Facing the snow, Du Fu

This poem was written under siege. It is late in 756. The Tang government had failed in an attempt to recapture Chang'an from the An Lushan rebels. Du Fu, whom the rebels are holding prisoner there, is now faced with the possibility that he might never get out. 



Above the battlefield　many a fresh ghost wails
　Sunk in his sorrow　one lone old man chants
Toward the twilight　clouds in upheaval founder
　In blowback winds　driven snowblasts dance
The ladle lies useless　green of rice-wine is drained
　The coal stove remains　I imagine red fire there
No news gets through　from anywhere this winter
　In sorrow I sit　scrawling words in thin air

Transl. from chinese

Du Fu, Ballata della bella Signora

Du Fu, Ballad of the fine fair Lady

In war, it is often civilians who suffer the most. Especially women. Du Fu shows this point blank. The translation is footnoted moderately, but a stupidly detailed commentary on the poem follows the original text. 

 Translated from Chinese by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Chinese in a reconstruction of Táng-era literary pronunciation

Beyond compare, a fine fair lady
　　　Dwells nameless, now, in a desolate vale.
She says her family once was noble.
　　　She lives on grass, now, poor and pale.

When they had seized Chang'an, the rebels
　　　Murdered her brothers one and all.
High offices availed them nothing.
　　　She got no corpse for funeral.

The world more fickle than windblown lanterns,
　　　Disdains what is agèd or decayed.
Her faithless husband soon replaced her
　　　With a new mistress, fair as jade.¹

The silk-tree's leaves know to curl for evening.
　　　A mateless mandarin duck can't sleep.²
But he just sees his new woman smiling.
　　　How can he hear this old one weep?

They say pure springwater runs in the mountains
　　　But from the mountains a fouled mud rolls.³
Her servant sells her pearls, returning
　　　To pile live vines on their thatch roof's holes.

Cypress she plucks scarce numbs her hunger.
　　　Flowers she picks grace not her hair.⁴
On the lean bamboo she slumps in sundown
　　　Her blue sleeves thin in the cold harsh air. 

Notes:
¹ The husband has jilted her. Why? The answer is provided in the previous quatrain. Presumably while her brothers were alive and in positions of  power, the husband was afraid to take a new woman and jettison the old one. It is only now that they are dead that he feels at liberty to take liberties. 
²The mandarin duck is supposedly monogamous for life, and is a symbol of connubial fidelity in the Chinese tradition
³  i.e. once a woman has been married, she is dirtied by reputation if she leaves her husband regardless of the reason.
⁴ In mentioning that the flowers will not be stuck in her hair, Du Fu implies that the woman is selling flowers, earning a pittance at floriculture. It is the height of indignity for such a gentlewoman to actually have to earn her living. A further implication may be that this woman is retaining her status as a Fine Lady by living secluded and poor and not doing what would be monetarily easier for a woman still beautiful though aging: prostitution or possibly remarriage. 
  


The Original:
Note: I am no longer transcriptions of Modern Mandarin character-readings for medieval Chinese poetry, on account of there being absolutely no point whatsoever. Henceforth I will only give the Han Characters and a romanization using David Branner's transcription system for medieval Chinese. The transcription of the entire poem below includes Branner's rhyme-table information in subscript mainly for completeness' sake. In my commentary and when citing individual words, however, I forego the subscript, the better to treat medieval Chinese like an actual language.

Ballata della bella Signora

Senza pari una bella Signora

in desolata valle, senza nome.

La famiglia fu nobile dice.

Vive di erba, povera e pallida.

Quando presero Chang’an i ribelli

le uccisero tutti i fratelli.

Non soccorsero alti ufficiali.

Niente corpi per i funerali.

Più debole di lanterne soffiate

dai venti il mondo disdegna chi invecchia.

La rimpiazzò il marito infedele

con una nuova, bella come giada.

Foglie di gelso da piegare la sera.

Non dormirà un’anatra mandarina.

Lui vede solo di nuova il sorriso.

Come può ascoltare di vecchia il pianto?

Dicono acqua di fonte scorra pura

ma rotola fango fosco nei monti.

La serva vende le perle di lei

poi impila tralci sul tetto a riparo.

Coglie cipresso e non sazia la fame.

Né fiori danno grazia ai capelli.

Al tramonto si appoggia al bambù,

sottili maniche azzurre nel freddo.

DU FU, At Fajing Temple

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Running at knifepoint into a farther district,
I strove my strongest but now am gutted weak,
And as I veer through mountains, gashed in spirit,
An ancient temple shatters my grief on a peak.

Its cleaned green moss charms with a gentle glimmer.
The bamboo-sheathes are clustered, cold and bare.
The river maunders at the foot of the mountain.
Raindrops hang light from the pine trees through new air.

The clouds' sun-fissured cover leaks pure morning.
Primeval dawn shines, hides and shines once more.
Vermilion roof-tiles' glint sporadic welcome.
A different gleam tints every window and door.

Dreaming while hunched on my staff, I forgot my journey.
With high noon hot on me, I struggle awake.
The cuckoo beyond cries out to go go go .
That temple's narrowing path I dare not take.

Al tempio di Fajing

Correndo forte a un lontano distretto,

mi spesi tutto ma sono indebolito,

giro fra i monti, son giù di morale,

su un picco un tempio antico rompe il dolore.

Verde muschio lustro piace lucente.

Tronchi di bambù in folla freddi e nudi.

Ai piedi del monte sproloquia il fiume.

Gocce di pioggia pendono dai pini.

Il sole sfora la coltre di nubi.

Alba primordiale una volta ancora.

Vermiglie tegole un benvenuto.

Altri splendori su porte e finestre.

Sognando sul bastone, dimentico.

Calura su di me, cerco star sveglio.

Il cuculo mi grida vai vai vai.

Stretto sentiero al tempio non oso.

In autumn of 759, Du Fu resigned from his government post at Huazhou (east of Chang'an) during the An Lushan rebellion, fearing for his life, and headed west to Qinzhou (now Tianshui) in what is now Gansu province to stay with a nephew, taking his family with him. Afterward, he moved farther south to Tonggu and arrived in Chengdu (in what is now Sichuan province) at the end of the month. This poem was written during that journey.

Many have a habit of idealizing, nay idolizing, nature as something to long for. It's got to be good for you, the New-Ager thinks, 'cause its natural. Urbanization and industrialization encourage us to conceive of the "natural" world as a refuge from the "unnatural" hubbub of cities and such. Going on a hike is a pleasant way to "get back to the land." While there is no shortage of verse in the Chinese tradition portraying (or at least retroactively read by later Chinese scholars as portraying) nature in at-one-ment with humans, there is more to it. Often in medieval Chinese poetry, and especially in Du Fu, any desire to "get away from it all" is intermingled with a more realistic and pressing awareness that going out into the wilderness means not just being restfully alone, but also arrestingly lonely. The distinction between non-human Nature or tiān and humanity or rén (or as I prefer to put it "Numen and Human") is not so easily breached. Nature, especially for Du Fu, is a thing apart from humans, does not care about them, does not have the faculty of care at all, and is not even the instrument of a benevolent God. Du Fu saw solace in a temple, a bastion of humanity apart from the world, a human refuge from the human condition. Yet he, like Robert Frost, had "promises to keep."

Du Fu, un ultimo incontro con il cantante

On meeting Li Guinian south of the Yangtze
 
 A.Z. Foreman from chinese

Oft were the times I saw you sing at Prince Qi's mansion
Many a time I heard your song in Lord Cui's hall
Here south of the Yangtze - how wonderful the landscape
As once again I meet you - as the last Spring blossoms Fall

Per l’incontro con Li Guinian a sud dello Yangtze

Molte le volte che ti vidi cantare nella casa del principe Qi

più di una ascoltai il tuo canto nell’atrio del signore di Cui

qui a sud dello Yangtze – che meraviglia il paesaggio

ancora una volta ti incontro – al cadere degli ultimi petali.

Spring scene during civil war, DU FU

Spring scene during civil war

 A.Z. Foreman dal cinese medievale
Click to hear me recite the original in my idea of a late Táng Medieval reading pronunciation
Click here to hear me recite the original in modern Mandarin pronunciation

A kingdom shattered, river and mountain survive.
　　The city springfallen, weed and tree gain ground.
So touched by the times - tears gush at the sight of flowers
　　So grieved by parting - the heart jolts at birds' sound.
Three months the beacons of war have brimmed with flames,
　　ten tons one letter from home is worth in gold
and things unravel. I pull my whitening hair
　　so thin that my own hairpin will soon lose hold.

Scena di primavera durante guerra civile

Un regno va in rovina, monti e fiumi sopravvivono.

   Le mura invase dai fiori, erbe e alberi sopravanzano.

Toccato dai tempi – sprigionano lacrime, alla vista

   addolorato dall’addio – ai richiami di uccelli rimbalza il cuore.

Tre mesi le luci di guerra fino all’orlo colme di fiamme,

   dieci tonnellate una lettera da casa vale di oro

e le cose si sfanno. Tanto grattai capelli che imbiancano

   tanto sottili che la mia forcina perderà la presa.

Du Fu, Faccia a faccia con la neve

Facing the snow
Du Fu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The wails of war: so many fine young ghosts.
One lone old man bawls dirges at day's end.
A chaos of clouds is laid low in the dusk.
Careening snowblasts dance in blowback wind.
I've stowed the gourd: my green rice-wine is drained. 
I'll keep the stove: my red and final flare. 
No news sent here or from here makes it through.
I sit, I grieve, I scrawl notes on thin air.

This poem was written late in 756, after the Tang government had failed in an attempt to recapture Chang'an from the An Lushan rebels. Du Fu, whom the rebels were holding prisoner there, was now faced with the possibility that he might never get out.

Faccia a faccia con la neve

I guaiti della guerra: tanti fini giovani fantasmi.

Un anziano, solo, urla il lamento verso la fine del giorno.

Un caos di nubi messo in basso nel buio.

Sbandate raffiche di neve nel vento avverso.

La zucca al fuoco, il verde vino di riso versato.

Alimento la stufa: il rosso ultimo mio bagliore.

Notizie, da qui o verso qui, non passano.

Seduto mi addoloro, scribacchio note su aria fine.

Tu Fu, Tang Dynasty

Remembering my brothers on a moonlight night

A wanderer hears drums portending battle. 
By the first call of autumn from a wild goose at the border, 
he knows that the dews tonight will be frost. 
...How much brighter the moonlight is at home! 
O my brothers, lost and scattered, 
what is life to me without you? 
Yet if missives in time of peace go wrong – 
what can I hope for during war?

Ricordando i fratelli in una notte di luna

Un viandante ascolta tamburi che annunciano battaglia.

La prima chiamata d’autunno un’oca selvatica sul confine,

e sa che la rugiada stanotte gelerà.

…com’è più splendente la luna a casa propria!

Fratelli miei persi e dispersi,

che farmene della vita senza di voi?

E se vanno perse lettere in tempo di pace –

cosa posso sperare durante la guerra?

To Li Bai at the sky send

A cold wind blows from the far sky.... 
what are you thinking of, old friend? 
The wild geese never answer me. 
Rivers and lakes are flooded with rain. 
...A poet should beware of prosperity, 
yet demons can haunt a wanderer. 
Ask an unhappy ghost, throw poems to him 
where he drowned himself in the Milo River.

A Li Bai, posta celeste

Vento freddo soffia dal cielo distante…

a cosa pensi, vecchio amico?

Le oche selvatiche non mi rispondono.

Fiumi e laghi inondati di pioggia.

…un poeta dovrebbe far tesoro della prosperità,

ma demoni possono inseguire un viandante.

Domanda a uno spirito infelice, getta poesie verso di lui

dove si annegò nel fiume Milo.

A farewell at Fengji station to General Yan

This is where your comrade must leave you, 
turning at the foot of these purple mountains.... 
when shall we lift our cups again, I wonder, 
as we did last night and walk in the moon? 
The region is murmuring farewell 
to one who was honoured through three reigns; 
and back I go now to my river-village, 
into the final solitude.

Un addio dalla stazione di Fengji, al Generale Yan

È qui che il tuo compagno deve lasciarti,

voltarsi, ai piedi di purpuree montagne…

quando alzeremo le coppe, mi chiedo,

come ieri notte a camminare sulla luna?

La regione mormora ora l’addio

a uno onorato in tre regni;

me ne torno al paese sul fiume,

dentro l’ultima solitudine.

On leaving the tomb of Premier Fang

Having to travel back now from this far place, 
I dismount beside your lonely tomb. 
The ground where I stand is wet with my tears; 
the sky is dark with broken clouds.... 
I who played chess with the great Premier 
am bringing to my lord the dagger he desired. 
But I find only petals falling down, 
I hear only linnets answering.

Lasciando la tomba del Premier Fang

Devo tornare indietro da questo luogo lontano,

scendo vicino alla tua solitaria tomba.

Il terreno dove sto è bagnato dalle mie lacrime;

cielo scuro e nuvole a pezzi…

giocavo a scacchi col grande Premier,

e ora gli porto il pugnale che desiderava.

Ma trovo solo petali che scendono,

sento solo passeri  che parlino.

A night abroad

A light wind is rippling at the grassy shore.... 
through the night, to my motionless tall mast, 
the stars lean down from open space, 
and the moon comes running up the river. 
...If only my art might bring me fame 
and free my sick old age from office! – 
Flitting, flitting, what am I like 
but a sand-snipe in the wide, wide world!

Notte all’adiaccio

Un vento leggero ondula la spiaggia erbosa…

attraverso la notte, verso il mio immoto albero maestro,

le stelle si sporgono giù dallo spazio aperto,

e la luna viene su dal fiume di corsa.

…se solo l’arte mi desse la notorietà

liberasse dai fastidi la vecchiaia stanca! –

svolazzo, svolazzo, cosa sono

se non un beccaccino nel vasto vasto mondo!

On the gate-tower at Youzhou

I had always heard of Lake Dongting – 
and now at last I have climbed to this tower. 
With Wu country to the east of me and Chu to the south, 
I can see heaven and earth endlessly floating. 
...but no word has reached me from kin or friends. 
I am old and sick and alone with my boat. 
North of this wall there are wars and mountains – 
and here by the rail how can I help crying?

Sulla torre muraria a Youzhou

Ho sempre sentito parlare del lago Dongting –

e ora finalmente  mi arrampico su questa torre.

Con il Wu ad est e il Chu a sud,

vedo cielo e terra ondeggiare senza fine

…però non una parola da conoscenti o amici

son vecchio malato e solo con la barca.

A nord delle mura ci son guerre e montagne –

e alla balaustra qui come faccio a non piangere?

A message from my lodge at Wangchuan to Pei Di

The mountains are cold and blue now 
and the autumn waters have run all day. 
By my thatch door, leaning on my staff, 
I listen to cicadas in the evening wind. 
Sunset lingers at the ferry, 
supper-smoke floats up from the houses. 
...Oh, when shall I pledge the great hermit again 
and sing a wild poem at Five Willows?

Un messaggio dalla mia loggia di Wangchuan, per Pei Di

Le montagne ora sono fredde e azzurre,

acque autunnali corsero tutto il giorno.

Sulla porta di canne, poggiato al bastone,

ascolto le cicale nel vento della sera.

Il tramonto si attarda al traghetto,

dalle case esce il fumo della cena.

…oh, quando pregherò il grande eremita

di cantare di nuovo una poesia selvaggia  ai cinque salici?