3.29.2025
3.24.2025
The Life of Tu Fu
Eliot Weinberger, poet, translator and essayist, wrote this book during the pandemic. In a note at the end of the book, Weinberger points out that these are not the words of Tu Fu translated. Rather in these short entries—part prose, part poetry—Weinberger has taken on the persona of the ancient Chinese poet and employs many of the themes that arose in Tu Fu’s writings: poverty, aging, hard times, war, governance, etc. Also, Weinberger via Tu Fu speaks about poetics and the life of a poet. Here is a selection from the book:
They only talk about the plum blossoms and never notice
the new shoots of a willow.
-
They say that at the entrance to a house one can always
be hit by a falling roof tile.
-
Too poor for a horse, at least I have feet.
-
I thought of Wang Hsien-chi. When thieves broke into
his house, he asked them not to take his old green rug.
-
She knows he won’t come back from the army, but
patches the clothes he left just in case.
-
I lift my face to watch the birds.
I turn my head, thinking someone has called me.
-
Rebels ride the horses of ghosts.
Why do they always burn things down?
-
A hut with a single widow made from the broken rim
of a large pot.
-
Friends with good jobs have stopped writing.
-
A single petal falling means less spring.
A kingfisher’s nest, a dragonfly’s wing:
Study closely the patterns of things.
-
Live like a wren, unnoticed on a high branch, and you’ll
stay alive.
-
I thought of the philosopher Yang Chu, who always wept
when he came to a fork in the road.
-
Plants with thorns only seem to grow where people walk.
-
I dread that I’ll die by the side of the road, and only be
remembered for that.
-
Why do stupidities become customs?
-
Parrots are more intelligent than people: they know
they’re living in a cage.
-
They say failure in early life will bring success at the end,
but birds know when they’re tired of flying,
and clouds have no will of their own.
-
I scratch my head and knock out a hairpin,
more concerned with medicines than poetry.
-
I thought of how, in Han times, poems often began: “A
single cloud in the northwest.”
-
These days the poets sit on a log and wait for a fish.
-
I write poems about what I see, for things pass so quickly.
-
They say that a chicken has five virtues: civil talents,
military talents, courage, moral rectitude, and fidelity.
-
They say that when a master archer shoots, his prey
drops at the twang of the bowstring.
-
I write about what is happening:
I record the dawns and sunsets.
-
If it is not painted perfectly, a tiger will look like a dog.
-
I thought of the master calligrapher Wang His-chih, who
wrote out the whole Tao Te Ching and traded it for a
goose.
-
No time to be lazy:
This morning I combed my hair.
-
There is no path to my cottage, but I’d clear one for you.
-
I was pretty smart when I was seven.
-
Even when my teeth have fallen out, I’ll still have my
tongue.
A carp, flapping in a carriage rut.
-
Drinking now makes me ill, so I’ll just watch you,
a little jealous when you fall over.
-
Why should crickets bring on melancholy?
-
I thought of Chiang Yen who dreamed that Kuo P’o, long
dead, appeared and asked for his writing brush back, and
after he awoke Chiang Yen never wrote poems again.
-
I thought of Tsu Yung who, at his examination, wrote a
a poem of only four lines. Questioned by the examiner, he
replied: “That was all I had to say.”
Eliot Weinberger, The Life of Tu Fu (New Directions, 2024)
[Note: Some entries are written as prose without intentional line breaks, but other entries seem to have clear line breaks. Therefore I’ve tried to preserve the formatting of the book.]
They only talk about the plum blossoms and never notice
the new shoots of a willow.
-
They say that at the entrance to a house one can always
be hit by a falling roof tile.
-
Too poor for a horse, at least I have feet.
-
I thought of Wang Hsien-chi. When thieves broke into
his house, he asked them not to take his old green rug.
-
She knows he won’t come back from the army, but
patches the clothes he left just in case.
-
I lift my face to watch the birds.
I turn my head, thinking someone has called me.
-
Rebels ride the horses of ghosts.
Why do they always burn things down?
-
A hut with a single widow made from the broken rim
of a large pot.
-
Friends with good jobs have stopped writing.
-
A single petal falling means less spring.
A kingfisher’s nest, a dragonfly’s wing:
Study closely the patterns of things.
-
Live like a wren, unnoticed on a high branch, and you’ll
stay alive.
-
I thought of the philosopher Yang Chu, who always wept
when he came to a fork in the road.
-
Plants with thorns only seem to grow where people walk.
-
I dread that I’ll die by the side of the road, and only be
remembered for that.
-
Why do stupidities become customs?
-
Parrots are more intelligent than people: they know
they’re living in a cage.
-
They say failure in early life will bring success at the end,
but birds know when they’re tired of flying,
and clouds have no will of their own.
-
I scratch my head and knock out a hairpin,
more concerned with medicines than poetry.
-
I thought of how, in Han times, poems often began: “A
single cloud in the northwest.”
-
These days the poets sit on a log and wait for a fish.
-
I write poems about what I see, for things pass so quickly.
-
They say that a chicken has five virtues: civil talents,
military talents, courage, moral rectitude, and fidelity.
-
They say that when a master archer shoots, his prey
drops at the twang of the bowstring.
-
I write about what is happening:
I record the dawns and sunsets.
-
If it is not painted perfectly, a tiger will look like a dog.
-
I thought of the master calligrapher Wang His-chih, who
wrote out the whole Tao Te Ching and traded it for a
goose.
-
No time to be lazy:
This morning I combed my hair.
-
There is no path to my cottage, but I’d clear one for you.
-
I was pretty smart when I was seven.
-
Even when my teeth have fallen out, I’ll still have my
tongue.
A carp, flapping in a carriage rut.
-
Drinking now makes me ill, so I’ll just watch you,
a little jealous when you fall over.
-
Why should crickets bring on melancholy?
-
I thought of Chiang Yen who dreamed that Kuo P’o, long
dead, appeared and asked for his writing brush back, and
after he awoke Chiang Yen never wrote poems again.
-
I thought of Tsu Yung who, at his examination, wrote a
a poem of only four lines. Questioned by the examiner, he
replied: “That was all I had to say.”
Eliot Weinberger, The Life of Tu Fu (New Directions, 2024)
[Note: Some entries are written as prose without intentional line breaks, but other entries seem to have clear line breaks. Therefore I’ve tried to preserve the formatting of the book.]
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