Chinese 323 Writing a Letter (2)

 

Li Shangyin/Li Shang-yin (ca. 813-ca. 858)

"Without Title"

 

"Coming" is an empty word; going, you leave no trace.

The moonlight slants over the roof; the bells strike the fifth watch.

Dreaming of long separation, I can hardly summon my cries;

Hurried into writing a letter, but the ink is yet to thicken.

The candle's light half encircles the golden kingfishers;

The musk perfume subtly permeates the embroidered lotus flowers.

Young Liu already resented the distance of the Peng Mountain:

Now ten thousand more Peng Mountains rise!

 

"Home Thoughts"

 

Though there is a tower with railings to lean on,

How can I do without wine to pour?

Dark clouds hang over the mountain range in spring;

The river moon shines clear and bright at night.

The fish are disturbed--to whom can letters be entrusted?

The apes cry sadly--my dreams are easily startled.

My old home adjoined the Imperial Park:

It was the time when oriole moved to the tall tree.

 

Line 8: "Moving oriole" meant in the Tang times passing the examinations or receiving official promotions, because of an allusion to a poem in the Book of Poetry about a bird that moved from a dark valley to a tall tree.

 

 

Lu You/Lu Yu (1125-1210)

"Harp Song--To Send to Jichang Shaoqing"

 

Not that the tree in my garden does not bloom,

but with frost-fall, its ten thousand leaves wither;

not that you would put me aside, my friend,

but as distance parts us, we grow naturally estranged.

In the night I get up, sighing,

open the box, dig for your old letters.

They're dark with dust and the bugs have chewed them,

lines missing, words about to fade.

I read them once and my face flushes,

read them again and tears begin to flow.

Roll them up, put them back in the box--

better to leave them for the silverfish to eat!

 

(Burton Watson, The Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry, p.323)

 

 

Gao Qi/Kao Ch'i (1336-1374)

"Sending A Letter Home While A Traveler in Shaoxing"

 

Why should I always be writing these letters home?

The way is long, and I fear their arrival is uncertain.

But also I worry that when they arrive they only increase my family's concern for me,

Hence I dare not write too much of the traveler's sorrows.

 

(F. W. Mote, The Poet Kao Ch'i, p. 85)

 

"On Receiving A Letter While Traveling in Yue"

 

On receiving a letter from my home my heart is immediately gladdened

For on the outside wrapper I've seen the words "All is well."

My home is a thousand miles away and letters do not easily come.

I don't dare rush hastily through it by the light of the oil lamp.

 

(F. W. Mote, The Poet Kao Ch'i, p. 87)

 

 

Zhu Yizun/Chu Yi-tsun (1629-1709)

"Sent to My Beloved Far Away"

 

The south wind blows day and night across rivers and lakes;

A traveler's dream bound for home is unfamiliar with the road.

I send word: "Send no winter clothes to remind me of you;

Neither frost nor snow has come to southern skies."

 

 

Yuan Mei/Yüan Mei (1716-1798)

"Written at the Graveside"

 

I recall a small, young boy

By his grandmother most dearly loved.

A toddler first to be cuddled

Still shared her bed in his teens.

His braids silhouetted by her red lamp,

He read aloud before her white hair.

A pampered boy who nagged her for fruits

Played hooky, she spared him the whip.

His tutor's meals she served with reverence

And herself made the boy's gown of silk.

Truly she prized this pearl of her palm,

Expected him to soar like a crane.

She leaned on his back oft when they played

And hugged his shoulder when viewing flowers.

Neighbors and kin marveled at such great love;

His sisters were jealous of such dotage.

When envoys left the royal jade steps,

When autumn wind brought forth the name list,

Her hopes for his day of success would rise,

Though she said, "I might not live to see it!"

In silence her words still seemed to linger,

But quietly a few years have passed.

Indeed, one comes in palace-silk robe

To bow before the grave, smoke-shrouded.

Though he's keen to do his filial duties,

Her dream of fun with grandson is lost.

Kindness cannot requite those white bones,

Though tears might reach the Yellow Spring.

As old grass shimmers in the twilight,

The nightjar weeps in the hills of autumn.

Let not the bright, clear moon tonight

Attain above her grave its fullness!

 

 

Chen Sanli/Ch'en San-li (1852-1937)

"On His Way to Shanghai to Study, My Son, Heng, Will Pass by Father-in-Law, Kentang (Fan Dangshi) of Tongzhou. I Quickly Draft This Poem in Place of a Letter for Him to Take along."

 

I have wanted to write On Armaments;

Your father-in-law likewise wrote Inquiries to Confucius.

The depth and the subtleties of this intention await men of knowledge;

At reckoning whether new or old, I'd turn stupefied.

Slandered for a lifetime, and nothing else,

Belated poems at old age enjoy an unexpected esteem.

Ten thousand words cherished in my bosom, in one word: abstruse.

Rubbing the tearful eyes, I send it over a blue sky.