Like A Teapot

This is a supplement to the discussion of a poem by ancient Chinese poet Wang Wei that started in quentin's blog. It is a modest attempt to facilitate western readers' appreciation of the intricate beauty in that widely celebrated poem, which I am afraid may be lost in translation. I do not blame the translators for any shortfall as I know how difficult a task they faced. As indicated earlier, I shall concentrate on the most enchanting part of the poem, which is highhighted in blue down below.

It describes a life attitude as well as a daytime activity of a middle-aged man who is influenced by Buddhism and enjoys a carefree life in the mountains: he strolls around leisurely and eventually arrives at where a stream ends. He then sits down and watches misty clouds forming and rising from the water. Note the Chinese character for cloud in its traditional form: 雲. Does it not look like water rising up from a river or a sea?

Philosphically it says: nothing ends; it flows from one form to another. I may have reached the end of the stream, but it does not matter. I sit down to appreciate another fantastic view of water (this time running upward in the form of mist and rising cloud). I simply go with the flow.

This is distinctly the Way's point of view. But it should be fairly easy to understand. Remember Greek philosopher Heracleitus also declares that there is a unity in the world which is formed by the combination of opposites. "Everything flows; nothing stands still."

If you care for humour, it may also remind you of what German philosopher Schopenhauer says about its attribute: a sense of humour is a divine characteristic because it makes it possible for a man to maintain his soul in freedom (from being chained) and seek the ultimate joy in life that lies in the creation or cherishing of what is beautiful.

Linguistically, it has a glory all its own. I do not know how to convey it but to urge you to investigate how Edward Elgar's Symphony No.1 in A flat major, Op. 55 was received when it was first performed in Britain's and Europe's music halls a century ago. Rapture is perhaps the word to describe Chinese readers' reaction to the poetic splendour. That is more than delight and respect. After all, Wang Wei was also a painter and a musician.

English translation:

Villa on Zhongnan Mountain (Version A)

In my middle years I came to much love the Way
and late made my home by South Mountain's edge.
When the mood comes upon me, I go off alone,
and have glorious moments all to myself.
I walk to the point where a stream ends,
and sitting, watch when the clouds rise.
By chance I meet old men in the woods;
we laugh and chat, no fixed time to turn home.

My Villa at Mount Zhongnan (Version B)

In my mid life I began to love the Buddha Law.
I decided to live the rest of my life at the foot of Mount Zhongnan.
When I am in the mood for an outing, I wander alone in the woods.
I savour the pleasant feelings with no one.
I stroll along the brook to its origin.
Then I sit down and watch the rising clouds.
Occasionally I meet an elderly woodsman.
I chat and laugh, forgetting to return home.
In simplified Chinese:

终南别业 王维

中岁颇好道，晚家南山陲。
兴来每独往，胜事空自知。
行到水穷处，坐看云起时。
偶然值林叟，谈笑无还期。

Geography Lesson by Brian Patten

Our teacher told us one day he would leave the school
And sail across a warm blue sea
To places he had only known from maps,
And all his life had longed to be.

The house he lived in was narrow and gray
But in his mind's eye he could see
Sweet-scented jasmine clambering up the walls,
And green leaves burning on an orange tree.

He spoke of the lands he longed to visit,
Where it was never drab or cold.
And I couldn't understand why he never left,
And shook off our school's stranglehold.

Then half-way through his final term
he took ill and he never returned.
And he never got to that place on the map
Where the green leaves of the orange trees burned.

The maps were pulled down from the classroom wall;
His name was forgotten, it faded away.
But a lesson he never knew he taught
Is with me to this day.

I travel to where the green leaves burn,
To where the ocean's glass-clear and blue,
To all those places my teacher taught me to love -
But which he never knew.

Today I read a poem that touches a nerve. Tears welled up in my eyes, just as when I saw a documentary on Icelandic environmental refugees who emigrated to Canada at the turn of 20th century, just as when I saw the Bulgarian young man in the award-winning film East-West (France-Russia-Spain-Bulgaria, 1999) swimming to freedom in the Stalin era.

I travelled. I struggled. It is not easy to fulfill one's dreams and go see places. It is not easy to be a new immigrant. Hardship abound on the road. Barriers to overcome before and after you leave. It takes a lot.

It is sad that the teacher in the poem never took off. I am glad I did.

He sounded the same as before
Which I much like
In fact he said he loved me
Just as clearly
As if he were never away

But he was away
In a mysterious way
I can feel his warmth
But also my standoffishness
Still, I feel being hurried