Chinese Poetry, edited by Bonnie McCandless

Over the past few weeks, I've taken some time away from the tour of my Eastern anthology bookshelves because, frankly, I got stuck in the "C's", as in anthologies of Chinese poetry. Well, I've read through another intrepid little volume, with a decidedly un-humble scope: poetry from the Ancient Chou Dynasty to the present day (1991) in 127 pages. Chinese Poetry: Through the Words of the People, edited by Bonnie McCandless, is divided into 9 sections, plus an introduction, each section containing a 2 to 4 page intro of its own. So that adds up to almost 30 pages of introductory material, leaving about 100 pages to cover 2500 years of poetry from one of the world's finest traditions. There is one poem per page, with a few poems covering two or three pages.

A daunting task, indeed; you get the idea.

As might be imagined, the presentation here is highly selective and, one would assume, highly qualitative. The translations are by a variety of different people, including Burton Watson, Gary Snyder, Witter Bynner, Kenneth Rexroth, and more. As with many an anthology, I had mixed feelings; it seemed for such a slim volume, there were even slimmer pickings. I winged my way through the entire first two sections until being struck by the following in section three, "Poetry of the Recluse:"

Written While Drunk

I built my house near where others dwell,
And yet there is no clamour of carriages and horses.
You ask of me "How can this be so?"
"When the heart is far the place of itself is distant."
I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge,
And gaze afar towards the southern mountains.
The mountain air is fine at evening of the day
And flying birds return together homewards.
Within these things there is a hint of Truth,
But when I start to tell it, I cannot find the words.

T'ao Yüan-Ming
translated by Cyril Birch

"Within these things there is a hint of Truth ...," an untellable truth - that's the ticket. This poem is immediately followed by a selection of Han-Shan's Cold Mountain Poems, translated by Gary Snyder. Though Snyder's are not my favorite renditions, Han-Shan is one of my favorite poets; this one's a beauty:

In my first thirty years of life
I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles.
Entered cities of boiling red dust.
Tried drugs, but couldn't make Immortal;
Read books and wrote poems on history.
Today I'm back at Cold Mountain:
I'll sleep by the creek and purify my ears.

Han-Shan
translated by Gary Snyder

Skipping forward to the T'ang dynasty, here is a stinging, incisive poem by Po Ch'ü-I:

Too Brilliant

From distant Annam there came a gift-
a scarlet parrot with coloured plummage
like peach blossom; so clever that
it could speak like men;

-----so, as with clever men
-----they put it in a cage
-----where it sits wondering
-----when it shall taste life again.

Po Ch'ü-I
translated by Rewi Alley

There is a touch of a political air in this poem and it is welcome. From the next section, "Chinese Women and Poetry," comes a poem by a woman in praise of women, which in its time (8th century) and culture had its own political implications:

Willow Eyebrows

Sorrows play at the edge of these willow leaf curves.
They are often reflected, deep, deep.
In my water blossom inlaid mirror,
I am too pretty to bother with an eyebrow pencil.
Spring hills paint themselves
with their own personality.

Chao Luan-Luan
translated by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung

The next section, entitled "Poetry in Music, Art, and Theatre," begins with a poem by the wonderful 8th century poet/painter, Wang Wei, whose work is moving in a deeply personal way:

Composed on a Spring Day on the Farm

Spring pigeons bill and coo under the rocks;
Returning swallows spy out their former nests;
Apricot blossoms whiten the outskirts of the village.
Axes in hand, the peasants set out to prune the mulberry trees
Or shouldering hoes, exploring water sources for irrigation.
Old people leaf over the latest almanac.
As for me, with my cup of wine, I suddenly forget to drink,
Whelmed in abysmal longing for friends far away.

Wang Wei
translated by Chang Yin-nan and Lewis C. Walmsey

The poem itself has such a painterly quality as to conjure up the scene entire in the mind. The technique is one that will also bring to mind for James Wright fans the poem Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota: each line builds, an image at a time, to a sudden final, moving revelation in the concluding line. The Wright poem, often justifiably cited as one of his very best, was initially met with critical resistance which basically posited that the reader was unprepared for the conclusion by what came before. Yet here is Wang Wei, 12 centuries earlier, showing the exact same psychological process which somehow a number of modern critics somehow managed never to experience in their time on this wildly spinning blue ball in space.

Go figure.

A few pages after the Wang Wei poem, is a poem entitled "A Lady Picking Flowers" by the Chinese painter, Shen Chou, who obviously also knew how to wield both kinds of brushes, the painter's and the poet's:

A Lady Picking Flowers

Last year we parted as flowers began to bloom.
Now the flowers bloom again, and you still have not returned.
Purple grief, red sorrow—a hundred thousand kinds,
and the spring wind blows each of them into my hands.

Shen Chou
translated by Jonathan Chaves

A third poem from this section quickly established it as my favorite; those with delicate sensibilities, quick, look away - this one's hot ...

To the Tune "Red Embroidered Shoes"

If you don't know how, why pretend?
Maybe you can fool some girls,
But you can't fool Heaven.
I'd dreamed that you'd play with the
Locust blossom under my green jacket,
Like a eunuch with a courtesan.
But lo and behold!
All you can do is mumble.
You've made me all wet and slippery,
But no matter how hard you try.
Nothing happens. So stop.
Go and make somebody else
Unsatisfied.

Huang O
translated by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung

That's Heaven with a capital "H," fellas. Nobody, but nobody, wants to be on the wrong end of this kind of put-down. You'll notice, while we are busy catching our breath, that like many a Chinese poem, it takes its name from the song melody referenced in its title. Finally, of course, one can't help but wonder if red embroidered shoes were involved in any way besides a reference.

The anthology moves forward to conclude with 3 chapters of modern Chinese poetry, much of which has a political tone and shifts emphasis from the personal/universal to the societal. To be sure, there are some poems of revolution, here and there a poem of nature ("Sonnet" by Feng Chih is quite good), and a beautiful poem of living nostalgia (Bei Dao's "Old Temple").

Any anthology, especially one this slim, that offers up 5 to 10 poems of lasting value is a success in my estimation. I'm not sure, in this case, that this was the type of success the editor hoped for. I suppose if someone else read it and there were 5 to 10 other poems that grabbed them, then it might be accounted an overall success. However, I can't in good faith urge people to seek this one out. It seems to me that the huge editorial scope simply overwhelmed the sheer lack of room. But, if you see it in a used book shop cheap, and I bet you will, or pick it up at the library, it is worth a peruse. You'll probably catch a gem or two that got by me.

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This week's featured broadside, HighKu (Lilliput Review, #118), is a highly experimental, with the emphasis on the highly, set of poems by Washington state poet M. Kettner. As such, They may not be everyone's cup of meat, as the poet said. But here's a taste of the 13 poem broadside: the first bag's always free:

#700

high:
aerial surveillance of self
patent leather reflecting sun

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#732

high:
sun on chipped paint
alleys steaming

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#795

high:
ocean breeze
----on a crate of oranges

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#726

high:
feet clean
zits popped.

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#511

Secanol:
Ping-Pong ball caught in vacuum hose
parking tickets unpaid

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#757

high at midnight:
single light in the rectory
skin a canvas covering

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And the Master tells it like it is:

drinking cheap sake--
this cuckoo
this grove

Issa translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Chinese Love Lyrics: Moon, Bird, & River

Continuing the exploration of my poetry shelves, the next book I come to is Chinese Love Lyrics, one of those slim verse volumes produced by Peter Pauper Press back in the day. Books from this press were inexpensive ("prices even a pauper could afford") yet at once decorative and, most importantly, often full of classic and unique translations of Asian literature, frequently from Japan and Asia.

Chinese Love Lyrics is subtitled "From Most Ancient To Modern Times," concentrating mostly on the older poems from the time of the Tang Dynasty. The very first in the book is probably the very best:

Spring

If I were a tree or a plant
I would feel the soft influence of spring.
Since I'm a man ...
Do not be astonished at my joy.

Anonymous (1005 A.D.)
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

In this surprising little four-line lyric, how far we have become removed from nature is simply and powerful captured. The first three lines imply that people are not affected by "the soft influence of spring," but line 4 quickly pirouettes, revealing undifferentiated joy as just such an affect. Here is another four-line lyric, a poem that in one essential image captures love in all its beauty and transformative power:

Watching the Moon

My beloved knows
that I watch thee, O moon,
And when thy beams caress her,
Our separation is less cruel.

Chiang Che-Kin
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

In Chinese poetry, as well as Japanese that was so heavily influenced by it, the moon was a ubiquitous presence, often shining down on lovers separated by great distances, as in this poem. That ubiquitousness is an important spiritual element, grounding humans in the very transitoriness of life and directly connecting us to nature. That it is used in love poetry as a lyrical, romantic facet adds a depth that is is at once essential and resonant.

In fact, this connectedness can be further illustrated by two more of my favorite poems from this particular collection, one using bird song and the other a river as the moon is used in Chiang Che-Kin's poem.

Birds Singing at Dusk

The cool wind of evening
Blows bird-song to the window
Where a maiden sits.
She is embrodiering bright flowers
On a piece of silk.

Her head is raised;
Her work falls through her fingers;
Her thoughts have flown to him
Who is away.

"A bird can easily find its mate
Among the leaves,
But all a maiden's tears,
Falling like rain from Heaven,
Will not bring back
Her distant lover."

She bends again to her embroidery:
"I will weave a little verse
Among these flowers of his robe ...
Perhaps he will read it
And come back again."

Li Po
translated by Peter Rudolph

A River of Love

I live at the upper end of the River,
And at the lower end live you;
Every day I long to see you but cannot ...
Though from the same River we drink.

When will the River go dry?
When can my sorrow come to an end?
Only may your heart be like mine ...
My love for you will not be in vain.

Li Chih-Yi translated by Ch'u Ta Kao

Li Po's poem has the young woman hearing bird song and, with it, her thoughts take flight to her distant lover. Embroidering a little verse, perhaps this very one into her lover's robe is a nice touch by the poet (and his persona), giving one pause over our parochial use of the term post-modern in recent times, as if "modern" culture was the first and only culture to reflect upon itself and its own creations with artistic distance, be it ironic or no.

As the moon's light and the bird in flight connect the lovers in the two previous poems, so the river connects a separated pair. I love the fact that they take life from the same source, as life has always centered around the sources of water. The juxtaposition of the questions of when the River will dry and when will the lover's sorrow end is particularly poignant, equating as it does death with the end of love. Simple a lyric as it is, it returns us to the source of all things, a touching reminder of our implicit involvement with nature which today we push so far from whom we are and what we do.

Finally, one last poem from this lovely collection that may remind you of something a bit more modern than classic Chinese poetry, if a tad short of a ramble in the field of post-modernism.

The Separation

Daylight! And I must leave.
Beloved friend, do not rise!
Give me the little lamp
That I may look at thee again,
That I may pull all of thee into my heart
And into my soul ...

Now, thy lips! I hear the gong
Of the night watchman sounding.
Work leads to evening, and
Each evening brings me to
Thy arms, which are my recompense.

Look! The leaves are covered with pearls.
Of dew....A blackbird is whistling.
Until this evening, adiew

Ma Huang-Chung
translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen

Here we have the lovers, a morning bird, a coming separation, one of the lovers holding back the other ... of course, I'm thinking of one of Shakespeare's greatest scenes:

Act 3, Scene 5

JULIET
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

JULIET
Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhal'd,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.

ROMEO
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day.

JULIET
It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

ROMEO
More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

This delightful little volume can be found on Amazon, which I don't link to, and there are some slightly more reasonable (and descriptively more reliable) copies at abebooks. Chances are that if you head off to a local used bookstore, if you are lucky enough to have one, and are patient and persistent, a reasonably priced copy will come your way.

And you'll have gone outside! There's a bunch of nature out there, for sure, and more than a few potential poems, both literal and figurative, awaiting your particular attention.



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A couple of quick items: the November/December Small Press Review has selected issue #170 as a featured "Mag Pick" for that issue - as always, back issues are available for a measly $1 or, if it's a tight month, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope and I'll send a copy so you can see what they are on about. For those with a subscription to SPR, you can see their Nov/Dec issue here in pdf form.

In addition, Longhouse Publishers and Booksellers has selected Ed Markowski's broadside "15 Poems" as one of their "Prime Picks" of the last few months. You may see their fine list of choices at their blog, A Longhouse Birdhouse.

Finally, Norbert Blei has highlighted the Ed Markowski broadside on his excellent blog, Bashō's Road: for a taste of the broadside, click here. The broadside is issue #172 (which is still in the process of shipping to subscribers) - if you'd like a copy, the terms are the same as in the previous paragraph.

And congrats, Ed, for all the much deserved attention


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For those not tuned in last week, the new feature I'll be highlighting in these weekly posts will be the Lilliput broadside issues, which have been published throughout the full 20 year run. Broadsides feature the work of one particular poet; the idea is to let the poet stretch out a bit, so there is no ten-line restriction as in regular issues. They are available for $1 or 3 for $2: here's a full list of those published to date. This week's poem is from Mark Hartenbach's excellent broadside, "Butterfly, Corkboard," which was issue #158, published in August 2007. Hope you like it.

exploitation poem

why do we insist on testing one another
without so much as a single warning shot
an episodic glance, an indifferent shrug

we demand a dent in memory
build or rebuild our ego
with scraps of others

we feign the blues
& forgetting
depend on an element of surprise

we fine tune our desires
knowing when to surrender to surface
& when to sink teeth deep

when to conjure up names
that promise dead flowers
& stale perfume

when to take another
to the edge of the water
& when to pull back at the last moment

when to translate
the firmament
into inevitable embrace

& when
to casually mention
that every star is dying

Mark Hartenbach

And Issa, an old time stargazer with many poems on the topic:






in cold water
sipping the stars...
Milky Way

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Singing for the Squeal: I Hear My Gate Slam - Chinese Poets on Meeting and Parting

I ran across a book in the library last week from Pressed Wafer entitled I Hear My Gate Slam: Chinese Poets Meeting and Parting. Though the title is not all that accurate a representation of the content and a tad unwieldy to boot, this is an excellent collection of work, translated by Taylor Stoehr, which I'd highly recommend to any reader with a predilection for Eastern verse.

Though there are, indeed, quite a few poems on meeting and parting, as the subtitle suggests, there are also others with more general themes. The poets represented here are ones you would expect: Wang Wei, Tu Fu, Li Po. Happily, too, we find Han Shan and Po Chü-I, among others. Taylor Stoehr has done a very fine job, indeed, in translating these disparate poets, sticking with a clear, minimalist approach without sacrificing any of subtly and resonance for which early Chinese poetry is renowned. In addition, the text is accompanied by ink drawings by the multi-talented Mr. Stoehr, as well as a cover painting of his own creation. Here's a selection to tempt you to head for the library, bookstore etc. for a more comprehensive look.

In the Mountains

You want to know why I live in here on the mountain?
Ha! What can I say? Is this where I am?

Peach blossoms reflected in the water –
in which green world do they bloom?

Li Po

I Wait Here Alone

Two white gulls glide to and fro.
High above them a hawk hovers.

Blind to the shadow flitting below,
they ride the wind along the river.

Morning dew drenches the grass.
The spider's web stretches wide.

The world attends to its business
of slaughter. I wait here alone.

Tu Fu

The Demon Poetry

I strive to pass through the Empty Gate
and clear my head of all its idle song,

but the Demon Party lies in wait:
a breeze, a moonbeam – I'm humming along.

Po Chü-i

Ask Yang Qiong

The ancients sang because their hearts were full,
today people sing just for the squeal.

If you want to know why, don't ask me,
go ask Yang Quong the singsong girl.

Po Chü-i

Too Many Words

Talking about food doesn't fill you up,
talking about clothes won't keep you warm.

What your belly wants is rice
and a thick coat is nice in a storm.

Sometimes words just confuse things
and make the Buddha hard to find.

While your talking the Buddha sits
fat and warm inside your mind.

Han Shan

Life in a Bowl

Man lives in a circle of dust
like a beetle in a bowl,

busy going round and round
never getting anywhere.

Enlightenment never comes
to those who scabble in the dirt.

Days flow by like a rushing river,
suddenly we find ourselves old.

Han Shan

Puzzling Things Out

Is my body real or just an illusion?
Who is it who asks such a question?

See how one puzzle leads to another!
I sit on the mountainside lost in wonder

till the green grass grows up between my toes
and the red dust settles on my head.

Country folk come to me with wine and fruit
pious offerings set out for the dead.

Han Shan

Cold Mountain's Poems

Here are Cold Mountain's poems,
better medicine than pills or sutras.

Copy out your favorite
and pin it to the wall.

Han Shan

Hibiscus

Hibiscus flowering twig and tip,
the whole mountainside aflame.

By the stream a hut, silent and empty,
and petals falling as fast as they bloom

Wang Wei

One editorial note: for those unfamiliar with the work of Han Shan, his name literally means "cold mountain" and so the poem himself is often called "Cold Mountain" and so he is referring to himself in the above poem, "Cold Mountain's Poems."

That's just a taste of this fine volume of work and belongs on the shelf of anyone interested in Chinese poetry. Mr Stoeher's are both carefully measured and natural, no mean feat. Since this Pressed Wafer is a relatively small press, I'd urge you to get a copy now if this kind of work is your cup of meat. It's liable to go out of print fast.

I hope to be offering a few more poems from this collection in a future post.

Finally, today is the anniversary of the birthday of B. J. Wilson, the fine, talented, underrated drummer for the band Procol Harum. In order to address this neglect and in his memory, enjoy the following.

B. J. Wilson

best,
Don

Su Tung-po / Su Shi

Su Tung-po (Su Shi)

Today is the anniversary of the birth of Su Tung-po. So what better way to celebrate than with his own poem, "Remembrance?"

Remembrance

To what can our life on earth be likened?
To a flock of geese,
Alighting on the snow.
Sometimes leaving a trace of their passage.

Su Tung-po 1037-1101

Things haven't changed much in the last, oh, 900 or so years. And we know what kind of tracings most of us leave behind. For more on Su Tung-po, whose real name was Su Shi, check here.



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Two weeks back, I posted about the untimely passing of small press poet Dave Church. Here's another article on Dave by someone else familiar to those working in small press poetry, Tom Chandler. He reprints a beauty of a poem called "Muses" by Dave, the last two lines of which perfectly captures, with typically incisive honesty, what all we poets do.



best,
Don