Live in tumultuous times? Feel like the world is going to hell?
Welcome to the club. It seems like forever that humans, West and East, have felt ruination shadowing their lives, their plans, their country, their civilization. Possibly because theirs is the oldest continuous civilization on earth, the Chinese have a long history of dealing with the world going to hell, their poetry especially returning continually to methods or perspectives to deal with the reality of ruination.
Below are six of my favorite Chinese poems in this genre. Half of them are from the T'ang dynasty of 619 to 907 AD, celebrated as China's golden age of poetry. The others are from lesser periods stretching from 365 AD to 1245 AD. Maybe they'll help us among the tumult of our time? Enjoy!
Zhongquan Mountain, by Li Po, T'ang dynasty (618 – 907 AD)
In the evening I descend the green mountain,
The rising moon traveling along with me.
Looking back, I see the path I followed,
A blue mist covering Zhongnan Mountain.
Passing the farmhouse of a friend,
His children call from a wicket gate,
And lead me through jade bamboos
where wisteria catches my clothes.
I am glad of a chance to rest
And share wine with my friend.
We sing to the tune of the wind in the pines,
finishing our songs as the stars go down.
Being drunk and more than happy,
Between us we forget the world and its troubles.
A Boat in Spring, by Qiwu Qian, T'ang dynasty (618 – 907 AD)
With nothing to disturb my quiet thought,
I let chance carry me along.
My boat and I, pushed by the evening breeze,
Pass flowers, and enter Jo-Ya lake,
Sailing at nightfall to a creek in the west.
I watch the Southern Dipper over the mountain
As a mist rises, hovering softly.
The moon casts slanting rays through the trees.
I put away from me every worldly matter,
And become just an old man with a fishing pole.
Mountain Stones, by Han Yu, T'ang dynasty (618 – 907 AD)
(dedicated to Kyle and AJ)
Rough are the mountain stones, and narrow the path.
As I reach the temple, bats swoop in the dusk.
At the hall, I sit on steps and drink in rain-washed air
among round gardenia pods and huge banana leaves.
Fine Buddhas are painted on the old wall, says the priest.
Shown them by his light, I say they're wonderful.
He spreads a bed, dusts mats, and prepares my dinner.
Though coarse, the food satisfies my hunger.
At midnight, when even insects have quieted,
The mountain moon's pure light enters my door.
I leave at dawn, losing my way in the forest.
In and out, up and down amidst a heavy mist
Making brook and mountain green and purple,
huge pines and oaks loom to either side.
In swift streams I step barefoot on more mountain stones,
Water gurgling noisily and breezes puffing out my gown.
These are surely the things which make life happy.
Why must duties check us like a horse with a bit?
Well, my two old friends, treasured companions,
Shall we return here to pass our old age?
Turning Seasons: wandering in spring by Tao Qian, 365 – 427 AD
Turning seasons spinning wildly
away, morning's majestic calm
unfolds. Out in spring clothes,
I cross the eastern fields. A few
clouds linger, sweeping mountains
clean. Gossamer mist blurs open
skies. Feeling the south wind,
young grain ripples like wings.
Boundless, the lake's immaculate
skin boundless, I rinse myself
clean in swim. The view all distance,
all distance inciting delight,
I look deep. They say if you're
content you're satisfied easily
enough. Raising this winecup, I
smile, taken by earth's own joy.
I'm home day-in day-out, taking
things easy. Herbs and flowers
grow in rows. Trees and bamboo
gather shade. My lute is tuned
clear, and a half-jar of thick
wine waits. Unable to reach any
Golden age of great rulers,
I inhabit who I am, sad and alone.
Funeral Elegy for Myself, by Tao Qian, 365 – 427 AD
Hu-ooo! Ai-tsai hu-ooo!
Boundless—this vast heap earth,
this bottomless heaven, how perfectly
boundless. And among the ten thousand
things born of them, to find myself
a person somehow, though a person
fated from the beginning to poverty
alone, to those empty cups and bowls,
thin clothes against winter cold.
But even hauling water brought such joy,
and I sang under a load of firewood:
this life in brushwood-gate seclusion
kept my days and nights utterly full.
Spring and autumn following each other
away, there was always garden work:
some weeding here or hoeing there.
What I tended I harvested in plenty,
and to the pleasure of books, lute
strings added harmony and balance.
I'd sun in winter to keep warm,
and summers, bath in cool streams.
Never working more than hard enough,
I kept my heart at ease always,
and whatever came, I rejoiced in all
heaven had made of my span of life.
Resolute here in my little tumbledown house,
I swilled wine and scribbled poems.
Seeing what fate brings, our destiny
clear, who can live without concern?
But today, facing this final change,
I can't find anything to resent.
My wife's family came this morning,
And friends hurried over tonight.
They'll take me out into the country,
bury me where the spirit can rest
easy. O dark journey, O desolate
grave, gate opening into the dark unknown.
Build no gravemound, plant no trees—
just let the days and months pass
away. I avoided it my whole life,
so why invite songs of praise now?
Life is deep trouble. And death,
why should death be anything less?
Hu-ooo! Ai-tsai hu-ooo!
Only the Rain, by Jiang Jie (1245 – 1310 AD)
Once, when young, I lay and listened
To the spring rain falling on a brothel roof,
Silk and silky flesh gleaming in candlelight.
Later, I heard it on the cabin roof of a small boat
As I sailed under low clouds on the Great River,
Wild geese crying out in an autumn storm.
Now, again, I hear it on the monastery roof,
My hair turned white with the passing years.
All—the joy, the sorrow, the meeting, the parting—
All are as though they had never been.
Only the rain on the roof, only the rain is the same,
Falling in streams through the winter night.
Translations
Translations of the T'ang dynasty poems are collaborations (over time and space!) of Witter Bynner/Kiang Kang-hu (The Jade Mountain, 1929), Innes Herdan (300 Tang Poems, 1973), and current author Barnett.
Translations of the Tao Qian poems are by David Hinton (The Selected Poems of T'ao Ch'ien, 1993), very lightly edited by current author Barnett, who acknowledges his debt to and admiration for Mr. Hinton.
Translation of the Jiang Jie poem is by current author Barnett.