Chapter 2

To Confucius, as has been already stated, is due that groundwork of Chinese poetry -- the Odes. But the master gave his fellow countrymen an ethical system based upon sound common sense, and a deep knowledge of their customs and characteristics. There is little in the Confucian classics to inspire a poet, and we must turn to Buddhism and the mystical philosophy of Lao Tzu for any source of spiritual inspiration from which the poets have drawn. Buddhism and Taoism are sisters. Their parents are self-observance and the Law. Both are quietists, yet in this respect they differ, that the former is the grey quietist, the latter the pearl. The neutral tint is better adapted to the sister in whose eyes all things are Maya -- illusion. The shimmer of pearl belongs of right to her whose soul reflects the colour and quiet radiance of a thousand dreams. Compassion urged the one, the love of harmony led the other. How near they were akin! how far apart they have wandered! Yet there has always been this essential difference between them, that while the Buddhist regards the senses as windows looking out upon unreality and mirage, to the Taoist they are doors through which the freed soul rushes to mingle with the colours and tones and contours of the universe. Both Buddha and Lao Tzu are poets, one listening to the rhythm of infinite sorrow, one to the rhythm of infinite joy. Neither knows anything of reward at the hands of men or angels. The teaching of the Semitic religions, "Do good to others that you may benefit at their hands," does not occur in their pages, nor any hints of sensuous delights hereafter.* In all the great Buddhist poems, of which the Shu Hsing Tsan Ching is the best example, there is the same deep sadness, the haunting sorrow of doom. To look on beautiful things is only to feel more poignantly the passing of bright days, and the time when the petals must leave the rose. The form of desire hides within it the seeds of decay. In this epic of which I have spoken, Buddha sees the lovely and virtuous Lady Aruna coming to greet him, says to his disciples:

-- * This is a simplistic and inaccurate picture of religious teachings. Mr. Cranmer-Byng, like many cross-cultural scholars, seems to have fallen into the trap of seeing only noble things afar, and only ignoble things at hand. As counter-examples, there are numerous schools of Buddhism, some of which DO offer a type of heaven; and the Confucian ideal of reciprocity can easily be, and often has been, misinterpreted in the same way as Semitic religions. -- A. Light, 1995. --

"This woman is indeed exceedingly beautiful, able to fascinate the minds of the religious; so then keep your recollections straight! Let wisdom keep your mind in subjection! Better fall into the fierce tiger's mouth, or under the sharp knife of the executioner, than to dwell with a woman. . . . A woman is anxious to exhibit her form and shape, whether walking, standing, sitting, or even sleeping; even when represented as a picture, she desires most of all to set off the blandishments of her beauty, and thus rob men of their steadfast heart! How then ought you to guard yourselves? By regarding her tears and her smiles as enemies, her stooping form, her hanging arms, and all her disentangled hair as toils designed to entrap man's heart. Then how much more should you suspect her studied, amorous beauty! when she displays her dainty outline, her richly ornamented form, and chatters gaily with the foolish man! Ah, then! what perturbation and what evil thoughts, not seeing underneath the sorrows of impermanence, the impurity, the unreality! Considering these as the reality, all desires die out."*

-- * `Sacred Books of the East', vol. 19 pp. 253-4. --

How different is this meeting of beauty and Buddhism from the meeting of Ssu-K`ung T`u, the great Taoist poet, with an unknown girl!

Gathering the water-plants From the wild luxuriance of spring, Away in the depth of a wild valley Anon, I see a lovely girl. With green leaves the peach-trees are loaded, The breeze blows gently along the stream, Willows shade the winding path, Darting orioles collect in groups. Eagerly I press forward As the reality grows upon me. . . . 'Tis the eternal theme, Which, though old, is ever new.*

Here is reality emerging from the unreal, spring renewing, love and beauty triumphant over death and decay. The girl is the central type and symbol. From her laughing eyes a thousand dead women look out once more on spring, through her poets find their inspiration. Beauty is the key that unlocks the secrets of the frozen world, and brings the dead to life again.

-- * `History of Chinese Literature', by Professor Herbert Giles, p. 180. --

The Symbol of Decay!

The Symbol of Immortality!

It is perhaps both. There are times when the grave words of the Dhammapada fall like shadows along the path: "What is life but the flower or the fruit which falls when ripe, yet ever fears the untimely frost? Once born, there is naught but sorrow; for who is there can escape death? From the first moment of life, the result of passionate love and desire, there is nought but the bodily form transitional as the lightning flash." Yet apart from all transitory passions and the ephemeral results of mortal love, the song of the Taoist lover soars unstained, untrammelled. Man attains not by himself, nor woman by herself, but, like the one-winged birds of the Chinese legend, they must rise together. To be a great lover is to be a great mystic, since in the highest conception of mortal beauty that the mind can form there lies always the unattainable, the unpossessed, suggesting the world of beauty and finality beyond our mortal reach. It is in this power of suggestion that the Chinese poets excel. Asked to differentiate between European and Chinese poetry, some critics would perhaps insist upon their particular colour sense, instancing the curious fact that where we see blue to them it often appears green, and vice versa, or the tone theories that make their poems so difficult to understand; in fact, a learned treatise would be written on these lines, to prove that the Chinese poets were not human beings as we understand humanity at all. It is, however, not by this method that we can begin to trace the difference between the poets of East and West, but in the two aspects of life which no amount of comparison can reconcile.

To the Chinese such commonplace things as marriage, friendship, and home have an infinitely deeper meaning than can be attached to them by civilisation which practically lives abroad, in the hotels and restaurants and open houses of others, where there is no sanctity of the life within, no shrine set apart for the hidden family re-union, and the cult of the ancestral spirit. To the Western world, life, save for the conventional hour or so set aside on the seventh day, is a thing profane. In the far East the head of every family is a high-priest in the calling of daily life. It is for this reason that a quietism is to be found in Chinese poetry ill appealing to the unrest of our day, and as dissimilar to our ideals of existence as the life of the planets is to that of the dark bodies whirling aimlessly through space.

The Odes of Confucius

1765-585 B.C.

Collected by Confucius about 500 B.C.

Sadness

The sun is ever full and bright, The pale moon waneth night by night. Why should this be?

My heart that once was full of light Is but a dying moon to-night.

But when I dream of thee apart, I would the dawn might lift my heart, O sun, to thee.

Trysting Time

I

A pretty girl at time o' gloaming Hath whispered me to go and meet her Without the city gate. I love her, but she tarries coming. Shall I return, or stay and greet her? I burn, and wait.

II

Truly she charmeth all beholders, 'Tis she hath given me this jewel, The jade of my delight; But this red jewel-jade that smoulders, To my desire doth add more fuel, New charms to-night.

III

She has gathered with her lily fingers A lily fair and rare to see. Oh! sweeter still the fragrance lingers From the warm hand that gave it me.

The Soldier

I climbed the barren mountain, And my gaze swept far and wide For the red-lit eaves of my father's home, And I fancied that he sighed: My son has gone for a soldier, For a soldier night and day; But my son is wise, and may yet return, When the drums have died away.

I climbed the grass-clad mountain, And my gaze swept far and wide For the rosy lights of a little room, Where I thought my mother sighed: My boy has gone for a soldier, He sleeps not day and night; But my boy is wise, and may yet return, Though the dead lie far from sight.

I climbed the topmost summit, And my gaze swept far and wide For the garden roof where my brother stood, And I fancied that he sighed: My brother serves as a soldier With his comrades night and day; But my brother is wise, and may yet return, Though the dead lie far away.

Ch`u Yuan

Fourth Century, B.C.

A loyal minister to the feudal Prince of Ch`u, towards the close of the Chou dynasty. His master having, through disregard of his counsel, been captured by the Ch`in State, Ch`u Yuan sank into disfavour with his sons, and retired to the hills, where he wrote his famous `Li Sao', of which the following is one of the songs. He eventually drowned himself in the river Mi-Lo, and in spite of the search made for his body, it was never found. The Dragon-boat Festival, held on the fifth day of the fifth moon, was founded in his honour.

The Land of Exile

Methinks there's a genius Roams in the mountains, Girdled with ivy And robed in wisteria, Lips ever smiling, Of noble demeanour, Driving the yellow pard, Tiger-attended, Couched in a chariot With banners of cassia, Cloaked with the orchid, And crowned with azaleas; Culling the perfume Of sweet flowers, he leaves In the heart a dream-blossom, Memory haunting. But dark is the forest Where now is my dwelling, Never the light of day Reaches its shadow. Thither a perilous Pathway meanders. Lonely I stand On the lonelier hill-top, Cloudland beneath me And cloudland around me. Softly the wind bloweth, Softly the rain falls, Joy like a mist blots The thoughts of my home out; There none would honour me, Fallen from honours. I gather the larkspur Over the hillside, Blown mid the chaos Of boulder and bellbine; Hating the tyrant Who made me an outcast, Who of his leisure Now spares me no moment: Drinking the mountain spring, Shading at noon-day Under the cypress My limbs from the sun glare. What though he summon me Back to his palace, I cannot fall To the level of princes. Now rolls the thunder deep, Down the cloud valley, And the gibbons around me Howl in the long night. The gale through the moaning trees Fitfully rushes. Lonely and sleepless I think of my thankless Master, and vainly would Cradle my sorrow.

Wang Seng-ju

Sixth Century, A.D.

Tears

High o'er the hill the moon barque steers. The lantern lights depart. Dead springs are stirring in my heart; And there are tears. . . . But that which makes my grief more deep Is that you know not when I weep.

Ch`en Tzu Ang

A.D. 656-698

Famous for writing that kind of impromptu descriptive verse which the Chinese call "Ying". In temperament he was less Chinese than most of his contemporaries. His passionate disposition finally brought him into trouble with the magistrate of his district, who had him cast into prison, where he died at the age of forty-two.

Whatever his outward demeanour may have been, his poetry gives us no indication of it, being full of delicate mysticism, almost impossible to reproduce in the English language. For this reason I have chosen one of his simpler poems as a specimen.

The Last Revel

From silver lamps a thin blue smoke is streaming, And golden vases 'mid the feast are gleaming; Now sound the lutes in unison, Within the gates our lives are one. We'll think not of the parting ways As long as dawn delays.

When in tall trees the dying moonbeams quiver: When floods of fire efface the Silver River, Then comes the hour when I must seek Lo-Yang beyond the furthest peak. But the warm twilight round us twain Will never rise again.

Sung Chih-Wen

Died A.D. 710

The son of a distinguished general, he began his career as attache to the military advisers of the Emperor. These advisers were always drawn from the literary class, and their duties appear to have been chiefly administrative and diplomatic. Of his life, the less said the better. He became involved in a palace intrigue, and only saved himself by betraying his accomplices. In the end he was banished, and finally put to death by the Emperor's order. It is necessary, however, to dissociate the man from his poetry, and Sung Chih-Wen's poetry often touches a high level of inspiration.

The Court of Dreams

Rain from the mountains of Ki-Sho Fled swiftly with a tearing breeze; The sun came radiant down the west, And greener blushed the valley trees.

I entered through the convent gate: The abbot bade me welcome there, And in the court of silent dreams I lost the thread of worldly care.

That holy man and I were one, Beyond the bounds that words can trace: The very flowers were still as we. I heard the lark that hung in space, And Truth Eternal flashed on me.

Kao-Shih

Circa A.D. 700

One of the most fascinating of all the T`ang poets. His life was one long series of romantic adventure. At first, a poor youth battling with adversity; then the lover of an actress, whom he followed through the provinces, play-writing for the strolling troupe to which she was attached; the next, secretary to a high personage engaged in a mission to Thibet; then soldier, and finally poet of renown, acquiring with his latter years the fortune and honours denied him in his youth.

The chief characteristics of his poetry are intense concentration, a vivid power of impressionism, and a strong leaning in the direction of the occult. Indeed, one of his best-known poems, "The Return to the Mountains", makes mention of the projection of the astral body through space during sleep. Many of his poems leave us with a strange sense of horror which is suggested rather than revealed. It is always some combination of effects which produces this result, and never a concrete form.

Impressions of a Traveller

In a silent, desolate spot, In the night stone-frozen and clear, The wanderer's hand on the sail Is gripped by the fingers of fear.

He looketh afar o'er the waves, Wind-ruffled and deep and green; And the mantle of Autumn lies Over wood and hill and ravine.

'Tis Autumn! -- time of decay, And the dead leaves' 'wildering flight; And the mantle of Autumn lies On the wanderer's soul to-night!

Desolation

I

There was a King of Liang* -- a king of wondrous might -- Who kept an open palace, where music charmed the night --

II

Since he was Lord of Liang a thousand years have flown, And of the towers he builded yon ruin stands alone.

III

There reigns a heavy silence; gaunt weeds through windows pry, And down the streets of Liang old echoes, wailing, die.

-- * Strictly speaking, the pronunciation of all words such as Liang, Kiang, etc., is nearer one syllable than two. For purposes of euphony, however, without which the lines would be harsh and unpoetical, I have invariably made two syllables of them. --

Meng Hao-jan

A.D. 689-740

One of the few literary men of the day whose later life was devoted entirely to literature. He was the inseparable friend of the famous Buddhist poet and doctor, Wang Wei. He spent the first forty years of his life in acquiring knowledge, but having failed to obtain his doctor's degree, he returned to the quiet hills of his native province and dedicated his remaining years to composition. Most of his poems, other than certain political satire, which drew on him the Emperor's wrath, are full of subtle sadness and fragrant regret, reminding one of pot-pourri in some deep blue porcelain bowl.

The Lost One

The red gleam o'er the mountains Goes wavering from sight, And the quiet moon enhances The loveliness of night.

I open wide my casement To breathe the rain-cooled air. And mingle with the moonlight The dark waves of my hair.

The night wind tells me secrets Of lotus lilies blue; And hour by hour the willows Shake down the chiming dew.

I fain would take the zither, By some stray fancy led; But there are none to hear me, And who can charm the dead?

So all my day-dreams follow The bird that leaves the nest; And in the night I gather The lost one to my breast.

A Friend Expected

Over the chain of giant peaks The great red sun goes down, And in the stealthy floods of night The distant valleys drown.

Yon moon that cleaves the gloomy pines Has freshness in her train; Low wind, faint stream, and waterfall Haunt me with their refrain.

The tired woodman seeks his cot That twinkles up the hill; And sleep has touched the wanderers That sang the twilight still.

To-night -- ah! beauty of to-night I need my friend to praise, So take the lute to lure him on Through the fragrant, dew-lit ways.

Ch`ang Ch`ien

Circa A.D. 720

One of the great philosopher-poets of the Taoist school. His life was spent far from the court and away from the sounds of civil warfare, in the endeavour to set himself in harmony with the universe -- to become, in fact, like an Aeolian harp through which all the cords of nature might sweep at will. How far he attained the end desired may be seen in his work, which is penetrated by a sense of profound beauty, recalling the quiet twilight upon the mountain-side, which he so well describes.

A Night on the Mountain

I sat upon the mountain-side and watched A tiny barque that skimmed across the lake, Drifting, like human destiny upon A world of hidden peril; then she sailed From out my ken, and mingled with the blue Of skies unfathomed, while the great round sun Weakened towards the waves. The whole expanse Suddenly in the half-light of the dusk Glimmered and waned. The last rays of the sun Lit but the tops of trees and mountain-peaks With tarnished glory; and the water's sheen, Once blue and bright, grew lustreless, and soon A welter of red clouds alone betrayed The passing of the sun. The scattered isles Uprose, black-looming o'er the tranquil deeps, Where the reflected heavens wanly showed A lingering gleam. Already wood and hill Sank in obscurity. The river marge Seemed but a broken line to failing sight.

. . . . .

Night is at hand; the night winds fret afar, The North winds moan. The waterfowl are gone To cover o'er the sand-dunes; dawn alone Shall call them from the sedges. Some bright star

Mirrors her charms upon the silver shoal; And I have ta'en the lute, my only friend: The vibrant chords beneath my fingers blend; They sob awhile, then as they slip control

Immortal memories awake, and the dead years Through deathless voices answer to my strings, Till from the brink of Time's untarnished springs The melting night recalls me with her tears.

Ts`en-Ts`an

Circa A.D. 750

Of his life we know little, save that he was the intimate friend of the great poet Tu Fu, and came of a noble family. He was, moreover, Censor under the Emperor Su Tsung (A.D. 756-762), and rose to be Governor of Chia-chou. What remains of his verse mostly takes the form of quatrains, yet for originality of thought, wealth of imagery and style, they have seldom been excelled. He was a master of metre, and contributed certain modifications to the laws of Chinese prosody which exist to the present day.

A Dream of Spring

Last night within my chamber's gloom some vague light breath of Spring Came wandering and whispering, and bade my soul take wing.

A hundred moonlit miles away the Chiang crept to sea; O keeper of my heart, I came by Chiang's ford to thee.

It lingered but a moment's space, that dream of Spring, and died; Yet as my head the pillows pressed, my soul had found thy side.

Oh! Chiang Nan's a hundred miles, yet in a moment's space I've flown away to Chiang Nan and touched a dreaming face.

Tu Fu

A.D. 712-770

Tu Fu, whom his countrymen called the God of Verse, was born in the province of Hu-Kuang, and this was his portrait from contemporaries:

He was tall and slightly built, yet robust with finely chiselled features; his manners were exquisite, and his appearance distinguished. He came of a literary family, and, as he says of himself, from his seventh to his fortieth year study and letter occupied all his available time. At the age of twenty-seven he came to the capital with his fame in front of him, and there Li Po the poet and Ts`en-Ts`an became his friends, and Ming Huang his patron. He obtained a post at Court somewhat similar to that of Master of Ceremonies in our own Court. Yet the poet had few sympathies outside the artistic life. He was so unworldly and so little of a courtier that when the new Emperor Su Tsung returned in triumph to the capital and appointed him Imperial Censor, he fulfilled his new duties by telling his majesty the whole unpalatable truth in a manner strangely free from ornamental apology, and was promptly rewarded with the exile of a provincial governorship. But Tu Fu was no man of affairs, and knew it. On the day of his public installation he took off his insignia of office before the astonished notables, and, laying them one by one on the table, made them a profound reverence, and quietly withdrew.

Like his friend Li Po, he became a homeless wanderer, but, unlike him, he concealed his brilliant name, obtaining food and patronage for his delightful nameless self alone, and not for his reputation's sake. Finally, he was discovered by the military governor of the province of Ssuch`uan, who applied on his behalf for the post of Restorer of Ancient Monuments in the district, the one congenial appointment of his life. For six years he kept his post; then trouble in the shape of rebel hordes burst once more upon the province, and again he became an exile. The last act of this eventful life took place in his native district: some local mandarin gave a great banquet in honour of the distinguished poet, whom he had rescued, half drowned and famishing, from the ruined shrine by the shore where the waters had cast him up. The wine-cup brimmed again and again, food was piled up in front of the honoured guest, and the attendant who waited was Death. The end was swift, sudden, and pitiful. The guest died from the banquet of his rescuer.

Of all poets Tu Fu is the first in craftsmanship. It is interesting to add that he was a painter as well, and the friend of painters, notably the soldier-artist, Kiang-Tu, to whom he dedicates a poem. Possibly it is to this faculty that he owes his superb technique. He seeks after simplicity and its effects as a diver seeks for sunken gold. In his poem called "The Little Rain", which I have (perhaps somewhat rashly) attempted, there is all the graciousness of fine rain falling upon sullen furrows, which charms the world into spring. "The Recruiting Sergeant" has the touch of grim desolation, which belongs inevitably to a country plundered of its men and swept with the ruinous winds of rebellion.