A Poem of Changgan

Dear Reader,

Written evidence of poetry exists from the second millennia B.C.E., but the scholarly consensus is that it probably predates writing and civilization. Poetry has been a dynamic art form, originating from an oral tradition—passed down through generations via singing or chanting—and then moving across languages and cultures through translation after the development of writing.

Our piece today comes from an acclaimed Chinese poet who lived during the Tang Dynasty, Li Bai (c. 701-762). While not particularly innovative in terms of form or content, Li Bai’s poetry displays remarkable brevity, precision of thought, and emotional clarity, all of which have made him a favorite of translators. One of his most famous short poems, “Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain,” reads in its entirety:

This week’s work is slightly longer and more evocative, but equally clear:

Background

Li Bai often wrote poems from various viewpoints. Here, he adopts the persona of a young woman in Chang’an—where he lived at several points during his life—who is waiting for her husband to return.

The first three stanzas move sequentially, from the woman’s childhood through her marriage in adolescence and the departure of her beloved on a perilous journey. The fourth and shortest looks toward the future, with an almost desperate turn and a request that her husband send a message home so she can meet him at another city along his route.

What It Offers

Most Western readers encounter Li Bai through Ezra Pound. Pound translated and published a collection of Chinese poems in his 1915 book, Cathay. “A Poem of Changgan” appears within the collection, though Pound—who was working from another translator’s notes and not the original text— titles it “The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter,” and its content differs significantly from the more recent (and probably more accurate) translation above. Nevertheless, both versions capture the incredible sense of longing in the young woman’s voice. We get a sense that a terrible tragedy has befallen her husband, and that at some level she knows it.

This is—I think—one of the most beautiful aspects of poetry. Li Bai died almost 1300 years ago. He lived in an entirely different culture with verse forms and poetic conventions that are no longer extant. And we have access only to secondhand, heavily mediated versions of his poetry, which can be translated—even by speakers of the same language—in completely different ways.

Even so, as with the poem above, some magic of Li Bai’s originals remains. The emotion breaks through. We can see and feel what he describes. We are moved and changed—here, by the thought of a young woman, waiting in her garden, as the seasons change and time passes, wanting nothing more than a message or sign that her husband is still alive.

In a sense, by reading “A Poem of Changgan,” we become a surrogate for the missing husband. We receive the letter meant for him, and we become linked to the woman—really Li Bai himself—despite the distance. If nothing else, it’s a good reminder that our mutual language of love will always survive, no matter how far we travel, no matter the dangers we face, and no matter what else may be lost to translation or time.

*****