anC i e n t-s t y l e Sh i P oe t ry : C on t i nuat ion anD C Hang e s 235As it happens, this promise is fulfilled in the very next couplet. In lines 3 and 4,
the poet transforms himself into the famous immortal Zi An, who left the tower
on the back of a yellow crane, never to return. This mutation is amusing, but Li Bai
has never been one to blend allusions lightly. Here, the madman and Zi An dove-
tail rather neatly: first, in their success in avoiding engagement in worldly affairs
and, second, more subtly, in their respective associations with time’s passage (with
each contravening it in a different way).
The transformation of the madman into Zi An is formally rounded out and
completed by Li Bai’s use of a unified rhyme scheme, which aurally confirms the
presence of a single, unified subject behind this series of actions. The momentum
of this narrative then carries over into the next couplet, aided by the continuation
of the same end rhyme. Here, the line length changes from five to seven characters,
in an expansion that breathes life into the poet-immortal’s ascent into the heavens.
This change marks more than just a shift in the action; it seems to reflect yet an-
other change in subject—or, to be more consistent, another transformation. Yes,
the subject is still the “I” who put on the mask of the madman-turned-immortal
(to reveal the true Li Bai), but now he appears to have assumed a third identity—
which, at least for the moment, seems like it could be the real one. Suddenly, no
longer an immortal himself, he is a seeker of the immortals among whom he loved
to roam (inasmuch as Chinese mountains are thought of as being the dwellings of
the immortals), and seeker, most importantly, of the state of immortality.
Abruptly, in line 7, however present the poet has been up to this point—singing,
teasing, flying—is as hidden as he is now. Still in the expansive seven-character
mode, the poem’s rhyme shifts, and the poet disappears behind views of his be-
loved mountains. They are set forth in successive, highly impressionistic vistas that
say as much about his personal vision as they do about the peaks themselves. The
reader is transported from mountain to mountain, not in a series of well-balanced
couplets but in a unique triad (lines 7–9) of rhyming, seven-character lines. This
rapid-fire succession rushes us forward breathlessly as we are presented not so
much with objects as with perception itself—as experienced through the qualities
of height, texture, and light. Such are the pure elements that mountains make
visible to those with the wherewithal to “fly” there. This is no map of Lu Mountain;
it is a map of the poet’s traveling gaze, more reminiscent of the vibrant and fan-
tastic Chuci (Lyrics of Chu) than of other Tang examples of landscape poetry. The
primacy of perception over landscape emerges even more clearly in lines 10–13.
These balanced couplets do little to dispel the sensation of a crush of images taken
in by an unfettered, wandering eye, a sensation that is sustained by the continued
concentration of the rhyme, repeated in every line.
This section of the poem closes with one last couplet, which, while maintaining
the same rhyme pattern, seems less hurried, as its first line falls outside the rhyme
category. The frenzied succession of images has quietly drawn to a close, ending
with a negative declaration that subtly concedes the impossibility of anyone really
spanning this vast space: “Even birds cannot fly the length of the sky of Wu.”