Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

I didn’t know where Xiangji Temple is:
After many li, I entered cloud-peaks.
Past an old tree, a path that has no people.
Deep within the hills, a bell—from where?
Sounds of a spring, a pass between high cliffs,
The face of the sun was cold upon green pines.
Twilight, sky, the margin of a lake—
Peaceful meditation tames desires.

过香积寺
不知香积寺，
数里入云峰。
古木无人径，
深山何处钟。
泉声咽危石，
日色冷青松。
薄暮空潭曲，
安禅制毒龙。



Xiangji (“fragrance-gather”) Temple was a little south of Chang’an, and still exists on the outskirts of Xi’an. Buddhist jargon: desire is literally a “poison dragon” —which is a totes vivid phrase but entirely opaque to English-speaking laity.

---L.

Taiyi near heaven’s capital—
A range linked all the way to the coast.
I turn and gaze as white clouds join,
I cannot see through the blue haze.
Peaks part the separated lands:
Many ravines with skies dark then clear.
I long for refuge, to lodge with people—
Across the water I ask a woodcutter.

终南山
太乙近天都，
连山接海隅。
白云回望合，
青霭入看无。
分野中峰变，
阴晴众壑殊。
欲投人处宿，
隔水问樵夫。

Zhongnan, the range south of Chang’an separating the Wei and Han river watersheds, is where Wang Wei’s Wangchuan Estate was. Taiyi is both the name of the tallest peak visible from the capital and an alternate name for the range. Which, btw, very much does not run all the way to the coast, and I don’t know what’s up with that exaggeration. Line 6 is rather more compacted than usual in the original: the literal characters are “dark clear-sky many ravines different,” which seems to be about how the weather is different from place to place and moment to moment. The water in the last line seems to be a (previously unnoticed) stream.

Overtone lost in translation: 分野 (here “separated lands”) is also an astronomic term, specifically the relationship between a constellation and a region of China. This builds on the heavenly associations set up in the first line.

---L.

(Previously posted, somewhat revised draft reposted for continuity + added commentary)

Empty mountain after fresh rain—
A breeze, and evening comes to autumn—
The bright moon shines between the pines,
The clear spring flows upon the stones.
Noisy bamboo: clothes-washers return;
Stirring lotus: fishers embark.
Naturally, spring flowers rest—
Surely a Son of Kings can stay.

山居秋暝
空山新雨后，
天气晚来秋。
明月松间照，
清泉石上流。
竹喧归浣女，
莲动下渔舟。
随意春芳歇，
王孙自可留。

The “noise” of the bamboo could be either rustling as the washerwomen brush through it or their chatter. Lost in translation: the fishermen are in a “boat.” Said boat may be “going downstream,” “coming back,” or even “disembarking” instead—all are possible senses of 下. The last two lines are an inversion of lines in “Summoning a Recluse” in Songs of Chu, where in the original, the Son of Kings (here an honorific address) is told he can’t remain in the wilderness.

---L.

Long ago I heard of Dongting’s waters,
And now I climb above, in Yueyang Tower.
Here Wu and Chu to east and south were split,
Heaven and earth through day and night here drift.
Of kith and kin, I haven’t heard one word—
Old and ill, I’ve just a single boat.
Arms and horses are north of the mountain passes.
I lean upon the balcony, tears flowing.

登岳阳楼
昔闻洞庭水，
今上岳阳楼。
吴楚东南坼，
乾坤日夜浮。
亲朋无一字，
老病有孤舟。
戎马关山北，
凭轩涕泗流。

Written late in life, probably around 768—the passes are those to the capital district, which was under threat of invasion by Tibetans. Yueyang Tower is a famous three-story gate-tower, part of the wall of Yueyang City, overlooking Lake Dongting, Hunan. The lake was part of the traditional border between the Warring State kingdoms of Wu to the east and Chu to the south.

Okay, unpacking the semantic density that is 乾坤 needs a paragraph of its own. These are the names, respectively, of the sky ☰ and earth ☷ trigrams, representing the warming power of the sun a.k.a. the heavenly/male generative principle, and the fertile power of the earth a.k.a. the earthly/female generative principle—IOW, essentially synonyms of yang and yin, the universal principles that create all existence. This association is so strong that many translations, including into modern Chinese for the benefit of puzzled students, render them as “heaven and earth.” However, comma, 乾 also, thanks to that sun, means dry (it’s an alternate character for 干, which means only dry), and 坤 also means just plain earth. So in addition to “everything,” 乾坤 can also be read as “dry earth,” referring to the banks of the lake, here seeming to float above the waters. So, yeah, density.

The war horses belong to Tibetans, currently threatening Chang’an. Lost in translation: it’s literally tears “and snot” that flow.

And that’s the last Du Fu poem in this section, which gives me a feeling of relief comparable to finishing Song of Lasting Regret—though explaining that involves admitting that every single translation of his poems feels hopelessly inadequate. Like, Ariwara no Narihira levels of inadequate. Well, except “Moonlit Night” (#105), which is more like “merely” Ono no Komachi levels of inadequate.

Onward to Wang Wei, who is also very good, but in an understated sort of way I’m familiar with.

---L.

Passing through, en route to another place,
I halt my horse beside your lonely grave.
Now that I’m near, my tears leave no soil dry.
Hanging down from the sky are broken clouds.
I played go with you, my Premier Xie—
I hold the coveted sword, my King of Xu.
I only see the flowers fall in the woods
And hear the twittering orioles see me off.

别房太尉墓
他乡复行役，
驻马别孤坟。
近泪无乾土，
低空有断云。
对棋陪谢傅，
把剑觅徐君。
唯见林花落，
莺啼送客闻。

Fang Guan, Du Fu’s mentor during his official career, was a general and confidant of Emperor Xuanzong but was dismissed from office by Suzong—vocally supporting him even after that was the proximate cause of Du Fu’s demotion in #108. After the accession of Daizong (see #111), Fang was summoned back to Chang’an for rehabilitation but died en route at Langzhou (now Langzhong in northern Sichuan) in 763, where he was buried. Written in 765 when Du Fu finally visited the grave.

Xie is Xia An, a prime minister of the Eastern Jin Dynasty who was famously so unflappable that when news of a vital victory arrived while he was deep in a game of go, he calmly continued playing. The sword refers to an incident from the Warring States period, where the sword’s owner planned to present it to the king the next time they met only to have the king die before that could happen, so the owner hung it over his grave. I’m guessing at the implied pronouns in the first line of this couplet, but the second is clearly a parallel to the speaker’s situation, and it feels right to make the whole poem about the poet's personal reaction.

Mistranslation: Xie is actually given the title “Tutor”.

---L.

A cold wind rises at the sky’s end.
True gentleman, what do you think?
When will the swans and geese arrive,
And autumn flood the lakes and rivers?
We hate when written words reach us—
Demons enjoy when men pass by.
Share words with that resentful ghost,
Throw poems to him in Miluo River.

天末怀李白
凉风起天末，
君子意如何。
鸿雁几时到，
江湖秋水多。
文章憎命达，
魑魅喜人过。
应共冤魂语，
投诗赠汨罗。

Written in 759 when Li Bai had been exiled to Lake Dongting, Hunan, addressing him not just as “gentleman” but as junzi, the epitome of a scholar-gentleman extolled by Confucius. Wild geese (and sometimes swans as well) are associated with letters from afar, here anticipating a recall—a hope denied with the written words two lines later. 魑 (chi) and 魅 (mei) are two types of hostile mountain demons/spirits, who enjoy visitors because they can eat them; they are often read as representing small-minded people who delight in the downfall of their betters. The resentful ghost is Qu Yuan, who drowned himself in the Miluo River (which flows into Dongting) after his reputation with his king had been trashed by slander (a death commemorated in the Dragon Boat Festival).

---L.

In 757, I Escaped the Capital through Golden Light Gate and Found My Way to Fengxiang; in 758, I Was Transferred from Reminder of the Left to a [Minor] Position in Huazhou; Friends and Family Saw Me Off, and I Left through the Same Gate Thinking Sadly of the Previous Time, Du Fu

By this same road, I once returned to court
Through western outskirts truly thronged with Tartars,
And ever since, my courage has been broken—
My soul might not have all returned to me.
Close courtiers return to the capital,
But “transferred”? How’s this the emperor’s?
Without talent, each day I decline and age.
I halt my horse to gaze upon the palace.

至德二载甫自京金光门出问道归凤翔，乾元初从左拾遗移华州掾，与亲故别因出此门有悲往事
此道昔归顺，
西郊胡正繁。
至今残破胆，
应有未招魂。
近得归京邑，
移官岂至尊。
无才日衰老，
驻马望千门。

This is the demotion for rocking the boat that he was obliquely warned against in #99. Fengxiang was where Emperor Suzong ruled prior to the recapture of Chang’an from rebel forces (which are called “Hu,” even though the occupiers were mostly ethnic Han soldiers, because An Lushan was Turkic-born and all those northern barbarians are the same so we can just interchange their names). Huazhou is about 40 miles east of Chang’an, so this wasn’t a distant exile, but being appointed Commissioner of Education of a local district was a definite demotion. Line 6 is especially compacted even for Du Fu—he’s questioning how this transfer could be the emperor’s own order. Idiom: palace is literally “thousand doors.”

The Gregorian years in the title are in imperial-era form in the original, but life’s too short for trivial footnotes. Some translators invent a shorter title, treating the long text as a preface, and I can’t really blame them. I mean, it’s only a single character shorter than the poem itself.

---L.

States break, mountains and rivers abide.
Spring city, grasses and trees grow deep.
Feeling the times, flowers splash tears—
Hating our parting, birds startle my heart—
Signal fires for the last three months—
Home letters are worth ten-thousand golds.
I scratch my white hairs, getting thinner—
Soon they won’t even hold a hairpin.

春望
国破山河在，
城春草木深。
感时花溅泪，
恨别鸟惊心。
烽火连三月，
家书抵万金。
白头搔更短，
浑欲不胜簪。

Written in early 757 while still captive in Chang’an. Given the context, I do not regret making a deliberate echo of Ecclesiastes, foreign though it is. As it is, Du Fu’s poetic syntax makes it hard to understand whether, for example, the birds startle the speaker’s heart or are themselves startled. Upper-class men wore hair bound up in a topknot beneath a hat or cap fixed with a pin. The first two lines are especially famous, while the last two have haunted me for years.

---L.

Night at Niuzhu on the Yangzi:
Sky dark without a thread of cloud.
Aboard, I gaze on the autumn moon,
Thinking in vain of General Xie—
I too can chant a lofty song,
Though such a man can’t hear it now.
Tomorrow I’ll set sail and sit
While maple leaves scatter, one by one.

夜泊牛渚怀古
牛渚西江夜，
青天无片云；
登舟望秋月，
空忆谢将军。
馀亦能高咏，
斯人不可闻。
明朝挂帆席，
枫叶落纷纷。

Niuzhu (“cow island”) Mountain juts into the Yangzi somewhat upstream of Nanjing, where according to legends Li Bai later drowned while drunkenly trying to catch the moon’s reflection. General Xie is Xie Shang who, while moored here some four centuries prior, heard someone chanting poems in another boat and became that poet’s patron—in other words, Li Bai would love to have a patron too. As a reminder, just as the big overtone of spring is “wanton,” that of autumn is “aging/withering.” Line 5 has another rare-in-poetry first-person pronoun, now archaic. Idiom: one by one/one after the other is the modern Chinese sense of 纷纷, literally “scatter scatter.” Lost in translation: he literally “boards a boat.”

---L.

Blue mountains piled on northern walls,
White water loops the eastern city—
There’s just one way to leave this land:
Ten-thousand li, alone, disheveled.
The drifting clouds, a traveler’s thoughts—
The setting sun, an old friend’s love.
Waving your hand you now depart,
Your team of horses whinnying off.

送友人
青山横北郭，
白水绕东城。
此地一为别，
孤蓬万里征。
浮云游子意，
落日故人情。
挥手自兹去，
萧萧班马鸣。



I have a new strategy for tackling the deceptively simple poems of Li Bai: make my first draft using five-beat lines as smooth as possible, and then revise it to four-beat lines, which forces me to resort to more ambiguity. This is a four-beat revision of a previously posted five-beat draft. (This strategy didn’t work for #101, alas.)

---L.