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A Hundred And Seventy Chinese Poems
Certain elements are found, but in varying degree, in all human speech. It is difficult to conceive of a language in which rhyme, stress-accent, and tone-accent would not to some extent occur. In all languages some vowel-sounds are shorter than others and, in certain cases, two consecutive words begin with the same sound. Other such characteristics could be enumerated, but for the purposes of poetry it is these elements which man has principally exploited.
English poetry has used chiefly rhyme, stress, and alliteration. It is doubtful if tone has ever played a part; a conscious use has sporadically been made of quantity. Poetry naturally utilizes the most marked and definite characteristics of the language in which it is written. Such characteristics are used consciously by the poet; but less important elements also play their part, often only in a negative way. Thus the Japanese actually avoid rhyme; the Greeks did not exploit it, but seem to have tolerated it when it occurred accidentally.
The expedients consciously used by the Chinese before the sixth century were rhyme and length of line. A third element, inherent in the language, was not exploited before that date, but must always have been a factor in instinctive considerations of euphony. This element was “tone.”
Chinese prosody distinguishes between two tones, a “flat” and a “deflected.” In the first the syllable is enunciated in a level manner: the voice neither rises nor sinks. In the second, it (1) rises, (2) sinks, (3) is abruptly arrested. These varieties make up the Four Tones of Classical Chinese.
The “deflected” tones are distinctly more emphatic, and so have a faint analogy to our stressed syllables. They are also, in an even more remote way, analogous to the long vowels of Latin prosody. A line ending with a “level” has consequently to some extent the effect of a “feminine ending.” Certain causes, which I need not specify here, led to an increasing importance of “tone” in the Chinese language from the fifth century onwards. It was natural that this change should be reflected in Chinese prosody. A certain Shēn Yo (A.D. 441-513) first propounded the laws of tone-succession in poetry. From that time till the eighth century the Lü-shih or “strictly regulated poem” gradually evolved. But poets continued (and continue till to-day), side by side with their lü-shih, to write in the old metre which disregards tone, calling such poemsKu shih, “old poems.” Previous European statements about Chinese prosody should be accepted with great caution. Writers have attempted to define the lü-shih with far too great precision.
The Chinese themselves are apt to forget that T’ang poets seldom obeyed the laws designed in later school-books as essential to classical poetry; or, if they notice that a verse by Li Po does not conform, they stigmatize it as “irregular and not to be imitated.”
The reader will infer that the distinction between “old poems” and irregular lü-shih is often arbitrary. This is certainly the case; I have found the same poem classified differently in different native books. But it is possible to enumerate certain characteristics which distinguish the two kinds of verse. I will attempt to do so; but not till I have discussed rhyme, the other main element in Chinese prosody. It would be equally difficult to define accurately the difference between the couplets of Pope and those of William Morris. But it would not be impossible, by pointing out certain qualities of each, to enable a reader to distinguish between the two styles.
English poetry has used chiefly rhyme, stress, and alliteration. It is doubtful if tone has ever played a part; a conscious use has sporadically been made of quantity. Poetry naturally utilizes the most marked and definite characteristics of the language in which it is written. Such characteristics are used consciously by the poet; but less important elements also play their part, often only in a negative way. Thus the Japanese actually avoid rhyme; the Greeks did not exploit it, but seem to have tolerated it when it occurred accidentally.
The expedients consciously used by the Chinese before the sixth century were rhyme and length of line. A third element, inherent in the language, was not exploited before that date, but must always have been a factor in instinctive considerations of euphony. This element was “tone.”
Chinese prosody distinguishes between two tones, a “flat” and a “deflected.” In the first the syllable is enunciated in a level manner: the voice neither rises nor sinks. In the second, it (1) rises, (2) sinks, (3) is abruptly arrested. These varieties make up the Four Tones of Classical Chinese.
The “deflected” tones are distinctly more emphatic, and so have a faint analogy to our stressed syllables. They are also, in an even more remote way, analogous to the long vowels of Latin prosody. A line ending with a “level” has consequently to some extent the effect of a “feminine ending.” Certain causes, which I need not specify here, led to an increasing importance of “tone” in the Chinese language from the fifth century onwards. It was natural that this change should be reflected in Chinese prosody. A certain Shēn Yo (A.D. 441-513) first propounded the laws of tone-succession in poetry. From that time till the eighth century the Lü-shih or “strictly regulated poem” gradually evolved. But poets continued (and continue till to-day), side by side with their lü-shih, to write in the old metre which disregards tone, calling such poemsKu shih, “old poems.” Previous European statements about Chinese prosody should be accepted with great caution. Writers have attempted to define the lü-shih with far too great precision.
The Chinese themselves are apt to forget that T’ang poets seldom obeyed the laws designed in later school-books as essential to classical poetry; or, if they notice that a verse by Li Po does not conform, they stigmatize it as “irregular and not to be imitated.”
The reader will infer that the distinction between “old poems” and irregular lü-shih is often arbitrary. This is certainly the case; I have found the same poem classified differently in different native books. But it is possible to enumerate certain characteristics which distinguish the two kinds of verse. I will attempt to do so; but not till I have discussed rhyme, the other main element in Chinese prosody. It would be equally difficult to define accurately the difference between the couplets of Pope and those of William Morris. But it would not be impossible, by pointing out certain qualities of each, to enable a reader to distinguish between the two styles.
154 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1918
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159 people want to read
About the author
Arthur Waley
237 books40 followersArthur David Waley was an esteemed English orientalist and sinologist, renowned for his translations of Chinese and Japanese poetry. He received numerous honours, including the Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 1952, the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry in 1953, and was invested as a Member of the Order of the Companions of Honour (CH) in 1956.
Waley was largely self-taught, and his translations brought Chinese and Japanese classical literature to a broad Western audience. He translated works such as A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems (1918), The Tale of Genji (1925–26), and Monkey (1942), making significant contributions to the understanding of East Asian literary traditions in the West. Despite his extensive knowledge, Waley never visited China or Japan, nor did he speak Mandarin or Japanese, focusing solely on written texts.
Born in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, he attended Rugby School and briefly studied Classics at Cambridge University before leaving due to vision problems. In 1913, he became Assistant Keeper of Oriental Prints and Manuscripts at the British Museum, where he taught himself Classical Chinese and Japanese. Waley was also active during WWII, working for the Ministry of Information and running the Japanese Censorship Section.
He maintained a close personal relationship with dancer and orientalist Beryl de Zoete, though they never married. Waley passed away in 1966, shortly after marrying poet Alison Grant Robinson. His work left an indelible mark on the field of translation and introduced the high literary cultures of China and Japan to the English-speaking world. His translations continue to be highly regarded and widely published, influencing generations of readers and scholars.
Waley was largely self-taught, and his translations brought Chinese and Japanese classical literature to a broad Western audience. He translated works such as A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems (1918), The Tale of Genji (1925–26), and Monkey (1942), making significant contributions to the understanding of East Asian literary traditions in the West. Despite his extensive knowledge, Waley never visited China or Japan, nor did he speak Mandarin or Japanese, focusing solely on written texts.
Born in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, he attended Rugby School and briefly studied Classics at Cambridge University before leaving due to vision problems. In 1913, he became Assistant Keeper of Oriental Prints and Manuscripts at the British Museum, where he taught himself Classical Chinese and Japanese. Waley was also active during WWII, working for the Ministry of Information and running the Japanese Censorship Section.
He maintained a close personal relationship with dancer and orientalist Beryl de Zoete, though they never married. Waley passed away in 1966, shortly after marrying poet Alison Grant Robinson. His work left an indelible mark on the field of translation and introduced the high literary cultures of China and Japan to the English-speaking world. His translations continue to be highly regarded and widely published, influencing generations of readers and scholars.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
August 1, 2016
I can't find, on Goodreads, the edition I read, which was PoD paperback.
Arthur Waley has something of a reputation as a pioneering translator of Chinese and Japanese literature into English, and, as someone who generally considers the English language to have gone into decline, I thought these translations might be better than more recent ones. They are not.
Waley's style most of the time is quite tone-deaf to the concept of 'poetry' (which should, in essence, be music in word form). This is not at all uncommon among translators, in my experience, so it's not that Waley deserves to be singled out for especial criticism here.
Enough of the pith of the originals came across for me to finish the book, and to catch a glimpse, I think, of some essence.
One theme I noticed cropping up a great deal was the loneliness of distance, which must have been quite a common experience both among the successful (posted away from their families, often), and the unsuccessful (sent into exile, or simply languishing in some province).
And over the greater distance of the centuries, and even in poor translation, I experience the mystery of empathy; it is for such as this that poetry is written.
Arthur Waley has something of a reputation as a pioneering translator of Chinese and Japanese literature into English, and, as someone who generally considers the English language to have gone into decline, I thought these translations might be better than more recent ones. They are not.
Waley's style most of the time is quite tone-deaf to the concept of 'poetry' (which should, in essence, be music in word form). This is not at all uncommon among translators, in my experience, so it's not that Waley deserves to be singled out for especial criticism here.
Enough of the pith of the originals came across for me to finish the book, and to catch a glimpse, I think, of some essence.
One theme I noticed cropping up a great deal was the loneliness of distance, which must have been quite a common experience both among the successful (posted away from their families, often), and the unsuccessful (sent into exile, or simply languishing in some province).
And over the greater distance of the centuries, and even in poor translation, I experience the mystery of empathy; it is for such as this that poetry is written.
January 31, 2018
A pleasure to read again straight through.
April 16, 2019
Waley's approach to these translations, as well as the overall presentation of the text, is decidedly un-academic, which I actually found refreshing compared to more modern volumes. For those reviewers disparaging Waley as a translator, I'd encourage you to check out the more academically precise translations by David Hinton, which I find far more stilted and less poetic.
Chinese poetry is impossible to generalize because its canon is so vast, not just in volume but experientially. Waley notes in his introductory essay that while European poets became fixated with love poems, Chinese poets were far less selective in subject matter, exploring mysteries of the universe, filial relations, camaraderie, politics and fulfillment. Lu Yun, writing of social isolation in the fourth century, attunes the seasons of his life to nature, "thus imitating cosmic changes / My cottage becomes a Universe."
Many of these poems similarly seek deeper meaning in simple scenes and centuries-old human moments. The anonymous writer of "The Eastern Gate" describes a peasant off to seek fame and fortune in the outside world while his wife tries to stop him. "Dear wife," the man says, "I cannot stay. Soon it will be too late." Too late for what? He does not say. How often do we all feel like that? I'm reminded of Sinclair Lewis's letter to his publisher about the protagonist of Babbitt embodying middle age "prosperous, but worried, wanting — passionately — to seize something... before it's too late." Writing three centuries later, Yuan Chi describes one such adventurer having regrets in old age despite the fame and fortune he has attained all throughout his life. "It's thinking of how I've wasted my time / That makes fury tear my heart." But this speaker just told us he'd accomplished every great deed he'd ever dreamed, so why does he now look back and regret wasted time? As with many of these verses, there is no clean answer, only contemplation
Chinese poetry is impossible to generalize because its canon is so vast, not just in volume but experientially. Waley notes in his introductory essay that while European poets became fixated with love poems, Chinese poets were far less selective in subject matter, exploring mysteries of the universe, filial relations, camaraderie, politics and fulfillment. Lu Yun, writing of social isolation in the fourth century, attunes the seasons of his life to nature, "thus imitating cosmic changes / My cottage becomes a Universe."
Many of these poems similarly seek deeper meaning in simple scenes and centuries-old human moments. The anonymous writer of "The Eastern Gate" describes a peasant off to seek fame and fortune in the outside world while his wife tries to stop him. "Dear wife," the man says, "I cannot stay. Soon it will be too late." Too late for what? He does not say. How often do we all feel like that? I'm reminded of Sinclair Lewis's letter to his publisher about the protagonist of Babbitt embodying middle age "prosperous, but worried, wanting — passionately — to seize something... before it's too late." Writing three centuries later, Yuan Chi describes one such adventurer having regrets in old age despite the fame and fortune he has attained all throughout his life. "It's thinking of how I've wasted my time / That makes fury tear my heart." But this speaker just told us he'd accomplished every great deed he'd ever dreamed, so why does he now look back and regret wasted time? As with many of these verses, there is no clean answer, only contemplation
October 5, 2016
My first copy of this darling little book I got about 40 years ago. It became so battered with thumbing through that I have had to replace it - and only a paper copy will do (I still haven't really come to terms with poetry on Kindle). This edition has a particularly pleasant cover. And whilst rummaging around for it I found that there is a second volume! So I have bought that as well.
The simplicity of Chinese poems is deceptive, of course. Their subject matter is the natural world, through which they deal with the vast canvas which is human life. When these poems were written life moved more slowly, but the human heart worked the same way. When these poems were translated we thought differently about China and how we wanted to relate to her and her people but, again, the human heart has not changed. Lovers are still sometimes fickle, sometimes constant, sometimes unavoidably detained; sometimes all one wants is to sit and watch the cherry blossom fall.
Which is all to say that this is an old translation of much older poems by a man who I don't believe actually spoke or wrote Mandarin. Nevertheless I have always found them to be a balm for the heart and mind when the world has been unkind or has been moving faster than I can cope with.
The simplicity of Chinese poems is deceptive, of course. Their subject matter is the natural world, through which they deal with the vast canvas which is human life. When these poems were written life moved more slowly, but the human heart worked the same way. When these poems were translated we thought differently about China and how we wanted to relate to her and her people but, again, the human heart has not changed. Lovers are still sometimes fickle, sometimes constant, sometimes unavoidably detained; sometimes all one wants is to sit and watch the cherry blossom fall.
Which is all to say that this is an old translation of much older poems by a man who I don't believe actually spoke or wrote Mandarin. Nevertheless I have always found them to be a balm for the heart and mind when the world has been unkind or has been moving faster than I can cope with.
August 23, 2015
No poems from the Classic/Book of Songs/Poetry. The earliest poet featured here is Chu Yuan, and the most recent one from the Ming (Qing?) era. This anthology also contains a variety of poetic styles (descriptive, courtly, didactic/satiric). I was delighted when I saw that it had poetry from the Three Kingdoms period, I never see much of it anywhere. It also includes quite a few poems by Bai Juyi (Po Chu-i).
March 2, 2020
One of my favourites is "The letter": The sorrows and pain took too much space / there was no room left to talk about the weather!
The poems are beautiful and so different to anything I've read before.
Yet I didn't like how the author organised the book as a whole. Chronologically it's quite chaotic.
The poems are beautiful and so different to anything I've read before.
Yet I didn't like how the author organised the book as a whole. Chronologically it's quite chaotic.
August 23, 2022
The translated poems by Waley are incredibly diverse in quality and topics, and overall they provide a glimpse into ancient and medieval Chinese life. Sometimes I found it difficult to appreciate the some of poems because the nature of the subjects speaking, like a nobleman saying that having a cottage with 8 rooms on 10 acres of land is a humble rustic life, or that the translation can fall a bit flat. The poems that I did appreciate were usually the ones that relate experiences of traveling on the road and being a witness to a vast, wild expanse that contains many terrors and wonders.
The poems are also satirical in nature, usually about the incompetence of ministers or kings who take their religious principles to the point of becoming paralyzed with superstitious pursuits of immortality or becoming paranoid. Some of the poems are entirely in prose and these poems are made to expound on a broader social critique, like where a minister tells us how something as pure as mountain air becomes further conditioned by bad physical conditions, thus conditioning the poor people who live amongst the bad air and this creates a pestilent cycle of decay and misery - an issue we struggle with even today.
The introduction is a bit dated, such as Waley saying that the chinese were just these eastern rationalists but this book is incredibly old, so I sort of expected dated descriptions. I'd recommend the book if you're trying to cultivate an interest in poetry as the translations are easy to understand for beginners but keep in mind that some of the poems are abit so-so.
The poems are also satirical in nature, usually about the incompetence of ministers or kings who take their religious principles to the point of becoming paralyzed with superstitious pursuits of immortality or becoming paranoid. Some of the poems are entirely in prose and these poems are made to expound on a broader social critique, like where a minister tells us how something as pure as mountain air becomes further conditioned by bad physical conditions, thus conditioning the poor people who live amongst the bad air and this creates a pestilent cycle of decay and misery - an issue we struggle with even today.
The introduction is a bit dated, such as Waley saying that the chinese were just these eastern rationalists but this book is incredibly old, so I sort of expected dated descriptions. I'd recommend the book if you're trying to cultivate an interest in poetry as the translations are easy to understand for beginners but keep in mind that some of the poems are abit so-so.
May 17, 2018
I love discovering something new in old texts. Not knowing Chinese, I can't judge the accuracy but the texts were clear and interesting.
September 11, 2018
Understandably, the introductory essay for the book now seems quite dated, but the poems themselves are often very beautiful and provide a fascinating insight into ancient Chinese culture.
February 2, 2020
Rather strangely edited: the sections are not consistent in their introductions, with some being an overview of the poet's life, and others different. At any rate I'm over the moon to have discovered Po Chü-i whose poems have a beauty that transcends language - and between Chinese and English that's quite a feat.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews