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Heaven My Blanket, Earth My Pillow: Poems from Sung Dynasty China by Yang Wan-Li
Yang Wan-Li (1127–1206) is one of China’s “four masters of Southern Sung poetry.” These poems were written at what could be seen as a low point in Sung history: an invasion by the Jurchens had forced the Sung to flee to the southern city of Hangchow. But they created at Hangchow a refuge of elegant solitude from which they gazed longingly toward the north, and in this quiet setting, they were able to enjoy the beauties of nature. Many of the poems are perfect verbalizations of the magnificent landscape paintings of the Sung painters: misty, ethereal and luminous. The poetry, however, also holds the annoyances of overwork, aching feet, creaking bones and the pleasures of wine, filling it with humanity and a zest for living.
160 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2004
45 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
August 1, 2022
This is a very readable and enjoyable collection of Sung Dynasty poems by Yan Wan-li.
Most of the poetry included here is autobiographical and intimate--the poet is visiting a monastery, or is traveling by boat to a new post, or is playing with his children, or is visiting historical sites, or is getting sick and depressed and can't sleep. We find lots of the natural imagery common to Chinese poetry in any era--rivers and lakes and mountains mostly, along with everything around the edges of those things:
However, only a few exclude the poet from the scene, and his voice is present even in those. "I sit watching the sun set over the lake," one begins. Another: "I see a fly/ warming himself on the windowsill." A third: "I stand by the stream waiting for the moon to rise." He's not writing about places and vistas; he's writing about himself experiencing those things.
He returns west after a posting that didn't work out, and he feels like the land knew he'd be back: "I guess I never fooled the milestones;/ they reprimand me for ever going east." Yang Wan-li is self-consciously part of the setting he is describing, and his feelings in that moment are frequently as important as any other element of the poetry's composition.
In his later years, his health really brings him down, and he speaks openly about depression. In "Rising From a Nap at Noon," he writes: "Just as I'm feeling most depressed... a breeze blows through the northern door," bringing the scent of orchids, and "this old man feels refreshed." At other times, though, even nature can't cure him. He can't sleep, or doesn't have the energy to read anymore, and he feels like he's standing outside of time. In a poem about late spring, he writes, "the scene is beautiful, but I'm feeling bad;/ everyone else is happy; I alone am depressed." And again, elsewhere: "I am ill" he says, "and spring looks like autumn to my sick eyes."
The most striking lines, for me, were these, where he remarks on the lonely feeling of depression on a sleepless night:
Ouch. And I get it.
The lines may be from the Sung Dynasty, but they are full of sense, direct and accessible, even now, 800 years later. There's a real person writing these words, and that connection is what makes the art so powerful.
Recommended. It's a slim volume of about 100 mostly short poems, but also includes an introduction with useful background information and context.
Most of the poetry included here is autobiographical and intimate--the poet is visiting a monastery, or is traveling by boat to a new post, or is playing with his children, or is visiting historical sites, or is getting sick and depressed and can't sleep. We find lots of the natural imagery common to Chinese poetry in any era--rivers and lakes and mountains mostly, along with everything around the edges of those things:
Today there is no wind on the Yangtze;
the water is calm and green
with no waves or ripples.
All around the boat
light floats in the air
over a thousand acres of smooth, lustrous jade.
However, only a few exclude the poet from the scene, and his voice is present even in those. "I sit watching the sun set over the lake," one begins. Another: "I see a fly/ warming himself on the windowsill." A third: "I stand by the stream waiting for the moon to rise." He's not writing about places and vistas; he's writing about himself experiencing those things.
He returns west after a posting that didn't work out, and he feels like the land knew he'd be back: "I guess I never fooled the milestones;/ they reprimand me for ever going east." Yang Wan-li is self-consciously part of the setting he is describing, and his feelings in that moment are frequently as important as any other element of the poetry's composition.
In his later years, his health really brings him down, and he speaks openly about depression. In "Rising From a Nap at Noon," he writes: "Just as I'm feeling most depressed... a breeze blows through the northern door," bringing the scent of orchids, and "this old man feels refreshed." At other times, though, even nature can't cure him. He can't sleep, or doesn't have the energy to read anymore, and he feels like he's standing outside of time. In a poem about late spring, he writes, "the scene is beautiful, but I'm feeling bad;/ everyone else is happy; I alone am depressed." And again, elsewhere: "I am ill" he says, "and spring looks like autumn to my sick eyes."
The most striking lines, for me, were these, where he remarks on the lonely feeling of depression on a sleepless night:
My pain cries to heaven,
but heaven does not know.
Or heaven does know, but does not care.
Ouch. And I get it.
The lines may be from the Sung Dynasty, but they are full of sense, direct and accessible, even now, 800 years later. There's a real person writing these words, and that connection is what makes the art so powerful.
Recommended. It's a slim volume of about 100 mostly short poems, but also includes an introduction with useful background information and context.
January 17, 2019
I really enjoyed reading these Sung dynasty poems by the master poet Yang Wanli. Above all, it's glorious how classically Chinese they are with all the mountains and rain drops and Bodhisattva clouds ... and yet so playful. Yang is constantly making fun of himself and the others of his scholarly class with their pretensions and it's truly wonderful to step into this ancient world and yet have it become real with the very modern feeling of needing to mock the office cubicle.
October 27, 2019
"Don't Read Books!"
June 14, 2007
“Don’t Read Books!”
by Yang Wanli (1127-1206)
trans. Jonathan Chaves
Don’t read books!
Don’t chant poems!
When you read books your eyeballs wither away,
Leaving the bare sockets.
When you chant poems your heart leaks out slowly
with each word.
People say reading book is enjoyable.
People say chanting poems is fun.
But if your lips constantly make a sound
like an insect chirping in autumn,
you will only turn into a haggard old man.
And even if you don’t turn into a haggard old man,
It’s annoying for others to have to hear you.
It’s so much better
To close your eyes, sit in your study,
Lower the curtains, sweep the floor,
Burn incense.
It’s beautiful to listen to the wind,
Listen to the rain,
Take a walk when you feel energetic,
And when you’re tired go to sleep.
by Yang Wanli (1127-1206)
trans. Jonathan Chaves
Don’t read books!
Don’t chant poems!
When you read books your eyeballs wither away,
Leaving the bare sockets.
When you chant poems your heart leaks out slowly
with each word.
People say reading book is enjoyable.
People say chanting poems is fun.
But if your lips constantly make a sound
like an insect chirping in autumn,
you will only turn into a haggard old man.
And even if you don’t turn into a haggard old man,
It’s annoying for others to have to hear you.
It’s so much better
To close your eyes, sit in your study,
Lower the curtains, sweep the floor,
Burn incense.
It’s beautiful to listen to the wind,
Listen to the rain,
Take a walk when you feel energetic,
And when you’re tired go to sleep.
March 29, 2011
This little book is a really good compilation of one thousand year old poems by Yang Wan-Li. Life is portrayed in simple language with the immediacy of haiku but with more prose. Moods and scenes are so universal I wonder how anyone over the last thousand years could create fresh and unique poems.
August 20, 2011
Lots of drinking, floating in boats, and looking at clouds--ideal. Here is the title poem:
ON A PORTRAIT OF MYSELF
The pure wind makes me chant poems.
The bright moon urges me to drink.
Intoxicated, I fall among the flowers,
heaven my blanket, earth my pillow.
ON A PORTRAIT OF MYSELF
The pure wind makes me chant poems.
The bright moon urges me to drink.
Intoxicated, I fall among the flowers,
heaven my blanket, earth my pillow.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews