Saturday, October 14, 2017

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

翎羽箭山桑弓       仰天射落鸿
麻衣黑肥冲北       酒日晚歌田中

男儿屈心不       枯荣不等嗔天公
春柳       条条看即烟蒙蒙









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