Li Shangyin's "Untitled" Love Poems

Your coming was an empty promise.
     Your going was without a trace.
At the fifth bell,
     moonlight slanted across the tower
as I wakened from despairing dreams,
     my cries not calling you back.
These pale words, this hasty letter,
     written before the ink could thicken.
One candle lights half the quilt
     with the kingfisher in a golden cage.
A faint scent of musk
     lingers on the embroidered lotus curtain.
Young Master Liu
     raged at the distance to the faerie hill.
But you are ten thousand mountains,
     ten thousand ranges farther.







Sighs of the east wind bringing fine rain.
Faint thunder from beyond the lotus pond.
Incense seeps through the jaw of the golden toad lock.
Water comes up on the silk of the jade tiger winch.
Jia's daughter peeped through the screen at Han the young clerk.
Princess Mi left her pillow for the poet prince of Wei.
Spring heart, don't contend with flowers for opening.
One inch of burning passion makes one inch of ash.

A few comments on interpretation:  Some say the "faint thunder" should be taken as the sound of carriage wheels--a lover leaving or not stopping.  Possible, but I don't see any evidence in the text for it.  The lock is an ornamental one that latches by closing the toad's mouth.  The jade tiger is a decoration on a pulley or winch over a well.  For clarity, I was going to go with "rope" rather than "silk," but I read that "silk" in conjunction with the "incense" of the preceding line is suggestive of sex or romance.  And then the 5th and 6th lines each refer to a story of illicit love. The image in the last line is probably of an incense stick that does not diminish in length as the incense burns away.  

Phoenix tails, folds of fragrant silk.

Green canopy, a late night tryst.

Her fan hides the moon, but not her shame.

A carriage thunders off, closed to words.

Silence and emptiness, gold embers, dark ashes.

Nothing left but the red pomegranate wine.

A piebald horse still tied to a hanging willow.

And from where in the southwest may a sweet breeze blow?

Meeting is hard and parting is harder.
The east wind slackens and flowers wither.
The spring silk worm spins silk till it dies.
The wax candle sheds tears till it'd ash.
Morning mirror, fretting over disordered hair.
Midnight chanting, not feeling the cold.
Penglai, the faerie mountain, is somewhere near.
Bluebird, would you spy it out for me?

Alt:  The spring silk worm spins till it dies.
       The wax candle weeps till it's ash.
     
        Penglai, her faerie mountain, can't be far.

      

Miss No Worries' rooms, hung with heavy curtains.
Lying in her bed through the long, quiet night.
Sleeping with the Goddess, that's just a dream.
Courting the little maiden, that's not me either.
Wind and waves flatten the water chestnut stems.
Moon and dew sweeten scentless cassia leaves.
Love, be it little but lovesickness,
I'm mad for its fevered clarity.




Under last night's stars, among last night's winds,
west painted chamber, East Cassia Hall.
Bodies have no brightly flashing phoenix wings to fly together.
Hearts have a magic tie like the single line down a rhino horn.
At the table, playing pass the hook, drinking warm spring wine.
Split into teams, guessing which hand, all red in candlelight.
And then came the summons to duty of rolling drums.
My horse and I, chaff blowing toward the Orchid Terrace.


In my reading, lines one and two and five through eight carry the narrative of a gathering of friends drinking and playing party games the previous night and then of Li's being called away to his government duties in the Orchid Terrace where his office was located.  His lover was presumably in the group of friends he had to leave.  It is common in lushi, eight-line regulated verse, for one or both of the middle two couplets to say something philosophical or symbolic rather than give details of the specific scene or event that the poem is about.  That is the function here of the second couplet, lines three and four. According to L.C. Wang, there is supposedly an unbroken line from tip to base on a rhinoceras horn that symbolizes an unbreakable bond between distant lovers.




In the heading for this post I have "untitled" in quotes because the poems actually do have titles.  Each is titled "No Title."

    

      

Translations of Some Chinese Classical Poems with Buddhist Themes

SITTING ALONE ON AN AUTUMN NIGHT


Alone, grieving over my graying hair.
In the empty hall, nearly nine o'clock.
Mountain fruit fall in heavy rain.
Grasshoppers sing in my lamplight.
Hair gone white can never go back.
Nothing can change to yellow gold.
Want to cast off age and illness?
You need to study not being born.

     --Wang Wei

Some translators have "no rebirth" in the last line for what is most literally "no-birth."  But I think that with Wang Wei's Buddhism being the Dao-tinged Buddhism of Zen, he wouldn't have been so concerned with reincarnation.  Perhaps the the reference would have been more to the illusion of self, of ego, of something that came into being at a certain time and persisted in its essence all through one's life.  To not hang on to that illusion.

PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE

The Temple of Teeming Fragrance,

measureless miles in summit clouds.

Ancient forest, a pathless way.

Deep mountains, directionless bell.

Spring water over jagged rocks.

Yellow sun on cool green pines.

Twilight, winding pool.  Quiet sitting

uncoils the poison dragon of the heart.

     --Wang Wei

DEER FENCE

Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.

   --Wang Wei

In my old age, I want only peace.

The ten thousand things are not my concern.

I've no plans for the rest of my life

but to come back to this, my ancient woods.

Piney wind blows my girdle open.

Mountain moon lights upon the lute I play.

So where's the warp and weft of the world?

Fishermen's songs come far up the inlet.

     --Wang Wei

A BUDDHIST RETREAT BEHIND BROKEN MOUNTAIN TEMPLE

Clear, quiet dawn enters the old temple.
Early sun brightens the forest heights.
Crooked path comes to a secluded space.
A monk's cottage deep in flowers and trees.
Light through the mountains plays over bird flight.
A deep pool mirrors both sky and heart.
Ten thousand sounds of nature are suffused
with the one tone of the temple bell.
     --Chang Jian

Alt:  Ten thousand sounds of nature are resolved
         in the one tone of the temple bell.

TO A JAPANESE MONK RETURNING HOME

Destined to come seeking the source in China.

Your voyage here was like a dream of distance,

floating between heaven and the vast green sea.

Now, the vessel goes lightly that carries the Way.

Water and moon are solitary as your Zen.

Fish and dragons absorb the sound of your chanting.

The single lamp of your compassion, its light

returns to watchers at the heart of the world.

     --Qian Qi

TO SOUTH CREEK SEEKING DAO MAN CHANG IN HIS SECRET PLACE

All along the single path,

footprints in strawberry moss.

White clouds over quiet islands.

Spring grass latching an idle gate.

After rain, the look of the pines.

Up the mountain, the river’s source.

Sitting Zen in flowers by the creek.

Face to face, I forget what to say.

     --Liu Changqing

A New Wang Wei Translation

SITTING ALONE ON AN AUTUMN NIGHT


Alone, grieving over my graying hair.
In the empty hall, nearly nine o'clock.
Mountain fruit fall in heavy rain.
Grasshoppers sing in my lamplight.
Hair gone white can never go back.
Nothing can change to yellow gold.
Want to cast off age and illness?
You need to study not being born.

Some translators have "no rebirth" in the last line for what is most literally "no-birth."  But I think that with Wang Wei's Buddhism being the Dao-tinged Buddhism of Zen, he wouldn't have been so concerned with reincarnation.  Perhaps the the reference would have been more to the illusion of self, of ego, of something that came into being at a certain time and persisted in its essence all through one's life.  To not hang on to that illusion.

A New Li Shangyin Translation

POEMS FOR SOMEONE II


Sighs of the east wind bringing fine rain.
Faint thunder from beyond the lotus pond.
Incense seeps through the jaw of the golden toad lock.
Water comes up on the silk of the jade tiger winch.
Jia's daughter peeped through the screen at Han the young clerk.
Princess Mi left her pillow for the poet prince of Wei.
Spring heart, don't contend with flowers for opening.
One inch of passion shared becomes one inch of ash.

Alt.:  One inch of burning passion makes one inch of ash.

A few comments on interpretation:  Some say the "faint thunder" should be taken as the sound of carriage wheels--a lover leaving or not stopping.  Possible, but I don't see any evidence in the text for it.  The lock is an ornamental one that latches by closing the toad's mouth.  The jade tiger is a decoration on a pulley or winch over a well.  For clarity, I was going to go with "rope" rather than "silk," but I read that "silk" in conjunction with the "incense" of the preceding line is suggestive of sex or romance.
And then the 5th and 6th lines each refer to a story of illicit love.  The image in the last line is probably of an incense stick that does not diminish in length as the incense burns away.  

READING LAOZI


Those who speak, don't know.  Those who know, don't speak.
I heard this line from that old gentleman.
So if the old fellow did know the Dao,
what did he think of his five thousand words?
     --Bai Juyi, my tr.

读老子

言者不如知者默
此语吾闻于老君
若道老君是知者
缘何自著五千文

dú lǎo zi

yán zhě bù zhī zhī zhě mò
cǐ yǔ wú wén yú lǎo jūn
ruò dào lǎo jūn shì zhī zhě
yuán hé zì ruò wǔ qiān wén

A New Du Fu Translation

FACING SNOW


Battle cries, many new ghosts.
Old, alone--worry and grief.
Ragged clouds are low at dusk.
Snow swirls around and around.
Ladle and cup--green wine gone.
Dying embers--stove still red.
I sit, no news from anywhere,
my books blank with my sorrow.
     --my tr.

对雪

战哭多新鬼

愁吟独老翁

乱云低薄暮

急雪舞回风

瓢弃尊无绿

炉存火似红

数州消息断

愁坐正书空

duì xuě

zhàn kū duō xīn guǐ
chóu yín dú lǎo wēng
luàn yún dī bó mù
jí xuě wǔ huí fēng
piáo qì zūn wú lǜ
lú cún huǒ sì hóng
shù zhōu xiāo xī duàn
chóu zuò zhèng shū kōng

A New Wang Wei Translation

Surely you can say,
having come from my village,
if the winter plum
has already blossomed there
by the filigreed window.


You may have noticed that it's odd that this is in the Japanese tanka form--what with Wang Wei being Chinese.  I suppose it's because I didn't sit down to work on it, but just stumbled on a memory of this poem in my reverie while taking a shower.