《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 5

Interpretation

The fifth volume of Yichuan Jirang Ji contains several poems by Northern Song Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu), revealing his contemplations during his leisurely retirement in Luoyang.

The Three Poems on Happenings in the Back Garden, composed in the eighth year of the Jiayou era (1063), depict the poet's tranquil life in his later years. The first poem describes how, in peaceful times, an old man lives without worries, finding greatest joy in wandering freely within his garden. Green willows cast shade, hidden birds sing, bamboo shoots break through the soil, and spring water fills the ditches. When asked why he is so happy, he replies that this joy is no less than being enfeoffed as a marquis or appointed as a minister. The second poem speaks of his naturally carefree disposition, living an untroubled life in the watery, misty land of Luoyang. Unconcerned with the storms and dangers of the world, he feels only that time flows leisurely in his gourd. He plays chess to entertain guests, drinks wine facing the bamboo, and, having penetrated the nature of things, finds nothing weighing on his mind—just like Yan Hui, who attained the state of "sitting in forgetfulness." The third poem confesses that in recent years, he has contracted a "poetic madness," drinking wine whenever inspiration strikes. Delighting in the Dao (the Way), he forgets his form; his words are candid, and his long-standing friendships bring endless delight to his cloud-and-water existence. Only now does he truly understand the depth of Tao Yuanming’s sentiments—such a life is comparable to the age of the ancient sage Fuxi.

Long Chant on Watching Chess reflects on life through the metaphor of chess: in a deep courtyard on a spring day, he watches guests play. The chessboard resembles a battlefield, its formations like mountains and rivers. The shifting strategies evoke the struggles of dragons and snakes, the fierce fights like startled geese taking flight. The slaughter is as brutal as Xiang Yu burying Qin soldiers alive, the pain of defeat like Fu Jian fearing the Jin army. Spears and halberds clash on the board, the situation changing in an instant. Life and death hang on a single move, victory or defeat decided in a moment. Players show no mercy during the game, yet afterward, they exchange polite courtesies. The poem subtly suggests that worldly affairs are like chess—who can guarantee that the rise and fall witnessed today on Chang’an’s roads won’t repeat themselves when positions are reversed?

Two Poems on Ascending the Chongde Pavilion in Autumn express historical lamentations. The first observes how countless heroes’ lofty ambitions have been worn away by time; there is no need for long sighs when gazing into the distance from high above. Mountains and rivers bear witness to ancient wars, while in a mere century, crowns and swords lie scattered. People vainly chase fame and wealth, unaware that such things cannot be planned by human effort. Though master painters may exhaustively depict worldly scenes, they cannot capture the myriad thoughts that arise when leaning on the railing. The second poem sighs that though the past century has been called an age of peace, who now remembers the hardships of its founding? If even the capital harbors hidden worries, how can the world truly be at peace? Alone, the poet leans on the perilous railing, watching the setting sun—all the rises and falls of past and present dissolve into the idle chatter of fishermen and woodcutters.

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Interpretation

The "Yichuan Jirang Collection" poems reveal the author's reflections on life's vicissitudes. The first poem depicts a scene of returning from autumn drinking: the grandeur of Han and Tang palaces still lingers, yet now only illusory outlines remain. Distant mountains flicker through mist, while frost-touched red trees stand half-bare. Though cups overflow with wine, true intoxication eludes him - a single western breeze restores sobriety.

The second describes post-Double Ninth garden scenery: water-bamboo encircled courtyards shine autumnal, yet one shouldn't drink lightly. Chrysanthemums bloom belatedly after the festival, as sentimental souls never notice time's flow. Willows brush low-hanging clouds, twilight bearing faint chills. Reluctant to end his revelry, he lets his horse leisurely tread the capital's green grasses.

In verses for Governor Zu Zezhi of Shanzhou, memories surface: "Remember our meeting by eastern seas? A thousand li apart, ten years vanished. Though circumstances differ and reputations vary, our hearts commune across matching years." He anticipates reuniting to discuss literature over wine, sharing boundless joy.

Elegies for Zhang Yuanbo overflow with grief: "Recent years saw old friends depart in succession, piercing my heart with sorrow. Among Luoyang's retired scholars, only you retained transcendent purity. Yesterday we compared ages - today I mourn your passing. This libation you'll surely know, as western winds carry my tears."

Another elegy praises Zhang Shirou: "A life devoted to meritorious deeds - who says talent succumbs to fate? Dying verses reveal nobility, coffin-lid friendships shine true. Unfulfilled ambitions linger, the world's talents grow harder to judge. May your spirit rest contented, knowing descendants will revive your house."

Harmonizing with Dengfeng's Vice-Minister Pei, he muses: "Yan Hui's virtue in his mean alley endures, while my poverty shames me. Since wealth honors heaven's will, why question officialdom's tides? Silent self-cultivation nurtures wilderness temperament; barred from office, I can't emulate contemporary worthies. Those frequenting noble gates might laugh at me tilling barren fields."

The final poem explores life's philosophy: "Why strain for transcendence? Action requires a thousand-jun bow's strength, self-cultivation demands hundred-fold refined gold. Angle without killing intent, play chess without competitive mind. One cup of fine wine suffices for joy - why not drink freely in the woods?"

These works blend delicate natural imagery with profound life insights. Through themes of drinking, friendship remembrance, and mourning, the author expresses indifference toward fame and wealth while cherishing authentic connections, embodying the quintessential Song scholar-official's spiritual world.

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Interpretation

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection reveal the author's contented attitude toward life and his love for natural landscapes. In the first poem, the poet declares his willingness to live as a leisurely elder without fixed abode—just as playing chess requires a worthy opponent and playing the zither demands an appreciative listener. This isn't a lack of ability, but rather emulating the wisdom of ancient sages who withdrew from worldly affairs, though he often regrets how rarely such suitable opportunities arise.

The second poem depicts visiting his friend Yao Fuzhou, a court official: Unable to contain his longing, he crosses western streets to call upon him, traversing ditches and skirting vegetable plots. He ducks under low-hanging branches and switches hands to climb higher places. What greater joy exists than gathering with friends who share one's aspirations?

The third poem responds to three Dengfeng friends' invitation to visit Mount Song. The author says they've arranged to travel together, prompting this new verse in reply. Though he dares not lag behind in casting off worldly ties, he's fallen behind in landscape excursions. The tranquil rocks near Sanyang Palace, the violet mists veiling Longevity Peak—so many wonders remain unseen. He hopes to follow immortal footsteps in their ascent.

At Mount Song's summit, the poet reflects: The Nine Provinces spread below like a chessboard; from this height, the world appears at peace. He prays for a ruler to unify all lands, that the Central Plains might know no more war. Long has he worried seeing cunning men seize power—he'd rather be a commoner in Yao and Shun's era. Fifty-three years of aimless wandering, yet now he delights seeing spring plowing.

Viewing Shaoshi Mountain from Dengfeng County, he marvels: This peak reached heaven's heights since creation's dawn. Ridges cluster like banner formations; boulders stand arrayed as swords and halberds. At sunrise, cliffs blush first; after rain, mountain vapors glow greener still. Who knows what immortals might dwell here eternally?

To the Dengfeng magistrate he writes: Barely left the county seat, yet already planning lodging; arrived in mountains, yet reluctant to return. If official duties permit, he'd bring tea utensils up these slopes.

Journeying back to Luoyang, he sends verses to Zhengzhou friend Zu Zezhi: A mother's love penetrates marrow; old friends' bonds weigh like mountains. Passing Songyang's familiar trails, white clouds seem to reveal a hermit's form.

Replying to Zu Longtu's poetry, he declares: "My family's duty lies with cloud-wrapped peaks"—without landscapes, his brows knit in sorrow. Wanderlust ignores calendar limits; his dreaming soul already leaves the mortal realm. He longs to feast eyes on mist-wreathed cliffs—when do bureaucratic halls grant such leisure? Luoyang friends repeatedly propose outings—when shall we climb together?

The concluding Ode to Adornment offers philosophical insight: Elaborate crafting earns praise as masterful artifice, yet results merely resemble truth. Beware clear-eyed observers seeing through the guise—like puppets stripped of stage curtains, utterly exposed. Here he suggests how worldly things crumble under scrutiny of their essence.

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Interpretation

Three Self-Reflections

In this worldly arena of chasing fame and profit, I find no foothold—

Better to retreat early to mountain forests and springside rocks.

Otherwise this battered body past fifty

Will only endure more of life’s relentless storms.

The boundless breeze and moon are my official titles;

Cloud-wrapped peaks across the land, my seals of authority.

Only I dare speak words utterly free of worldly gain,

Discussing profound truths with others, unafraid.

Often I lament awakening to the Dao too late—

My wisdom insufficient for timely understanding.

Life grants but thirty-six thousand days,

Yet I’ve squandered twenty thousand in vain.

Occasional Writings

Endless debates pour forth from various schools—

Where can one find true Confucian masters?

The teachings of propriety should flow as one stream;

How can the Central Plains lack worthy talents?

Though eras of sage-kings differ,

The principles of rites and music remain ever fresh.

Ancient affairs mostly mirror the present,

Yet what truly constitutes the art of governing?

A Letter for Magistrate Chen Chengbo of Shangluo

With half a year left of your tenure,

The remote Shang Mountains lack famed physicians.

Excessive grief easily stagnates Qi (Chen mourns his late wife),

While summer dampness breeds seasonal maladies.

Even sages and wise men face trials—

True virtue shines through dignified sorrow.

These words seem plain but hold deep truth;

May they inspire heroic minds.

Sixth Day of Mid-Autumn, 1067: Wandering the Yi-Luo Rivers

At dusk my carriage left Luoyang’s western gate;

First night lodged at the Water-Cloud Monastery, serving kin.

Hearing Daoist Zhang play celestial melodies,

I finally believed—

The sun and moon within the gourd (Daoist paradise)

Truly measure boundless time.

Seventh Day: Upriver on the Luo, Lodging at Yanqiu Village

August ripens rice in Yanqiu’s fields—

A bounteous harvest makes farmers rich.

A basket of chicken-millet, a gourd of wine—

Who then envies the delicacies of lords and kings?

Eighth Day: Crossing the Luo, Climbing South Mountain to Visit Spray-Jade Spring with Officials Zhang, Zhao, and Yin

South across the Luo to Spray-Jade Spring,

Where countless peaks echo one another.

A single snow-white cascade plummets—

Into icy pools, for years beyond counting.

Ninth Day: Ascending Brocade-Screen Mountain Below Shou’an County, Lodging in Town

A lone summit towers through mist—

Here, worldly thoughts dissolve completely.

Unnamed immortals dwell atop its heights;

Their cave doors lean idly against passing clouds.

Riding west along Folded-Stone Creek,

Sheer cliffs embrace the drifting clouds.

The flying spring...

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Interpretation

These passages from Yichuan Jirang Ji record the author's travels and reflections around Yiyang and Fuchang. The first section depicts lingering by Dieshi Stream (located five or six li south of the county town), where during ten days of westward journey, a light rain dampens his robes as he crosses the Tang Dynasty's Yongji Bridge. The scene evokes a sense of mountain deities urging travelers to stay, lest they miss the emerald-green peaks.

Passing through Yiyang, the author draws historical parallels: just as the six warring states once struggled against Qin's tyranny, where are today's heroes east of Hangu Pass to resist oppression? He laments how Yiyang, though once a secondary capital of Han, ultimately fell like Zhang Liang's failed assassination attempt on Qin Shi Huang at Bolang Sands, where the assassin mistakenly struck the attendant's carriage instead.

On the eleventh, encountering rain in Fuchang County, he describes clouds winding through peaks and the distant murmur of springs—a poetic realm only kingfishers might truly grasp. In verses exchanged with the county magistrate, he declares his indifference to worldly fame and ambition. Though his grand aspirations remain unfulfilled, he finds kinship with green mountains, often reading beneath bamboo shade or paying respects to cascading springs veiled in white clouds.

On the twelfth, accompanied by Wang Zanshan, he visits Dragon Pool (fifteen li south of the county in the Southern Mountains), portraying its abyssal waters lapping at cliffs and jagged summits piercing the clouds—so awe-inspiring that visitors hold their breath, fearing to disturb the thunder. At dusk, they linger until the path home vanishes behind mist and haze.

The thirteenth brings excursions to Upper Temple (north of town) and Huangjian Stream (west of town). Here, he proposes that true enlightenment lies beyond worldly attachments; without profound realization, even monasteries differ little from secular homes. He scoffs at the Spring and Autumn period's Five Hegemons squabbling over Zhou's remnants or the Three Kingdoms carving up Han's legacy—far inferior to idly watching clouds and streams in freedom.

Finally, on the fourteenth, he inscribes a poem at Fuchang's Eastern Pavilion, painting autumn along the Luo River: a drizzle-cleared path, a county office half-hidden by water and bamboo, villages wreathed in mist, maple leaves outshining spring blossoms, and crows dotting the sunset—a tranquil tableau of reclusion.

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Interpretation

The poems in Yichuan Jirang Ji depict natural landscapes and reflections on life. Let me analyze them section by section:

The first poem portrays mountain scenery: wisps of sunset clouds hang at the horizon, while the stream's shallow and deep sections ripple with clear waves. Towering peaks pierce the clouds, their bases adorned with uneven emerald hues. Birds choosing their perches appear distant, and clouds drift aimlessly even farther. The poet laments how worldly fame often brings hardship, and extraordinary talents frequently invite sighs. Life is fleeting—cherish each moment; in middle age, don't strain beyond your means. Better to build a retreat by these cliffs and enjoy genuine carefree joy.

The second poem describes the historic site of Fuchang: Lianchang Palace lies in ruins, yet the Chang River still flows. The past has faded with time, leaving only legends behind. The dilapidated ancestral temple is barely recognizable, with only bare locust branches and towering bamboo remaining. Staying overnight beneath Mount Jinping (a renowned Daoist mountain), even the ordinary moon seems unusually full tonight—as if Chang'e, the moon goddess, arranged this special encounter.

The third poem expresses gratitude to a friend: True friendships based on Dao and righteousness aren't easily formed—the ancients said finding kindred spirits is hardest. Literary pursuits shouldn't serve mere fame; honor and disgrace mean nothing to one cultivating the Dao. Profound conversations reveal the principles of all things, while unadorned speech shows one's original nature. Looking ahead, he anticipates joining literary circles like those of Luoyang scholars, adding another name to the register of true companions.

The fourth poem celebrates tea enjoyment: Mountains appear dipped in indigo dye, waters seem steeped in color—restraining the wanderer's heart proves difficult. Carrying tea shared between two friends, they brew and sip at every misty vantage point. Gazing from Shou'an County, he advises against lamenting worldly gains and losses, suggesting instead to listen to the stream's endless song. Watching a lone goose pierce evening haze and egrets skim wild mist, with emerald peaks embracing the town, he reminds fame-chasers to cherish the present moment.

The fifth poem conveys grave-sweeping reflections: Crossing Qianyang Slope to Yichuan's gravesite, three-foot mounds rest against hundred-foot cliffs, burying parental love's tenderness. This bond persists beyond death—even at dusk, he lingers unwilling to leave. Thinking of the Cheng family, when Mid-Autumn approaches they should admire landscapes together, but impending departure prevents staying. Though climate and scenery remain unchanged, his solitary journeys' emotions remain incomprehensible to others, revealing profound familial longing.

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Interpretation

These poems from The Collection of Striking the Earth at Yichuan depict the author's travels around Luoyang's Longmen area, expressing a deep love for natural landscapes and a transcendent state of mind free from worldly fame and gain.

On the 19th, returning to Luoyang while visiting Longmen, he wrote: Each time I pass Longmen Mountain, I feel a sense of leisurely ease. The human heart is not truly bound by its surroundings, yet it is lamentable how people remain deeply entangled in the pursuit of fame and profit. The myriad things of the world need no deliberate display, yet the human mind always craves novelty. Only the clear breeze and bright moon before the steps eternally belong to those with a tranquil heart.

Inscribed at Longmen, he reflected: Who knows how many years this cliff has stood, its steep walls shrouded in mist and clouds. When Yu the Great tamed the floods, he split the mountain, allowing the Yi River to flow through. The sound of the Eight Festival Rapids can be heard in all seasons, and the beauty before my eyes converges upon this pavilion. I urge travelers not to lean on the railings in melancholy—countless heroes have vanished with the passage of time.

Using the legend of slaying the flood dragon as a warning: Just as one must sheathe the sword after slaying the dragon, so too must one restrain oneself in the face of slander. When the dragon was slain, its claws and tail transformed into Mount Hua, its fangs and horns became Mount Song, and its blood turned into surging waves. If even a dragon cannot preserve its life, how much more vulnerable is a human? Thus, one must be wary of the harm caused by slander.

Viewing the scenery of Yichuan from Longmen’s Stone Tower: For days, I wandered through mist and clouds, idly leaning on the railings to admire the view. The lofty tower connects to the paths of birds, while the vast expanse of misty waters belongs to the monastery. Only inner transcendence brings true joy—official titles and honors are nothing to boast of. To enjoy such sights in moments of leisure is truly the greatest blessing.

On the 20th, returning to the city to meet old friends: Every year at this time, I wander among the mountains, yet no one calls me a pleasure-seeker. Upon returning, I share these refined matters with friends and family, but I must also remember to be cautious with words.

On the evening of the 22nd, strolling on Tianjin Bridge: Last night, I took a long walk on Tianjin Bridge, lingering for a while. All I heard was the sound of oars in the Luo River and the west wind urging travelers onward. Mountains and rivers were veiled in cold rain, towers and pavilions half-hidden in evening clouds. Who can truly grasp this scene? It is the season of frost, when wild geese fly south.

On the 25th, composing a poem with a friend: Clear weather is perfect for reading—within emptiness, there is a natural path. The lovely moonlight draws me back to the fragrant ferry, while a swift wind sweeps across Dongting Lake. If I did not often visit the "Red Water" (a Daoist term referring to the heart’s fire in Neidan practice), how could I daily enjoy the delights of "Yellow Sprouts" (a Neidan term for primordial Qi)? Do not say there is nothing to do on Tianjin Bridge—even here, one must contemplate with care.

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Interpretation

Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) composed this poem during his leisure time in response to a verse sent by Lu Gangshu, a registrar official in Luoyang. The poem mentions Lu Gangshu's letter stating that "the scenery south of Tianjin Bridge should no longer belong solely to Shao Yaofu," which stirred Shao's contemplations.

On the twenty-ninth day of the ninth lunar month, Shao Yong composed a matching verse using the same rhyme scheme. The poem depicts: a light evening drizzle had just ceased when he happened to pass by Phoenix Tower in his carriage. He reflects on how Xi Shen (a Jin Dynasty scholar) possessed a jade-like purity of character worthy of admiration, while Yue Guang (a renowned Jin Dynasty conversationalist) had a mind as vast as the azure sky—qualities still cherished today. Having not seen each other throughout the summer and autumn, he wonders what his friend might be doing. The most delightful moments are those spent reading by lamplight. Yet he regrets being unable, like the eminent Neo-Confucian scholar Cheng Yi, to express respect with ceremonial gifts of silk, and must instead return alone to his humble dwelling with a wistful heart.

This passage exemplifies the refined literary camaraderie among Song Dynasty scholars, employing historical allusions (Xi Shen, Yue Guang) to praise a friend's virtue and talent while revealing the reclusive scholar's contented life of quiet poverty. "Yichuan Jirang" (Striking the Mound in Yi River) is the title of Shao Yong's poetry collection, alluding to the ancient practice of elders singing while playing a clapping game—embodying his serene and self-sufficient state of mind.

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