Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

(3) Poem of the Lai Family Singer
In Pinyang County, mid the trees,
Long has flourished the dust from Guangling.
We didn’t think what youth might come—
The Yellow Springs see spring again.

(4) Recited by Mu to the County Magistrate, as was Courteous
The gold boudoir, long without master,
Where fine silk sleeves were born of the dust.
I wish you were my flute-playing partner:
Together we’d ride phoenixes.

(5) Poem of the County Magistrate Betrothing Herself to Mu
Beneath the crimson carriage, the road is long—
Green grass begins upon the lonely grave.
It’s better, though, than on the balcony
Watching in vain the clouds from dawn to dusk.

平阳县中树，
久作广陵尘。
不意何郎至，
黄泉重见春。〈来家歌人诗〉

金闺久无主，
罗袂坐生尘。
愿作吹箫伴，
同为骑凤人。〈穆讽县主就礼〉

朱轩下长路，
青草启孤坟。
犹胜阳台上，
空看朝暮云。〈县主许穆诗〉

Note on the third poem: Wait, now we’re in Pinyang County in Zhejiang? I’m confused. The Springs/spring pun is not in the original, and hard to avoid in translation.

Note on the fourth poem: The last two lines refer to a romantic incident from the Warring States period involving a musician and the daughter of the Duke of Qin who met in their dreams and, admiring each other’s flute-playing, eventually married. According to legend, they eventually rode phoenixes into immortality, but according to the traditional histories, they had become too popular (and made music too popular) for the legalistic and militaristic Qin state apparatus to accept, so were forced to live in seclusion. (Yes, there totally are operas about this story. Like, duh.)

Note on the fifth poem: The phrase “lonely grave” can specifically mean a grave for a married couple where only one is buried because the other is alive.

---L.

[TN: This redonkulous long episode is getting serialized. Srsly—it’s almost 100 lines spread across 7 poems, plus a chonky headnote. Other episodes might get interspersed between installments, as I’m still working on the later poems.]

Around 795, Dugu Mu of Henan, a distant descendent of Dugu Sheng, was traveling about Huainan. One night he sought refuge in lodgings in Dayi County, and came across a servant in the road who guided him to a gated compound where they were extremely respectful, the food and wine and bedding perfectly provided for. Two women came out to meet him, one calling herself the Magistrate of Sui Dynasty’s Linzi County and daughter of the Prince of Qi, who died in the Rebellion in Guangling (in 617). Because Mu was a descendent of a Sui general, whose loyal sacrifice is reported even in this generation, she desired an underworld marriage with him. She summoned Lai Hu’er’s singer, who joined them, and they composed poetry, as was courteous. [TN: a “read the first five poems” will go here] Then she said that at the time she died, she was buried hastily in a shallow grave, and urged Mu to rebury her on a north-facing hill in Luoyang. [TN: a “read the last two poems” will go here] The next(?) day, Mu went out for several meters and obtained her lost skeleton. Once he reburied her as she asked, that night the County Magistrate saw him again, and said, “In the 16th year of the (60-year) cycle, it will be suitable for us to be together at last.” In 799, Mu died of a sudden illness, and was buried in a joint grave with her.

Presented by the County Magistrate to Mu
In Yangzhou once was death and chaos—
Below the palace massed tents and troops.
Wolves and tigers devoured unchecked,
Thousands of spears spread wide each day.
The rebels themselves arrived outside—
At midnight they opened the inner wall:
Flesh and blood steeped palace halls,
Swords and spears leaned on the columns.
I understand now that the rebels
Themselves were dukes and ministers—
Their naked blades defiled the realm,
And they succeeded as it collapsed.
The strong winds show which plants are sturdy—
Chaos reveals the loyal officials.
In utmost sorrow, Dugu had honor,
And facing death he was a martyr.
Heaven and earth, since “Unchecked” and “Perverse,”
In clouds and thunder isn’t smooth.
Now, two hundred years since then,
My feelings hidden as if not ready—
The hills and streams are scenes as of old—
I sleep in a mound—fresh dew and mist.
Grasp, Noble One, your grandsire’s virtue,
Famed at the border as loyal and keen:
From your ornate carriage grant your favor—
In my earth house, I’d feel the honor.
O husband, be resolved and seize this—
I don’t exist without your love.
I beseech the righteous—you can support me,
For who embraces only secret faith?

与独孤穆冥会诗
作者：临淄县主
〈贞元中，河南独孤穆者，隋将独孤盛裔孙也。客游淮南，夜投大仪县宿，路逢青衣，引至一所，见门馆甚肃，酒食衾褥备具。有二女子出见，自称隋临淄县主，齐王之女，死于广陵之变，以穆隋将后裔，世禀忠烈，欲成冥婚，召来护儿歌人同至，赋诗就礼，且云死时浮瘗草草，嘱穆改葬洛阳北坂。穆于异日发地数尺，果得遗骸。因如言携葬，其夜县主复见，曰：“岁至己卯，当遂相见。”至贞元十五年己卯，穆果暴亡，与之合窆。〉

江都昔丧乱，
阙下多构兵。
豺虎恣吞噬，
干戈日纵横。
逆徒自外至，
半夜开重城。
膏血浸宫殿，
刀枪倚檐楹。
今知从逆者，
乃是公与卿。
白刃污黄屋，
邦家遂因倾。
疾风知劲草，
世乱识忠臣。
哀哀独孤公，
临死乃结缨。
天地既《板》《荡》，
云雷时未亨。
今者二百载，
幽怀犹未平。
山河风月古，
陵寝露烟青。
君子秉祖德，
方垂忠烈名。
华轩一惠顾，
土室以为荣。
丈夫立志操，
存没感其情。
求义若可托，
谁能抱幽贞。〈县主赠穆〉

This is the first of five sets of 冥会诗 (or 冥㑹诗 in some texts) literally “underworld meeting poems” exchanged between someone living and one or more ghosts—which for the moment I’m calling afterlife encounters. That said, I’m using underworld marriage for 冥婚 (a marriage between a living person and a ghost) because that seems to be the standard translation. Yes, that’s enough of a Thing to have a standard translation. Yes, that fact is awesome. As is that this is the first of a couple female ghosts who claim the title for what traditionally was a strictly male role.

Notes on the headnote, starting with a history infodump: Qi was an imperial principality (named after the Warring State) centered in northern Shandong, which in most dynasties was held by members of the imperial family. At the time of the Magistrate’s death, the Prince of Qi was the crown prince, the only surviving son of Sui Emperor Yang, making her an imperial princess. The rebellion that killed her is the coup that captured and killed the emperor, her father, and several other family members (and oh by the way brought down the dynasty), in the Sui capital of Jiangdu aka Guangling aka modern Yangzhou, Jiangsu. Dugu Sheng and Lai Hu’er were generals who died defending the emperor during that coup. Linzi is now a district of Zibo City, northern Shandong, and was the capital of Qi at the time. Confusingly, the only Dayi I can find is now a township of Juye County, western Shangdong, and neither it nor Huainan in Anhui are nowhere near Yangzhou.

Literally, Mu goes several chi to find her remains, which is an odd choice of distance, as a chi is only a third of a meter. As for the 16th year, um. :deep breath: Okay—the 60-year cycle, slightly oversimplified: the 12 zodiac animals familiar in the west is actually only part of the traditional calendar cycle, which simultaneously also had a 5-year rotation through the Five Phases (aka Elements), giving a full count of 60 before returning to the start. Each year is not an {animal} year but an {element} {animal} year, for example, the current year, which started in 2022 CE, is a water tiger year. And yes, 799 was indeed an earth rabbit year aka 16th of the cycle.

BTW, that second woman? Never gets explained or mentioned again.

Notes on the first poem: The original’s repetitive syntax over the first eight lines, recounting the battle, is almost incantory—because languages work differently, I couldn't reproduce the syntax, but I managed a pale echo of the effect. Idiom: a martyr is literally a “bound tassel,” and I would love to find the story behind that bit of language. “Perverse/Abnormal” (板) and “Rampant” (荡) are poems from the Classic of Songs that lament times when the powerful oppress the weak—so “ever since (the turmoils of) ancient times.”

[See what I mean about redonkulous long? And that's just the first part.]

---L.

Tang Xuan of Jinchang married a young woman of the Zhang family who had considerable good looks and virtue. In 730, when Xuan had gone to Luo(yang), his wife expired at Weinan Manor. After several years, he had to return there. He recalled his feelings about the events of the past and composed poems, which he sadly recited. [TN: read his first two poems] Suddenly his wife came forward, saying, “It is moving, your cherishing our memories, and the Netherworld officials have specially released this person to come here.” They paid their respects to each other with cordial words and let down the curtain to her quarters, then expressed their loving bonds just as they had all their lives. Xuan composed a poem for her [TN: read his third poem], so she took off her belt and also inscribed poems (on it) in reply. [TN: read the first two poems] When the sky brightened, she departed.

1.
I’m not content, that secret and seen are sundered—
But how’s enduring different, then and now?
We’re shadowed, sunlit—it follows that we’re parted.
Meeting, dispersing, both are hard on the heart.

2.
Upon the orchid stair, Moon Rabbit’s tilted,
The silver candle’s burnt out half its time.
I pity me, a long night’s visitor—
The Netherworld, I must treat as home.

Appendix
Tang Xuan’s Poems Mourning His Wife

1.
The bedroom: I sorrow at the long grass mat—
The women’s floor: I sob at the mirror stand.
A lonely grief as peaches and plums make merry.
We’re not together at night’s open mouth.
Ah, spirit—if you’ve any feelings at all
Come just like within the Buddha’s dream.

2.
The flowered hall is quiet all the time.
Talking and laughing pass the count of hours.
This distracted person worked and changed—
The silent one was sent to an unkempt mound.
A sunlit spring—I sing “The Dew on the Scallions.”
A shadowed gulch—I hate my “hidden boat.”
A clear night, moonlight on your makeup table:
A fantasy, you painting your brows, brings sorrow.

Poem Composed for His Wife
The wutong wood from Yi is halfway dead,
The sword from Yanping Ford is wholly submerged.
How within our place of former times
To bear in vain a hundred years in my heart?

答夫诗二首
作者：张氏
〈晋昌唐晅，娶姑女张氏，颇有令德。开元十八年，晅入洛，妻卒于卫南庄。后数岁，得归。追感陈迹，赋诗悲吟，忽见张氏前来，曰：“感君记念，冥司特放儿来。”因相拜款语，下帘帏，申缱绻，宛如平生。晅以诗赠张氏，氏亦裂带题诗以荅，天明别去。〉

[其一]
不分殊幽显，
那堪异古今。
阴阳徒自隔，
聚散两难心。

[其二]
兰阶兔月斜，
银烛半含花。
自怜长夜客，
泉路以为家。

〈附〉

唐晅悼妻诗

[其一]
寝室悲长簟，
妆楼泣镜台。
独悲桃李节，
不共夜泉开。
魂兮若有感，
仿佛梦中来。

[其二]
常时华堂静，
笑语度更筹。
恍惚人事改，
冥寞委荒丘。
阳原歌薤露，
阴壑惜藏舟。
清夜妆台月，
空想画眉愁。

赠妻诗
峄阳桐半死，
延津剑一沈。
如何宿昔内，
空负百年心。


Some texts give the author as Tang Xuan’s Wife née Zhang. Another example where the CPT editors prioritize the ghost’s poem rather than the chronological narrative of a ghost story. Jinchang is in central Gansu, on the Silk Road, while Luoyang is in central Henan, over a thousand kilometers away—a long journey and a long time away. (There are other Luo rivers, all even further off, but the eponym of the sometimes-capital of Luoyang seems the most likely.)

Notes on her poems: I knew I’d have to deal with yin and yang (阴阳) at some point—that important polysemous Daoist concept-pair. So, in his second poem, Xuan uses yang to mean sunlit and yin to mean shadowed, which she picks up on in her first poem, only using yang/sunlit to mean living and yin/shadowed to mean dead. (Note also her use of “the secret and seen” meaning “the dead and living,” the same as the Ghost of a Stone Wall in Huqiu.) The dark spot on the moon traditionally thought to resemble a rabbit tips over as the moon descends—IOW the night is growing later. Idiom: Netherworld is literally “the Road to the Springs,” which oddly is not actually a route to the Yellow Springs but another name for the place itself.

(Annnnnd, actually, I need to digress into a forward-looking TN: Loosely speaking, the underworld, the Netherworld, and the Yellow Springs are all the same, the “place” where spirits go after their body dies. (There’s actually several idioms involved, but so far they’ve all reduced to those three concepts.) More precisely, they refer to the afterlife in general, the realm of the dead (conceptually similar to Hades), and the entrance area to the Netherworld, respectively. Sometimes not much distinction is made between these three, sometimes a delineation is made. The Undiscovered Country is, despite these travelers returning from its bourn, a secret/shadowed/hidden place.)

(I can’t believe I actually quoted Hamlet, by all that’s holy … )

Notes on his poems: Idiom: women’s floor is literally “floor of adornment” —in multi-story homes (as opposed to spread out compounds), the women’s quarters were traditionally upstairs. Idiom: silent one is literally “the silent below” as in, in the underworld. “The Dew on the Scallions” was a folk-song of mourning, while the “hidden boat” is an allusion to a passage by Zhuangzi about bearing a heavy burden—I want to render that less literally, but haven’t come up with anything good. Wood of wutong/parasol trees from the south-facing slopes (which part got lost in translation) of the Yi Hills in Shandong were considered prime materials for making a qin, a type of zither, and I think we’re to understand that it’s the qin itself that’s half-dead (that is, hardly ever played), while Yanping Ford, Fujian, was noted for its excellent swordsmiths.

So is a female ghost writing her poems on a piece of her clothing an actual trope, or did I just happened to stumble across this twice in a row? We’ll see.

---L.

In the middle of civilization, Liu Feng of Jingling sought refuge in an empty inn in Yiling. That night he saw a young woman, who sent over a servant in purple to placate Liu with an invitation to the house of her and her six maternal aunts and forty maternal uncle’s wives—she lived nearby to the south, this quite outstanding young lady. An abundance of maids then sang songs together (with her). [TN: read the songs now] When the songs were finished, a certain person in a yellow jacket presented an old woman, who explained that at the ruler’s command (the young woman) had been banished (from Handan) for not meeting him.

1.
A cooling breeze in bright moonlight,
We meet together late at night.
The Starry River turns upside-down
As our amusements never end.
A green wine-jar, a jade-green ladle—
For you, m’lord, fill cup to the brim,
For if you will not drink tonight,
Then when will you have gaiety?

2.
        Willows and poplars, willows and poplars,
    Graceful, so graceful in the urgent wind.
The beauty of West Tower constantly dreams of spring—
The colored banner rolls up, its many strips bend in.

3.
With jade-trimmed door and golden lamps,
We wish for the presence of you, our ruler,
Within the palace of Handan.
With gold and gemstones, strings and reeds,
The woman Wei’s a beauty from Qin—
From everywhere they journey here
Where dancers’ white silks fly about,
Indigo eyebrows, red adornments.
When Ruler is happy, he cares for us
Who serve our ruler as singers and dancers.
We hope our lord is ever happy,
Without disasters or suffering.

空馆夜歌
作者：夷陵女郎
〈文明中，竟陵刘讽投夷陵空馆，夜见一女郎，命青衣紫绥邀刘家六姨姨、十四舅母、南邻翘翘小娘子、溢奴同歌咏。歌竟，有黄衫人奉婆提王命召去，因不见。〉

[其一 ]
明月清风，
良宵会同。
星河易翻，
欢娱不终。
绿樽翠杓，
为君斟酌。
今夕不饮，
何时欢乐。

[其二]
杨柳杨柳，
袅袅随风急。
西楼美人春梦长，
绣帘斜卷千条入。

[其三]
玉户金缸，
愿陪君王。
邯郸宫中，
金石丝簧。
卫女秦娥，
左右成行。
纨缟缤纷，
翠眉红妆。
王欢顾盼，
为王歌舞。
愿得君欢，
常无灾苦。


This starts a run of interesting poems by (at last!) female ghosts. Though this one isn’t typical: specifically, she’s an elite courtesan (with 46 “aunts”) staying in Yiling in Hubei after being exiled from Handan in Hebei by the local PTB (not necessarily an actual king or lord, given how flattering honorifics work) in some sort of a snit. The songs are, in part, advertisements for their brothel—though, yeah no, not the sort of brothel the living should visit. (Ever get the feeling it’s just a Bad Idea to sleep in an abandoned inn?)

The Starry River aka Milky Way turns over as the night passes. A “spring dream” is an erotic one. The strips of a banner/curtain over a door bend in when someone passes through. A “beauty of Qin” has the strong connotation of being a singer, even if she’s not actually from Shaanxi.

The 4-character lines are very old-fashioned—as in Classic of Songs old. (Not that this uses the Old Chinese of those poems, but rather the literary Middle Chinese I’ve gotten used to.) The standard form for this sort of poetry started to shift to 5-character lines (and then also 7-character) late in the Han Dynasty—which form is called the “old style” poems in 3TP.

---L.

Edited with corrections 1 Nov '22

Gazing Together upon Jingmen
Millennia, this ancient land, the ages rush by quickly.
By one pillar of this high terrace, an already severed spirit.
I hope that at the hill pavilion there is a clear night’s moon—
And with my lord, whistling long, I’ll learn to revive your sect.

Reflecting Upon the South Side of Jingmen
The famous Song Yu lost his beauty and refinement,
The poet Yu Xin had his flourishing talent cut.
Who’s like that crane of Liaodong, after a thousand years
Perched on the Son of Heaven’s pillar, and yet returning?

同鹿门少年马绍隆冥游诗
作者：庞徳公

千年故国岁华奔，
一柱高台已断魂。
唯有岘亭清夜月，
与君长啸学苏门。〈同望荆门〉

高名宋玉遗闲丽，
作赋兰成绝盛才。
谁似辽东千岁鹤，
倚天华表却归来。〈忆荆南〉


Yeah, of course there’s no headnote to help …

Well, to note the obvious: Lumen (“deer gate”) and Jingmen (“thorn gate”) are mountains in western Hubei. There was an ancient meditative practice involving long, drawn-out whistles. Song Yu was a poet of the Warring State of Chu, and Yu Xin (here actually called by his Buddhist name Lan Cheng) was a poet of the Liang Dynasty, author of “Lament of the South.” The crane refers to the legend of Daoist immortal Ding Lingwei, a prefect of Liaodong who was prosecuted for using government grain stores and saved from execution by being carried off by cranes; a thousand years later, transformed into a crane himself, he returned to the city, landing on a pillar before the city gates considered sacred to the imperium, and was shot at to chase him off. And as for the ghost himself, he might be the Pang De who was defeated by Guan Yu (he of the glorious beard, later deified) during the wars of the Three Kingdoms somewhere in this region, but that’s not the only Pang De who was a duke.

Translation trickiness: 冥 (míng) has the primary meanings “dark/gloomy/hidden” plus, as with 幽, in any context involving spirits or the dead, “the underworld” or “the afterlife.” Here in the title 冥游 “afterlife wandering” isn’t too hard to render, but there are five later poems with 冥会, literally “afterlife meeting,” that I’m struggling with. I’ll see what I can come up with by the time I post them. (FWIW, in an earlier poem, I rendered 冥途 as dark path, which was great at the time but now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t adjust to be more consistent with these.)

---L.

A certain court eunuch lodged for the night at Guanpo Inn. Beneath the lantern, he saw three men arrive wearing old-fashioned clothing and caps. They all introduced themselves, and one said, “Imperial Attendant Cui has come to inquire, for just now someone has arrived at this cold and dismal place, yet there’s a feeling of departing on a long journey concealed in him—that’s what Imperial Attendant Cui (would like to know about).” They lifted up wine and composed a poem, each line in succession, rapidly ending with Imperial Attendant Cui’s words. When the court eunuch invited them to rise up together as a group of four, they gazed mournfully at him, moaned, and then departed.

The brocade quilt that’s on the bed—patches lapping patches.
The crimson robes upon the rack—dark-red lapping dark-red.
The moon’s distinct in the empty courtyard—later ever later.
The road’s remote as night grows long—mountains lapping mountains.

官坡馆联句
作者：崔常侍
〈有中官宿官坡馆，灯下见有三人至，皆古衣冠，相谓，曰：“崔常侍来何，迟俄有一人续至凄凄，然有离别之意盖，崔常侍也。”举酒赋诗聮句末即，崔常侍之词也。
中官将起四人相，顾哀，啸而别。〉
床头锦衾班复班，
架上朱衣殷复殷。
空庭朗月闲复闲，
夜长路远山复山。


Another matching lines game, ha ha—with the bonus that this one I think works nicely as an actual poem. Guanpo means “the official slants,” which makes me think of a place where government employees drink till they’re tipping over. I do wonder what sort of long journey the court eunuch recently started on (I assume he is on one, as ghosts universally tend to be correct in these sorts of observations) and how he thinks these three presumptive allies will help him rise up the ranks.

Textual note: the headnote’s punctuation is my own (usually I’ve been able to find a text that has already supplied it, but not this time—punctuation being a modern innovation).

—L.

Cut bamboo turned into a pipe is a flute to blow—
Above Paired-Phoenix Pool paired phoenixes are flying.
I’ll trouble you to travel south to Guizhou with this:
That for the governor, it’s like ten-thousand seasons.

赠马植
作者：峡中白衣
截竹为筒作笛吹，
凤凰池上凤凰飞。
劳君更向黔南去，
即是陶钧万类时。

A headnote with context would be nice, yeah. FWIW, Ma Zhi appears in records starting in 819 and died in 857. I don’t know whether this is the Paired-Phoenix Pool on the grounds of the Imperial Palace (previously met in 3TP #117) or another one. Idiom: I’ve been silently translating the more flowery official titles into something more obvious in English, but the governor’s title is an especially odd one, literally “pottery-thrower,” as in making a pot on a wheel—it’s supposed to suggest molding his populace. I’m assuming ten-thousand-or-so seasons is how long the governor must wait for the ghost’s arrival.

I see how the phoenixes are symbolically appropriate to the situation, but the metaphoric application of the flute-making is … obscure to me. Interesting, but obscure.

---L.

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 afterworld of Chinese mythology) i.e. is dead, it must have been him. There are other stories in this chapter where the ghost’s poem is given first, even when it’s clearly marked as a reply to a living person’s poem, which is then appended—which highlights that this is truly a collection of poems by ghosts, and not stories about ghosts that include poems. For now, I’ll keep translating the texts as given—there will be time later to edit things into narrative order, if that seems the best way to handle it. (This also brings up the question of whether to edit poems into the middle of stories at the point they’re recited/read in those cases where it Really Helps give context to responses.)

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.

---L.

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。

Onward to ghost poems of chapter 866, which don’t have historical dates—though some, like this one, are tied to people in the historical record. This is btw the fourth in the chapter, as I’ve already translated the first three. In general, I’ve found the overall quality of this chapter’s ghost stories better than the previous.

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 either 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 autumn, and the ghost’s snark might be because it’s open despite getting chilly. 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.

How’s that for cryptic and evocative?

(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 worker’s song singer, 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 (or not in any chronicle that’s survived), but given he’s an Elder, putting this story as “around 900 or a little after” is reasonable. Still, not being given a date makes it stick out in this chapter.

TN: My rough meter reflects the so-called “not in the classic form.”

---L.