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 239
In front, a long-flowing river, 前有長流水 (qián yŏu cháng liú shuĭ)
14 Below, a small, even terrace. 下有小平臺 (xià yŏu xiăo píng tái)
Now, I touch the stone on the terrace, 時拂臺上石 (shí fú tái shàng shí)
16 Then, I raise a cup before the wind. 一舉風前盃 (yī jŭ fēng qián bēi)
Flowering branches shelter my head, 花枝蔭我頭 (huā zhī yìn wŏ tóu)
18 As flower pistils drop on my breast. 花蕊落我懷 (huā ruĭ luò wŏ huái)
Alone I drink and alone I sing, 獨酌復獨詠 (dú zhuó fù dú yŏng)
20 Unaware of the moon descending in the west. 不覺月平西 (bù jué yuè píng xī)
Continuing to blend the immediate with the ideal, the personal with the tradi-
tional, the poet has here inserted his solitary self into the scene, establishing his
own place within the rhythm of things—even as he strikes a pose that invites
readers to picture, almost as if they were sitting at his side, Tao Qian and Li Bai.
Planting Flowers on the Eastern Slope, No. 2
On the Eastern Slope, spring grows late; 東破春向暮 (dōng pō chūn xiàng mù)
2 Now what are the trees like? 樹木今如何 (shù mù jīn rú hé)
Thickly, softly, the flowers finish their fall, 漠漠花落盡 (mò mò huā luò jìn)
4 While the dark shade of leaves begins to grow. 翳翳葉生初 (yì yì yè shēng chū)
Every day I bring my boy servants, 每日領僮僕 (mĕi rì lĭng tóng pú)
6 To hoe and then dig a furrow. 荷鋤仍決渠 (hè chú réng jué qú)
The people of Ba care not for flowers, 巴俗不愛花 (bā sú bú ài huā)
22 So, all spring no one comes; 竟春無人來 (jìng chūn wú rén lái)
There is just this drunken governor, 唯此醉太守 (wéi cĭ zuì tài shŏu)
24 All day incapable of returning home. 盡日不能迴 (jìn rì bù néng huí)
Finally, in the concluding stanza of this first poem of two, Bai Juyi develops his
similarity to Tao Qian and Li Bai, depicting himself as more than a mere lover of
nature and, implicitly, more than just another gentleman who likes his wine. His
references to Ba, so remote from the capital, and to his official position remind us
of his status as both an exile and a wenren (literatus). Yet these reminders highlight
rather than explain his solitude and uniqueness; his isolation is not merely cir-
cumstantial but a matter of character. His idiosyncratic nature, displayed in many
of his other poems, is established in the impulsive gesture with which he opens
the poem and is confirmed at the end. Like both Tao Qian and Li Bai—and like
the truest of the ancients—Bai Juyi cannot but heed the urgings of his innermost
spirit.
The mood of drunken dreaminess, which poetic practice has rendered almost
de rigueur in this setting, momentarily overrides the social critique hinted at in
earlier lines. But the poem cycle does not end here, and the second poem finds the
poet in a sober, even analytical state. Far from being unaware of time’s passage, he
makes it the focus of his attention: