The Vertical Harp
Mike Johnson
The Vertical Harp
selected poems of Li He
by the same author
Poetry
The Palanquin Ropes. Voice Press, Wellington. 1983.
From a Woman in Mt Eden Prison & Drawing Lessons. Hard Echo Press, Auckland. 1984.
Standing Wave. Hard Echo Press, Auckland. 1985.
Treasure Hunt. Auckland University Press. 1996.
Novellas
Foreigners. Penguin Books, NZ Ltd. 1991.
Novels
Lear: The Shakespeare Company Plays Lear at Babylon. Hard Echo Press, Auckland. 1986.
Antibody Positive. Hard Echo Press, Auckland. 1987.
Lethal Dose. Hard Echo Press. 1991.
Dumb Show. Longacre Press. 1996.
Counterpart. Harper Collins. 2001.
Stench. Hazard press. 2004.
Titus Books
For Rowan Johnson, who showed me what was needed.
ISBN: 09-582586-6-X
©M.Johnson 2006
All rights reserved
Published in New Zealand by Titus Books
PO Box 102, Waimauku, Auckland
http://titus.books.online.fr
add credits for CNZ
Michael Arnold for assistance
calligraphers
Brett Cross for layout
“Tang poetry burns with intensity. The moment in which the poem is born is one of the most vital instants in man’s
headlong plunge towards death. He must fix his eyes upon the instant and pour his feelings into it. The emotion must
cohere, it must jet forth, it must explode.”
— Yoshikawa Kojiro
Translator’s Preface
These poems are re-creations from English sources of the
work of one of the most remarkable poets to appear on the world
stage – the medieval Chinese poet Li He (790-816).
As secondary translations they necessarily take a step further
from the original Chinese than translations directly from that
language. Those readers whose interest is sparked, and who wish to
read further, should refer to my sources as listed in the bibliography.
Those readers of English in search of what Li He ‘really’ wrote will
not find it easy, for existing translations vary widely in tone, mood,
language, interpretation and even the meaning of some of the poems.
Our only recourse, I’m afraid, would be to learn Chinese.
Li He’s poems have the density of Emily Dickinson, the searing
sarcasm of Bob Dylan, the sensitivity of John Keats, the decadence
of Baudelaire and the hermetic mysticism of W.B Yeats – and yet can
be defined by none of these comparisons.
The aim of this volume is to bring Li He’s poems to life in
contemporary English. So far Li He has been translated primarily for
scholarly purposes, and brief selections for anthologies; this volume
aims to bring a significant selection of his work to the wider poetry
reading public.
Most translations of Li He are burdened down with footnotes and
explanations. This problem has its source partly in the nature of Li He’s
work, which is densely textured and rich in allusions. Virtually every line
he wrote is saturated with historical, mythological a four line stanza
looks right, and there are times when Li He’s packed couplets fit more
comfortably into three lines of English.
Taking the aesthetic of the couplet a step further, which is
what Li He did, I have abandoned the ‘capital letters and full stops’ in
order to allow the paired lines to float more freely, and greater play to
the more open-ended nature of their grammatical relationships.
I have divided the poems into categories according to the
different aspects of Li He’s poetry (poet of protest, poet of the
palace, poet of the occult, poet of nature, poet of war) in order to
make them more accessible to the reader and give some sense of the
range and scope of Li He’s work, although the division of the poems
into these categories is inevitably somewhat arbitrary.
The Chinese collection of Li He’s poetry, put together in 1760,
gives no clue as to the order in which they were written, but the way in
which I have ordered them is loosely suggestive of some chronology.
There is no concrete evidence that the poems of social protest were
written before the palace poems, or even that the war poems were
written at the northern front, but there is a suggestive evolution of
style and the hint of a life narrative. The outraged idealism and manic
fears of the protest section gives way to the melancholic speculation
and sensory indulgence of the palace section, which in turn gives
way to a deeper exploration of the netherworld in the occult poems
and the evocations of nature in that section. Finally the elaborations
of the palace style give way to the barer, stripped down, harsher war
poems. Translator J.D. Frodsham has suggested that the final poem in
the last section, frontier hangover, is the last poem Li He wrote.
Constructing these poems was a co-creative endeavour, working
with previous translations and commentaries, and the powerful spirit
of Li He himself as evident in his words, to produce something fresh
and new. These poems are partly mine and mostly his. This was one of
the most pleasurable writing experiences of my life. I am envious of
the reader who might never have heard of Li He and is encountering
him for the first time. Here is an eerie and luminous world full of
surprises. Enjoy it.
M. J.
10
Li He – the demon talented. An introduction.
It is surely one of the strangest literary fates in history; to
live a mere twenty-six years, know brief fame yet leave behind not
much more than a slim volume of poems; to be forgotten for eleven
hundred years and be finally rediscovered and reinstated mainly by
cultures far beyond any borders the poet, however brilliant, could
have conceived.
In China, Li He has until recently been looked upon as
an oddity, a poet so different, dense and downright weird as to be
beyond the pale. Li He was dubbed the ‘demon talented,’ as some of
his netherworld poems seem to emanate from the spirit world itself.
Li He’s work did not appear in the Chinese compilations of the 19th
and early 20th centuries, and therefore early translators into English
such as Arthur Waley did not have access to him. Around the mid20th century, as translations began to trickle through, Li He started to
get noticed by anthology editors, and by now there have been several
doctoral dissertations, a complete translation by J.D. Frodshsam, and
quite a thriving Li He literary industry in Japan.
One of his translators, David Young (see Bibliography)
suggests that the very un-Chinese aspects of Li He’s work give it an
appeal in the West – its suddenness and explosiveness, its awareness
of the supernatural, its compactness and surrealism, its cinematic
intensity. And add to that list a tendency to finish poems with abrupt
or off-beat endings. These aspects make Li He’s poetry not just closer
to the West but closer to modernity. Even postmodernity.
Li He lived a short, unhappy life during the last brief flowering
of the Tang dynasty that took place under the young, intelligent
Emperor, Xian Zong (regnet 806-824). The glory days of the Tang
dynasty were over. Rebellion and civil war had put an end to the Tang
dream, and the towering poets of the era, Li Bo and Du Fu, were dead.
The dynasty had been restored, but uneasily, with rebellious military
governors within and enemies at the gate. The western capital, the
mighty Chang-an, was, with a million people, still the greatest city
in the world, rivaled only by Haroun El Rashid’s Baghdad; but with
the increasing use of ships to carry cargo, fostering the growth of
the coastal cities, and the growing strength of the Tibetan Empire,
the writing was on the wall for the Silk Road whose commerce had
made Chang-an great.
It was an age of anxiety, a particular form of angst familiar
to those who have seen the 20th century, marked by a collapse
of certainties and forebodings of disaster. Three religions,
Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism vied for popular support
while the older, folk-Taoist and magical traditions were still alive.
New religions such as Islam and Zoroastrianism were starting to
impact. In the early 9th century Chinese culture was very open to
outside influences and very insecure.
Li He was born into an obscure, poor branch of the Imperial
family in a small provincial village called Chang-gu in Henan province.
Little is known about his life, and none of his prose essays, which
might have given an insight into his opinions, have survived. His
father, Jin Su, a low-level magistrate, died when Li He was young and
11
the hopes of the family centered on him, the eldest. In 810 Li He went
to the capital, Chang-an, to take the jin shi, or doctorate examination,
with every hope of success, for he had already proved himself an
outstanding scholar and had gained early fame for his poems and songs.
Only by passing this examination could anybody in his position hope
to attain high office and monetary reward. In a dramatic last minute
move, however, his application to sit the examination was refused on
petty, bureaucratic grounds. It was claimed he was in breach of the
‘homophone taboo’ because his father’s name, Jin was the same as the
jin in the jin shi examination.
This absurd ruling made Li He a cause célèbre for a season. His
mentor, the famous Confucian scholar and poet, Han Yu, took on the
establishment over the matter to no avail. Li He’s hopes were shattered,
his health collapsed and his hair turned white overnight. It appears that,
by the age of twenty, the poet had already made enough of an impact to
earn powerful enemies. Some historians, however, have assumed that the
real target of the ruling was not Li He himself but his more influential
friends and mentors who would be shamed along with him.
Yet, Li He wrote bitter attacks on the ascendancy of the eunuchs
at court, and on the Emperor’s dangerous indulgence in elixirs of life,
immortality drugs consisting mainly of heavy metals such as mercury,
fed to him by sinister Taoist priests. Such poems would not have won
him too many friends in high places. Interestingly, these attacks on the
illusion of immortality lead Li He to his great theme, the mutability
and contingent nature of all things.
12
Although he did eventually gain a very minor post in the
capital, he was never permitted to sit the jin shi, his health never fully
recovered, and in 814 he left Chang-an to head for the northern
front where imperial troops were battling with a powerful warlord.
He left behind the palace crowd he so envied and despised - and all
his hopes for social advancement. He died in 816 after taking ill at
the front. Frodsham puts forward some strong arguments for Li He
having died of TB; others have suggested that he could just as well
have died from alcoholic indulgence and dissipation.
Frustrated in his ambitions, it seems that Li He took increasing
solace in writing songs and poetry, and evolved a singular method
of composition. This is how it is described in the New Tang History
written 250 years after his death. “Li He was frail and thin with
eyebrows that met together and long fingernails. He wrote at great
speed. Everyday at dawn he would leave the house riding a donkey,
followed by a servant boy who bore an antique tapestry bag on his
back. When inspiration struck him, He would write the verses down
and drop them in the bag…At nightfall he would go home and
work these verses into finished poems. If he was not blind drunk
or in mourning every day was spent like this. Once he had written
a poem he did not greatly care what became of it. His mother used
to have her maid rummage through the bag and once, when she saw
how much he’d written, she cried out, ‘This boy of mine won’t be
content until he has vomited up his heart.’”
There is a touch of myth making in this portrait.
precision and care with which the poems are constructed seems
somewhat at variance with this picture of a wild, natural genius. This
account of his death by the poet Li Shangyin (812 –858) contains
more than a touch of myth making.
‘When Chang-ji [Li He] was at death’s door, suddenly, in broad
daylight, he saw a man in purple robes driving a red dragon and
carrying a tablet with characters on it like ancient script…who said,
“I am here to summon Chang-ji.…”
‘He could not read the inscription. He at once got out of his
bed and kowtowed saying, “Mamma is old and ill. I don’t want to
leave her.”
‘The man in purple robes said with a smile, “The Emperor
of Heaven has just built the White Jade Tower and summons you
to come at once to write a description of it. Life up in Heaven is
delightful; there is no hardship there.”
‘Chang-ji only wept more. All those attending witnessed this.
In a little while He drew his last breath. From the window, where he
used to sit, a mist rose into the air and sounds of flutes and carriages
were heard.’
As for the qualities of his poems, that is for the pleasure of
the reader to discover. There are elusive qualities here that defy prose
description, which is what great poetry does. Here’s how Tu Mu,
another 9th Century poet, tries to crack the Li He enigma. “Clouds
and mist, mingling softly, cannot describe his manner; endless
stretches of water cannot describe his feelings, the green of spring
cannot describe his warmth; the clarity of autumn cannot describe
his style; a mast in the wind, a horse in battle, cannot describe his
courage; earthenware coffins and engraved tripods cannot
describe his antiquity; flowers in season and beautiful women
cannot describe his intensity; fallen kingdoms and ruined
palaces, withered grasses and grave mounds cannot describe
his resentment and sorrow; whales yawning, turtles dancing, ox
ghosts and snake spirits cannot describe his unreality, wildness,
extravagance and illusion.”
13
beyond the gate
Roll up the mats from my eastern bed–
another tumbleweed hears the cry of the wind
while the mellow season paints the sky white
moon-wash haunts the highway
beyond the garden gate
Poet of Protest
singing the blues on Mt Hua
開愁歌
autumn winds patrol the earth desiccating everything in sight indigo flowers light the steep slopes
in the snap and chill of twilight
here I am, barely twenty, hopes turned to dust
I’m all sadness and grief, an orchid under a death sentence
clothes ragged feathers, horse a skinny dog at the crossroads I smash rocks with my sword
to make the bronze bellow
at the first tavern with its banners flying, I pawn my coat
for a jar of hometown wine
deep inside the jar, I remonstrate with Heaven no clouds unfold
singing the blues on Mt Hua
the pale day turns into a thousand miles
cold as clay, befuddling the eye
the barman counsels me to take care of flesh and spirit
and not let a crowd of snivelling fools
beat me to pulp
17
the old jade gatherer
curly beard
the eunuch general
long songs, short songs
seek out jade! hunt the jewels!
only the purest river greenstone
not a glistening pearl to be found in once rich He-pu county no more lush orange orchards in Henan, cash cows
for the descendants of prudent men evidently, the prodigious powers of Earth alone
can never satisfy official avarice
muck and dust tossed from barbarian cavalry
a city of spears raised in the north
long songs split my coat at the chest
short songs razed my speckled hair to stubble
god himself instructed these tough nomads in the arts of war
the dawn sky is packed with bleeding clouds
the heroes of our time are nowhere to be found
dawn to dusk, raging fevers have me shake-shaking
the great looms of Yue had barely begun to turn
to the quick strong arms of the women, the finest silkworms
hardly started their sticky dance
when who should come riding along on his gilded pony
but some official with curly beard and beady eye
bearing a tax notice;
“If not for the magistrate’s fury, I certainly wouldn’t
be favouring your house with my presence”
yet a girly half-man leads our brave troops
a scented scarf in her quiver
thirsty, I scoff wine from the jug
hungry, I tear raw millet from the top of the dike
no trace of shame for the weighty gold seal of rank
upon her breast, sauntering along, bow-case bumping her hip
chill and drear, the moon keeps turning
until a thousand miles go green
salt-of-the-earth old men at the edge of a village
run their fingers across spear and arrow-point
and shake their heads
she uses the swiftest horses to spread her glory far and wide powder and eye-shadow! what war paint is this!
infinite peaks by night, each sharply etched
the bright moon shoots between the crags
for these jangle-bangles which shake as she walks,
the latest hair-dos – to please lecherous eyes
seeing this starved, shivering old man, dragons must weep foul and impure are the vaporous waters of Indigo River
night, sitting on a drizzly hill, crying, he scoffs hazelnuts,
emperor’s blood dribbles from the cuckoo’s mouth
gorged with human flesh are these river waters men and woman dead for an age still weep with revulsion
at the sight of this filthy flood
a cypress wind cuts across steep slopes, rain whistles,
on a mouldy green work rope he twists back and forth
probing the banks
fearful for his family in their straw hut back in poor-town
he watches, helpless, the heartbreak weed
on the stone steps of prehistoric hillsides
18
Yue’s wife bows low to the small-time big-shot;
“The mulberry sprouts are yet but young only when the spring blossoms have faded
will the silk wheels spin, and how they will spin then!”
while Yue’s wife makes her apologies and promises
her sister-in-law prepares sweet millet
I give chase to the moon among dark rocks
before it breaks loose beyond far peaks
now I have lost my heavenly toy, no more frolicking
and my hair’s bleached white before the song is done
after gorging himself, the official kicks the plates around
and sends his boys in to turn the place over
19
tango of the feather duster and the fly swat
virgin voices float up to heaven
lazy clouds go sliding over the sky, yet
beyond the gates, where vehicles now swarm,
phosphorescent green moss will soon enough thrive
this cup filled to the brim with superior wine
will take you on an endless voyage, a million years
to the end of time and back
you’re better off than the Emperor in his sky tower
looking east on crisp transparent mornings
sucking cocktails of dew and drugs of immortality
hauling your bare arse, year in year out
over flinty ground
inscribed on your back the eight trigrams
declaring you immortal!
oh, your cunning scales, your obstinate armour
all slimy with fish drool!
sing it loud and strong
1
In deep time, this gentle south wind
has levelled mountains
the water goddess displaced oceans across continents
when the Queen Mother’s peach trees, which show themselves
every six thousand years, have shed a thousand returns
where will our celebrated immortals and wizards be?
2
my piebald’s raven mane is mottled with coin shapes
spring willows savour dawn’s pale mists
I have to ask, before blood and spirit congealed
who was I?
So! by eating cinnabar you can turn into
a serpent surfing white mists, eh?
3
friend, no point in getting drunk and roaring laments in this world, few heroes find their true master
there you go, snake or turtle,
20
the dancing girl’s hair is too thin and brittle
to take the comb in a flash, autumn eyebrows shed their green
why get wasted at twenty in the rat race
for the privilege of making someone else rich?
the lute girl entices me with a golden goblet
imagine! the sun standing forever tall in the east
shedding light, never to sky-tumble
or a turtle, captured for a thousand years
in a well of still jade
4
at the famous water-clock, the jade toad
captures time’s drops
and his mouth is choked to overflowing
I’d butter up the boss with embroidered silk memorials
and scatter libations of wine on his grave
if I thought it would do any bloody good
21
heartsick
song of the w ilds
stay at home today, pilgrim
voice strangled up, I ape the southern dirges
bone sick, ache of solitude and cloth-prickly darkness
1
duck-feather tailed arrow
bow of the finest mountain mulberry
may, with true aim, bring down the canny goose
the heavens fake it, pull faces,
earth clenches its shadowy secrets
see this spectre of autumn, white hair sprouting
a bent tree, leaves howling in driven rain
lamp flame turns blue, orchid-scented oil sucked dry
around its fragile aura cumbersome moths stagger
crumbling walls, dust as thick as lacquer a drifting spirit murmurs through a dream
in my old and tatty linen all gray and stained
I front the bitter north wind
drunk by dusk
I pass through the fields, singing
rather Heaven took fright they’d both
be gulped down –
need further proof ? here’s a man raging at the wall
while carving his questions to Heaven
the nine-headed beast will suck at your spirit
deep winter crisp your bones to snapping
hounds unleashed, mouths agape, will hunt you down
and lick the smell of the virtuous off their paws
only now does Heaven’s chariot arrive
star-jewelled sword and yoke of pure gold
2
poor of purse may be rich of heart
some prosper, others starve, why blame the spirits?
I set my horse to speed but there’s no return road monstrous waves rear on Lake Mirage
where even heroes drown
here’s a winter wind seeding spring willows
holocaust branches suddenly clothed in bright green mist
rattling their metal armour, killer dragons gawk at me
griffins and the gibbering dead drool from ravenous jaws
this hermit wasted a lifetime snoozing in the grass
that disciple, aged only twenty-nine, had hair iced with white
did the hermit lack strength of heart
or the disciple betray Heaven?
22
23
autumn on its way
restless farewell
this plane tree wind gives my heart a belt
the bravest lose faith sometimes
1
I shake the dust of Palace City from my heels
as spring flares on the jagged peaks of the southern hills
lamplight weakens, the cold cricket cries
reels in the winter’s silk
curfew drums have drifted over the rim of the world
cold comfort to this spinning tumbleweed
who’s going to read these painted strips of green bamboo
or hold back moth and silverfish from crunching it all
to a powdery void?
facing desperate thoughts, I straighten my knotted guts from the chill rain a fragrant ghost of a dead girl shall appear
to be my solace
in a leaf-strewn graveyard, the unquiet dead chant dirges a thousand years under the earth and my rancorous blood
will have turned to jade
the arrogant poet of Han resorted to bitchy verses
the children of the truth-tellers have no rice
a letter from home: what news? what news?
‘stony fields are clouds of purple brambles…’
2
in Palace City, food is dearer than jade
firewood more precious than cassia
halberds jostle before the gates of get-rich officials
each according to his pecking-order
within their walled-in gloom, hearths are glowing
their fancy nags prance and paw from daylight to dinner
winter and spring they dabble in polo and hunting
their elegant coaches clatter ostentatiously by
they dangle golden bells from green nets
24
spiralling in pink-tinged clouds around pellucid stone pools
loosened strings of cash flow through their fingers
think nothing of buying ice to spook summer flies!
4
off I go, down the eastern road
a ritual goblet for the leave taking
they spread oversized quilts for guests with swords
who recline in stuffed-cushion carriages
the heroes of Han have vanished from the provinces
who can clean the years from their long swords?
3
as for me, I’m just cipher, a nothing, dead ash heart
where wild autumn thorns run rampant
judges of fine horses cower in their graves
while thoroughbreds plod behind the cart horse
our exalted imperial rule extends even to the four seas
and all our fine citizens are upright and honourable men!
friends! you two are the cream of your age,
philosophers of the Great Way, you can tell
a clean stream from a muddy one
yet a dense shroud occludes this dazzling virtue
the seals of rank on their wrists mere tortoise and silver
I sought to bray forth ritual songs
in a cadence fresh and new
after tonight, no more of your mocking banter, I’m afraid,
to comfort winter nights in my family courtyard
bamboo springing up on all sides
spacing out ten thousand years for the Imperial Way
to soar on spirit wings
dawn wind strikes from wherever it may
the autumn moon hangs forever in the east
for names to match their appearance, and ripen,
heaven spill from an upturned bowl now, like a dog in the darkness of its own box
I gnaw on my tongue
cry thick crimson tears and hold my peace
dislocated from the age, a stranger to my time
my brush stokes cool these lines, dedicating them to you
and, since farewells douse my delicate chest with tears
on hand is my home-made kerchief of the finest fabric!
25
Poet of the Palace
the King of Qin in his cups
秦王飲酒
astride his tiger, the King of Qin patrols
the edges of the universe, the eight compass points
his flashing sword turns the heavens blue charioteers of the sun, whipping along
with the sound of singing glass
from crimson sea-silk, woven by shark people
a distant cool scent
girls in yellow make-up mock their own reeling goose dance
pledge a thousand years for every cup of wine
candlesticks from the netherworld lift a bright, waxy smoke the palace beauty, Blue Zither, gives way to maudlin tears
the ashes of eons are scattered
rebellion over, history is reconciled with itself
his dragon-mouthed jug pours plenty
enough to bring down the Wine Star
gold-fretted lutes charm the night away like raindrops on water, the rush of pan pipes
he abuses the moon in a wine-flushed voice
commanding her to reverse
the king of Qin in his cups
beneath tiers of silver cloud, the jasper hall shines
guards strike the first watch
flutes sound as from the fierce and tender throats of birds
echoing through baroque pavilions
29
time immutable
curfew drums
fading balcony
evening light gutters on the western slopes,
jasper moon a thinning echo of spring
the dawn thrump of drums drives the wheeling sun
dusk summons moonrise
once upon a time
once upon a future time
where’s the end of it all?
Palace City, willows dazzle yellow the new blinds
of the Consort’s apartments the scented bones of Flying Swallow rot under the cypress
mound
1
mounting vacant air, these pools and balustrades
of a hedonistic Prince of Han at night, the waters of the Milky Way deluge them with stars
ten thousand years, blown away
ocean sands mutate to stone fish giggle at the wrecked bridge
a proud Emperor built
to finger the islands of immortality
far off, fairy galaxies drift into nothingness
years corrode the pillars holding up the sky
these drumbeats smash a thousand years of suns, incessantly
white,
but the immortality freaks won’t be hearing them
sure, your mercurial hair snares white river blossom
yet the drums alone stand with South Mountain
shielding the mortal kingdoms
how many immortals are buried in heaven?
the water clock drips, tension…release,
sounds without cease
3
clotted red of hibiscus shifts to fading autumn
flower faces streak with soundless grief departing spring
on the island of reeds returning geese herald renewal
slimy autumn floods glimmer white on ravaged flatlands
skirting the terrace, interlocking jade
forms ranks of armoured dragons
downy green bamboos scrape against the sky
soaked and seeping dew
2
he took wine to the tinkle of musical bells
shot arrows at bags of animal guts strung high
claiming, for the credulous, to wound heaven
and make it bleed
wore fur striped with golden tigers
braided with ejaculated blood
from twilight to twilight to twilight he mourned
the giddy orbit of the oceans
lassoed the sun with a long throw
to tether the pleasures of youth
30
31
more wine!
1
goblets of shot translucence
amber, dark and rich
from the lip of the wine jug crimson pearls
dribble
boiled dragon and roasted phoenix
weep jade fat
gauze silk screens and patterned drapes
herd alluring draughts.
2
blast, dragon flutes!
thunder, alligator drums!
glisten, singing white teeth!
whirl, slender waists!
follow my lead, stay stoned
all the days of your life!
no wine can soak the earth
to reach the drunkard’s grave
stone city morning
the moon sinks below the city wall
roosting crows startle, skim over the battlements
incarceration
the moat, blood red, reflects
a palace in spectacular decay
chill scents of dawn flush last night’s wine
across the Milky Way, the constellations raise a parting glass
wind-seducing leaves
mirror the gestures of palace-girls
willow mist erases shadowy corners
a fancy visitor leaves his card
how many spring darlings seen
from behind drawn curtains
hair whitening to dust?
her green smeared brows contort
spring curtains cling, transparent as cicada wings
ten thousand years of pale days
locked away
gold threaded pillow weightless as crane’s down
coy, secret flower
pussy-willow trembles on the curtain
this spring wind in her heart
no words can tell
more so now, when green spring days
face the dusk
and demented peach flowers spatter the winds red
32
33
away with the darlings
tomb of a singing girl
fifth moon (July)
second moon (April)
southern paths lit with spring willows
cold petals still rimmed with winter’s dew
“I ride a coach with lacquered sides
My love rides a dark, piebald horse
Where shall we bind our hearts as one?
On Western Mound, beneath the pines and cypresses”
(— ascribed to the singing girl, Little Su, 500 AD)
1
curved jade screen blocks the windows
gauze curtains whiten doorways
1
drinking wine down by Mulberry Ford
dandelions flower, an orchid’s blue grin
dawn water spirals in lead-lined wells
paradise ducks and hens adorn ornate fans
a single twitch and they take flight
the spines of the rushes like crossed swords
northern swallows all in a dither, cursing the season
with voices too loud
2
dancers orbit the long cool halls of the palace
with skirts of swirling snow
fragrant sweat soaks the sparkling air
mist curtains the roses with a powdery green haze
this morning, we girls get drunk, pass city walls
wipe mist from mirrors to tart up our eyebrows
in this heavy weather, we shift restlessly about
in groaning carriages
covering our finery with red oilskins
our fancy skirts are perfumed, but not yet with body heat
— the wine rises only sluggishly to our cheeks
covert, dew-crammed orchid
tear-crazed eyes
nothing to string for a love-knot
wispy blooms cannot be cut
grass lawn for high riding pillows
pines for a carriage roof
a wind-embroidered frock
water for the jingle of jade pendants
silk sleeves undulate like spinning tops
sweet dew fills them
upright beads of jewelled grain
2
her piled-up hair, lit with gold clasps
steals the show from evening clouds
pearly skirts swirl and billow to the dancing
a coach of oiled silk waits out the night
come sunset, it’s a send off at the ferry
songs of parting and farewell
cold candle, viridian flame
fitfully gutters its power
black spines of flax grow chill
the light on South Mountain dies
beneath Western Mound
sleety winds shift
34
35
lovely woman combing her hair
1
She’s in a half-waking dream at dawn
in the shadow of cool silk curtains
deft fingers weave old raven dark
push lustrous coils into shape
heart flower lotus
each eyebrow, separated, a perfect crescent moon
dimples like pink enfolded flowers
shining, all blue and black
too sleek for clasp and pin to hold
1
still-born lusts meet a sad, unholy end
yet this woman’s beauty is its own rose
heavy hair, an uncoiling mist, floats around her waist so slender a light wind could take her
wisps of scented hair spill from their chignon
coil onto sandalwood pillows
an impish spring breeze toys with her torpid beauty
setting my body on edge
her song peals through the dew on the grass
apricot blossoms drift across her secret gate
she writes clandestine love letters scattered with cardamoms
titters at the innuendo of the ‘lotus unfolding’
2
at the well, the pulley turns
with a squeal of jade
waking this lotus from her profound sleep
at eighteen, hair so full and rich
her strength gives out trying to arrange it
small mouth rouged cherry red
stencilled brows a lush cassia green
“hey! don’t shut away the purple brocade
don’t open the cage of kingfisher feathers!”
4
finally, the graceful chignon leans just so
with no sag, and
with all the paraphernalia in her vanity box
she puts on her dawn face through bed curtains, incense dwindles in its ivory tubes
juggling a plateful of pearls, she startles southern swallows
heating honey she lures northern bees
she opens the mirror, sees pools of autumn light
adorned with twin phoenixes
in a skirt embroidered with wisps of cloud
she takes a few carefully measured steps
like a wild goose on sand
and herself standing by the ivory bed
loosened hair falling
3
a single coil of perfumed silk light as cloud
floats down
soundless, jade hairclips slide to the floor
36
a single magpie is etched in flight on her lonely mirror
discreet screens are patterned with watercress
without a word she turns away
what can have caught her eye?
as she combs her hair it swells and ripples,
a raven in flight
gold hairpins of insect design ride with it
down the steps she goes
to pluck a sprig of cherry
she’s the iris flower, transparent crystallite
pussy-willow circled by purple shoots
she casts red polka-dot nets to catch fish
strings green gauze between trees to trap birds
she instructs her girls in the finer points of domestic economy
tells a servant boy what medicines she needs
at powdered temples, a slant of jeweled geese adjusts the lamp and broods on her dream of roaming bears
her innards are not screwed up like knotted bamboo, oh no
belly suddenly tight as a strung bow
37
fresh young butterflies are enticed into the wood
this fading rainbow woman pines for her rainbow man
once upon a time, a bird tried to overflow the ocean
by dropping stones in it some hero tried to shift mountains with a shovel
ha!
2
bright embroidered ropes lift away hanging drapes
silk skirt tied short
clumsy as a dancing crane, her heart seesaws
her bones stick out like some old dragon cadaver
mossy green drips into wells
door knockers are rings of white brass
a rabbit track curls, hidden, through white flowers
by the wall, foxes have made their mark
frail blinds woven with tortoise-shell
folding screens of emerald glass are warm
her ivory-coloured bed is built of white cypress
her roll-up mat steeped in river herbs
by dawn curtains, she plays her pan pipes
38
come dusk, maple leaves fall on the wine she’s spilled
the day-lily women call ‘should-have-a-son’
grows in the lanes of the courtesan district
where the sweet gardenias of love hold sway
3
jade screens are rough to the touch
her goose-feather brush is saturated with rich dark ink
with the skill of a Daoist master, she sketches her letter by the two intertwined trees of the Doomed Lovers
she scatters bread for the birds
at cock-crow, stars hang suspended in the willows
ravens cry out, dew shakes from the evening tamarisk
yellow beauty, she enters the courtyard and takes a seat
her retinue of sisters in train
orchid-fragrant candles have shed a last, waxy tear
she uses a grass broom to dust the fancy lattice work
plays old melodies on her mouth organ
while waiting outside the wine-shop
troubles come as thick as the seeds lacquered on her short pendant
slender fingers make the long-stringed lute moan
ducks suspended, asleep around river bends in this cute little pavilion, a gorgeous serving-girl dreams on
by the sign of the Bronze Camel, her official suitor waits
five-horse carriage on hold
she has a mattress stitched with double thread
five braids are plaited into her hooked belt
she snorts rhinoceros horn to buck her fear
drops mercury to control heart-palpitations
flying sweat soaks her brocade quilt
dew from the moist gorge stains her silk nightdress
she spins a bracelet to divine your soul
strums her lute and sings of shifting fates,
she clears the mirror, shy before her own vanity
flees before the perfume of her skin
‘the seventh night is auspicious
your lover wins a post in the heavenly palaces’
fish squirms beneath the jade lotus root
her lover’s hands hold her thighs tight
5
she fed me powdered mica to lighten my body
got me a prescription from a wise old herbalist
at the moment of satiation her brows contract later she sprays a spell of return on his steed’s tail
send the Governor on his way, she says carelessly
even the keeper of the graves cannot seduce me tonight
4
wisps of incense, cassia curtains
a poet conjures the immortal guardian of the tomb languid, the voice from her oriole throat
sent me a blue bird bearing a special amulet
in a bag sewn with thin, scarlet silk thread
to ward off misfortune
curfew bells are tolling as I cross the bridge –
when, at home, my good woman wakes in the moonlight
to find my room empty
she will surely have a good laugh
the three stars tip towards dawn
the jade water clock chokes
39
Poet of the Occult
李憑箜篌引
great master Li Ping plays the vertical harp
1
the finest strung silk, wood smooth and resonant
stretch autumn skies –
3
the snake goddess smelted stones of five colours
to weld the sky
where a demon had punched a hole
clouds congeal, fall away from floating
now stones split wide, heavens shake, startle
and let down rain
consorts of a much-loved Emperor
speckle graveyard bamboo with their pale tears
while the White Girl who sang too well of grief
for the Yellow Emperor’s ear mourns the harp he mangled,
yearns for the missing strings, her lost notes
hear Li Ping fly in a dream to Demon Mountain
to teach the Weird Hag
how primeval fish may skim above the waves
and bony dragons dance
this is Li Ping pounding his harp
in the Middle Kingdom
2
the densest mountain jade shatters
phoenixes screech, lotuses weep chill tears,
perfumed orchids beam
great master Li Ping plays the vertical harp
music with power enough to melt the cold light
before the twelve gates of the city
a mere twenty-three strings may transport
even the bosses of the god sky
43
Journey
how mournful, Graveyard Mountain
ghostly drizzle seeds barren grass
the far sky
1
Heaven’s river turns, one vast sidereal rotation
whirling the stars around
3
with ribbons like the pink streamers of a pale dawn
and skirts of white lotus-root silk
immortal beauties walk the beaches of Blue Island
gathering spring orchids
clouds drift against this silver stream
faking the gurgle of water
they gesture to the charioteer of the sun
whisking his steeds across the eastern sky
low and dim, these twilight trails turn and twist
through the heaving forms of black oaks, ever upward,
and I’m lost
on the moon, the cassia blooms forever
in the courtyard of Jade Palace
continents surge up out of the ocean
old stone mountains shed sea-dust
the vertical moon makes shadows shrink, trees rise,
lances the mountains with the pale illusion of dawn
young goddesses harvest the fragrance
to dangle from their jewelled belts
in the midnight paths of the city, how many of us
just grow old in this wind?
secluded tombs lure us, the newly dead
to raw graves
with the lacquered flicker of fireflies
2
the Princess of Qin married an immortal
now rolls up blinds to let dawn in at the north window just outside a plane tree towers over a blue phoenix
long as plucked goose quills, these pan-pipes
the king’s son plays
calling up dragons to plough mist and plant the magic herb
men call jade grass
up on high
1
moon hare as of old, pounding to powder his elixir of life
and the ice-bound toad
weep the sky blue
cloud palaces arise, half formed
walls aslant with a liquid, mercury gloss
jade wheels crush dew to white globules of light
moon girls shake dragon bells, girdle gems flashing
on paths heavy with cassia scent
2
dusty yellow and pristine water weave tight
beneath the immortal mountains
marking our epoch
a thousand years changing, the steady gallop
of horse-hooves
from the moon, the provinces of the Middle Kingdom
are just nine motes of dust
vast ocean depths a mere spilt cup
44
45
swansong of a bronze immortal.
“In the eighth month of the first year of the Blue Dragon Period, the
Emperor Ming of Wei ordered court officials to go with carts and retrieve
Emperor Wu of Han’s statue of an immortal, which bore a plate to
catch dew, intending to set it up in front of his own throne hall. When the
officials removed the plate, and began to load the statue onto the carts, it
wept copious tears. And I, Li He, of the Imperial House of Tang, have
written this swansong for the bronze immortal as he takes leave of Han.”
1
in Leafy Mound resides this child of Han
at the whim of autumn winds
all night, I hear the cry of a bold horse
come dawn, not a trace or trail
a painted balustrade ruin, with cassia trees
hovering fragrance of decay
in thirty-six palaces, moss blooms emerald earth-flowers
2
here come the officious little toads, a thousand miles
in their grinding carts
they bear me forth from the palace gate
still clinging to the Han moon, to the Emperor,
sloughing pure tears with a gush of cold, liquid lead
3
shrivelling orchids stooping goodbye edge the highway
that once took aim at the once capital of Qin
if heaven could feel, it too would age
plate in hand, find stranded a lonely exile
beneath a pitiless moon
phantom capitals drop far behind
their names all replaced
soundless, the curl of surf
statue of Lady of Cowrie
clink and tinkle of metal bangles
flicked by quicksilver water sprites
even the axe-man of the moon
bent on his eternal task, leans against the unshaken cassia
to catch the music
while the fleet dew drifts damp
over the trembling hare
her sparrow headpiece cocks its adamantine tail
wings folded tight as chainmail
alone in her silent shrine, unmoving, mute
she is banished from the clash and clamour of heaven
a polished silver dish holds the mineral hills stretched arches of crystalline green
long since embalmed
icy purity, time defying the proud simurg trembles at his decayed reflection
her autumn skin can barely sense the rigid cold
of her jade robes
under the vast calm of the void, frozen light transparent
like water like sky
an acid wind from Eastern Pass eats eyes
46
47
high mountain, goddess trails
our Lady of the Orchid Essence
a spread of green jewels lances the sky through the surge of the Milky Way
the creative spirit sprinkles her fragrance
1
from time out of mind this spring has surged
fronds swaying lazily beneath balmy clouds
one who sought to lie with her
tasted something metal and acrid in his dream
pine fragrance and twilight blooms hang suspended
a dying sun lingers over willow breaks
morning sleet, a windswept hillside
spirals of moss eating into stone
sand and stepping stones glow red upright celery spreads wild where water slides
between rocks
her fancy hair-do takes flight
cheeks run with the blended hues of flowers
young and lonely, the bamboo shows a chalky green
hills like eyebrows face her dawn gate
spiralled curls frame her face dark brows over a fragile mouth
orchids, too frail to bear dew
mountain beauty grieves before a hard sky
elements draw back from this slender beauty
butterflies make jagged, graceful shapes in the air
a blue wolf weeps blood
for her dead mate
foxes shake and freeze to death
2
pendants hanging from her girdle waltz as she moves
clipped from the wings of simurgs her veils are laced with silver
3
in secluded chambers, the incense holders go cold
in her hand-mirror, the trapped simurg turns to dust
painted on immemorial stone
a gold-tailed, rainbow dragon
madly gallops the Rain Lord into autumn lakes
riding the damp air, treading the white mist
she returns to her origin
fading harmonies echo across mountain tops
an ancient, whiskery owl morphs into some goblin horror
of the forest –
giggles as emerald fire spurts from her nest
a thousand years, we have not seen
Princess Jade Divine or her like
in bamboo and lilac groves
hoary gibbons wail
find her temple grave, moon-haunted
by the frozen toad and the cassia tree
scarlet petals weep, spiral soundlessly
through soaking mist
orchids and cinnamon ooze rich fragrance
chestnut and lotus root piled high in offering
48
lost in mist, Our Lady encounters Jade Divine riding her skiff, rushing headlong into the Lord of Rivers
occult strings
(a female shaman exorcises demons)
drunk on wine, she blows the heart out of her flute
knots a sash around her gold embroidered skirt
sun slides behind western mountains
hills to the east fade
pacing the heavens, she carps at her white hind
for not going faster,
slicing the water, she whips her scaly mount
whirlwinds whip horses along
they hoof it over clouds
baroque zithers and peasant flutes
play muted, intricate licks her brocade skirt swishes through autumn dust
cassia leaves whirl in an eerie wind
seeds spin down
49
occult strings 2
(the shamaness invites the gods to a sacrificial offering)
she flings the smoking wine onto the ground
clouds flap with bat wings
in the jade brazier, coals flare up
incense booms smoke ring
after smoke ring
farewell to occult strings
oh, some last yellow light, a mere teaspoon
lost in a valley on South Mountain
the Mountain Witch takes her leave
softening into the mist
spirits and demons lurk between being and nothingness
on the cusp –
her face twitches to their passions
spring winds shoot pine seeds
down sheer crags
as with their infinite hosts
they whirl away to the turquoise mountains
she departs alone beneath the scented halls
of her iridescent-green palace
silver sea gods and mountain demons flock to their places paper coins, her offering,
twist and crackle in whistling whirlwinds
white horses and maypoles whirl
into one bedazzlement
on her passion-wood lute, the gold-leafed phoenix writhes
as she mutters and mumbles, face twisting to the harsh sounds
picking note for word, word for note
wrinkling the surface of the river, a soft wind water the texture of rough-spun silk
who is there to steer their boat towards her?
on South Mountain, a cassia tree dies
for want of her touch
descend stars and spirits! come
taste meat!
when mountain ghouls feed
men sweat blood
hems of cloud rouged by its damp petals
food, vanishing before our eyes
50
51
Poet of nature
northern cold
北中寒
of the four quarters of the sky
one glares black, three purple oxide
on the Yellow River, ice floes congeal
death to fish and dragons
tree bark three-feet thick splits across its
grain
carts weighing a ton venture onto the ice
frost on grass, large silver coins inflate,
overlap
the sharpest sword cannot prick the blear,
hazy sky
in the clash and clamour of roaring oceans
great ice floes lift off, smash into one
another
Northern Cold
while in the mountains mute waterfalls
hang, suspended
faint rainbows of white jade
55
cold canyons
white foxes from the netherworld
cry at mountain squalls under the moon
autumn winds scour the sky clean
to a turquoise emptiness
jade mists shimmer on the dark green river
like silver-laced curtains
the Milky Way arches, swells,
flings itself to the far eastern sky
familiar haunts
1
midsummer rice paddies, slender new shoots
like fragile green mist
hills beyond stack up in ridged layers
precarious green crags, toppling forward
dizzying purity of air, no intimations of autumn
cool and spacious, the enchanted wind’s blue drift
fresh bamboo, fragrant with loneliness
each pale joint brushed with turquoise
still, the silence, the icy tingling echo of bells
is like the sound of doom to this sad courtier
bamboo leaves make good our tattered books
from convenient rocks and jetties, drop a baited hook
twisting ivy locks the scarlet, Imperial door-bolt in dragon drapes lurk mountain terrors, troll faces
curling streams deliver water to our door
banana trees slap their papery leaves
the flowering tamarisk spikes this old embroidery
scented quilts await some long fallen lord
the singing-girls’ song turned to wormy dust
dancing silks shredded to clouds
2
sacred land, hacked into swathes of satin
yet local customs still hold true
by the river, a dreaming egret
joins migrating geese
long-haired grasses let down their rich curls in reproach
glowing and sharp are the secret tears of dew
silent, elusive ripples wheel by
scarcely visible, scarcely moving
fragrance charmed paths zigzag upwards
through shimmering canyons of green
where red buds sway, faded and drunk
hammer and pestle fall silent at a funeral
no dark sorcery when the plague breaks loose
slaters and the worm tattoo gnarled willows
cicadas shrill from high, green places
old men with scaly skin practice kindness to others
and children still remember how to blush
dreadlocks of yellow vines weave and droop
purple reeds crisscross slender streams
county judges sit idle
tax collectors steer clear
spiral cliffs and sinuous peaks
one great dragon coil
the same bitter bamboo used to make flutes
sighs for the passing stranger
56
light on the peaks, a gauzy silk collar
this solitary setting sun a balm to the heart
this bubbling spring, a jug of poet’s wine
the eyebrow of the moon, like a dancing girl
the far off sound of a bell, tonk tonk,
echoes the high flying bird, winging homeward
wispy, twilit summits, rosy and black,
thundering falls
a pale moth embalmed in sapphire,
the lightly veiled moon gleams diffuse and sad
its cool light breaks out across river banks
my thoughts, a landscape of forking paths
the fisher boy dips his midnight nets
frost sketched birds rise on abstract wings
57
the pool’s mirror is slick with dragon’s spunk
where hovering fish seed the water with pearly breath
whirlwinds, blasting emerald foxfire
saw me on my way
wind in the plane trees, like lutes with onyx bodies
fireflies, starry envoys to an embroidered city
3
always seeking old things, face screwed up with tears
I scored this severed barb on a battlefield
threaded willows compose scarves of emerald
quivering bamboo makes short, flute sounds
black rock juts from furry green moss
red shoots spark from the cinnabar muck
drifting whirlpools play fast and loose with the sky’s reflection
antique junipers hug the clouds hard
the moon is made mournful by a wreath of heartsick roses
scented thorns pierce the mist
past a hundred wells the wheat stretches, lone and level
once wilderness, now a sprawl of shopping centers
when the restless and fretful days have passed
I could do worse than retire here
insect sounds died, geese moaned sickly,
swamp reeds were drenched in red
58
crooked point crimson splintered
once shafted human flesh
later, on South Street, some sharp kid
tries to trade it for the simple votive baskets
the pious weave to pay homage to fallen warriors
Poet of war
found arrowhead
長平箭頭歌
1
charred lacquer spots, bone ash
cinnabar stains
in this icy murk, old blood has etched
green on bronze
proud white feather and gold-leafed shaft
rotted to nothing
just this thin triangle, blunt wedge
ruined wolf fang
2
I scoured the battle plain, driving two nags
through stony fields, to the base of scrubby ridges
far east of my station
insect sounds died, geese moaned sickly,
swamp reeds were drenched in red
whirlwinds, blasting emerald foxfire
saw me on my way
3
always seeking old things, face screwed up with tears
I scored this severed barb on a battlefield
crooked point crimson splintered
once shafted human flesh
later, on South Street, some sharp kid
tries to trade it for the simple votive baskets
the pious weave to pay homage to fallen warriors
eternal winds, brief daylight, truant stars
banners of cloud, saturated black, were hoisted into the void
found arrowhead
right and left ghouls, the starveling dead
shrieked hunger for their funeral rites
I tipped the last curds from my flask in libation
charred some cuts of lamb over a bit of fire
61
below the border outpost
Starved, bone-cold, waiting in the shadow of the Wall
endless nights on guard, bleached by the shimmering moon
our heroic, memorial blades have lost their glitter
desert winds slice our hair
the hard hills recede to vanishing point
but we spy, far off, the drooping red banners
of our advance guard
the sounds of flutes rise from turquoise tents
a hovering frost saturates dragon flags
come dusk, we scale the walls
fearful eyes cannot pierce the gloom
a dead wind stirs dry tumbleweed
scrawny horses cry from their stalls
go ask the architects of our fate
- how far are we from China’s front gate?
62
look at these wretches, dead of hunger, cold, disease
going home discredited, wrapped in horse skins!
better turn our spears on our own troops
and earn ourselves a true warrior’s grave
At the gates
On the frontier
stacked-black cloud-high banners foam over the walls
the city totters
desolation and ruin to come
the clamour of barbarian horns lures the north wind
moon-driven desert sand clangs silver as water
moonlit chain-mail, like fish scales
opens out with a golden flash
the sky devours the road to the emerald ocean
along the Wall endless metal miles
a chaos of barbarian horns
spikes the dawn with autumn half-tones
white dew drifts, banners drip
frozen bronze sounds the night watch
across the frontier, like garish lipstick
the safflower night thickens
come moonlight, the armour of the approaching barbarian
army
meshes like the scales of a snake their snickering horses denude the green of a sacred grave
our flags hang, glum and scarlet
in retreat to the river
cold drums, deep frost
a deadened sound
now we repay the king
for what he has paid us
in autumn calm, see the Pleiades on fire across far sands the scrubby bush hides terror
north of the enemy camp is surely sky’s end beyond the frontier, the Yellow River rumbles
and roars
swinging our sharp Jade Dragons
we die for him
63
frontier hangover
and scored an orchid still ripe with dew
Notes to poems
1
it’ll take a hard autumn in the warm south
to know the depths of cold here on the northern front
the hedgerows have decayed, the crickets scratch the air
with their weeping shattered and peeling, gargoyle faces fix on me from
weedy, cantilevered roofs
Poet of Protest – Included here are two distinct strands of poetry.
Poems that protest against social conditions, and those that register a more
general feeling of disillusionment, anger and anguish. The style of these
poems, particularly the three that deal with social conditions, song of an old
jade gatherer, curly beard and the eunuch General were influenced by the ‘easy-tounderstand’ school championed by Li He’s mentor Han Yu.
song of an old jade gatherer reveals Li He’s penchant for quirky, offhand
or mysterious endings. David McCraw explores this in his essay, ‘Hanging
by a Thread, Li He’s Deviant Closures.’ (see Bibliography). In this poem Li
He leaves the old jade gatherer hanging by his rope, while the last images
appear to universalize the old man’s situation. McCraw comments that this
ending illustrates, ‘[Li He’s] troubling ambiguity, and his radical suspension
tango of the feather duster and the fly swat begins innocuously enough
as meditation of the mutability of things, and soon turns into a jeering
attack on Xian Zong’s search for bodily immortality. Cinnabar is mercury sulfate, a favourite ingredient in immortality elixirs. Trigrams are the
symbols used for the chapters of the I Ching, the Book of Changes, the
Chinese book of divination.
The manic energy of long songs, short songs is fully matched by the
paranoid fury of stay at home today, pilgrim. This latter poem raises a specter
that was new and frightening in cultural term, that the gods themselves
might be malevolent (Stephen Owen, Anthology of Chinese Literature. See
Bibliography). It was possibly written to Han Yu, who got into trouble
for attacking Buddhist practices. There is, however, an implicit address to
Qu Yuan, legendary author of the ancient Songs of the South, a book Li He
much admired. Many of the songs in Songs of the South are dramatic in form,
of customary closure’.
The shocking implication of curly beard is that nature itself comes
under threat from rampant greed. The regions mentioned in the first verse
are famous for the items associated with them.
the eunuch General is one of several poems attacking the powerful
eunuch Tutu Cheng-cui who had once been the Emperor’s ‘nanny’.
Emperor Xian Zong’s solution to the problem of rebellious military
purporting to be sung by a male shaman on a pilgrimage to the shrine of a
lake goddess.
heartsick: southern dirges refers to the Songs of the South. See note to
stay at home today pilgrim.
song of the wilds and autumn on its way show raw anger and outrage
deepening into something new, and prepare us for the more meditative
poems of the palace style.
governors was to greatly expand the palace army, The Army of the Divine Plan,
which by tradition was under the control of the eunuchs. This strategy won some
success on the field but greatly increased the power of the eunuchs at the palace.
If he’d lived a few years longer, Li He would have witnessed the murder of Xian
Zong at the hands of a eunuch faction (824) and the installing of a puppet emperor.
restless farewell: A final vindictive blast against the society that had
rejected him, as Li He takes his final leave of the capital, Chang-an (Palace
City, which refers specifically to the imperial quarter), and heads for his
provincial home in Chang-gu (see familiar haunts), before going north to join
the army. The poem is in the form of an address to two friends. Probably
I tagged this document for urgent military dispatch
a catalogue of catastrophes, somewhat abridged
bleary-eyed and ill, I fretted through the dawn
as stark plane-trees grew iridescent shadows
black crows caw from mist-white battlements
the clarion call to battle rings through the marsh, distant and sad
turban awry, head lopsided, I part raw silk curtains shattered lotuses lie strewn about in muddy pools
on the window sash, traces of the moon’s quicksilver bright coins of water on the stepping stones
2
my sick lungs drowned in too much cheap plonk
while the languid harp strung tales of sorrow and parting
I cried with both eyes to get the seal stuck on this document
64
waking hours, knees grip my fine, warrior horse dreamtime, I journey upstream in search of lost kingdoms
where pepper and cinnamon spice the wine
pearch and bream come sliced and diced on a tortoise-shell
come on now! how long will your dalliances in the lush south
prevent you joining me here in paradise?
65
written around 814. It is rare for Li He to adopt this kind of straightforward, personal, chatty tone.
For ‘curfew drums’ see poem curfew drums. The Great Way, is the Way
or Tao of the Taoists, celebrated for its inscrutability. Note the uplift at the
end as the poet mocks himself, and his lingering pretensions, even through
the posturing and the tears.
Poet of the Palace – Li He was to become the great exemplar of
the ‘palace’ style, based on the poetry of the Southern Dynasties (317-420
AD), which enjoyed a revival in the Mid and Late Tang period. Protest
and didacticism gave way to precision studies of courtly life and manners
in a poetry that found its true locus in the bedrooms of rich courtesans.
This poetry, in lesser hands, would later become highly mannered and
artificial. Li He uses the palace style for his musings on mutability as well
as portraits of courtesans and singing girls - all with a barely concealed
ironical undercurrent.
curfew drums: The Tang captital, Chang-an, was under strict curfew.
Drums sounded the opening and closing of the city gates at dawn and dusk.
Flying Swallow was a famous singing girl from the Han Dynasty. The poem
extends the argument of the previous poem by suggesting that only time
itself is immortal, burying even the immortals. South Mountain suggests an
abode of the immortals.
fading balcony: Frodsham comments, ‘During the Former Han, Prince
Xiao of Liang constructed a magnificent palace and park for his pleasure…
The park extended for several hundred li’.
the king of Qin in his cups refers either to the Qin Emperor who
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unified China (221-207 BC) or Shun Zong (805-805 AD), the Tang Emperor
immediately preceding Xian Zong.
incarceration, is based on an historical incident. The Tang Emperor
Xuan Zong (712-755) stayed one night at an Imperial travelling lodge where
he enjoyed the company of several girls. Upon leaving, he ordered that
the girls remain incarcerated in the lodge for the remainder of their lives,
although he would never return.
away with the darlings, a poem from the female point of view, apparently
written on the occasion. In a rare, short prose introduction to the poem,
Li He gives the following account: “On the day of the Cold Food Festival,
several princes, accompanied by singing-girls, went on a picnic. I was one of
the party. I wrote a song….which harmonized with a poem of Emperor Jian
Liang [549-51] and gave it to the girls to play and sing.”
tomb of a singing girl: A ghost story, or is it? This could be the ghost of
notes appended to Frodsham’s translation, and Fusheng Wu’s valiant attempt
to provide a line-by-line breakdown of his translation. Both translators take
diametrically opposed views of the poem, and end up with significantly
different interpretations. For example, Frodsham translates the title as ‘She
steals my heart’ whereas Fusheng Wu calls it ‘Self Mockery.’ At stake is the
overall coherence of the poem. Frodsham, following some Chinese scholars,
detects an implied narrative movement based on the personal experience of
the poet - the setting up and consummation of a midnight tryst - whereas
Fusheng Wu argues that while Li He sets up this expectation it is never
fulfilled, is deliberately subverted in fact, and the poem dissolves into a
shower of brilliant particulars.
Palace poetry was concerned with describing the ‘beautiful’ and Li
He’s images subvert that expectation as well. In what appears to be a long
hymn of praise we find the delightfully unexpected:
line. The poem is like a collection of extraordinarily vivid stills, close ups,
which might or might not add up to a larger picture.
My advice to the reader is simply to take the couplets as they come,
savouring each one without attempting to impose meaning or order. This is a
poem whose images surround you, outflank you. As Fusheng Wu concludes,
the poem becomes “a never fulfilled and never exhausted possibility. The
destination is always in sight but at the same time forever receding…the
poem both entices the reader and leads them astray…Opacity, allusiveness,
involution of language and the ensuing difficulties are all intended to generate
their own meaning.”
Part 1: Cardamoms were associated with love. Juggling pearls on a
plate, called the pearl game, was a skill developed by singing girls. Part 3: the
Doomed Lovers refers to a folk tale similar to variants in the West in which
two benighted lovers are buried near one another, trees grow on their graves,
a singing girl, appearing from her grave to await, hopelessly, her still living
lover; or it could be the lover returning to the grave, desperately imagining
her presence. Translators have used the first person or the third person
depending on which side of the interpretation they fall. The poem seems
carefully designed to be read both ways, not to create ambiguity but rather
multiple realities. A modest, delicately poised poem.
heart flower lotus: The portraits of women that emerge in poems
like stone city morning, and the exquisite a lovely girl combing her hair, seem like
mere rehearsals in comparison with Li He’s great, frustrating masterpiece,
heart flower lotus. I could find only two previous English translations of this
poem, one by Frodsham and the other by Fusheng Wu (see Bibliography),
and I couldn’t have undertaken my translation without the thirty-eight
clumsy as a dancing crane, her heart sea-saws
her bones stick out like some old dragon cadaver
Certainly both translators would concur with Fusheng Wu’s judgement
that heart flower lotus is “one of the most unusual and one of the most difficult
poems in Chinese poetry, never selected by anthologists and rarely mentioned
by critics.” In this poem Li He pushes the palace style to its limits, mocking
its superficiality with a multi-layered textuality which has puzzled readers
lean towards each other and mingle their branches. Readers might like to
notice the rather coy depiction of sex towards the end of part 3. Frodsham
notes that lotus root was an accepted symbol for a girl, fish a symbol of
pleasure. Part 5: The clearest section of the poem, as if the poet shakes
loose from some spell as he walks home. Note the ambiguous, throwaway
ending (what is there to laugh about…?). Frodsham and Fusheng Wu clash
again over the last two lines of the poem. Fusheng Wu, using the third
ever since. Not only is the reader frustrated in locating a clear narrative in
the poem, but even its subject, a woman, is a shifting target. It appears that
more than one woman is referred to. One, a rather rich pampered woman
with servants, the other a ‘gorgeous serving-girl’. Perhaps three, for a fortuneteller is referred to in part 4. Only the ending seems to pick up any narrative
person, refers to the woman as ‘his wife’ whereas Frodsham translates, in
the first person, ‘my middle-aged maid’. There is an unresolved question as
to whether Li He was married or not. Since the original phrase is apparently
a disputed term of affection, I’ve cut the difference with the faintly ironic
‘my good woman’.
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Poet of the Occult – To what degree Li He took part in the folkTaoist shamanistic rituals alluded to in some of these poems, particularly
the occult strings sequence, is unknown. Certainly he would have had the
opportunity to witnesses such ceremonies, for the use of women to perform
exorcisms during the Tang dynasty is well documented.
Frodsham counsels against seeing Li He as a sceptical rationalist,
despite the sophisticated, ironical dimension to his work. The poet takes
the magical dimension of life seriously and brings his goddesses, ghosts and
demons to life with characteristic intensity. While his shamanistic style is to
some extent based on The Songs of the South (see note above to stay at home today
pilgrim), his evocations of the heavenly and netherworlds, and the emphasis
he places on them, is unique, possibly in the whole of the Chinese canon,
and are the source of his honourific title, ‘the demon talented one’.
Music, dancing and incantation are an integral part of these
shamanistic rituals. Indeed, music is almost always associated with magic
in Li He’s universe. In great master Li Ping plays the vertical harp the magical
properties of music are attested as the harp recital sends the poet into an
immediate receptive/ecstatic state.
the far sky: Part 1: sketches a mythical setting on the moon. Part 2:
jade grass is a mythical plant. Part 3: Blue Island is a mythical place where
immortal maidens were believed to reside.
up on high - A vision of Heaven, and what earth looks like from there.
For first lines, see the notes for great master Li Ping plays the vertical harp and
high mountain, goddess trails.
swansong of a bronze immortal is one of Li He’s best known poems.
Another sly dig at Xian-zong’s quest for immortality. In this case Li He
himself felt obliged to provide a commentary, albeit with an ulterior purpose.
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The statue, the subject of this poem, towered two hundred feet, extending
seven wei, (the distance between two outstretched hands) in circumference.
It was built by Emperor Wu (140-87 BC) of the Han Dynasty, a famous
emperor obsessed with the search for immortality. The statue held a bronze
plate and a jade cup overhead to catch dew from clouds, ‘beyond the clogging
dust of the world to obtain the limpid elixir of the pure transcendent ether.’
The emperor collected the dew, mixed it with powdered jade and drank it.
Frodsham adds: ‘Over three hundred years later (237 AD), Emperor Ming
(of the Wei Dynasty) tried to have the statue brought to his capital. But it
proved to difficult to transport over such a distance; so it was eventually left
forlornly standing on the banks of the river Ba, with its dew-plate broken
in its hands’.
Li He’s haughty prose introduction of himself as a descendant from
the Tang royal family needs to be seen against the ironic play on the passing
of dynasties in the poem. The Emperor Wu wrote a poem, ‘Autumm Wind’
on the brevity of life.
This poem contains Li He’s most famous line, ‘if Heaven could feel, it
too would age’. This entered the Chinese language as a common aphorism.
A.C. Graham comments, ‘the moon and the cassia tree which grow
on it are among Li He’s favourite symbols of escape from time’. (Poems of the
Late Tang, see Bibliography.)
statue of Lady of Cowrie – Written to an unknown deity. With regard
to the simurg, Frodsham writes: “…a king of Kashmir caught a simurg and
caged it, only to find it would not sing. His wife pointed out that simurgs
would only sing when they saw their own kind, so he deceived the bird by
putting a mirror in its cage. The bird then sang a mournful song, and died.”
Also see note to our lady of the orchid essence below.
great master Li Ping plays the vertical harp - Part 1: According to legend,
the White Girl played a zither of fifty strings for the Yellow Emperor who
was so moved to sadness that he smashed her instrument leaving only
twenty-five strings. Part 2: It was believed that music had power over the
elements and was able to melt ice. Part 3: Wu Gang was banished to the
moon for seeking immortality. There he spent his lifetimes trying to cut
down the eternal moon cassia. Along with the toad and the cassia it was also
believed that a hare lived on the moon. In this poem the hare may stand for
to the moon itself.
high mountain, goddess trails is set on the famous Mt Wu where Jade
Divine, daughter of the legendary Scarlet Emperor, was buried, becoming
over time a tutelary deity. An ancient king, unaware of who she was, once
spent the night with her. Note the Keatsian nature of the experience, an
echo of La Belle Dan Sans Merci. It was believed that a toad and a cassia tree
lived on the moon.
our lady of the orchid essence: This goddess was probably the tutelary spirit
of Mt Shen. Part 1 describes the setting of a shrine to this spirit. Part 2: a
simurg is a mythical bird, often translated as phoenix but made distinct from
phoenixes in Li He’s work. By riding a white hart and a bream the goddess
is assuming fairy powers.
occult strings - David McCraw comments that this poem’s “vivid drama
lacks a conclusion; no safe frame affords the reader any comforting sense
of distance…(the) concluding close up – like one more enigmatic fragment
from a ruined frieze – refuses resolution.” (See note to the old jade gatherer
above). The reader cannot be sure of the outcome of the exorcism, if it
has been successful or not. The poem ends with an insane giggle and some
spirit flame leaping out of the owl’s nest. Occult powers have been aroused
to life, chaos let loose in the natural world, and Li He lets his witch have the
last laugh as far as the reader is concerned.
occult strings 2 – Note: Paper coins are still burned in China as an
offering to the gods.
farewell to occult strings – this is the shaman’s song of farewell to the
departing Goddess.
Poet of the Nature. Li He came from an isolated rural valley known
as Chang-gu, where his family owned a small estate. The poetry set in and
around Chang-gu is largely composed of precise, sensuous observations of
the natural world that are, at the same time, powerful, unsettling emotional
landscapes. While the sense of the natural world is present in all his work,
nature stands out as a focus in these Chang-gu poems, rarely anthologized.
northern cold – Not a Chang-gu poem, and probably written while Li He
was on his way north to join the army. Note the brilliantly still, quiet ending
to this noisy, busy poem. McCraw comments that Li He’s “frozen, color
drained rainbows - a traditionally baleful image - …grinds (the poem) to an
appropriately glacial halt.”
familiar haunts – Another frustrating masterpiece, presenting similar
difficulties to heart flower lotus. Frodsham quotes the first 30 or so lines with
the approving comment, “In his long poem…Li He celebrates the tranquil
beauty of the countryside and the honesty and simplicity of its people in
some of his most delicately wrought verse.” Stephen Owen (The End of the
Chinese Middle Ages, see Bibliography), however argues that ‘attention swings
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wildly in direction and scale’ and that the poem is ‘impossibly dense’
and ‘virtually unreadable.’ A space ‘without architectural order.’ ‘Tedious
and seriously flawed.’
If Frodsham is being a little disingenuous, Owen may have let his
impatience with the relentless accumulation of close-up details, couplet by
couplet, blind him to the hidden architecture and dramatic tension of the
poem. The movement of Part 1 recalls some of Li He’s poems to mountain
goddesses as we are led upwards, through an emotionally and erotically
charged mainly morning landscape, to the heavenly altar of a mountain deity,
possibly Jade Divine. The landscape of Chang-gu and the secret body of the
goddess become indistinguishable. In Part 2 we pull back for a somewhat
tongue-in-cheek recitation of rural virtues before Chang-gu, and the poem,
are allowed to sink into the somnambulant eroticism of evening. The last
two couplets with their wonderful throwaway irony wake us up and bring us
upset some translators and commentators that they have sought to change
or ‘correct’ it. One of Li He’s most deviant closures, to use McCraw’s
expression. The sentiments here are diametrically opposed to the patriotism
evident in poems like at the gates. The second to last couplet refers to the
practice of sending those soldiers who did not die in battle, and therefore did
not deserve a warrior’s grave on the battlefield, home wrapped in dead horse
skins. This allowed the authorities to keep a record of how many horses had
been killed.
found arowhead – Possibly Li He’s most fully realized poem. Part 1:
begins with a very close close-up, we can see only colours and textures; over
the next few couplets we draw back a few inches to reveal that we have been
looking at an arrowhead. Very cinematic. Part 2: Those who died in battle
were often not afforded proper funeral rites. Part 3: a brilliant, unexpectedly
lighthearted ending as ‘some sharp kid’ tries to cheat the poet out of his
Bibliography.
to the Poems, can be found in his excellent introduction to these books.
Note: prior to the modern ping-ying system for transcribing Chinese into
English, Li He was written as Li Ho.
AC Graham, Poems of the Late Tang, Penguin, England, 1965.
Articles:
Naotaro Kudo, The life and thoughts of Li Ho, Waseda University Press, Tokyo,
(undated).
back to reality again.
arrowhead.
at the gates - By the time of the Tang Dynasty, the writing of ‘frontier
poems’ was a genre all to itself. Even poets who had never been to the
frontier wrote ‘frontier poems’. Li He’s poem has an historical setting that I
have dropped, and it is possible that this is not a true war poem but an early
exercise in the genre.
frontier hangover Frodsham comments, “Verse of this quality, written
Cyril Birch (Ed) Anthology of Chinese Literature, Penguin, London. 1967. Li He
translations by A.C. Graham.
Poet of War - In 814, when the eunuch Tutu Cheng-cui, who had been
out of favour for three years, returned to Chang-an, the sickly Li He fled to
join the Army of the Divine Plan in the north of the country where he may
well have seen action against a rebel warlord. (See restless farewell.) Li He left
a small but precious corpus of ‘frontier poems,’ in which he drops some of
the elaborations of the palace style for a bleaker, more stripped down verse.
These are believed to be his last poems.
below the border outpost – This attack on conditions at the front is
possibly the most bitter protest poem Li He ever wrote. Its shock ending,
with its suggestion that mutiny is the only honourable course, has so
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when he was only twenty-five or so, makes one realize just how great a loss
literature sustained by [Li He’s] untimely death.” Note the heavy irony of the
ending. After painting a picture of hell on earth, Li He jokingly inquires as to
what is holding his friend back from joining him.
David McCraw, ‘Hanging by a thread; Li He’s Deviant Closures’, Chinese
Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews; Vol 18, 1996.
Henry W. Wells, ‘Li Ho’s Creative Genius’, Tamking Review; Volume VI,
April 1975 .
Books:
Jerome Chen & Michael Bullock – Poems of Solitude, Lund Humphries,
London, 1960.
JD Frodsham, The Poems of Li Ho, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1970.
Goddesses ghosts and demons, the Collected Poems of Li He,
North Point Press, San Francisco, 1983.
Note: The second of these books is an upgrading of the first. The
opinions attributed to Frodsham, and quotes from him, in the Notes
Stephen Owen, Anthology of Chinese Literature, Norton, New York, 1996.
The End of the Chinese Middle Ages, essays in Mid Tang Literary Culture, Stanford
University Press, 1996.
The Poetry of Ming Chiao and Han Yu, Yale University Press, 1975. Note
chapter 12: ‘The Cult Hermetic, 806-814’.
Note, opinions attributed to Stephen Owen, and quotes from him, in
Notes to the Poems, particularly with regard to the poem familiar haunts,
can be found in The End of the Chinese Middle Ages, Chapter 2, ‘Reading the
Landscape’.
Robert Payne, The White Pony – Allen and Unwin, 1949.
E.H Schafer, The Divine Woman: the Dragon Ladies and Rain Maidens in Tang
Literature, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1973. Note chapter 2:
‘The Goddess Epiphanies of Li Ho’.
Margaret South, Li Ho, a scholar-official of the Yuan-ho period, Libraries Board
of South Australia, 1967.
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Kuo-Ch’ing Tu, Li Ho, Twayne publishers, Boston, 1979.
Tak-wai Wong, Baroque as a Period Style of Mid-Late T’ang Poetry, University of
Washington, 1980. Unpublished thesis. Note Chapter 4, ‘Baroque Elements
in Li Ho and other Late-T’ang Poets’.
Fushing Wu, The Poetics of Decadence, State University of New York Press,
1998. Note chapter 3, ‘Li He: the poetry of beautiful women and ghostly
ghosts’.
David Young – Four Tang Poets, Field Translation Series, 1984.
Wu-chi Liu & Irving Yucheng Lo, Sunflower Splendor, Three Thousand Years of
Chinese Poetry, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1975.
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