Daoist Identity
Page 15
Images of Material Culture in the Poems
of Yu Xuanji: Images of Textiles
I begin with a short poem on a conventional subject that is startling in its power and rage. The congratulatory title is “Wandering to the South Tower of the Belvedere for Venerating the Perfected (Chongsheng guan), Then Viewing the Place Where Names of New Exam Graduates Are Inscribed.” Here Yu Xuanji commemorates an occasion upon which she accompanies a group of new graduates of the imperial examination, an exam in which she could never participate, leading to jobs she could never obtain. On their outing, the group, like countless fortunate graduates before them, climbs the tower at a Daoist temple in Chang’an. Later on, in celebration of their accomplishment, the members inscribe their names in order on a plaque at the Ci’en si (Temple of Mercy and Compassion), a Buddhist temple not far away.
The poem conflates the two events. Yu Xuanji begins, conventionally enough, with the distant view, then moves to the closer scene.
Cloudy peaks fill the eye, releasing spring’s brightness; One after another, silver hooks arise beneath their fingers.
Involuntarily I resent the silk netted-gauze robes that hide my lines of poetry;
Lifting my head, I vainly envy the names on the plank. ( QTS 9050)4
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“Silver hooks” refer to her companions’ calligraphy. The final couplet expresses the speaker’s thoughts. Her silk netted-gauze robes become the target for anger at being excluded from the man’s world of writing, examination, and public office. Yu Xuanji equates having to perform the role of woman, by dressing the part, with having to choke back her talents and ambitions. She feels equal to any of her companions. As a poetic conceit, she blames her clothes for the limitations imposed upon her as a woman in Tang China. This attitude is going to get her killed.
Next I turn to her most famous poem, featured in most accounts of her life, including the Shaw Brothers’ movie. Traditionally set on the morning of her execution (perhaps a later embellishment of romantic literati), she calls it “Given to a Neighbor Girl.” It may be addressed to a former neighbor in the convent or the streets of Chang’an, or to a nearby inmate:
Shamed before the sun, I shade myself with my netted-gauze silk sleeve,
Depressed by the spring, reluctant to rise and put on make-up.
It’s easy to find a priceless treasure,
Much harder to get a man with a heart!
On my pillow, secretly flow my tears;
Amidst the flowers, silently my guts are sliced.
Since I will soon personally be able to peek at Song Yu, Why regret Wang Chang? ( QTS 9047)
(The “man with a heart” [ youxin lang ] is a colloquial term for a compatible lover.) Here the speaker’s silken sleeve proves inadequate to hide her when she raises it as a shield against the world. Since it is transparent, it cannot block the sun or the gaze of others. Beautiful garments cannot protect her. Again she berates her clothes, this time for being ineffective. Depressed and ashamed of her situation, cynical about her relationships with men, she laments her broken heart and fractured trust. The last couplet looks ahead to paradise.
There she intends to meet Song Yu, a handsome third-century b.c.e.
poet, minister of Chu, and disciple of Qu Yuan (340?–278 b.c.e.); both Song Yu and Qu Yuan influenced her writing. Wang Chang appears in Six Dynasties and Tang literature as the fine, marriage-able young man next-door. In poetry, he is usually the one who got away. Since the speaker will soon meet her ideal, why mourn her failure to marry a suitable young man such as the fictional Wang Chang?
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The next example of Yu Xuanji’s poetry, addressed to a Mr. Li, rejects fine textiles as useless luxuries. Several poets sent Yu Xuanji work to read and criticize. Li Ying, who passed the jinshi exam in 856 and became Censor in Attendance, was a neighbor, scholar, and former suitor. He wrote Yu Xuanji a now-lost poem “Return from Fishing on a Summer’s Day,” inviting her comments and also inviting her over for a drink. She replied in a satirical vein, entitling her response “Toast-ing Li Ying’s ‘Return from Fishing on a Summer’s Day,’ Which He Submitted for a Look.”
Although our dwelling places follow along the same lane, For years I haven’t passed you even once.
With clear lyrics you urge drinks on the old girl,
While you break off new branches of fragrant cinnamon.
Your “Daoist nature” is more ridiculous than my icy, snowy flesh; Your “meditating heart” more laughable than my white patterned tabby-weave and netted-gauze silks.
Although your footsteps may climb to the top of the Empyrean Han (Milky Way),
You have no road to reach (heaven’s) misty waves. ( QTS 9050) The title and topic are as polite and conventional as a thank-you note. While Yu at first appears to flatter Li, her tone is sarcastic. She turns down his invitation, complaining he has neglected her, his “old,”
or former, companion, to pursue new girlfriends (“branches of fragrant cinnamon”). Quoting lines from his poem that include the phrases “Daoist nature” and “meditating (or chan) heart,” she scoffs at his pretending to be an ascetic while pursuing pleasure and claims that her own white flesh and silken garments are more genuine than his pompous show of austerity. An alternative translation to the third couplet runs:
My Daoist nature mocks ice and snow;
My meditating heart laughs at white patterned tabby-weave and netted-gauze silks.
In this case, the author again compares herself favorably to the recipient. As a Daoist nun, she does, in fact, know something about meditating. Here, “white patterned tabby-weave and netted-gauze silks”
mean clothes made of expensive and luxurious fabrics. Despite his claims of religious discipline, Li Ying is more caught up in the world than she. Although Li may be successful and famous, climbing to the stars of social acclaim, success in the examinations, and a fine job in
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the imperial bureaucracy, he still has no way to reach Daoist perfection, including immortality and heaven.
In contrast, Yu Xuanji sends a hymn of praise, opening with a textile image, to a Daoist nun who bears the elevated title of lianshi, or “Refined Master” in “I Send the Refined Master a Poem I Wrote About Her.”
Auroral clouds of many colors, cut to make your robes,
Burgeoning incense emerges from embroidered bed curtains.
White lotus flowers and leaves ( . . . ).
Mountains and waterways spread out ( . . . ) and disperse.
Stopping in your steps to listen as bushwarblers talk,
You open cages and release cranes to fly away.
In the High Audience Hall, you awaken from a spring sleep, In evening rain, just now full and driving. ( QTS 9047–9048) (Each set of parentheses represents one missing paragraph.)
“Refined Master” was an honorific title granted to a nun who lived in a convent but had no administrative responsibilities. All she had to do was meditate and practice austerities; her stature as an ascetic brought glory to her establishment. The Refined Master’s robes equate her with a Daoist goddess dressed in swatches of the heavens.
The clothes are the woman: their qualities stand for her qualities. Her auroral garments provide evidence of her spiritual attainment: her description matches that of Shangqing (“Supreme Clear Realm”) divinities found in related scriptures in the Daoist canon. These beautiful goddesses descend from the Daoist heavens, or “clear realms,” to instruct mortal men in the arts of eternal life. Yu also compares the Refined Master to the ancient shamanistic goddess who appears in the Han dynasty Gaotang fu (“Rhapsody on the High Altar”) by Song Yu, preserved in the Wenxuan. That elusive deity spent a passionate night with the King of Chu, then abandoned him, to his eternal sorrow. The same language appears in the Shangqing text known as the Zhen’gao (Declarations of the Perfected, HY 1011), which desc
ribes the meeting of the adept and his seductive goddess-instructress. Yu Xuanji profoundly admires her subject’s accomplishments and envies her life of freedom, choice, and ease. The priestess sleeps where she likes and does what she wants with no limitations, restrictions, or penalties. Sexual images of rain and spring sleep suggest her meetings with gods.
This poem and the next respond to the Refined Master’s accomplishments, sexuality, and charisma. They recommend the author as a companion.
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Yu Xuanji addressed another poem to Refined Master Zhao, perhaps the same person. Here Yu takes on the conventional subject of visiting a recluse without finding him (or, in this case, her) available.
There are poems on this subject by Wang Wei (701– 761), Li Bo (701–
762), and Du Fu (712–770). Even the title follows a Tang formula: “I Pay a Visit on Refined Master Zhao Without Meeting Her.”
Where are you and your transcendent companions?
Your green-clothed servant rests alone in the household.
On the warm stove: remains of your steeped herbs,
In the adjoining courtyard: boiling tea.
Painted walls, dim in the lamps’ radiance;
Shadows from banners’ poles slant.
Anxiously I turn my head back again and again,
At numerous branches of blossoms outside your walls. ( QTS 9052) Yu Xuanji takes a conventional subject and gives it her own meaning. Entering a mysterious, deserted household, she discovers that the Refined Master of the title has just left; her tea and herbs, both still cooking, reveal her recent presence. Yu Xuanji, searching for a like-minded friend, longs for Zhao’s companionship. She also admires the nun’s lifestyle: the simplicity, security, and aesthetic pleasure appeal to her. In contrast to the divine clothing worn by the Refined Master in the previous poem, the servant’s clothes here are anonymous and humble. Her green cotton outfit identifies Master Zhao’s servant: she too is what she wears. “Green-clothed” indicates her class and function but tells us nothing about her as an individual. She is little more than furniture in the nun’s retreat. Finally, the poet departs, with many a backward glance. Her wishful gaze mistakes climbing flowers on the wall lit by the setting sun for the rosy garments of the master and her retinue.
Meanwhile, back in the capital, Yu Xuanji describes her own life at the end of a neglected alley in the middle of the busy city. Her lover is long gone, and everyone else seems to have a life. She writes “Late Spring Sketch”:
In a deep lane, the last gate, few companions or mates,
Esquire Ruan only here in remnants of my dreams,
Incense drifting through my netted-gauze silk and white patterned tabby-weave clothing from some other household’s dining mats, Wind sending the sound of songs from a storied building someplace.
The street closed, drumbeats rouse me from dawn sleep;
The courtyard secluded, magpies’ chatter mixes with my spring depression.
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How could I have kept pursuing affairs among humans?
My ten thousand li body is just like an untied boat. ( QTS 9053) The first line describes living alone, without friends or resources, in poor quarters (the “last gate”) in the capital. This Esquire Ruan is Ruan Zhao, the Eastern Han scholar who met a transcendent one day when he was wandering in the mountains looking for medicinal herbs. After sharing a feast with her for what seemed like a short time, he returned home to discover seven generations had passed. Here the writer equates herself with his transcendent lover, missing her mortal visitor after his departure. The second couplet adds a sad and envious voyeurism: other people have banquets while she sits alone. She feels invaded and excluded as expensive incense from a neighboring household’s feast permeates her silken garments and music from a gathering in some fine tall building interrupts her dreams. Clothing here, as always in her poetry, represents the person. She is also acutely sen-sitive to sound: songs, drums, and magpies depress her.
This poem suggests how the speaker came to be a Daoist nun. After her bitter experiences living alone in the capital, she wonders how she could have been ensnared so long in the world of human affairs and seeks refuge in the convent. The poem closes with a powerful and evocative image of herself. She compares her body, strong enough to go ten thousand li without stopping (like a heavenly horse), to an untied boat, cut off from worldly attachments, free at last to follow the Dao. We will consider the image of the boat drifting toward the Dao in detail later. One of Yu Xuanji’s central poetic self-representations is the wandering sojourner: an untied boat here, a banished immortal in the next poem.
Alone again in autumn, Yu Xuanji again portrays herself as a wayfaring stranger. Her narrator sings Daoist ritual verses or qingge (literally, pure songs), practices Daoist self-cultivation or yangxing (literally, nourishing [her] nature), reads Daoist scriptures, and enjoys her melancholy solitude. The title is “Sad Thoughts” (one source has “Autumn Thoughts”).
Falling leaves flutter and swirl, joining evening rain;
Alone strumming vermilion strings, I naturally break into pure song.
Releasing my feelings, I stop resenting heartless friends; Nourishing my nature, I toss off as empty the waves of the bitter sea.
While sounds of leaders’ chariots are outside my gate,
Daoist documents and scrolls pile up beside my pillow.
This cotton-clad commoner in the end turns out to be a sojourner from the cloudy empyrean,
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From time to time passing the green rivers and blue mountains (of this world). ( QTS 9050–9051)
This is a poem of self-consolation. Daoism is a great comfort, allowing her to forget loneliness and betrayal. The narrator portrays herself as a wandering sojourner and banished immortal. Alone on a rainy evening, she plays her zither to express herself. Expressing emotions frees her from their grip. Practicing self-cultivation of the type known as yangqi, or “nurturing the breaths,” designed to increase health and longevity, brings her peace of mind despite the suffering that is the normal condition of life in this world (the “bitter sea”). Indifferent to the bustle of leaders outside her door, she reads scriptures. The commoner nobody appreciates (herself) turns out to be that well-known figure of legend, the immortal in disguise. In her poetry Yu Xuanji tries on different roles; here, she resembles a banished immortal, temporarily cast down to this world for punishment, soon to return to the glories of the heavens. The simple cotton clothes that give away her class origins are, for the space of a poem, the disguise of a transcendent. As a “cotton-clad commoner,” she passes through the moving and transitory beauty of the Chinese landscape, but her true home lies elsewhere. She may be unappreciated, but she knows she is a goddess.
The last poem in this section, “Dwelling in the Mountains on a Summer’s Day,” depicts the free and easy life of a Daoist recluse in her mountain retreat. But before translating that poem, consider another, a quatrain that probably portrays the same place in spring, called “On a Pavilion Hidden in the Mist”:
Its spring flowers and autumn moons enter the verses of my poems; Its white days and clear nights would suit even far-flung transcendents.
Raising my beaded curtains to empty space, I don’t lower them again;
I’ve moved a couch so I can sleep facing the mountains. ( QTS 9051) Location is important to the poet. In her comfortable and convenient dwelling, suitable for the pickiest transcendent, naturally supplied with flowers, a clothes hanger, and fresh spring water, she drinks wine, reads, chants, and sails. Here is “Dwelling in the Mountains on a Summer’s Day,” a song celebrating her mountain home:
Moving to obtain a transcendent dwelling, I came to this place; Its flower thickets are naturally profuse; I haven’t pruned.
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In front of the courtyard, a forked tree spreads out as m
y clothes rack;
Beneath my seat a new spring floats my wine cup.
The fence railing obscurely winds away into a deep bamboo path; My long cloak of white patterned tabby-weave and netted-gauze silk mixes into my book pile.
In leisure riding my painted boat, I chant to the bright moon; Trusting the light wind to blow me home again. ( QTS 9053) This poem has a powerful sense of place. Enjoying seclusion, she contemplates, free from care. She has finally attained the freedom and ease she sought. Not bothering to dress formally, she wears her luxurious cloak of white patterned tabby-weave and netted-gauze silk loosely, so that it tumbles down and plays havoc with her books, knock-ing the scrolls about. Her clothing expresses an independence, intellectual and financial, she longs for in other poems. Here she acts the part of absent-minded hermit, absorbed in reading and chanting. She imitates her ideals: the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove of the past, or Refined Masters like Master Zhao of the present. The author has finally found a “room of her own,” a place to write and think.
“Dwelling in the Mountains on a Summer’s Day” ends with the image of a little boat. Riding along, she chants to the moon, like Li Bo, another Daoist poet and solitary wine drinker. Engaged in free and easy wandering, allowing her painted boat to follow the wind, she travels like a transcendent.
Images of Boats
Boats small enough to be controlled by one person appear frequently in Yu Xuanji’s writing. The boat provides a means of transportation for the fisher person or sojourner. The boat can represent the traveler, the process of moving from one place to another, or a more general transition or transformation. In a mocking poem addressed to Censor-in Attendance Li ( QTS 9051), his boat refers to the fisherman, home from his wanderings. Usually Yu Xuanji is running the boat. In a traditional genre of poetic travelogue, practiced with originality and passion by the well-known Tang poet Du Fu, Yu Xuanji chronicles her own journeys on the water. One such poem has her “Passing Ezhou”