Reticence And Confession:
The Poetry of Wang Wei and Li Qingzhao
TRANSLATIONS
Matthew Flannery
Wang Wei (699-759)
Wangchuan Collection
The artist painted a long handscroll of his estate, Wangchuan Villa, then added twenty verses to describe its scenes. The villa was located on the Wang River (Wangchuan) in the Lantian district in the Zhongnan range (Southern Mountains) about thirty miles south of the Tang capital, Chang’an.
CONTENTS
Mengcheng Hollow
My new home is near Mengcheng.
Of ancient forests, worn willows remain.
Who will come to live here next?
Will he grieve for men now gone?
Huazi Hill
Flying birds never cease.
Layered mountains redden again.
I pace the crest of Huazi hill
empty sorrow never ends.
The House of Apricot Wood
Line three: clouds seem to be symbolic of the benign influence of one’s fame or good example.
For beams, I chop down apricot wood
knotting sweet thatch, I roof my house.
White clouds quit my rough-hewn rafters
perhaps to water the world of men
Deer Enclosure
Line four: growing where traffic is slight, moss can represent separation, loneliness.
This mountain has no men.
Only voices carry this far.
Deep in the woods slanting sun
shines on jade green moss.
Magnolia Park
Light slides from autumn slopes.
Hurrying birds pursue their flocks.
Jade shadows sometimes brighten.
Colors grow restless on darkening hills.
South Hill
I steer my boat towards South Hill.
North Hill is too far.
Over water, the homes of men.
Who lives there now? Too far to tell.
Brook at the Luans’ House
Blasting wind shakes autumn showers
thinly swirling over the rocks.
Falling so thick, drops splash each other.
An egret flaps up; settles down.
North Hill
North Hill looms beyond the lake.
Below red railings, crowds of trees.
The river, twisting slowly south
gleams sometimes through blue-crowned pines.
Bamboo Grove Hut
Line two: chanting (xiao): a wordless form of free vocalizing, strange, wild, howling. Qin: a zither, signature instrument of the literatus.
Alone, I sit in dark bamboo
chant at length, play my qin.
No one knows this hidden grove —
yet moonlight comes and shines on me.
Xinyi Village
Line 1: hibiscus: a rare meaning for a character that commonly means “lotus.” However, the artist may allude to the third of the “Nine Songs” in Chuci (Songs of Chu, fourth century BCE), whose speaker compares the likelihood of meeting his beloved to finding lotus blossoms in treetops, in which case this line should read (or allude to the idea of) “…lotus bloom.”
On high branches, hibiscus bloom:
petals unfold across the mountain.
Empty valleys fill with silence.
Extravagant, they open. Fall.
Li Qingzhao (1084-1151)
CONTENTS
Tune: “Su Zhong Qing”
Line two: sprig of plum: in a vase.
So drunk last night! Undressing was hard.
Petals still clung to my sprig of plum.
Sober, I woke, spring sleep shattered —
no paths led home through broken dreams.
So quiet now.
The moon floats low.
Kingfisher-feathered, my curtains hang shut.
Again I crush the fallen petals.
Again I catch their lingering scent.
Again I hold one moment in time.
Tune: “Die Nian Hua” Parting Thoughts
Warm rains and clear winds halt winter ice.
Willow-leaf eyes, plum-flower cheeks feel spring’s heart stir.
Who will share my wine and poetry?
Hairpins heavy. Tears runnel fading rouge.
Trying a new jacket threaded with gold
I lie back on pillowed hills
and bend my phoenix headdress.
Thick sorrows, bad dreams, fill my loneliness.
I trim the lamp till the end of night.
Tune: “Huan Qi Sha”
Line one: Day of Cold Food: a spring holiday declared by Wen, Duke of the state of Qin in the seventh century BCE, to memorialize his loyal retainer Jie Zitui. The Duke’s men attempted to force a reluctant Jie back to court service by burning him out of his mountain retreat. He died in the flames. To commemorate this day, food is prepared without fire.
Line four: longest straw: a young girls’ contest to pick the longest blade of grass was called “battling grass.”
Light haze on the Day of Cold Food.
From a jade censer, thin smoke.
Under my pillow, fresh from dreams, hairpins huddle.
Still no swallows. Girls compete for the longest straw.
Willow floss blows. Plum flowers fall.
Daylight yellows. Fine drizzle darkens the swing.
Tune: “Zui Huayin”
Line three: the Double Ninth (or Moon) Festival: held on the ninth day of the ninth month, when the moon is brightest.
Lines six, seven, ten: chrysanthemums, eastern hedge: refer to a line by Tao Qian (365-427; above), the favorite poet of the artist and her husband: “Picking chrysanthemums beneath my eastern hedge….” (“Drinking Song: V”).
Line seven: fragrance: of chrysanthemums.
Fine mist, thick clouds sadden day.
Incense smolders in its golden animal.
The Double Ninth, here already:
through curtains of gauze to my pillow of jade
autumn seeps by midnight.
Drinking at dusk by the eastern hedge
a furtive fragrance fills my sleeves;
yet do not think that life cannot be overwhelming:
when the west wind whips up the hanging curtains
I am more frail than a yellowing chrysanthemum.
Tune: “Zhi Gu Tian”
Line two: wu tong: a deciduous tree.
Line four: Precious Brain: incense.
Line seven: Wang Can’s (177-217; above) “Fu [Prose Poem] On Climbing Upstairs” recounts the loneliness of gazing toward his distant home.
Line nine: as in the previous poem, a reference to the line, “Plucking chrysanthemums beneath my eastern hedge…” in “Drinking Poem: V” by Tao Qian (365-427; above).
Cold sun hisses through the window lattice;
the wu tongs will hate this evening’s freeze.
After last night’s wine, bitter tea is good once more;
fumes of Precious Brain soothe broken dreams.
Autumn done
yet daylight lingers.
Cold, sad, again this Wang Can stares at the distance.
Facing the cup, I follow my fate and drink
not forgetting the chrysanthemum hearts that yellow beneath the eastern hedge.
Tune: “Yi Jian Mei”
Line one: Red Lotus: incense.
Lines five, six: geese and the moon are common metaphors for messengers from distant friends, loved ones. The V-formation of geese resembles the character ren, “person.”
Line nine: the artist’s husband, Zhao Mingcheng (1081-1129), government official and important collector-cataloguer of antiquities, traveled frequently on government business.
Red Lotus: fragrance fading. My jade cool mat.
Parting my gown, gently
I board the orchid boat alone
for no one sends me love notes from the clouds
though flocks of geese return like flying words
and moonlight floods my western hall.
Petals fall. Water flows.
We share one hurt
from two places. Idle moments flood with longing.
How disperse such loneliness?
It falls from my brow
to rise in my heart.
Tune: “Fenghuang Tai Shang Yi Chui Xiao”
Line one: metal lion: a censer.
Line seven: the interruption of thought here was novel (Leon Chang).
Line fourteen: Wuling’s paradise: refers to a lost land in Tao Qian’s (365-427; above) prose-poem (fu) “Peach Blossom Spring.” The artist mourns her husband’s death when traveling on government business. Before and after this, separation from him is the most important topos of her work.
In the metal lion, incense cools.
A red wave, I twist in my quilt.
Too listless to comb my hair, I rise….
Dust deepens on the toilet box.
Sunlight gleams over the curtain hooks.
Fear of parting makes me bitter.
I start to say — then I stop.
I grow thin
but not from drink
or autumn’s sorrow.
Let it go. Let it go.
He went too far this time.
A thousand, ten thousand pleas could not have made him stay
as if he dreamed of Wuling’s paradise.
The mist cuts off my house.
Beyond my door, the river runs.
All day I stare. This river should remember me:
the place I watch
adds, each day, a length of grief.
Tune: “Wuling Chun”
Line three: he: the artist’s husband.
Lines seven, eight: characterizing sorrow as having weight: an innovation (Leon Chang).
The wind stops. Fallen flowers scent the earth.
So late. So listless. My unbrushed hair.
He is gone. His things remain. Useless. Useless.
I try to speak. Tears run down.
They say that spring is still young at Shuangqi:
how I would love to go boating there.
Still, I fear, those tiny boats
could not carry this much sorrow.
Tune: “Shengsheng Man”
Line one to three: these strings of individual words were a new addition to poetic expression (Leon Chang).
Line eight: geese: symbolic of messengers.
Line twelve: literally, “yellow flower drying out”: chrysanthemums; also, a metaphor for failing human health. This translation preserves the ambiguity of this line’s reference to both flower and poet.
Line sixteen: wu tong: a deciduous tree.
Seek. Seek. Search. Search.
Cold. Cold. Void. Void.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain. Grief. Grief….
First a warm spell, then cold weather
ruin sleep.
Several cups of light wine
cannot deflect this evening’s breeze.
Once again, white geese bypass
my unhappiness —
if old companions, who can tell?
The falling petals of yellowing chrysanthemums rise in heaps
now so frail
how can I pick them?
I wait by the window
alone: hours linger till the sky goes black.
On wu tong leaves, fine rain.
At twilight
one drop. Two. Another.
In this life
how full the word for sorrow.
Tune: “Dian Jiang Chu”
Here in the women’s quarters, loneliness grows.
From each inch of weak intestine
a thousand threads of sorrow grow.
Pity spring – it is done.
Dots of rain force the flowers.
High upstairs, from each rail I stare
full of sorrow.
Where is he now?
Where heaven’s dome meets earth’s grass
I no longer watch returning roads.
Tune: “Yong Yu Luo”
Line three: he: the artist’s deceased husband.
Line five: Chinese plums can flower in early spring before snow melt.
Lines seven, fourteen: here, “new year’s day” is that portion of the new year’s celebration termed yuanxiao, the three-day festival of lights. It commences on the fifteenth day, first month.
Line twelve: old capital: in the face of foreign conquest of north China (1125), the artist endured panicked flight from north to south China and from the dynasty of the Northern Song (960-1125) (first stanza) to the Southern Song (1126-1279) (second stanza).
The falling sun was molten metal
evening clouds, gathered jade.
(Where is he now?)
Willows turned the mist light green
a lonely flute played “Plum Blossoms Fall.”
(How much spring can one expect?)
On the joyful feast of new year’s day
already the air was turning mild.
(Will tomorrow bring wind and rain?)
In caparisoned carts, invited guests came and went;
to all my friends in wine and poetry, I gave my thanks.
Those were prosperous days in the old capital
when women enjoyed great leisure behind their inner doors.
I still recall our special love of new year’s
how chic we were in green-feathered headdresses
jewelry woven of silver or gold
competing in our beauty.
But now my skin is burnt and sick
hair in wind-tangles, temples shot white.
Tonight, too tired to celebrate out
lingering behind my curtained window
I listen to others laugh and talk.