Liu Yong. To the tune of "Raindrop Chimes"

To the piercing chirps of autumn cicadas,
we are late facing the farthest pavilion;
The storm had just subsided.

At the capital gates, we drank our parting wine, full of sorrow,
Leaving our thoughts,
On that orchid boat, where we were hurried to leave too soon.

Holding our hands, we look at each other's tearful eyes,
Yet we had nothing to say in our muffled sobs.

I still think of you leaving off,
through a thousand miles of mist and waves,
With twilight fog hanging low, exposing the broad southern sky.

Those who feel too much have since antiquity found sorrow in parting,
How would then one hope to bear,
This cold, fallen, brisk autumn time!

After this evening, where would I hope to wake from my wine?
By the willow tree banks,
In clear wind and under a spoiled moon.

Though it's been years since you've gone,
This wonderful scene and time have presented themselves in vain--
Though I might have a thousand kinds of feeling stir within,
Who am I supposed to tell it to?


柳永 《雨霖鈴》

寒蟬淒切，對長亭晚，驟雨初歇。都門帳飲無續，留戀處、蘭舟催發。執手相看淚眼，竟無語凝喧。念去去、千里煙波，暮靄沉沉楚天濶。

多情自古傷離別，更那堪、冷落清秋節！今宵酒醒何處？楊柳岸、曉風殘月。此去經年，應是良辰好景虛設。便縱有千种風情，更欲何人說？



Liu Yong was one of those Song Dynasty lyricists whom traditional scholars censure for being too obsessed with the privately emotional, faulting him for not caring about the loftier or perhaps, more wholesome things in life. By more wholesome things, I mean the topics that do not deal with his doomed affairs and tearful partings with capital courtesans.

Some might have hoped to redeem his reputation by claiming that his gratuitous emotionality and indulgence in the melodrama of transient pleasure were results of his repeated failures in the exams. Nevertheless, despite all this, Liu Yong's lyrics are some of the best known in all of Song Dynasty verse.

I, for one, have no interest in redeeming Liu Yong's moral character. The historical person aside, his reputation as one who spent more time indulging in wine and women is one that I could easily care less about. In fact, I would even deign to say that it was because he enjoyed too much these passing pleasures and enjoyed too much the lamentation of things that lacked any lasting meaning that made it impossible for him to pass the exams for so many years. (To his credit, he did eventually become a presented scholar, jinshi, after successfully passing the exams).

In other words, his indulgence was not because he failed so often--- he failed because he indulged, he failed because, even though he knew he needed to get on track and do what was reputable for a well-bred gentleman, it was in these emotions, these memories, and, well the drunken evenings with courtesans and wine that he found fulfillment. By the right track, I mean, what any educated Chinese male would have done at that time-- study hard, pass the civil service examination and bring glory to his ancestors.

And, by drunken evenings with courtesans and wine, I do not mean simple debauchery and sexual dillettanism. In a society where even wealthy women were often not even taught to read and write and had legitimate place only within the confines of a harem or boudoir, where else was one to find smart, savvy, talented, interesting, and finally independent women, but the brothel? (I might be guilty of idealizing the past and the brothel in this respect. Keep in mind, I write this not as a historian, but one who wants to treat the past for what it is to him, an idealization.)

So what does this poem mean?

Well for one, it takes place in autumn, the season of change, death, parting, loneliness and contemplation. It is the season of bright moons, colorful foliage, cool waters, and brisk winds. The "piercing chirps of autumn cicadas" reminds annoyingly and constantly of autumn's cold desolation, of transience and season. It must have been the sound heard along as thoroughfare as the poet (or speaker; the distinction is not as necessary when reading Chinese verse), traveled up to the "farthest pavilion."

In Chinese there is this saying "十八里長亭" Eighteen li (1/3rd of a mile) to the farthest pavilion. In roads out of old Chinese would be dotted with pavilions ("gazebo" is probably a more appropriate translation) that marked each li, and it was customary to see someone who was leaving to as far as the 18th pavilion.

The poem begins with the location of parting, the 18th pavilion, but he immediately turns to memory, and he recollects the night before. At the capital gates in the morning, they had been drinking, continuing their ritual from the night before, where they were drinking on a "pleasure boat" or literally, orchid boat (蘭舟). In the poem, the "pleasure boat" is conceived as the location where the poet has left his thoughts or "misses." The night on that pleasure boat was a moment that was all too short. It was the last time for the poet and whoever was leaving to enjoy each others company, drinking away, but in sorrow, to savor the moment. Perhaps what was so memorable about that time, was the inevitability of its close-- for some reason, we delight in each other best when we know our time is short.

Liu Yong returns us to the moment of parting. "Holding hands," they are unable to let go of each other. They see the sadness in each other's eyes-- it's a moment when someone should be saying something, but instead, their "muffled sobs" (or rather, a condition where one's throat becomes closed up from too much crying) stop them from communicating their feeling.

It is now that we finally realize, the poet is not describing the moment as it is, but the moment itself was a recollection. In light of that, might he have come to regret not saying those final words? The memory of that moment is repeated in the poets head. He imagines his friend leaving away and his southbound journey appears as a vision, a picturesque scene of a lone figure disappearing in the distant landscape.

The poet turns to his own emotions. He hints that maybe he might be too emotional, but at least it is natural to become pained in parting. After all, it has persisted since antiquity. But, it is not this parting that pains him now. He tells us, it is "this cold, fallen, brisk autumn time!" that he cannot bear. We know better. Was this not the same sort of day he send away his friend? Did he not just not recount to us that scene, those moments that have repeatedly materialized in his memory, however immaterial a mere apparition could be.

We find the poet drinking to his sorrow and he tells us, that he has no idea where he would wake up the next morning. He suggests a location, by the willow banks, under the "spoiled moon." The willow, again, is a symbol of parting. In imperial China, when a friend left the capital, one would send him off with a twig plucked off of a willow tree. The allusion, however, is mundane and overused. The power of these lines hardly come from the obvious reference, but from the poignant image they evoke. One imagines a desolate figure leaning against a willow, perhaps even one yellow in autumn, under a half bright waning moon, with his head tassels fluttering every so often.

But, really, what it is about in the end, again, is these words. He never could say anything to his friend, but now that he has the words and all these thoughts and feelings stir within him, all he has with him is the memory of one who has already gone. What use is this brilliant scene, what use is this beautiful memory? All in vain he tells us, because, there is no one left to tell it to.