Oregon
Literary
Review
Vol. 3, No. 1

Contents

Home

Jonathan Pease
THE SEPARATION RHAPSODY
by Chiang Yen, translated from the Chinese


                                                                                                                                          

Translation with Introduction:

Chiang Yen (444--505), “THE SEPARATION RHAPSODY”

 

During his lifetime he was known as a master of edicts, elegies, and other practical prose, which he crafted on behalf of princes and emperors spanning three Southern dynasties--Sung, Ch’i and Liang. But Chiang Yen has appealed to later readers largely through other works. These more private pieces seem to center around two obsessions: one was the pain of separation; the other was a desire to commune with writers from the past. His haunting “Separation Rhapsody” (“Pieh fu”) overtly and tacitly encompasses both themes.

 

Inspiration from earlier literature could have been what drove Chiang Yen to write multiple times about separation. But a simpler reason might be that real life often threw people apart during those years of unstable, murderous regimes that had lost the heartland to conquerors from the steppes. From the little that is known about him, one can identify several upsetting separations that conceivably influenced his poetry: losing his father at age twelve; the death at twenty-eight of a close friend (the vivacious historian Yuan Ping); hearing news of his ancestors’ border homeland being swallowed by the Northern Wei (K’ao-ch’eng, in what is now eastern Honan). But there was another complex separation that he claims to have actually enjoyed, when in his early thirties he roamed through lush mountains even farther south as an exile in Fukien, while back along the Yangtze River the Liu-Sung dynasty was collapsing in a bloodbath after a failed rebellion by a prince whom he had originally tried to serve. Chiang came safely home to the capital to join the new Ch’i dynasty. That period of separation through banishment may have saved his career or even his life.

 

If we knew when the “Separation Rhapsody” was written, and for whom--before, during, or long after that exile--we might find autobiographical traces within its lines. As is, the piece holds its own as a meditation on partings everywhere. In this and his other widely-read rhapsody, on “Grievance” (“Hen fu”), the scenes range from the leave-taking of a soldier or exile, to the uprooting of refugees, forced parting of married couples, and extend to that “Eternal Farewell” which hides in the background of every separation, and finally isolates us all.

 

As for Chiang’s other obsession, with writers of earlier times: it could easily have sprung from his training in persuasive rhetoric, by which he tried to emulate the ancients’ spirit as well as their style. He became a polished imitator, who revealed his powers most notably in a tour de force of thirty poems, each composed in a different poet’s voice. Perhaps the need to write effectively yet safely encouraged him to sheathe his ideas in the diction of others whose reputations were secure. And the terrifying consequences of any miscalculated statement would have been enough to make him brood about having the skill to convey the right message. The more he worried, the more (it is said) he felt overwhelmed by such predecessors as Kuo P’u (276--324), a writer of several generations back who, rather like Chiang, had warned a warlord of defeat but was then killed in retaliation, not merely exiled.

 

 One story has Kuo appearing in Chiang’s dream, asking Chiang to hand back a “rainbow writing-brush” that Kuo had let him borrow. After giving up the brush, Chiang awoke to find himself a talentless author with nothing left to say.

 

Although the dream and burn-out are probably fiction, Chiang’s writings hint that he may indeed have been anxious to make his readers truly feel the urgency of big issues. That anxiety peeks through the final lines of this rhapsody, where after a litany of praise for writers before him, Chiang abruptly states his own stark wish: that by enticing the reader to empathize with those who are separated from each other in life, he can make real the enormity of death.

 

In that conclusion the two obsessions merge: cut off from earlier men of letters by time and space, Chiang sees a gulf between their genius and his own weak voice; and shoulders, on their behalf, the frustration of anyone who has ever tried to make an idea take shape on the page in the face of unresponsive readers, temperamental written words, and not enough time.

 

Eventually this artist of nostalgic emulation became a stylistic model in his turn. After stability returned with the Tang dynasty, a very young Li Po (701–762) wrote new versions of both the “Separation” and “Grievance” rhapsodies, apparently drawn not by Chiang’s ability at imitation, but by his originality. The structure, which Li would later adapt into his own work, had been unusual: packaging aspects of the main theme into a series of vignettes. These two monumental fu of Chiang’s barely imitate anything, and are sparing with the use of allusions, which are sometimes considered uncreative. Considering how rich with allusions the fu form can be, it is interesting that much of the “Separation” fu presents wholly imagined, universal scenes, although the language does contain literary echoes. A larger number of lines, about half the piece, are slightly more specific in their references; reworking ancient phrases or names, they suggest earlier works, or particular separations of historical figures. The sweep of Chiang’s diction is swift and clean. Some examples of the references:

 

“Emerald grass” is a love herb distilled from the essence of a princess who died young; “pearls” are a mermaid’s tears, shed when her mortal suitor said farewell; “the palindrome” of the young lady Su Huei was an astonishing square of embroidery stitched with 841 words in five colors, packed with as many as 3700 reproachful verses, that she mailed to her husband when his affections wandered during his distant desert assignment. The “swordsmen” are the ancient Assassins, all of whom died attacking powerful men, some out of indignation, some for pay, never for fame: Ching K’o, who “did not look back,” tried to kill the future Ch’in Emperor; his young helper gave the plot away when his face “turned ashen” with fear. The hit-man Nieh Cheng killed his target, obliterated his own face and fell on his sword to keep the deed anonymous; it was his elder sister who travelled to the town where his body lay in the street, proclaimed his name, then died of grief. “Rush mats” refers to a man who banqueted a banished countryman he met on the road, instead of shunning him. The “banished consort” could have been Lady Ch’en, the faithful concubine of a duke, who received a kind, respectful send-off from the duchess--even though the duke was dead, Lady Ch’en’s son murdered, and the murderess (another concubine) had gained ascendance. The poem’s final lines suggest almost a dozen writers, including the rhapsodist Wang Pao, the polymath Yang Hsiung; the statesman Kung-sun Hung, the historian Pan Ku, the philosophers Tsou Yen and Tsou Shih.

 

Stanza divisions accord with Chiang’s rhyme changes.

 

 

THE SEPARATION RHAPSODY                                                                       

By Chiang Yen (444--505)                                                                          

 

I

to gnaw darkly at the soul, drain the spirit                                                

only separation has that power.                                                           

cut off like the land of Ch’in from Wu, like Yen from Sung                

a thousand miles or more                                                                

worse yet at the sprouting of spring moss                                            

or against the autumn wind’s first sudden roar                              

 

 

II

it rips the traveller’s heart                                                             

a hundred desolations press him down                                          

wind whistles with a foreign sound                                              

heavy clouds spread eerie light                                           

a boat stranded by the river shore                                             

cart struggles up the mountainside                                     

such listless oars, how will that boat progress?                        

horses cry in the cold and take no rest                                

cover the goblet--who is here to drink with?                              

a jade-pegged zither, a wagon rail splashed with tears     

 

 

III

the one left behind lies down                                                                  

in sorrow, mad as if bereaved                                                           

sun colors sink past the wall                                                       

while rising moon shoots rays beneath the eaves             

now that she has seen red cup-flowers receive the dew          

watches for frosty grey to take the Ch’iu tree’s leaves       

she circles tall pillars, hollow partitions                                     

fingers the bed-tapestry, empty, cool                                  

she knows how footsteps falter in dreams of leaving,              

souls pulled asunder, whirling into flight                             

 

 

IV

though parting snaps but a single thread                                                

it frays into ten thousand forms--                                                      

a dragon-horse with silver saddle                                              

ruby carriage, its carved hubs rolling                                              

Loyang’s Valley of Gold, a banquet awning                                          

filled to honor a departing lord                                                          

 

 

V

flutes and drums join with the high-strung lute                   

to make fine beauties weep, O songs of Chao and

Yen!                                                                                    

pearls and jade brighten fall’s final days                             

gowns give to tender spring a silken sheen                  

horses look up from their feed--wondrous music                     

orange fish fins break through the pond                                        

hold back your tears, slowly release your hands                     

feel it, far down, quiet ache upon your being                      

 

 

VI

so it was for errant swordsmen, ashamed for kindnesses

 received                                                                                                  

young avengers                                                                                  

heroes in Han, in the sheds at Chao                                                     

palace of Wu, Yen’s market square                                                 

cut away nurture, turned from love                                                         

gave up Country, abandoned Home                                               

parted wet-eyed with all they ever knew                                                 

gazing, wiping sobs that bled like wounds                                      

they spurred their chargers and did not look back,                 

saw only, from time to time, a road-dust plume                 

--it was gratitude that moved them to the sword,                      

not bargaining for glory beyond the tomb.                          

a boy turned ashen at the royal chimes                                    

a sister’s heart ceased, she hugged a brother’s bones