The Late Poems of Meng Chiao

by Meng Chiao, David Hinton (Translator)

Late in life, Meng Chiao (A.D. 751--814) developed an experimental poetry of virtuosic beauty, a poetry that anticipated landmark developments in the modern Western tradition by a millennium. With the T'ang Dynasty crumbling, Meng's later work employed surrealist and symbolist techniques as it turned to a deep introspection. This is truly major work-- work that may be the most radical in the Chinese tradition. And though written more than a thousand years ago, it is remarkably fresh and contemporary. But, in spite of Meng's significance, this is the first volume of his poetry to appear in English.


Until the age of forty, Meng Chiao lived as a poet-recluse associated with Ch'an (Zen) poet-monks in south China. He then embarked on a rather unsuccessful career as a government official. Throughout this time, his poetry was decidedly mediocre, conventional verse inevitably undone by his penchant for the strange and surprising. After his retirement, Meng developed the innovative poetry translated in this book. His late work is singular not only for its bleak introspection and "avant-garde" methods, but also for its in a tradition typified by the short lyric poem, this work is made up entirely of large poetic sequences.

Genres: Poetry, China, Chinese Literature

104 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1996

About the author

Meng Jiao was a Tang Dynasty poet noted for the unusual forcefulness and harshness of his poems. Around 500 of his poems survive, many upon the themes of poverty and cold, and typified by the strong—and sometimes shocking—imagery advocated by Han Yu. Two of his poems are included in the Three Hundred Tang Poems.

Reviews

[Paul H. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Superlatively good, and sui generis in terms of classical Chinese poetry -- as if Mallarmé or Rimbaud had published their work in the same century as Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes.

[Myhte · Rating 5 out of 5]

~~
This thread of dust will never mend itself,
and who'll understand these ancient songs

now demons and gods wail in bamboo mystery,
now sharp swords fade into young dragons?

A depraved heart at the source of fate, life's
resolve brings many strange feelings now.

I always knew writing meant shabby clothes,
and yet, here I am at death — still a child

beginning, studying music, not that noise
making deafened fools of us. Words all light,

all incandescence of the heart— I wanted to
write them into stately peaks and summits.
~~
My sudden flash of turning seasons ending,
everything broken and withered calls to me.

gather and gather. Cast against all that, our
time's slight as a feather. And this isolate

mystery's alone here, year-end words another
leaf-fall I can't hold back scattering away.
~~
Where even fire couldn't warm itself,
the body's force fails quickly. Silent,

alone, I offer a cup of tears, start it
toward the clear Lo River, adding this

heart-stricken cry to that never-ending
sound of death dragging people apart.
~~
And then our hair was suddenly white,
those years of fullness a stolen promise.

Never seeking the muddy or the clear,
how could we accuse this river of fate?
~~
Setting this priceless mirror ablaze,
heaven's light evens all things out

crying. Frost, too, leaving spring scents
faint, evens out these frozen reaches

distant, a thousand miles of ice split open,
kind-hearted warmth in every ladleful.

Frozen spirits rinsing each other clean,
trickles struggle into life and flow anew.

Suddenly, as if all sword wounds were over,
the body of a hundred battles begins rising.
~~
orphaned words empty resemblances,
each mouthful of snow startling still.

and grieving frost roosts in branches,
keeping lament's dark, distant harmony

fresh. Exile, tattered heart all scattered
away, you'll simmer in seething flame

here, your life like fine-spun thread,
its road a trace of string traveled away.

Offer tears to mourn the water-ghosts,
and water-ghosts take them, glimmering.
~~
Once the scattering ends, every tree's
heart is a mountain hollow howling

empty howls. All flurried color fallen,
petals fleck the ground like lit oil,

and it's clear: all heaven-and-earth's
ten thousand things unravel with ease.

What celestial phoenix carries prayers,
and who can knock at heaven's gate?
~~
I gaze up into these planets and stars,
wondering when I'll return. Long ago,

those I love scattered, body and spirit
going their separate ways. That farewell

between life and death still hasn't come,
but it's haunted my eyes forever now.
~~
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?

the furthest dreams never take me far,
and my frail heart returns home easily.

Year-end blossoms abandon late greens,
weaving lost splendor into rival swirls,

and in my sick worry, dazed by things,
country walks grow rare. O isolate beauty,

crickets hidden among grasses and roots,
your sense of life grown faint as my own.
~~
Bamboo ticking in wind speaks. In dark
isolate rooms, I listen. Demons and gods

fill my frail ears, so blurred and faint I
can't tell them apart. Year-end leaves,

dry rain falling, scatter. Autumn clothes
thin cloud, my sick bones slice through

things clean. Though my bitter chant
still makes a poem, I'm withering autumn

ruin, strength following twilight away.
Trailed out, this fluttering thread of life:

no use saying it's tethered to the very
source of earth's life-bringing change
~~
starveling blossom: brightness glimpsed,
never to return. Firm as mountain peaks,

the noble endure. Others bicker over trifles,
threads and feathers. The more they fight,

the more life they lose. The Way of heaven
warns against fullness: it just empties away.
~~
sit full of repose after a single sip of wine.
Lying among ten thousand views, emptiness

itself, I can't even see out to the front gate,
and how can such ragged hearing trace wind?

Returned like pure form pared and whittled
away, I'm free of the least insight. And though

all my beginnings ended in tears, I'm happy
back home here in moonlit purity at death.
~~

[univocity · Rating 3 out of 5]

A revelatory translation- bleak, contorted, twisting poem sequences which worm their way through your sense organs into your bones. Hinton must do the Han Yu works of this period.

[Liam Hines · Rating 5 out of 5]

Seriously, props to Hinton for making this guy available to English speakers. This should amaze modern readers

It's time we get some more translations of Meng Chiao from different translators, until then this more than suffices. Fans of this should check out the Li Shangyin, selected and translated by Chloe Garcia Roberts. Very similar content and vibe, as Li Shangyin lived close in time & was influenced by Chiao/jiao, but hers is by far one of the greatest translations of chinese poetry into english this century so far. I'd love to see her tackle Jiao

[Don Flynn · Rating 4 out of 5]

The poems, especially those toward the end of the collection, are very powerful. Meng Chiao had obviously tapped into something as he neared death. Some might think they are bleak, but there's a beauty in the bleakness that can't be denied.

[Ommiolgi · Rating 4 out of 5]

A really enjoyable book by one of the best Chinese poets I’ve ever read. Steeped in ‘the way’ but certainly aware of the shadow side, which he steeps many of his poems in.
Would certainly recommend this book to any, who i think would understand it.

[Mikael · Rating 4 out of 5]

gorges gorges gorgeous

[Athena · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dark, ravishing poetry!

[Squib · Rating 5 out of 5]

Not as enjoyable as Po Chu-i or Du Fu. Also, a little too moany. But fabulous nonetheless and unusual