Chinese Poetry
- Thread starter Lossëndil
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Lossëndil
Well-known member
Thanks for the answers, Benisse. 
As for Copperfox's questions, the Shaolin Temple was founded in the Wei Dynasty, in one of the chaotic periods in China when everyone was fighting everyone else. Specifically, 496AD. And yes, it became prominent in the Tang Dynasty. And it always plays a major part in Kung-Fu novels, as you probably already know.
As for Copperfox's questions, the Shaolin Temple was founded in the Wei Dynasty, in one of the chaotic periods in China when everyone was fighting everyone else. Specifically, 496AD. And yes, it became prominent in the Tang Dynasty. And it always plays a major part in Kung-Fu novels, as you probably already know.
Lossëndil
Well-known member
Okay, here’s a pretty straightforward poem, which does not need any footnotes. So I decided to use the footnotes to explain interesting and random facts of the Chinese language or culture. Feel free to ignore anything in green. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the poem.
Another thing is that I know nothing about the poet. His name is Yang Shen, some guy who lived in the Ming Dynasty. (Ming is after the Mongolian rule) That’s all I know. The reason I came across this poem is that it was quoted at the very beginning of the “Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” which I am happily reading. So I decided that I might as well translate it, since it was so straightforward and simple.
--------------
Footnotes:
(1) Originally “The Immortal Standing at the Edge of the River,” another ci. I guess I never actually told you this, but the common form of poetry in the Song Dynasty, which is written to music, is called ci. “Joy of Meeting” was actually written a little before Song, and this poem here was written in the Ming Dynasty, (1368-1644 AD, next to last Dynasty of China). So although ci was at its peak in the Song Dynasty, people still wrote a little in later years. Believe it or not, Mao attempted to write one, which we had to memorize in seventh grade.
(2)The Yangtze.
That’s all folks.
Another thing is that I know nothing about the poet. His name is Yang Shen, some guy who lived in the Ming Dynasty. (Ming is after the Mongolian rule) That’s all I know. The reason I came across this poem is that it was quoted at the very beginning of the “Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” which I am happily reading. So I decided that I might as well translate it, since it was so straightforward and simple.
“Standing at the Edge of the Waters” (1)
The great waters of the Yangtze die in the east,
Their waves (1) washing away all heroes. (2)
The rights and the wrongs ,
Successes and failures,
Become nothing but emptiness in a blink of the eye. (3)
The green mountains still stand, (4)
Under the crimson light of yet another sunset.
The white haired fishermen on the River, (2) (5)
Watch the autumn moon and winds of spring.
They meet over a pot of wine. (6)
And the histories of so many ages past,
Become no more than idle talk.
The great waters of the Yangtze die in the east,
Their waves (1) washing away all heroes. (2)
The rights and the wrongs ,
Successes and failures,
Become nothing but emptiness in a blink of the eye. (3)
The green mountains still stand, (4)
Under the crimson light of yet another sunset.
The white haired fishermen on the River, (2) (5)
Watch the autumn moon and winds of spring.
They meet over a pot of wine. (6)
And the histories of so many ages past,
Become no more than idle talk.
--------------
Footnotes:
(1) Originally “The Immortal Standing at the Edge of the River,” another ci. I guess I never actually told you this, but the common form of poetry in the Song Dynasty, which is written to music, is called ci. “Joy of Meeting” was actually written a little before Song, and this poem here was written in the Ming Dynasty, (1368-1644 AD, next to last Dynasty of China). So although ci was at its peak in the Song Dynasty, people still wrote a little in later years. Believe it or not, Mao attempted to write one, which we had to memorize in seventh grade.
(2)The Yangtze.
--------------
Footnotes 2 :
Just a note before you read on, I’ve inserted some Chinese characters (I used only simplified Chinese), so if your computer can’t read Chinese, it may show up as questions marks or little squares or any other random collection of silly computer squiggles.
(1) Waves, in Chinese are called lang-hua, literally wave-flowers. Of course, you could just use lang, i.e. waves, but it would sound kind of strange in most cases. The poem used lang-hua.
(2) In the original poem, there was the word jin, meaning completely. The sentence should actually be “The wave-flowers washing away the heroes completely.” (Though “completely” was actually before the word “heroes”)
(3) “A blink of the eye” would be more accurate as “when the head is turned,” which could mean (as far as I could tell) either “as soon as the head is turned” or “when you look back upon it (i.e. the rights… and failures).” Am I making sense?
(4) Ah. The interesting word “green.” In Chinese, the character used was qing (青). Another similar, if less commonly used character would be bi (碧). In ancient Chinese, the word qing can be used to mean any shade of green or blue. From the Chinese point of view, green and blue were just different shades of the same color. I don’t mean that we are color-blind, we just didn’t really feel the need to set a line between green and blue. The word bi is similar, it can be used as both green or blue, though it is quite often used as bright green. So qing-shan would mean green mountain, while qing-tian would mean blue sky, as for what qing-bo meant, (bo is another word for wave, though it is usually considered to be a smaller wave from lang, like little ripples in a pond) well, is the exact color of the ripples really that important?
In modern times, bi mostly means bright green, the character lan has been adopted to mean blue, and qing is quite often green, though you can never be completely sure. So my sister and I often wonder whether the cloak of some character in some Kung-Fu book is actually green, or blue. (The TV show shows a green cloak, but you can’t trust the TV, can you?)
(5) Now we come to the word “river.” Chinese has mainly two characters meaning river. There is no difference between the definitions, they both mean exactly “river.” But there is a difference in usage. One character is jiang (江), the other is he (河) (with a short e sound). The two longest rivers in China are called “Chang-jiang” (or the Yangtze, if you like) and “Huang-he” (also known as the Yellow River). As you see, one uses the character jiang, while the other uses he. So commonly, jiang refers to the Yangze, while he refers to the Yellow River. Of course, the usage may also vary depending on where you live. I live in Hong Kong, where jiang mainly refers to Zhu-jiang, also known as the Pearl River. Of course, Chinese poets rarely live in the barbaric regions so far south, so there is little chance of confusion.
(6) Okay, I’m not quite familiar with the definitions of wine, but I’ll do my best. In Chinese literature, wine, jiu (酒), can be divided into two groups, one is the clear wine, qing-jiu (清酒), the other is the un-clear wine, zhuo-jiu (浊酒). Zhuo means unclear, or murky. As far as I could tell, zhuo-jiu is basically “yellow wine,” which is wine (or liquor, which is more accurate, though less poetic) brewed directly from grains, and has not been distilled. And qing-jiu, naturally, has been distilled, thus clearer (I guess). The “pot of wine” mentioned in the poem is zhuo-jiu. These two terms pop up quite often quite often in Chinese poetry.
If you haven’t noticed, Chinese poets drink a lot. Even the ladies drink. Li Bai is especially famous for loving wine, he is even known as the “Immortal of Wine,” just as he is known as “The Immortal Poet.” (Immortal means the gods or deities in Chinese culture, which are very different from the gods of western culture. They could be anything from tree-spirits to someone as powerful as Greek gods. Here it just means that Li Bai was an awfully good poet.) And just in case I was clear enough, anytime I mention a toast in poems (to the moon, river etc.) you could be sure that it’s wine, not tea or fruit juice or water.
Footnotes 2 :
Just a note before you read on, I’ve inserted some Chinese characters (I used only simplified Chinese), so if your computer can’t read Chinese, it may show up as questions marks or little squares or any other random collection of silly computer squiggles.
(1) Waves, in Chinese are called lang-hua, literally wave-flowers. Of course, you could just use lang, i.e. waves, but it would sound kind of strange in most cases. The poem used lang-hua.
(2) In the original poem, there was the word jin, meaning completely. The sentence should actually be “The wave-flowers washing away the heroes completely.” (Though “completely” was actually before the word “heroes”)
(3) “A blink of the eye” would be more accurate as “when the head is turned,” which could mean (as far as I could tell) either “as soon as the head is turned” or “when you look back upon it (i.e. the rights… and failures).” Am I making sense?
(4) Ah. The interesting word “green.” In Chinese, the character used was qing (青). Another similar, if less commonly used character would be bi (碧). In ancient Chinese, the word qing can be used to mean any shade of green or blue. From the Chinese point of view, green and blue were just different shades of the same color. I don’t mean that we are color-blind, we just didn’t really feel the need to set a line between green and blue. The word bi is similar, it can be used as both green or blue, though it is quite often used as bright green. So qing-shan would mean green mountain, while qing-tian would mean blue sky, as for what qing-bo meant, (bo is another word for wave, though it is usually considered to be a smaller wave from lang, like little ripples in a pond) well, is the exact color of the ripples really that important?
In modern times, bi mostly means bright green, the character lan has been adopted to mean blue, and qing is quite often green, though you can never be completely sure. So my sister and I often wonder whether the cloak of some character in some Kung-Fu book is actually green, or blue. (The TV show shows a green cloak, but you can’t trust the TV, can you?)
(5) Now we come to the word “river.” Chinese has mainly two characters meaning river. There is no difference between the definitions, they both mean exactly “river.” But there is a difference in usage. One character is jiang (江), the other is he (河) (with a short e sound). The two longest rivers in China are called “Chang-jiang” (or the Yangtze, if you like) and “Huang-he” (also known as the Yellow River). As you see, one uses the character jiang, while the other uses he. So commonly, jiang refers to the Yangze, while he refers to the Yellow River. Of course, the usage may also vary depending on where you live. I live in Hong Kong, where jiang mainly refers to Zhu-jiang, also known as the Pearl River. Of course, Chinese poets rarely live in the barbaric regions so far south, so there is little chance of confusion.
(6) Okay, I’m not quite familiar with the definitions of wine, but I’ll do my best. In Chinese literature, wine, jiu (酒), can be divided into two groups, one is the clear wine, qing-jiu (清酒), the other is the un-clear wine, zhuo-jiu (浊酒). Zhuo means unclear, or murky. As far as I could tell, zhuo-jiu is basically “yellow wine,” which is wine (or liquor, which is more accurate, though less poetic) brewed directly from grains, and has not been distilled. And qing-jiu, naturally, has been distilled, thus clearer (I guess). The “pot of wine” mentioned in the poem is zhuo-jiu. These two terms pop up quite often quite often in Chinese poetry.
If you haven’t noticed, Chinese poets drink a lot. Even the ladies drink. Li Bai is especially famous for loving wine, he is even known as the “Immortal of Wine,” just as he is known as “The Immortal Poet.” (Immortal means the gods or deities in Chinese culture, which are very different from the gods of western culture. They could be anything from tree-spirits to someone as powerful as Greek gods. Here it just means that Li Bai was an awfully good poet.) And just in case I was clear enough, anytime I mention a toast in poems (to the moon, river etc.) you could be sure that it’s wine, not tea or fruit juice or water.
That’s all folks.
Lossëndil
Well-known member
Haven’t updated in a loooong time. I wanted to update something for Christmas, but needless to say, I couldn’t find anything suitable. Well, it’s after Christmas now, and high time I should post a new poem.
Here’s something by Li Bai. If you can’t remember who he is, go back to “Drinking Beneath the Moon.” I’m afraid this poem wasn’t in our textbook, and I was too lazy to do research, so I don’t know much of the back ground, I’m afraid you’ll have to live without.
Footnotes:
1. Luo-yang City was the capital of China in the first half of the Tang Dynasty. It still was when Li visited.
2. “weeping song of willows” was not the direct translation. The direct translation should be something like: “Hearing the breaking-of-willow-branches in the song tonight.” In Chinese culture, breaking of willow branches signifies party. So the tune either was about parting, or the music led Li to remember previous partings. So Li basically meant that he was missing home. As for why willow branches meant parting, well, it’s quite a long story. Another explanation of this phrase is that “breaking of willow branches” is the name of the tune he heard. Still, it meant that he missed home, as the following line clearly says.
Well, it’s after Christmas now, and high time I should post a new poem. Here’s something by Li Bai. If you can’t remember who he is, go back to “Drinking Beneath the Moon.” I’m afraid this poem wasn’t in our textbook, and I was too lazy to do research, so I don’t know much of the back ground, I’m afraid you’ll have to live without.
“On hearing a Flute at Luo-yang on a Spring Evening” (1)
Who’s flute is it that sings in the dark,
With tender notes flying on the wind?
It sings the weeping song of willows, (2)
Bringing back memories of a forgone home.
--------------Who’s flute is it that sings in the dark,
With tender notes flying on the wind?
It sings the weeping song of willows, (2)
Bringing back memories of a forgone home.
Footnotes:
1. Luo-yang City was the capital of China in the first half of the Tang Dynasty. It still was when Li visited.
2. “weeping song of willows” was not the direct translation. The direct translation should be something like: “Hearing the breaking-of-willow-branches in the song tonight.” In Chinese culture, breaking of willow branches signifies party. So the tune either was about parting, or the music led Li to remember previous partings. So Li basically meant that he was missing home. As for why willow branches meant parting, well, it’s quite a long story. Another explanation of this phrase is that “breaking of willow branches” is the name of the tune he heard. Still, it meant that he missed home, as the following line clearly says.
Last edited:
Copperfox
Well-known member
That one had an effect like haiku.
As for willows: James Clavell claimed that the Japanese associated willow trees with the life of, ahem, women on a non-marital path in life. This way of life, of course, would mean a certain parting with the conventional even in a society which approved of "the oldest profession." Could there be something like that in the Chinese imagery of willows?
As for willows: James Clavell claimed that the Japanese associated willow trees with the life of, ahem, women on a non-marital path in life. This way of life, of course, would mean a certain parting with the conventional even in a society which approved of "the oldest profession." Could there be something like that in the Chinese imagery of willows?
Lossëndil
Well-known member
That's quite different from the Chinese.
In Chinese, willows simply represent parting, with friends or family.
Some say it is due to the pronunciation, which is similar to the character "stay". The hope of the friend staying, not leaving. Or promising that the friend will stay in my heart forever.
Another explanation says that the willow branch can easily grow again in a new place after breaking off. This is hoping that the friend will adapt quickly to the new environment to where he is moving.
Yet another explanation digs back to the earliest book of poems, Shi Jing (around 1000 BC). One line in a poem of a soldier far away from home says "When I left my home so long ago, the willow tress were greenly swaying" This may be the origin of this tradition. A lot of our traditions came from that collection of poems. The words yi-yi, meaning missing, or unwilling to leave, which is still commonly used in modern times, also came from the same line. In fact, they were the same words that meant "green."
In Chinese, willows simply represent parting, with friends or family.
Some say it is due to the pronunciation, which is similar to the character "stay". The hope of the friend staying, not leaving. Or promising that the friend will stay in my heart forever.
Another explanation says that the willow branch can easily grow again in a new place after breaking off. This is hoping that the friend will adapt quickly to the new environment to where he is moving.
Yet another explanation digs back to the earliest book of poems, Shi Jing (around 1000 BC). One line in a poem of a soldier far away from home says "When I left my home so long ago, the willow tress were greenly swaying" This may be the origin of this tradition. A lot of our traditions came from that collection of poems. The words yi-yi, meaning missing, or unwilling to leave, which is still commonly used in modern times, also came from the same line. In fact, they were the same words that meant "green."
Narnian Pirate
New member
You're quite an expert, Lossendil.
I admire Chinese poetry as well. I never expected warriors and soldiers who are use to bloody battles, can actually write some of the most famous poems.
I admire Chinese poetry as well. I never expected warriors and soldiers who are use to bloody battles, can actually write some of the most famous poems.
Lossëndil
Well-known member
Yes, it is surprising what they can write. Even power hungry people can write pretty deep poems. It just gos to show that you can never judge someone by his/her poems.
Of course, many poets were simply officials, not quite warlords. Still, their poetry was great. Why can't the officials of modern China write like the old ones? They should learn some philosophy from the good old poets too.
Of course, many poets were simply officials, not quite warlords. Still, their poetry was great. Why can't the officials of modern China write like the old ones? They should learn some philosophy from the good old poets too.
Narnian Pirate
New member
I'll be missing your translation.
(And you of course)
(And you of course)
a poem by Liu Yu Hsi
Happy Year of the Ox!
To keep this thread going while Lossendil is studying, I thought I would post a translation (not mine) of some of my favorite Chinese poems, though there's nothing scholarly okay? Just some poems I really like.
Here's the first one, which has a title that makes me think of Narnia somehow:
"To the Tune 'Glittering Sword Hilts'"
I have always been sorry
Our words were so trivial
And never matched the depths
Of our thoughts. This morning
Our eyes met
And a hundred emotions
Rushed through our veins.
Liu Yu Hsi
translated by Kenneth Rexroth in
Love and the Turning Year: One Hundred More Poems from the Chinese, 1970, p78
Liu Yu Hsi (Yuxi) [772-842] from Jiangsu was an innovative poet and essay writer, and an official who was banished because of his political poetry.
Happy Year of the Ox!
To keep this thread going while Lossendil is studying, I thought I would post a translation (not mine) of some of my favorite Chinese poems, though there's nothing scholarly okay? Just some poems I really like.
Here's the first one, which has a title that makes me think of Narnia somehow:
"To the Tune 'Glittering Sword Hilts'"
I have always been sorry
Our words were so trivial
And never matched the depths
Of our thoughts. This morning
Our eyes met
And a hundred emotions
Rushed through our veins.
Liu Yu Hsi
translated by Kenneth Rexroth in
Love and the Turning Year: One Hundred More Poems from the Chinese, 1970, p78
Liu Yu Hsi (Yuxi) [772-842] from Jiangsu was an innovative poet and essay writer, and an official who was banished because of his political poetry.
skandar_hh10
New member
Ok, so this isn't Chinese poetry, but HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!!!!!
a translation/creation from *Cathay*
An interesting literary phenomenon occurred when the poet Ezra Pound was named executor of the estate of Ernest Fenollosa. He found a set of notes on Chinese poems in Fenollosa's papers, and using them together with notes from professors Mori and Ariga, Pound wrote a series of hybrid translation/creation poems that were published together in a 1915 volume called *Cathay.*
Here is one of my favorites:
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
THE RIVER MERCHANT'S WIFE: A LETTER
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
by Rihaku [Japanese for Li Po]
An interesting literary phenomenon occurred when the poet Ezra Pound was named executor of the estate of Ernest Fenollosa. He found a set of notes on Chinese poems in Fenollosa's papers, and using them together with notes from professors Mori and Ariga, Pound wrote a series of hybrid translation/creation poems that were published together in a 1915 volume called *Cathay.*
Here is one of my favorites:
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
THE RIVER MERCHANT'S WIFE: A LETTER
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
by Rihaku [Japanese for Li Po]
Narnian Pirate
New member
The name of this translated poem is simply called "Grass", by Bai Juyi. So, enjoy.
The grass is spreading out across the plain,
Each year, it dies, then flourishes again.
It's burnt but not destroyed by prairie fires,
When spring winds blow they bring it back to life.
Afar, its scent invades the ancient road,
Its emerald green overruns the ruined town.
Again I see my noble friend depart,
I find I'm crowded full of parting's feelings.
The grass is spreading out across the plain,
Each year, it dies, then flourishes again.
It's burnt but not destroyed by prairie fires,
When spring winds blow they bring it back to life.
Afar, its scent invades the ancient road,
Its emerald green overruns the ruined town.
Again I see my noble friend depart,
I find I'm crowded full of parting's feelings.
Narnian Pirate
New member
No, I'm no good at translating.
The name of this translated poem is simply called "Grass", by Bai Juyi. So, enjoy.
The grass is spreading out across the plain,
Each year, it dies, then flourishes again.
It's burnt but not destroyed by prairie fires,
When spring winds blow they bring it back to life.
Afar, its scent invades the ancient road,
Its emerald green overruns the ruined town.
Again I see my noble friend depart,
I find I'm crowded full of parting's feelings.
Dear NP,
thanks for posting. One of the things I like about Chinese poetry is how it creates such poignant moods from haunting descriptions of nature.