4: On Oranges and Government

What is Zhang Jiuling getting at in this week's poem? In the first three Poems of Encountering, his focus progressed from the purely natural world, to the intersection of the natural world and the lonely hermit, to the hermit himself. Then comes this fourth poem, which returns from the hermit to nature again, but reads differently to me than the first poem with its careful opposition of kingfishers and swans.

The Fourth Poem of Encountering begins with Zhang meditating on the red tangerine. In the tradition of Qu Yuan, he uses the tangerine to comment on politics and politicians: in the fair-weather climate of the Imperial court, he says, it is truly remarkable that a man in a position of influence could remain uncorrupted, or evergreen. When Zhang asks why the tree is secluded, he means, why keep such a person away from court? Why would you exile him to Hubei province, to live out his life as an isolated scholar? Why can honest men not survive in government?

The fourth verse takes an abrupt turn from this simple and well-trod metaphor to questions of cosmic significance. Fate creates the conditions of the world. All actions are tied to other actions. The universe is an immense network of cause and effect, where events set the stage for their own recurrence. Violence creates pain, pain creates anger, anger creates violence again, naturally and without end. Children growing recreate their parents in themselves. This is Zhang's answer to the question, why can honest men not survive in government? In the end, fault does not lie with a political faction, or a rival. Honest men can't survive in government because all actions have consequences.

This understanding transcends the simple framework of the First Poem of Encountering, where envy, and human attachment to high office are the problems, and detaching oneself from those is the solution. The final couplet of the Fourth Poem anchors this cosmic statement in reality: A tree grows and bears fruit. In Chinese, we call a "result" 结果 jiéguǒ; the second character literally means "fruit." The honest man acts, and his actions achieve results. Yet his growth to maturity, and his actions, cast shadows. The shadow and the tree and its fruit cannot be separated from one another. They are all part of the same great system. Consequences are born in the moment of action.

The common narrative of the exiled official describes a man wrongfully accused, betrayed, and set aside to watch his country destroy itself. Zhang, in these poems, tells a different tale, in a kind of triumphant realism: the exiled official has done his honest work, and he has been set aside. His sacrifice is complete. This is the heart of the Encounter of the poem's title: the encounter of courage and honesty with their necessary consequences. For the rest of his life, the honest man may struggle to accept the consequences of his choices, but he could not have acted any other way. The tangerine grows in secluded valleys, but at least its heart does not wither in the cold.

4: Fate and All It Encounters

I had trouble translating this week's poem, which was a shame considering that it's the last we'll hear from Zhang Jiuling for a while. One of the lines that bothered me the most was the following couplet:

運命唯所遇，循環不可尋

which I ultimately translated as:

Fate and everything it meets: a
wheel whose end we cannot seek.

There are some things that bother me about this translation, including the almost-rhyme between meet and seek, which feels ugly to me. Then again, there's a similar vowel rhyme in the original, between yù, the last character of the first line, and xún, the last character of the second line, so maybe I shouldn't worry about it.

The first line is the only instance in these four poems of the character 遇 yù, which as you might have noticed is one of the two characters used to name the whole set: 感遇四首, the "Feeling / Encountering Four Poems," which I've translated as "Four Poems of Encountering" and has been translated elsewhere (esp. by Witter Bynner) simply as "Thoughts," which I feel doesn't express the complexity of 感遇. I translated 遇 in the poem as "meet" rather than "encounter" for metrical reasons.

The second line, though, is the source of my confusion. Broken down into its components, it reads: 循環 (circle, cycle) 不可 (cannot, must not) 尋 (seek). How does a cycle we cannot seek square with "fate and all it meets"? Or a cycle that cannot be sought? Seems unlikely: fate is all around us, inescapable. What, then, are we to make of this line?

There is a tight parallelism between the two lines, which helps:

運命 唯所 遇
循環 不可 尋
(noun) (adverb) (verb)

It seems clear from this that the cycle is (or is closely connected with) fate; I tried to emphasize this by enjambing the two lines in English. Moreover, the two adverbial phrases are opposite in meaning, at least as I read them: 唯所 includes all possibilities, while 不可 denies possibilities. Then, if we think of 遇 as the ongoing process of meeting, might not 尋 be the ultimate result of seeking? In Japanese, 尋 means "to fathom" (according to my dictionary), and 尋找 in Chinese can mean "to find" as much as "to seek." So, is it possible that the cycle, rather than being impossible to find, is simply impossible to follow through to the end (because it is endless)? And then, y extension, can fate cannot be worked through to the end?

Maybe. Then again, maybe I'm just crazy.

3: Boo-dhism

Sorry about that; I needed to fit some kind of Halloween reference, and it's hard to shoehorn thrills and chills into Zhang Jiuling!

Matt asked me to talk about Buddhism in the third Poem of Encountering. For those of you with no experience of Buddhism whatsoever, the Buddha's most basic teachings are:

1. There is suffering in life.
   
2. Suffering comes from attachment to things.
   
3. Suffering can cease when attachment to things ceases.
   
4. There is a path out of suffering.
   

The "path" is the Middle Way of moderation, care, and compassion. Buddhism first came to China in the Han dynasty, carried by traders along the Silk Road and by pilgrims from India. It reached full flourishing under the Tang dynasty, when our poets lived and wrote. Bodhidharma, the founder of Chan (Zen) Buddhism in China, came from the West (that is, India) in the 5th century, and his movement flourished under the Tang alongside native religious and philosophical movements like Daoism and Buddhism. In fact, the three traditions were seen as complementary, and a term, Three Teachings (三教), arose to refer to all at once.

When I was a child, learning about this stuff for the first time, the fact that these three religious existed side by side without sectarian violence blew me away. There are a bunch of reasons for this, but the fact of the matter is that Zhang Jiuling was educated in the Confucian system, and surrounded by and familiar with Buddhist and Daoist teachings. The tension between Confucian thought, which emphasized engagement with the official world and duty, and Daoist or Buddhist thought, which placed less importance on worldly affairs, can be seen throughout these three poems. Daoism, with its emphasis on natural behavior and "flying free," is all through the first of these three poems; the image of the hermit-monk stretches between Daoism and Buddhism, but the poem's language, especially its emphasis on washing the mind and on freedom from attachment to worldly affairs, seems explicitly Buddhist to me. The anxiety I mentioned yesterday, though, is all Confucian.

Tomorrow, I'll focus on the way the specific words Matt mentioned, and the role they play in the poem. As per usual, this topic could consume another week all by itself!

3: What We Talk About When We Talk About Encountering

(With apologies to Raymond Carver)

Matt requested some discussion of the Buddhist themes in the comments to the last post, and I'll oblige tomorrow. Tonight, I want to talk about this poem as part of the sequence of 感遇 (gǎnyù) poems.

Zhang Jiuling's first poem compared two types of birds - the lone swan flying over the ocean, and the kingfishers nested in the high tree. Zhang's sympathy appears to be first with the swan, claiming that as he wanders high and far, the arrows of men cannot harm him. However, Zhang writes this poem after being banished from the imperial court and sent to a distant province. In fact, his position has a great deal in common with the kingfishers, who, nesting in the tall tree, are nevertheless vulnerable to the "golden bullets" of a hunter's sling.

Similarly, in the second poem, we naturally project Zhang onto the hermit wandering the lonely valley among the cinnamon and lotus flowers in the autumn and spring. However - and I'm going with Matt's excellent read on the character 折 zhé as "select" in the sense of "pluck" or "pick" - by the end of the poem there's considerable ambiguity as to whether the poet identifies more with the peaceful religious hermit or the flowers, which, rejoicing as they grow, don't care whether they might be picked by the hermit. However, we're not certain whether it's a good thing for the flowers to be plucked. Zhang and his readers certainly thought that the hermit was a virtuous figure, but is being picked by a hermit an honor for the flowers, or certain death? This is particularly interesting given the form Zhang's exile took: he was selected (picked / 折'd) by the Emperor as a governor of a backwards province, and in the process ripped out of his flowering, carefree life at court.

In this poem, Zhang's focus shifts from the natural world to the hermit himself: a religious recluse living away from the urban press of humanity in some secluded valley, meditating and perfecting his mind (more on which later). Of the ten characters in the poem's first couplet, two (独 dú and 孤 gū) emphasize the solitary, lonely nature of the hermit's retreat. The hermit, isolated from the universe, achieves perfection by contemplating emptiness. What a fitting image for a poem by a man separated from his society!

But Zhang doesn't stop there, of course. In the last two lines, he arrives again, strangely separate from what at first appeared to be the main character of the poem:

From flying or sinking affairs am I cut off;
what comfort do I gain from dedication?

In contrast to the first two lines, which contain two characters meaning "lonely," the last two lines contain two characters, 自zǐ and 吾wù, that both mean "I" - in the same position as the two "lonely" characters in the first couplet. It seems likely to me that this is an intentional parallelism (and one almost impossible to capture in English translation, of course). The emphasis on the personal pronoun is weird in a a poem like this: the Tang poet has many different ways to narrate or describe a situation, yet here Zhang draws our attention to an "I" in a manner most uncharacteristic of a Buddhist monk.

I see a few different possibilities here:

1. The monk is talking. A Buddhist sage seems unlikely to communicate in such a self-centered manner. Maybe I'm misreading the line, but I think this is the least probable option.
   
2. Zhang is talking, and the "dedication" in the last line is meant to be read as "dedication to the Emperor" or "the court." In that case, he might be saying: "look at this monk! When I am distant from court, I feel really, really sad -- what does that idle dedication gain me? I should start meditating like the monk here."
   
3. Zhang is talking, and the "dedication" in the last line refers to Buddhist practice. In this case, Zhang is wistfully confessing his inability to focus on contemplation like the ideal monk: "all this meditation doesn't help me; what comfort can I gain from dedicating [myself to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha]?"
   

Regardless of which interpretation we choose (or others I've missed that y'all should feel free to point out for me), thinking about the last three poems this way has given me a lot of respect for Zhang's mastery of perspective and subtlety. I wonder where he'll take us next.

3: Zhang Jiuling, Four Poems of Encountering #3

The 300 Tang Poems opens with four Zhang Jiuling works, of which you've seen two aready. This one is less famous than the first pair, which has made it harder to find good annotations. Be prepared for retractions and madness to come!

003
张九龄:感遇四首之三

幽人归独卧,滞虑洗孤清。
持此谢高鸟,因之传远情。
日夕怀空意,人谁感至精?
飞沈理自隔,何所慰吾诚?

yōurén guī dú wò, zhì lǜ xǐ gū qīng
hermit return lonely bed, sluggish consider wash alone clear

chí cǐ xiè gāo niǎo, yīn zhī chuán yuán qíng.
hold this wither tall bird, (therefore) spread far feeling

rìxì huài kōng yì, rén shéi gǎn zhì jīng
day night cherish empty meaning, people who feel to perfect?

fēi shěn lǐ zǐ gé, hé suǒ wèi wù chéng
fly sink at a distance I cut off, how that which console me sincere

---

The hermit returns to the solitary bed,
agglutinate thoughts washed lonely and clear.

Hold these to thank the soaring birds;
Because of them his mind spreads far.

Day and night embracing emptiness--
who on earth can know such perfection?

From flying or sinking affairs am I cut off;
what comfort do I gain from dedication?