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Classical Chinese Poetry: An Anthology
With this groundbreaking collection Classical Chinese Poetry, translated and edited by the renowned poet and translator David Hinton, a new generation will be introduced to the work that riveted Ezra Pound and transformed modern poetry.
The Chinese poetic tradition is the largest and longest continuous tradition in world literature, and this rich and far-reaching anthology of nearly five hundred poems provides a comprehensive account of its first three millennia (1500 BCE to 1200 CE), the period during which virtually all its landmark developments took place. Unlike earlier anthologies of Chinese poetry, Hinton's book focuses on a relatively small number of poets, providing selections that are large enough to re-create each as a fully realized and unique voice. New introductions to each poet's work provide a readable history, told for the first time as a series of poetic innovations forged by a series of master poets.
From the classic texts of Chinese philosophy to intensely personal lyrics, from love poems to startling and strange perspectives on nature, Hinton has collected an entire world of beauty and insight. And in his eye-opening translations, these ancient poems feel remarkably fresh and contemporary, presenting a literature both radically new and entirely resonant, in Classical Chinese Poetry .
The Chinese poetic tradition is the largest and longest continuous tradition in world literature, and this rich and far-reaching anthology of nearly five hundred poems provides a comprehensive account of its first three millennia (1500 BCE to 1200 CE), the period during which virtually all its landmark developments took place. Unlike earlier anthologies of Chinese poetry, Hinton's book focuses on a relatively small number of poets, providing selections that are large enough to re-create each as a fully realized and unique voice. New introductions to each poet's work provide a readable history, told for the first time as a series of poetic innovations forged by a series of master poets.
From the classic texts of Chinese philosophy to intensely personal lyrics, from love poems to startling and strange perspectives on nature, Hinton has collected an entire world of beauty and insight. And in his eye-opening translations, these ancient poems feel remarkably fresh and contemporary, presenting a literature both radically new and entirely resonant, in Classical Chinese Poetry .
516 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2010
143 people are currently reading
866 people want to read
About the author
David Hinton
36 books94 followersDavid Hinton has published numerous books of poetry and essays, and many translations of ancient Chinese poetry and philosophy—all informed by an abiding interest in deep ecological thinking. This widely-acclaimed work has earned Hinton a Guggenheim Fellowship, numerous fellowships from NEA and NEH, and both of the major awards given for poetry translation in the United States: the Landon Translation Award (Academy of American Poets) and the PEN American Translation Award. Most recently, Hinton received a lifetime achievement award by the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 33 reviews
February 5, 2017
Like visiting old friends...
CONTENT:
THE BOOK OF SONGS (c. 15th to 6th century B.C.E.)
TAO TE CHING (c. 6th century B.C.E.)
THE SONGS OF CH’U (c. 3rd century B.C.E.)
LATER FOLK–SONG COLLECTIONS (c. 2nd century B.C.E. to 4th century C.E.)
Music-Bureau Folk-songs (c. 2nd to 1st centuries B.C.E.)
Nineteen Ancient-Style Poems (c. 1st to 2nd centuries C.E.)
Lady Midnight Songs of the Four Seasons (c. 4th century C.E.)
FIRST MASTERS: THE MAINSTREAM BEGINS (4th to 5th centuries C.E.)
Tao Ch’ien
Hsieh Ling-yün
T’ANG DYNASTY I: THE GREAT RENAISSANCE (c. 700 to 800)
Meng Hao-jan
Wang Wei
Li Po
Tu Fu
Han Shan
Wei Ying-wu
T’ANG DYNASTY II: EXPERIMENTAL ALTERNATIVES (c. 800 to 875)
Meng Chiao
Han Yu
Po Chu-I
Li Ho
Tu Mu
Li Shang-yin
Yu Hsuan-chi
SUNG DYNASTY: THE MAINSTREAM RENEWED (c. 1000 to 1225)
Mei Yao-ch'en
Wang An-shih
Su Tong-p'o
Li Ch'ing-chao
Lu Yu
Yang Wan-li
CONTENT:
THE BOOK OF SONGS (c. 15th to 6th century B.C.E.)
TAO TE CHING (c. 6th century B.C.E.)
THE SONGS OF CH’U (c. 3rd century B.C.E.)
LATER FOLK–SONG COLLECTIONS (c. 2nd century B.C.E. to 4th century C.E.)
Music-Bureau Folk-songs (c. 2nd to 1st centuries B.C.E.)
Nineteen Ancient-Style Poems (c. 1st to 2nd centuries C.E.)
Lady Midnight Songs of the Four Seasons (c. 4th century C.E.)
FIRST MASTERS: THE MAINSTREAM BEGINS (4th to 5th centuries C.E.)
Tao Ch’ien
Hsieh Ling-yün
T’ANG DYNASTY I: THE GREAT RENAISSANCE (c. 700 to 800)
Meng Hao-jan
Wang Wei
Li Po
Tu Fu
Han Shan
Wei Ying-wu
T’ANG DYNASTY II: EXPERIMENTAL ALTERNATIVES (c. 800 to 875)
Meng Chiao
Han Yu
Po Chu-I
Li Ho
Tu Mu
Li Shang-yin
Yu Hsuan-chi
SUNG DYNASTY: THE MAINSTREAM RENEWED (c. 1000 to 1225)
Mei Yao-ch'en
Wang An-shih
Su Tong-p'o
Li Ch'ing-chao
Lu Yu
Yang Wan-li
April 6, 2020
Despite his occasionally Beat-poet / Gary-Snyder-esque translation style, Hinton is, by some margin, the best translator of Chinese poetry into English (of the 15 or so translators that I've read) and this collection is the best single volume of translated Chinese poetry in existence. If you're interested in the most impressive continuous poetic tradition in any language, this is the place to start.
October 22, 2020
In the 21st century, we are still reading Chinese poetry as invented by Ezra Pound – unmetrical, unrhymed lines of stacked prose. David Hinton’s translation fits nicely within that tradition with some beautiful lines and pristine, unpretentious language.
In his Cathay translations/transliterations, Pound was more than “the inventor of Chinese poetry in our time.” He was also the inventor of a tradition of free verse poetry that’s still going strong. Meter, rhyme and rhetoric would no more hold the day. Prosaic, unmetrical, unrhythmic verse became the defining features of poetry.
It’s rather ironic that free verse is so closely associated with the highly stylized and formal art of the ancient Chinese classics. The Chinese language of these poems was, literally, a completely different (and pretentiously literary) language that the Chinese peasants of the time would not have understood. (Think of Latin or Homeric Greek.)
I’d love to see a translation that tries to capture the formal qualities and the linguistic weirdness of the original instead of the pastoral, prosaic free verse that we Westerners identify with ancient Chinese poetry. But that’s where we find ourselves.
This set starts slow. In chronological order, the earliest poems seem like they are of more historical interest than literary interest. But it isn’t long before the reader comes across the familiar natural imagery, simple structure and common language we are accustomed to seeing thanks to Pound.
This is a very nice collection of poetry. If you enjoy contemporary poetry, I highly recommend it.
In his Cathay translations/transliterations, Pound was more than “the inventor of Chinese poetry in our time.” He was also the inventor of a tradition of free verse poetry that’s still going strong. Meter, rhyme and rhetoric would no more hold the day. Prosaic, unmetrical, unrhythmic verse became the defining features of poetry.
It’s rather ironic that free verse is so closely associated with the highly stylized and formal art of the ancient Chinese classics. The Chinese language of these poems was, literally, a completely different (and pretentiously literary) language that the Chinese peasants of the time would not have understood. (Think of Latin or Homeric Greek.)
I’d love to see a translation that tries to capture the formal qualities and the linguistic weirdness of the original instead of the pastoral, prosaic free verse that we Westerners identify with ancient Chinese poetry. But that’s where we find ourselves.
This set starts slow. In chronological order, the earliest poems seem like they are of more historical interest than literary interest. But it isn’t long before the reader comes across the familiar natural imagery, simple structure and common language we are accustomed to seeing thanks to Pound.
This is a very nice collection of poetry. If you enjoy contemporary poetry, I highly recommend it.
September 25, 2011
A collection of translated classical Chinese poems might seem like a rather academic, dry, book targeted towards a professional readership and not something newsworthy for the mass media, however, David Hinton is considered the dean of scholars of Chinese poetry and what he has provided us here is a consummate and rewarding volume for anyone interested in poetry, even those without a specific interest in classical Chinese literature. As one would expect from such a book, Hinton provides not only his translations of a variety of Chinese poems spanning a broad time period, but introductions to various eras, poets, and styles to inform the reader of both the literary and sociocultural background to the poems he is about to encounter. In doing so, the poems themselves are easily approached by the lay-reader yet the serious student or expert will find plenty of new information and the fruits of Hinton's ample research on these pages also.
The real pleasure though is coming to these poems simply as poems and to read Hinton's adroit translations into English as if one was reading any other English-language poetry. While reading a poem telling of a warrior's longing to return to his home from the battlefield, it struck me that the language and feeling found in this poem could represent the emotions of many a U.S. service-member in Iraq right now, despite having been written in another place and time and about another conflict. Hinton has not attempted to update or at all alter these poems as such would defeat his primary goal in presenting them in English, yet many are so heartfelt that they do not require anything beyond the gravitas of astute translation to impart their meaning (and often stark beauty) to the contemporary reader in English. T'ao Ch'ien's poetry, in example, resonates with emotion that implores empathy while Meng Chiao's work reflects nature in much the way that Robert Frost has in our own language. The influence of Taoist and Buddhist thought in many of the poems collected here is very apparent and expected but the diversity of approaches taken by the poets considered are ample and Hinton has collected enough poems from each major poet included to provide a real introduction to these poets' work, a nice touch given how many anthologies of this nature skip around and seem to attempt a broad scope of the writers covered over the depth of the work included.
Li Po, the classical Chinese poet who is perhaps best known today in the West, demonstrates exactly why the poems included here are still important and why in English-language translation they still hold a haunting ability to communicate the splendors of nature. Li Po wrote, as did most of the classical Chinese poets, mainly about personal reflection in nature and poems such as his "Spring Thoughts" illustrate the beauty and common joy found in natural settings by Chinese poets. Philosophy and poetry were especially close in their communication with each other for the early Chinese writers and in the classical age of Chinese poetry we find many of the origins of longstanding, even contemporary, outlooks on nature and society in China. Hinton also provides helpful explanations of key terms such as "wu-wei" and "hsin" in an included glossary which are essential to develop a more nuanced understanding of the philosophical underpinnings of these poems, yet such a deep understanding is not required to simply enjoy the poems on their own grounds of beauty. Still, the inclusion of this glossary and other additional devices to help explore and understand the poetry is most welcome and certainly needed by students, scholars, and certain other readers.
Meo Yao-Ch'en, another poet of roughly the same period as Li Po, explores complex concepts about nature and the role of the poet in society and Hinton does a sterling job of translating what has to have been very difficult concepts into English in a manner which results in Yao-Ch'en's voice sounding both original and easy to approach. When Yao-Ch'en speaks of renting a place not far from a temple, we can imagine his mountain retreat in vivid terms and understand his desire for solace. Despite the centuries between his time and our own and despite the vast differences in language and society, David Hinton has brought the core thoughts and concepts of this talented poet into the current day and done so with grace and depth. For their part, the publishers, Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, have presented this volume in a sturdy, attractive, edition that is a pleasure to read.
The real pleasure though is coming to these poems simply as poems and to read Hinton's adroit translations into English as if one was reading any other English-language poetry. While reading a poem telling of a warrior's longing to return to his home from the battlefield, it struck me that the language and feeling found in this poem could represent the emotions of many a U.S. service-member in Iraq right now, despite having been written in another place and time and about another conflict. Hinton has not attempted to update or at all alter these poems as such would defeat his primary goal in presenting them in English, yet many are so heartfelt that they do not require anything beyond the gravitas of astute translation to impart their meaning (and often stark beauty) to the contemporary reader in English. T'ao Ch'ien's poetry, in example, resonates with emotion that implores empathy while Meng Chiao's work reflects nature in much the way that Robert Frost has in our own language. The influence of Taoist and Buddhist thought in many of the poems collected here is very apparent and expected but the diversity of approaches taken by the poets considered are ample and Hinton has collected enough poems from each major poet included to provide a real introduction to these poets' work, a nice touch given how many anthologies of this nature skip around and seem to attempt a broad scope of the writers covered over the depth of the work included.
Li Po, the classical Chinese poet who is perhaps best known today in the West, demonstrates exactly why the poems included here are still important and why in English-language translation they still hold a haunting ability to communicate the splendors of nature. Li Po wrote, as did most of the classical Chinese poets, mainly about personal reflection in nature and poems such as his "Spring Thoughts" illustrate the beauty and common joy found in natural settings by Chinese poets. Philosophy and poetry were especially close in their communication with each other for the early Chinese writers and in the classical age of Chinese poetry we find many of the origins of longstanding, even contemporary, outlooks on nature and society in China. Hinton also provides helpful explanations of key terms such as "wu-wei" and "hsin" in an included glossary which are essential to develop a more nuanced understanding of the philosophical underpinnings of these poems, yet such a deep understanding is not required to simply enjoy the poems on their own grounds of beauty. Still, the inclusion of this glossary and other additional devices to help explore and understand the poetry is most welcome and certainly needed by students, scholars, and certain other readers.
Meo Yao-Ch'en, another poet of roughly the same period as Li Po, explores complex concepts about nature and the role of the poet in society and Hinton does a sterling job of translating what has to have been very difficult concepts into English in a manner which results in Yao-Ch'en's voice sounding both original and easy to approach. When Yao-Ch'en speaks of renting a place not far from a temple, we can imagine his mountain retreat in vivid terms and understand his desire for solace. Despite the centuries between his time and our own and despite the vast differences in language and society, David Hinton has brought the core thoughts and concepts of this talented poet into the current day and done so with grace and depth. For their part, the publishers, Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, have presented this volume in a sturdy, attractive, edition that is a pleasure to read.
January 29, 2023
I'm so glad I took the time to finally read this in full. In the past I've chosen poems at random or read a section, and put the book away. Hinton's translations and thoughts on various poets is the perfect combination for anyone exploring an interest in Chinese poetry and the role it's played in society through the centuries. I've particularly enjoyed how he puts the poet and the time in which they lived into perspective at the beginning of every section. There's also a depth to the translations and the words he chooses to employ that lead me to ask further questions about the authors intent. How much a poem can change based on the difference of a single word translated differently.
I'm so glad I have this on my shelf. I'll continue to randomly read poems and return to sections. Maybe I'll read it in full again at some point. I'm certain this will never gather too much dust. It's sparked something in me, and I think if you have an interest in poetry, philosophy or history it will do the same for you.
I'm so glad I have this on my shelf. I'll continue to randomly read poems and return to sections. Maybe I'll read it in full again at some point. I'm certain this will never gather too much dust. It's sparked something in me, and I think if you have an interest in poetry, philosophy or history it will do the same for you.
May 23, 2020
I read on a park bench.
Over 1000 years ago
a petal of blossom
fell into a man's shoe.
Chinese poetry's openness to banality, to the mundane, to the trivial, and the fleeting, gives it such a miraculous realness these centuries later. Not the battles of heroes, the dreams of saints, or the professions of lovers, but the day to day expereinces of ordinary people - shoelaces coming undone, getting a toothache, stopping on a walk to smell the forest air, having a bottle of wine with a friend - this is the material for Chinese poetry. While I delight in Catullus or Boethius or Petrarch, I am not there with them, standing by their side as they speak. I don't know what Dante's living room looked like. With so many of the wonderful poets in this collection, I feel as if I wee reading a photograph of their experiences. I feel as though they have been translated to me by time machine. The longer you contemplate it, the more miraculous it feels that these transient moments in the lives of people on the other side of the world, have somehow made their way to you, reading them on a park bench, over a millenium later.
It is only with Wordsworth and Coleridge that I begin tofeel this intimacy and vividness in Western literature. David Hinton makes the case, in his gloss to the poems, that this concern for the trivial things of life can be traced to the influence of Daist and Ch'an Buddhist thought on the Chinese tradition. While European literature draws back from banal events of daily life, seeing them as transient, seeking immortality instead in thought and spirit, Chinese literature draws back from interiority for the same reason, seeing immortality in oneness with nature. The poet succeeds the moment they are no longer distinguishable from the world.
Though occasionally put out a little by Hinton's exacting translations of key Chinese philosophical concepts - the clunky phrase 'occurence appearing of itself' is used repeatedly (how accurately I am not qualified to say) where other translators seem happy with the Englsh word 'Nature' - I loved this collection, loved Hinton's rendering of such a diverse array of poetic voices, loved his vivid diction, his ability to switch between tones, and highly reccomend it for anyone interested in China, Chinese literature, or poetry more generally. A broader selection of poems - taking the reader far beyond the Song Dynasty where Hinton terminates - is available from Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping in the Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry, but if it's the classical High Tang/Song period you are interested in, I believe Hinton's poetry is superior.
Over 1000 years ago
a petal of blossom
fell into a man's shoe.
Chinese poetry's openness to banality, to the mundane, to the trivial, and the fleeting, gives it such a miraculous realness these centuries later. Not the battles of heroes, the dreams of saints, or the professions of lovers, but the day to day expereinces of ordinary people - shoelaces coming undone, getting a toothache, stopping on a walk to smell the forest air, having a bottle of wine with a friend - this is the material for Chinese poetry. While I delight in Catullus or Boethius or Petrarch, I am not there with them, standing by their side as they speak. I don't know what Dante's living room looked like. With so many of the wonderful poets in this collection, I feel as if I wee reading a photograph of their experiences. I feel as though they have been translated to me by time machine. The longer you contemplate it, the more miraculous it feels that these transient moments in the lives of people on the other side of the world, have somehow made their way to you, reading them on a park bench, over a millenium later.
It is only with Wordsworth and Coleridge that I begin tofeel this intimacy and vividness in Western literature. David Hinton makes the case, in his gloss to the poems, that this concern for the trivial things of life can be traced to the influence of Daist and Ch'an Buddhist thought on the Chinese tradition. While European literature draws back from banal events of daily life, seeing them as transient, seeking immortality instead in thought and spirit, Chinese literature draws back from interiority for the same reason, seeing immortality in oneness with nature. The poet succeeds the moment they are no longer distinguishable from the world.
Though occasionally put out a little by Hinton's exacting translations of key Chinese philosophical concepts - the clunky phrase 'occurence appearing of itself' is used repeatedly (how accurately I am not qualified to say) where other translators seem happy with the Englsh word 'Nature' - I loved this collection, loved Hinton's rendering of such a diverse array of poetic voices, loved his vivid diction, his ability to switch between tones, and highly reccomend it for anyone interested in China, Chinese literature, or poetry more generally. A broader selection of poems - taking the reader far beyond the Song Dynasty where Hinton terminates - is available from Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping in the Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry, but if it's the classical High Tang/Song period you are interested in, I believe Hinton's poetry is superior.
January 1, 2018
I gave this five stars, mostly because the verse is lovely, steeped in image and harboring shades of Buddhist and Taoist philosophy. Hinton provides historical and biographical context for each of the poets he features as well as explanations for his editorial choices. You might be tempted to skip some of these and get right to the verse. But I'd recommend you don't. The information adds depth and breadth to the verse. That, and you'll likely learn some stuff about Chinese history. At least I did. But then, I know absolutely nothing about Chinese history.
That said, I have no deep knowledge of Asian or Chinese poetry nor can I comment intelligently on how true or accurate the translations are. So if you have nitpicks about that stuff, take it up with Hinton, not me.
Bottom line: Highly recommended, particularly if you want to expand your horizons beyond Western poetry or you like imagists and Modernists like Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams.
That said, I have no deep knowledge of Asian or Chinese poetry nor can I comment intelligently on how true or accurate the translations are. So if you have nitpicks about that stuff, take it up with Hinton, not me.
Bottom line: Highly recommended, particularly if you want to expand your horizons beyond Western poetry or you like imagists and Modernists like Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams.
May 6, 2025
I’m not sure how the more initiated level these translations. But I found this really cool and come back to it a lot. would recommend to anyone
April 17, 2019
"Sad ones can’t bear the slow years.
It’s those with no joy and no sorrow —
they trust whatever this life brings."
- PO CHÜ-I (772 to 846), from “After Lunch”
"And the old have no tears. When they sob,
autumn weeps dewdrops."
- Meng Chiao (751 to 814), from “Autumn Thoughts”
"I gaze out through empty space,
tangles of the heart all cold scattered ash."
- Wei Ying-wu (c. 737 to 792), from “Autumn Night”
"It’s quiet. Memories come, and grief
suddenly caught and buffeted in wind"
- Wei Ying-wu (c. 737 to 792), from “In Idleness, Facing Rain”
"Search out through all eight horizons:
you find nothing anywhere but isolate
emptiness, departure and return one
movement, one ageless way of absence."
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Thoughts”
"… but I’m still alive, still in one piece,
though even now, on cold dark nights full of wind and rain,
I’m sleepless all night long with pain and still awake at dawn.
Sleepless with pain
but free of regrets …"
- HAN YÜ (768 to 824), from “NEW YÜEH-FU
"A wanderer — O all year this wanderer that I am …"
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Seven Songs at Gather Valley”
"People all hope their kids will grow up to be so clever and wise,
but I’ve been consumed by clever-and-wise. It’s ruined my life."
- SU TUNG - P (1037 to 1101), from “Bathing my son”
"A darkness disease has seized my eyes.
On bright clear days, I walk through fog"
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Eyes Dark”
"Never arriving, what can we understand,
and always leaving, what’s left to explain ?"
- SU TUNG - P (1037 to 1101), from “AFTER T’AO CH’IEN’S “DRINKING WINE””
"I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,
my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending."
- Li Po (701 to 762), from “Thoughts of you unending”
"you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud"
- Li Po (701 to 762), from “Thoughts of you unending”
"Strength failing
all at once, as if cut loose, and ravages
everywhere, like weaving unraveled,
I touch thread-ends. No new feelings.
Memories crowding thickening sorrow,
how could I bear southbound sails, how
wander rivers and mountains of the past ?"
- Meng Chiao (751 to 814), from “Autumn Thoughts”
"Dusk light goes dark in the empty room.
Not a single word: I sit alone, all stillness,
all deep silence."
- HAN YÜ (768 to 824), from “Pond In A Bowl”
"The night deepens. The moon emerges,
then goes on shepherding stars west."
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Farewell”
"My long-ago life rises into lone thoughts
and drifts windblown — too much for me."
- TU MU (803 to 853), from “Thoughts After Snow In Hsiang-Yang”
"Coming is an empty promise,
and departure leaves no trace"
- LI SHANG-YIN (c. 813 to 858), from “Untitled”
"It seems the fiercest love is no love at all, in the end.
Sipping wine together, we feel nothing now but absent
smiles. Candles, at least, still have hearts. They grieve
over goodbye, cry our tears for us until dawn-lit skies."
- TU MU (803 to 853), “Goodbye”
"Messengers carrying letters in rain,
someone heartbroken at the window"
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Orchid fragrance, sent far away”
"I’m sending thoughts of you a thousand miles of moonlight:
scraps of light along canyon streams, haze of steady rain."
- TU MU (803 to 853), from “Sent Far Away”
"O song already sad enough,
winds come from the furthest sky grieving my grief."
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Seven Songs at Gather Valley”
It’s those with no joy and no sorrow —
they trust whatever this life brings."
- PO CHÜ-I (772 to 846), from “After Lunch”
"And the old have no tears. When they sob,
autumn weeps dewdrops."
- Meng Chiao (751 to 814), from “Autumn Thoughts”
"I gaze out through empty space,
tangles of the heart all cold scattered ash."
- Wei Ying-wu (c. 737 to 792), from “Autumn Night”
"It’s quiet. Memories come, and grief
suddenly caught and buffeted in wind"
- Wei Ying-wu (c. 737 to 792), from “In Idleness, Facing Rain”
"Search out through all eight horizons:
you find nothing anywhere but isolate
emptiness, departure and return one
movement, one ageless way of absence."
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Thoughts”
"… but I’m still alive, still in one piece,
though even now, on cold dark nights full of wind and rain,
I’m sleepless all night long with pain and still awake at dawn.
Sleepless with pain
but free of regrets …"
- HAN YÜ (768 to 824), from “NEW YÜEH-FU
"A wanderer — O all year this wanderer that I am …"
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Seven Songs at Gather Valley”
"People all hope their kids will grow up to be so clever and wise,
but I’ve been consumed by clever-and-wise. It’s ruined my life."
- SU TUNG - P (1037 to 1101), from “Bathing my son”
"A darkness disease has seized my eyes.
On bright clear days, I walk through fog"
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Eyes Dark”
"Never arriving, what can we understand,
and always leaving, what’s left to explain ?"
- SU TUNG - P (1037 to 1101), from “AFTER T’AO CH’IEN’S “DRINKING WINE””
"I’ll never reach you, even in dreams,
my ruins of the heart,
thoughts of you unending."
- Li Po (701 to 762), from “Thoughts of you unending”
"you’re lovely as a blossom born of cloud"
- Li Po (701 to 762), from “Thoughts of you unending”
"Strength failing
all at once, as if cut loose, and ravages
everywhere, like weaving unraveled,
I touch thread-ends. No new feelings.
Memories crowding thickening sorrow,
how could I bear southbound sails, how
wander rivers and mountains of the past ?"
- Meng Chiao (751 to 814), from “Autumn Thoughts”
"Dusk light goes dark in the empty room.
Not a single word: I sit alone, all stillness,
all deep silence."
- HAN YÜ (768 to 824), from “Pond In A Bowl”
"The night deepens. The moon emerges,
then goes on shepherding stars west."
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Farewell”
"My long-ago life rises into lone thoughts
and drifts windblown — too much for me."
- TU MU (803 to 853), from “Thoughts After Snow In Hsiang-Yang”
"Coming is an empty promise,
and departure leaves no trace"
- LI SHANG-YIN (c. 813 to 858), from “Untitled”
"It seems the fiercest love is no love at all, in the end.
Sipping wine together, we feel nothing now but absent
smiles. Candles, at least, still have hearts. They grieve
over goodbye, cry our tears for us until dawn-lit skies."
- TU MU (803 to 853), “Goodbye”
"Messengers carrying letters in rain,
someone heartbroken at the window"
- YÜ HSÜAN-CHI (c. 840 to 868), from “Orchid fragrance, sent far away”
"I’m sending thoughts of you a thousand miles of moonlight:
scraps of light along canyon streams, haze of steady rain."
- TU MU (803 to 853), from “Sent Far Away”
"O song already sad enough,
winds come from the furthest sky grieving my grief."
- Tu Fu (712 to 770), from “Seven Songs at Gather Valley”
January 5, 2021
A great selection of poets and poems here, with translations that I found pleasing to read and that, as far as I can tell from comparing individual translations across a few other books I have, strike a good balance between highlighting themes and meanings that won't be obvious to the modern English reader and refraining from adding too much. Translating from classical Chinese into English is a necessarily additive process due to the nature of the languages, but Hinton keeps a pretty light touch. His introductory essays included a good amount of historical and biographical detail to situate the selections, as well as some exploration of the conceptual world they explore. When it comes to certain specific Taoist ideas, Hinton's translation choices could feel a bit heavy-handed and kludgy ("occurrence appearing of itself" for tzu-jan is quite a mouthful), and felt like an effort to draw attention to the philosophical elements that he personally finds most appealing in the work, but honestly this seems inevitable to me whenever one individual person is translating works together by a wide range of poets. I also really appreciated the decision to focus in on specific poets, providing translations for a range of their works, rather than sprinkling in individual poems by a greater number of poets (as other anthologies do), as it allowed you to really grasp the stylistic and conceptual differences between the poets. By the end of the volume I was definitely rolling my eyes every time his favorite set phrases like "empty clarity" or "isolate depths" popped up, and at times it felt like his use of enjambment was excessive, but on the whole I liked them a lot (and certainly preferred them to the work of J.P. Seaton, which is how I was first introduced to a lot of these poets). His list of suggested additional reading, tucked away at the very back of the book, is an excellent resource. I've accumulated a fair amount of primer-type anthologies as I've gotten interested in Chinese poetry, and this is definitely the one I'd recommend.
February 7, 2017
The only downsides of this book are (1) that it doesn't have enough poems in it - sure, it's got 400 pages or so of poems, but I want more and I want them now - and (2) that Hinton uses the word "isolate" as a noun a dozen or so times.
His introductions are helpful - personal, in the sense that his voice and interests as a scholar come through loud and clear, but also very authoritative - and his translations are mighty fine. Mighty mighty fine. (OK, the third thing wrong with this book is that the Chinese original texts are not there, too. But I realise that most readers would not gain much from that.) So fine that I read this anthology through cover to cover, rather than dipping in, as one is perhaps supposed to do with an anthology.
Basically Hinton seems to have created a whole new literature, and brought something very real across. The cries of the poor, the lovers, the widowed, the lonely, the environmentalists, the prostitutes, the protesters, the advocates, the cranes, geese, pigs, horses, and Uncle Tom Cobbley are all there, along with the mountains, mist and lakes one might have supposed to be the bread and butter of Chinese poetry. It is sheer folly to quote one or two poems as if they were representative or could do justice to this nigh-perfect book, but I will do so anyway...
UNTITLED (1st century BC, p.76)
Give birth to a boy - don't give him a care.
Give birth to a girl - feed her meat dainties.
Haven't you seen, beneath the Great Wall,
all those bleached bones propped together?
INSCRIBED ON MASTER LAKE-SHADOW'S WALL (Wang Anshi, p.358)
Thatch-eave paths are always well-swept, pure, free of moss,
and with your hands, flowering orchards planted themselves.
A creek meanders by, snug curve cradling jade green fields.
Two mountains push a door open, sending azure-green inside.
His introductions are helpful - personal, in the sense that his voice and interests as a scholar come through loud and clear, but also very authoritative - and his translations are mighty fine. Mighty mighty fine. (OK, the third thing wrong with this book is that the Chinese original texts are not there, too. But I realise that most readers would not gain much from that.) So fine that I read this anthology through cover to cover, rather than dipping in, as one is perhaps supposed to do with an anthology.
Basically Hinton seems to have created a whole new literature, and brought something very real across. The cries of the poor, the lovers, the widowed, the lonely, the environmentalists, the prostitutes, the protesters, the advocates, the cranes, geese, pigs, horses, and Uncle Tom Cobbley are all there, along with the mountains, mist and lakes one might have supposed to be the bread and butter of Chinese poetry. It is sheer folly to quote one or two poems as if they were representative or could do justice to this nigh-perfect book, but I will do so anyway...
UNTITLED (1st century BC, p.76)
Give birth to a boy - don't give him a care.
Give birth to a girl - feed her meat dainties.
Haven't you seen, beneath the Great Wall,
all those bleached bones propped together?
INSCRIBED ON MASTER LAKE-SHADOW'S WALL (Wang Anshi, p.358)
Thatch-eave paths are always well-swept, pure, free of moss,
and with your hands, flowering orchards planted themselves.
A creek meanders by, snug curve cradling jade green fields.
Two mountains push a door open, sending azure-green inside.
August 8, 2024
—Pictures of Chinese Geist—
MY LOVE'S GONE OFF TO WAR
My love's gone off to war,
who knows how long gone
or where O where.
Chickens settle into nests,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander in—
but my love's gone off to war
and nothing can stop these thoughts of him.
My love's gone off to war,
not for days or even months,
and who survives such things?
Chickens settle onto perches,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander home—
but my love's gone off to war
if hunger and thirst spared him that long.
NOTHING LEFT
Nothing left, O nothing left,
why not head for home?
Nothing but a lord's whimsy—
why else are we stuck here, warriors drenched in dew?
Nothing left, O nothing left,
why not head for home?
Nothing but a lord's vainglory—
why else are we stuck here, warriors all muck and mud?
IN THE WILDS THERE'S A DEAD DEER
In the wilds there's a dead deer
all wrapped in bleached reeds,
and there's a girl feeling spring
as her fair love brings her on.
In the woods there's thicket oak,
in the wilds there's a dead deer
tangled tight in bleached reeds,
and there's a girl, skin like jade.
Slowly—oh yes, slip it off slowly,
my skirt, oh yes, don't muss it,
and don't start that dog barking.
GATHERING THORN-FERN
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter,
thorn-fern still green, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Autumn's ending, and there's
no shelter for us, no family,
thanks to those dog-face tribes,
no time to sit, no ease for us
thanks to those dog-face tribes.
Gathering thorn-fern, btter
thorn-fern still tender, all we
talk of is home, going home,
hearts grief-stricken, hearts
bleak and cold grief-stricken,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Frontier war drags on and on,
no hope they'll send us home.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern now tough, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Winter's begun, and still there's
no pause in the emperor's work,
no time to sit, and no ease for
hearts stricken sick with grief.
When we left, we left for good.
What's all this lavish splendor?
It's a plum flaunting its bloom.
And that, there on the road?
It's our noble lord's war-cart,
war-cart all harnessed up to
four stallions fiery and strong.
How will we ever stop and rest?
Three battles a month we fight,
four stallions all harnessed up,
four eager and strong stallions.
A noble lord driving them on,
we little ones shielding them,
four surging stallions attack,
ivory bow-tips, sealskin quiver.
We keep watch. Those dog-face
tribes—they can strike so fast.
It was long ago when we left.
Fresh willows swayed tenderly.
And now we come back through
driving sleet tangled in slow,
the road long and deathly slow,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Grief has so slashed our hearts
no one could fathom our cries.
RATS SO FAT
Rats so fat, rats so grand
feasting on our millet—
three years your slaves
and we're nothing to you.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for that joyous land,
that joyous joyous land,
and live out our dreams.
Rats so fat, rats so grand,
feasting on our wheat—
three years your slaves
and to us you're heartless.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for that joyous nation,
that joyous joyous nation,
and live out our true way.
Rats so fat, rats so grand
feasting on our sprouts—
three years your slaves
and you give nothing back.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for those joyous fields,
those joyous joyous fields,
and end all this mourning.
IN THE WILDS THERE'S A GRASS MAT
In the wilds there's a grass mat
damp with dew, damp and cool,
and there's you, O so beautiful:
eyes crystalline, face exquisite.
We happened upon one another
and O you gave all that I wanted.
In the wilds there's a grass mat
thick with dew, thick and cool,
and there's you, O so beautiful:
face exquisite as crystalline eyes.
We happened upon one another,
and hidden away here, we shine.
OSPREYS CRY
Cheereek! cheereek! ospreys cry
ospreys above their riverside nest.
That fine lady, exquisite mystery—
what a match for a worthy man.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves
drift this current here and there.
That fine lady, exquisite mystery—
waking and sleeping I sought her,
sought her but never reached her,
waking and sleeping, all devoted,
longing and longing on and on,
tossing and turning side to side.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves
from every side I gather them in,
and my fine lady, exquisite mystery—
with quiet ch'in song I befriend her.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves,
from every side I bring them in,
and my fine lady, exquisite mystery—
with drums and bells I delight her.
I CLIMB A HILLTOP
I climb a rock-strewn hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
father, O father calling: My child, my child dragged off to war,
no rest all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not stuck out there.
I climb a grass-patch hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
mother, O mother calling: My little one, my little one dragged off to war,
no sleep all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not lost out there.
I climb some windblown ridge
and gaze, gaze out toward my brother, O brother calling: My brother, my brother dragged off to war,
formation all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not dead out there.
WILLOWS NEAR THE EAST GATE
Willows near the east gate
grow lush and full: at dusk
we were to meet, but now
the morning star's alight.
Willows near the east gate
grow deep and dark: at dusk
we were to meet, but now
the morning star—it burns.
WE CUT GRASSES
We cut grasses, hack brush,
and plow fields so rich, rich,
thousands clearing out roots,
clearing dikes and paddies,
some lords and some elders,
some parents, some children,
some strong and some weak,
all sharing farmland meals,
men adoring beautiful wives
and wives beside their men,
men that hone ploughshares
and till these southern fields.
We sow the hundred grains,
those seeds so quick with life
they sprout in no time at all
and rise up sturdy and tall,
rise sturdy and lush and tall,
weeded over and over again
until we harvest such plenty,
such rich plenty stacked up
a thousand million and more
and more, to make deep wine
we offer lavish to ancestors
according to a hundred rites:
and its scent full of sweetness
brings our homeland splendor,
and its fragrance full of spice
brings our agèd long repose.
This isn't just this one harvest,
and this isn't just this one day:
we live all antiquity in this.
EASTERN MOUNTAINS
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
Rumors about us heading home
kept me longing for the west,
for the cutting of new clothes
far from our gagged night-raids,
but green caterpillars ravaged
mulberry orchards inside out,
and I spent lonely nights alone
sleeping under those war-carts.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
Vines heavy with rife-melons
draped in tangles across eaves,
sowbugs taking over the rooms
and spiderwebs the doorways,
courtyard become a deeryard,
flicker-bugs haunting the night:
nothing so fearful in such things,
but O they bring back memories.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
A crane calls from an anthill.
A wife mourns in her rooms.
Plaster, sprinkle, and sweep—
we're back now, we're back!
Bitter melons, bitter melons
sprawling over the woodpile:
it's already been three long
years since I saw them there.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
An oriole sets out into flight,
its wings flickering, flickering,
and a lady readies for marriage,
horse dappled sorrel and bay,
her mother tying bridal sashes,
packing wedding gifts aplenty.
Her new marriage looks grand,
but what about the old one she shared with me?
TAO TE CHING
1
A Way you can call Way isn't the perennial Way,
A name you can name isn't the perennial name:
the named is mother to the ten thousand things,
but the unnamed is origin to all heaven and earth.
In perennial absence you see mystery,
and in perennial presence you see appearance.
Though the two are one and the same,
once they arise, they differ in nature.
One and the same they're called dark-enigma,
dark-enigma deep within dark-enigma,
gateway of all mystery.
2
All beneath heaven knows beauty is beauty
only because there's ugliness,
and knows good is good
only because there's evil.
Presence and absence give birth to one another,
difficult and easy complete one another,
long and short measure one another,
high and low fill one another,
music and noise harmonize one another,
before and after follow one another:
that's why a sage abides in the realm of nothing's own doing,
living out that wordless teaching.
The ten thousand things arise without beginnings there,
abide without waiting there,
come to perfection without dwelling there.
Without dwelling there: that's the only way
you'll never lose it.
3
Never bestow honors
and people won't quarrel.
Never prize rare treasures
and people won't steal.
Never flaunt alluring things
and people won't be confused.
This is how a sage governs.
Fill bellies and empty minds,
strengthen bones and weaken ambition,
always keep the people from knowing and wanting,
then those who know are those who never presume to act.
If you're nothing doing whatever you do
all things will be governed well.
6
The valley spirit never dies.
It's called dark female-enigma,
and the gateway of dark female-enigma
is called the root of heaven and earth,
gossamer so unceasing it seems real.
Use it: it's effortless.
7
Heaven goes on forever.
Earth endures forever.
There's a reason heaven and earth go on enduring forever:
their life isn't their own
so their life goes on forever.
Hence, in putting himself last
the sage puts himself first,
and in giving himself up,
he preserves himself.
If you aren't free of yourself,
how will you ever become yourself?
10
Can you let your spirit embrace primal unity
without drifting away?
Can you focus ch'i into such softness
you're a newborn again?
Can you polish the dark-enigma mirror
to a clarity beyond stain?
Can you make loving the people and ruling the nation
nothing's own doing?
Can you be female
opening and closing heaven's gate?
Can you fathom earth's four distances with radiant wisdom
and know nothing?
Give birth and nurture.
Give birth without possessing
and foster without dominating:
this is called dark-enigma Integrity.
13
Honor is a contagion deep as fear,
renown a calamity profound as self.
Why do I call honor a contagion deep as fear?
Honor always dwindles away,
so earning it fills us with fear
and losing it fills us with fear.
And why do I call renown a calamity profound as self?
We only know calamity because we have these selves.
If we didn't have selves
what calamity could touch us?
When all beneath heaven is your self in renown
you trust yourself to all beneath heaven,
and when all beneath heaven is your self in love
you dwell throughout all beneath heaven.
17
The loftiest ruler is barely known among those below.
Next comes a ruler people love and praise.
After that, one they fear,
and then one they despise.
If you don't stand sincere by your words
how sincere can the people be?
Take great care over words, treasure them,
and when the hundredfold people see your work succeed in all they do
they'll say it's just occurrence appearing of itself.
20
If you give up learning, troubles end.
How much difference is there
between yes and no?
And is there a difference
between lovely and ugly?
If we can't stop fearing
those things people fear,
it's pure confusion, never-ending confusion.
People all radiate such joy,
happily offering a sacrificial ox
or climbing a tower in spring.
But I go nowhere and reveal nothing
like a newborn child who has yet to smile,
aimless and worn-out
as if the way home were lost.
People all have enough and more.
But I'm abandoned and destitute,
an absolute simpleton, this mind of mine so utterly
muddled and blank.
Others are bright and clear:
I'm dark and murky.
Others are confident and effective:
I'm pensive and withdrawn,
uneasy as boundless seas
or perennial mountain winds.
People all have a purpose in life,
but I'm inept, thoroughly useless and backward.
I'll never be like other people:
I keep to the nurturing mother.
25
There was something all murky shadow,
born before heaven and earth:
O such utter silence, utter emptiness.
Isolate and changeless,
it moves everywhere without fail:
picture the mother of all beneath heaven.
I don't know its name.
I'll call it Way,
and if I must name it, name it Vast.
Vast means it's passing beyond,
passing beyond means it's gone far away,
and gone far away means it's come back.
Because Way is vast
heaven is vast,
earth is vast,
and the true emperor too is vast.
In this realm, there are four vast things,
and the true emperor is one of them.
Human abides by earth.
Earth abides by heaven.
Heaven abides by Way.
Way abides by occurrence appearing of itself.
35
Holding to the great image
all beneath heaven sets out:
sets out free of risk,
peace tranquil and vast.
Music and savory food
entice travelers to stop,
but the Way uttered forth
isn't even the thinnest of bland flavors.
Look at it: not enough to see.
Listen to it: not enough to hear.
Use it: not enough to use up.
40
Return is the movement of Way,
and yielding the method of Way.
All beneath heaven, the ten thousand things: it's all born of presence,
and presence is born of absence.
43
The weakest in all beneath heaven gallops through the strongest,
and vacant absence slips inside solid presence.
I know by this the value of nothing's own doing.
The teaching without words,
the value of nothing's own doing:
few indeed master such things.
46
When all beneath heaven abides in Way,
fast horses are kept to work the fields.
When all beneath heaven forgets Way,
warhorses are bred among the fertility altars.
What calamity is greater than no contentment,
and what flaw greater than the passion for gain?
The contentment of fathoming contentment—
there lies the contentment that endures.
48
To work at learning brings more each day.
To work at Way brings less each day,
less and still less
until you're nothing's own doing.
And when you're nothing's own doing, there's nothing you don't do.
To grasp all beneath heaven, leave it alone.
Leave it alone, that's all,
and nothing in all beneath heaven will elude you.
52
There's a source all beneath heaven shares:
call it the mother of all beneath heaven.
Once you fathom the mother
you understand the child,
and once you understand the child,
you abide in the mother,
self gone, free of danger.
56
Those who know don't talk,
and those who talk don't know.
Block the senses
and close the mind,
blunt edges,
loosen tangles,
soften glare,
mingle dust:
this is called dark-enigma union.
It can't be embraced
and can't be ignored,
can't be enhanced,
and can't be harmed,
can't be treasured
and can't be despised,
for it's the treasure of all beneath heaven.
57
You may govern the nation through principle
and lead armies to victory through craft,
but you win all beneath heaven through indifference.
How can I know this is to be so?
Through this.
The more prohibitions rule all beneath heaven
the deeper poverty grows among the people.
The more shrewd leaders there are
the faster dark confusion fills the nation.
The more cleverness people learn
the fast strange things happen.
The faster laws and decrees are issued
the more bandits and thieves appear.
Therefore a sage says:
I do nothing
and the people transform themselves.
I cherish tranquility
and the people rectify themselves.
I cultivate indifference
and the people enrich themselves.
I desire nothing
and the people return of themselves to uncarved simplicity.
80
Let nations grow smaller and smaller
and people fewer and fewer,
let weapons become rare
and superfluous,
let people feel death's gravity again
and never wander far from home.
Then boat and carriage will sit unused
and shield and sword lie unnoticed.
Let people knot ropes for notation again
and never need anything more,
let them find pleasure in their food
and beauty in their clothes,
peace in their homes
and joy in their ancestral ways.
Then people in neighboring nations will look across to each other,
their chickens and dogs calling back and forth,
and yet they'll grow old and die
without bothering to exchange visits.
THE QUESTION OF HEAVEN
1
From the far origin of all antiquity,
who hands the story down to us?
2
Before heaven and earth take shape,
how do you delve into what's there?
3
When light and dark are still a blur,
who can see through to their source?
4
When it's altogether primal chaos,
how do you see the shape of things?
5
Blazing radiance and utter darkness
and nothing more: how did it happen?
6
And when yin and yang first gave birth—
what was rooted, and what transformed?
7
Nine celestial compass-points arrayed,
calibrated perfectly and measured out
8
just so—how was heaven ever made,
how, in the beginning, set into motion?
9
How could its vast turning be tethered?
And how was its axle-pole lofted there?
10
How were its eight pillars put in place,
and why is the southeast tilting down?
11
The boundaries of its nine regions—
how could they join, how lead away?
12
And all their meanders back and forth,
who knows how many there might be?
13
What makes heaven entire and whole?
And how is it split into twelve palaces?
14
How are sun and moon joined together?
And how are scattered stars patterned?
15
Rising from the depths of Boiling Abyss,
returning to rest in the Gulf of Obscurity,
16
from morning light on to evening dark:
the sun's journey lasts how many miles?
17
Then night's radiant one—by what power
can it die out and soon come back to life,
18
a bright moon? And what does it gain
from a rabbit inside its belly gazing out?
19
Star Mother never mated—so how is it
she gave birth to nine star-children?
20
Where does great Elder Wind-Star live?
And where do warm ch'i-breezes dwell?
21
What closes in to bring evening dark?
What opens out to bring morning light?
22
MY LOVE'S GONE OFF TO WAR
My love's gone off to war,
who knows how long gone
or where O where.
Chickens settle into nests,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander in—
but my love's gone off to war
and nothing can stop these thoughts of him.
My love's gone off to war,
not for days or even months,
and who survives such things?
Chickens settle onto perches,
an evening sun sinks away,
oxen and sheep wander home—
but my love's gone off to war
if hunger and thirst spared him that long.
NOTHING LEFT
Nothing left, O nothing left,
why not head for home?
Nothing but a lord's whimsy—
why else are we stuck here, warriors drenched in dew?
Nothing left, O nothing left,
why not head for home?
Nothing but a lord's vainglory—
why else are we stuck here, warriors all muck and mud?
IN THE WILDS THERE'S A DEAD DEER
In the wilds there's a dead deer
all wrapped in bleached reeds,
and there's a girl feeling spring
as her fair love brings her on.
In the woods there's thicket oak,
in the wilds there's a dead deer
tangled tight in bleached reeds,
and there's a girl, skin like jade.
Slowly—oh yes, slip it off slowly,
my skirt, oh yes, don't muss it,
and don't start that dog barking.
GATHERING THORN-FERN
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter,
thorn-fern still green, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Autumn's ending, and there's
no shelter for us, no family,
thanks to those dog-face tribes,
no time to sit, no ease for us
thanks to those dog-face tribes.
Gathering thorn-fern, btter
thorn-fern still tender, all we
talk of is home, going home,
hearts grief-stricken, hearts
bleak and cold grief-stricken,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Frontier war drags on and on,
no hope they'll send us home.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern now tough, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Winter's begun, and still there's
no pause in the emperor's work,
no time to sit, and no ease for
hearts stricken sick with grief.
When we left, we left for good.
What's all this lavish splendor?
It's a plum flaunting its bloom.
And that, there on the road?
It's our noble lord's war-cart,
war-cart all harnessed up to
four stallions fiery and strong.
How will we ever stop and rest?
Three battles a month we fight,
four stallions all harnessed up,
four eager and strong stallions.
A noble lord driving them on,
we little ones shielding them,
four surging stallions attack,
ivory bow-tips, sealskin quiver.
We keep watch. Those dog-face
tribes—they can strike so fast.
It was long ago when we left.
Fresh willows swayed tenderly.
And now we come back through
driving sleet tangled in slow,
the road long and deathly slow,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Grief has so slashed our hearts
no one could fathom our cries.
RATS SO FAT
Rats so fat, rats so grand
feasting on our millet—
three years your slaves
and we're nothing to you.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for that joyous land,
that joyous joyous land,
and live out our dreams.
Rats so fat, rats so grand,
feasting on our wheat—
three years your slaves
and to us you're heartless.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for that joyous nation,
that joyous joyous nation,
and live out our true way.
Rats so fat, rats so grand
feasting on our sprouts—
three years your slaves
and you give nothing back.
We're dying to leave you,
leave for those joyous fields,
those joyous joyous fields,
and end all this mourning.
IN THE WILDS THERE'S A GRASS MAT
In the wilds there's a grass mat
damp with dew, damp and cool,
and there's you, O so beautiful:
eyes crystalline, face exquisite.
We happened upon one another
and O you gave all that I wanted.
In the wilds there's a grass mat
thick with dew, thick and cool,
and there's you, O so beautiful:
face exquisite as crystalline eyes.
We happened upon one another,
and hidden away here, we shine.
OSPREYS CRY
Cheereek! cheereek! ospreys cry
ospreys above their riverside nest.
That fine lady, exquisite mystery—
what a match for a worthy man.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves
drift this current here and there.
That fine lady, exquisite mystery—
waking and sleeping I sought her,
sought her but never reached her,
waking and sleeping, all devoted,
longing and longing on and on,
tossing and turning side to side.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves
from every side I gather them in,
and my fine lady, exquisite mystery—
with quiet ch'in song I befriend her.
The floating-heart's ragged leaves,
from every side I bring them in,
and my fine lady, exquisite mystery—
with drums and bells I delight her.
I CLIMB A HILLTOP
I climb a rock-strewn hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
father, O father calling: My child, my child dragged off to war,
no rest all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not stuck out there.
I climb a grass-patch hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
mother, O mother calling: My little one, my little one dragged off to war,
no sleep all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not lost out there.
I climb some windblown ridge
and gaze, gaze out toward my brother, O brother calling: My brother, my brother dragged off to war,
formation all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not dead out there.
WILLOWS NEAR THE EAST GATE
Willows near the east gate
grow lush and full: at dusk
we were to meet, but now
the morning star's alight.
Willows near the east gate
grow deep and dark: at dusk
we were to meet, but now
the morning star—it burns.
WE CUT GRASSES
We cut grasses, hack brush,
and plow fields so rich, rich,
thousands clearing out roots,
clearing dikes and paddies,
some lords and some elders,
some parents, some children,
some strong and some weak,
all sharing farmland meals,
men adoring beautiful wives
and wives beside their men,
men that hone ploughshares
and till these southern fields.
We sow the hundred grains,
those seeds so quick with life
they sprout in no time at all
and rise up sturdy and tall,
rise sturdy and lush and tall,
weeded over and over again
until we harvest such plenty,
such rich plenty stacked up
a thousand million and more
and more, to make deep wine
we offer lavish to ancestors
according to a hundred rites:
and its scent full of sweetness
brings our homeland splendor,
and its fragrance full of spice
brings our agèd long repose.
This isn't just this one harvest,
and this isn't just this one day:
we live all antiquity in this.
EASTERN MOUNTAINS
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
Rumors about us heading home
kept me longing for the west,
for the cutting of new clothes
far from our gagged night-raids,
but green caterpillars ravaged
mulberry orchards inside out,
and I spent lonely nights alone
sleeping under those war-carts.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
Vines heavy with rife-melons
draped in tangles across eaves,
sowbugs taking over the rooms
and spiderwebs the doorways,
courtyard become a deeryard,
flicker-bugs haunting the night:
nothing so fearful in such things,
but O they bring back memories.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
A crane calls from an anthill.
A wife mourns in her rooms.
Plaster, sprinkle, and sweep—
we're back now, we're back!
Bitter melons, bitter melons
sprawling over the woodpile:
it's already been three long
years since I saw them there.
Sent off to eastern mountains,
to war unending and no return,
I'm finally back home again,
and the rain drizzles on and on.
An oriole sets out into flight,
its wings flickering, flickering,
and a lady readies for marriage,
horse dappled sorrel and bay,
her mother tying bridal sashes,
packing wedding gifts aplenty.
Her new marriage looks grand,
but what about the old one she shared with me?
TAO TE CHING
1
A Way you can call Way isn't the perennial Way,
A name you can name isn't the perennial name:
the named is mother to the ten thousand things,
but the unnamed is origin to all heaven and earth.
In perennial absence you see mystery,
and in perennial presence you see appearance.
Though the two are one and the same,
once they arise, they differ in nature.
One and the same they're called dark-enigma,
dark-enigma deep within dark-enigma,
gateway of all mystery.
2
All beneath heaven knows beauty is beauty
only because there's ugliness,
and knows good is good
only because there's evil.
Presence and absence give birth to one another,
difficult and easy complete one another,
long and short measure one another,
high and low fill one another,
music and noise harmonize one another,
before and after follow one another:
that's why a sage abides in the realm of nothing's own doing,
living out that wordless teaching.
The ten thousand things arise without beginnings there,
abide without waiting there,
come to perfection without dwelling there.
Without dwelling there: that's the only way
you'll never lose it.
3
Never bestow honors
and people won't quarrel.
Never prize rare treasures
and people won't steal.
Never flaunt alluring things
and people won't be confused.
This is how a sage governs.
Fill bellies and empty minds,
strengthen bones and weaken ambition,
always keep the people from knowing and wanting,
then those who know are those who never presume to act.
If you're nothing doing whatever you do
all things will be governed well.
6
The valley spirit never dies.
It's called dark female-enigma,
and the gateway of dark female-enigma
is called the root of heaven and earth,
gossamer so unceasing it seems real.
Use it: it's effortless.
7
Heaven goes on forever.
Earth endures forever.
There's a reason heaven and earth go on enduring forever:
their life isn't their own
so their life goes on forever.
Hence, in putting himself last
the sage puts himself first,
and in giving himself up,
he preserves himself.
If you aren't free of yourself,
how will you ever become yourself?
10
Can you let your spirit embrace primal unity
without drifting away?
Can you focus ch'i into such softness
you're a newborn again?
Can you polish the dark-enigma mirror
to a clarity beyond stain?
Can you make loving the people and ruling the nation
nothing's own doing?
Can you be female
opening and closing heaven's gate?
Can you fathom earth's four distances with radiant wisdom
and know nothing?
Give birth and nurture.
Give birth without possessing
and foster without dominating:
this is called dark-enigma Integrity.
13
Honor is a contagion deep as fear,
renown a calamity profound as self.
Why do I call honor a contagion deep as fear?
Honor always dwindles away,
so earning it fills us with fear
and losing it fills us with fear.
And why do I call renown a calamity profound as self?
We only know calamity because we have these selves.
If we didn't have selves
what calamity could touch us?
When all beneath heaven is your self in renown
you trust yourself to all beneath heaven,
and when all beneath heaven is your self in love
you dwell throughout all beneath heaven.
17
The loftiest ruler is barely known among those below.
Next comes a ruler people love and praise.
After that, one they fear,
and then one they despise.
If you don't stand sincere by your words
how sincere can the people be?
Take great care over words, treasure them,
and when the hundredfold people see your work succeed in all they do
they'll say it's just occurrence appearing of itself.
20
If you give up learning, troubles end.
How much difference is there
between yes and no?
And is there a difference
between lovely and ugly?
If we can't stop fearing
those things people fear,
it's pure confusion, never-ending confusion.
People all radiate such joy,
happily offering a sacrificial ox
or climbing a tower in spring.
But I go nowhere and reveal nothing
like a newborn child who has yet to smile,
aimless and worn-out
as if the way home were lost.
People all have enough and more.
But I'm abandoned and destitute,
an absolute simpleton, this mind of mine so utterly
muddled and blank.
Others are bright and clear:
I'm dark and murky.
Others are confident and effective:
I'm pensive and withdrawn,
uneasy as boundless seas
or perennial mountain winds.
People all have a purpose in life,
but I'm inept, thoroughly useless and backward.
I'll never be like other people:
I keep to the nurturing mother.
25
There was something all murky shadow,
born before heaven and earth:
O such utter silence, utter emptiness.
Isolate and changeless,
it moves everywhere without fail:
picture the mother of all beneath heaven.
I don't know its name.
I'll call it Way,
and if I must name it, name it Vast.
Vast means it's passing beyond,
passing beyond means it's gone far away,
and gone far away means it's come back.
Because Way is vast
heaven is vast,
earth is vast,
and the true emperor too is vast.
In this realm, there are four vast things,
and the true emperor is one of them.
Human abides by earth.
Earth abides by heaven.
Heaven abides by Way.
Way abides by occurrence appearing of itself.
35
Holding to the great image
all beneath heaven sets out:
sets out free of risk,
peace tranquil and vast.
Music and savory food
entice travelers to stop,
but the Way uttered forth
isn't even the thinnest of bland flavors.
Look at it: not enough to see.
Listen to it: not enough to hear.
Use it: not enough to use up.
40
Return is the movement of Way,
and yielding the method of Way.
All beneath heaven, the ten thousand things: it's all born of presence,
and presence is born of absence.
43
The weakest in all beneath heaven gallops through the strongest,
and vacant absence slips inside solid presence.
I know by this the value of nothing's own doing.
The teaching without words,
the value of nothing's own doing:
few indeed master such things.
46
When all beneath heaven abides in Way,
fast horses are kept to work the fields.
When all beneath heaven forgets Way,
warhorses are bred among the fertility altars.
What calamity is greater than no contentment,
and what flaw greater than the passion for gain?
The contentment of fathoming contentment—
there lies the contentment that endures.
48
To work at learning brings more each day.
To work at Way brings less each day,
less and still less
until you're nothing's own doing.
And when you're nothing's own doing, there's nothing you don't do.
To grasp all beneath heaven, leave it alone.
Leave it alone, that's all,
and nothing in all beneath heaven will elude you.
52
There's a source all beneath heaven shares:
call it the mother of all beneath heaven.
Once you fathom the mother
you understand the child,
and once you understand the child,
you abide in the mother,
self gone, free of danger.
56
Those who know don't talk,
and those who talk don't know.
Block the senses
and close the mind,
blunt edges,
loosen tangles,
soften glare,
mingle dust:
this is called dark-enigma union.
It can't be embraced
and can't be ignored,
can't be enhanced,
and can't be harmed,
can't be treasured
and can't be despised,
for it's the treasure of all beneath heaven.
57
You may govern the nation through principle
and lead armies to victory through craft,
but you win all beneath heaven through indifference.
How can I know this is to be so?
Through this.
The more prohibitions rule all beneath heaven
the deeper poverty grows among the people.
The more shrewd leaders there are
the faster dark confusion fills the nation.
The more cleverness people learn
the fast strange things happen.
The faster laws and decrees are issued
the more bandits and thieves appear.
Therefore a sage says:
I do nothing
and the people transform themselves.
I cherish tranquility
and the people rectify themselves.
I cultivate indifference
and the people enrich themselves.
I desire nothing
and the people return of themselves to uncarved simplicity.
80
Let nations grow smaller and smaller
and people fewer and fewer,
let weapons become rare
and superfluous,
let people feel death's gravity again
and never wander far from home.
Then boat and carriage will sit unused
and shield and sword lie unnoticed.
Let people knot ropes for notation again
and never need anything more,
let them find pleasure in their food
and beauty in their clothes,
peace in their homes
and joy in their ancestral ways.
Then people in neighboring nations will look across to each other,
their chickens and dogs calling back and forth,
and yet they'll grow old and die
without bothering to exchange visits.
THE QUESTION OF HEAVEN
1
From the far origin of all antiquity,
who hands the story down to us?
2
Before heaven and earth take shape,
how do you delve into what's there?
3
When light and dark are still a blur,
who can see through to their source?
4
When it's altogether primal chaos,
how do you see the shape of things?
5
Blazing radiance and utter darkness
and nothing more: how did it happen?
6
And when yin and yang first gave birth—
what was rooted, and what transformed?
7
Nine celestial compass-points arrayed,
calibrated perfectly and measured out
8
just so—how was heaven ever made,
how, in the beginning, set into motion?
9
How could its vast turning be tethered?
And how was its axle-pole lofted there?
10
How were its eight pillars put in place,
and why is the southeast tilting down?
11
The boundaries of its nine regions—
how could they join, how lead away?
12
And all their meanders back and forth,
who knows how many there might be?
13
What makes heaven entire and whole?
And how is it split into twelve palaces?
14
How are sun and moon joined together?
And how are scattered stars patterned?
15
Rising from the depths of Boiling Abyss,
returning to rest in the Gulf of Obscurity,
16
from morning light on to evening dark:
the sun's journey lasts how many miles?
17
Then night's radiant one—by what power
can it die out and soon come back to life,
18
a bright moon? And what does it gain
from a rabbit inside its belly gazing out?
19
Star Mother never mated—so how is it
she gave birth to nine star-children?
20
Where does great Elder Wind-Star live?
And where do warm ch'i-breezes dwell?
21
What closes in to bring evening dark?
What opens out to bring morning light?
22
September 17, 2021
Not gonna lie, I was inspired to pick this book up off the library shelf because I was idly browsing outside my usual areas and the sun hit it just right, and I have watched and am low-key obsessed by costume wuxia BL dramas like The Untamed and Word of Honor, and Chinese poetry is part of the subterranean referencing in those shows, and I was like, hmm, maybe this will help add to my understanding...
LOL, I doubt having read this will do that. But: this anthology is amazing. I don't actually know what I'm most floored by:
1) the scope. Poetry collected from 1500 BCE to just past 1200 CE. Like...how? The span of time is just mind-boggling.
2) the introduction that actually explains what Chinese poetry is. I would never have otherwise known that classical written Chinese is unlike spoken, and remained unchanged for millennia - or that the visual elements of characters offered a "second meaning" - or that there were few verbs or objects in the construction of poems, making meanings often indistinct and English translation efforts even harder.
3) the historical background offered. I loved all the historical aspects included in this anthology. Hinton offers explanation of key Taoist concepts that pervade the poetry, as well as overviews for each dynastic period, as well as biographical sketches for each poet included, as well as footnotes for nearly every poem explaining references and other ephemera. He packs a lot in.
4) the poetry itself!! Unsurprisingly, there are some truly beautiful turns of phrase. And wow, such a range. I laughed, I felt sadness... And since it's translated in free verse, it feels very modern. There's everything from very early historical epics to nature-inspired (LOTS of mountains-and-rivers) to obliquely political to the accessibly mundane. With insights still very relevant today.
I feel I must mention there's only four female poets in the whole thing (thanks global patriarchy, from which very few cultures escaped), but slightly mollified by the fact that all of them are incredible. Hinton couldn't even translate Su Hui's "Star Gauge" in the book because it's too visual for that format. (He did it on his website though, here.)
I hilariously and erroneously thought reading a bunch of short poems would be "easier" and a "break" from my novel reading. I'm clearly out of practice reading poetry. But I am in awe of this project and so glad I took the time to read this thing cover to cover. It's a great place to start to get a sense of ancient Chinese poetry (and history), and deepen from there.
One final thought: I highly recommend reading this in paper rather than ebook, because of all the cross-referencing you'll likely do as you read. I'll be sad to return my copy to the library; this is one for the shelf collection for sure.
LOL, I doubt having read this will do that. But: this anthology is amazing. I don't actually know what I'm most floored by:
1) the scope. Poetry collected from 1500 BCE to just past 1200 CE. Like...how? The span of time is just mind-boggling.
2) the introduction that actually explains what Chinese poetry is. I would never have otherwise known that classical written Chinese is unlike spoken, and remained unchanged for millennia - or that the visual elements of characters offered a "second meaning" - or that there were few verbs or objects in the construction of poems, making meanings often indistinct and English translation efforts even harder.
3) the historical background offered. I loved all the historical aspects included in this anthology. Hinton offers explanation of key Taoist concepts that pervade the poetry, as well as overviews for each dynastic period, as well as biographical sketches for each poet included, as well as footnotes for nearly every poem explaining references and other ephemera. He packs a lot in.
4) the poetry itself!! Unsurprisingly, there are some truly beautiful turns of phrase. And wow, such a range. I laughed, I felt sadness... And since it's translated in free verse, it feels very modern. There's everything from very early historical epics to nature-inspired (LOTS of mountains-and-rivers) to obliquely political to the accessibly mundane. With insights still very relevant today.
I feel I must mention there's only four female poets in the whole thing (thanks global patriarchy, from which very few cultures escaped), but slightly mollified by the fact that all of them are incredible. Hinton couldn't even translate Su Hui's "Star Gauge" in the book because it's too visual for that format. (He did it on his website though, here.)
I hilariously and erroneously thought reading a bunch of short poems would be "easier" and a "break" from my novel reading. I'm clearly out of practice reading poetry. But I am in awe of this project and so glad I took the time to read this thing cover to cover. It's a great place to start to get a sense of ancient Chinese poetry (and history), and deepen from there.
One final thought: I highly recommend reading this in paper rather than ebook, because of all the cross-referencing you'll likely do as you read. I'll be sad to return my copy to the library; this is one for the shelf collection for sure.
August 10, 2019
I enjoyed this for the most part. I tend to go for very direct and simply written poetry that says something straightforward without fucking around with all these silly rhyming and rhythmical patterns. For the most part I find that all pre-20th century poetry is stuck in these formal confines. The minds of poets contorted by artifice. What are they trying to say? Who even knows. The structural language of poetry is so dense that all the meaning is squeezed out like a well-juiced orange.
It turns out that chinese poets have been writing in the correct way for thousands of years. They may have some peculiar traits, throwing in one random sentence after another. I am old. I am drunk. The river flows eastward forever. The clouds in the hills make no sound. I can't be bothered to write any more poetry today. Maybe my friend will come and see me and we will talk late into the night.
But somehow it all still works. The poem is a wisp of smoke or a clear mountain stream that runs through the mind, picking things up and dropping them again as it moves. It comes and goes like a white spirit and once it is gone nothing is remembered. The cloud that moves through the mind and tells you everything of what you are. Yet the information is useless and meaningless. They are strong in the Tao. Sculptures of beautiful minds and loveable nature.
Chinese poetry is always beautiful. Often it is vague and aimless and pointless and boring. I have an affinity for these poets, all of them, although I don't really care for any of them, exept perhaps Yu Xuanji.
I don't know if I would recommend it. The translations often seemed a bit specific and long-winded. It seems like the translator favoured accuracy of meaning over feel and tone and concision. You get a sense of what they are saying but you don't get the same atmosphere that you get from other translators. Chinese poetry generally seems to be more about the feeling of a moment in time, and less about distinct ideas, so it seems a waste to favour meaning over feeling in your translation.
I think I would encourage readers to have a look at chinese poetry. I'm not sure If this particular volume is the best place to look.
It turns out that chinese poets have been writing in the correct way for thousands of years. They may have some peculiar traits, throwing in one random sentence after another. I am old. I am drunk. The river flows eastward forever. The clouds in the hills make no sound. I can't be bothered to write any more poetry today. Maybe my friend will come and see me and we will talk late into the night.
But somehow it all still works. The poem is a wisp of smoke or a clear mountain stream that runs through the mind, picking things up and dropping them again as it moves. It comes and goes like a white spirit and once it is gone nothing is remembered. The cloud that moves through the mind and tells you everything of what you are. Yet the information is useless and meaningless. They are strong in the Tao. Sculptures of beautiful minds and loveable nature.
Chinese poetry is always beautiful. Often it is vague and aimless and pointless and boring. I have an affinity for these poets, all of them, although I don't really care for any of them, exept perhaps Yu Xuanji.
I don't know if I would recommend it. The translations often seemed a bit specific and long-winded. It seems like the translator favoured accuracy of meaning over feel and tone and concision. You get a sense of what they are saying but you don't get the same atmosphere that you get from other translators. Chinese poetry generally seems to be more about the feeling of a moment in time, and less about distinct ideas, so it seems a waste to favour meaning over feeling in your translation.
I think I would encourage readers to have a look at chinese poetry. I'm not sure If this particular volume is the best place to look.
October 27, 2022
A very impressive book, with a high-level, informative overview covering nearly 1000+ years of cultural and artistic history.
In addition to the impressive artistry of the poems themselves, the introductions to each era and poet are extremely helpful context that is surprisingly hard to find in other places. I feel I have a very comprehensive overview now and can delve further into individual poets of interest.
Likewise, as a student of Chinese, I appreciated the highlighting of certain recurring vocabulary words in a dedicated section at the end, as well as the extensive contextualizing footnotes. I would imagine this would be useful even to someone not otherwise familiar with Chinese as well.
As for the translations themselves, they are admittedly occasionally stilted - particularly in light of the decision to translate proper nouns word-for-word, and the use of phrases such as "occurrence appearing of itself" for the otherwise very simply-translated "nature" - but in spite of this, this is certainly a significant improvement over the 19th century James Legge translations floating around. I do also wish the author had opted for the use of pinyin transliteration by default over Wade-Giles, the use of which I find unconscionable in 2022 (but was equally unconscionable in 2010 when this collection was published).
All of that said, I appreciate the attempt to capture the unique voices of each poet, and Hinton's ability to make otherwise disjointed work at least flow freely, even if the original is perhaps intentionally jarring.
Overall though, truly an excellent overview for newcomers and experienced students of Chinese poetry alike.
In addition to the impressive artistry of the poems themselves, the introductions to each era and poet are extremely helpful context that is surprisingly hard to find in other places. I feel I have a very comprehensive overview now and can delve further into individual poets of interest.
Likewise, as a student of Chinese, I appreciated the highlighting of certain recurring vocabulary words in a dedicated section at the end, as well as the extensive contextualizing footnotes. I would imagine this would be useful even to someone not otherwise familiar with Chinese as well.
As for the translations themselves, they are admittedly occasionally stilted - particularly in light of the decision to translate proper nouns word-for-word, and the use of phrases such as "occurrence appearing of itself" for the otherwise very simply-translated "nature" - but in spite of this, this is certainly a significant improvement over the 19th century James Legge translations floating around. I do also wish the author had opted for the use of pinyin transliteration by default over Wade-Giles, the use of which I find unconscionable in 2022 (but was equally unconscionable in 2010 when this collection was published).
All of that said, I appreciate the attempt to capture the unique voices of each poet, and Hinton's ability to make otherwise disjointed work at least flow freely, even if the original is perhaps intentionally jarring.
Overall though, truly an excellent overview for newcomers and experienced students of Chinese poetry alike.
August 14, 2023
This is alright just because of its breadth. Introductions are scaled back and good for initiates to Chinese poetry. The advantage of this book is it's not bogged down with very detailed analysis. My advice to people starting off with Chinese poetry is to find the best or more interesting authors here to start, then using these leads to buy more poetry by them by varied translators. Do a lot of research into different good translators so you can meet these authors in their best presentation possible.
However Hinton often fails to give poets distinct voices. The main problem with all of his translations is evident here: most of them are forced into couplets that look well organized on paper, but which break off awkwardly mid line, disrupt reading, and really make even poems with very different contents *feel* the same.
For those with more interest in the story and actual theory of Chinese poetry, I would recommend Stephen Owen's Anthology of Chinese literature. THAT is the real deal, but may be too much details for someone just dipping their toes in.
However Hinton often fails to give poets distinct voices. The main problem with all of his translations is evident here: most of them are forced into couplets that look well organized on paper, but which break off awkwardly mid line, disrupt reading, and really make even poems with very different contents *feel* the same.
For those with more interest in the story and actual theory of Chinese poetry, I would recommend Stephen Owen's Anthology of Chinese literature. THAT is the real deal, but may be too much details for someone just dipping their toes in.
January 19, 2024
Enchanting and Illuminating. This annotated anthology felt like a mystical, mountain rapture, a trip to the ancient Far East, an experience altogether spiritual, religious, political, and academic at every turn, especially for someone trying to get a grasp on Chinese culture and history. I'm not suggesting that every page was filled with brilliance. There were poems that felt ordinary and literal, with lines that could simply be glossed over and forgotten, as is true of every collection such as this. But then another page, another poem would draw me toward the enviable life of a distant sage, as though I'm walking or sitting near the foothills of a Himalayan peak, thinking about the world as it is. What I appreciate about the tone and translation of this lengthy book is that you never once feel as though you've left China behind. Regardless of when they were written, these are not poems that could have been written anywhere else.
February 21, 2025
Excellent anthology of Chinese poetry. I seldom connect with poetry, but I had a rare moment of clarity and enjoyment when first reading this back in college for class. I’m happy to return to it and find the same enjoyment but without the pressure of classes and assignments to tamper with it. I love the brevity of each section’s opener; it is just enough information to give you background and scope of the author and the times without overloading you with endless text.
Many poets stand out to me such as Su Hui and her fascinating magnum opus “Star Gauge” (sadly only mentioned, not featured here), Li Po’s drunken glee, or Mei Yao-Ch’en’s vulgar realism (perhaps my favorite of all the poets featured). The work as a whole though, is a reminder that people have always been people and there is a comfort in the solidarity of human experience across the ages and places.
Many poets stand out to me such as Su Hui and her fascinating magnum opus “Star Gauge” (sadly only mentioned, not featured here), Li Po’s drunken glee, or Mei Yao-Ch’en’s vulgar realism (perhaps my favorite of all the poets featured). The work as a whole though, is a reminder that people have always been people and there is a comfort in the solidarity of human experience across the ages and places.
June 9, 2021
I enjoyed learning more about China's rich history and culture through this poetry anthology. There were many beautiful poems describing the beautiful landscapes, as well as the heartbreaking periods of poverty, violence and strife.
I gave the anthology three stars instead of four or five because the collection felt very heavy on the "mountains and rivers" poems, and I would have appreciated either a paring down or more variety.
I gave the anthology three stars instead of four or five because the collection felt very heavy on the "mountains and rivers" poems, and I would have appreciated either a paring down or more variety.
December 2, 2022
Love the background and care given to each part of the collection. The background also serves as an explanation for how each part of the collection was chosen and packaged together (as each is meant to represent the turning points or archetypes of poetry in China – neatly sidestepping any potential arguments about which poems are really the best or most representative of Chinese poetry and, thus, meant to be in an anthology about it).
December 23, 2018
Wonderful book of classical Daoist and Buddhist poetry spanning the wide history of those movements. Most poems are short. Hinton is a master translator of classical Chinese. In this volume he provides background on the authors and periods in history so that an appropriate understanding of the poety can be attained. His sense of poetry, form and meaning, has produced a truly memorable anthology.
December 27, 2021
An incredible anthology of Chinese poets from 1500 BCE to 1200 CE translated into English including biographical and historical sketches, discussion of the difficulties and challenges of translation, the role of women in the tradition, and the relationship between these poets. This is an essential book for anyone interested in the classic period of Chinese poetry. Highly recommended.
September 22, 2025
Great collection with nice contextualization of the poems. In the beginning I wished for more poems from particular authors and epochs, but closer to the end I changed my mind. It's good to have an overview that is just enough to pique your interest in particular authors and allowing you to form your opinion.
September 3, 2024
Beautiful, haunting, and wonderful. I love how well this translator preserves the unique voices of each poet. Many translators have a bad habit of making everyone sound the same, David Hinton does not have this bad habit.
September 6, 2019
Overwhelming. An absorbing survey of traditional Chinese poetry set well in its historical context. An important introduction to the genre for a wider readership.
May 1, 2020
I discovered that I really, really love Chinese poetry.
January 26, 2023
4 1/2 Stars
Excellent anthology and well translated. This is as good an introduction to ancient Chinese poetry as you're likely to get.
Excellent anthology and well translated. This is as good an introduction to ancient Chinese poetry as you're likely to get.
December 30, 2020
A very beautiful book in so many ways. It shows all the love and devotion it took to make. Magnificent.
July 1, 2011
The advantages of the broad span and excellent selections of this anthology are only surpassed by the fascinating historical context given for each poet or time period. I have to admit to feeling something of a stereotype for classic Chinese poetry. I expected tranquil poems with natural metaphors and deep, mindful insights. Naturally, a number of the poems and poets collected here do follow that vein, but there are also poems protesting wars, calling for social change, waxing lyrical about wine instead of the moon, and some fairly purple stuff about women losing their robes.
I found something of a favorite in Meng Chiao (751-814 C.E.) for his unexpectedly passionate--almost violent--work.
Writing during a century long civil war--a war that lasted longer than his own life--Chiao's poetry is not the intellectual scribblings of a hermit on a mountain or a scholar in a garden. It retains the natural metaphor and measured form of much Chinese poetry, but it is really something quite different. This book is complete enough to give someone like me--not well versed in poetry to say the least--a real appreciation for artists like Chiao and the other men and women whose work has traveled down through thousands of years and multiple languages to find a modern audience.
I highly recommend this book for anyone interested in history, poetry, Tao, Buddhism, or China.
I found something of a favorite in Meng Chiao (751-814 C.E.) for his unexpectedly passionate--almost violent--work.
Young clear-voiced dragons in these
gorges howl. Fresh scales born of rock,
they spew froth of fetid rain, breath
heaving, churning up black sinkholes.
Strange new lights glint, and hungry
swords await. This venerable old maw
still hasn't eaten its fill. Ageless teeth
cry a fury of cliffs, cascades gnawing
through these three gorges, gorges
full of jostling and snarling, snarling.
Writing during a century long civil war--a war that lasted longer than his own life--Chiao's poetry is not the intellectual scribblings of a hermit on a mountain or a scholar in a garden. It retains the natural metaphor and measured form of much Chinese poetry, but it is really something quite different. This book is complete enough to give someone like me--not well versed in poetry to say the least--a real appreciation for artists like Chiao and the other men and women whose work has traveled down through thousands of years and multiple languages to find a modern audience.
I highly recommend this book for anyone interested in history, poetry, Tao, Buddhism, or China.
September 17, 2010
OK, I'm currently more or less reading both this book and the Mountain Poems book also translated by Hinton, and this compendious volume has for me what I would take in a backpack up Mount Kalesh or some mythic mountain in China, were I to do so... in my imagination at least these days.
It has incredible introductions and an overall opening intro that truly illuminates how Chinese poetry works in Chinese, and then astoundingly Hinton manages to transfer some of this essence over into English. The most exciting aspect of this poetry is that due to the somewhat open-ended grammar of the lines, the reader brings into its spatial interstices his or her own experience and interpretive possibilities. Truly exciting for me...
Plus the book itself has a great "feel" to it, its weight, its pages, something, dear friends, I ween is still impossible with them Kindles and iPads... but I'm no expert, not having one... yet.
It has incredible introductions and an overall opening intro that truly illuminates how Chinese poetry works in Chinese, and then astoundingly Hinton manages to transfer some of this essence over into English. The most exciting aspect of this poetry is that due to the somewhat open-ended grammar of the lines, the reader brings into its spatial interstices his or her own experience and interpretive possibilities. Truly exciting for me...
Plus the book itself has a great "feel" to it, its weight, its pages, something, dear friends, I ween is still impossible with them Kindles and iPads... but I'm no expert, not having one... yet.
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