by Li Bai
CONTENTS
Map
Introduction
EARLY YEARS (A.D.701-742)
GOING TO VISIT TAI-T’IEN MOUNTAIN’S MASTER
O-MEl MOUNTAIN MOON
AT CHING-MEN FERRY, A FAREWELL
GAZING AT THE LU MOUNTAIN WATERFALL
VISITING A CH’AN MASTER AMONG MOUNTAINS AND LAKES
NIGHT THOUGHTS AT TUNG-LIN MONASTERY
SUNFLIGHT CHANT
WRITTEN ON A WALL AT SUMMIT-TOP TEMPLE
CH’ANG-KAN VILLAGE SONG
FAREWELL TO A VISITOR RETURNING EAST
ON YELLOW-CRANE TOWER, FAREWELL TO MENG HAO-JAN
TO SEND FAR AWAY
HSIANG-YANG SONGS
SOMETHING SAID, WAKING DRUNK
AT YÜAN TAN-CH’IU’S MOUNTAIN HOME
TO SEND FAR AWAY
AT FANG-CH’ENG MONASTERY, DISCUSSING CH’AN
WRITTEN WHILE WANDERING THE WHITE RIVER
WANDERING CH’ING-LING STREAM IN NAN-YANG
SONG OF THE MERCHANT
FRONTIER-MOUNTAIN MOON
A SUMMER DAY IN THE MOUNTAINS
LISTENING TO LU TZU-HSÜN PLAY THE CH’IN
SPRING THOUGHTS
ANCIENT SONG
WAITING FOR WINE THAT DOESN’T COME
MOUNTAIN DIALOGUE
GAZING INTO ANTIQUITY AT SU TERRACE
GAZING INTO ANTIQUITY IN YÜEH
AVOIDING FAREWELL IN A CHIN-LING WINESHOP
WANDERING T’AI MOUNTAIN
CH’ANG-AN AND MIDDLE YEARS (A.D. 742-755)
CH’ING P’ING LYRICS
JADE-STAIRCASE GRIEVANCE
DRINKING ALONE BENEATH THE MOON
THINKING OF EAST MOUNTAIN
TO SEND FAR AWAY
THOUGHTS OF YOU UNENDING
WANDERING UP LO-FU CREEK ON A SPRING DAY
ON HSIN-P’ING TOWER
WATCHING A WHITE FALCON SET LOOSE
SHANG MOUNTAIN, FOUR-RECLUSE PASS
SPRING GRIEVANCE
TEASING TU FU
AT SHA-CH’IU, SENT TO TU FU
AT SHA-CH’IU, FAREWELL TO WEI PA
SPUR OF THE MOMENT
WAR SOUTH OF THE GREAT WALL
DRINKING IN THE MOUNTAINS WITH A RECLUSE
SENT TO MY TWO CHILDREN IN SHA-CH’IU
IN THE STONE GATE MOUNTAINS
IMPROMPTU CHANT
WAR SOUTH OF THE GREAT WALL
FAREWELL TO YIN SHU
CHING-T’ING MOUNTAIN, SITTING ALONE
AT HSÜAN-CHOU, I CLIMB HSIEH T’IAO’S
AT HSIEH T’IAO’S HOUSE
HEAVEN’S-GATE MOUNTAIN
ON HSIEH T’IAO’S TOWER IN HSÜAN-CHOU
MOURNING OLD CHI, HSÜAN-CHOU’S
LISTENING TO A MONK’S CH’IN DEPTHS
MOURNING CHAO
DRUNK ON T’UNG-KUAN MOUNTAIN, A QUATRAIN
ON AUTUMN RIVER, ALONG PO-KO SHORES
AUTUMN RIVER SONGS
ON AUTUMN RIVER AT CLEAR CREEK
CLEAR CREEK CHANT
VISITING SHUI-HSI MONASTERY
WAR, EXILE, AND LATER YEARS (A.D.755-762)
ON PHOENIX TOWER IN CHIN-LING
AT CHIN-LING
ANCHORED OVERNIGHT AT NIU-CHU
AFTER AN ANCIENT POEM
WRITTEN ON A WALL AT HSIU-CHING MONASTERY
DRINKING WITH SHIH LANG-CHUNG, I HEAR
9/9, OUT DRINKING ON DRAGON MOUNTAIN
9/10 GOINGS-ON
TRAVELING SOUTH TO YEH-LANG, SENT TO
STARTING UP THREE GORGES
BEFORE MY BOAT ENTERS CH’Ü-T’ANG GORGE
MAKING MY WAY TOWARD YEH-LANG IN EXILE
LEAVING K’UEI-CHOU CITY EARLY
TRAVELING TUNG-T’ING LAKE WITH CHIA CHIH
AFTER CLIMBING PA-LING MOUNTAIN, IN THE WEST HALL
AT LUNG-HSING MONASTERY, CHIA AND I
WRITTEN ON THE WALL WHILE DRUNK AT
LOOKING FOR YUNG, THE RECLUSE MASTER
AFTER AN ANCIENT POEM
GAZING AT CRAB-APPLE MOUNTAIN
FACING WINE
DRINKING ALONE ON A SPRING DAY
A FRIEND STAYS THE NIGHT
SPENDING THE NIGHT BELOW WU-SUNG
FAREWELL TO HAN SHIH-YÜ WHO’S LEAVING
DRINKING ALONE
SEEING THAT WHITE-HAIRED OLD MAN
THOUGHTS IN NIGHT QUIET
LINES THREE, FIVE, SEVEN WORDS LONG
SOUTH OF THE YANGTZE, THINKING OF SPRING
ON GAZING INTO A MIRROR
Notes
Finding List
Bibliography
INTRODUCTION
I. THE WORK
There is a set-phrase in Chinese referring to the phenomenon of Li Po: “Winds of the immortals, bones of the Tao.” He is called the “Banished Immortal,” an exiled spirit moving through this world with an unearthly ease and freedom from attachment. But at the same time, he belongs to earth in the most profound way, for he is also free of attachments to self, and that allows the self to blend easily into a weave of identification with the earth and its process of change: the earth perpetually moving beyond itself as the ten thousand things unfold spontaneously, each according to its own nature.
In Chinese, this unfolding is tzu-jan: literally “self-so” or “being such of itself,” hence “natural” or “spontaneous.” Li Po’s work is suffused with the wonder of being part of this process, but at the same time, he enacts it, makes it visible in the self-dramatized spontaneity of his life. To live as part of the earth’s process of change is to live one’s most authentic self: rather than acting with self-conscious intention, one acts with selfless spontaneity. This spontaneity is wu-wei (literally: “doing nothing”), and it is an important part of Taoist and Ch’an (Zen) practice, the way to experience one’s life as an organic part of tzu-jan. Educated Chinese had always been imbued with Taoist philosophy, and Ch’an had become very influential among the intellectuals of Li Po’s time, many of whom associated with Ch’an monks and spent time in Ch’an monasteries. Wu-wei was therefore a widely-held ideal, appearing most famously in “wild-grass” calligraphy (begun by Chang Hsü and Huai Su, friends of Li Po who would get drunk and, in a sudden flurry, create a flowing landscape of virtually indecipherable characters), in the antics of Ch’an masters, and in Li Po himself.
But for Li Po, it seems not so much a spiritual practice as the inborn form of his life, much of which was spent wandering. As this was primarily wandering on whim rather than traveling of necessity, it gives his life the very shape of spontaneity: sailing downriver hundreds of miles in a day or settling in one place for a year. Li Po’s spontaneity also takes the form of wild drinking and a gleeful disdain for decorum and authority, as in the story where he fails to pay the proper respects when being introduced to a governor and, upon being reprimanded, quips: “Wine makes its own manners.” Li Po’s poetry was itself often intended to shock his readers, and he was considered outlandish by the decorous literary society of his time. But it was in another aspect of his writing that Li Po embodies the principle of wu-wei in a more fundamental way: the headlong movement of the poem and its gestures. This movement is a natural result of the spontaneous composition process which is a major part of the Li Po legend. The story recurs in many forms, perhaps most famously in Tu Fu’s “Song of the Eight Immortals in Wine”:
For Li Po, it’s a hundred poems per gallon of wine,
then sleep in the winehouses of Ch’ang-an markets.
The most essential quality of Li Po’s work is the way in which wu-wei spontaneity gives shape to his experience of the natural world. He is primarily engaged by the natural world in its wild, rather than domestic forms. Not only does the wild evoke wonder, i
t is also where the spontaneous energy of tzu-jan is clearly visible, energy with which Li Po identified. And the spontaneous movement of a Li Po poem literally enacts this identification, this belonging to earth in the fundamental sense of belonging to its processes.
Li Po wrote during the High T’ang period (A.D. 712-760) when Chinese poetry blossomed into its first full splendor, and he is one of the High T’ang’s three preeminent poets, Wang Wei and Tu Fu being the other two. A major catalyst in the High T’ang revolution was admiration for a poet who had been neglected since his death three hundred years earlier: T’ao Ch’ien (365-427), the poet of “fields and gardens.” Wang Wei, Li Po, and Tu Fu are all direct heirs to T’ao Ch’ien’s resolute individuality and authentic human voice. But Li Po is no less heir to Hsieh Ling-yün (385-433), the poet of wild “mountains and rivers.” Mountains were not merely natural, but sacred objects. Quite literally sites where the powers of heaven met those of earth, they were inhabited and energized by those powers. Rivers formed part of a single cosmic watershed. Beginning in western mountains where the Star River (our Milky Way) descends to earth, they flow east toward the sea, and there ascend to become again the earth-cradling Star River. And together “mountains and rivers” literally means “landscape,” wild landscape as a truly numinous phenomenon.
The moon, though, absorbed the Banished Immortal utterly. Appearing in over a third of his poems, it is a beacon from his homeland. It’s difficult for us now to imagine what the moon was for T’ang intellectuals, but it was not in any sense the celestial body that we know. In a universe animated by the interaction of yin (female) and yang (male) energies, the moon was literally yin visible. Indeed, it was the very germ or source of yin, and the sun was its yang counterpart. Like all other natural phenomena, a person’s spirit was thought to be made up of these two aspects. It took the form of two distinct spirits: the yin spirit, which was called p’o and remained earthbound at death, and the yang spirit, which was called hun and drifted away into the heavens at death. The moon, too, was known as p’o or yin-p’o. Hence, the moon was the heavenly incarnation of, was indeed the embryonic essence of that mysterious energy we call the spirit (yin spirit, with the sun being the source of yang spirit). This is the conceptual context within which Li Po’s poems operate, the culture’s account of the moon’s mystery. But rather than account for it, the poems themselves evoke it directly, evoke it and yet leave it as it is, even now: an enduring mystery.
With the moon, inevitably, comes wine. Drinking plays an important part in the lives of most Chinese poets, acting as a form of enlightenment comparable to Ch’an practice. But only T’ao Ch’ien is as closely identified with the “sage in the cup” as Li Po. Usually in Chinese poetry, the practice of wine involves drinking just enough so the ego fades and perception is clarified. T’ao Ch’ien called this state “idleness” (hsien): wu-wei as stillness. But although Li Po certainly cultivates such stillness, he usually ends up thoroughly drunk, a state in which he is released fully into his most authentic and enlightened self: wu-wei as spontaneity.
During China’s T’ang Dynasty, a man named Li Po is born in the year 701, at the beginning of the great cultural flowering known as the High T’ang. He wanders. The moon beckons from his homeland, dances with his shadow. The river flows on the borders of heaven. He meets Tu Fu in a country wineshop, and they share a few days. Armies burn fields and cities. The T’ang smolders, a fitful ruin. In 762, Li Po’s wandering ends south of the Yangtze River, at someone else’s house, when he falls into a river and drowns trying to embrace the moon. The phenomenon of Li Po moves perpetually beyond the everyday facts which make up a life. He belongs at once to the realm of immortals and to the earth’s process of change, its spontaneous movement beyond itself. But his most enduring work remains grounded in the everyday experience we all share. He wrote 1200 years ago, half a world away, but in his poems we see our world transformed by winds of the immortals, bones of the Tao.
II. THE LIFE
As with most immortals, the facts of Li Po’s existence are nebulous. He was himself the ultimate source for most of the biographical information we have, and with his perpetual self-dramatization, he was a decidedly unreliable source. Fortunately, few of the poems depend on biographical context for their meaning. Although many can be reliably dated, scholars have doubted the authenticity of up to nine-tenths of the poems, making the age-old attempts to guess at their dates especially futile. In spite of the uncertainty, it has seemed best to leave aside the question of authenticity and to arrange the poems in some chronological order, however imaginary that order may be. This is the only way to re-embody the legend that Li Po is, and even if that legend has little to do with historical fact, it is the Li Po that has been revered for 1200 years.
Early Years (A.D.701-742)
Li Po’s life begins, suitably enough, nebulous and beyond. He was born outside the boundaries of China, in Central Asia, and his full given name was T’ai-po, meaning “Venus.” His great-grandfather had apparently been exiled to Central Asia, and as they found themselves on the trading routes between China and the West, the family may have turned to trading for a livelihood. When Li Po was still young, the family moved to Ch’ang-ming in western China, where they probably continued their trading business. Wanting to create an exotic aura for himself, Li Po promoted his Central Asian background, which may indeed have been a complete fabrication invented by a man of the lower merchant class to give himself an aristocratic pedigree. He claimed the same imaginary genealogy as the imperial family (which also had Central Asian connections), a genealogy reaching back to no less a figure than the mythical Taoist philosopher Lao-tzu (whose family name was Li). Still, evidence such as descriptions of his strange and striking appearance suggest Li Po had much Central Asian blood in him. Indeed, he may not have been Chinese at all.
In any case, Li Po was accepted as part of the far-flung and illustrious Li family, a “cousin” of imperial princes. Most of his relatives were officials in government, some of a fairly high rank. But even though he showed considerable literary talent at a young age, he never studied for the imperial examinations, though that was the normal route to a career in government. If indeed he was a Li, such a career would have been the expected thing for him, the way to secure a place for himself in the world. Instead, he spent some time as a “knight-errant,” which involved avenging injustices suffered by the helpless, and it is said that in this role he killed several people with his sword. He also spent several years as a Taoist recluse in the mountains near his home. These two occupations are emblematic of Li Po’s temperament: a deep and quiet spirituality on the one hand, and on the other, a swaggering brashness.
Around A.D. 724, Li Po sailed out of Szechwan, his remote home province in the west, and down the Yangtze River to travel in eastern China. Some years later, he was married and living in An-lu. This began a decade of apparently settled life about which little is known. By the late 730s, his wife and perhaps a son had died, and Li Po had begun in earnest the wandering which dominates his life. This wandering seems to have been carefree, probably supported by the lucrative family business and the relatives with whom he often stayed.
Ch’ang-an and Middle Years (A.D.742-755)
To be a poet in China meant little without a position in the government, for that was the basic source of status and self-esteem. So although Li Po was by now a famous poet, he surely aspired to an official position, and he could have hoped for an appointment outside the usual examination system, on the basis of his extraordinary literary abilities and/or his considerable Taoist expertise. And in 742, through his friendship with a well-known Taoist writer, he received an imperial summons which took him to the capital, Ch’ang-an.
Ch’ang-an, with a population of two million, was perhaps the most cultivated and cosmopolitan city in human history, and T’ang civilization was at its peak. Under Emperor Hsüan-tsung’s enthusiastic patronage, arts and letters flourished. Indeed, his reign is often considered
the pinnacle of Chinese cultural achievement. The government’s frugality and devotion were legendary; corruption was rare and taxation light. Able generals secured the borders against ever-threatening “barbarians,” and within China there was peace and prosperity.
Instead of receiving a position in the central government as he must have hoped, Li Po was appointed to the Han-lin Academy, becoming a court poet in attendance on the emperor. His preternatural talents and bold disdain for decorum and authority were a hit, and there are numerous tales of his eccentric behavior in the capital. As at any other time in his life, he was often to be found in winehouses, carousing with courtesans. In a typical story of Li Po’s exploits, the poet is summoned to capture the glory of an imperial outing and arrives dead drunk. Attendants throw cold water in his face to rouse him, and he thereupon tosses off a celebrated series of poems. The full account of Li Po in Tu Fu’s “Song of the Eight Immortals in Wine” contains another version of this story:
For Li Po, it’s a hundred poems per gallon of wine,
then sleep in the winehouses of Ch’ang-an markets.
Summoned by the Son of Heaven, he can’t board the ship,
calls himself your loyal subject immortal in wine.
Indeed, it was at this time that he received the appellation “Banished Immortal”: an immortal who had misbehaved and been sent to earth for punishment. But Li Po’s irresponsible antics eventually resulted in his dismissal. Although just what happened is unclear, Li Po was sent from the capital in 744.
He resumed his wandering, soon meeting Tu Fu in a country wineshop near Lo-yang and traveling with him briefly. Li Po had by now remarried, and the family, which included a daughter and son, was settled at Shach’iu in eastern China. The following year, Tu Fu lived briefly in the same region, and Li Po visited him. Tu Fu is an important part of the Li Po legend. The two of them are traditionally considered the greatest poets in Chinese history, even if such claims are an exaggeration. But this pairing is based on more than their shared preeminence. They were friends, and their work is often said to represent the two poles of Chinese sensibility: Li Po being the Taoist (intuitive, amoral, detached), and Tu Fu the Confucian (cerebral, moral, socially-engaged). Informative though it may be, this contrast is a simplification. To be a complete human being, a Chinese intellectual must be both Taoist and Confucian, and this was true of both Li Po and Tu Fu. In any case, the elder Li Po was already quite famous when the two poets met, and the as yet unknown Tu Fu admired him inordinately. But this was to be the last time the two poets would meet. It seems Tu Fu quickly passed from Li Po’s mind. Only two of Li Po’s surviving poems are addressed to Tu Fu, both occasional poems dating from this period (and typically, one is probably not authentic). But Tu Fu often thought of Li Po, and over the years wrote more than a dozen poems concerning him.