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´╗┐Title: Cathay
Author: Rihaku, Pound, Ezra
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Cathay" ***

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            CATHAY

            TRANSLATIONS BY

            EZRA POUND



            FOR THE MOST PART FROM THE CHINESE
            OF RIHAKU, FROM THE NOTES OF THE
            LATE ERNEST FENOLLOSA, AND
            THE DECIPHERINGS OF THE
            PROFESSORS MORI
            AND ARIGA


            LONDON

            ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET

            MCMXV



    Rihaku flourished in the eighth century of our era. The
    Anglo-Saxon Seafarer is of about this period. The other
    poems from the Chinese are earlier.



    Song of the Bowmen of Shu

    Here we are, picking the first fern-shoots
    And saying: When shall we get back to our country?
    Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our
        foemen,
    We have no comfort because of these Mongols.
    We grub the soft fern-shoots,
    When anyone says "Return," the others are full of
        sorrow.
    Sorrowful minds, sorrow is strong, we are hungry
        and thirsty.
    Our defence is not yet made sure, no one can let
        his friend return.
    We grub the old fern-stalks.
    We say: Will we be let to go back in October?
    There is no ease in royal affairs, we have no comfort.
    Our sorrow is bitter, but we would not return to our
       country.
    What flower has come into blossom?
    Whose chariot? The General's.
    Horses, his horses even, are tired. They were strong.
    We have no rest, three battles a month.
    By heaven, his horses are tired.
    The generals are on them, the soldiers are by them
    The horses are well trained, the generals have ivory
        arrows and quivers ornamented with fish-skin.
    The enemy is swift, we must be careful.
    When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring,
    We come back in the snow,
    We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty,
    Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?

                                    _By Kutsugen._
                                    _4th Century B.C._



    The Beautiful Toilet

    Blue, blue is the grass about the river
    And the willows have overfilled the close garden.
    And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,
    White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.
    Slender, she puts forth a slender hand,

    And she was a courtezan in the old days,
    And she has married a sot,
    Who now goes drunkenly out
    And leaves her too much alone.

                                    _By Mei Sheng._
                                    _B.C. 140._



    The River Song


    This boat is of shato-wood, and its gunwales are cut
        magnolia,
    Musicians with jewelled flutes and with pipes of gold
    Fill full the sides in rows, and our wine
    Is rich for a thousand cups.
    We carry singing girls, drift with the drifting water,
    Yet Sennin needs
    A yellow stork for a charger, and all our seamen
    Would follow the white gulls or ride them.
    Kutsu's prose song
    Hangs with the sun and moon.

    King So's terraced palace
                           is now but a barren hill,
    But I draw pen on this barge
    Causing the five peaks to tremble,
    And I have joy in these words
                           like the joy of blue islands.
    (If glory could last forever
    Then the waters of Han would flow northward.)

    And I have moped in the Emperor's garden, awaiting
        an order-to-write!
    I looked at the dragon-pond, with its willow-coloured
        water
    Just reflecting the sky's tinge,
    And heard the five-score nightingales aimlessly singing.

    The eastern wind brings the green colour into the island
        grasses at Yei-shu,
    The purple house and the crimson are full of Spring
        softness.
    South of the pond the willow-tips are half-blue and
        bluer,
    Their cords tangle in mist, against the brocade-like
        palace.
    Vine-strings a hundred feet long hang down from carved
        railings,
    And high over the willows, the fine birds sing to each
        other, and listen,
    Crying--"Kwan, Kuan," for the early wind, and the feel
        of it.
    The wind bundles itself into a bluish cloud and wanders off.
    Over a thousand gates, over a thousand doors are the sounds
        of spring  singing,
    And the Emperor is at Ko.
    Five clouds hang aloft, bright on the purple sky,
    The imperial guards come forth from the golden house with
        their armour a-gleaming.
    The emperor in his jewelled car goes out to inspect his
        flowers,
    He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
    He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
    For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
    Their sound is mixed in this flute,
    Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.

                                    _By Rihaku._
                                    _8th century A.D._



    The River-Merchant's Wife: a Letter


    While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
    I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
    You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
    You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
    And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
    Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

    At fourteen I married My Lord you.
    I never laughed, being bashful.
    Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
    Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

    At fifteen I stopped scowling,
    I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
    Forever and forever, and forever.
    Why should I climb the look out?

    At sixteen you departed,
    You went into far Ku-to-Yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
    And you have been gone five months.
    The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
    You dragged your feet when you went out.
    By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
    Too deep to clear them away!
    The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
    The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
    Over the grass in the West garden,
    They hurt me,
    I grow older,
    If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
    Please let me know beforehand,
    And I will come out to meet you,
                         As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

                                    _By Rihaku._



    The Jewel Stairs' Grievance


    The jewelled steps are already quite white with dew,
    It is so late that the dew soaks my gauze stockings,
    And I let down the crystal curtain
    And watch the moon through the clear autumn.

                                    _By Rihaku._



    Note.--Jewel stairs, therefore a palace. Grievance,
    therefore there is something to complain, of. Gauze
    stockings, therefore a court lady, not a servant who
    complains. Clear autumn, therefore he has no excuse on
    account of weather. Also she has come early, for the dew
    has not merely whitened the stairs, but has soaked her
    stockings. The poem is especially prized because she utters
    no direct reproach.



    Poem by the Bridge at Ten-Shin


    March has come to the bridge head,
    Peach boughs and apricot boughs hang over a thousand gates,
    At morning there are flowers to cut the heart,
    And evening drives them on the eastward-flowing waters.
    Petals are on the gone waters and on the going,
    And on the back-swirling eddies,
    But to-days men are not the men of the old days,
    Though they hang in the same way over the bridge-rail.

    The sea's colour moves at the dawn
    And the princes still stand in rows, about the throne,
    And the moon falls over the portals of Sei-go-yo,
    And clings to the walls and the gate-top.
    With head-gear glittering against the cloud and sun,
    The lords go forth from the court, and into far borders.
    They ride upon dragon-like horses,
    Upon horses with head-trappings of yellow-metal,
    And the streets make way for their passage.
                        Haughty their passing,
    Haughty their steps as they go into great banquets,
    To high halls and curious food,
    To the perfumed air and girls dancing,
    To clear flutes and clear singing;
    To the dance of the seventy couples;
    To the mad chase through the gardens.
    Night and day are given over to pleasure
    And they think it will last a thousand autumns,
              Unwearying autumns.
    For them the yellow dogs howl portents in vain,
    And what are they compared to the lady Riokushu,
              That was cause of hate!
    Who among them is a man like Han-rei
              Who departed alone with his mistress,
    With her hair unbound, and he his own skiffs-man!

                                    _By Rihaku._



    Lament of the Frontier Guard


    By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
    Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
    Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
    I climb the towers and towers
                  to watch out the barbarous land:
    Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
    There is no wall left to this village.
    Bones white with a thousand frosts,
    High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
    Who brought this to pass?
    Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
    Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
    Barbarous kings.
    A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
    A turmoil of wars-men, spread over the middle kingdom,
    Three hundred and sixty thousand,
    And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
    Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning,
    Desolate, desolate fields,
    And no children of warfare upon them,
           No longer the men for offence and defence.
    Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
    With Rihoku's name forgotten,
    And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.

                                    _Rihaku._



    Exile's Letter


    To So-Kin of Rakuyo, ancient friend, Chancellor of Gen.
    Now I remember that you built me a special tavern
    By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin.
    With yellow gold and white jewels, we paid for songs
        and laughter
    And we were drunk for month on month, forgetting the
        kings and  princes.
    Intelligent men came drifting in from the sea and from
        the west border,
    And with them, and with you especially
    There was nothing at cross purpose,
    And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of mountain
        crossing,
    If only they could be of that fellowship,
    And we all spoke out our hearts and minds, and without
        regret.

    And then I was sent off to South Wei,
                smothered in laurel groves,
    And you to the north of Raku-hoku,
    Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories in common.

    And then, when separation had come to its worst,
    We met, and travelled into Sen-Go,
    Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and
        twisting waters,
    Into a valley of the thousand bright flowers,
    That was the first valley;
    And into ten thousand valleys full of voices and
        pine-winds.
    And with silver harness and reins of gold,
    Out come the East of Kan foreman and his company.
    And there came also the "True man" of Shi-yo to meet me,
    Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ.
    In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us more Sennin
        music,
    Many instruments, like the sound of young phoenix broods.
    The foreman of Kan Chu, drunk, danced
            because his long sleeves wouldn't keep still
    With that music-playing.
    And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on
        his lap,
    And my spirit so high it was all over the heavens,
    And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars,
        or rain.
    I had to be off to So, far away over the waters,
    You back to your river-bridge.

    And your father, who was brave as a leopard,
    Was governor in Hei Shu, and put down the barbarian rabble.
    And one May he had you send for me,
                 despite the long distance.
    And what with broken wheels and so on, I won't say it wasn't
        hard going,
    Over roads twisted like sheeps' guts.
    And I was still going, late in the year,
                 in the cutting wind from the North,
    And thinking how little you cared for the cost,
                 and you caring enough to pay it.
    And what a reception:
    Red jade cups, food well set on a blue jewelled table,
    And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning.
    And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the
        castle,
    To the dynastic temple, with water about it clear as blue jade,
    With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,
    With ripples like dragon-scales, going grass green on the water,
    Pleasure lasting, with courtezans, going and coming without
        hindrance,
    With the willow flakes falling like snow,
    And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,
    And the water a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows
    --Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,
    Gracefully painted--
    And the girls singing back at each other,
    Dancing in transparent brocade,
    And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
    Tossing it up under the clouds.
                  And all this comes to an end.
                  And is not again to be met with.
    I went up to the court for examination,
    Tried Layu's luck, offered the Choyo song,
    And got no promotion,
                  and went back to the East Mountains
                      white-headed.
    And once again, later, we met at the South bridge-head.
    And then the crowd broke up, you went north to San palace,
    And if you ask how I regret that parting:
          It is like the flowers falling at Spring's end
                  Confused, whirled in a tangle.
    What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking,
    There is no end of things in the heart.

    I call in the boy,
    Have him sit on his knees here
                 To seal this,
    And send it a thousand miles, thinking.

                                    _By Rihaku._



    The Seafarer


    (_From the early Anglo-Saxon text_)


    May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
    Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
    Hardship endured oft.
    Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
    Known on my keel many a care's hold,
    And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
    Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head
    While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
    My feet were by frost benumbed.
    Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
    Hew my heart round and hunger begot
    Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
    That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
    List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
    Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
    Deprived of my kinsmen;
    Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
    There I heard naught save the harsh sea
    And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
    Did for my games the gannet's clamour,
    Sea-fowls' loudness was for me laughter,
    The mews' singing all my mead-drink.
    Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
    In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
    With spray on his pinion.

    Not any protector
    May make merry man faring needy.
    This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
    Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business,
    Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
    Must bide above brine.
    Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
    Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
    Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
    The heart's thought that I on high streams
    The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
    Moaneth alway my mind's lust
    That I fare forth, that I afar hence
    Seek out a foreign fastness.
    For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst,
    Not though he be given his good, but will have in his
        youth greed;
    Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
    But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
    Whatever his lord will.
    He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
    Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight
    Nor any whit else save the wave's slash,
    Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
    Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
    Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
    All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
    The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
    On flood-ways to be far departing.
    Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
    He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
    The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not--
    He the prosperous man--what some perform
    Where wandering them widest draweth.
    So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
    My mood 'mid the mere-flood,
    Over the whale's acre, would wander wide.
    On earth's shelter cometh oft to me,
    Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
    Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
    O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
    My lord deems to me this dead life
    On loan and on land, I believe not
    That any earth-weal eternal standeth
    Save there be somewhat calamitous
    That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain.
    Disease or oldness or sword-hate
    Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
    And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after--
    Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
    That he will work ere he pass onward,
    Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice,
    Daring ado,...
    So that all men shall honour him after
    And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English,
    Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast,
    Delight mid the doughty.
                             Days little durable,
    And all arrogance of earthen riches,
    There come now no kings nor Caesars
    Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
    Howe'er in mirth most magnified,
    Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest,
    Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
    Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
    Tomb hideth trouble.
    The blade is laid low.
    Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
    No man at all going the earth's gait,
    But age fares against him, his face paleth,
    Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
    Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven,
    Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
    Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
    Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
    And though he strew the grave with gold,
    His born brothers, their buried bodies
    Be an unlikely treasure hoard.



    _From Rihaku_



    FOUR POEMS OF DEPARTURE


    _Light rain is on the light dust._
    _The willows of the inn-yard_
    _Will be going greener and greener,_
    _But you, Sir, had better take wine ere your departure,_
    _For you will have no friends about you_
    _When you come to the gates of Go._



    Separation on the River Kiang


    Ko-jin goes west from Ko-kaku-ro,
    The smoke-flowers are blurred over the river.
    His lone sail blots the far sky.
    And now I see only the river,
                The long Kiang, reaching heaven.



    Taking Leave of a Friend


    Blue mountains to the north of the walls,
    White river winding about them;
    Here we must make separation
    And go out through a thousand miles of dead grass.

    Mind like a floating wide cloud.
    Sunset like the parting of old acquaintances
    Who bow over their clasped hands at a distance.
    Our horses neigh to each other
                 as we are departing.



    Leave-taking near Shoku


    "_Sanso, King of Shoku, built roads_"


    They say the roads of Sanso are steep,
    Sheer as the mountains.
    The walls rise in a man's face,
    Clouds grow out of the hill
                 at his horse's bridle.
    Sweet trees are on the paved way of the Shin,
    Their trunks burst through the paving,
    And freshets are bursting their ice
                 in the midst of Shoku, a proud city.

    Men's fates are already set,
    There is no need of asking diviners.



    The City of Choan


    The phoenix are at play on their terrace.
    The phoenix are gone, the river flows on alone.
    Flowers and grass
    Cover over the dark path
                 where lay the dynastic house of the Go.
    The bright cloths and bright caps of Shin
    Are now the base of old hills.

    The Three Mountains fall through the far heaven,
    The isle of White Heron
                 splits the two streams apart.
    Now the high clouds cover the sun
    And I can not see Choan afar
    And I am sad.



    South-Folk in Cold Country


    The Dai horse neighs against the bleak wind of Etsu,
    The birds of Etsu have no love for En, in the north,
    Emotion is born out of habit.
    Yesterday we went out of the Wild-Goose gate,
    To-day from the Dragon-Pen.[1]
    Surprised. Desert turmoil. Sea sun.
    Flying snow bewilders the barbarian heaven.
    Lice swarm like ants over our accoutrements.
    Mind and spirit drive on the feathery banners.
    Hard fight gets no reward.
    Loyalty is hard to explain.
    Who will be sorry for General Rishogu,
                  the swift moving,
    Whose white head is lost for this province?

[1] I.e., we have been warring from one end of the empire to
the other, now east, now west, on each border.


       *       *       *       *       *

    I have not come to the end of Ernest Fenollosa's notes by a
    long way, nor is it entirely perplexity that causes me to
    cease from translation. True, I can find little to add to
    one line out of a certain poem :

    "You know well where it was that I walked
    When you had left me."

    In another I find a perfect speech in a literality which
    will be to many most unacceptable. The couplet is as follows:

    "Drawing sword, cut into water, water again flow:
    Raise cup, quench sorrow, sorrow again sorry."

    There are also other poems, notably the "Five colour
    Screen," in which Professor Fenollosa was, as an art critic,
    especially interested, and Rihaku's sort of Ars Poetica,
    which might be given with diffidence to an audience of good
    will. But if I give them, with the necessary breaks for
    explanation, and a tedium of notes, it is quite certain that
    the personal hatred in which I am held by many, and the
    _invidia_ which is directed against me because I have dared
    openly to declare my belief in certain young artists, will
    be brought to bear first on the flaws of such translation,
    and will then be merged into depreciation of the whole book
    of translations. Therefore I give only these unquestionable
    poems.

                                                        E. P.





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