Chinese Poetry
250+ Chinese poems from the period 200-1200
TRANSLATIONS
Matthew Flannery
Authors A-Z
Xin Qiji (1140-1207)
Tune: “Pusa Man”
Written on a Wall in Zaokou Village in Jiangxi
Background: a lament over the loss of north China. The artist was a patriot who advocated the reunification of north and south China after the former was occupied by foreign tribes (1125).
Line one: the river: the Yangzi, across which one could often view territory held by the enemy.
Line three: the capital: Kaifeng, in foreign hands.
Line eight: cuckoos: said to cry, “Go home, go home.”
Below Rugu Terrace, the river floods:
how many travelers have wept in its waves?
To the far northwest, the old capital lies
past endless rows of layered hills.
Blue mountain shadows seem like walls
except to the rivers, which flow ever east.
Late on the water. My heart turns sad.
Deep in the mountains, cuckoos call.
Tune: “Juyin tai Jing”
Lines nine, ten: counting flower petals yielded numbers for fortune-telling.
My jewel sails
from Peach Leaf wharf
and yet, since mist and willows cloak the southern shore
why climb a tower to watch him go?
Of ten days, nine have wind and rain.
My heart breaks. Petals fly, red dots.
No one stays who cares.
Who will tell the soaring oriole, cease your song?
Peering at my temple’s flower
I prophesy my love’s return by counting up its petals.
I pin it back. Then count again.
Beyond my bed, the lamp burns low
I mumble in my dreams.
When spring comes, it comes with sorrow.
When spring goes
sorrow stays.
Tune: “Chou Nu Er”
I had not tasted sorrow when young
so I went upstairs
went upstairs
and forced out poems on sorrow.
Today, my knowledge of sorrow is deep
yet I stop before speaking
stop before speaking.
Instead I say the sky is cool, and autumn fine.
Tune: “Qing Yuan”
New Year’s Festival
Title: the lantern festival is a part of a two-week celebration of the new year. Lines five and six contain lantern allusions.
By night, the east wind flowers a thousand trees
lanterns rain like falling stars
prancing steeds pull noble coaches, perfumes scent the roads.
In the winding wail of phoenix flutes
in the turning light of bottled jade
fish and dragons dance all night.
New willow fronds trail like golden threads.
Her perfume fades as talk and laughter swell.
Anxiously I search for her through crowds
turning my head….
There — among the lantern fires.
Tune: “Niannu Jiao.” Climbing to Shangxin Pavilion at Jiankang. Presented to Prefect Shi Zhidao
Title: Jiankang: Nanjing.
Line four: Zhuge Liang (official of the Shu Kingdom, 221-280) once described Nanjing (capital of Wu kingdom, 221-263) and its setting in the Zhong mountains as a “guarding tiger standing among twisting dragons.”
Line eleven: Anshi’s air: that is, Xie An’s (320-385), a high official under the Eastern Jin (317-420), which controlled southern China. One of his major accomplishments was to mastermind repelling a Mongol invasion in 383. His son and nephew led forces; Xie An played chess (lines thirteen, fourteen). Stoic at the great outcome, he commented only, “the children have crushed the invader,” demonstrating the “air of untrammeled remoteness” for which he was famous.
Line thirteen: qin: zither.
Lines sixteen through twenty: an extended allusion to the artist’s patriotism. Abhorring the government’s policy of pacifism, he favored a faction intent on freeing north China from foreign invaders, a situation paralleling Xie An’s. In an old story, a magic mirror that reflected internal organs had great medical value; here, few understand the purity of the artist’s patriotism or sympathize (“offer me … wine”) with his cause. Finally, he foresees a storm of invaders inundating China. In 1279, it did. The Mongols ruled China for ninety years.
I climb up here to ponder ancient men
and yet up endless stairs I find
leisure fills with antique grief.
Once “guarding tiger” mid “twisting dragons,” what is this city now?
Only history’s changing course remains to fill the eye.
Beyond the willows, sunlight turns
birds drift down to river shores
trees sigh on rural roads
a twist of sail ploughs west.
A sound — who plays the flute through frost bamboo?
I think of Anshi’s air of wind and running waves
on Eastern Mountain in his evening years
when once he wept at a qin’s sad tune
once praised his children for their great success
on a long day rapt by chess.
Precious mirrors? Rare these days.
Cerulean clouds drift towards dusk.
Who will offer me yellow-green wine?
At the river’s mouth, the wind is fierce:
high waves will topple homes by dawn.
Xu Hun (degree, 832)
Parting at Xieting
Singing farewell and sad, I loose your leaving boat.
Leaves red. Hills blue. Water fast.
I sober up in the evening sun. My friend is far.
Large sky. Wind and rain shake the house.
Yen Shu (991-1055)
Presented Again
The second poem to be presented. To his close friend Bo Juyi (772-846; above).
Let not your singer Linglong chant my poems:
of those for you, most say goodbye.
Dawn on the river, again we part.
Descending moon. Rising tide. Farewell.
On Hearing that Luotian was Appointed Prefect of Jiangzhou
Title: Luotian: Bo Juyi.
Line two: exile and demotion to prefect of Zhujiang (Jiangzhou), Hubei.
My waning lamp shakes swelling shadows.
Tonight comes news of your Zhujiang demotion.
Though deeply ill, I sit up shocked.
Hard rain through my window. Dark wind.
Yuan Zhen (779-831)
Tune: “Mulan Hua”
Line three: fifth watch: four to six AM.
Grass is fragrant, willows green; in roadside pavilions
how quickly youth discards a man.
Fifth watch. Dreams dissolve beyond my house.
Beneath the flowers, loneliness floods the end of spring.
Strong emotions make me bitter. Better have none:
an inch of feeling yields a thousand threads of sorrow.
Sky’s dome and earth’s edge have their limits.
Only yearnings have no end.
Zhang Jie (Thirteenth Century)
Tune: “Yu Meiren”
High in her room in my youth, I listened to rain.
Shaking bedscreens blurred red candles.
Traveling by boat in my prime, I listened to rain.
The river yawned wide beneath low clouds
a flockless goose cried through the autumn wind.
Today in the house of a monk, I listen to rain.
Already, my temples glitter with stars.
Sadness and joy, solitude and friends, arrive without reason.
On the steps out front, it drips till early light.
Zhang Jiuling (673-740)
Tune: “Yu Meiren”
High in her room in my youth, I listened to rain.
Shaking bedscreens blurred red candles.
Traveling by boat in my prime, I listened to rain.
The river yawned wide beneath low clouds
a flockless goose cried through the autumn wind.
Today in the house of a monk, I listen to rain.
Already, my temples glitter with stars.
Sadness and joy, solitude and friends, arrive without reason.
On the steps out front, it drips till early light.
Zhen Tao (c. 850)
Poem of Longxi
Line two: silk and mink insignia: designate military rank.
Solemnly sworn to slaughter our Xiongnu foe
by thousands, silk and mink insignia bite barbarian dust.
Pity the bones in the sands of the Wuding river.
In bedchamber dreams of spring back home, they still are men.
Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121)
Tune: “Die Lian Hua”
In late spring, looking for flowers, I push back leaves
rip soft twigs
dew-pearled hands.
Friendless, I walk this ancient empty place
where flowers carry endless pain.
I lean on a fence. Willow floss blows.
A powdered butterfly
caps my pin.
If people were lovely as butterfly wings
would spring still throw us away?
Tune: “Shao Nian You”
Background: the artist was visiting a courtesan when the future Song Huizong (Song emperor Hui, r. 1101-1125) arrived to do likewise. The artist, hiding under the bed, recorded their meeting in this poem. This was impolitic. The poem got out, the artist was exiled. On the intercession of the courtesan, he was recalled … and given a government post.
Line two: oranges were served with salt.
Line five: an animiform incense burner.
Line six: sheng: an instrument of bundled wooden pipes.
Line eight: third watch: 10 PM-12 AM.
Her Bing knife water bright
Wu salt snow white
tapered fingers peel an orange.
Silk drapes nearly warm
animal puffing endless scent
seated, she blows on the pipes of the sheng.
Speaking low, she tells him, stay —
third watch already. Out in the city
horses slip. Frost, pretty bad.
Better not go.
Really. Tonight, hardly anyone’s out.
Tune: “Yu Luo Chun”
Line one: Peach Stream: refers to a story of Liu and Yuan, who discovered a hidden paradise while picking medicinal herbs. Returning home, seven generations had passed. Lonely, they regretted their loss — or discovery — of utopia, but were unable to find the return route.
Those Peach Stream days — hard to get back:
like lotus roots in autumn, returning paths are cut.
Back then, we dallied by red-railed bridges
today, I stare down yellow-leaved roads.
The blues of layered mountains rise from swelling mists.
Beyond the backs of soaring geese, dusk is deep in flames.
Like clouds in the river, I am driven by wind.
My feelings — like floss in the mud after rain.
Tune: “Si Mo Zhe”
Line one: Deep Fragrance: incense.
Deep Fragrance dries
summer damp.
Large and small, birds greet day
invading dawn, they call my curtain.
On the highest leaves, last night’s rain dried early.
Out on the water, round and clear
by turns in the wind, lotus open.
The town of my birth, far away.
Will I ever go back
to my old door in Wu?
Too long in Changan —
for months, no thought of childhood’s fishermen.
From my tiny boat with its little oars
dreams drift down to lily pond water.
Zhu Dongru (1080-1175)
Tune: “Jian Zi Mu Lan Hua”
Background: the artist was noted for her independence.
No one wants me
though my love runs deep:
I nurture it with tenderness.
I always refuse to follow others. I walk alone. Myself.
Mid vast reaches of heaven and earth
I sit on a lonely thorn.
Still, deep feelings have not left me:
clutching the void, I sleep till tears at dawn.