On Appreciating Classical Poetry Through Chán Zhōng Shuō Chán’s Regulated Verses "Tiger Hill" / "Mount Tai"

2006/7/27 17:21:08

Classical poetry is certainly not something only the ancients could write — people today can write it just the same. Moreover, the artistic energy of classical poetry as a form has absolutely not been exhausted. One can declare with certainty that, due to the corrupted genes of modern vernacular Chinese imported from the West and Japan, modern Chinese vernacular poetry — beyond repeating things the West and Japan have already worn out — is basically nothing more than a self-indulgent game played within a small circle. The Chinese genes of classical poetry, however, ensure that after some effort, it will inevitably remain the most quintessentially Chinese form of poetry. Due to the impact of the May Fourth Movement and other garbage movements even more May Fourth than May Fourth itself, the appreciation of classical poetry has become very unfamiliar to the vast majority of people. Here, this ID will discuss this topic through the seven-character regulated verses "Tiger Hill" and "Mount Tai." These two regulated verses are only mediocre among what this ID has written. As mentioned before, anything above average cannot be posted online — plagiarism is too rampant nowadays, so only scraps can be put up. Both of these have been posted before, so I’ll just grab them as demonstration frogs for dissection. First, "Tiger Hill":

Tiger Hill (Chán Zhōng Shuō Chán)

Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king
Ancient trees, verdant green, buzzing summer cicadas
Green grass, long steps, lonely clouds above
Gray walls, tilting tower, somber and bleak
Three thousand swords buried in barren earth
Half a century’s ambition turned to raging tides
Blood not yet dry on the blade in a fish’s belly
On the silk-washing stream, songs of Yue entice

“Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king” opens plainly, not aspiring to the dramatic entrance typical of seven-character regulated verse openings. This is mainly determined by the overall conception of the work. The first four lines depict a very real scene, and reality is always mundane. No matter how impressive the history, in the end it amounts to nothing more than a name like “Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king.” This plain opening is precisely the most realistic and the most historical. Although this ID never appears in the entire poem, it was of course written from this ID’s travels, observations, and reflections — this ID is present at every moment within it. This ID’s framing and phrasing in fact reflect this ID’s viewpoint, but this viewpoint need not be written out explicitly. Even in Tang poetry, lines of direct satirical commentary like “Liu Bang and Xiang Yu never bothered with books” are not to this ID’s liking. As for Song poetry, even when wrapped in many complex terms, it is even more exposed. This ID naturally prefers to let everything remain unspoken — not even the most subtly worded direct commentary is wanted. What is sought is pure depiction and narration. But a person’s observation is always individual, naturally carrying a personal perspective. A zero-degree angle is often the widest angle of all.

Everything starts from the most ordinary “Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king.” First, of course, one hears about it, then one goes. What one arrives at is simply “Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king,” and all understanding of it can only and must begin from this “Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king.” The second line, “Ancient trees, verdant green, buzzing summer cicadas” — upon arriving at the scene, a person’s most sensitive faculty is usually hearing. First one hears the cicadas calling; the season is also established — summer. Then one sees many ancient trees. Why “verdant green”? It is the feeling of Handel’s famous aria “Ombra mai fu” (“Verdant Canopy”) — that aria is sung by a king and does not connote desolation. As for whether the cicadas are actually in the trees, of course one cannot see them; it is merely inference, assumption, yet it was the most immediate sensation upon first arriving. The verse omits many things, but these things can be filled in to varying degrees through individual experience.

The chin couplet, “Green grass, long steps, lonely clouds above / Gray walls, tilting tower, somber and bleak,” is a direct description of what is seen. “Green grass, long steps, lonely clouds above” moves from low to high, which is also what a person most naturally perceives while walking upward. The green grass and long steps ascend together, then one’s gaze naturally extends upward to the sky. There are not many clouds, and viewed along the angle of the long steps, the clouds hang above with nothing to cling to — unlike the steps that have green grass beside them — very lonely. “Green grass” in Chinese linguistic context carries many connotations, such as “Spring grass green year after year, will the wanderer ever return?” The long steps are the path by which later generations come to view the site, yet the grass has already turned green while the princes have long turned to dust. The clouds hang lonely above — that patch of cloud, too, carries many meanings in the Chinese linguistic context. The unified yet divergent implications of “Green grass, long steps, lonely clouds above” are far richer than the literal meaning — take your time to savor it. As for “Gray walls, tilting tower, somber and bleak,” it is purely direct description. “Somber and bleak” is the pure sensation of “gray walls, tilting tower,” without any great deeper meaning. In this way, the upper line is rich in meaning and ethereal, while the lower line is very solid and simple, together forming the contrapuntal whole of this couplet. Some imitators of the Xikun style try to cram riddles into every line, which first creates imbalance and actually becomes monotonous. Furthermore, poetry is meant to express emotion, not to review allusions — this point is extremely important.

The last four lines — “Three thousand swords buried in barren earth / Half a century’s ambition turned to raging tides / Blood not yet dry on the blade in a fish’s belly / On the silk-washing stream, songs of Yue entice” — return from reality to history, with the transition stemming entirely from “somber and bleak.” Why “somber and bleak”? Because the “gray walls, tilting tower” and the reality described in the first four lines all carry so-called history, and therefore a so-called sense of history. Additionally, this intangible aura of history naturally draws one into a hazy, illusory historical space. The last four lines are still plain depiction, but what they depict is a kind of history — or rather, historical legends and historical impressions. The allusions within are well known to all: each line writes about one person, and the four most important figures in the story of the Kingdom of Wu are all present. As for which four and how they correspond, those who know will understand at a glance, and those who don’t should go back and read — that is better than this ID spelling it out directly.

This technique of parallel enumeration across four lines is not uncommon in classical seven-character regulated verses. There are even cases of seven parallel lines with only the last line providing closure. But having four parallel lines at the end without any closure is extremely rare in classical regulated verses — whether it absolutely never occurred, I cannot guarantee, but at least this ID has never seen it. It is somewhat like ending with an unresolved dissonant chord in music. But the singing in “On the silk-washing stream, songs of Yue entice” and the aura of “somber and bleak” are both intangible yet seemingly perceptible things that can traverse history and reality. Here, the non-resolution paradoxically feels resolved, so the arrangement of this line is not arbitrary — there are many subtleties within, which you can slowly discover for yourselves.

Here, only the most critical points in history are written out; the rest is naturally filled in by the reader. There is no commentary here, yet commentary is embedded within it. The historical tragedies, comedies, and dramas, in the contrast of these four lines, are profoundly thought-provoking. It is precisely this history that gives us “Beneath Tiger Hill, the tomb of Wu’s king” and that gave this ID the occasion to visit. Therefore, the open-ended structure of the last four lines naturally circles back to the first line. This also corresponds well to the actual experience of ordinary people: we visit a site, carry away a fragment of historical memory, but this memory is so illusory that no conclusion can be drawn — only stories and legends, interpreted by each person according to their own thinking, or simply forgotten. What conclusion could there possibly be? Yet this ID’s viewpoint is in fact conveyed within it, along with infinite sentiments and warnings. As for the flavors therein, I leave them for each of you to understand on your own!

Second, "Mount Tai":

Mount Tai (Chán Zhōng Shuō Chán)

Mount Tai stands towering, dividing Qi and Lu
Blocking sky, splitting plains, the sea lies to the east
Forests trace dawn to dusk, ridges and cliffs break off
Mountain forms in shade and sun, trees and grass merge
Silent coiling clouds seem about to bring rain
Gracefully passing the sun, suddenly becoming wind
Fading sunset shadows brush the First Emperor’s stone
In ages past, they witnessed Emperor Wu’s grandeur

Though this, like the previous one, is about a visit where this ID does not appear yet is present at every moment, the approach is very different. The first four lines describe the overall impression of Mount Tai from various angles — far and near, high and low — while the details are arranged according to the continuously elevating altitude of the ascent. I won’t go into specifics. “Silent coiling clouds seem about to bring rain” marks a turn, but unlike the dramatic shift above, it merely turns to the boundary between reality and history. The wind and clouds of history blend with those before one’s eyes — and “before one’s eyes” does not necessarily refer exclusively to this ID’s perspective; it could also be what Mount Tai itself has witnessed. The poem’s greatest force, through this blending of history and reality, converges entirely upon the final couplet.

“Fading sunset shadows brush the First Emperor’s stone / In ages past, they witnessed Emperor Wu’s grandeur” — there are many layers of meaning here. For example: First, a sentiment akin to “western wind, lingering sunset, the palaces and towers of the Han dynasty.” Second, Emperor Wu of Han once viewed the relics of the First Emperor of Qin; today we come to look as well, and at the same time we view Emperor Wu’s relics too — and “who will come after us, mourning in vain that those before us once existed?” What do we have that will be worth viewing for later generations? Third, the fading sunset has watched not only the First Emperor and Emperor Wu, but also watches us. The sunset sweeps through history and also sweeps before our eyes in the present moment — history and reality, everything sweeps past like shadows. Fourth, even the mighty achievements of the First Emperor and Emperor Wu have turned to fading shadows, ultimately standing beneath the dying sunset. Mount Tai endures — who is the Mount Tai of reality and history? And from an even higher vantage point, the Mount Tai of reality and history is not eternal either — so where does eternity lie? There are still other, subtler meanings — take your time to ponder them.