《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 13

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) composed poems expressing gratitude when friends pooled resources to purchase his humble residence in Yichuan. He thanked the group for helping him acquire this garden with woods and springs in the city—a gently flowing expanse spanning seven thousand paces, funded collectively by over twenty companions. During the Jiayou era, he could only rent lodgings; by the Xining era, he finally owned property. This new recluse dwelling beneath Phoenix Tower was in truth an already transcendent sanxian (Daoist term for unfettered cultivators) residing in the quarter of virtue. Morning breezes from the Luo River filled his sleeves, while night moons over Mount Song illuminated his windows. He reclined by lotus ponds with his bamboo hat tilted, waving a horsetail whisk beneath willows to discuss metaphysical mysteries. Streets dazzled with blooms beside bronze camel statues; fragrant grasses stretched along the embankments of Golden Valley Garden. Seizing vitality before old age, he wandered freely, napping peacefully even at high noon. This dwelling named "Grotto of Eternal Life" had found its destined master—how could its moniker "Nook of Peaceful Joy" be empty words? Fearlessly penetrating worldly affairs, he viewed humanity through unique eyes. He entrusted time entirely to wine cups and inscribed heaven-earth transformations into poetry. Knowing this fine garden's worth, he deemed it worthy of monumental brushwork.

[Two selected poems from a suite of ten composed while admiring plum blossoms with friends in Zhang Garden south of the city]:

Overnight, the east wind unfurled plum branches—even fluttering butterflies missed the moment. I pinned blossoms throughout my hair, drinking on while others laughed at my untimely ways.

Breaking plum sprigs to inhale their scent repeatedly, I know keenly how fleeting true fragrance stays. Grateful for our host's lavish invitation, I'll return before these blooms completely fade.

Deep in plum groves where cold beauty dwells, no sudden storms have ever struck. At peak enjoyment, the red sun dips—who'd guess parting means waiting till next year?

Dusk intensifies our tender feelings; wine's warmth heightens poetic moods. We gather branches from the densest blooms, yet spare them full plundering—such is my true heart's code.

Placing plums in my carriage upon leaving, passersby might smirk at the display. But this undiminished refined spirit remains Shao Yong's essential way.

Wine-steeped plum fragrance grows fiercer still; flute notes carry their purity deeper. This resonance and aroma spring from nature—now is the moment to savor them completely.

When early spring plums first burst open, even this lifelong abstainer lifts his cup. All day on the southern city's heights, drunk on blossoms, I wander Jiangnan in reverie.

These poems from The Collection of Striking Earthen Songs from Yichuan primarily depict leisurely activities such as flower appreciation, gift exchanges, and social interactions, reflecting the author's serene and carefree outlook on life.

The first poem observes that while plum blossoms may vary in color, their fragrance remains similarly delightful. The poet expresses a desire to revisit them, admiring their graceful sway in the breeze. Though the Five Ridges boast abundant plum blossoms, they aren't worth a special journey, whereas the fewer blossoms of Luoyang's Three Rivers district hold greater value—particularly the thousands of trees flourishing in renowned gardens. All beautiful things in this world deserve appreciation, just as rare talents do; only upon meeting again in the future would one realize how precious such gatherings truly are.

The second poem responds to friends who teased him about idleness. The poet counters that he's never idle—he simply channels the seasonal charms of wind, flowers, snow, and moon into his verse. When Luoyang's plums bloom in early spring, he composes poetry amid their fragrance. Though unable to send the blossoms to distant friends, he dispatches plum-inspired poems to convey his longing.

Subsequent verses express gratitude for gifts from companions. When a friend delivers wild mountain vegetables, the delighted poet has his wife prepare them personally. Upon receiving peonies, his wife nearly startles—accustomed only to arranging common flowers at home. Fine wine prompts the recluse of Mount Shaoshi to jest that even this hermit no longer feels impoverished.

The final poems celebrate the joys of flower viewing in Luoyang. The temperate climate renders every plant and tree worthy of admiration. The local companions being all exceptional individuals, they take turns hosting garden parties with the ease of visiting their own homes. The poet humorously contrasts Meng Jiao's impoverished haste to "see all of Chang'an's flowers in one day" with their own unhurried appreciation, unwilling to miss a single beautiful scene.

(Note: "Frost Terrace" refers to the Censorate, denoting official friends; "Mount Shaoshi recluse" is the poet's self-reference as a hermit near Songshan.)

"Plain Interpretation of the Yichuan Jirang Collection":

The southern garden is planted with peach and plum trees, all yearning for spring's early blossoms. Grateful for the host's profound kindness, I—a guest from Tianjin (referring to Luoyang's Tianjin Bridge)—am no casual visitor.

When someone brings wine, worldly people easily grow proud, but how can two jugs compare to a single gourd of clear water? I fear even virtuous figures like Meng Guang (wife of the Eastern Han scholar Liang Hong) are gradually succumbing to extravagance, finding even purple ganoderma (a symbol of purity) insufficiently refined.

In late spring, living among the woods, I often sleep till the sun is high; lately, few carriages disturb my peace. The days grow long, curtains hang low, and though there's no wind in the courtyard, petals drift down on their own.

Fifteen years ago, at our first meeting, I felt an instant kinship. Though now retired in solitude, my heart still lingers with old friends. Comparing all things under heaven, none surpass a sincere heart. The bond we share in Luoyang's poetry circle outshines all others—when might we become neighbors?

True peace lies in just governance; real joy springs from abundant harvests. If the world is turbulent and the year lean, how can my "nest of tranquility" remain undisturbed?

Living in the city yet yearning for misty peaks, I dwell in seclusion by Tianjin Bridge. My daily work is studying scriptures, my companions bamboo and water. Yet I resent clouds obscuring the moon and wind scattering blossoms—distressed by such floral and lunar affairs, how can my mind turn elsewhere?

Wu Qi had just left Wei when Zhang Yi arrived in Qin. The people of Xihe long enjoyed blessings, while southern Chu suffered repeated deceit.

The noble-minded learn the Dao (Way) by focusing on fundamentals; the petty forget life itself at the sight of profit. The noble act only on principle; the petty accomplish nothing without bribery.

People study to learn humaneness—if one neglects this foundational virtue, what use is other learning?

What defines nobility? The noble path can be cultivated. Their way is worth following—they prize righteousness over gain, remember kindness but not grudges, promote good without fearing evil, share joy but never spread sorrow.

Confucius reflected twice before acting; Zengzi examined himself thrice daily. What manner of man am I, that I should neglect self-cultivation?

Who says swallows lack feeling? Departing in autumn and returning in spring, they never miss their season. This year's fledglings, newly grown, how can they leave without reluctance?

Zou Ji and Tian Ji harbored mutual disdain—how reliable were the diviner's words? When interests clash, harm is inevitable.

The Yichuan Jirang Ji contains numerous historical allusions and philosophical parables, which I'll explain in modern terms:

The story of Sun Bin and Pang Juan illustrates military strategy - Sun Bin demonstrated his brilliance through ambush tactics, while Pang Juan was as foolish as trying to drill wood for fire. Such stratagems in warfare have existed since ancient times, no different from modern tactics.

The "One Word That Moved a Man" recounts how Minister Tian resigned after hearing one remark from a Qi state commoner, showing the decisive clarity of a maiden refusing marriage or a scholar declining official position.

The "Four Lords" section ranks the Warring States period's famous nobles: Lord Mengchang first, Lord Xinling second, Lord Pingyuan in the middle, and Lord Chunshen last.

Chunyu Kun's "Wine Admonition" is particularly insightful - he described varying alcohol tolerance in different settings: one dou (peck) when meeting the king made him drunk, two dou at family gatherings, three at formal banquets, five during harvest celebrations, eight when discussing Dao with friends, and up to one dan (ten dou) in mixed company. This cleverly advises drinking appropriately according to occasion.

The "Giant Fish of the Eastern Sea" parable warns that even the mightiest fish stranded on land can be overcome by ants, metaphorically showing how losing one's foundation leads to vulnerability.

The "Clay and Wood Effigies" caution reminds us that earthen and wooden statues shouldn't mock each other, for heavy rain reduces both to ruin - a metaphor for human fragility.

The "Refuting Slander" chapter notes that even great achievers like Tian Dan faced calumny, though ancients knew to execute slanderers (as seen when Diao Bo advised King Qi to execute nine men who slandered Tian Dan).

The final sections use seasonal metaphors for historical epochs:

• The Three Sovereigns era resembled early spring dawn, people naturally simple as birds building nests
• The Five Emperors period shone like noonday sun, civilization flourishing
• The Three Kings age entered autumn, power transitions beginning
• The Five Hegemons time reached winter's depth, though retaining traces of earlier virtue (as when Guan Zhong assisted Duke Huan of Qi to hegemony)

Through historical anecdotes and natural analogies, these passages express profound truths about worldly changes and human nature's vicissitudes.

The poems in Yichuan Jirang Ji reflect Shao Yong's profound observations on social transformations and political vicissitudes, employing contrasting techniques to reveal historical patterns.

Regarding the strategic maneuvers of the Seven Warring States, he points out that political strategists like Su Qin and Zhang Yi may have gained temporary power, but ultimately disrupted social order. It's like commoners suddenly rising to high office—such phenomena that defy natural principles are doomed to be short-lived.

On governance philosophy, he considers the methods of Guan Zhong and Yan Ying as still adhering to certain principles, whereas the tactics of Su Qin and Zhang Yi completely disregard moral integrity. A truly peaceful golden age requires returning to the simple and honest Dao (the Way) of the era of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors.

When discussing historical figures, he notes that while the times of Fuxi, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun may be irreplicable, the governance principles of Tang of Shang, Wu of Zhou, Duke Huan of Qi, and Duke Wen of Jin remain worthy of study. Because times change, success or failure depends both on the laws of the heavenly Dao and on human effort.

Using the allegories of "the hounds are killed for food once the hares are bagged" and "the snipe and clam locked in struggle," he illustrates how many people, in their pursuit of profit, end up harming each other, only to benefit the onlooking old fisherman. Just as a prized steed can gallop a thousand miles in its prime but in old age becomes inferior to even a nag, the importance of timing becomes evident.

On governance methods, he acknowledges certain merits in Shang Yang's reforms while criticizing their excessive harshness. He particularly emphasizes that words and deeds must align with benevolence and righteousness. Those like Shang Yang, who violate these virtues, ultimately meet gruesome ends like being torn apart by chariots, while those who cultivate benevolence and righteousness enjoy longevity and well-being.

The key to order or chaos lies in whether material profit is prioritized or if filial piety and fraternal duty form the foundation. The former leads to famine and rampant banditry, while the latter brings enduring peace. A true golden age should ensure the elderly are cared for, children are nurtured, laborers receive their due, and the deceased are properly laid to rest.

Finally, through the lesson of Qin Shi Huang, he warns the world: though he unified the realm, within fifteen years after his death, his empire was usurped by Liu Bang, and his mausoleum at Mount Li lay in ruins. This demonstrates that manipulative schemes will inevitably be exposed—for while human hearts may be inscrutable, the Dao of Heaven is clear and manifest.

The poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection primarily express the author's reflections on the laws of cosmic operation, the realms of human existence, and the contemplative life.

Regarding the "Ode to Qian and Kun": The Qian hexagram (one of the Bagua/ Eight Trigrams, symbolizing heaven) uses nine yang lines to represent the state where myriad dragons have no leader, illustrating that all things grow according to their inherent patterns. The Kun hexagram (symbolizing earth) employs six yin lines to signify perpetual adherence to the right path. The Four Symbols (Lesser Yang, Greater Yang, Lesser Yin, Greater Yin) evolve through the number nine into thirty-six transformations and through the number six into twenty-four variations. Yet how could these two numbers, nine and six, ever fully encompass the myriad affairs of human existence?

"Chant on the Grand Ultimate's Cosmic Cycle" describes: Heaven and earth resemble a carriage canopy and base, bearing all things yet their heights remain immeasurable. The sun and moon are like ants on a millstone, cycling endlessly without cessation. Across millennia above and below, their patterns remain ultimately unfathomable. Taking one cosmic cycle (129,600 years as a universal period), its principles can still be comprehended. Throughout these vast three thousand years, the rise and fall of order and chaos are all recorded in the classics. I can thread these principles together as if having personally experienced them.

"Ode to the Responsive Dragon" portrays the dragon's essence: The dragon belongs to yang's vigorous nature, capable of adapting to temporal changes. It emerges distinguished among all creatures yet moves freely through the six directions of heaven and earth. It can both hide and manifest, inhale and exhale, expand and contract, exist in substance and nothingness.

"Where Lies the Immortal Abode" suggests: The immortal realm need not be sought afar—it resides within one's own chamber. When the eyes behold no trivial matters, the heart naturally becomes clear and cool. In stillness one perceives heaven-earth's vastness; in leisure the sun and moon seem to lengthen. Contentment with one's original nature surpasses all other contemplations.

"Thanks to Magistrate Song for the White Ox" depicts a marvelous white ox: Its hair white as frost and snow, eyes crimson like cinnabar, ears and horns squared and orderly over three feet long. Its extraordinary form suits tilling wild lands; its gentle temperament fits for pulling carts. When grazing by water, even dragons come near; when led beneath moonlight, hares follow. Were this divine creature painted in Luoyang's artworks, painters would exhaust their ingenuity in depiction.

The final two "Poems of Six Elders" portray six white-haired old men's leisurely life: Their temples frost-white yet minds unfettered, together enjoying the garden's beauty, drinking and conversing without haste. Wandering with canes as if traversing millennia, their lapels fragrant with a hundred flowers. Later joined by another elder becoming seven, especially as autumn's chill sets in—a perfect season for gathering. These idle officials easily find joy in meetings, their duties being light. Tender willow branches droop low; peach blossoms glistening with dew release fragrance in warm sunlight. Drunk beneath flowering shade in spring's embrace, they savor the unique coolness of floral shadows.

This set of poems depicts the carefree state of mind enjoyed by several elders in their leisurely lives. When the six old friends gather, though advanced in years, they remain unfettered and unrestrained. Together they quietly observe the transformations of all things, watching the busy world while immersed in tranquility. The poems mention how the toad (symbolizing the moon) moves across the sky when the celestial heart is full, while a gentle breeze carries the fragrance of lotus blossoms across the water. The newly brewed fine wine has just reached perfect maturity, and the early autumn scenery is cool and pleasant—they cannot believe there remains anything in the mortal world worth fretting over.

Another poem describes the six old friends wandering together in the land of intoxication, reminiscing about the peaceful times of their youth as they compose verses in response to one another. Beneath the moonlight, they savor ripe fruits from the forest, brew tea with water from the Golden Valley Well, and converse freely under thousand-year-old pine trees. Even without a breeze, their sleeves and lapels feel refreshingly cool.

Several other verses celebrate the joys of reclusive living: tasting newly fermented wine in summer, inhaling the fragrance of early-blooming plum blossoms in early spring; singing freely in the woods without restraint, pushing small carts through paths vibrant with orioles and flowers, wielding their brushes with such vigor that even spirits and ghosts grow busy. Dwelling in humble thatched gates far from worldly clamor, their walls draped with fragrant vines of ficus pumila and clematis, they enjoy the cooling breezes from the Luo River's banks.

The final poems are responses to gifts of scholarly implements and poetic works from friends, expressing gratitude for the peace and prosperity of the times, as well as the vastness of heaven and earth and the serenity of the cosmos experienced in leisure. The author modestly claims that though wishing to praise this golden age, his limited talent cannot do it justice. By the small river before his "Nest of Peace and Happiness" (referring to his hermitage), the newly sprouted willows and rushes turn green year after year. With such beauty before his eyes, who can say that human life is always unfulfilled?

The Yichuan Jirang Ji is a poetry collection by Shao Yong, a Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar, blending Daoist philosophy with life wisdom. Here are vernacular interpretations of selected poems:

Though that broken earthen jar was discarded, those who understand its Dao can still use it. One needs only utilize its opening and place it properly to serve as a bed—no need for ornate doors or windows. It reflects the light of sun and moon; lying peacefully beneath it, one attains a state comparable to the legendary life of Fu Xi.

Human life is plagued by two sorrows: anxiety over survival and dread of death—these afflictions are hard to escape. Some exhaust themselves chasing profit, others scheme tirelessly for fame. Tormented daily by fear of missed opportunities, their hair turns white before old age. What right have I to stand aloof? In this turbulent world, only I can stretch my arms carefree.

I chant to myself: Under heaven, none are as unique as I—seemingly dull, yet mastering nothing. My countenance is as clear as Li Yong’s, my bearing as free as He Zhizhang’s. Daily, I sit quietly sipping tea; in leisure, I roam in Daoist robes. Let none laugh at me—this tranquil life is my true home.

Mid-autumn nights—nine out of ten years are veiled by clouds. To see the full moon, one must wait till midnight; to behold its bright light, wait till clouds part. Where no clouds linger, the moonlight feels profoundly tender; staying awake all night to admire it deepens realization. Why cling to ancient verses praising the moon when we can share its true radiance across a thousand miles?

Warm springs and cool autumns are both fine seasons; abundant harvests and healthy bodies amplify harmony. My light carriage rolls gently over emerald grass, slowly passing through embroidered blossoms.

In a dream, I returned to my hometown after twenty years—glimpsing new towns, faintly recognizing old mountains and rivers. I seemed already beyond the mortal dust, observing human affairs as if by the roadside. Upon waking, the vision lingered briefly before dissolving into emptiness.

At dusk, strolling along the Luo River’s banks, I saw countless strange stones: green and yellow hues, varying lengths, round and square shapes. Upon closer inspection, their types were endless, yet few proved useful. Where, then, are the true jades? They remain elusive, leaving one to sigh in vain.

Five early autumn poems in response to Li Wensi: One autumn rain cleanses eaves and roof corners, renewing the spirit of the Three Rivers. Forest winds carry crispness; fallen leaves rustle softly. In a blink, lotuses wither; in another, chrysanthemums bloom. Growing old in these peaceful times—how shall I repay these idly spent years?

The path, freshly washed by rain, leads to a secluded courtyard mossed over. Standing before the wind, I savor idleness; beneath the steps, I pace quietly. Unwilling to admit my body’s decline, yet powerless against time’s press. Often keeping fragrant grass as company, fortunate to share fine wine.

Autumn’s breath deepens; summer’s heat fades. For self-cultivation, emulate Mencius; for leisurely living... [text trails off]

The "Yichuan Jirang Collection" presents these poems that reveal a carefree and contented attitude toward life along with philosophical reflections.

The first poem depicts a joyful gathering with friends in Luoyang: a gentle breeze wafts through bamboo groves, the full moon peeks through pine branches, the city abounds with virtuous scholars, and all share in the merriment. Willow branches droop by the pond, evening blossoms smile by the railings. Though lotus leaves wither and old trees stand bare, the year's end makes one cherish the beauty before them all the more.

The second poem describes autumn scenery: faint clouds slant under the setting sun, leaves gradually turn yellow, and all things transform as frost descends. The poet reflects on how age brings easy drunkenness and how the cool wind stirs emotions, wishing only for peace and health.

The third poem, where "Yaofu" (Shao Yong's self-reference) recounts his life: whether in summer or winter, he dwells in contentment, admiring flowers and chanting verses under the moon, believing no greater joy exists in the mortal world.

The fourth poem reminisces about life: from babbling in childhood to white-haired old age, sixty years have flown by. Now watching children at play brings both delight and melancholy.

"Reply to a Friend" explores the Dao of conduct: true goodness lies in assessing circumstances, as fortune and misfortune stem from one's actions. Resolute simplicity approaches the virtue of Ren (benevolence). It emphasizes that environmental differences matter little—what counts is self-cultivation.

The two poems titled "Sitting Alone in Meditation" convey similar themes: seasonal landscapes all possess charm, yet people often overlook heaven's intent. The poet sits quietly in contemplation, finding joy within, unwilling to compete with worldly pursuits.

The final poems discuss self-cultivation: one must be cautious before thoughts arise and words are spoken. A noble person values being blameless even in solitude. The collection concludes with "Ode to Self-Contentment," depicting leisurely life beneath Phoenix Tower in Jiaru (modern Henan province), savoring the moonlit courtyard in perfect ease.

These poems from The Collection of Striking Earthen Rhymes from Yichuan embody a leisurely, contented attitude toward life infused with Daoist philosophy.

A white-haired elder lives in unhurried repose, his memories of bygone days grown faint, old companions seldom met. He delights in secluded blossoms and grasses, letting fragmented dreams drift with the wind—his only wish being universal peace and bountiful harvests year after year.

The iron ruyi scepter (a ceremonial object) remains unyielding yet seldom used, ever at his side. When it shatters coral or breaks teeth, who would emulate those violent souls who flaunt whips to chastise others?

Daoist ritual robes and headwear are reserved for venerating the stars, not mortals. The poet questions: Why bow to others? How can we know ordinary folk aren't celestial incarnations? He adds that in Daoist practice, beyond honoring one's master, whom else should one revere? Perhaps each person may become their own teacher. Clad in Daoist attire, he roams the countryside, hearing that grotto-heavens and blessed lands are no different—his homeland rivals any paradise. True Dao resides in the human heart; cultivation's labor reveals it naturally. If mere robes could embody the Way, how dare he casually don them?

Ode to Four Natural Acts advocates following nature's course: eyes observe when they should, ears listen when they must, mouths speak when appropriate, bodies move when the time is right. He covets no high emoluments, fears no mighty power, holding fast only to righteousness while disregarding fame and gain.

Verses Casually Penned laments the futility of middle-aged striving: official posts yield meager rewards while losses prove incalculable. Day after day, driven like wayfarers by life's demands, exhaustion prevails.

Ode to Four Avoidances lists four gatherings he shuns (public affairs, birthdays, feasts, fundraisers) and four weathers that keep him indoors (bitter cold, sweltering heat, gales, downpours). Status matters not—he neither forces outcomes nor clings stubbornly, wandering rural paths in tranquil ease, body and mind at peace. Thus pass thirty years, grateful to dwell in an era of prosperity.

These verses distill a wisdom of disengagement from worldly strife and harmony with nature, blending Daoist transcendence with poignant reflections on mundane existence.