A drifting poem for a floating life
Li Xin imagines a voyage, and gives a warning
A Farewell to Wei Wan as He Departs for the Capital Li Xin First light—the wayfarer sings a song for leaving— The first frost slivers crossed the river last night— The autumn goose—unwelcome—grates on melancholy— And the cloud-capped peaks they pass by— The turn of the trees in fortified towns ushers in the chill— In the royal gardens—the thud of winter linens fills the evenings. Please don’t think of Chang’an as a place for pleasure. Don’t let your days drift away to nothing. 李欣 送魏万之京 朝闻游子唱离歌，昨夜微霜初渡河。 鸿雁不堪愁里听，云山况是客中过。 关城树色催寒近，御苑砧声向晚多。 莫见长安行乐处，空令岁月易蹉跎。
This is a leave-taking poem from perhaps the 760s. Li Xin was a relatively well-established official and poet; Wei Wan was a younger man. He was heading to the capital, maybe to take the imperial exams, or to take up a position.
The mystery of this poem lies in its roving point of view. We start with Li Xin in his chambers, hearing the departure of his friend. But that sound takes him to passing geese, and the passing geese link us into the mountains. In the mountains we pan down to a fortified town being passed by - by geese? By the traveller? And finally we arrive in Chang’an, which the poet characterises not by its walls or palaces or people, but by the pervasive thump of laundry in autumn. (He took this sound-image from a beautiful poem by Li Bai, which I translated and lost, so I will have to redo it.)
The idea of a floating life comes from Li Bai as well. It’s often used for the lives of artists, but I think it applies well to the life of Tang scholar-officials. They were very much at the mercy of the imperial system, which demanded that they leave home and spend years in the capital, or working far from home. If Li Xin cannot fix the perspective of his poem, it’s because his class was unable to fix their own location.
The roving effect is somewhat spoiled at the end by the two lines of very direct admonition to the young man.
Here’s the reading by Cinix: