Reviews for Poems of the Late T'ang

The average rating for Poems of the Late T'ang based on 2 reviews is 4 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2017-07-27 00:00:00 Peter Gozinya Spring sun... On the Day of Cold Food I go out to smell the perfume of the flowers, Along the bank of the river. Happy and at ease, I let the soft East wind bathe my face. Everwhere the Spring is blazing With ten thousand shades of blue and ten thousand colors of red. By: Chu Hsi And one afterthought more... For ten miles the mountains rise above the lake. The beauty of water and mountain is impossible to describe. In the glow of evening a traveler sits in front Of an inn, sipping wine. The moon shines above a little bridge and a single fisherman. Around the farm a bamboo fence descends to the water. I chat with an old man about work and crops. Maybe, when the years have come... When I can lay aside my cap and robe of office, I can take a little boat And come back to this place.... Beautiful... beautiful...beautiful... While reading this wonderful poetry book, I posted some of the poems in this book.... and now it is finished and I'm sad... Fortunately today the One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese came by mail (here's my review of the prequel 100 Poems from the Japanese, wonderful book as well: ), so I have that to look forward to. I have to add, I'm not an experienced poetry reader, but I do want to read more and more poems because I'm growing to love this genre. This is a beautiful small volume of poems of various Chinese poets, male and female. Themes are nature, love, grief, death, growing old and such. Still and wonderful language, Kenneth Rexroth did a marvelous job translating into English. It has been a true 'haven of rest' and tranquility in my busy life. Every day I read a few poems, or one only. Truly beautiful, truly recommended!

Review # 2 was written on 2017-04-09 00:00:00 khathmony keo Although I like this book a great deal, I like it somewhat less than Rexroth's earlier anthology One Hundred Poems from the Japanese, but this may reflect my greater sympathy with the classical Japanese tradition than the classical Chinese tradition. (I concede I speak presumptuously, out of great ignorance; I know these works only in translation.) Japanese poems are often short (haiku of course, but other forms as well) and yield much of their meaning either immediately or after brief contemplation. They have the effect either of a zen koan or of something similar but slow-cooked: either a sudden illumination or a gradual brightening. Chinese poetry, on the other hand, seems more magisterial, reserved, and allusive, its images often speak to me in a code I find hard to crack. I regret to say that some of the poems here have defeated me (or perhaps I have defeated myself through them. It is, after all, much the same thing.) Still, there is so much good, accessible stuff in this anthology. Rexroth translates using plain English words, organized with grace and charged with immediacy. He has a poet's instinct how to end a line and where to place a word. He is particularly good at poems of loss. The "lament of the neglected mistress" genre comes first to mind, for there are many such poems here, but perhaps even more poignant are the poems about the loss of missing friends, of familiar deaths, and the great loss of old age. The best part of this anthology is the first third: thirty-five poems by Tu Fu, Rexroth's favorite poet, one of the two greatest of all the poets of China. (The other'ten years his senior'was his friend and mentor Li Po.) Rexroth chose these thirty-five poems from the thousand and a half works of Tu Fu's which are extant, and, and he tells us that the translation of these particular pieces took place over a period of many years. Rexroth identified strongly with this scholar poet who lived in a chaotic age, and describes him as "the creator of an elaborate poetic personality, a fictional character half-mask, half revelation." Rexroth communicates his personal concerns through the mask of Tu Fu extremely effectively'perhaps more effectively'than in his own poetry. To give you an idea of the riches within, I will offer here three poems. One of the thirty five by Tu Fu, and the only one included by somebody named Hsu Chao. Both poems mention war, and I couldn't help thinking that they both spoke with particular eloquence to the heart of the pacifist Rexroth, who published this poem in 1970, during the Vietnam War. The last poem is by the lady Li Ch'ing Chao, who adapts the old genre of "the courtesan's lament" in order to mourn her dead husband. NIGHT IN THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER It is late in the year: Yin and Yang struggle In the brief sunlight. On the desert mountains Frost and snow Gleam in the freezing night. Past midnight, Drums and bugles ring out, Violent, cutting the heart. Over the Triple Gorge the Milky Way Pulsates between the stars. The bitter cries of thousands of households Can be heard above the noise of battle. Everywhere the workers sing wild songs. The great heroes and generals of old time Are yellow dust forever now. Such are the affairs of men. Poetry and letters Persist in silence and solitude. 'TU FU THE LOCUST SWARM Locusts hid their eggs in the corpse Of a soldier. When the worms were mature, they took wing. Their drone Was ominous, their shells hard. Anyone could tell they had hatched From an unsatisfied anger. They flew swiftly towards the North. They hid the sky like a curtain. When the wife of the soldier Saw them, she turned pale. Her breath Failed her. She knew he was dead In battle, his corpse lost in The desert. That night she dreamed She rode a white horse, so swift It left no footprints, and came To where he lay in the sand. She looked at his face, eaten By the locusts, and tears of Blood filled her eyes. Ever after She would not let her children Injure any insect which Might have fed on the dead. She Would lift her face to the sky And say, "O locusts, if you Are seeking a place to winter You can find shelter in my heart. 'HSU CHAO ALONE IN THE NIGHT The warm rain and pure wind Have just freed the willows from The ice. As I watch the peach trees, Spring rises from my heart and blooms on My cheeks. My mind is unsteady, As if I were drunk. I try To write a poem in which My tears will flow together With your tears. My rouge is stale. My hairpins are too heavy. I throw myself across my Gold Cushions, wrapped in my lonely Doubled quilt, and crush the phoenixes In my headdress. Alone, deep In bitter loneliness, without Even a good dream, I lie Trimming the lamp in the passing night. --LI CH'ING CHAO