, Lu Lun
Clouds part, and in the distance I see Hanyang City:
There’s still one more day’s journey by a lonely boat.
The merchants slept through daytime, knowing waves were quiet;
Now boatmen talk at night, aware the tide is rising.
By three Xiang streams, I worry my hair looks autumnal.
For thousands of li, a returning heart has faced a bright moon.
My former comrades carry out the campaign’s end—
I must endure on the River big- and small-drum beats.
晚次鄂州
云开远见汉阳城，
犹是孤帆一日程。
估客昼眠知浪静，
舟人夜语觉潮生。
三湘愁鬓逢秋色，
万里归心对月明。
旧业已随征战尽，
更堪江上鼓鼙声。
Ezhou (now called Wuchang) and Hanyang are districts of the modern urban core of Wuhan, Hubei, the second being somewhat upstream the Yangzi from the first. The three Xiang Rivers are local tributaries, each with Xiang in the name, and autumnal hair is going gray. The drums are types used for troop signals, which reminds him of his former comrades-in-arms. Exactly why he’s left the army to return home, well—that’s another story, one he’s not telling us here.
203. Ascending Liuzhou Gate-Tower: Sent to the Four Governors of Zhang, Ting, Feng, and Lian Prefectures, Liu Zongyuan
Above our cities, towers link this wilderness—
The seas and heavens worry, ruling all its vastness.
A sudden gust disturbs the lotus, swaying in water;
The heavy rain slants down, falling on climbing-figs.
Trees on the ranges layered—behold a thousand li.
The river’s flow is twisted like nine turns of the gut.
Together we came to this land of the tattooed Hundred Yues,
And yet, our messages blocked, we’re solitary towns.
登柳州城楼，寄漳汀封连四州刺史
城上高楼接大荒，
海天愁思正茫茫。
惊风乱颭芙蓉水，
密雨斜侵薜荔墙。
岭树重遮千里目，
江流曲似九回肠。
共来百越文身地，
犹自音书滞一乡。
Liuzhou is in modern Guangxi, in the deep south of the empire, as are Zhangzhou & Tingzhou in Fujian and Fengzhou & Lianzhou in Guangdong—all of them regions primarily settled by non-Han peoples often collectively referred to as Yue (much like all the northern steppe peoples are Hu) or the Hundred Yues. Wilderness in this context means not that it’s uninhabited, but it’s not inhabited by Han Chinese—a term I’m sure Yue peoples appreciated. /s Lost in translation: the wilderness is “wide” and the climbing-figs are “(on the) wall.” Turning guts is also an idiom for anxiety.
204. At Mt. Xisai, Pondering the Past, Liu Yuxi
When Wang Jun’s towered ships descended from Chengdu,
The lord of Nanjing fumed and sullenly received them
With thousand-fathom iron chains to sink them down—
Yet his lone, drooping banner exited Shitou.
In the mortal world, many return to past offenses.
The mountain rests its head on the chilly current still.
Today, throughout the world, we’re like a family.
At this old rampart, rushes rustle in the autumn.
西塞山怀古
王浚楼船下益州，
金陵王气黯然收。
千寻铁锁沈江底，
一片降旛出石头。
人世几回伤往事，
山形依旧枕寒流。
从今四海为家日，
故垒萧萧芦荻秋。
Mt. Xisai (“west frontier”) is a large hill on the bank of the Yangzi east of Huangshi, Hubei. At those times rival states controlled the middle and lower Yangzi basin, such as Northern Jin and Sun Wu (for it is in the late Three Kingdoms era that our past scene lies), it often was a border fortress and the site of battles. Wang Jun was a Jin general who commanded a flotilla of ships with towers for attacking river forts during the final invasion of Wu, the capital of which was what’s now Nanjing. Sun Hao, the last ruler of Wu, countered by stretching spiked chains across the Yangzi to sink them in this area, only to later surrender to Jin forces at Shitou (“stone head”) City near Nanjing. Fathom here translates xun, an old unit of length that was slightly longer than the English measure. Lost in translation: the ships were sunk “(to) the river bottom.” Idiom: throughout the world is literally “(within) the four seas.”
205. Releasing My Sorrow 1, Yuan Zhen
A daughter doted on the most by Duke Xie An,
You married this Qian Lou whose matters all went awry.
Seeing I had no clothes, you searched in your trousseau—
When I begged, Buy more wine, you sold your golden hairpin—
Wild greens supplied our meals, tasty as long beans—
Dead leaves eked out our fire, thanks to a scholar-tree.
And now I have an official’s wage, more than ten-thousand,
While I prepare your offerings and fast again.
遣悲怀 之一
谢公最小偏怜女，
自嫁黔娄百事乖。
顾我无衣搜荩箧，
泥他沽酒拔金钗。
野蔬充膳甘长藿，
落叶添薪仰古槐。
今日俸钱过十万，
与君营奠复营斋。
This set of three elegies was written in memory of his wife, Wei Cong, who despite the wording of the next one had died two years previously. Xie An was an Eastern Jin Dynasty scholar-official who doted on his niece, the scholar and poet Xie Daoyun (mentioned in Three Character Classic), standing in for his father-in-law. Qian Lou was a Warring States era official with extremely bad political luck who died impoverished, standing in for himself. Clothing him from her trousseau is a big deal—a woman’s dowry was strictly for her own use, and went with her should she ever return to her father’s house (when divorced or widowed). The offerings are those of a memorial service.
206. Releasing My Sorrow 2, Yuan Zhen
We used to joke about what happens after death.
This morning, that’s already come before my eyes.
Your clothing will be donated—I’ll see to that soon.
Your sewing kit remains—I can’t bear opening it.
I still love you, and so I’m fond of your old maid.
I now rely on dreams and send you paper money.
I know well this regret: everyone will feel it,
But humble couples more these sorts of matters mourn.
遣悲怀 之二
昔日戏言身后事，
今朝都到眼前来。
衣裳已施行看尽，
针线犹存未忍开。
尚想旧情怜婢仆，
也曾因梦送钱财。
诚知此恨人人有，
贫贱夫妻百事哀。
The clothing of the dead was (and still is) traditionally given away, rather than reused, and paper replica money was (and still is) burned as offerings for the dead.
207. Releasing My Sorrow 3, Yuan Zhen
I languish, grieving for you and also for myself.
How long is a hundred years in the hours of a life?
Deng You had no son—and soon I knew that fate.
Pan Yue mourned his wife—this song is just as wasteful.
Yet even buried, where Below could I look for you?
A fated meeting in the next life’s hard to hope for.
And yet I will, throughout the night, keep my eyes open,
Repaying your whole life with brows remaining wrinkled.
遣悲怀 之三
闲坐悲君亦自悲，
百年都是几多时？
邓攸无子寻知命，
潘岳悼亡犹费词。
同穴窅冥何所望？
他生缘会更难期。
惟将终夜长开眼，
报答平生未展眉。
Yuan Zhen and Wei Cong were childless. Deng You and Pan Yue both lived during the Western Jin Dynasty—the latter wrote elegies mourning his wife, including a three-poem set that was a model for this one. Lost in translation: it’s literally, even if I were buried “in the same grave” —couples were often buried together.
208. The Lands South of the River are in Chaos, Those Beyond the Passes are Blocked Off and Starving, and My Siblings are Scattered, Each in a Different Place; Looking at the Moon, I am Moved, and Write Down Something of What’s in My Heart: Sent to My Oldest Brother in Fuliang, Seventh Brother in Yuqian, Fifteenth Brother in Wujiang, and My Younger Brothers and Sisters in Fuchi and Xiagui, Bai Juyi
The times are hard, years desolate, and family farms lie empty.
My older and younger brothers travel, each to west and east.
The fields and gardens—gone to seed once shields and spears passed through.
My flesh and blood—homeless and wretched on the roads and highways.
I mourn with my shadow, parted like geese across a thousand li.
We left our roots, dispersed like aster seeds at autumn’s end.
Together, seeing the same bright moon, we must let our tears fall—
Our homesick hearts in our five places are all of them the same.
自河南经乱，关内阻饥，兄弟离散，各在一处。因望月有感，聊书所怀，寄上浮梁大兄，潜七兄，乌江十五兄，兼示符离及下邽弟妹。
时难年荒世业空，
弟兄羁旅各西东。
田园寥落干戈后，
骨肉流离道路中。
吊影分为千里雁，
辞根散作九秋蓬。
共看明月应垂泪，
一夜乡心五处同。
Yes, that title really is only 6 characters shorter than the poem itself. The lands south of the river are the Henan-Shandong-Jiangsu-Anhui region and those beyond the passes are the upper-Shaanxi-Gansu-Ningxia-Inner Mongolia border region. Fuliang is in modern Jiangxi, Yuqian in Zhejiang, Wujiang in Anhui, Fuchi (where his father was an official) also in Anhui, and Xiagui (where his clan was based) in western Shaanxi—so, yeah, scattered. The asters are the type with poofy seeds dispersed by the wind. The “five places” are the five locations mentioned in the title—which annoys me, because it ought to be six, including the author’s.
209. The Brocade Se, Li Shangyin
The brocade se once pointlessly had fifty strings—
Each string, each bridge, brings memories of blossoming years.
Zhuangzi dreamed at dawn, a butterfly confused.
King Wang’s spring feelings were entrusted to cuckoos.
The moon is full on the vast ocean—pearls have tears.
The sun is warm on Mt. Lantian—jade gives off smoke.
This feeling: couldn’t it wait till it’s just recollection?
The thing is, back then, I was already at a loss.
锦瑟
锦瑟无端五十弦，
一弦一柱思华年。
庄生晓梦迷蝴蝶，
望帝春心托杜鹃。
沧海月明珠有泪，
蓝田日暖玉生烟。
此情可待成追忆，
只是当时已惘然。
The first of ten poems by Li Shangyin, whose poetic power is suggested by how many were chosen, despite their difficulty, for this textbook anthology for schoolboys. This one is his most famous (it’s often placed first in his collected poems) and famously enigmatic (it’s up there with Emerald Walls), woven from a tissue of allusions (with a density comparable to late Heian poetics). Suggestions of just what he’s Getting At are legion. I include my own interpretations with the annotations, but honestly it’s mostly flail.
Li Shangyin’s sometimes practice of not giving contextual titles, but instead using the first words or even leaving it untitled, was a striking break from convention. And speaking of the title, it is very tempting to break with my established practice and translate se as “zither.”
Who knows how long it’ll take to finish the last quarter of this section—after all, there’s nine more ridges of Li Shangyin Range to climb through. Regardless—onward!
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
These are, as usual, revised from rougher drafts posted in my other journal (and will no doubt be revised in the future).
197. After Arriving at Parrot Island from Xiakou, Gazing towards Yueyang in the Evening: Sent to Deputy Censor Yuan, Liu Changqing
There’s no waves at this sandy isle, and no haze either—
This southern traveler’s yearnings grow, yes, vaster still.
At Hankou, evening sunlight slants across this “bird”
While Dongting’s autumn waters are far, joining the sky.
A lonely city, backed by mountains—horns blowing in winter.
Lone garrison by the river—boat anchored for the night.
Jia Yi presented a petition, worried for Han,
And was demoted to Changsha—a grief ever since.
自夏口至鹦洲夕望岳阳寄源中丞
汀洲无浪复无烟，
楚客相思益渺然。
汉口夕阳斜渡鸟，
洞庭秋水远连天。
孤城背岭寒吹角，
独戍临江夜泊船。
贾谊上书忧汉室，
长沙谪去古今怜。
Xiakou is now part of Wuhan (as is Hankou), and Yingwu (“parrot”) Island is a sandbar in the Yangzi nearby (see #170). Yueyang on the shore of Lake Dongting (see #114), over 100mi/160km away i.e. not visible. Qu Yuan is associated with that area, however, and like Jia Yi (see #196) he was demoted—in his case, from the court of the Warring State of Chu—for also trying to do the right instead of politic thing. (Every time I translate one of these very Confucian poems lamenting someone getting in trouble for doing the right instead of politic thing, the more interesting I find that #99 was included in this collection, in which Du Fu is counseled to do the politic thing.) Normally I’d not translate the island’s name as it’s just a place name, but line 3 wordplays on it.
198. Presented Beneath the Palace Watchtower to Middle Secretary Pei, Qian Qi
Mid-spring as yellow orioles fly to Shanglin Park,
The city that’s forbidden at dawn is dark, so dark.
The Changle clock-chime fades amid the outside blooms.
The willows by Dragon Pool seem deep within the rain.
Warm sunlight’s not dispelled—it’s the poor road I resent—
I cherish the heavenly Han, holding his “sun” in my heart—
Ten years since I presented rhymes, yet never good chances.
My shame: pleading to hold my white hair with a fine pin.
赠阙下裴舍人
二月黄鹂飞上林，
春城紫禁晓阴阴。
长乐钟声花外尽，
龙池柳色雨中深。
阳和不散穷途恨，
霄汉长怀捧日心。
献赋十年犹未遇，
羞将白发对华簪。
Pei is unknown but he has the same title as Middle Secretary Jia Zhi (#177-8), fairly high up in the Secretariat. Shanglin (“above the woods”) gardens and Changle (“long happiness”) palace were from the Han Dynasty, here used as stand-ins for Tang equivalents—which suggests some there’s political sensitivity in obliquely critiquing a dearth of good postings. “Presenting rhymes” refers to Sima Xiangru presenting a rhymed-prose rhapsody (fu) to Han Emperor Wu by way of proving his fitness for office, later taken as a prototype for the imperial examinations and used as a highfalutin’ term for passing them. (The exams did in fact include a poetry composition portion.) A hairpin was used to fasten a cap of office to a hair-bun on top of the head, and its fineness implies higher office, at a level it’s shameful to beg to finally achieve once old.
TL;RD: Can I please have a better job before it gets embarrassing?
199. Sent to Li Dan and Yuan Xi, Wei Yingwu
Last year among the flowers I met you both, then parted.
Today the flowers bloom again, a full year later.
The future’s dark, so dark—hard for me to assess.
Spring doldrums deep, so deep—alone I go to sleep.
I’ve many illnesses—I think of the fields of home.
This town has refugees—I am ashamed of my wages.
I understand you long to come and visit me.
I’ve watched from the West Tower the moon make many circuits.
寄李儋元锡
去年花里逢君别，
今日花开又一年。
世事茫茫难自料，
春愁黯黯独成眠。
身多疾病思田里，
邑有流亡愧俸钱。
闻道欲来相问讯，
西楼望月几回圆。
200. Inscribed in Xianyou Monastery, Han Hong
From this immortal lookout, look at Wucheng Tower:
The landscape cold, so cold, rain pausing for the night.
The distant mountains merge in evening with Qin trees—
The sounds of pounding announce it’s autumn to the Han Palace.
The sparse pine shadows fall on the still and empty altar
And thin grass fragrance guards the small and tranquil cave.
Why would you seek for it outside the mortal world?
The realms of men can simply have this Cinnabar Hill.
同题仙游观
仙台初见五城楼，
风物凄凄宿雨收。
山色遥连秦树晚，
砧声近报汉宫秋。
疏松影落空坛静，
细草香闲小洞幽。
何用别寻方外去？
人间亦自有丹丘。
The Daoist monastery in question is on Mt. Song in Henan, not far from the traditional frontier of the Qin region (modern Shaanxi). Wucheng (“five city”) Tower was a place of worship supposedly built by the Yellow Emperor, to which Xianyou (“wandering immortal”) is being flatteringly compared. The pounding from washing summer-weight clothes before storing them for winter is a canonical sound of autumn. Daoist temples often had a cave used for certain rites, and a “cinnabar hill” is a dwelling for a Daoist immortal.
201. Spring Feelings, Huangfu Ran
Orioles twitter, swallows speak, announcing the new year.
To Mayi and Longdui, the road is how many thousands long?
My family lives in the towered city, neighbor to Han Park—
My heart, it follows the bright moon, arriving in Tartar skies.
Within my desk your brocade words reveal your long resentment.
Upstairs the “flowered sprays” are laughing—yet I sleep alone.
So let me ask you, heavenly mounted general Dou Xian:
When will the banner you command at Mt. Yanran return?
春思
莺啼燕语报新年，
马邑龙堆路几千？
家住层城邻汉苑，
心随明月到胡天。
机中锦字论长恨，
楼上花枝笑独眠。
为问天戎窦车骑，
何时返旆勒燕然？
The speaker is a woman whose husband is on a tour of duty on the northern frontier, using Han Dynasty details as a way of safely criticizing imperial frontier policy. Mayi (“horse district”), now Shuozhou in northern Shanxi, was in Han times an important post on the border with the Xiongnu Empire of the steppes. Longdui (“dragon pile”) is the name of several desert and saltpan formations, here used generically for the northern desert beyond the steppes. In this context “brocade” means fancy, standard flattery to a social superior, and the “words” are in his letters. Dou Xian was a general of the Eastern Han who defeated the Xiongnu Empire in a series of battles across the steppes culminating at Mt. Yanran, in modern central Mongolia, after which he returned home.
202. Arriving at Ezhou at Night, Lu Lun
Clouds part, and in the distance I see Hanyang City:
There’s still one more day’s journey by a lonely boat.
The merchants slept through daytime, knowing waves were quiet;
Now boatmen talk at night, aware the tide is rising.
By three Xiang streams, I worry my hair looks autumnal.
For thousands of li, a returning heart has faced a bright moon.
My former comrades carry out the campaign’s end—
I must endure on the River big- and small-drum beats.
晚次鄂州
云开远见汉阳城，
犹是孤帆一日程。
估客昼眠知浪静，
舟人夜语觉潮生。
三湘愁鬓逢秋色，
万里归心对月明。
旧业已随征战尽，
更堪江上鼓鼙声。
Ezhou (now called Wuchang) and Hanyang are districts of the modern urban core of Wuhan, Hubei, the second being somewhat upstream the Yangzi from the first. The three Xiang Rivers are local tributaries, each with Xiang in the name, and autumnal hair is going gray. The drums are types used for troop signals, which reminds him of his former comrades-in-arms. Exactly why he’s left the army to return home, well—that’s another story, one he’s not telling us here.
203. Ascending Liuzhou Gate-Tower: Sent to the Four Governors of Zhang, Ting, Feng, and Lian Prefectures, Liu Zongyuan
Above our cities, towers link this wilderness—
The seas and heavens worry, ruling all its vastness.
A sudden gust disturbs the lotus, swaying in water;
The heavy rain slants down, falling on climbing-figs.
Trees on the ranges layered—behold a thousand li.
The river’s flow is twisted like nine turns of the gut.
Together we came to this land of the tattooed Hundred Yues,
And yet, our messages blocked, we’re solitary towns.
登柳州城楼，寄漳汀封连四州刺史
城上高楼接大荒，
海天愁思正茫茫。
惊风乱颭芙蓉水，
密雨斜侵薜荔墙。
岭树重遮千里目，
江流曲似九回肠。
共来百越文身地，
犹自音书滞一乡。
Liuzhou is in modern Guangxi, in the deep south of the empire, as are Zhangzhou & Tingzhou in Fujian and Fengzhou & Lianzhou in Guangdong—all of them regions primarily settled by non-Han peoples often collectively referred to as Yue (much like all the northern steppe peoples are Hu) or the Hundred Yues. Wilderness in this context means not that it’s uninhabited, but it’s not inhabited by Han Chinese—a term I’m sure Yue peoples appreciated. /s Lost in translation: the wilderness is “wide” and the climbing-figs are “(on the) wall.” Turning guts is also an idiom for anxiety.
204. At Mt. Xisai, Pondering the Past, Liu Yuxi
When Wang Jun’s towered ships descended from Chengdu,
The lord of Nanjing fumed and sullenly received them
With thousand-fathom iron chains to sink them down—
Yet his lone, drooping banner exited Shitou.
In the mortal world, many return to past offenses.
The mountain rests its head on the chilly current still.
Today, throughout the world, we’re like a family.
At this old rampart, rushes rustle in the autumn.
西塞山怀古
王浚楼船下益州，
金陵王气黯然收。
千寻铁锁沈江底，
一片降旛出石头。
人世几回伤往事，
山形依旧枕寒流。
从今四海为家日，
故垒萧萧芦荻秋。
Mt. Xisai (“west frontier”) is a large hill on the bank of the Yangzi east of Huangshi, Hubei. At those times rival states controlled the middle and lower Yangzi basin, such as Northern Jin and Sun Wu (for it is in the late Three Kingdoms era that our past scene lies), it often was a border fortress and the site of battles. Wang Jun was a Jin general who commanded a flotilla of ships with towers for attacking river forts during the final invasion of Wu, the capital of which was what’s now Nanjing. Sun Hao, the last ruler of Wu, countered by stretching spiked chains across the Yangzi to sink them in this area, only to later surrender to Jin forces at Shitou (“stone head”) City near Nanjing. Fathom here translates xun, an old unit of length that was slightly longer than the English measure. Lost in translation: the ships were sunk “(to) the river bottom.” Idiom: throughout the world is literally “(within) the four seas.”
205. Releasing My Sorrow 1, Yuan Zhen
A daughter doted on the most by Duke Xie An,
You married this Qian Lou whose matters all went awry.
Seeing I had no clothes, you searched in your trousseau—
When I begged, Buy more wine, you sold your golden hairpin—
Wild greens supplied our meals, tasty as long beans—
Dead leaves eked out our fire, thanks to a scholar-tree.
And now I have an official’s wage, more than ten-thousand,
While I prepare your offerings and fast again.
遣悲怀 之一
谢公最小偏怜女，
自嫁黔娄百事乖。
顾我无衣搜荩箧，
泥他沽酒拔金钗。
野蔬充膳甘长藿，
落叶添薪仰古槐。
今日俸钱过十万，
与君营奠复营斋。
This set of three elegies was written in memory of his wife, Wei Cong, who despite the wording of the next one had died two years previously. Xie An was an Eastern Jin Dynasty scholar-official who doted on his niece, the scholar and poet Xie Daoyun (mentioned in Three Character Classic), standing in for his father-in-law. Qian Lou was a Warring States era official with extremely bad political luck who died impoverished, standing in for himself. Clothing him from her trousseau is a big deal—a woman’s dowry was strictly for her own use, and went with her should she ever return to her father’s house (when divorced or widowed). The offerings are those of a memorial service.
206. Releasing My Sorrow 2, Yuan Zhen
We used to joke about what happens after death.
This morning, that’s already come before my eyes.
Your clothing will be donated—I’ll see to that soon.
Your sewing kit remains—I can’t bear opening it.
I still love you, and so I’m fond of your old maid.
I now rely on dreams and send you paper money.
I know well this regret: everyone will feel it,
But humble couples more these sorts of matters mourn.
遣悲怀 之二
昔日戏言身后事，
今朝都到眼前来。
衣裳已施行看尽，
针线犹存未忍开。
尚想旧情怜婢仆，
也曾因梦送钱财。
诚知此恨人人有，
贫贱夫妻百事哀。
The clothing of the dead was (and still is) traditionally given away, rather than reused, and paper replica money was (and still is) burned as offerings for the dead.
207. Releasing My Sorrow 3, Yuan Zhen
I languish, grieving for you and also for myself.
How long is a hundred years in the hours of a life?
Deng You had no son—and soon I knew that fate.
Pan Yue mourned his wife—this song is just as wasteful.
Yet even buried, where Below could I look for you?
A fated meeting in the next life’s hard to hope for.
And yet I will, throughout the night, keep my eyes open,
Repaying your whole life with brows remaining wrinkled.
遣悲怀 之三
闲坐悲君亦自悲，
百年都是几多时？
邓攸无子寻知命，
潘岳悼亡犹费词。
同穴窅冥何所望？
他生缘会更难期。
惟将终夜长开眼，
报答平生未展眉。
Yuan Zhen and Wei Cong were childless. Deng You and Pan Yue both lived during the Western Jin Dynasty—the latter wrote elegies mourning his wife, including a three-poem set that was a model for this one. Lost in translation: it’s literally, even if I were buried “in the same grave” —couples were often buried together.
208. The Lands South of the River are in Chaos, Those Beyond the Passes are Blocked Off and Starving, and My Siblings are Scattered, Each in a Different Place; Looking at the Moon, I am Moved, and Write Down Something of What’s in My Heart: Sent to My Oldest Brother in Fuliang, Seventh Brother in Yuqian, Fifteenth Brother in Wujiang, and My Younger Brothers and Sisters in Fuchi and Xiagui, Bai Juyi
The times are hard, years desolate, and family farms lie empty.
My older and younger brothers travel, each to west and east.
The fields and gardens—gone to seed once shields and spears passed through.
My flesh and blood—homeless and wretched on the roads and highways.
I mourn with my shadow, parted like geese across a thousand li.
We left our roots, dispersed like aster seeds at autumn’s end.
Together, seeing the same bright moon, we must let our tears fall—
Our homesick hearts in our five places are all of them the same.
自河南经乱，关内阻饥，兄弟离散，各在一处。因望月有感，聊书所怀，寄上浮梁大兄，潜七兄，乌江十五兄，兼示符离及下邽弟妹。
时难年荒世业空，
弟兄羁旅各西东。
田园寥落干戈后，
骨肉流离道路中。
吊影分为千里雁，
辞根散作九秋蓬。
共看明月应垂泪，
一夜乡心五处同。
Yes, that title really is only 6 characters shorter than the poem itself. The lands south of the river are the Henan-Shandong-Jiangsu-Anhui region and those beyond the passes are the upper-Shaanxi-Gansu-Ningxia-Inner Mongolia border region. Fuliang is in modern Jiangxi, Yuqian in Zhejiang, Wujiang in Anhui, Fuchi (where his father was an official) also in Anhui, and Xiagui (where his clan was based) in western Shaanxi—so, yeah, scattered. The asters are the type with poofy seeds dispersed by the wind. The “five places” are the five locations mentioned in the title—which annoys me, because it ought to be six, including the author’s.
209. The Brocade Se, Li Shangyin
The brocade se once pointlessly had fifty strings—
Each string, each bridge, brings memories of blossoming years.
Zhuangzi dreamed at dawn, a butterfly confused.
King Wang’s spring feelings were entrusted to cuckoos.
The moon is full on the vast ocean—pearls have tears.
The sun is warm on Mt. Lantian—jade gives off smoke.
This feeling: couldn’t it wait till it’s just recollection?
The thing is, back then, I was already at a loss.
锦瑟
锦瑟无端五十弦，
一弦一柱思华年。
庄生晓梦迷蝴蝶，
望帝春心托杜鹃。
沧海月明珠有泪，
蓝田日暖玉生烟。
此情可待成追忆，
只是当时已惘然。
The first of ten poems by Li Shangyin, whose poetic power is suggested by how many were chosen, despite their difficulty, for this textbook anthology for schoolboys. This one is his most famous (it’s often placed first in his collected poems) and famously enigmatic (it’s up there with Emerald Walls), woven from a tissue of allusions (with a density comparable to late Heian poetics). Suggestions of just what he’s Getting At are legion. I include my own interpretations with the annotations, but honestly it’s mostly flail.
- l.1: The se is a type of zither, and in this context “brocade” means ornately decorated. According to one legend, when the mythical Emperor Fuxi invented it, he gave it 50 strings, but when his daughter played it, the music was too plaintive (and so indecorous) and he broke it in half to make the more-or-less-standard 25-string size. TN: “bridge” might really be “peg.” Paraphrase: art shouldn’t affect the audience too much, with a suggestion that he’s listening to a woman play.
- l.2: Paraphrase: and yet (this) music stirs up memories.
- l.3: Daoist philosopher Zhuangzi once woke up from a dream of being a butterfly, then remarked that he wasn’t sure whether he was a man who dreamt of being a butterfly or a butterfly now dreaming he’s a man. Paraphrase: but then, our reality is subjective.
- l.4: The legendary King Wang of the Warring State of Shu (in Sichuan) was notoriously amorous: he had an affair with his prime minister’s wife, then abdicated in remorse (in favor of said prime minister) to become a hermit, and supposedly after his death became a cuckoo that mourns in the woods. A “spring feeling” is, yes, gettin’ horny. Paraphrase: and strong feelings can change this, with a suggestion that the memories triggered in l.2 involved a love affair.
- l.5: Pearls were held to wax and wane with the moon inside of oysters. The Chinese equivalent for mermaids, “shark people,” wept pearls instead of tears. Paraphrase: something something strong emotions … maybe?
- l.6: Mt. Lantian was renowned for its fine jade. There’s a ghost story about Purple Jade (lan means “indigo”) who returned after death to clear her lover of accusations of robbing her tomb, and when her mother tried to embrace her she dissolved like smoke. Paraphrase: eventually we wake up from those feelings, and they dissolve.
- l.7: Paraphrase: I want to lay this memory to rest.
- l.8: Paraphrase: but even at the time my emotions were strong, and are too strong still.
Li Shangyin’s sometimes practice of not giving contextual titles, but instead using the first words or even leaving it untitled, was a striking break from convention. And speaking of the title, it is very tempting to break with my established practice and translate se as “zither.”
Who knows how long it’ll take to finish the last quarter of this section—after all, there’s nine more ridges of Li Shangyin Range to climb through. Regardless—onward!
---L.
Index of Chinese translations
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Date: 23 May 2023 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 May 2023 04:06 pm (UTC)