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Window on Chinese Poetry |
"The Frivolous Rich" by Bai Ju Yi With their arrogant manner, they fill up the road. The horses they ride glisten in the dust. May I enquire who might that be? People say thats a palace eunuch. Those with red sashes are all high ministers. The purple tassels signify generals. Haughtily they go to dine with the troops, their prancing horses passing like clouds. Goblets and tankards will overflow with every wine; water and land have yielded every delicacy. Fresh-picked fruits, and Tung Ting oranges; Tien Chih fish, all scaled and sliced. After gorging themselves, their minds will be at ease; drunk on wine, their spirits will soar. This year drought devastated the south and in Chu-Chou, people cannibalised eachother. Adapted from a translation by Charles O. Hucker Comment: The horror that comes from the understatement of the last two lines is powerful. It gives a dramatic new significance to the earlier lines. They have to be re-read! Merv Daw |
Poems by Bai Ju Yi To read a short biography of Bai Ju Yi, click HERE |
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"Rain at Night" by Bai Ju Yi An early cricket chirps, then pauses: the dying lamp gutters then flares again. Outside my window I know it is raining -- the leaves of the banana first know its drumming. Adapted from a translation by David Lunde |
"View from a Height" by Bai Ju Yi Sharp wind, towering sky, apes howling mournfully; untouched island, white sand, birds flying in circles. Infinite forest, bleakly shedding leaf after leaf; inexhaustible river, rolling on wave after wave. Through a thousand miles of melancholy autumn, I travel; carrying a hundred years of sickness, I climb to this terrace. Hardship and bitter regret have frosted my temples-- and what torments me most? Giving up wine! Adapted from a translation by David Lunde To read a comment on this poem, click HERE |
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A SUGGESTION TO MY FRIEND LIU by Bai Ju Yi There's a gleam of green in an old bottle, There's a stir of red in the quiet stove, There's a feeling of snow in the dusk outside - What about a cup of wine inside? |
Po Ch�-i (AD 772-846) Selected Poems Translated by Howard S. Levy and Henry Wells Source: Translations from Po Ch�-i's Collected Works, Chinese Materials Center, San Francisco, 1978 Enjoying a Shared Party by Bai Ju Yi We sit entangled together hearing festival sounds from jade instruments and clear strings, admiring kingfisher hairpins and carmine sleeves. In the eighth month our two families, wedded for the night, join in their music with frequent clouds and autumn rains. Singing girls' faces glow with emotion; waists in the dance sway spontaneously, skirts move slowly and gracefully. No pleasures in the world compare with these. Men are simply ignorant of the Western Paradise in the Higher Heavens. |
Grass by Bai Ju Yi The summer grass grows tall and green, yet each winter it withers and dies away, only to return again in spring. Even burn it and it cannot be destroyed, for the spring wind will bring it fresh again. Its sweetness lies over an ancient road where pomp once strutted. Its verdure hides the ruin of the city torn by war. Waving in the breeze, it bows out so definitely the bygone princes and generals, and luxuriantly awaits the people, so certain to return. |
A Woman of Quality by Bai Ju Yi Matchless in breeding and beauty, a fine lady has taken refuge in this forsaken valley. She is of good family, she says, but her fortune has withered away; now she lives as the grass and trees. When the heartlands fell to the rebels her brothers were put to death; birth and position availed nothing -- she was not even allowed to bring home their bones for burial. The world turns quickly against those who have had their day -- fortune is a lamp-flame flickering in the wind. Her husband is a fickle fellow who has a lovely new woman. Even the Morning Glory is more constant, folding its flowers every dusk, and mandarin ducks sleep with their mates. But he has eyes only for his new woman's smile, and his ears are deaf to his first wife's weeping. High in the mountains spring water is clear as truth, but when it reaches the lowlands it is muddied with rumour. Her serving-maid returns from selling her pearls; she drags a creeper over to cover holes in the roof. The flowers the lady picks are not for her hair, and the handfuls of cyprus are a bitter stay against hunger. Her pretty blue sleeves are too thin for the cold; as evening falls she leans on the tall bamboo. |
My Comment This a very sad portrait and history of a woman whose wealth and position have evaporated in tough times. She still has a servant girl, but the days of keeping up appearances have long gone and she is reduced to genuine poverty and struggling to fight off the cold and starvation. The story of how she was not even permitted to bury the bodies of her brothers sounds like the story of Antigone from the Ancient Greek tragedy of that name, written by Sophocles. Merv Daw |
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