"Mountain Poetry" of Zhejiang

[cui ruide]

If you read my previous topic about modern Chinese poetry, you'll know my situation is as such: next semester, I'll be studying in Hangzhou, and as part of the program, students design their own 1-on-1 course.

Though I was initially considering modern poetry, I ultimately decided on a course that might offer more opportunity to get out of the classroom. My topic as of now is to trace the 'mountain fascination' in traditional Chinese culture, with an emphasis on the 'mountain poetry' of Zhejiang province.

By 'mountain poetry,' I mean the subset of Chinese wilderness poetry that's particularly set in mountain locations ("duh," you say), often dealing with the search for sages, hermit/ascetic life, perhaps 'clouds and rain' allusions, etc.

My one concern is the prevalence of this kind of classical poetry set/written in Zhejiang province (chosen because of my being in Hangzhou). I know there are mountains there, but I know history doesn't bring the Chinese culture in full force to this area until after the Tang Dynasty. Any ideas? Happen to have come across anything I might be looking at?

[skylee]

You may wish to consider reading poems of 謝靈運 Xie Lingyun (Hsieh Ling-yün).

You can find his poems in simplified Chinese here -> http://www.lingshidao.com/gushi/xielingyun.htm

And translation of his selected works here and here.

晚出西射堂

步出西城門，遙望城西岑。連鄣疊巘崿，青翠杳深沈。曉霜楓葉丹，夕曛嵐氣陰。節往戚不淺，感來念已深。羈雌戀舊侶，迷鳥懷故林。含情尚勞愛，如何離賞心？撫鏡華緇鬢，攬帶緩促衿。安排徒空言，幽獨賴鳴琴。

Leaving West Archery Hall at Dusk

Stepping out through the west-wall gate,

I gaze afar at peaks west of the city wall —

An unbroken barrier piling cliffs upon crags,

Where the deep blues darken, and sink away.

Under morning frosts the maple leaves turn scarlet,

In the evening dusk mists grow shadowy.

As the season passes one's grief is not slight;

Sorrows come and memories weigh down.

The stray hen yearns for her former mate,

A lost bird longs for its old forest:

Choked by feeling, they still ache with love —

Then what of myself, deprived of my closest friends?

I rub the mirror where my black temples show flecks,

And pull at my belt, where once snug folds are slack.

"At peace with the order of things" — mere empty words.

Obscure and alone, I turn to my singing lute.

Obviously you can also read Wang Wei and Tao Qian.