Poetry: Composition and Appreciation

Dear Oristar,
I'm glad you liked that Millay poem. I thought you might like the music of Beethoven. I like it very much, too. He was a genius. As a child, I learned to play the piano and I still like to play for myself. Several of the songs I know are by him. But his symphonies are incredible. And to think... he was going deaf for the last and never heard it played. What a tragic life -- how could he not have felt that life was unfair? You say he is a real man in history. I am glad that he is even known and enjoyed in China. And then it reminded me of an old Yiddish saying... "He's a Mensch." That's a good thing.

Thank you so much for thinking someone may still find my orchards in 10,000 years! Haha.. I think we should plant more apple trees. You see... it makes me feel very happy <happy happy> just imagining that luxuriant growth!

It is a nice feeling to imagine 10,000 years in the future. I smile as I write this. I do hope people are much kinder to each other then, do you think they will be? Maybe we'll have run into people from outer space! I hope we've learned to control our population so that there are not so many of us and then we can still have our beautiful animals and forests as well as all the houses and cities that people would need. Ten thousand years before this, those were the times of wooly mammoths and people wearing animal skins, right? They lived in caves and ate a lot of freshly hunted meat. My ancestors surely did -- running away from ice ages somewhere near what's now Scotland. I don't know much very much about Chinese history, but really even less about what it was like very, very early. What do you know? Was there an ice age in China?

What do you think the world will be like in another 10,000 years?

You said you don't like metaphysical things. Do you mean metaphysical poetry? I'm not sure I understand. I agree that I like realistic things, as you do. But often, I see what I think of as metaphysical images within real landscapes and the natural world.

So I thought, maybe I didn't understand. Louise Bogan is obscure and often doesn't have a strong realistic image... of nature for example. Is that what you meant?

I found a nice strong realistic image for you. But isn't it also metaphysical because they are planting the tree with some special objects -- almost magical objects (but not really... just remembrances). There is a tragedy connected with this poem, a reason for the tree to be planted. That Life Experience is what I thought set the metaphysical apart from the rest.

I hope you like it. (You see... orchards bearing and trees being planted -- all happy and much luxuriant growth of ideas.)

Planting a Sequoia
Dana Gioia

All afternoon my brothers and I have worked in the orchard,
Digging this hole, laying you into it, carefully packing the soil.
Rain blackened the horizon, but cold winds kept it over the Pacific,
And the sky above us stayed the dull gray
Of an old year coming to an end.

In Sicily a father plants a tree to celebrate his first son's birth-
An olive or a fig tree-a sign that the earth has one more life to bear.
I would have done the same, proudly laying new stock into my father's orchard,
A green sapling rising among the twisted apple boughs,
A promise of new fruit in other autumns.

But today we kneel in the cold planting you, our native giant,
Defying the practical custom of our fathers,
Wrapping in your roots a lock of hair, a piece of an infant's birth cord,
All that remains above earth of a first-born son,
A few stray atoms brought back to the elements.

We will give you what we can-our labor and our soil,
Water drawn from the earth when the skies fail,
Nights scented with the ocean fog, days softened by the circuit of bees.
We plant you in the corner of the grove, bathed in western light,
A slender shoot against the sunset.

And when our family is no more, all of his unborn brothers dead,
Every niece and nephew scattered, the house torn down,
His mother's beauty ashes in the air,
I want you to stand among strangers, all young and ephemeral to you,
Silently keeping the secret of your birth.

Was that the Chinese words to the poem, Begging for Food? I wish I had it on 300 Tang Poems website. It would make it much easier to translate.

Here's my favorite -- #3 of the five poems of the old times by Du Fu -- 杜甫


咏怀古迹五首之三

群山万壑赴荆门， 生长明妃尚有村。
一去紫台连朔漠， 独留青冢向黄昏。
画图省识春风面， 环佩空归月下魂。
千载琵琶作胡语， 分明怨恨曲中论。

Ten thousand ranges and valleys approach the Jing Gate
And the village in which the Lady of Light was born and bred.
She went out from the purple palace into the desertland;
She has now become a green grave in the yellow dusk.
Her face ! Can you picture a wind of the spring?
Her spirit by moonlight returns with a tinkling
Song of the Tartars on her jade guitar,
Telling her eternal sorrow.


Best,
Piffka

Dear Piffka,

Beethoven led a tragic life after getting deaf, and led a great life when being deaf, too. Because most of his works were finished after he was deaf by 1819. He've set a good example for deaf people in the world, in past, present and future. Such a mensch points out the meaning of a life for all of us, including the well-heard and the deaf.

You know the late ice age is only about 7000 years ago, while Peking Man/Men lived in the caves in Peking 700,000-200,000 years ago. So surely there is an ice age in "China"(because back then there was no country in the world at all). It is a question of geography. Let's drop it, okay?

10,000 years in the future, I think transportation will be very convenient. For example, America is a real neighbor of China, when Oristar wants to visit Piffka, he will arrive at her home in one minute! And I sure I will have my real robot who will type anything for me when I just sit back and dictate the robot.

Reasonably, metaphysical imgaination can combine with realistic landscape. I agree with you on this.

Tao Yuanming is a poet of Dongjin Dynasty, so you cannot find his poems in Tang Dynasty.

Lady of Light or Lady Zhao Jun is one of the four most beautiful women in Chinese history.

Best,
Oristar

Dear Oristar,
I see you are very well aware of Beethoven -- a fine person, I think so too. Do you listen to his music and have a favorite symphony? Mine is the Pastoral... his sixth symphony. Not too surprising given my penchant for nature.

Thank you for explaining the Lady of Light to me. I think anyone who reads the poems of China (Tang or other) needs a guide with an extensive knowledge of Chinese history. I'm so glad that you are willing to help me stumble along. I have read that a very famous piece of music is called, "The Lament of Lady Zhao-Jun' - I wish I could hear it but the website didn't offer it. I'm going to keep looking.

Wang Zhaojun (two poems)
By Bai Juyi
Translated by Burton Watson

I
Full in her face, barbarian sands, wind full in her hair;
gone from eyebrows, the last traces of kohl, gone the rouge from cheeks:
hardship and grieving have wasted it away
now indeed it is the face in the painting!

II
As the Han envoy departs, she gives him these words:
'When will they send the yellow gold to ransom me?
Should the Sovereign ask how I look,
don't say I'm any different from those palace days!'

Zhaojun Chu Sai.

This webpage has a long description of Zhao Jun's predicament, from Women of China.
Sounds like she had an amazing life and played an important role in history. I've read a little bit about each of these, now:

Xi Shi -- a beautiful spy -- Spring-Autumn
Zhao Jun -- willingly went to Mongolia - Western Han
Diao Chan -- may be fictional? -- Three Dynasties
Yang Guifei -- Killed or died because of the Anshi Rebellion -- Tang

Feel free to tell me more about them! I think there must be references to Yang Guifei in the 300 Tang poems.

I am sure you are right -- 10,000 years from now, the "tyranny of distance" will have been mastered and we can zip back and forth across the miles as fast as you say. You can come here for tea... or to borrow a book. I wonder how that would be done -- some rearranging of the molecules that are our ultimate make-up, decoded and sent at light speed to a re-coding spot? I think what would be most handy would be a very clever robot who would help me learn Chinese and remember all the histories -- or even be an instanteous translator from one language to another.

You said:

I wonder if you know a better website that would be a reference for me to overview Chinese history? It is so complicated -- there seem to be so many dynasties, I can't keep them straight and need to keep going back and saying, ah yes... Han before Tang! This site says there are four Jin periods -- A northern Jin, a sourthern Jin, a Later Jin, and just Jin...which is even later(A.D. 1115-1234).

Best,
Piffka

This poem by Tao Yuanming reminds me of myself:

Young, I was always free of common feeling.
It was in my nature to love the hills and mountains.
Mindlessly I was caught in the dust-filled trap.
Waking up, thirty years had gone.
The caged bird wants the old trees and air.
Fish in their pool miss the ancient stream.
I plough the earth at the edge of South Moor.
Keeping life simple, return to my plot and garden.
My place is hardly more than a few fields.
My house has eight or nine small rooms.
Elm-trees and Willows shade the back.
Plum-trees and Peach-trees reach the door.
Misted, misted the distant village.
Drifting, the soft swirls of smoke.
Somewhere a dog barks deep in the winding lanes.
A cockerel crows from the top of the mulberry tree.
No heat and dust behind my closed doors.
My bare rooms are filled with space and silence.
Too long a prisoner, captive in a cage,
Now I can get back again to Nature.

Dear Piffka,

Last night I tried to post my reply, and A2K just popped up a message requested a "temp" login. Well, I typed my username and password into the textboxes, and always getting refused. It seems unlikely that I've forgot my password, and the dialogue message didn't offer 'password recover" option. Since I don't know your Email address, I think perhaps I can never come to contact with you again.

And today I retried to open A2K. It seems nothing has happened! All seems as usual!

Here is a best-known poem about Yang Guifei in the 300 Tang poems:

Bai Juyi
A Song of Unending Sorrow

China's Emperor, craving beauty that might shake an empire,
Was on the throne for many years, searching, never finding,
Till a little child of the Yang clan, hardly even grown,
Bred in an inner chamber, with no one knowing her,
But with graces granted by heaven and not to be concealed,
At last one day was chosen for the imperial household.
If she but turned her head and smiled, there were cast a hundred spells,
And the powder and paint of the Six Palaces faded into nothing.
...It was early spring. They bathed her in the FlowerPure Pool,
Which warmed and smoothed the creamy-tinted crystal of her skin,
And, because of her languor, a maid was lifting her
When first the Emperor noticed her and chose her for his bride.
The cloud of her hair, petal of her cheek, gold ripples of her crown when she moved,
Were sheltered on spring evenings by warm hibiscus curtains;
But nights of spring were short and the sun arose too soon,
And the Emperor, from that time forth, forsook his early hearings
And lavished all his time on her with feasts and revelry,
His mistress of the spring, his despot of the night.
There were other ladies in his court, three thousand of rare beauty,
But his favours to three thousand were concentered in one body.
By the time she was dressed in her Golden Chamber, it would be almost evening;
And when tables were cleared in the Tower of Jade, she would loiter, slow with wine.
Her sisters and her brothers all were given titles;
And, because she so illumined and glorified her clan,
She brought to every father, every mother through the empire,
Happiness when a girl was born rather than a boy.
...High rose Li Palace, entering blue clouds,
And far and wide the breezes carried magical notes
Of soft song and slow dance, of string and bamboo music.
The Emperor's eyes could never gaze on her enough-
Till war-drums, booming from Yuyang, shocked the whole earth
And broke the tunes of The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
The Forbidden City, the nine-tiered palace, loomed in the dust
From thousands of horses and chariots headed southwest.
The imperial flag opened the way, now moving and now pausing- -
But thirty miles from the capital, beyond the western gate,
The men of the army stopped, not one of them would stir
Till under their horses' hoofs they might trample those moth- eyebrows....
Flowery hairpins fell to the ground, no one picked them up,
And a green and white jade hair-tassel and a yellowgold hair- bird.
The Emperor could not save her, he could only cover his face.
And later when he turned to look, the place of blood and tears
Was hidden in a yellow dust blown by a cold wind.
... At the cleft of the Dagger-Tower Trail they crisscrossed through a cloud-line
Under Omei Mountain. The last few came.
Flags and banners lost their colour in the fading sunlight....
But as waters of Shu are always green and its mountains always blue,
So changeless was His Majesty's love and deeper than the days.
He stared at the desolate moon from his temporary palace.
He heard bell-notes in the evening rain, cutting at his breast.
And when heaven and earth resumed their round and the dragon car faced home,
The Emperor clung to the spot and would not turn away
From the soil along the Mawei slope, under which was buried
That memory, that anguish. Where was her jade-white face?
Ruler and lords, when eyes would meet, wept upon their coats
As they rode, with loose rein, slowly eastward, back to the capital.
...The pools, the gardens, the palace, all were just as before,
The Lake Taiye hibiscus, the Weiyang Palace willows;
But a petal was like her face and a willow-leaf her eyebrow -
And what could he do but cry whenever he looked at them?
...Peach-trees and plum-trees blossomed, in the winds of spring;
Lakka-foliage fell to the ground, after autumn rains;
The Western and Southern Palaces were littered with late grasses,
And the steps were mounded with red leaves that no one swept away.
Her Pear-Garden Players became white-haired
And the eunuchs thin-eyebrowed in her Court of PepperTrees;
Over the throne flew fire-flies, while he brooded in the twilight.
He would lengthen the lamp-wick to its end and still could never sleep.
Bell and drum would slowly toll the dragging nighthours
And the River of Stars grow sharp in the sky, just before dawn,
And the porcelain mandarin-ducks on the roof grow thick with morning frost
And his covers of kingfisher-blue feel lonelier and colder
With the distance between life and death year after year;
And yet no beloved spirit ever visited his dreams.
...At Lingqiong lived a Taoist priest who was a guest of heaven,
Able to summon spirits by his concentrated mind.
And people were so moved by the Emperor's constant brooding
That they besought the Taoist priest to see if he could find her.
He opened his way in space and clove the ether like lightning,
Up to heaven, under the earth, looking everywhere.
Above, he searched the Green Void, below, the Yellow Spring;
But he failed, in either place, to find the one he looked for.
And then he heard accounts of an enchanted isle at sea,
A part of the intangible and incorporeal world,
With pavilions and fine towers in the five-coloured air,
And of exquisite immortals moving to and fro,
And of one among them-whom they called The Ever True-
With a face of snow and flowers resembling hers he sought.
So he went to the West Hall's gate of gold and knocked at the jasper door
And asked a girl, called Morsel-of-Jade, to tell The Doubly- Perfect.
And the lady, at news of an envoy from the Emperor of China,
Was startled out of dreams in her nine-flowered, canopy.
She pushed aside her pillow, dressed, shook away sleep,
And opened the pearly shade and then the silver screen.
Her cloudy hair-dress hung on one side because of her great haste,
And her flower-cap was loose when she came along the terrace,
While a light wind filled her cloak and fluttered with her motion
As though she danced The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
And the tear-drops drifting down her sad white face
Were like a rain in spring on the blossom of the pear.
But love glowed deep within her eyes when she bade him thank her liege,
Whose form and voice had been strange to her ever since their parting -
Since happiness had ended at the Court of the Bright Sun,
And moons and dawns had become long in Fairy-Mountain Palace.
But when she turned her face and looked down toward the earth
And tried to see the capital, there were only fog and dust.
So she took out, with emotion, the pledges he had given
And, through his envoy, sent him back a shell box and gold hairpin,
But kept one branch of the hairpin and one side of the box,
Breaking the gold of the hairpin, breaking the shell of the box;
"Our souls belong together," she said, " like this gold and this shell -
Somewhere, sometime, on earth or in heaven, we shall surely
And she sent him, by his messenger, a sentence reminding him
Of vows which had been known only to their two hearts:
"On the seventh day of the Seventh-month, in the Palace of Long Life,
We told each other secretly in the quiet midnight world
That we wished to fly in heaven, two birds with the wings of one,
And to grow together on the earth, two branches of one tree."
Earth endures, heaven endures; some time both shall end,
While this unending sorrow goes on and on for ever.

长恨歌
白居易
汉皇重色思倾国，御宇多年求不得。
杨家有女初长成，养在深闺人未识。
天生丽质难自弃，一朝选在君王侧。
回眸一笑百媚生，六宫粉黛无颜色。
春寒赐浴华清池，温泉水滑洗凝脂。
侍儿扶起娇无力，始是新承恩泽时。
云鬓花颜金步摇，芙蓉帐暖度春宵。
春宵苦短日高起，从此君王不早朝。
承欢侍宴无闲暇，春从春游夜专夜。
后宫佳丽三千人，三千宠爱在一身。
金屋妆成娇侍夜，玉楼宴罢醉和春。
姊妹弟兄皆列土，可怜光彩生门户。
遂令天下父母心，不重生男重生女。
骊宫高处入青云，仙乐风飘处处闻。
缓歌谩舞凝丝竹，尽日君王看不足。
渔阳鼙鼓动地来，惊破霓裳羽衣曲。
九重城阙烟尘生，千乘万骑西南行。
翠华摇摇行复止，西出都门百余里。
六军不发无奈何，宛转蛾眉马前死。
花钿委地无人收，翠翘金雀玉搔头。
君王掩面救不得，回看血泪相和流。
黄埃散漫风萧索，云栈萦纡登剑阁。
峨嵋山下少人行，旌旗无光日色薄。
蜀江水碧蜀山青，圣主朝朝暮暮情。
行宫见月伤心色，夜雨闻铃肠断声。
天旋地转回龙驭，到此踌躇不能去。
马嵬坡下泥土中，不见玉颜空死处。
君臣相顾尽沾衣，东望都门信马归。
归来池苑皆依旧，太液芙蓉未央柳。
芙蓉如面柳如眉，对此如何不泪垂。
春风桃李花开日，秋雨梧桐叶落时。
西宫南内多秋草，落叶满阶红不扫。
梨园弟子白发新，椒房阿监青娥老。
夕殿萤飞思悄然，孤灯挑尽未成眠。
迟迟钟鼓初长夜，耿耿星河欲曙天。
鸳鸯瓦冷霜华重，翡翠衾寒谁与共。
悠悠生死别经年，魂魄不曾来入梦。
临邛道士鸿都客，能以精诚致魂魄。
为感君王辗转思，遂教方士殷勤觅。
排空驭气奔如电，升天入地求之遍。
上穷碧落下黄泉，两处茫茫皆不见。
忽闻海上有仙山，山在虚无缥渺间。
楼阁玲珑五云起，其中绰约多仙子。
中有一人字太真，雪肤花貌参差是。
金阙西厢叩玉扃，转教小玉报双成。
闻道汉家天子使，九华帐里梦魂惊。
揽衣推枕起徘徊，珠箔银屏迤逦开。
云鬓半偏新睡觉，花冠不整下堂来。
风吹仙袂飘飘举，犹似霓裳羽衣舞。
玉容寂寞泪阑干，梨花一枝春带雨。
含情凝睇谢君王，一别音容两渺茫。
昭阳殿里恩爱绝，蓬莱宫中日月长。
回头下望人寰处，不见长安见尘雾。
惟将旧物表深情，钿合金钗寄将去。
钗留一股合一扇，钗擘黄金合分钿。
但教心似金钿坚，天上人间会相见。
临别殷勤重寄词，词中有誓两心知。
七月七日长生殿，夜半无人私语时。
在天愿作比翼鸟，在地愿为连理枝。
天长地久有时尽，此恨绵绵无绝期。

I am not sure what is a "better website" about China history in your mind. Do you mean a site of which its context can be easily remembered? If so, here might be one:

History of China
http://www-chaos.umd.edu/history/welcome.html

Not there are four Jin periods, there is just one Jin Dynasty in Chinese history, and the Jin Dynasty, which is earlier than Tang Dynasty, has two periods: a northern Jin and a sourthern Jin. Later Jin belongs to Wudai which is later than Tang.

你喜欢这个调调儿？

归园田居

少无适俗韵，性本爱丘山。
误落尘网中，一去十三年。
羁鸟恋旧林，池鱼思故渊。
开荒南野际，抱拙归园田。
方宅十馀亩，草屋八九间。
榆柳荫後檐，桃李罗堂前。
暧暧远人村，依依墟里烟。
狗吠深巷中，鸡鸣桑树颠。
户庭无尘杂，虚室有馀闲。
久在樊笼里，复得返自然。

好，你就悠然见南山吧，说不定无意中找到了桃花源。

Best,
Oristar

Dear Oristar,

Thank you so much for continuing to try to post that poem about Yang Guifei to me. It is such a beautiful poem and story -- I am taken aback at how it is much more full of detail and emotion than the other Tang poems. It is really, really wonderful, truly a treasure. At first, I thought, hmmm, that Emperor has too many girls, but he was truly in love with her, wasn't he?

I like that.

It is so late that I can't stay up to write more tonight. You said, "Since I don't know your Email address, I think perhaps I can never come to contact with you again." I will give you my Email address in case there is more trouble with the site, if you want it. I would be sorry to lose track of you.

Here is the ending to one of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poems, Elegy Before Death, which I think is a simple way of imagining the greatest of beauty:

Oh, there will pass with your great passing
Little of beauty not your own, --
Only the light from common water,
Only the grace from simple stone.


Best,
Piffka

PS -- Thank you for the website. I will check it out tomorrow. :wink:
___________

Dear Piffka,

Please send your Email address to [email protected], in case the site gets nervous and refuses visitors.

Best,
Oristar

Dear Oristar,

I've sent it. Did you receive it? It would probably be good for you to edit and remove your email as soon as you can.

Going back to re-read Song of Unending Sorrow... so haunting and sad.

Best,
Piffka

Yes, I've received it. dear Piffka.

Take time to read the story.

Best,
Oristar

Dear Oristar,

I have been busy with feasting and slow with wine. You probably know that in the United States, yesterday was Thanksgiving, when people gather with family and friends for an elaborate dinner that symbolizing the bounty we have received... and we give thanks to the "Beneficient Provider" for our grace.

This is a song that we used to sing as children at Thanksgiving time, even though we never went to Grandmother's (she came to us), we didn't have a horse or a sleigh, and it never snowed.

Over the River and Through the Woods,
To Grandmother's house we go.
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
Through white and drifted snow.

Over the River and Through the Woods,
Oh, how the wind does blow.
It stings the toes and bites the nose
As over the ground we go.

I have re-read the Song of Unending Sorrow and think I may never understand everything about it. I was wondering, is it correct to believe that this refers to a real war with Yuyang?

Till war-drums, booming from Yuyang, shocked the whole earth
And broke the tunes of The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
The Forbidden City, the nine-tiered palace, loomed in the dust
From thousands of horses and chariots headed southwest.
The imperial flag opened the way, now moving and now pausing- -
But thirty miles from the capital, beyond the western gate,
The men of the army stopped, not one of them would stir
Till under their horses' hoofs they might trample those moth- eyebrows....
Flowery hairpins fell to the ground, no one picked them up,
And a green and white jade hair-tassel and a yellowgold hair- bird.
The Emperor could not save her, he could only cover his face.
And later when he turned to look, the place of blood and tears
Was hidden in a yellow dust blown by a cold wind.

There must be many hidden meanings in this poem. Is the Emperor's beautiful lover a metaphor for China itself?

The idea that everyone would want to have girl babies to try and conceive another who would attract the Emperor is an amazing thought.

I found a website you might enjoy: http://www.cs.ubc.ca/spider/wang/ -- some of the links seem to be broken but I liked the idealistic visions of the author. I was looking for a reference to Yuyang -- am confused about where/what it is.

Best,
Piffka

Dear Oristar,
I'm having a poem-ergency! I'm still trying to understand the Song of Unending Sorrow.

I have read this lesson plan from California's Polytechnical University at Pomona INDIA-CHINA Studies here -- which describes the historical background of Yang Gui-Fei and the Emperor.

http://www.csupomona.edu/~inch/yangkuei.pdf

I think I am wrong about her being a symbol of China... maybe she symbolizes the royal court with her beauty. Her "full-figured" stature in her maturity reflects the over-flowing richness of the court then (while the rest of China hungered).

I will be looking for Du Fu's poem and copies of the paintings described in the lesson.

There is that strange magical aspect of her messages from beyond the grave -- this seems to "seal the deal" that this was a great love story, yes? I'd sure like to hear your perspective. That romantic aspect was hard for me to accept since this is, after all, the story of a middle-aged man who becomes infatuated with his own son's wife.

That the Emperor is forced to kill his lover through the political intrigues... it reminds me of the excesses of the French royal court... and the downfall of Louis XVI.

Best,
Piffka

Dear Piffka,

I had tried to open A2K but failed for three days in a row, so I became too reluctant to click it again. Well, now I opened it and see you again.

Yang Guifei (719- 756), born Yang Yuhuan, the highest-ranking imperial concubine of Tang Xuanzong, was of Yongle, Puzhou (nowadays Yongji of Shanxi Province -- 山西省) in Tang Dynasty.

Originally, Yang Yuhuan was a concubine of one of the princes. Tang Xuanzong, stunned by her beauty, could not grab her as himself concubine since she was his son's. So Tang Xuanzong thought out a plan, ordered his underlings to force Yang leave home to be as a nun named as Yang Taizhen, and then married her. Well, when they married, Yang was 26 while Tang Xuanzong 61. Since Yang got flavored by the emperor, her cousin Yang Guozhong entered the imperial court and presided over the imperial government. Since then, the dynasty ended the most prosperous period in ancient Chinese history, and was going down. With Tang Xuanzong and Yang Guifei gathering roses day and night, corruption began to spread nationwide. At AD 755, An Lushan rebelled, and the insurgents led by him claimed to kill the treacherous minister Yang Guozhong. The next year, Tang Xuanzhong, with Yang Guifei and her cousin Yang Guozhong, ran for their lives. On the way passing by Maweipo (nowadays western Xingping of Shanxi Province - 陕西省), the troops unanimously asked the emperor to kill Yang Guifei and her cousin, otherwise they would refuse to move on. Hopelessly, Tang Xuanzong agreed. Yang Guozong was killed by solders' weapons, while Yang Guifei had to hang herself in a hall of worshipping Buddha.

Regrading Yuyang, it refers to the military prefecture where An Lushan, the leader of insurgency against Tang Xuanzong commanded his military force. An Lushan was called Yuyang Jiedushi (governor of one or more provinces in charge of both civil and military affairs during Tang Dynasty). Yuyang, about nowadays Ji County, Tianjin. But this is just an opinion in Chinese scholars which needs to be further testified.

That is a real war, however.

Talking about that strange magical aspect which was so hard for you to accept it. Hmm, yes, that was just an imagination in order to make the story vivid! Frankly, the imagination is superstition! But the poet loved it since he lived in that era.

I am sorry you were in poem-ergency and I didn't enter A2K to check it out.

Best,
Oristar

Song of the Pipa
Dear Oristar,
Has it been a month since we talked about poetry? I feel guilty; you see what happens when we don't continue our discussions? Earthquakes.... tsunamis... terrible destruction. It is obvious that we must keep up our good work or face disaster.

With that in mind I have been carefully reading T'ang Poetry websites. I was going to quote a poem, but then found it was from the Sung dynasty (Red Cliffs) and I didn't want to confuse the eras. Then I found this poem hereand wondered what you thought about it. Is this truly a poem that every Chinese schoolchild learns? It has beautiful images and is very sad. Now, I want to hear the Pipa.

Best,
Piffka




By the head water of the Hsuan Yang River
Where maple leaves and bulrushes sigh in the autumn wind,
I bade farewell to a friend departing in the night.
When I dismounted, my guest was already in the boat.
Silently, we lifted our cups for a final toast
But the wine could not soothe this sadness of parting
Across the brimming river that soaked up the moon.

Suddenly from the water came the sound of a pipa.
The host forgot his return, the guest the journey on.
In the darkness we asked for the player.
The music broke off, whoever wishing to speak seemed uncertain.
So we re-lit the lamp, reset our table with food and wine,
And moved our boat nearer, hoping to see the person.
But only after much urging did she appear
Still clutching her pipa that half-covered her face.

She turned the pegs and tested the strings
And as she played we could sense her deep feeling
For each chord and every note was laden with thought
Telling as it were a sorrowful tale of life.
With lowered brows and sure hands, she continued her strumming,
Pouring in the music the endless depths of her heart.
She plucked the strings, brushed them and swept on...
With the song of the Rainbow Skirt and the Six Little Ones.

The major chords chanted like falling rain
The minor chords whispered as in a secret.
Chanting and whispering in delightful medley.
We seemed to hear the patter of falling pearls on a jade plate,
A hidden nightingale among the flowers.
And a brook singing as its water passed the bank.
A cold touch checked the notes. The strings were frozen
and the melody ceased.

In the darkness we shared in her secret-most sorrow
For now the stillness told more than any music could.

A silver jar shattered suddenly and water gushed forth.
Then the clang of armoured horsemen in their fighting gear.
She gave one more sweep with her plectrum
Ripping all four strings like the tearing of silk.
East and west, the boats were hushed by her pipa,
As the autumn moon rose white above the water.

She then inserted the plectrum against the strings,
Adjusted her clothes, composed herself and related her story:

"I was a girl from the Capital," she said.
"My home was at the foot of the Hsia-mo Hill.
At thirteen, I had already mastered the pipa
And among the critics, they considered me the most skilled.
I was familiar with the airs of well-known songs and dances
And my talent and beauty would make any girl envious.
The young men of the Metropolis competed for my favours.
One song alone brought me countless rolls of silk
While jewel hairpins and silver combs lay discarded at my feet.
My clothes too were constantly drenched crimson in wine.
One year's feasting and laughter went on to the next,
As autumn turned into spring with carefree abandon.

Then my brother left for the Army and my aunt died.
Evening and morning the days passed and my beauty waned.
At last, no longer young, I was married to a merchant.
But he cares more for his business than his wife,
Last month, he left for Fou-Liang town to buy tea
Leaving me alone to look after an empty boat.
With only the moon and the cold river for companions.
In the deep of the night, I dreamt of my girlhood
But the happy memories only hastened my tears."

When I heard her playing the pipa, I sighed
When I heard her story, I became sadder still.
"We are fellow-travellers across the world's horizon,
Meeting thus in understanding, and sharing the same fate,
What does past acquaintance matter?
About a year ago, I left the Capital
And now I'm just a sick exile in this town.
The place is so forsaken there is no good music.
For an entire year I heard nothing of string or pipe.
My house near the river is low and damp
With reeds and rushes growing all around.
Staying here, what sound is there morning and night
Except the blood-cuddling cuckoo calls and the crying of apes?
In spring mornings with the flowers
And the moon in autumn nights
I would bring wine, only to drink alone by the river.
It's true there are mountain songs and village piping
But they cut my ears with their coarse and grating sound.
Tonight, hearing you play the pipa
It's like the strains of fairy music from afar.
Stay awhile and play us another tune
And I will compose the lyrics of a song for you."

Moved by my words she stood for a moment,
Then sitting down she began strumming anew
But the forlorn notes were different from before
And everyone listening tried to hold back their tears.

Who among them was most affected but this writer,
A minor official, with his blue sleeves wet.

-- Translated by Francis Chin, published on June 9, 1979
in Singapore's Business Times newspaper,
revised for the Bystander Web site on Nov 27, 2001.

Dear Piffka,

It sounds like that we all have had a presentiment so that our discussion on romantic poetry was disrupted? But both good and bad news usually inspire poets to produce new poems, or inspire us to once more appreciate classical poems, like The Song of the Pipa, which is well-known by educated Chinese. Every students who graduated from high school would have learnt it.

Another translation version of it:

The Song of a Guitar
By Bai Juyi

I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River,
Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn.
I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat,
And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music.
For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other,
When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon -
We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water.
Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way.
We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name.
The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered.
We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us,
Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet.
Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us,
Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.
...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings;
We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played:
Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought,
As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life.
She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music,
Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours.
She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them -
First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones.
The large strings hummed like rain,
The small strings whispered like a secret,
Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled
Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers.
We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand...
By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken
As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away
Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,
Told even more in silence than they had told in sound....
A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water,
And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote -
And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke,
And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk
There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west,
And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart.
...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings,
She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous,
Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital,
Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads,
And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen,
With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians,
Her art the admiration even of experts,
Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers,
How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed
And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song,
And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms,
And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine....
Season after season, joy had followed joy,
Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding,
Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died,
And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded -
With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door;
So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant
Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her,
Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea.
And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth,
No company but the bright moon and the cold water.
And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs
And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears.
Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing;
Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still.
"We are both unhappy - to the sky's end.
We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?
I came, a year ago, away from the capital
And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang -
And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music,
Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year.
My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp,
With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house.
And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? -
The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes.
On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights
I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone,
Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes,
But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears.
And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar,
I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairymusic.
Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again.
And I will write a long song concerning a guitar."
...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment,
Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder,
Although the tunes were different from those she had played before....
The feasters, all listening, covered their faces.
But who of them all was crying the most?
This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.

Dear Oristar,
It is good to start reading poetry again, at least, I am glad to be doing so.

Thank you for providing another translation of the Song of the Pipa. It helps to get a fuller understanding when I read the two slightly different versions. For example, these two sets of lines... almost the same, both beautiful told. The first connects the poet more directly to the musician; the second describes the music more fully.





Why do you think that every student in China is taught this poem? Is it because of the sound of the words? I can't hear and appreciate this, of course, but the websites say there is beautiful rhyming and musicality to the original poem. That could be enough.

Or, do you think it is to introduce students to a philosophical base for their lives? It seems to me, in reading the poem, we are given the tales of two lives. First, the ups and down of the life of the musician, and secondly, the life of the poet/political official who shows, by his deep appreciation for her emotional playing, that he has learned any happiness is ephemeral and life is full of lament. There is also that strong feeling of being an exile and how it is full of lonely sadness. Both of them miss the capital -- he misses the quality of the music and lifestyle -- it is damp and there are jungle noises; she misses her family and the excitement of her youth. To think this poem was written more than a thousand years ago! It amazes me that it feels so modern. Who wouldn't want to enjoy an evening of food and wine, at a candle-lit table on a gently rocking boat, with the most evanescent music you can imagine, drifting across the water. It sounds truly idyllic, despite their individual sadnesses. One can only hope that the two will become friends and find comfort in their memories. The musician and the poet... that's a good combination.

I found that Amazon has some Pipa music that I can listen to. It sounds beautiful, but foreign to my ears. I can imagine that the instrument could show every emotion, as it said in the poem, from the crash of mountains, to the appreciation of a gentle wave in the river.

Am I missing some other things in this poem? Is there an historical significance or cultural ideal that is obvious to you? Were there really people who get to spend so much time on boats? I hope you'll explain more.

Best,
Piffka

Dear Piffka,

Every high school student in China has to learn the poem because it is printed in their textbook.

It is understandable that you've been confused by the translations. The original Chinese poem is one of the best poems in China. Some Chinese scholars think that every good poem had been done by the time of Tang Dynasty, beyong which you can no more find a really good poem. And the Bai Juyi's The Song of a Guitar is at the top of Tang poems. Some lines of the poem are still actively used today by Chinese, for example:

1) 千 呼 萬 喚 始 出 來, 猶 抱 琵 琶 半 遮 面

Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us,
Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.

2) 別 有 幽 愁 暗 恨 生, 此 時 無 聲 勝 有 聲

Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,
Told even more in silence than they had told in sound....

3) 同 是 天 涯 淪 落 人, 相 逢 何 必 曾 相 識

We are both unhappy - to the sky's end.
We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?

Original Chinese lines are pretty cool and very popular, while English version remains unknown (though beautiful told). I don't want to blame the translators who actually tried hard to translate the poem. A greatest poem is in fact heaven-sent. Favorable climatic, geographical and human conditions tegother made it. So it is very hard to successfully translate such a great poem into ancient English (you see, now the translators actually translated the poem with modern English!), so as to refresh readers with classical poetic charm) That is why it amazed you that it feels so modern. It is the failure of translation, not the failure of original work!

I don't think "it is to introduce students to a philosophical base for their lives". The poem mainly reflects the poet's state of mind. Chinese scholars think the poem is neck and neck to Qu Yuan's Lisao, Suffering Throes. One can say there are just two lyrics* in China; that is, one is Bai Juyi's The Song of a Guitar, and another Qu Yuan's Lisao, which is also translated as Encountering Sorrow, or The Lament. (*: or three lyrics, when including Bai Juyi's A Song of Unending Sorrow) And I think it is the historical significance of the poem in Chinese poetry.

The boat was the house of the guitarist! In the past, some Chinese really made boats as their house!

Best,
Oristar

Dear Oristar,
I am trying not to become too dismayed that I cannot fully appreciate the Tang poems since I don't read, let alone speak Chinese. I am glad if I can manage to obtain just a sliver of understanding.

But I have been thinking a lot about how poems become well-loved and are considered the best... in English. I have a book called "The Top Five Hundred Poems" (in English, of course ) and have spent some time trying to see what it is that makes a poem so well-loved. There are many variables. It isn't just philosophy, or point of view or the story behind the poem.

These 500 English poems were selected by "400 contemporary editors, critis and poets for inclusion in their own anthologies." The editor, William Harmon, assumes that if they were selected, it is because they were well-loved. I have some question about that, but nevermind. He does some analysis. One of the things he does is to see how many poems from which century.

Amazingly, not one was written before the thirteenth century! By that time the Tang poems were already ancient! This was his breakdown:

Century Number of Poems
XIII-XV...........23 poems
XVI.................70 poems
XVII................69 poems
XVIII...............47 poems
XIX.................169 poems
XX...................122 poems

Obviously, the Americans are youthful upstarts in the world of poetry. The three most popular English poem according to this anthology are:
1- "The Tiger" by William Blake (18C)
2- "Sir Patrick Spens" (anonymous - possibly a woman?) (14-16C)
3- "To Autumn" by John Keats (18C)

The Tiger is a wonderful poem with great images and memorable wording about a great beast.

Sir Patrick Spens is a Scottish tale of a king who finds a sailor to sail his new ship to Norway to bring him back a wife, but on the return voyage, a storm blows up and the ship is lost at sea. (I should point out that this second poem, despite its apparent high standing is not well known, nor, in my view, that good.)

The John Keats poem, To Autumn, is a three-part ode to "the human season." It is full of descriptions of views, sounds, and feelings. I can see where both Keats and Blake, who both have several poems in this selection, would be well-loved. If you don't know these poems, I can post them for you, but my point was to try and understand what you meant about having three top Chinese poems, by seeing what three top English poems might be. Were there similarities?

And, just as you say, it isn't the philosophy behind the poem or the story. There is some other quality that makes us love one poem and think it is great. It is very interesting to imagine just what that quality or combination of traits is. Why do we love what we love? A difficult question!

You mentioned a third poem as one of three Chinese poems that are considered extra-special... so I went searching for it. I hit the jackpot and found an online course on Chinese poetry in translation here. This course outline showcased "Encountering Sorrow" as one of the best of the Chinese poems.

I'll quote from this course material and post the poem so it is here, in one place. It is a long, long poem... I think it will take some time to read & understand what it is saying.

Oh... have I said before that I wish these poems were shorter! I suppose the wonder and the greatness of them is partly that they can sustain a story and a mood for so many lines. If it is hard to write a poem in ten lines, how much harder to write one of 100 lines?

As ever, I am grateful that you are willing to help me stumble through these translations!

Best,
Piffka



I love it when I can find an instructor's notes on a poem. It often helps me to put my feelings of a poem into perspective.

Here's the poem itself:
ENCOUNTERING SORROW

A prince am I of ancestry renowned,
Illustrious name my royal sire hath found.
When Sirius did in spring its light display,
A child was born, and Tiger marked the day.
When first upon my face my lord's eye glanced,
For me auspicious names he straight advanced,
Denoting that in me Heaven's marks divine
Should with the virtues of the earth combine.
With lavished innate qualities indued,
By art and skill my talents I renewed;
Angelic herbs and sweet selineas too,
And orchids late that by the water grew,
I wove for ornament; till creeping Time,
Like water flowing, stole away my prime.
Magnolias of the glade I plucked at dawn,
At eve beside the stream took winter-thorn.
Without delay the sun and moon sped fast,
In swift succession spring and autumn passed;
The fallen flowers lay scattered on the ground,
The dusk might fall before my dream was found.

Had I not loved my prime and spurned the vile,
Why should I not have changed my former style?
My chariot drawn by steeds of race divine
I urged; to guide the king my sole design.

Three ancient kings there were so pure and true
That round them every fragrant flower grew;
Cassia and pepper of the mountain-side
With melilotus white in clusters vied.
Two monarchs then, who high renown received,
Followed the kingly way, their goal achieved.
Two princes proud by lust their reign abused,
Sought easier path, and their own steps confused.
The faction for illict pleasure longed;
Dreadful their way where hidden perils thronged.
Danger against myself could not appal,
But feared I lest my sovereign's sceptre fall.

Forward and back I hastened in my quest,
Followed the former kings, and took no rest.
The prince my true integrity defamed,
Gave ear to slander, high his anger flamed;
Integrity I knew could not avail,
Yet still endured; my lord I would not fail.
Celestial spheres my witness be on high,
I strove but for his sacred majesty.
Twas first to me he gave his plighted word,
But soon repenting other counsel heard.
For me departure could arouse no pain;
I grieved to see his royal purpose vain.

Nine fields of orchids at one time I grew,
For melilot a hundred acres too,
And fifty acres for the azalea bright,
The rumex fragrant and the lichen white.
I longed to see them yielding blossoms rare,
And thought in season due the spoil to share.
I did not grieve to see them die away,
But grieved because midst weeds they did decay.

Insatiable in lust and greediness
The faction strove, and tired not of excess;
Themselves condoning, others they'd decry,
And steep their hearts in envious jealousy.

Insatiably they seized what they desired,
It was not that to which my heart aspired.
As old age unrelenting hurried near,
Lest my fair name should fail was all my fear.
Dew from magnolia leaves I drank at dawn,
At eve for food were aster petals borne;
And loving thus the simple and the fair,
How should I for my sallow features care?
With gathered vines I strung valeria white,
And mixed with blue wistaria petals bright,
And melilotus matched with cassia sweet,
With ivy green and tendrils long to meet.
Life I adapted to the ancient way,
Leaving the manners of the present day;
Thus unconforming to the modern age,
The path I followed of a bygone sage.

Long did I sigh and wipe away my tears,
To see my people bowed by griefs and fears.
Though I my gifts enhanced and curbed my pride,
At morn they'd mock me, would at eve deride;
First cursed that I angelica should wear,
Then cursed me for my melilotus fair.
But since my heart did love such purity,
I'd not regret a thousand deaths to die.

I marvel at the folly of the king,
So heedless of his people's suffering.
They envied me my mothlike eyebrows fine,
And so my name his damsels did malign.
Truly to craft alone their praise they paid,
The square in measuring they disobeyed;
The use of common rules they held debased;
With confidence their crooked lines they traced.

In sadness plunged and sunk in deepest gloom,
Alone I drove on to my dreary doom.
In exile rather would I meet my end,
Than to the baseness of their ways descend.
Remote the eagle spurns the common range,
Nor deigns since time began its way to change;
A circle fits not with a square design;
Their different ways could not be merged with mine.
Yet still my heart I checked and curbed my pride,
Their blame endured and their reproach beside.
To die for righteousness alone I sought,
For this was what the ancient sages taught.

I failed my former errors to discern;
I tarried long, but now I would return.
My steeds I wheeled back to their former way,
Lest all too long down the wrong path I stray.
On orchid-covered bank I loosed my steed,
And let him gallop by the flow'ry mead
At will. Rejected now and in disgrace,
I would retire to cultivate my grace.
With cress leaves green my simple gown I made,
With lilies white my rustic garb did braid.
Why should I grieve to go unrecognised,
Since in my heart fragrance was truly prized?
My headdress then high-pinnacled I raised,
Lengthened my pendents, where bright jewels blazed.
Others may smirch their fragrance and bright hues,
My innocence is proof against abuse.
Oft I looked back, gazed to the distance still,
Longed in the wilderness to roam at will.
Splendid my ornaments together vied,
With all the fragrance of the flowers beside;
All men had pleasures in their various ways,
My pleasure was to cultivate my grace.
I would not change, though they my body rend;
How could my heart be wrested from its end?

My handmaid fair, with countenance demure,
Entreated me allegiance to abjure:
"A hero perished in the plain ill-starred,
Where pigmies stayed their plumage to discard.
Why lovest thou thy grace and purity,
Alone dost hold thy splendid virtue high?
Lentils and weeds the prince's chamber fill:
Why holdest thou aloof with stubborn will?
Thou canst not one by one the crowd persuade,
And who the purpose of our heart hath weighed?
Faction and strife the world hath ever loved;
Heeding me not, why standest thou removed?"

I sought th'ancestral voice to ease my woe.
Alas, how one so proud could sink so low!
To barbarous south I went across the stream;
Before the ancient I began my theme:
"With odes divine there came a monarch's son,
Whose revels unrestrained were never done;
In antics wild, to coming perils blind,
He fought his brother, and his sway declined.
The royal archer, in his wanton chase
For foxes huge, his kingdom did disgrace.
Such wantonness predicts no happy end;
His queen was stolen by his loyal friend.
The traitor's son, clad in prodigious might,
In incest sinned and cared not what was right.
He revelled all his days, forgetting all;
His head at last in treachery did fall.
And then the prince, who counsels disobeyed,
Did court disaster, and his kingdom fade.
A prince his sage in burning cauldrons tossed;
His glorious dynasty ere long was lost.

"But stern and pious was their ancient sire,
And his successor too did faith inspire;
Exalted were the wise, the able used,
The rule was kept and never was abused.
The august heaven, with unbiassed grace,
All men discerns, and helps the virtuous race;
Sagacious princes through their virtuous deed
The earth inherit, and their reigns succeed.
The past I probed, the future so to scan,
And found these rules that guide the life of man:
A man unjust in deed who would engage?
Whom should men take as guide except the sage?
In mortal dangers death I have defied,
Yet could look back, and cast regret aside.
Who strove, their tool's defects accounting nought,
Like ancient sages were to cauldrons brought."
Thus I despaired, my face with sad tears marred,
Mourning with bitterness my years ill-starred;
And melilotus leaves I took to stem
The tears that streamed down to my garment's hem.
Soiling my gown, to plead my case I kneeled;
Th'ancestral voice the path to me revealed.

Swift jade-green dragons, birds with plumage gold,
I harnessed to the whirlwind, and behold,
At daybreak from the land of plane-trees grey,
I came to paradise ere close of day.
I wished within the sacred brove to rest,
But now the sun was sinking in the west;
The driver of the sun I bade to stay,
Ere with the setting rays we haste away.
The way was long, and wrapped in gloom did seem,
As I urged on to seek my vanished dream.

The dragons quenched their thirst beside the lake
Where bathed the sun, whilst I upon the brake
Fastened my reins; a golden bough I sought
To brush the sun, and tarred there in sport.
The pale moon's charioteer I then bade lead,
The master of the winds swiftly succeed;
Before, the royal blue bird cleared the way;
The lord of thunder urged me to delay.
I bade the phoenix scan the heaven wide;
But vainly day and night its course it tried;
The gathering whirlwinds drove it from my sight,
Rushing with lowering clouds to check my flight;
Sifting and merging in the firmament,
Above, below, in various hues they went.

The gate-keeper of heaven I bade give place,
But leaning on his door he scanned my face;
The day grew dark, and now was nearly spent;
Idly my orchids into wreaths I bent.
The virtuous and the vile in darkness merged;
They veiled my virtue, by their envy urged.
At dawn the waters white I left behind;
My steed stayed by the portals of the wind;
Yet, gazing back, a bitter grief I felt
That in the lofty crag no damsel dwelt.

I wandered eastward to the palace green,
And pendents sought where jasper boughs were seen,
And vowed that they, before their splendour fade,
As gift should go to grace the loveliest maid.
The lord of clouds I then bade mount the sky
To seek the steam where once the nymph did lie;
As pledge I gave my belt of splendid sheen,
My councillor appointed go-between.
Fleeting and wilful like capricious cloud,
Her obstinacy swift no change allowed.
At dusk retired she to the crag withdrawn,
Her hair beside the stream she washed at dawn.
Exulting in her beauty and her pride,
Pleasure she worshipped, and no whim denied;
So fair of form, so careless of all grace,
I turned to take another in her place.

To earth's extremities I sought my bride,
And urged my train through all the heaven wide.
Upon a lofty crag of jasper green
The beauteous princess of the west was seen.
The falcon then I bade entreat the maid,
But he, demurring, would my course dissuade;
The turtle-dove cooed soft and off did fly,
But I mistrusted his frivolity.
Like whelp in doubt, like timid fox in fear,
I wished to go, but wandered ever near.
With nuptial gifts the phoenix swiftly went;
I feared the prince had won her ere I sent.
I longed to travel far, yet with no bourn,
I could but wander aimless and forlorn.
Before the young king was in marriage bound,
The royal sisters twain might still be found;
My suit was unauspicious at the best;
I knew I had small hope in my request.

The world is dark, and envious of my grace;
They veil my virture and the evil praise.
Thy chamber dark lies in recesses deep,
Sagacious prince, risest thou not from sleep?
My zeal unknown the prince would not descry;
How could I bear this harsh eternity?

With mistletoe and herbs of magic worth,
I urged the witch the future to show forth.
"If two attain perfection they must meet,
But who is there that would thy virtue greet?
Far the nine continents their realm display;
Why here to seek thy bride doth thou delay?
Away!" she cried, "set craven doubt aside,
If beauty's sought, there's none hath with thee vied.
What place is there where orchids flower not fair?
Why is thy native land thy single care?

"Now darkly lies the world in twilight's glow,
Who doth your defects and your virtue know?
Evil and good herein are reconciled;
The crowd alone hath nought but is defiled.
With stinking mugwort girt upon their waist,
They curse the others for their orchids chaste;
Ignorant thus in choice of fragrance rare,
Rich ornaments how could they fitly wear?
With mud and filth they fill their pendent bag;
Cursing the pepper sweet, they brawl and brag."
Although the witches counsel I held good,
In foxlike indecision still I stood.
At night the wizard great made his descent,
And meeting him spiced rice I did present.
The angels came, shading with wings the sky;
From mountains wild the deities drew nigh.
With regal splendour shone the solemn sight,
And thus the wizard spake with omens bright:

"Take office high or low as days afford,
If one there be that could with thee accord;
Like ancient kings austere who sought their mate,
Finding the one who should fulfill their fate.
Now if thy heart doth cherish grace within,
What need is there to choose a go-between?
A convict toiled on rocks to expiate
His crime; his sovereign gave him great estate.
A butcher with his knife made roundelay;
His king chanced there and happy proved the day.
A prince who heard a cowherd chanting late
Raised him to be a councillor of state.
Before old age o'ertake thee on thy way,
Life still is young; to profit turn thy day.
Spring is but brief, when cuckoos start to sing,
And flowers will fade that once did spread and spring."

On high my jasper pendent proudly gleamed,
Hid by the crowd with leaves that thickly teemed;
Untiring they relentless means employed;
I feared it would through envy be destroyed.
This gaudy age so fickle proved its will,
That to what purpose did I linger still?
E'en orchids changed, their fragrance quickly lost,
And midst the weeds angelicas were tossed.
How could these herbs, so fair in former day,
Their hue have changed, and turned to mugworts grey?
The reason for their fall, not far to seek,
Was that to tend their grace their will proved weak.

I thought upon the orchids I might lean;
No flowers appeared, but long bare leaves were seen;
Their grace abandoned, vulgar taste to please,
Content with lesser flowers to dwell at ease.
To boasts and flattery the pepper turned;
To fill the pendent bag the dogwood yearned;
Thus only upon higher stations bent,
How could they long retain their former scent?
Since they pursued the fashion of the time,
Small wonder they decayed e'en in their prime.
Viewing the orchids' and the peppers' plight
Why blame the rumex and selinea white?

My jasper pendent rare I was beguiled
To leave, and to this depth then sank defiled.
It blossomed still and never ceased to grow;
Like water did its lovely fragrance flow:
Pleasure I took to wear this bough in sport,
As roaming wild the damsel fair I sought.
Thus in my prime, with ornaments bedecked,
I roved the earth and heaven to inspect.

With omens bright the seer revealed the way,
I then appointed an auspicious day.
As victuals rare some jasper twigs I bore,
And some prepared, provision rich to store;
Then winged horses to my chariot brought
My carriage bright with jade and ivory wrought.

How might tow hearts at variance accord?
I roamed till peace be to my mind restored.
The pillar of the earth I stayed beside;
The way was long, and winding far and wide.
In twilight glowed the clouds with wondrous sheen,
And chirping flew the birds of jasper green.
I went at dawn high heaven's ford to leave;
To earth's extremity I came at eve.
On phoenix wings the dragon pennons lay;
With plumage bright they flew to lead the way.
I crossed the quicksand with its treach'rous flood,
Beside the burning river, red as blood;
To bridge the stream my dragons huge I bade,
Invoked the emperor of the west to aid.

The way was long, precipitous in view;
I bade my train a different path pursue.
There where the heaven fell we turned a space,
And marked the western sea as meeting-place.
A thousand chariots gathred in my train,
With axles full abreast we drove amain;
Eight horses drew the carriages behind;
The pennons shook like serpents in the wind.
I lowered flags, and from my whip refrained;
My train of towering chariots I restrained.
I sang the odes. I trod a sacred dance,
In revels wild my last hour to enhance.
Ascending where celestial heaven blazed,
On native earth for the last time we gazed;
My slaves were sad, my steeds all neighed in grief,
And gazing back, the earth they would not leave.

Epilogue
Since in that kingdom all my virtue spurn,
Why should I for the royal city yearn?
Wide though the world, no wisdom can be found.
I'll seek the stream where once the sage was drowned.

You don't go to Germany for the weather and you don't learn English for the poetry. It's kind of hard to have meaningful poetry in a language with no real grammar. It's not hard to see why English has become the international language of business; it's a natural businessman's language, with all the IndoEuropean grammar deliberately stripped out of it. Best you'll find is probably Poe and Coleridge.

Now, THIS is what I'd call a poem:

http://russian.dmll.cornell.edu/horseman/mednyi.htm

Hello Gunga Snake. Rather than learning English so that one can read the poetry, we turn it around. Reading poetry is a good way to learn another language.

Your poem looks interesting but I can't read Russian. If you'd like to translate it, please do.

Dear Oristar,

I found this poem while I was drifting around the internet and thought you might appreciate it. Billy Collins was the Poet Laureate of the United State five years ago.

Reading an Anthology of
Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty,
I Pause To Admire the Length
and Clarity of Their Titles
by Billy Collins

It seems these poets have nothing
up their ample sleeves
they turn over so many cards so early,
telling us before the first line
whether it is wet or dry,
night or day, the season the man is standing in,
even how much he has had to drink.

Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow.
Maybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name.

"Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune
on a Cloudy Afternoon" is one of Sun Tung Po's.
"Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea"
is another one, or just
"On a Boat, Awake at Night."

And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with
"In a Boat on a Summer Evening
I Heard the Cry of a Waterbird.
It Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying
My Woman Is Cruel--Moved, I Wrote This Poem."

There is no iron turnstile to push against here
as with headings like "Vortex on a String,"
"The Horn of Neurosis," or whatever.
No confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over.

Instead, "I Walk Out on a Summer Morning
to the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall"
is a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders.

And "Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors"
is a servant who shows me into the room
where a poet with a thin beard
is sitting on a mat with a jug of wine
whispering something about clouds and cold wind,
about sickness and the loss of friends.

How easy he has made it for me to enter here,
to sit down in a corner,
cross my legs like his, and listen.

I liked it very much.

Best,
Piffka

That's Pushkin's Bronze Horseman (Myednij Vsadnik), considered to be one of the half dozen best poetic works in Russian; translations aren't difficult to find. It's also a work which makes heavy use of declensions (case endings) as opposed to word order to express grammatical relationships and does it in such a way as to create both rhyme and rythem in the work. It's the sort of thing I mentioned as not being possible in English since that sort of old fashioned indoeuropean grammar does not exist in English.

The last little stanza of the first part: of the thing kind of gets to me:

И он, как будто околдован,
Как будто к мрамору прикован
Сойти не может! Вкруг него
Вода и больше ничего!
И, обращен к нему спиною,
В неколебимой вышине,
Над возмущенною Невою
Стоит с простертою рукою
Кумир на бронзовом коне.

in Roman letters

I on kak budto ahkoldoven
kak budto k'mramoru prikoven
soidti ne moxhet, v'krug nevo
vodah, b boylshe nichevo
i obraschyon k'nemy spinoyu
v'nekolibimoy vuishinye
nad vozmuschyenuyu nevoyu
staiit c'prostyortuyu rukoyu
kumir na bronzovom konye.

and he, as if enchanged
as if forged into marble
cannot move, around him
water, and nothing else
and turned towards him, behind him
on the unshakable height
over the raging waters of the Neva
stands with an outstretched arm
the idol on the bronze horse (Tsar peter)...