Larry's Pretty Good Poetry Journal

A broken halberd sunk in sand, the iron not yet rusted:
I rub and scrub and see it’s from a prior dynasty.
If east winds hadn’t blown conveniently for Master Zhou,
Come spring Bronze Sparrow would have locked away the two Qiao sisters.

赤壁
折戟沈沙铁未销，
自将磨洗认前朝。
东风不与周郎便，
铜雀春深锁二乔。

Red Cliff on the south bank of the middle Yangzi was the site of a 208 battle at the end of the Han Dynasty that set the stage for the Three Kingdoms era. Zhao Yu, married to one of the two beautiful Qiao sisters, was a general opposing Cao Cao, who was notorious for keeping a large harem in Bronze Sparrow Terrace. The wind was used to blow fire ships into Cao Cao’s fleet.

(A rare explicit first-person pronoun, huzzah!) (Also, why do all the Three Kingdom poems seem to be by Dus?)

—L.

The birds go flying endlessly,
Mountain on mountain of autumn colors.
Ascending, descending Huazi Ridge—
When will this melancholy end?

    Sun sets, wind rises in the pines;
    Returning home, dew’s dried in the grass.
    With clouds alight, I tread on footprints;
    In green hills, brush off this one’s clothes.

华子冈

飞鸟去不穷，
连山复秋色。
上下华子冈，
惆怅情何极。

    落日松风起，
    还家草露晞。
    云光侵履迹，
    山翠拂人衣。

The orthodox Buddhist reaction to the fading of autumn is melancholy because it’s a reminder that we too shall fade. (This does, yes, also appear all over Japanese court poetry.) Pei literally brushes off a “person’s” clothes, which I read as a humble self-reference.

---L.

New house in a gap of Eldest-Town wall;
Old trees remain, all dying willows.
People to come—what will they have?
Empty sorrow for those of the past.

    Hut’s built beneath an ancient town—
    Time stepped upon the ancient town.
    Wasn’t the ancient town once farmland?
    Of course new people come and go.

孟城坳

新家孟城口，
古木余衰柳。
来者复为谁，
空悲昔人有。

    结庐古城下，
    时登古城上。
    古城非畴昔，
    今人自来往。

The Wangchuan Collection (辋川集) was a collaboration by friends Wang Wei and Pei Di. They are a series of paired poems titled after locations on Wang’s estate, Wangchuan (“wheel-rim river”), in the mountains south of the capital Chang’an. The collection itself and paintings based on the twenty scenes (Wang was at least as well known as a painter as poet) were deeply influential through later centuries. I haven’t been able to find a complete translation—just of Wang’s half, by multiple hands—so I’m doing it myself. In each case, Wang’s poem is first, followed by Pei’s response.

I’m amused at how Pei plays with literal meaning “eldest” of the place-name (孟: mèng) by altering it to “ancient.” That and his down-to-earth response.

---L.

In Xiaoshan Tower at Jinling ferry crossing,
A one-night lodger would of course be anxious.
Tide’s falling, nighttime river in slant moonbeams—
Those two or three small sparks are in Guazhou.

题金陵渡
金陵津渡小山楼，
一宿行人自可愁。
潮落夜江斜月里，
两三星火是瓜州。

Jinling is modern Zhenjiang, a little downstream of Nanjing, and Guazhou is across the Yangzi, on the north bank. Xiaoshan is “small mountain”—I don’t see anything is gained by translating it. That the sparks are small is added to fill out the meter, possibly justified by the literal meaning of spark as “star-flame.”

—L.

The Lady of Guo was granted great imperial favor.
At dawn she rides her horse into the palace gate.
Because she hates cosmetics for sullying her face,
She just lightly brushes her brows before her audience.

集灵台之二
虢国夫人承主恩，
平明骑马入宫门。
却嫌脂粉污颜色，
淡扫蛾眉朝至尊。

Lady of Guo was a title given to one of Yang Yuhuan’s older sisters (her other two sisters were also titled). Apparently avoiding makeup was considered an affectation to mock? Cultural differences somewhat blunt the satire, then, compared to the first part. Lost in translation: the audience is specifically with “his majesty.”

—L.

The moon has marked the trees of the Forbidden Palace—
Your charming eyes see only a roosting heron’s nest.
In the lamplight’s shadow, you pull out your jade hairpin
Then prick away the red flame to save a moth.

赠内人
禁门宫树月痕过，
媚眼惟看宿鹭窠。
斜拔玉钗灯影畔，
剔开红焰救飞蛾。

Usually pronounless poems are easiest read as first person, but given the title and the eyes that feels weird here. Regardless of who it is, they are adjusting the lamp-wick in the last line.

—L

Fresh makeup’s good—descend the scarlet tower:
Spring glory’s locked up tight in a yard of sorrow.
Reaching the central courtyard, I count the flowers.
A dragonfly flies up to my jade hairpin.

春词
新妆宜面下朱楼，
深锁春光一院愁。
行到中庭数花朵，
蜻蜓飞上玉搔头。

So much between the lines in this one. The speaker is a woman in a high-status household, either a mistress/young miss or a serving maid (commentaries are divided here). The sorrow is hers, understood from context and convention as from some disappointment in love, and the counting is an attempt at distracting herself. The dragonfly landing implies being still for some time, lost in thought (or maybe wallowing).

---L.

Tonight the moon’s above Fuzhou—
She gazes in her quarters alone.
From far, I pity our small children
Who don’t know why she longs for Chang’an.
In the soft mist, her hair-bun’s wet;
In the clear light, her jade arm’s cold.
When shall we lean on a thin blind,
With moonlight drying both our tears?

月夜
今夜鄜州月，
闺中只独看。
遥怜小儿女，
未解忆长安。
香雾云鬟湿，
清辉玉臂寒。
双照泪痕干。

Written while imprisoned inside Chang’an during the An Lushan Rebellion, while his family was relatively safe in a small town to the north. Pronouns are omitted, so this can be read as either “she” or “you.” Mistranslations: the mist is literally “fragrant,” and the curtain is “empty” in the sense of being translucent/transparent. Also, “hair-bun” clunks to the floor with a thud: any suggestions? (The name is literally “cloud-chignon,” set in parallel to “jade arm.”)

(Yeah, look, I just wanted both to try another Du Fu and to try another 8-line poem. Don’t overthink it.)

—L.

In the jade tower halfway to heaven, song and dance begin—
Wind brings the harmonious laughter and chatter of palace concubines.
Shadows depart the Moon Hall; I hear the nighttime water clock;
I roll up the crystal curtain, and draw near the Autumn River.

宫词
玉楼天半起笙歌，
风送宫嫔笑语和。
月殿影开闻夜漏，
水晶帘卷近秋河。

The Moon Hall is the palace of Chang’e, goddess of the moon. The Autumn River is the Milky Way, which becomes prominent in the early night sky in autumn. I like the intricate parallels of mundane and celestial details in this.

(I want fan art for this one.)

—L.

The sun in the window screen is slowly dipping to dusk;
In this golden mansion, no one sees my tears.
In the lonely empty courtyard, spring’s about to pass—
Pear blossoms cover the ground, but the door doesn’t open.

春怨
纱窗日落渐黄昏，
金屋无人见泪痕。
寂寞空庭春欲晚，
梨花满地不开门。

The golden mansion suggests an imperial concubine now out of favor, if not outright disgrace. “But” is interpretive, but a contrast seems clearly intended.

—L.