Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

M’lord departed in flower season.
It’s flower season—you don’t arrive.
Before the eaves, paired swallows fly.
This fallen one is pining and weeping.

玉台体 之七
君去期花时，
花时君不至。
檐前双燕飞，
落妾相思泪。

The speaker uses a humble first-person pronoun used by women (妾 qiè, which as a noun means concubine) that I usually translate as “this one.” There’s slightly more ‘there’ there than in the previous, but only slightly.

---L.

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, then Send It 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 after the shields and spears.
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. I’m grateful my base text supplied punctuation (not all do). 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. Aside from one number, the details of his family and their locations are largely irrelevant to appreciating the poem, but for completeness (iow I had to look all this up so I’m darn well gonna share the joy), some of those “older brothers” were what we’d call uncles and cousins, Fuliang is in modern Jiangxi, Yuqian in Zhejiang, Wujiang in Anhui, Fuchi (where his father was an official) also in Anhui, and Xiagui (where their clan was based) in western Shaanxi.

Now that the title’s out of the way, on to the poem itself, which turns out to be pretty easy to understand. The asters, if it isn’t clear, have 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.

---L.

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,
And yet his single drooping banner left Shitou.
In the mortal world, many go back to past offenses—
The mountain’s form still rests its head on the cold current.
Today, throughout the world, we’re like a family.
This rampart’s old and dreary—rushes 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 have controlling the middle and lower Yangzi basin, such as Northern Jin and Wu (for it is in the late Three Kingdoms era that our scene lies), it often was a border fortress and the site of battles. Wang Jun was a Jin general who built and commanded a flotilla of ships with towers for attacking river forts, as part of the final invasion of Wu, the capital of which was Nanjing. Wu countered by stretching spiked chains across the Yangzi to sink them—apparently in this area (I haven’t been able to confirm this yet). Shitou (“stone head”) City is where Sun Hao, the last ruler of Wu, surrendered to Jin forces. 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” (that whole passage is a wee bit compacted).

I am delighted to realize that both the “air/vapor” and “get angry” senses of 气 are encompassed by “fume.”

---L.

Ascending the 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 hundred tattooed 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 collectively referred to as Yue (much like all the northern steppe peoples are Hu) or the Hundred Yues. Wilderness in this case means not that it’s uninhabited, but it’s not inhabited by Han Chinese. Lost in translation: the wilderness is “wide” and the climbing-figs are “(on the) wall.” Turning guts is also an idiom for anxiety.

—L.

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 meets autumn colors.
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. The drums are types used for troop signals. Exactly why he’s left his comrades-in-arms to return home, well—that’s another story.

—L.

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 Hu 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 contemporary policies. 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. Dou Xian was a general of the Eastern Han empire who defeated the Xiongnu Empire in a series of battles across the steppes, including one at Mt. Yanran, in modern central Mongolia, after which he returned home.

---L.

Lovely and graceful, sixteen—proper, tender, and bashful—
We meet by chance at sunset, south side of the street.
“I’d like to ask, when is auspicious?” but she’s not willing.
Deep in the scattered flowers, face the green pavilion.

玉台体 之二
婵娟二八正娇羞，
日暮相逢南陌头。
试问佳期不肯道，
落花深处指青楼。

An “auspicious time” can be for either a wedding or a tryst—both senses work here—and a “green pavilion” is a brothel (traditionally painted green) or the pleasure quarters in general. Another tricky bit: in the pronounless last line, who’s pointing/facing at the brothel—the girl, who’s a courtesan pointing out where she works, or the guy, who heads there for consolation after being shot down by a proper young miss? I went with the latter, but an ambiguous wording would be nice.

BTW, this and the rest of the set are all regulated quatrains, a form not yet developed when New Songs from the Jade Terrace was compiled. (Quatrains were around, but not with strict tone patterns.) Not sure what to make of that.

(Am I doing all 12 of these? You bet yer sweet patootie I am.)

---L.

A phoenix cries, orchids are very red—
I look outside, east of the capital.
This “face-paint” perspires in the slanting light,
My fragrant robes caught one by one in the breeze.
A feeling comes before I am aware—
Halting in the shadows: five flowery steeds.

玉台体 之一
鸾啼兰已红，
见出凤城东。
粉汗宜斜日，
衣香逐上风。
情来不自觉，
暗驻五花骢。

A “jade terrace” ordinarily means the quarters of an upper-class woman; here, however, it’s referring to a genre of semi-erotic poetry collected in the mid-6th century anthology New Songs from the Jade Terrace—see here for a couple examples.

This is a set of imitations from the late 8th century, one of which I previously translated as 3TP #243. Back when I did that, I’d no idea it was part of a set, and since I liked that poem and was looking for a palate-cleanser of something easier than Du Fu, I pounced. Even though, yes, they’re written by a late Tang poet imitating a once-living Southern Dynasties style, but as I said, I was looking for easy and different.

To be explicit, these are semi-erotic poems written by a man from a patriarchal culture, so CW: very male-gaze. But at least it’s different from 3TP’s restricted range and I hope to get something fun out of it.

Specific for this poem: a carriage pulled by a five-horse team is a perquisite of a high official, who has stopped to visit this courtesan on the sly at sunset. More literally, her layers of clothing are “lifted” up. Tricky bit: there are a couple fabulous Chinese birds that can, in most situations, be translated as “phoenix.” One place they cannot is when more than one are named, as here: 鸾 (luán) and 凤 (fèng). The second is part of an elegant sobriquet for the capital, so I went for clarity instead of colorful. That said, one text had 莺 (yīng) “oriole” instead of the very similar 鸾, which is really tempting reading to accept (“Orioles sing, orchids are very red— / I look outside, east of Phoenix City”).

ETA: After much thought, I'm accepting the "oriole" reading -- it's much more consonant with the realistic sensual details of the rest of the poem.

---L.

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 a chance.
A shame: pleading for white hair be matched 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 (plus being consonant with the next note). The dawn is described as yin-yin, which like all things yin-and-yang could point towards any of various senses, in this case on the lines of dark/shade/dense/lush/cool/wet. “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 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?

---L.

Demoted for three years to this, a long-term ‘perch’—
Through vast ages but a pause, that Chu guest’s sorrow.
Alone in autumn grasses, I seek that person now
Fruitlessly in cold woods—I see the slanting sunset.
Emperor Wen was wise yet his forbearance weak.
Xiang River didn’t care, for how could it know mourning?
Still, so still, this landscape, a place of shaking and falling.
A pity—how did you arrive at the sky’s edge?

长沙过贾谊宅
三年谪宦此栖迟，
万古惟留楚客悲。
秋草独寻人去后，
寒林空见日斜时。
汉文有道恩犹薄，
湘水无情吊岂知？
寂寂江山摇落处，
怜君何事到天涯？

Jia Yi was a writer and statesman of the early Han Dynasty, and Liu Changqing (a writer and statesman of the mid Tang Dynasty) wrote about him before in #137. The relevant biofacts: Han Emperor Wen demoted Jia Yi to be Grand Tutor to the child ruler of the client kingdom of Changsha, where he stayed for roughly four years. Idioms: was wise is literally “had the Way,” as in the Dao, and landscape is literally “rivers (and) mountains.” The Xiang runs through Changsha.

Now this is closer to what I think of as poetic thoughts on a historical site.

---L.