《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 7

The poems in Volume VII of Yichuan Jirang Ji reveal the philosophical state of mind of the great Song Dynasty Confucian scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) during his reclusive later years.

The first poem is a reply to Zhang Duguan, an official in Haozhou. With humility, he writes: I am ashamed of my inability to appreciate refined music—though I have heard the harmonies of nature, they remain elusive. Few understand me as Huizi once did; instead, Zhuangzi’s carefree realm resonates more with my heart. In leisure, I jot down trivial springtime musings, yet in old age, I still think of friends a thousand miles away. My old companions in Luoyang often gather—please recite this white-haired man’s poem to them on my behalf.

The second poem expresses his resolute refusal of imperial summons. He states: A lifetime without wrongdoing leaves no room for others’ resentment. Like falling petals needing no rain to hasten their descent, or old objects requiring no springtime adornment. Though fortunate to live under sage rulers like Yao and Shun, I aspire to be a recluse like Chao Fu or Xu You. At sixty, ailing and aged, I know my limits—spare yourself the trouble, Inspector, and cease your recommendations.

The third poem, exchanged with Junior Minister Wang Anzhi, reflects on officialdom: My fellow villagers may not truly know me, but those who do harbor no doubts. Accepting a stipend in poverty is no fault, but seeking office in old age is unbecoming. Long have I yearned to retire to woods and streams, lacking the talent to serve at court. If I could emulate Xunzi or Yang Xiong in upholding Confucian principles, I might avoid the petty criticisms that plagued Han Yu.

The fourth poem thanks Liu Zhifang for his poetic gift, extolling the joys of seclusion: The Creator’s designs hold profound intent—my greatest joy lies in wandering hills and forests. Frail in youth, I sought no official salary; now in old age, ambition wanes further. Often I stroll by water under bright blossoms and moonlight, resting beneath pines in gentle orchid-scented breezes. Sleeping undisturbed by my idle window till waking naturally—this surpasses the honors of titles and rewards.

The final poem expresses gratitude to Academician Wang Shengzhi for a gift of tea utensils carved from Laishi stone: Eastern Mountain’s stone, fair as jade, was wrought by artisans into wine vessels. A gentleman acquired them but, reluctant to use them, sent them instead to this old mountain hermit. Accustomed to humble earthenware, I receive them with trepidation, repeatedly instructing my boy to store them carefully—to be shared someday with worthy friends. Alas, true worth is rare today: the court frets over border conflicts, lands of Han and Tang still unreclaimed, yet placates outsiders with gold and silk, only deepening the people’s hardship. Unless extraordinary strategies arise at court, how shall we ever quell these frontier woes?

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection reveal the reclusive sentiments and life insights of Song Dynasty literatus Shao Yong. The first depicts a scene of retiring after achieving merit: driving all foul and putrid things beyond the western frontier, as sunlight bathes the land and malignant vapors naturally disperse. Though having accomplished great deeds, he declines the golden seal of office, gracefully resigning his post to return home. A thousand officials line up to retain him, yet he never looks back. Upon returning, commoners line the roads to welcome him; drunk amidst embroidered banners, he henceforth visits only friends and kin, no longer concerning himself with governance—finally understanding life's natural rhythms of advance and retreat.

The second uses Chan Buddhist principles as life metaphors: why cling to discerning origins when the sun-wheel turns in vast emptiness? The roc spreads wings for ten thousand miles without needing chariots; the crane lives three thousand years in its own celestial grotto. Turning lead and tin to gold remains delusion; painting a horse with pigments can never make it real. Consider the night of howling wind and bitter cold—who can stand firm without wavering?

The third expresses sickbed reflections: this six-foot ailing frame grows weaker daily, though brimming with talent none can appreciate. Like sifting sand for elusive gold, or jade hidden in stone unrecognized—such desolate feelings, leaning alone on railings with none to understand.

Letter to Daoist Wu of Cloud Terrace Abbey on Mount Hua conveys longing for Hua Mountain: Towering five thousand ren, the Daoist roams its slopes. That single glance back from horseback still haunts dreams a decade later. Having loved mountains and seen all under heaven, none compares to Hua, worth a lifetime of quiet devotion.

Letter to Zhang Wentong of Chang'an's Secretariat expresses friendship: lacking both scholarship and strategy, the mind often feels hollow. Sick eyes dread books but love wine; by the Luo River's wind and rain, thoughts wander to old friends a thousand miles away.

The final poem extols Han Qi's (Duke of Wei) achievements: assisting three reigns as chancellor, his fame echoes through millennia. Nurturing talents across the land, weathering officialdom's storms. Cold army tents at night reveal his courage; high office never dimmed his humility—like Guo Ziyi supporting sagely rulers in their golden age.

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection reveal the poet's leisurely contentment in his later years and his profound friendships. The first poem, addressed to Zhang Jingzhen, describes the majestic autumn landscape but laments that old age prevents distant gazing. It recalls the golden-orchid friendship with Zhang and his son, sharing noble aspirations like pines and osmanthus. Passing days with unfinished chess games and autumn winds tousling white hair convey poignant reflections on time's passage.

The second poem, sent to Magistrate Zhang Taibo of Yinjiang, reminisces about youthful days when brothers pursued official careers together. Though separated by miles, their correspondence bridges distances. The poet imagines the scenic moonlit peaks of Siming Mountain and the picturesque autumn rivers—yet regrets being unable to visit, settling instead for inquiring after his friend's wellbeing.

The Song of Foresight teaches the wisdom of self-preservation. It advises against following the crowd: better to maintain humor and composure than risk public embarrassment. True fulfillment comes from appreciating rare blossoms and bright moons, savoring life's fleeting joys.

Autumn Evening in the Western Pavilion paints an autumn courtyard scene: chrysanthemums blooming by railings, their fragrance filling the room. The poet drinks wine among the flowers, climbs to admire sunset clouds, and feels bodily-spiritual harmony during harvest season.

Strolling Tianjin recounts twenty peaceful years in Luoyang. Old friends visit often; the capital's grandeur endures. Courtyard ponds mirror vast lakes, while the dwelling's tranquility rivals mountain seclusion. No need for world-shaking achievements—unhurried living brings boundless joy.

The poem for Zhang Qiang praises his peerless poetry, likened to priceless jade. Though lacking Mi Heng's genius himself, the poet rejoices in his friend's success. Calling Zhang's verses "spring sunlight on winter snow," he acknowledges their refined beauty that few can appreciate.

The final reply to Commissioner Zhang employs the "climbing trees to catch fish" metaphor for futile striving. Better to moderate drinking than seek cures after illness; better to follow nature than force outcomes. As ganoderma grows rootless, so should one embrace effortless being.

Selected Interpretations from The Yichuan Jirang Collection:

Growing celestial peaches is not the hard part—what truly matters is gaining the sovereign's recognition. Such profound connection resembles how a single mustard seed can grow into lush foliage.

Occasional Verses observes: Some possess sage-like virtue yet refuse to emulate the ancients, like discarding a golden carriage. While people claim "nothing's impossible under heaven," where are the truly great men? Following celestial timing proves wisest; a tranquil heart creates ideal circumstances. The subtle interplay between heavenly Dao and human affairs resides in minutiae—missing this mystery creates distances vaster than five lakes.

Letter to an Absent Friend reflects: Twenty winters parted now, swift as arrows sigh through time. Wandering through bitter trials, your letters became my lifeline. Hometown streams flow only in dreams, old companions mostly beneath sod. When shall we reminisce together? Perhaps when autumn winds whisper over wine.

The 1070 Wind Through Leaves muses: Wind strips leaves yet spares the roots—why blame the tree for your sorrow? Better idle in the old capital than debate sage's trivialities. Here dwell immortal companions from the Land of Eternal Spring, wealthy idlers in nests of contentment. Only after roaming ten thousand peaks does one truly return home.

Leisurely Stroll Verses recall: Often I remember sweeping my humble hut, the path outside never overgrown. Though meant to be a capable minister, I found joy in unorthodox texts. Understanding prosperity's cycles teaches timely advance and retreat; discerning heaven-earth patterns reveals true kinship. Since realizing Dao's essence, fame and gain stir no ripples in my heart.

Men chase "azure heavens" across Wu and Yue, blind to Dao shining before their eyes. Even open vision encounters obstructions—forced seeking brings no attainment. Consider Yan Hui's wisdom appearing foolish, or Mencius' "unmoved heart"—who has leisure for jeweled shops? True Dao-lovers never fret over coins.

Divination Doubts warns: Consulting oracles breeds more doubt—what medicine cures critical illness? Dreams within dreams multiply delusions; beds stacked on beds compound errors. Even Liezi's wind-riding required conditions; Kuafu's sun-chase brought exhaustion. Vain efforts yield no harvest; all human byroads lead to emptiness.

Drinking Amid Blossoms reveals: People covet fairy realms beyond this world—but what glory lies there? Real joy belongs to those untouched by worry, the mark of true transcendence. A hundred years vanish like this—who can detain them? Better release attachments and dwell serenely in the now.

For ten days I dwelled in the garden, watching fragrant blossoms wither and depart—no need to force them to stay. Enjoying flowers with fine wine does no disservice to the drink; yet to admire blossoms without wine would be to wrong the flowers themselves.

As spring drew to a close, I strolled through the rear garden, where lush trees now cast deep shade, and orioles chattered in pairs. Ripples glimmered on the narrow brook, while young bamboo shoots grew in uneven clusters. Leaning on my cane, I chanted poetry leisurely for a long while, then wandered slowly with my young attendant. The warm spring breeze seemed to understand my heart, deliberately brushing over me in gentle gusts.

In a letter to Court Official Wu Chuanzheng, I lamented: Deep and sincere friendships are rare in this world, and the joys of the past can no longer be reclaimed. Yet like pines and cypresses that remain evergreen through frost and snow, our bond has never wavered. Though scholars in Luoyang trust me, you alone truly understand the moonlight by Tianjin Bridge. In dreams, I forget how far apart we are, still imagining our meetings as they once were.

On Luoyang’s gardens: These courtyards and ponds never close their gates—why seek out some distant grotto-heaven (Daoist paradise)? Roaming freely is no match for the ease of an idle visitor; coming and going as I please, why ask the master’s leave? Wildflowers by the pavilion railings delight in their solitude, and the charm of neglected terraces lies in their untamed truth. How many of life’s joys have been lost to vain reputation? Yet those who chase fame may never truly grasp anything at all.

Of a dream where I visited Yang Yingzhi, the Luoyang captain, east of the city: Last night, in a clear dream, I traveled east of the walls, where the stream forked and the path lay open—it was like boarding a raft to the Heavenly River, though lacking the noble spirit of Yan Ziling (recluse of the Eastern Han).

To Lu Gangshu, former Luoyang registrar: My term in Luoyang ends, and I prepare to depart—how could mere dust stain the long road ahead? Lucky to live in enlightened times, discerning eyes still recognize an old friend of the rivers and lakes. Only the wise know when to advance or retreat; true greatness lies in bending without breaking. Returning home while the last warmth of spring lingers in the waters, I wonder—are the southern lands of Wu still as they were?

When someone asked for green reeds, I replied in verse: Among grasses worth treasuring, don’t compare them to wild mugwort. Their leaves spread like bamboo, their verdant hue perfect for autumn. The sound of wind and rain stirs thoughts of distant rivers and lakes—this longing is hard to restrain. Since I’ve achieved no great deeds to aid the world, let these reeds carry my feelings for now.

In Carefree Chants, I wrote: My philosophy is plain, yet people refuse to follow it. When grasped, it seems bland; only when stumbling does one see the depth of the pit. Without understanding heaven and earth’s ultimate truth, how can one fathom life and death? The key must be found through sincere awakening. Men always fret over insufficiency—but beyond contentment, what more is there? Though my life is not flawless, it is free of worry. I nurture my true nature with wine and the harmony of nature, sketching joy through poetry. Who says the years must silver my hair too soon?

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection reveal the wisdom and natural philosophy of Daoist reclusive life. The first poem depicts a practitioner meditating at night in their "nest of peace and joy" (a cultivation dwelling), drinking the Qi (vital energy) of Great Harmony (the primordial energy of heaven and earth) at dawn. By thoroughly investigating the mysteries of the divine, one comprehends the Dao (the Way), and by preserving one's simple nature, one gains deeper insight into celestial secrets. The transformations of the sun, moon, mountains, and rivers cannot shake the practitioner's state of mind—those who truly seek the Dao ultimately attain the realm of selflessness.

The second poem speaks of ineffable mystical experiences. The true Dao is profound and unfathomable, like searching for jade within stone or sifting gold from sand—it requires repeated contemplation. The third poem, "Ode to Chance Attainment," suggests that while practitioners may forget mundane trivialities, they still struggle to completely free themselves from worldly entanglements. The Dao of heaven is not far away, yet once the human mind deviates, it becomes difficult to return.

The following poems describe the joys of neighborly interactions, asserting that simple, unadorned life is inherently fulfilling—there is no need to deliberately pursue humaneness and righteousness. Noble individuals maintain vigilance in friendship, while petty people easily err in their associations. The poems also use Yin-Yang energies as metaphors for good and evil: Yin Qi (dark energy) breeds venomous creatures, while Yang Qi (bright energy) nurtures auspicious signs, expressing a longing for an era of peace and prosperity.

The last two poems carry deeper meanings: one satirizes people who busily hoard knowledge and wealth yet lack the time to enjoy them; the other, through the story of releasing small fish, urges respect for life and abstention from killing, embodying the Daoist ethical principle of "valuing life." Though written in plain language, these poems contain profound insights into the laws of nature and the essence of life.

The poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji are all leisurely works by Shao Yong, expressing his recluse mentality of distancing himself from fame and fortune while embracing nature.

The first poem describes his daily walks in the garden, enjoying the rustic charm of cool breezes, bamboo, and springs. Though his life is simple, his heart is fulfilled. He humorously reflects that while he discusses the Daoist realm, he has yet to truly transcend worldly attachments ("筌" refers to a fishing trap, metaphorically representing his incomplete grasp of the Dao's essence).

The second poem uses bamboo as a metaphor for himself. He notes that while the people of Luoyang love cultivating flowers, he alone prefers planting bamboo. Flowers may be dazzling but fade quickly, whereas bamboo remains evergreen through all seasons, enduring wind and frost. Here, bamboo symbolizes his noble and steadfast character.

The third and fourth poems are exchanges with his friend Wang Buyi. They depict the refreshing autumn weather as the perfect time for leisurely outings, capturing both the carefree sight of wild geese migrating south and an implicit detachment from the gains and losses of official life. He observes that while political friendships may be shallow, the joy of climbing high to admire the scenery remains undiminished—all worldly troubles left behind.

The fifth poem recounts a gathering with three friends surnamed Wang, mentioning poetry gatherings in Luoyang. Though he is aging ("white-haired"), the sight of fresh autumn chrysanthemums still delights him, and he savors his semi-reclusive, semi-official life amid the west wind.

The final poems are dedicated to friends: reminiscing about his old friendship with Lü Xianke, lamenting twenty years without contact; expressing longing for Wu Chuanzheng on an autumn night; encouraging Lu Gangshu not to forget his old friends in Luoyang while surrounded by Jiangnan’s landscapes; and sharing wine with Zhang Sifeng, reflecting on the autumn scene of courtyard phoenix trees turning yellow and chrysanthemums blooming by the fence, using wine to dispel melancholy.

These works embody Shao Yong’s attitude as a Neo-Confucian scholar, blending the natural principles of Daoism with the virtues of a Confucian gentleman in daily life. The language is plain yet carries profound meaning.

This passage is actually a collection of several poems expressing the author's reflections on life's vicissitudes and the fickleness of human relationships. Here is a modern interpretation in separate sections:

The first poem describes the poet's mood while ascending a height before the Double Ninth Festival. Gazing southwest, he fails to see the person he longs for, observing only wild geese flying southward. Just as he considers sending a letter to convey his thoughts, he realizes his emotions have already formed poetic lines. Recently plagued by frequent illness, he often drowns his sorrows in wine and drifts into stupor. The newly brewed wine is uncorked just before the festival, while spring blossoms emerge as if heralding a brief return of warmth. Aware of his misfortunes, he avoids troubling his mind further, finding solace only in watching the ceaseless flow beneath Tianjin Bridge (a famous bridge in Luoyang).

The next set of poems, composed while ascending a tower during the Double Ninth Festival, brims with life insights. The first advises seeing through worldly affairs—regret after the fact is as futile as biting one's navel—and advocates maintaining clarity like filtering muddy water or shaking dust from clothes. The second observes that events occur in moments; what seems delightful at the time may later become unbearable to recall. Just as summer's heat need not be mentioned once it passes, winter's arrival alone teaches the meaning of cold—understanding this keeps suffering at bay. The third depicts this year's festival view from the railings: thinning mist, yet-unchanged woods, and vast, majestic landscapes, but no one to share this contemplative state.

In a reply to a friend, the poet compares himself to a frontier garrison commander. A million troops guard the borders, entrusted with the court's weighty mandate. Though foreign provocations seem minor, a loyal minister's devotion must remain absolute. Songs of sorrow from Longshan stir indignation, while woodland revelries only deepen melancholy. He longs to confide in a kindred spirit, yet fears being misunderstood.

Occasional verses reveal life principles: the wealthy often grow arrogant, human bonds prove fickle; the virtuous stay humble, their friendships enduring. Virtue (De) thrives like pines through frost, wealth withers like wormwood in snow. Most chase power and influence, scattering when these fade; noble minds find constancy in simplicity.

An untitled poem stresses sincerity as the heart's true worth. Distinguish good from evil—the world holds its own justice. Seeing fragrant and foul grasses mixed, one should recall the difference between jade and common stone. How might noble character endure like Luoyang's eternal spring?

The final fragment seems introspective: once neglecting self-cultivation led to worldly distractions; now, failing to refine body and mind may again....

When angry, it's easy to blame others for their faults, yet when misunderstood ourselves, we struggle to find someone to confide in. When I treat others with tolerance, they in turn forgive my transgressions.

Since the new policies took effect, wine jars often sit empty. Whenever friends visit, we can only pass the day in idle conversation. Though longing to ask for wine, even the closest friendships make such requests difficult; considering pawning clothes for drink money—how could such measures last?

Reflecting on Tao Yuanming's "Returning Home": how carefree to return to one's authentic self! Though past events are unchangeable, the heart's landscape can always renew itself. Do we not live in such times ourselves, yet rarely encounter souls like Tao Yuanming? Nearing life's evening, I particularly sigh at time passing like clouds obscuring the sun, yet seeing thriving plants and trees brings spontaneous joy. Remarkable that after six hundred years, someone has finally inherited Tao Yuanming's untrammeled spirit of leisurely transcendence.

(Note: "Yichuan" refers to Northern Song Neo-Confucian scholar Shao Yong; "striking the earth" alludes to an ancient pitching game, here symbolizing carefree living. The "new policies" reference Wang Anshi's state liquor monopoly during his reforms.)