Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

The world in chaos, we left south together—
The times now peaceful, you head north alone.
Here in this foreign land, my hair’s grown white.
Back in our homeland, you will see blue mountains.
The daybreak moon shines through the broken rampart—
There’s many constellations in the pass—
Cold birds and withered grass—and everywhere
The anxious faces of my old companions.

贼平后送人北归
世乱同南去，
时清独北还。
他乡生白发，
旧国见青山。
晓月过残垒，
繁星宿故关。
寒禽与衰草，
处处伴愁颜。



The rebels were followers of An Lushan, and per commentaries this was written after the final defeat of the last remaining organized army in 763. And yes, pacified is literal—the euphemism is not only a modern English thing.

---L.

Old friend, the seas and rivers parted us,
Divided many times by mountains and streams—
We suddenly meet, and think that it’s a dream.
In mutual grief, we ask about the years.
Alone, the cold lamp shines upon the rain—
Deep, the bamboo’s dark with drifting smoke.
And now we have, next morning, such regret—
So toast this parting cup that we both treasure.

云阳馆与韩绅宿别
故人江海别，
几度隔山川。
乍见翻疑梦，
相悲各问年。
孤灯寒照雨，
深竹暗浮烟。
更有明朝恨，
离杯惜共传。



This is almost the same poem as #144, isn’t it. Yunyang was a county in what’s now Jingyang, Shaanxi, somewhat west of the capital. (Yes, Sikong is one of those rare two-character surnames.)

---L.

An old pass—withered grass is everywhere.
Our parting truly is one worthy of sorrow.
Your road heads out beyond the winter clouds—
This person will head back in evening snow.
An orphan, I wandered as a younger man—
After hardships, I came to know you late.
Concealing tears, I face you empty-hearted:
In the wind-blown dust, where and when will it be?

李端公
故关衰草遍，
离别正堪悲。
路出寒云外，
人归暮雪时。
少孤为客早，
多难识君迟。
掩泪空相向，
风尘何处期。

In the Complete Tang Poems, this is attributed to Yan Wei under a different title. The “divided” sense of 公 (which is more commonly read as “public” or a title equivalent to “duke”) has the specific sense of “divided into equal parts” —so as if being split from his other half. If anyone has a way to convey this in English, please tell. Regardless, the context is otherwise of a standard “seeing someone else off” poem (and indeed, the Yan Wei variants are titled “Seeing Off Li Duan”) though conveyed with an intensity that’s rather stronger (almost to the point of being slashy) than typical.

Despite having two actual personal referents, I struggled with the implied pronouns more than usual, and I’m not alone: checking five other translations, both English and modern Chinese, no two agreed on all lines as to who’s being talked about.

---L.

My road leads to the limit of white clouds.
Both springtime and the clear blue stream are long:
That season’s here, for flowers scatter now,
And from afar, the scent of flowing water.
My fence-gate faces toward a mountain path—
In the deep willows, I read of Buddhist halls.
Whenever bright sunlight reflects through the dimness,
Clear radiance illuminates my robes.

阙题
道由白云尽，
春与青溪长。
时有落花至，
远隋流水香。
闲门向山路，
深柳读书堂。
幽映每白日，
清辉照衣裳。

There is some confusion over the poet’s name: my base text has 刘脊虚 Liu Jixu while every other text I’ve checked has 刘眘虚 Liu Shenxu, with a second character that’s rare and easy to misread/typo. Every published translation I’ve checked uses Shenxu except, significantly, Witter Bynner’s—and apparently his version has been perpetuated several places, including on Wikipedia. (I’d correct the article, but my ISP’s IP range has been blocked from editing.)

Then there’s the poem’s title—it really is given as “missing,” as in lost at some point as opposed to just never given a title, the way Li Shangyin did for several poems. Fun fun. (Also, thing I had not realized: the character/word for “title” also means “topic,” which makes me wonder whether the conventional “topic” is the best translation for what’s at the head of a traditional Japanese poem.)

The second line uses 长 (cháng) in its senses of both physically and temporally long. Added in translation: Buddhist, though given the imagery and that the type of hall mentioned is often part of a temple complex, I think it’s a justifiable interpretation.

—L.

River from Chu within the rain of Wei—
A Nanjing bell tolls out the time of sunset—
In heavy mist, the sails are thickly layered—
Through gathering dusk, the birds slowly depart.
Haimen is far, we cannot see it from here.
Trees on the distant bank have nourishment.
We say farewell, our feelings without limit
And collars soaked just like in this fine rain.

赋得暮雨送李胄
楚江微雨里，
建业暮钟时。
漠漠帆来重，
冥冥鸟去迟。
海门深不见，
浦树远含滋。
相送情无限，
沾襟比散丝。

Variant texts give the friend’s name as Li Cao and Li Wei, but under any name we know nothing about the guy. The Chu river is the Yangzi, which flows downstream to the territory of the rival Warring State kingdom of Wei, where it is raining. Haimen (“sea gate”) is at the mouth of the Yangzi, far enough away you wouldn’t expect to see it anyway, so I don’t get the point of that line. The 6th line clunks up as well—the rain does nourish them, but still. Idiom: fine rain is literally “scattered silk,” a reference to a line by Jin Dynasty poet Zhang Xie. The last line is comparing the wetness of their tears to that of the rain, with an implied comparison of clothing to the river’s surface, which is a lot more deft than the previous couple lines.

—L.

The streambed leads up to my thatch of reeds—
The white and pink clouds grow these curtains of creepers—
The bamboo is attractive after fresh rain—
The mountains are lovely in the slanting sun—
Mornings, herons often perch on the fence—
Evenings, autumn flowers frequently scatter—
A servant sweeps the narrow path through the vines …
I once hoped I’d be with a friend of old.

谷口书斋寄杨补阙
泉壑带茅茨，
云霞生薜帷。
竹怜新雨后，
山爱夕阳时。
闲鹭栖常早，
秋花落更迟。
家童扫萝径，
昨与故人期。

Not that he’s naming any names—he’s just sayin’ he’s disappointed. Gukou (“valley mouth”), near where Qian Qi grew up, is at the mouth of Wangchuan valley out of the Zhongnan Mountains—yes, downstream of Wang Wei’s estate, though Qian Qi was one of the next generation of poets. The creepers are not the vines, the first being climbing fig (Ficus pumila) and the other some sort of ground-running vine (commentaries aren’t clear as to what kind).

While I like the imagery, this is one of those poems where the central antithetical couplets feel mechanical rather than organically handled.

---L.

At New Year’s, home thoughts grow more urgent—
Heaven’s bound is tearfully lonely.
Old age has come, I’m still a lodger—
When spring arrives, this guest moves on,
Like apes of the peaks from dawn to dusk.
Together, river willows are scenic.
Already I’m like that Changsha Tutor—
How many years from now will it be?

新年作
乡心新岁切，
天畔独潸然。
老至居人下，
春归在客先。
岭猿同旦暮，
江柳共风烟。
已似长沙傅，
从今又几年。

Written while in exile on a demotional posting waaay south in what’s now Guangdong, thus calling himself a “guest.” Idiom: scenic is literally “wind-mist,” just one of many “wind-X” idioms that mean a scenic landscape. That said, I have no clue what the line about the willows is trying to do as part of this poem. The Changsha Tutor is Jia Yi, who was banished by Han Emperor Wen into exile to a demotional posting as Grand Tutor to the child king of the client kingdom of Changsha, covering what’s now Hunan, until he was recalled four years later.

---L.

I watch my lord in mist and waters broad,
Waving my hand, tears soaking all my clothes—
A flying bird who fades to who knows where.
Blue mountains blankly face the traveling man.
The Yangzi now: a single sail grown distant—
The setting sun: the Five Lakes in the spring.
Who sees me here upon this sandy islet
Together, with white duckweeds, feeling anxious?

饯别王十一南游
望君烟水阔，
挥手泪沾巾。
飞鸟没何处？
青山空向人。
长江一帆远，
落日五湖春。
谁见汀洲上，
相思愁白苹？

The title specifies that this was recited during the farewell dinner, IOW the night before the departure, but the poem describes the departure itself. (Some commentaries claim the “dinner” is actually a farewell toast, but I’m dubious.) Makes one wonder just how many other seeing-off and farewell poems actually are of the actual moment. Eleven is not Wang’s personal name, but indicates he’s the eleventh son of his generation of paternal cousins. Added in translation: traveling, for clarity. The Five Lakes are Lake Tai and neighbors near Suzhou, west of modern Shanghai. Duckweed is a water plant that floats, minimally rooted, which makes it an ideal symbol for a traveler; this particular variety has white flowers.

---L.

Climbing on an Autumn Day to the Temple above the Terrace of Lord Wu for a Distant View, Liu Changqing

An ancient terrace, broken up behind—
An autumn day, gazing at home in my heart.
The men are few who come to this country temple.
Sundered waters are seen through clouds and peaks.
The setting sunbeams slant on the former rampart
As tolls from cold stone bells fill empty woods.
Disheartening, those Southern Dynasty times:
Only the Yangzi’s lasted till today.

秋日登吴公台上寺远眺
古台摇落后，
秋日望乡心。
野寺人来少，
云峰水隔深。
夕阳依旧垒，
寒磬满空林。
惆怅南朝事，
长江独至今。

The terrace is in Yangzhou, Jiangsu, and the lord is Wu Mingche, a general of the southern Chen Dynasty who, like so many high officials during the turbulent Northern & Southern Dynasties period, eventually came to a bad end (in his case, captured by enemies). Liu Changqing is writing about 200 years after his death. Given the “ramparts,” the terrace seems to be some sort of military fortification. Chime-stones were an ancient musical instrument, tuned pieces of rock or jade struck like a xylophone, being used at the temple as their bells.

---L.

He received his command in Ganquan Palace,
Gathered his army, troops from all under heaven—
The morning court prepared the rites of departure—
The peaceful lands and districts greeted them.
Scattered, dispersed, those many thousands of men:
Those who departed didn’t keep their lives …
Officials desire use of the palace stables—
It’s granted to those bestowed with border towns.

塞下曲 之三
奉诏甘泉宫，
总征天下兵。
朝廷备礼出，
郡国豫郊迎。
纷纷几万人，
去者无全生。
臣愿节宫厩，
分以赐边城。

Bopping back to a couple yuefu. This is third of a four-poem set, the first two of which were included in 3TP as #36-37 and I’m translating the other two because curiosity: why didn’t the original editor include them? —nor subsequent editors, even though they supplied additional poems for other partial sequences (see for ex #39-42).

Ganquan (“sweet spring”) was Han Emperor Wu’s resort palace away from Chang’an—a historical fig-leaf necessary for political satire. “All under heaven” is a poetic phrase for “all the empire” (because, of course, there aren’t any real lands ‘under heaven’ outside the empire). It’s just as abrupt in the original, but my reading is that the officials callously sent out all those men to die as part of maneuvering for perks of office.

In conclusion … I don’t have enough knowledge of the cultural/political nuances to judge. It’s not like there aren’t other Confucian critiques of indifferent governance. Maybe because the last couplet is not only disconnected but compact enough the lines are difficult to read? But that doesn’t affect the fourth poem (tomorrow). So, yeah, IDK.

(Source parts 5-6)

---L.