Song of the Open Field (Li He)

This morning, for the sake of variety, I translated a poem by Li He, a Tang poet whose work I am not generally familiar with, other than his reputation as a restless and eccentric soul, who often wrote about hungry ghosts and supernatural spirits.  The poem I chose to translate though is quite naturalistic and accessible, while also carrying something of a mysterious undertone.  It may help you better appreciate this poem to know that Li He's life was short and far from sweet, being marred by personal misfortune, a very ungainly appearance and ill-health - a strong sense of which comes through for me here, an overall effect that strikes me as beautiful and deeply unsettled at the same time.

Song of the Open Field

A crow with its feathers is the arrow

A mulberry tree on the hill is the bow

Shooting skyward and descending

With a clump of straw in its beak

Its plain black garment loose fitting

Rushing headlong into the north wind

I raise this cup of wine in the open field

And sing a song to the setting sun

A man may bend being weak of heart

Almost to the point of breaking

Withered and thriving unequally

Always railing against heaven

But the chill wind does transform

The spring willow will revive once more

Its long branches to be savored

Like a fine mist or wisp of smoke

野歌

李贺

鸦翎羽箭山桑弓       仰天射落衔芦鸿

麻衣黑肥冲北风       带酒日晚歌田中

男儿屈穷心不穷       枯荣不等嗔天公

寒风又变为春柳       条条看即烟蒙蒙