Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

No blowing horns break quiet autumn
And soldiers lean on garrison towers.
Spring-like breezes brush the green mound,
The bright sun sets behind Liangzhou.
No troops impede us through this desert,
Our tourists vanish across the border—
But foreigners’ feelings are like this water:
Forever wanting to flow on south.

书边事
调角断清秋，
征人倚戍楼。
春风对青冢，
白日落梁州。
大漠无兵阻，
穷边有客游。
蕃情似此水，
长愿向南流。

The mound is understood from context as the tumulus of Wang Zhaojun, one of the Four Great Beauties of China, married off to the Chanyu of the Xiongnu nomads, which is near modern Hohhot in central Inner Mongolia. Liangzhou is a fair ways due west of there in central Gansu, at the start of the Hexi Corridor and so associated with the frontier. The foreigners being scaremongered are probably Tibetans, even though they were encroaching from the southwest, and the water would be the Yellow River of the Ordos Loop. Lost in translation: the desert is “great/vast.”

---L.

Here in Bashang, the wind and rain are calm.
I see each evening line after line of geese
And scattered leaves from unfamiliar trees.
Cold lamp at night—this solitary person—
Within the empty garden, white dew drips—
Beyond its lonely wall a rustic monk.
In these suburban lodgings it grows late—
How many years were spent to gain this life?

灞上秋居
灞原风雨定，
晚见雁行频。
落叶他乡树，
寒灯独夜人。
空园白露滴，
孤壁野僧邻。
寄卧郊扉久，
何年致此身？

Bashang (the alternate name Bayuan is used in the first line) was an eastern suburb of Chang’an where officials waiting for imperial appointments often lodged. The person is a humble self-reference.

---L.

(Already did #159 lo these couple years ago, so on to the next.)

Sun enters Yanzi in the west—
Thatched hut: I ask a lonely monk,
“Where in these scattered leaves are we?
How much further through these cold clouds?”
A single strike on dusk’s stone bell.
Upon the fence climbs just one vine.
Everyone’s in the dust of the world—
Why must I both love and hate it?

北青萝
残阳西入崦，
茅屋访孤僧。
落叶人何在？
寒云路几层。
独敲初夜磬，
闲倚一枝藤。
世界微尘里，
吾宁爱与憎。

Qingluo (“clear vines”) is a peak of the Wangwu Mountains in northwestern Henan, more or less due north of Luoyang. Lost in translation: it’s the “last/remaining” sun, and further “[on] the road.” Mt. Yanzi in western Gansu is the mountain where the sun supposedly entered the earth upon setting. The monk is specifically Buddhist, and the dust of the world is a Buddhist concept, signifying our attachments to existence.

(Last Li Shangyin in this section. Whew! He’s better known for his 7-character verse, which gave him even more scope for his knotty obscurity.)

---L.

Like in that wretched essay, “The Two-Edged Sword,”
I’ve bridle and anchor, and long for my end of years—
This yellow leaf’s still out in the wind and rain,
While those in blue towers play their flutes and strings—
A new pal met by chance in the frivolous world—
An old friend parted by our virtuous karma—
I’ll break my mood with Xinfeng wine and soothe
My worries with cups worth however many thousand.

风雨
凄凉宝剑篇，
羁泊欲穷年。
黄叶仍风雨，
青楼自管弦。
新知遭薄俗，
旧好隔良缘。
心断新丰酒，
销愁斗几千。



“Essay on the Two-Edged Sword,” about the vanity of wandering heroes, was written by Guo Yuanzhen at the imperial command of Wu Zetian, who was impressed enough she handsomely rewarded the author. Xinfeng, near Chang-an, was famous for its fine i.e. expensive wine.

---L.

[Yes, really. I know, I know. Done while recovering from Covid. DON’T JUDGE ME.]

A way that can be described is not the constant Way.
A name that can be named is not the constant Name.
That without name is the origin of heaven and earth;
That with a name is the mother of the ten thousand things.
Thus, those constantly without desires see its mysteries;
Those constantly with desires see [only] its edges.
These two things, going forth the same yet having different names, together are meaning’s Mystery.
The Mystery’s most mysterious [part] is the gate to all subtlety.

道可道，非常道。
名可名，非常名。
无名天地之始；
有名万物之母。
故常无欲，以观其妙；
常有欲，以观其徼。
此两者，同出而异名，同谓之玄。
玄之又玄，衆妙之门。

Can we start with the problem of the title? Two nouns, such as dào = way/path plus dé = virtue/power, placed together without an explicit particle or conjunction can be read multiple ways: dào and dé, dào and its dé, the dào’s dé. The text is in two sections, and it’s traditional to read one as more about dào and the other more about dé, and thus understand the title as an ‘and’ thing, but the sections aren’t actually titled and that “more about” requires squinting to see. Given the way the book as a whole seeks to subvert dualisms (even while relying on parallel prose), I’m inclined to call it “The Classic of the Virtue/Power of the Way/Path,” but I’m barely even an amateur at this.

And then there’s the text: the base text I nabbed (chosen because readily available and too sick to search for better) is a 3rd century CE copy that’s been the standard version for millennia, one that shaved off every technically omittable grammatical particle and cupola from a mystical (i.e. already hard-to-understand) text. IOW, it’s rilly difficult to read, let alone grasp. We know particles were dropped because in 1971 another text based on a version at least 400 years older was found in a tomb, which has them (plus numerous other verbal changes, though only two of significance for this passage). If I can find an online version of that older text, I may switch to that.

Anyway, as far as commentary, there’s so many ambiguities and interpretations in this, I can’t even.

Except, well, this one: when as in the first clause dào is a verb, it can mean either “to go along a path” in both physical or metaphoric senses or “to describe/recount,” so it could be either can be described or can be taken. (FWIW, describe is the more common sense.)

—L.

One jar of wine among the flowers—
I drink alone without close friends.
I raise my cup, inviting the moon—
With matching shadow, that makes us three.
The moon of course can’t grasp a drink.
My shadow helplessly follows my body.
With my companions, moon and shadow,
I happily enjoy the spring.
I sing—the moon bobs back and forth.
I dance—my shadow flails around.
While I’m clear-headed, we’re cheerful together—
Once I am drunk, we all disperse,
Pledged to roam without attachments
Then meet again in the Milky Way.

月下独酌
花间一壶酒，
独酌无相亲；
举杯邀明月，
对影成三人。
月既不解饮，
影徒随我身；
暂伴月将影，
行乐须及春。
我歌月徘徊，
我舞影零乱；
醒时同交欢，
醉后各分散。
永结无情游，
相期邈云汉。

Another anthology war-horse, translated because curious. It’s the first of a 4-poem set, which I’d not known—CLEARLY the others need translating, yah? The “attachments” are understood as being to worldly things, rather than to each other. Lost in translation: the pledge is “eternal” and the Milky Way is “remote.” Idiom: Milky Way is here called “Cloud Flow” or possibly “Cloud Ripples” (FWIW, the modern name is “Silver River”). Here it represents a Daoist paradise.

—L.

As my grasp on classical grammar has improved, I’ve occasionally gone back to my first translations to check them … and yeah, I’ve been finding some mistakes. Howlers, even. Here’s a redo of one I had marked at the time as likely to be especially unreliable.


A lone cloud carries a wild crane:
How could you dwell within the world?
Don’t be persuaded by Mt. Wozhou—
People already know that place.

送上人
孤云将野鹤，
岂向人间住。
莫买沃洲山，
时人已知处。

Mt. Wozhou, in Zhejiang Province, had a popular Buddhist temple that, according to legend, was founded by a senior monk who escaped the troubles of the Jin Dynasty by fleeing there on a crane.

(Yes, 沃 ordinarily means "buy," but here it means something like "buy into," a metaphoric extension by way of the "bribe" sense. Also, somehow I completely evaporated 将, "carry/support.")

---L.

A single leaf drops down before the steps …
South of the Huai, this man already grieves:
I squandered all my young man’s expectations—
The distance decreases to my ‘white-cloud’ time.
In age, I’m truly Xiangru in the end;
In poverty, I’m sadly Manqian: hungry.
A new duke and an orchard manager—
Where are these men? For they are my teachers.

早秋 之二
一叶下前墀，
淮南人已悲。
蹉跎青汉望，
迢递白云期。
老信相如渴，
贫忧曼倩饥。
生公与园吏，
何处是吾师。

Second of a three-poem set, only the first of which was included in 3TP. The set is closely linked, with opening lines echoing line 7 of the previous poem and responding to it. Idiom: young is literally “green,” and if it wasn’t tonally totally off, I’d render “young man” as greenhorn. Xiangru is Sima Xiangru, a literati famous for spending much of his middle years in poverty compounded by poor health, before being rehabilitated by Han Emperor Wu as a court poet. Manqian is the courtesy name of Dongfang Shuo, a literati and reputed Daoist immortal who acted as Wu’s court jester, but I don’t see anything in that potted biography that explains the hungry comparison. (Also, I haven’t found a way to make that line not read totally awkwardly, which might mean I’m not reading it correctly.) The orchard manager is the philosopher Zhuangzi, who supposedly remained the manager of a lacquer-tree plantation rather than accept a more important position, but I’ve no clue who the duke might be—I’m guessing something Zhou Dynasty, or at least someone (like Zhuangzi) even more ancient than the Han examples.

TLDR: I lack a lot of cultural background.

An Autumn Day Journeying to Chang’an, Inscribed in the Tower of the Tong Pass Post Station, Xu Hun

The red leaves in the evening look so dreary.
At the rest house, wine—a single ladle.
Broken clouds return to great Mt. Hua,
A scanty rainfall passes Zhongtiao Ridge.
Tree colors match the far-off mountains.
The river splashes toward the distant sea.
Tomorrow I’ll arrive at the emperor’s home
But I still dream of cutting wood and fishing.

秋日赴阙题潼关驿楼
红叶晚萧萧，
长亭酒一瓢。
残云归太华，
疏雨过中条。
树色随山迥，
河声入海遥。
帝乡明日到，
犹自梦渔樵。

Tong Pass, near the confluence of the Wei and Yellow rivers, is the gateway between Shaanxi and the Central Plains. Idiom: in the title, he’s literally traveling to a “watchtower of the imperial palace,” which usually stands in for the entire palace or the capital itself. Rest houses for travelers, literally “long pavilions,” were set up every 10 li (5km/3mi) along the main roads. The road between Tong and Chang’an passes by both Mt. Hua and Mt. Zhongtiao (the latter now better known as Mt. Leishou).

The fishing and woodcutting kinda come out of nowhere, but the images of discontent and of small things coming to large otherwise nicely reflect the speaker’s situation.

---L.

Lush, lush, the grasses on the plain—
Through the year, their glory withers.
A burning fire can’t exhaust them:
When spring winds blow, they grow again.
Spread far and scented, encroaching the road—
Clear green connecting wastes and cities.
Farewell again, descendent of kings:
Luxuriance fills this feeling of parting.

赋得古原草送别
离离原上草，
一岁一枯荣。
野火烧不尽，
春风吹又生。
远芳侵古道，
晴翠接荒城。
又送王孙去，
萋萋满别情。



Going by the number of novels and dramas with titles taken from its lines, this is a Really Well Known poem. It was written when he was 16 and newly arrived in Chang’an, and made for a splash of a career-starter. Lost in translation: the road is “old” and the descendent of kings (an honorific not necessarily restricted to scions of nobility) is the one departing.

---L.