Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Exile’s Letter

Ezra Pound, trans.

From the Chinese of Rihaku (Li Po), usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.”

Translated by Ezra Pound from the notes of the late Ernest Fenollosa, and the decipherings of the Professors Mori and Araga.

SO-KIN of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember

That you built me a special tavern,

By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin.

With yellow gold and white jewels
we paid for the songs and laughter,

And we were drunk for month after month,
forgetting the kings and princes.

Intelligent men came drifting in, from the sea
and from the west border,

And with them, and with you especially,
there was nothing at cross-purpose;

And they made nothing of sea-crossing
or of mountain-crossing

If only they could be of that fellowship.

And we all spoke out our hearts and minds …
and without regret.

And then I was sent off to South Wei,
smothered in laurel groves,

And you to the north of Raku-hoku,

Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories between us.

And when separation had come to its worst

We met, and travelled together into Sen-Go

Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters;

Into a valley of a thousand bright flowers …
that was the first valley,

And on into ten thousand valleys
full of voices and pine-winds.

With silver harness and reins of gold,
prostrating themselves on the ground,

Out came the East-of-Kan foreman and his company;

And there came also the “True-man” of Shi-yo to meet me,

Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ.

In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us
more Sennin music;

Many instruments, like the sound of young phoenix broods.

And the foreman of Kan-Chu, drunk,

Danced because his long sleeves

Wouldn’t keep still, with that music playing.

And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap,

And my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens.

And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars or rain.

I had to be off to So, far away over the waters,

You back to your river-bridge.

And your father, who was brave as a leopard,

Was governor in Hei Shu and put down the barbarian rabble.

And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance;

And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going …

Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts.

And I was still going, late in the year,
in the cutting wind from the north,

And thinking how little you cared for the cost …
and you caring enough to pay it.

Then what a reception!

Red jade cups, food well set, on a blue jewelled table;

And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning;

And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle,

To the dynastic temple, with the water about it clear as blue jade,

With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,

With ripples like dragon-scales going grass-green on the water,

Pleasure lasting, with courtezans going and coming without hindrance,

With the willow-flakes falling like snow,

And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,

And the waters a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows—

Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,

Gracefully painted—and the girls singing back at each other,

Dancing in transparent brocade,

And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,

Tossing it up under the clouds.

And all this comes to an end,

And is not again to be met with.

I went up to the court for examination,

Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyu song,

And got no promotion,

And went back to the East Mountains white-headed.

And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head.

And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace.

And if you ask how I regret that parting?

It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end,
confused, whirled in a tangle.

What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—

There is no end of things in the heart.

I call in the boy,

Have him sit on his knees to write and seal this,

And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.