Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

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 our former life’s approaching death 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 “crickets and ants.”

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:
In the grasp of snakes and dragons, a phoenix on the 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〉

The Southern Wu (902-937) was one of the southern Ten Kingdoms of the post-Tang era—Ganlu (“sweet dew”) Temple in Zhenjiang, Jiangsu was in its territory. My guess at a date, based on a rough skim through a Chinese chronicle, comes from a successful 919 war against Wuyue to the east, but I wonder if it’s too late given the next poem. 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:

1. Zhao Yi and Zou Yang were scholar-officials of the Han Dynasty—I’m not clear whether this is supposed to suggest Mr. Northern-Clothes also lived then, or they’re just references of cultural currency. A fu is a literary essay in occasionally metered and rhymed prose, sometimes translated as rhymed-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.


2. I’m unclear whether Mr. Wide-Sleeves is evoking being capsized by the giant kun fish of folklore or a whale (which was sometimes understood to have scales), but either way the general sense is he ran afoul of a powerful person. “Crickets (and) ants” (reversed in translation for metrical reasons) is an idiom for the little people.


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


4. 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 than most of these ghost stories.

Language notes: oh hey, using the actual word for ‘barbarian’ instead of an ethnonym such as Hu—more of this, please? The unit I’m translating as ell now means width in general, but originally was the standard width of a piece of woven cloth.

---L.

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 Minister of the Middle 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，自称萧郎中、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 lookie here, folks—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. Second-rank exams were imperial-level exams that were less comprehensive than the ones testing for higher office (which are passed by advanced scholars). Apparently their scope did not include writing poetry, which the minister gets sarcastic about, thus Jing getting mad.

Textual issue 1: 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.

Textual issue 2: Xiao’s title is given as both 中郎 and 郎中, which are different positions, the former subordinate to the latter. I went ahead and rendered them as written, but sheesh, careless editing much?

So what’s a footsoldier doing hobnobbing with a minister and a governor? Being a demonstration that death is the great equalizer? There are other examples, later in the collection, of a group of ghosts who are all officials or nobles plus one commoner, which makes it look like a trope.

---L.

Around 832, 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, “A miserable third-rank official 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 randomly inscribed 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:
What thing travels 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。

Miserable Wēi and militia officer Wéi have different surnames, 微 and 韦 respectively. The Zhe River is the eponym of Zhejiang. A “cover of rushes” would ordinarily be understood as a thatched roof, but given a prophecy, I left it literal to allow reading it as what’s growing on the burial mound. FWIW, the prose of the headnote has a more elaborated style than most of these—pretty clearly a different writer.

---L.

Advanced Scholar Lu Qiao of Danyang was good at songs and poems. One night in 806, he visited a man he knew named Shen Yue, who sent for wine and invited Deputy Minister Fan (to join them). They then succeeded in summoning Yue’s son Qingxiang, who was possibly 10 or more years old. Yue pointed at him and said proudly, “This child liked writing poems, but unfortunately he passed away before me. Recently, the deputy minister and I passed by a city guard-tower, and he made a poem on thinking about the past, an extremely impressive one.”

Six dynasties have passed in this landscape—
We’ve thrived then died through many centuries.
Once flowering, now silent and desolate,
This morning market that was noisy and teeming.
The moon at night in water like glazed glass—
The winds of spring in blue-egg colored sky—
The time is short for pondering the past:
My tears fall down before the city gate.

过台城感旧
作者：沈青箱
〈元和初进士陆乔，家丹阳，好为歌诗。一夕，见一丈夫，自称沈约来候，命酒邀范仆射。云及召其子青箱至，青箱年可十岁馀，约指谓乔：“此子好为诗，不幸先吾逝，近从吾与仆射同过台城，有感旧诗，甚可观也。”〉
六代旧山川，
兴亡几百年。
繁华今寂寞，
朝市昔喧阗。
夜月琉璃水，
春风卵色天。
伤时与怀古，
垂泪国门前。

Because when a distinguished visitor arrives, you show off your child prodigy, even if he’s dead and you have to hold a seance. Okay then. Danyang is now a district of modern Zhenjiang, Jiangsu. The tower is the sort that’s built into the city fortifications, such as on either side of a gate. Since this is a ghost poem, I assume the son was already dead when he wrote it, but the headnote doesn’t make that clear. In the poem, “dynasties” could be “generations,” but reading it that way makes the first lines not quite as on-point—and this poem, like many by young poets, otherwise hammers its point hard.

---L.

Around 795, the magistrate of Hancheng, Liu Gai, died in office. His family was poor and before half a year had passed, they moved to a Buddhist temple in the countryside. After three days (there), Duo, his deputy at the time of his sudden death, said, “I met Gai, and asked about dark path things, but he did not speak. Then he presented me with a poem.”

The dark road’s deep, obscure, and people cannot know it—
I will not use the bitter words that give you people grief.
It’s fortunate I met you—tell my family this:
We’ll meet after in the boundless vast—but where and when?

赠窦丞
作者：刘溉
〈贞元中，韩城令刘溉卒官。家贫，侨寓县中佛寺，未半岁，其县丞窦暴死三日，云：“遇溉，问冥途事不语，久之，赠诗一首。”〉
冥路杳杳人不知，
不用苦说使人悲。
喜得逢君传家信，
后会茫茫何处期。

Liu Gai is specifically the head of the county-level government. Hancheng was and still is in Shaanxi. I assume Duo “met” Liu Gai in a dream, but that part of the story is nearly as obscure as the dark path. More trickiness: it was tempting to slightly mistranslate 人 as “mortals,” given the ghostly context, but “people” is both more accurate and feels more truthful.

---L.

When Hun Zhen and the Tibetans met in negotiations, the foreigners betrayed their word and diplomatic secretary Han Yan was killed. Yan had long been a friend of staff officer Li Xu, who suddenly dreamed of Yan with unbound hair over his shoulders, face extremely bloody, consoling him as he had in life by offering up a poem and some further words, after which he moaned sadly and departed. The sense of the further words was: “I’ve been hungry and thirsty for a long time—buy me wine and food and valuable things, for our lives just came to a parting.” Xu followed his words and sacrificed to him. A dark wind suddenly came from the west, whirling around above the offerings, and the fluttering paper money and the food and wine all flew away. This was in 788.

I have a foe among the enemy—
There’s no one who can wipe away the shame.
Everywhere from Qin to Gansu’s end:
A roaming spirit, sobbing to myself.

呈李续
作者：韩弇
〈浑瑊与西蕃会盟，蕃戎背信，掌书记韩弇遇害。弇素与栎杨尉李续友，忽梦弇被发披衣，面目尽血，相劳勉如平生，以一诗呈续，悲吟而别。谓续曰：“吾久饥渴，君为置酒馔钱物，亦平生之分尽矣。”续如言祭之，忽有黑风自西来，旋转筵上，飘卷纸钱及酒食皆飞去。时贞元四年也。〉
我有敌国雠，
无人可为雪。
每至秦陇头，
游魂自呜咽。

The poem is “offered” rather than “presented” because it’s given to someone of higher rank. Hun Jian (736-800) was a Tang general who spent most of his time after An Lushan fighting the Tibetan Empire; if I’m interpreting his Wikipedia bio correctly, the negotiations were in 787. The job titles of the friends are loosely translated, as I don’t have exact equivalents on tap. The paper money is ritual replicas traditionally offered to the dead. Qin is the Shaanxi region.

I’ve never been able to tell whether these sorts of “dark/black winds” are literally dark or figuratively stormy/strong. The former certainly looks better in dramas. At least this one isn’t a “negative” wind.

—L.

In 774, when Yuan Zai entered the dawn court audience one morning, a scholar offered up a poem, which his deputies received. When that person’s bitter longings were read to Zai, Zai told them, “Skip to someplace in the middle that is suitable to read out.” Then he said (to the scholar), “Something like this, people cannot read—please recite it yourself.” When the recitation ended, (the scholar) vanished. Afterward Zai was finally ruined, with himself, his wife, and his children executed.

East of the city, west of the city, my former dwelling place—
Within the city flying flowers, scattered like cotton fluff.
Sea-swallows holding mud in their beaks want to come on down—
Within the house, no one is there, and still they fly away.

Records of Spirit Communications also has this incident of Zai. Its poem is slightly different, reading: “South of the city the road is long, there is no place to stay— / Silvergrass flowers scattered, scattered, just like willow seeds. / Sea-swallows holding mud in their beaks want to make their nests— / An empty house, no one is there, and still they fly away.”

献元载
作者：书生
〈大历九年春，元载早入朝，有书生献诗，令左右收之。其人苦欲载读，载云：“候至中书，当为看。”又言：“若不能读，请自诵。”诵毕，因不见。载后竟破家，身及妻子被诛。〉
城东城西旧居处，
城里飞花乱如絮。
海燕衔泥欲下来，
屋里无人却飞去。
〈《通幽录》亦载此事。诗小异，云：“城南路长无宿处，荻花纷纷如柳絮。海燕衔泥欲作窠，空屋无人却飞去。”〉

Yuan Zai spent the last decade-plus of his life as Emperor Daizong’s powerful and corrupt chancellor, before the emperor finally managed to engineer his arrest and execution in 777, along with his family (except one daughter, a nun, who was made a palace servant). It was anciently believed that swallows migrated over the southern ocean to breed again, thus their sometimes being elegantly called “sea-crossing swallows,” or just “sea-swallows” for short.

Lotta gaps in the story here, including what about the poem is so bitter and unsuitable, what exactly the scholar’s grievance is, and how this incident has anything to do with Yuan Zai’s ruin three whole years later.

—L.

Both Imperial Censor Li Shuji and his older brother Zhongyun passed the imperial exams and became well-known in their time. In 766, Shuji passed away. At the end of that year, his younger sister’s husband lay down together with Zhongyun, and he suddenly dreamed of Shuji. Meeting him, (Shuji) was reluctant to part, saying, “I have a poem—might you possibly recite it for Eldest Brother?” After several years, Zhongyun also passed away.

Suddenly parted indefinitely—
Sunk in darkness, too many regrets.
Although Chang’an is not so far,
I’ve no faith I can send a message.

死后诗
作者：李叔霁
〈御史李叔霁，与兄仲云俱擢第，有名当代。大历初，叔霁卒。经岁馀，其妹夫与仲云同寝，忽梦叔霁，相见依依，曰：“我有一诗，可为诵呈大兄。”后数年，仲云亦卒。〉
忽作无期别，
沈冥恨有馀。
长安虽不远，
无信可传书。

(no comment)

---L.

Mingxie surname Yao, a monk of Puguang Temple, possessed much talent and learning. In 662 he passed the imperial exams, then took off his Buddhist robes, saying, “I must shed this donkey hide.” Thereupon he bought wine and composed poetry, including the lines, “A carriage, at first I didn’t have— / Three Empties, where do I return?” Before long, he died of illness. He appeared in a dream to his old friend Zhi Zheng and one Sir Hua, saying he had a great burden and bitter news, and requested they copy the scriptures and so accrue merit, for he bequeathed this poem.

Clasp your hands, for they cannot be parted—
Beating your breast, you might wound yourself.
So painful, ah! —the time for us is short;
The sorrow, oh! —the road to wealth is long.
The forest pines surprised by open winds—
The bleak tomb-passage bears the winter frost.
You say, “You’re distant—why present these words?”
Guard well your heart within the laws of dharma.

遗画工诗
作者：释明解
〈明解姓姚，普光寺僧，颇具才学。龙朔中策第，脱袈裟，自云：“得脱此驴皮。”遂置酒赋诗，有“一乘本非有，三空何所归”之句。不久病卒，下梦于旧识智整及一画士，言大受苦报，求写经作功德，因遗此诗。〉
握手不能别，
抚膺聊自伤。
痛矣时阴短，
悲哉泉路长。
松林惊野吹，
荒隧落寒霜。
言离何以赠，
留心内典章。

Because writing poems is a totally dissolute thing to do—though I gather the problem was not so much the poetry as that it was anti-Buddhist. Mingxie (“clear-sight released”) is his Buddhist rather than lay name (which was surname Yao, courtesy name Zhoayi, personal name not recorded). According to a potted bio, he was at the Puguang (“universal light”) Temple in Chang’an, published a book in 639, passed the exams in 660, in his middle age, and died the next year. The Three Empties, a Buddhist term of art, are empty field, empty court, and empty warehouse, and I suspect the carriage/vehicle is also a Buddhist reference. The supplied pronouns in l.7 of the poem are more guess-y than usual.

---L.

During (Tang Emperor) Taizong’s invasion of Liaoning, he arrived at Baoding. Beside the road, there was a ghost clothed in yellow robes, standing upon a high burial mound. The spirit’s bright color was unique and different, so he dispatched a messenger to inquire about it. It replied with this poem, and when it finished speaking it disappeared. Thus it was the tomb of Murong Chui.

I formerly defeated former rulers—
The rulers of today defeat me today.
Glory is different in each generation:
What are you doing, bitterly hounding the old?

冡上答太宗
作者：慕容垂
〈太宗征辽至定州，路侧有一鬼衣黄衣立高冢上。神彩特异，遣使问之。答以此诗，言讫不见。乃慕容垂墓也。〉
我昔胜君昔，
君今胜我今。
荣华各异代，
何用苦追寻。

Okay, if I’m gonna gallop through these ghost poems, it’s time to get systematic: this is the first poem of CTP ch865, the first of the two chapters—which is, not coincidentally, the poem with the earliest identifiable date. Murong Chui, aka Later Yan Emperor Chengwu (ruled 384-396) from the early Sixteen Kingdoms era, was buried in his capital of Zhongshan, now part of modern Baoding, Hebei. Tang Emperor Taizong passed through (and pacified) the area during his 645 invasion of the northern Korean kingdom of Goguryeo. Spoiler alert: despite the flattery of the second line, Taizong lost his war.

---L.