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Climbing Yueyang Tower, Du Fu (300 Tang Shi #114)
Thursday, 10 February 2022 08:20Long ago I heard of Dongting’s waters,
And now I climb above, in Yueyang Tower.
Here Wu and Chu to east and south were split,
Heaven and earth through day and night here drift.
Of kith and kin, I haven’t heard one word—
Old and ill, I’ve just a single boat.
Arms and horses are north of the mountain passes.
I lean upon the balcony, tears flowing.
登岳阳楼
昔闻洞庭水，
今上岳阳楼。
吴楚东南坼，
乾坤日夜浮。
亲朋无一字，
老病有孤舟。
戎马关山北，
凭轩涕泗流。
Written late in life, probably around 768—the passes are those to the capital district, which was under threat of invasion by Tibetans. Yueyang Tower is a famous three-story gate-tower, part of the wall of Yueyang City, overlooking Lake Dongting, Hunan. The lake was part of the traditional border between the Warring State kingdoms of Wu to the east and Chu to the south.
Okay, unpacking the semantic density that is 乾坤 needs a paragraph of its own. These are the names, respectively, of the sky ☰ and earth ☷ trigrams, representing the warming power of the sun a.k.a. the heavenly/male generative principle, and the fertile power of the earth a.k.a. the earthly/female generative principle—IOW, essentially synonyms of yang and yin, the universal principles that create all existence. This association is so strong that many translations, including into modern Chinese for the benefit of puzzled students, render them as “heaven and earth.” However, comma, 乾 also, thanks to that sun, means dry (it’s an alternate character for 干, which means only dry), and 坤 also means just plain earth. So in addition to “everything,” 乾坤 can also be read as “dry earth,” referring to the banks of the lake, here seeming to float above the waters. So, yeah, density.
The war horses belong to Tibetans, currently threatening Chang’an. Lost in translation: it’s literally tears “and snot” that flow.
And that’s the last Du Fu poem in this section, which gives me a feeling of relief comparable to finishing Song of Lasting Regret—though explaining that involves admitting that every single translation of his poems feels hopelessly inadequate. Like, Ariwara no Narihira levels of inadequate. Well, except “Moonlit Night” (#105), which is more like “merely” Ono no Komachi levels of inadequate.
Onward to Wang Wei, who is also very good, but in an understated sort of way I’m familiar with.
---L.
And now I climb above, in Yueyang Tower.
Here Wu and Chu to east and south were split,
Heaven and earth through day and night here drift.
Of kith and kin, I haven’t heard one word—
Old and ill, I’ve just a single boat.
Arms and horses are north of the mountain passes.
I lean upon the balcony, tears flowing.
登岳阳楼
昔闻洞庭水，
今上岳阳楼。
吴楚东南坼，
乾坤日夜浮。
亲朋无一字，
老病有孤舟。
戎马关山北，
凭轩涕泗流。
Written late in life, probably around 768—the passes are those to the capital district, which was under threat of invasion by Tibetans. Yueyang Tower is a famous three-story gate-tower, part of the wall of Yueyang City, overlooking Lake Dongting, Hunan. The lake was part of the traditional border between the Warring State kingdoms of Wu to the east and Chu to the south.
Okay, unpacking the semantic density that is 乾坤 needs a paragraph of its own. These are the names, respectively, of the sky ☰ and earth ☷ trigrams, representing the warming power of the sun a.k.a. the heavenly/male generative principle, and the fertile power of the earth a.k.a. the earthly/female generative principle—IOW, essentially synonyms of yang and yin, the universal principles that create all existence. This association is so strong that many translations, including into modern Chinese for the benefit of puzzled students, render them as “heaven and earth.” However, comma, 乾 also, thanks to that sun, means dry (it’s an alternate character for 干, which means only dry), and 坤 also means just plain earth. So in addition to “everything,” 乾坤 can also be read as “dry earth,” referring to the banks of the lake, here seeming to float above the waters. So, yeah, density.
The war horses belong to Tibetans, currently threatening Chang’an. Lost in translation: it’s literally tears “and snot” that flow.
And that’s the last Du Fu poem in this section, which gives me a feeling of relief comparable to finishing Song of Lasting Regret—though explaining that involves admitting that every single translation of his poems feels hopelessly inadequate. Like, Ariwara no Narihira levels of inadequate. Well, except “Moonlit Night” (#105), which is more like “merely” Ono no Komachi levels of inadequate.
Onward to Wang Wei, who is also very good, but in an understated sort of way I’m familiar with.
---L.