From dawn to dusk I’m drunk and singing,
lovesick with every new spring.
—Yu Xuanji
Introduction by Leonard Ng:
The Tang Dynasty poetess Yu Xuanji lived roughly between the years 844 and 868 in the capital city of Chang’an (present-day Xi’an). She was executed in her early to mid-twenties for the murder of one of her maids.
One volume of Yu’s poems was supposedly published in her lifetime, but this has been lost. The poems we do have with us today, and which I have translated here, are taken from the massive 1703 anthology Complete Tang Poems. It is likely she wrote more, but this is all we have.
Yu’s poems are fascinating in their lyric intensity even as they give us a view into her short, tumultuous life. Yu Xuanji managed to fill multiple roles outside of the traditional social order: first as courtesan, then as abandoned concubine, and finally as Daoist nun.
It is her time as a courtesan we have to thank for her poetry: “respectable” women of the period had no need to be literate and were often deliberately kept uneducated, while courtesans needed to keep their guests entertained with every tool at their disposal.
Poetry was simply one of many means to this end.
Below are five brief yet beautiful poems by the Tang Dynasty’s finest poetess. I hope you enjoy them.
To Guo Xiang
From dawn to dusk I’m drunk and singing, lovesick with every new spring. There’s a messenger with letters in the rain; there’s a broken-hearted girl by the window. Rolling up beaded blinds, I see mountains; each sorrow’s renewed like the grass. Since last we parted, at your feasts how often has the rafter dust fallen?
Feeling at the End of Spring
The voices of orioles wake me from sad dreams; light makeup hides the tear-stains on my face. The bamboo grove is shadowy in the moon’s faint light; the River lies silent beneath the night’s thick mist. Swallows are wet-beaked from carrying mud; bees are sweet-whiskered from gathering pollen. I alone am pitiful, in my endless longing. I’ll sing no more of pines with laden limbs.
Selling Wilted Peonies
Facing the wind, she raises a sigh as the petals fall and fall; fragrant thoughts all sink and vanish with yet another spring. No one asks about them because their price is high, though even butterflies can’t match the sweetness of their fragrance. These red petals should have grown in the palace, jade leaves tainted by the dust of the road— if only they were moved into the imperial gardens, young nobles would regret having no means to buy!
Living in the Mountains in Summer
I’ve moved to this dwelling fit for immortals, artless flower blossoms blooming everywhere. Before the hall, clothes hang on a forked tree; I sit by the spring, drifting winecups along. Corridor rails fade into deep bamboo paths; silken gowns lie draped over clumsy stacks of books. Lazing in a pleasure boat, I sing to the bright moon, trusting to the gentle breeze to blow me back again.
Expressing My Feelings
At leisure at last, free from care, alone I wander this landscape where the moon shines through scattered clouds over the river; there’s a boat, ropes undone, adrift on the sea. On the qin I play a tune of Xiaoliang Temple; I chant poems about Yuliang Tower. Bamboo groves make worthy companions, and stone slabs will do for friends; swallows and sparrows are good enough for me; my heart doesn’t long for silver and gold. My cup is filled with spring wine; quietly the window gazes on the moonlit night. I tread on stepping stones clear in the pure water; my hairpin, drawn out, glistens in the stream. I lie in bed with books strewn everywhere, rising at times, half-drunk, to brush my hair.
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