



Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.]





            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