To Serve God in Holy Freedom

The book I've spent nearly the last three years working on with my friend and colleague Daniel Michon, of Claremont McKenna College in California, has finally been published. To Serve God in Holy Freedom: The Brief Rebellion of the Nuns of the Royal Convent of Santa Mónica, Goa, India, 1731–1734 is primarily a translation of a lengthy complaint to the authorities in Rome and the King of Portugal about Ignácio de Santa Teresa, the archbishop of Goa. There's also an introduction written mostly by Daniel, a preface by Timothy Coates, who translated the well-known Portuguese treatise Diálogo do Soldado Prático into English, and a transcription of the original text, which I frankly am shocked that we managed to translate as well as we did. It's a wildly idiosyncratic writing style even by contemporary standards.

Alas, since this is an academic book, it bears an academic price tag. You can order it here, but I don't blame you if you don't. Books should never be that expensive, even those aimed at institutions and libraries instead of individuals. At some point in the next few months we'll make it open access, but for now, dear reader, you're stuck paying through the nose.

I'll write more about Soror Magdalena, the archbishop, and 18th century Goa later. Take it easy, folks.

Yours,
DAS

"Viola chinesa" por Camilo Pessanha

It's been a while since I translated a Camilo Pessanha poem, so here's "Viola chinesa". The viola in question, if you go by the images you get when you Google the phrase, is most likely a 琵琶 pipa, AKA the "Chinese lute."

I wish I knew the circumstances under which Pessanha heard the instrument, since the poem seems to juxtapose two elements: the sound of the pipa, and whatever dull conversation he's stuck having when he hears it. I doubt he was chatting with Cantonese-speaking locals, but rather Macau's stuffy, provincial Portuguese administrators and their families, or maybe the local Macanese, neither of which group would have serenaded their guests with the pipa. That's why this poem makes me think Pessanha was zoning out during some social event and heard, or imagined, a pipa somewhere in the distance that provided a distraction—albeit a painful one—from the situation at hand.

I've more or less given up on following Pessanha's punctuation, though I also try not to insert too much of my own. I've also rendered things a bit more colloquially than in the past.

Enjoy, dear reader/caro leitor/看倌, and I'll catch you soon.

DAS

-----

"Viola chinesa"
Camilo Pessanha

Ao longo da viola morosa
Vai adormecendo a parlenda,
Sem que, amadornado, eu atenda
A lengalenga fastidiosa.

Sem que o meu coração se prenda,
Enquanto, nasal, minuciosa,
Ao longo da viola morosa,
Vai adormecendo a parlenda.

Mas que cicatriz melindrosa
Há nele, que essa viola ofenda
E faz que as asitas distenda
Numa agitação dolorosa?

Ao longo da viola, morosa...


-----

"Chinese Viola"
Camilo Pessanha


As the viola slowly plays
the chatter drifts off,
my languorous attention is not on
the tedious prattle.

My heart isn't in it,
as, nasal, painstaking,
the viola slowly plays,
the chatter drifting off.

But what sensitive scar
does it bear, that the viola offends,
and makes its little wings spread
in a painful flutter?

As the viola plays, slowly...

司空圖二十四詩品《流動》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 24 - "Fluidity"

And here we are, folks: we've arrived at the final poem in Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. It should come as no surprise that it resembles its fellows in many ways; it also seems to be the most straightforwardly Daoist of the bunch, albeit with a pessimistic undertone that makes you wonder if Sikong Tu might have had his fill of philosophizing and was growing skeptical. (Or maybe I'm projecting; who knows.)

Whatever the case, I'm fairly happy with my translation. There are some lines I particularly like—the last one of the first stanza, the whole third stanza—and I think I did a decent job of capturing Sikong Tu's mood. It's been a while since I worked on it, so I don't have any notes on the language itself to add. I can say that along with my friend and colleague Ana Katryna Cabrini (who turned me onto Sikong Tu in the first place) I'll be writing a little somethin' somethin' about this poem in Portuguese, so when/if that makes its appearance, I'll be sure to let y'all know.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the poem. You may dig listening to Hiiragi Fukuda's Seacide while you read, but probably not. It's cool; I appreciate you anyway, especially if you've followed along with the Sikong Tu project all these months.

微臣
史大偉

-----

流動
司空圖

若納水輨

如轉丸珠

夫豈可道

假體如愚

荒荒坤軸

悠悠天樞

載要其端

載同其符

超超神明

返返冥無

來往千載

是之謂乎

-----

"Fluidity"
Sikong Tu

Like water passing through a mill-wheel,

like a pearl rolling around—

can a man really attain the Dao?

Pretending it has a form is for fools.

The earth's axis stretches on and on,

heaven's pivot dim and distant—

strive to get to the heart of things,

fit together with it.

Go beyond the spiritual,

return to the empty dark;

a thousandfold comings and goings—

that is the meaning of this.

司空圖二十四詩品《曠達》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 23 - "Acceptance"

One of the meanings of this poem's title, 曠達, is "broad-mindedness," which is how I originally translated it. Broad-mindedness is a trait worthy of pursuit, though like everything else, moderation is important. Giving equal credence to every stupid idea you have or come across isn't being broad-minded, it's a recipe for disappointment and disaster.

Here, though, as the poem itself makes quickly known, Sikong Tu isn't talking about that sort of thinking. He's encouraging acceptance of what is, which is broad-mindedness of a different kind; specifically, accepting that the good things in life are fleeting, and in that ephemerality lies their beauty. Hell, even getting old has its charms—you can get drunk and go for a walk and nobody will give a fuck (or, rather, they shouldn't). 

Knowing every other sentient being on earth is subject to the same processes of birth, old age, sickness, and death, which are as seemingly eternal as Nanshan and all the other mountains beloved by Chinese poets, makes this acceptance all the more crucial. There's no Sikong Tu, no me, no you, just this field of consciousness and experience; once we truly realize that, acceptance loses its connotations of defeat and resignation, and becomes a means of being truly open to the universe.

微臣

史大偉

-----

曠達

司空圖

生者百歲

相去幾何

歡樂苦短

憂愁實多

何如尊酒

日往煙蘿

花覆茅檐

疏雨相過

倒酒既盡

杖藜行歌

孰不有古

南山峨峨

-----

"Acceptance"

Sikong Tu

I may live a hundred years

yet leave so little behind—

joy is bitterly short-lived,

worry and sadness ever mounting

But what of a cup of wine,

walking among lush plants each day,

thatched eaves overrun with flowers,

sparse rain passing by?

The wine is all gone;

goosefoot cane in hand, I stroll and sing—

“who is exempt from getting old

while lofty Nanshan still looms?”

司空圖二十四詩品《飄逸》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 22 - "Graceful Ease"

We're getting close to the end of the Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, but I'm no more fond of referring to each of these poems as representative of a class of poetry than I was at the beginning. My friend and colleague suggests using "mood," but even that seems inadequate, given how similar a lot of the poems are in terms of tone.

Not a lot else to say about this one, so I'll leave you to it, reader.

-----

飄逸

司空圖

落落欲往

矯矯不群

緱山之鶴

華頂之雲

高人畫中

令色氤氳
禦風蓬葉

泛彼無垠

如不可執

如將有聞

識者已領

期之愈分

-----

"Graceful Ease"

Sikong Tu

Long estranged, wanting to be gone—

high above the masses

like the crane atop Mount Gou,

the clouds at Mount Hua's peak

In the great man's portrait

a commanding appearance, full of life

a violent wind scatters leaves

that drift far away

Seemingly ungraspable,

on the verge of making itself known—

those who know already understand

those who hope, ever more separated

司空圖二十四詩品《超詣》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 21 - "Above and Beyond"

We're getting close to the end of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. Here the poet gives us another very Daoist piece. I particularly like how the first stanza's negative couplet is undercut by the following one; there's a subtlety of difference that's mostly beyond me, but at the same time it's abundantly clear what he's talking about.

The second stanza's bit about how following the Dao invariably leads to breaking with custom is ironic, seeing as how Sikong Tu, and most Chinese poets, came from the scholar-gentry class and routinely incorporated withdrawal from society into the broader fabric of their lives. Obviously this doesn't nullify what he's getting at in the poem, but rare was the Chinese poet whose life as a hermit was actually lived alone, disconnected completely from society. 

See y'all soon with poem #22. In the meantime, I recommend Upusen's latest album, Highland Ave. It's chill without getting too melancholy—and I don't know about you, dudes, but I have had my fill of melancholy lately.

微臣
史大偉

-----

超詣

司空圖

匪神之靈

匪幾之微

如將白雲

清風與歸

遠引若至

臨之已非

少有道契

終與俗違

亂山喬木

碧苔芳暉

誦之思之

其聲愈希

-----

"Above and Beyond"
Sikong Tu

It is not the vitality of the spirit

it is not the intangibility of phenomena

but like being borne along on white clouds,

returning on a cool breeze

From afar it seems to draw near

reaching it, it is already gone

if one complements the Dao from early on

one will ultimately break with custom

Jumbled mountains, tall trees

blue-green moss, brilliant sunlight

recite it, think on it

the sound of it growing ever more faint

RIP John Saxon

I'll leave biographical notes, and praise for John Saxon's seminal role in Enter the Dragon, to others: I'm just here to lament the passing of Nancy Thompson's dad and reminisce about A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Like any kid born on a cultural cusp, I didn't get to see the cultural touchstones that were the A Nightmare on Elm Street films in sequential order. I saw Dream Warriors first, in 1989 or 1990, at a friend's house in Miami during a sleepover, but I knew about them before then. In '87, or more likely '88, during another sleepover in northern Virginia at my mom's friend's family's place, one of the older girls sang, against the backdrop of Kid Icarus and Deadly Towers and forgotten toothbrushes, the haunting snippet of what it would take over a decade for me to fully identify and, courtesy of Diamond Head Records in Spring, Texas, acquire on vinyl: Dokken's "Dream Warriors." Having this sort of fragmentary info in hand when I finally saw the eponymous film seems, in retrospect, representative of my overall approach to knowledge and appreciation of art, but that's a tangent I'll go off on some other time.

As invested as I was in the fate of those kids in Dream Warriors—and I'll be damned if I still ain't every time I watch it—the tension between Nancy and her old man, played out under neon bar signs amidst the reek of Michelob and Marlboro Reds, always stood out to me as well. Eventually I learned he was the hard-headed asshole cop who didn't listen to his daughter when it mattered most, which made his bummer days as a drunk destined to get multi-knifed by a Harryhausen skeleton even more poignant, and Nancy's demise even more appalling.

I got lucky in the birth karma department and had good parents, unlike Nancy Thompson and the rest of the Elm Street kids, so I never had to find out the hard way that my folks were hiding lynchings from me. Still, John Saxon did a great job of playing the father burdened not just by his duties as a cop, but the weight of being part of a murderous mob, and I will always appreciate him for that. A Nightmare on Elm Street wouldn't have been the same without him, and I wouldn't have learned to appreciate the family I have otherwise.

Thanks, John. Rest in power, on this damp, dark summer night.

司空圖二十四詩品《形容》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 20 - "Form and Appearance"

The title and content of this poem is a bit vexing. 形 means form or appearance, as does 容, so there's not really a contrast between the two—it's not as if one stands for the inner form of something and the other its outward appearance. On top of that, taken together the characters mean "describe" or "description." There's inevitably some subtlety I'm missing, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out at the moment.

I like Sikong Tu's admonition to stop seeking the numinous and pure in favor of recognizing that what you're looking for in those things is right here in front of you. I especially dig the last couplet, which is a little clunky in my version; here he uses 似 rather than 容, but the meaning is effectively the same, and thus we're back at my original question of why he went with this phrasing.

I read this and saw a transition between the second and third stanzas, which is something I don't often do, but maybe should. Other poets might make more use of such a technique, so keeping an eye out for it would be worthwhile.

Stay safe, folks. It's been a brutal summer, and it's far from over.

微臣
史大偉

-----

形容

司空圖

絕佇靈素

少回清真

如覓水影

如寫陽春

風雲變態

花草精神
海之波瀾

山之嶙峋

俱似大道

妙契同塵

離形得似

庶幾斯人

-----

"Form and Appearance"

Sikong Tu

Cease expecting the numinous and pure

and soon clear reality will return—

as in seeking water's shadow

as in tracing the springtime

Clouds on the wind, appearances ever changing

flowers and grasses, essence and spirit

the sea's towering waves

the mountains' craggy ranks—

Completely like the great Dao

subtly inscribed in the dust of this world

leaving behind form to grasp appearance—

surely this resembles what it is to be human?

司空圖二十四詩品 《悲慨》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 19 - "Forlorn"

This poem couldn't be more timely. Some reflections, tied to each stanza:

1: Last night I had a dream about trees falling in the woods; the night before the cats woke me up at 4:40 and I never got back to sleep. 

2: Fortune and status? Neither was ever on the table, and as time flows by, they're even less likely to be. The Dao never falters; if we're looking for inspiration or models and don't find them, it's our own fault, because they're everywhere.

3. The state gives fools swords, has them do its dirty work, and nothing but misery follows; then it calls them heroes. Nothing has changed.

See? 1200-year-old Chinese poetry still resonates. Catch y'all next time for #20.

-----

悲慨

司空圖

大風卷水

林木為摧

適苦欲死

招憩不來

百歲如流

富貴冷灰
大道日喪

若為雄才

壯士拂劍

浩然彌哀

蕭蕭落葉

漏雨蒼苔

-----

"Forlorn"

Sikong Tu

Strong wind roils the water

trees topple in the forest

so miserable I want to die—

rest beckons, but does not come

A hundred years like a flowing stream

fortune and status are cold ashes

every day the great Dao falters—

who will serve as inspiration?

A hero unsheathes his sword—

a flood of utter grief

mournful wind, falling leaves

dripping rain on grey-green moss

司空圖二十四詩品《實境》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 18 - "Domain of the Real"

I'm not terribly pleased with my title for this translation, since 境 often means border or boundary. I'll give it some thought and come up with a better title, since the atmosphere Sikong Tu evokes here does feel like some kind of liminal space, albeit one infused with the everyday reality of the Dao.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a juvenile Cooper's hawk in the birdbath that I need to admire. Later, dudes.

微臣

史大偉

-----

實境

司空圖

取語甚直

計思匪深

忽逢幽人

如見道心

清澗之曲

碧松之陰

一客荷樵

一客聽琴

情性所至

妙不自尋

遇之自天

泠然希音

-----

"Domain of the Real"

Sikong Tu

Adopt plain speech

to sum up simple ideas.

Suddenly coming across a hermit

is like seeing into the heart of the Dao.

The bend of a clear stream,

the shade of dark-green pines—

a stranger carrying firewood,

another listening to the music of the qin

A feeling brought me to this place,

marvelous, unsought—

out of nowhere,

the clear but faint sound of music.

司空圖二十四詩品《委曲》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 17 - "The Winding Way"

Poem #17 has one of my favorite images thus far: the "blue-green path coiled like sheep intestines." This path winds through the 太行山 Taihang mountains, which are situated in northern China. The 羌 Qiang people, however, hail from southwest China, these days primarily living in Sichuan. (You can hear the Qiang flute here.) This sort of spatial juxtaposition isn't that uncommon in Chinese poetry, but I wonder why Sikong Tu chose these particular mountains and this particular instrument and people. Maybe he heard such a flute at a moment that illustrated "effort at the right time," and it ended up being just the right image he needed for this poem.

The 鵬 peng bird appears, perhaps most famously, in 莊子 Zhuangzi, the next most famous/important Daoist text after the 道德經 Daodejing. Due to its great size, it's often compared to the roc, another giant mythical bird.

May you all know roundness and squareness alike, and take care, folks.

微臣

史大偉

-----

委曲

司空圖

登彼太行

翠繞羊腸

杳靄流玉

悠悠花香

力之於時

聲之於羌

似往已回

如幽匪藏

水理漩洑

鵬風翺翔

道不自器

與之圓方

-----

"The Winding Way"

Sikong Tu

Climbing Mount Taihang:

blue-green path coiled like sheep intestines,

dark clouds a sort of jade,

faint hint of fragrant blossoms

Effort at the right time:

sound of a Qiang flute,

seemingly going but already returning,

remote, but not hidden

Water churns with eddies and currents,

mythical peng bird soars on the wind:

Dao is not a thing unto itself,

but knows roundness and squareness alike

司空圖二十四詩品《清奇》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 16 - "Clear and Wondrous"

This poem marks 2/3 of the way through Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. This one stands out a bit because it directly refers to another person: 可人, which I've rendered as "beloved" but could also be someone with a good personality or gifted in some way (qualities one might hope to see in one's beloved, naturally). However you choose to read it, the description of this person as "like jade" buttresses their value to the speaker, and/or gives readers a hint as to the person's appearance—the sort of jade usually referenced in Chinese poems isn't the greenish stuff we're used to in the west, but more often the pale whitish-yellow variety, so perhaps this person has a lovely complexion.

The character 屟 "wooden clogs" didn't readily appear in most of my dictionaries, but it's a variant of the more common 屧. I have no idea how common wooden shoes were in Tang China, or what form they took. I'm imagining something like Japanese geta, but I could be way off.

Hope all is well with you, dear reader. See you soon.

微臣

史大偉

-----

清奇

司空圖

娟娟群松

下有漪流

晴雪滿竹

隔溪漁舟

可人如玉

步屟尋幽
載瞻載止

空碧悠悠

神出古異

淡不可收

如月之曙

如氣之秋

-----

"Clear and Wondrous"

Sikong Tu

A lovely stand of pines

beneath it, rippling water

clear skies, snow-laden bamboos

on the stream, fishing boats go their own ways

My beloved like jade

measured steps in wooden clogs, as I follow in the darkness

looking up one moment, stopping the next

deep blue sky impossibly far

My spirit leaves, the old ways grown strange,

faded, beyond reach

like the moon at dawn,

like the essence of autumn

司空圖 二十四詩品《疏野》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 15 - "Unconstrained"

One of the greatest strengths of classical Chinese poetry is its temporal ambiguity: unless it's specifically mentioned, there's no way of knowing when something is occurring/has occurred/will occur. Things and events are caught in time like insects in ever-flowing amber, and thus temporal positioning is unimportant. After all, everything meaningful: whether it's a past event that continues to resonate in the present, an emotional/psychic state that has us in its clutches here and now, or the imagined form of some future happening that affects our current behavior, it can't be separated into a discrete thing or things outside of our perceptions or beyond causality. We act otherwise, of course, but just because that tendency to separate self from other, subject from object, is a feature of human consciousness, it doesn't mean we're utter slaves to some mechanistic understanding thereof.

I bring this up because I've rendered parts of Sikong Tu's poems as orders or suggestions, which they very well may be, but they could just as easily be translated in the past tense, and thus as descriptions of the poet's (or whomever he's describing) experiences. In "Unconstrained" I have everything happening in the present, which gives the reader the idea that the narrator is reflecting on an unfolding experience of possible enlightenment, and/or doubt about such a state. Did Sikong Tu experience what Rinzai Zen (which has its roots in the teachings of 臨濟義玄 Linji Yixuan, a contemporary of Sikong Tu) calls 見性 kensho, and see his true self? Or is he repeating what, even in Tang times, was established, maybe even to the point of being trite and snoozy, understanding of the nature of things and how to truly perceive it?

 

Neither possibility excludes the other, and neither is the only answer. Read the poem and mull it over on your own, dear reader. The great matter of life and death inhabits this poem like it does all other things, and I'd be curious to see what you think.

Dig it.

微臣

史大偉

-----

疏野

司空圖

惟性所宅

真取不羈

控物自富

與率為期

築室松下

脫帽看詩

但知旦暮

不辨何時

倘然適意

豈必有為

若其天放

如是得之

-----

"Unconstrained"

Sikong Tu

Pondering the dwelling-place of one's true nature,

one can seize the Real, uninhibited;

a grasp of all things leads to inner abundance,

with candor comes hope.

An abode built beneath the pines,

bare-headed, reading poetry,

knowing only dawn and dusk,

the seasons running together.

Supposing an agreeable state of mind,

why is action necessary?

If one is as free and easy as the sky,

is this not attainment?

司空圖二十四詩品《縝密》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 14 - "Tight-knit"

I meant to post this last week, but never got around to it. Not a whole lot to talk about here, so I'll let the poem speak for itself. I'm pretty pleased with how my translation turned out.

Wear your mask, stay home as much as you can, and be safe, y'all.

微臣
史大偉

-----

縝密

司空圖 

是有真跡

如不可知

意象欲出

造化已奇

水流花開

清露未晞
要路愈遠

幽行為遲

語不欲犯

思不欲癡

猶春於綠

明月雪時

-----

"Tight-knit"

Sikong Tu

That bears the mark of the real

which resembles the unknowable—

concepts seeking to emerge

already made mundane by the force of change.

Flowing water, blooming flowers

bright dew not yet evaporated

the only road stretches ever on—

a lonely path, slow going.

Strive to speak without offense

strive to think without foolishness—

be as spring is green,

as moonlight on falling snow.

司空圖二十四詩品《精神》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 13 - "Spiritual Essence"

Poem #13's title, 精神 jingshen, means spirit, consciousness, or thought in modern Chinese. Sikong Tu appears to be using it more along those lines as well, hence my translation. But in reading about Daoist practices like 內丹 neidan, or internal alchemy, you come across a lot of references to 精 jing and 神 shen, along with the associated concept of 氣 qi, which I talked a little bit about in my last post. Roughly speaking, jing is one's physical essence, qi the energy or life force, and shen the spirit or higher self. (The Wikipedia page on the Three Treasures gives you an idea of how these ideas are used in a Daoist context.) My favorite meaning of 精 jing, however, has to be "mythical goblin spirit."

Enjoy, folks.

微臣

史大偉

-----

精神

司空圖

欲返不盡

相期與來

明漪絕底

奇花初胎

青春鸚鵡

楊柳樓臺
碧山人來

清酒深杯

生氣遠出

不著死灰

妙造自然

伊誰與裁

-----

"Spiritual Essence"

Sikong Tu

Were the Endless to

join with us at some point—

bright ripples, on and on

rare flowers at first bloom

Spring-green parrots

willows, pavilions, terraces—

people come from the blue-green hills

clear wine in overflowing cups

The breath of life reaches out further,

no sign of death's ashen grey

the magnificent fabric of the in-and-of-itself—

ah, who could make it conform to a pattern?

司空圖二十四詩品《豪放》 / Sikong Tu'sTwenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 12 - "Bold and Unrestrained"

豪放 "Bold and Unrestrained" marks the halfway point of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. I think the standout feature of this poem is that it has more Chinese words that I left in the original than any poem thus far, though I'd be reluctant to make much out of that, save maybe in the instance of 氣 qi.

The first such word is 氣 qi, which pretty much everyone's heard of in one context or another. It can mean breath, life force, vital energy, the mystical shit that infuses everything, the thing you're supposed to load your punches with in martial arts class; it's pretty flexible. I've translated it in various ways before and since, but left it as is here because the construction of the line intrigued me. When texts refer to returning to the Dao, it's usually an end, not the means (and, of course, it's not a linear, static progression, but an ever-evolving process, like the interaction of 陰 yin and 陽 yang), and various qi-related practices are among the tools used to achieve that end, or rather help one along the path. Sikong Tu's reversal is interesting, because he's saying to seek the Dao in order to reach qi; what he means is cryptic, but my initial interpretation is that the reader—perhaps like the poet himself—might gain intellectual knowledge of the Dao first, say by talking to someone or reading the 道德經 Daodejing, and then seek out expressions and practices of Daoism in order to gain a deeper, experiential understanding. As a Westerner who read about Daoism long before practicing it in any way, this resonates pretty strongly.

I rendered 狂 as "wildly," but I think the poet is using it as shorthand for spontaneity or 無爲 wu-wei, "acting without acting."

The 鳳凰 fenghuang is a mythical bird that makes frequent appearances in Chinese art; the link in this sentence shows one on the corner of a temple roof. It's often translated as "phoenix," but it's not the same. 扶桑 Fusang is a mythical island east of China, said to be where the sun rises; therefore it's no surprise that it is sometimes associated with 日本 Japan. The turtles Sikong Tu uses to draw his chariot are "mythological sea turtles," not, apparently, the giant turtles that support countless Chinese stelae upon their backs.

As a parting remark, I like that admiring flowers is presented as a universal right, and that in exercising it, you're partaking of the totality of existence. Sikong Tu is completely right about this.

Stay safe, wear your mask, and enjoy the poem, y'all.


微臣
史大偉

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豪放

司空圖

觀花匪禁

吞吐大荒

由道反氣

處得以狂

天風浪浪

海山蒼蒼
真力彌滿

萬象在旁

前招三辰

後引鳳凰

曉策六鰲

濯足扶桑

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"Bold and Unreserved"

Sikong Tu

Admiring flowers is open to everyone—

breathe in vastness, breathe it out

the Dao leads back to the qi

give up seeking, act wildly

Heaven's wind rushing like a river

seas and mountains grey-green

true strength is abundant

in the myriad things all around

Before me, the beckoning sun, moon, stars

behind, the fenghuang bird leads the sun

at dawn, I whip forward six legendary turtles—

off to bathe my feet in Fusang

司空圖二十四詩品《含蓄》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 11 - "Reservation"

Almost halfway through the Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. I've got all the poems translated, but I'm taking my time posting them. You'd think that since I have nothing better to do, and I'm more or less housebound during the pandemic (which way too fuckin' many of my neighbors and countrymen seem to think isn't worth worrying about), I'd be more productive, but nope.

Anyway, I don't have much to say about this poem. Once more Sikong Tu advocates 無爲 wuwei, "doing not-doing," and not letting excess (or any) words get in the way of understanding. Sounds good to me.

Later, dudes.

微臣

史大偉

-----

含蓄

司空圖

不著一字

盡得風流

語不涉己

若不堪憂

是有真宰

與之沈浮
如綠滿酒

花時反秋

悠悠空塵

忽忽海漚

淺深聚散

萬取一收

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"Reservation"

Sikong Tu

Without writing a single word,

a thorough grasp of effortless style;

speaking without involving oneself

is like being indifferent to worry

This is the heart of true mastery;

with it, one sinks and floats

As the strainer overflows with wine,

the season of flowers reverts to autumn

The sky slowly grows dim with dust,

bubbles form suddenly in the sea;

shallow and deep, gathering and dispersing

seeking the myriad, grasping only one

司空圖二十四詩品《自然》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 10 - "The Self-Determined"

The tenth poem of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry is titled 自然, which often gets translated as "nature." While that's a generally useful translation, there's more to it than that. 自 is a reflexive, and 然 can mean "thusly" or "in this way," or, as Kroll puts it in his dictionary, "to be like something is expected to be," so you can read 自然 as "that which is what it is in and of itself." Since that's a decidedly inelegant phrase, I've gone with "self-determined."

This poem reads as very Daoist, or very Chan Buddhist, though there aren't any overt symbols of either tradition present (unless you count the hermit, but given the ubiquity of hermits in Chinese poetry, this one could be a Daoist or a Buddhist). While this ambiguity—or maybe syncretism is a more useful way of thinking about it—isn't particular to Sikong Tu, I've found that it runs through a lot of these poems, reflecting the poet's engagement with both schools, which in turn reflects the depth of Daoism and Chan Buddhism's influence on Chinese poetics and aesthetics. David Hinton talks about this at length in his book Awakened Cosmos: The Mind of Chinese Poetry. Hinton deals specifically with 杜甫 Du Fu's work, but you can extrapolate a lot of his ideas to other poets.

著手成春 is a neat phrase that I translated pretty much literally, but since it's still a little obtuse, it's meant to imply that once you get going, everything will be all right. I don't necessarily share that optimism (though in the context of this poem, I certainly do), but I can't argue with the necessity of actually getting around to doing something. 

See y'all soon. Enjoy the poem!

微臣

史大偉

-----

自然

俯拾即是

不取諸鄰

俱道適往

著手成春

如逢花開

如瞻歲新
真與不奪

強得易貧

幽人空山

過雨采萍

薄言情悟

悠悠天鈞

-----

"The Self-Determined"

Sikong Tu

Look down and pick up what's there

don't go looking all around for it

all paths lead to it

set out, and it's spring before you know it

Like coming across flowers in bloom

or seeing the arrival of the new year

it can't be compelled

if taken by force, it is worthless

The hermit in the empty hills

collecting duckweed in the rain

fewer words, genuine realization

Heaven shapes things in its own time

司空圖二十四詩品《綺麗》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 9 - "Rare Beauty"

Here is "綺麗"/"Rare Beauty" by Sikong Tu, poem #9 of 24. At some point I'll actually write something about how each poem fits into what I think Sikong Tu is trying to do, but that'll require marshalling more mental resources than I have at the moment.

 A quick note about the 琴 qin, or 古琴 guqin: it sometimes gets called a zither, and while it's in the same category, not calling it by its actual name is like replacing "harpsichord" with "piano" because they're similar. 

The red apricots in the second stanza may or may not be a nod to the idiom 紅杏出牆 "the red apricot leans over the garden wall," which is a poetic way of describing a wife with a secret lover. I can see Sikong Tu going either way here. That second stanza as a whole is really gorgeous, I think.

Enjoy.

微臣
史大偉

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綺麗

司空圖

神存富貴

始輕黃金

濃盡必枯

淡者屢深

霧余水畔

紅杏在林
月明華屋

畫橋碧陰

金尊酒滿

伴客彈琴

取之自足

良殫美襟

-----

"Rare Beauty"

Sikong Tu

Those rich and noble in spirit

from the outset think little of gold;

intensity surely withers away in the end,

simple things often take on deeper meaning

Fog lingering on the riverbank

red apricots in the grove

moonlight on a stately house

a bridge outlined in blue shadow

A golden vessel brimming with wine,

a companionable guest playing the qin;

seek your contentment in these things

and surely your heart will be full