The Selected Poems of T'ao Ch'ien

by Tao Qian, Tao Yuanming, David Hinton (Translator)

Chinese, tr David Hinton

Genres: Poetry, Classics, China, Asia, Poetry Plays

96 pages, Paperback

First published May 1, 2000

Reviews

[Susan Budd · Rating 5 out of 5]

T’ao Ch’ien. I love this dude. I want to hang out on his farm. Get my hands in the dirt. Grow organic veggies. Drink homemade wine. Look at the sky, the trees, the flowers. Write poems.

T’ao lives in harmony with the earth. He takes life as it comes ~ naturally, spontaneously. He lives for the sake of living. But T’ao was not always like this.

Once he too was caught up in the rat race. He was a government official. But he was not happy. All the power struggles, the corruption, the clamoring for position was bringing him down.

And why was he striving? For money? Prestige? He was a cog in the Establishment’s machinery.

So one day he split. He told The Man to “take this job and shove it” and he took his wife and children, left the city, and headed out to the family farm.

Cue the Canned Heat:

♫ I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away.
All this fussing and fighting, you know I sure can’t stay. ♫

Now life on the farm ain’t always easy, but it’s freedom. T’ao works hard, but his work is harmonious and natural and good. He lives in poverty, but he truly lives. It is a life, he says, of nature, family, poetry, and wine.

In T’ao’s own words:

“... after so long in that trap,
I’ve returned to all that comes of itself” (19)

“... I
nurture simplicity among gardens and fields” (19).

“I get up early to clear weeds, and
shouldering my hoe, return by moonlight” (21).

“Fragrant chrysanthemums ablaze in woodlands
blooming, green pines lining the clifftops:
isn’t this the immaculate heart of beauty,
this frost-deepened austerity” (24)

“My way seems childish to the world-wise,
but what I nurture here never grows thin” (25).

“It’s loving family voices that make me happy,
koto and books that keep worried grief away” (34).

“Simple-hearted contentment—it’s all that matters” (55).

So ~ is it any wonder I want to go up the country?

[Edward Rathke · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fantastic stuff. It's a very interesting collection of poems. They range from funny to serious to heartbreaking. Some are deeply introspective, contemplating life and death and the Way and impermanence, while others are about the fun times he had drinking too much with his friends.

It's always interesting to me how little people have changed in the last 1,500 years. Our concerns are almost identical. We want to enjoy life. We want to have fun with friends. But we also want deeper meaning. Something permanent and lasting that comes from us.

T'ao Ch'ien captures that better than most poets, ancient or modern.

[Steve]

"'Tao Yuanming', ink on paper scroll by Min Zhen, 18th century china" by Min Zhen - Calendar News, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Jan./Feb. 2007. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

[J.M. Hushour · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sublime poems by T'ao "The Recluse" as he called himself. T'ao was a minor government functionary who said "Fuck it all!" and went off into the countryside to live on a farm and drink wine. His poems celebrate this eschewing of the stupid, stupid world and make a mockery of fumbling Ways. He almost seems to make a mockery of bland philosophies and attempts to find meanings in life other than at the bottom of a bottle or staring at the South Mountain. Wonderful!

[Cameron · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the most authoritative and evocative voices I’ve read.

[Sophie Jin · Rating 5 out of 5]

I AM BUT A FOOL TO RATE THIS ANYTHING BUT 5 STARS!!!!!

Upon re-reading Tao Yuanming, I recognize that there is no majestic truth to the world that will unlock everything. It's just here, in the chrysanthemums, in the southern mountain air, in the millet wine that he makes—it's here, it's always been here, and it will continue to be here as we return from "a hundred year journey from the grave."

There is a reason he is considered such a prolific and first hermit! He describes nature beautifully and simply, and asks questions related to doctrinarians felt in the common era as well as now. Short and sweet, it holds much truth. Definitely worthy and slim to buy a copy to keep with you always. I know personally I will be memorizing bits of this (even if my mom scolds me that it's not in Chinese.)

[Cynthia Egbert · Rating 3 out of 5]

It was good that I read this book as a companion to Trungpa's The Myth of Freedom and the Way of Meditation because they really were two sides of the same coin. Trungpa encourages "boredom" which is actually another word for "stillness" in my book and T'ao Ch'ien promotes "idleness" and they are really all the same thing. Ch'ien is offering this idea in the form of poems that "bland as withered wood" but they really are not bland they are quiet and real and I truly enjoyed them. I wouldn't mind having had the opportunity to wander the fields with this man.

One quote from the introduction really explains things best, "IF T'ao's poems seem bland, it's because they always begin with the deepest wisdom. They are never animated by the struggle for understanding. The closest T'ao came to a struggle for understanding was his resolute cultivation of 'idleness'. Etymologically, the character for idleness (hsien) connotes 'profound serenity and quietness,' its pictographic elements rendering a tree standing alone within the gates to a courtyard or, in its alternate form, moonlight shining through an open door. This idleness is a kind of mediative reveling in tzu-jan, a state in which daily life becomes the essence of spiritual practice."

[Alex · Rating 5 out of 5]

What an incredible poet Tao Yuanming was (and fantastic translation by Mr. Hinton; I wished they had retained the original Chinese too in the edition). If you like Zen/Taoism or poets like Han Shan, reading Tao Qian is a must! I only regret it's such a small selection. Definitely will explore more of his poetry. Also a good read for the times we're living through.

[Annie · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is absolutely exquisite. The poet Tao Qian lived in China around 400 AD - his poems are gentle, peaceful, pastoral. To Tao Qian, life has no purpose or deeper meaning; life is the purpose, life is the deeper meaning, and to yearn for anything else is to miss out on the pure earthy richness of simply existing. Tao Chien works hard to care for his land and his loved ones, but equally he aspires to cultivate “idleness” - a kind of serenity clarity of attention (which he often cultivates by drinking a cup or two of home-brewed wine, a beloved practice of the poet’s which is referenced in many of his works). In his view, death is not something to be feared but welcomed in its own time for its own purity and simplicity, a return to your native home in the deepest way possible.

There’s so much I could quote from, but some of my favourites are reproduced below:


At this distant, bramble-woven gate, my
wandering come to rest, the world and I
let each other go.

***

Birds sing, celebrating the new season.
Cool winds bring blessings in abundance,

and in these distances empty of people,
bamboo crowds country paths. Now I see

why that farmer laughing at Confucius
lived so far away and never went back.
My way seems childish to the world-wise,
but what I nurture here never grows thin.

***

And touched

this deeply by those laid under these
cypress trees, how could we neglect joy?

Clear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine
starts pious faces smiling. Not knowing

what tomorrow brings, it’s exquisite,
exhausting whatever I feel here and now.

***

Sipping wine, I think of recluse masters. A century away,
I nurture your secrets. Your true nature

eludes me here, but taken by quiet I can
linger this exquisite moon out to the end.

***

I'm no immortal. I can't just soar away
beyond change. There's no doubt about it,

death's death. Once you see that, you'll
see that turning down drinks is for fools.

***

Soon, we’ll smother in darkness. The body

can’t last, and all memory of us also ends.
It sears the five feelings. But in our

good works, we bequeath our love through
generations. How can you spare any effort?

***

And everyone dies. It’s always been true,
I know, but thinking of it still leaves me

grief-torn. How can I reach my feelings?
A little thick wine, and I’m soon pleased

enough. A thousand years may be beyond me,
but I can turn this morning into forever.

***

Great men want the four seas. I’ve only
wanted old age to dome unnoticed like

this. My family together in one place,
kids and grandkids looking after each

other still, I linger out morning over
koto and wine, the winejar never dry.

My clothes a shambles, exhausting every
joy, I sleep late now, and nod off early.

Why live like all those fine men, hearts
stuffed with fire and ice to the end,

their hundred-year return to the grave
nothing but an empty path of ambition?

***

As he lay dying with his friends and family gathered in mourning, in his “elegy to myself,” he reflects back on his life:

Even hauling water brought such joy,
and I sang under a load of firewood:

This life in brushwood-gate seclusion
kept my days and nights utterly full.

Spring and autumn following each other
away, there was always garden work —

some weeding here or hoeing there.
What I tended I harvested in plenty,

and to the pleasure of books, koto
strings added harmony and balance.

Never working more than hard enough,
I kept my heart at ease always,

and whatever came, I rejoiced in all
heaven made of my hundred-year life.

Resolute here in my little tumbledown house,
I swilled wine and scribbled poems.

Seeing what fate brings, our destiny
clear, who can live without concern?

But today, facing this final change,
I can’t find anything to resent:

I lived a life long and, cherishing
solitude always, abundant.

[Richard Rogers · Rating 3 out of 5]

It appears that most other people really liked this. I didn't.

It's not the poet--I think I might like him. And it's not exactly the translation. That seems okay.

It's the format. Drove me crazy. I couldn't read it in this form without having my understanding disturbed every second line by the way it was presented on the page. Maybe it doesn't affect other people like it does me. I really wonder.

Let me ask you a question as an aside: when you read something written in italics, like maybe a letter or something inside a novel, does it sound different in your head than the rest of the text does? It sounds different to me, like a different voice is reading, usually higher and a little sing-songy, and it has a negative impact on my comprehension. I can't seem to change that. If it goes on too long, I sometimes have to reread to get the parts I missed the first time through. It's like a radio slightly off the station that takes extra concentration to hear.

Other formatting differences have a similar effect on me. For example, in this book, the poetry is written with seemingly random line breaks, gathered in pairs lines as if he's translating a poem written in couplets. I already don't prefer poetic lines to wrap around to the next line, though I've made me peace with that... But to have the line break across separated lines made me nuts. Like this:

At this distant, bramble-woven gate, my
wanderings come to rest, the world and I

let each other go. Not a soul in sight.
At dusk, who knows my gate sat closed

all day? This year-end wind bitter cold,
falling snow a thick, day long shroud...

I can't read those lines, especially across the gaps, *without* a pause in my brain, a change in tone, a stumble, and it made me go back time and again to reread it as it was meant. It was like trying to read while being bounced in the back of a car, trying to read across those gaps as if they weren't there.

Anyway, with effort, I read and enjoyed the poetry some. Maybe 3 stars worth. But I'm not exaggerating the effect the format had on my reading, the way it disturbed the flow for me, and I only wonder how everybody else can read it fine. The issue was front and center for me every time I opened the book. (I still would ask--what purpose did the breaks serve? I don't think it was the end of the original lines, and it doesn't seem to align with meaning. Meter? I tried to impose a rhythm on it, maybe tetrameters or something, but I couldn't make that work. So I dunno.)

If everything I wrote here sounds nuts, you'll probably enjoy this translation fine. But I see that Red Pine has a translation of this poet coming out later this year. I'm gonna try that one.

[Gohar G. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Չինական գրականության սիրահարնե՜ր, եկեք։

Թաո Չիենը ( Թաո Յուենմինգ) եղել է 4-5-րդ դարերի չինացի նշանավոր պոետներից։ Այս գրքում տեղ գտած պոեմների շարքը թարգմանել է ամերիկացի բանաստեղծ Դավիթ Հինթոնը, ով չինական գրականության մեջ է մասնագիտացված։ Չիենի պոեզիայում սիրել եմ այն երևույթը, որ նա կարողացել է բանաստեղծություններում գոյաբանական գաղափարները համադրել իր առօրյա սովորությունների հետ, օրինակ` գինի խմելը։ Եղել է դաոսականության, ինչպես նաև բուդդայականության հետևորդ, ինչը վառ արտահայտված է իր ստեղծագործություններում։

T'ao Ch'ien (Tao Yuanming) is considered to be one of the prominent Chinese poets who composed in 4-5th centuries. David Hinton, a poet who is specialized in Chinese literature, translated the poems from Chinese into English. What I like about Ch'ien's poetry is that he was able to blend existential ideas with his simple daily routines such as drinking wine. He was a follower of Taoism, as well as Buddism which is reflected in his works.

[Raven]

"Soon, that sense of knowing I exist gone,/
nothing's precious, nothing worthless./
All distance, we're lost where we are."

"All this means something,/
something absolute. Whenever I start/
explaining it, I've forgotten the words."

"If we don't give up failure and success,/
that promise we hold just turns to regret."

"So many/
joys to fill a short stay. I'll take my time/
here. It is whole. How could it be any less?"

[Daniel LeSaint · Rating 5 out of 5]

“My clothes a shambles, exhausting every joy, I sleep late now, and nod off early.
Why live like all those fine men, hearts stuffed with fire and ice to the end,
their hundred-year return to the grave nothing but an empty path of ambition?”

“All I want is
more of the same, much more. Working your own fields is no cause for lament.”

[Nick · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Keith Floyd of the Chinese poetic tradition. My goal in life is to be more like T'ao Ch'ien and have the kind of life he did in rural exiled bliss.

[Lamoreaux · Rating 5 out of 5]

This edition is quite good, reading from start to finish like a modest epic. There a kind of quiet honesty throughout, a sense of humility with the power to touch the reader's soul.

[Karataev · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the greatest and most influential Chinese poets, rooted in a Taoist tradition of immediate observation. Some of his deathbed poems made me quite emotional.

[Christopher · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sometimes the philosophy endgame is a farm, some trees, your own mountain, and endlessly filled wine jars.

Beautiful translations by Hinton.

[Trent Haynes · Rating 5 out of 5]

Immortal

[Heather-Ann · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book of pastoral poems about subsistence farming by a drunkard Chinese man from the 3rd century BCE gave me a nice appreciation for how little some things change.