An English Version of a Song Chain

AUTUMN:  A Song Chain by Ma Zhiyuan

1.

A hundred years in a butterfly's dream.

Look back and lament the past.

Spring comes today.

Flowers fade tomorrow.

The night's deep. The lamp's out.  Down three cups of wine.

     --tune:  Running a Boat at Night

I'm very tempted to go with "Pound three cups of wine."  I generally try to avoid slang that would wrongly place a line chronologically or geographically and use instead more or less neutral literary diction.  But the literal translation is, "Hurriedly punish cups."  I'll decide after I put back a few beers.

2.

Recall the palaces of Qin and Han.

All come down to grass, fields of cows and sheep.

No wonder

fishermen and woodsmen are wordless.

Tombs stand in wilderness.

Monuments lie broken.

Who can tell dragons from snakes?

     --tune:  Evergreen Tree Song




3.
Thrown into fox paths and hare caves,
how many heroes?
Strong legs, the tripod, but broken at the waist.
Wei-Jin?
     --tune:  Celebrating the Yuan He


I'm not sure that I really understand this part.  I include it only to make the whole chain of ci complete.  The tripod was an common form for ancient Chinese pots, often with three stubby, hollow, pointed legs that are of a piece with the body of the pot.  Looking at some picture, I could see perhaps that the pot above the small legs could be construed as lower body missing the part above the waist.  

4.

So Heaven makes you rich--

don't be profligate.

Good days and fine nights aren't forever.

Rich families' sons,

your hearts more and like iron,

wind and moon missing from your painted halls.

     --tune:  Plum-Falling Wind




5.
Before me again, the red sun slanting west,
fast as a downhill carriage.
Not resisting the mirror that holds more snow white hair.
Going to bed, departing my shoes.
Don't laugh at the owl's ungainly nest.
Muddled, I'd been playing dumb.
     --tune:  Wind Entering the Pines 

6.

Profit and name are gone.

Right and wrong have come to nothing.

No one kicks up red dust at my front gate.

A green tree roofs the corner of the room.

Blue mountains fill the cracks at the top of the wall.

And there is a bamboo fence and a grass hut.

     --tune:  Plucking Can't Harm It




7.
Crickets chirp through a long, peaceful sleep.
Roosters crow--the ten thousand things go on and on.
Will there be a year when this will end?
Look:  ants massing, arraying themselves for battle,
bees frantically brewing honey,
flies desperately fighting for blood.

In Lord Bei's Green Field Hall,
in Magistrate Dao's White Lotus Lodge,
I love the things of the coming autumn:
with dew, picking the yellow flowers,
with frost, parceling out the purple crabs.
Warm the wine over burning red leaves.
Think of the shallow cup of our lives--
how many autumn festivals can we enjoy?
If anyone asks after me, remember my boy,
should Beihai himself come to visit,
tell him that Dungli is already drunk.
     --tune:  Feast at the Departing Pavilion


Beihai was a person of the late Han dynasty known for his hospitality, particularly for the food and drink he provided.  Dungli was the courtesy name of the author Ma Zhiyuan.  A courtesy name was taken or given at the age of twenty as a sign of adulthood.


My source for constructing my English versions of these connected ci has again been Fifty Songs from the Yuan by Richard F. S. Yang and Charles R. Metzger.

Translations of Rumi to Date

450 AK


Your scent has never left my nose.
Your face has never left my eyes.
All my life I've longed for you, night and day.
My life is now gone and only that longing is left.




1784 UT


How cruel to play a tanboor for the deaf,
to lodge Joseph with the blind,
to put sugar in the mouth of nausea
or a nymph in the bed of impotence.




1082 AK


For a while dwelling among men,
never catching a scent of grace, a tint of kindness,
so I made myself secret again,
water in iron, fire in stone.




1135 UT


Like a charmed snake, I'm twisting and turning.
Like a lock of the beloved's hair, I'm twisting and turning.
What kind of writhing this is, I swear I don't know.
But I know I'm nothing without twisting and turning.




656 AK


Like the River Oxus is the lover's heart's blood.
And the lover himself is froth on that flood.
Your body is a wheel and love is its water.
Can a mill wheel turn without water?





1227 AK


In every world I see an eye.
In every eye I see an world.
The cross-eyed see one as two--
as do you--but I see two as one.



700 AK


Samaa makes our hearts restless,
charged with the lightning of spring clouds.
O Venus of Pleasures, open your generous palm,
for hands are still and their drums are silent.


"Samaa" is a Sufi term for ceremonies involving prayer, song, and dance.  The rituals of the whirling dervishes are a kind of samaa most westerners have heard of.




232 AK


Don't speak of night, for our day never darkens.
Religion has love; but love, no religion.
Love is a shoreless sea, where many drown
without crying or calling to God. 

And Another Rumi

Samaa makes our hearts restless,
filled with the lightning of spring clouds.
O Venus of Pleasures, open your generous palm,
for hands are still and drums are silent.


"Samaa" is a Sufi term for ceremonies involving prayer, song, and dance.  The rituals of the whirling dervishes are a kind of samaa most westerners have heard of.

Another Rumi Rubai

In every world I see an eye.
In every eye I see an world.
The cross-eyed see one as two--
as do you--but I see two as one.

Its ragged end gone,
the old board still smells like pine
at the second cut.

A few days ago, I was listening to an installment of the Vox podcast The Weeds.  Jane Coaston, not a Weeds regular, but also from Vox, was recounting an incident when she, a biracial woman, was out with her mother, who is white.  At a moment when she was far enough away from her mother to not be obviously with her, she was approached by a guy from the Nation of Islam.  He was regaling her with the whites-are-devils Nation of Islam line, when her mother came up to her.  The guy was taken aback and really angry.

Ms. Coaston's comment on the incident was that, while this man was full of racial hate, he wasn't an example of racism.  She didn't elaborate too much, but I think the point was that, absent the power to oppress, there can be no racism.  Probably what has happened here is that after years of promoting the notion that racism is not just individual conscious prejudice, but can be the disadvantages and violence built into a social system that an individual can unknowingly participate in, one large segment of the liberal/progressive community has wholly abandoned the notion that racism can be meaningfully located in one person's thoughts and feelings.  I am entirely convinced that systemic racism exists and is a significant force in the world.  But I don't see why we should shift the definition from one thing to another thing, rather than just extend the definition from the individual to the systemic, which was the original impetus.  That walking through the darkness with a flaming torch illuminates what is ahead by obscuring what is behind is a metaphor we do not need here.

Actually, I think I do see why the definition has shifted. First, removing the possibility that an member of an oppressed minority can be racist, no matter how irrational their prejudice or how indiscriminate their hatred of everyone in some other group, helps in retaining the absolute virtue of the oppressed.   This makes the struggle for justice seem simpler and more straightforward than it likely is.  And then there is the postmodern sense that everything reduces to power relationships.  So then an impotent hatred of another race is not racism at all.

FIGURE AND THE GROUND OF BEING


Look down
upon the steep, painted canyon wall
to the silver, sun-bright water
and lament what
has washed away,
what other beauty
it might have made,
what was lost
from the uncarved jade.