The Far Journey:
An Archaic Chinese Poem

translated and annotated by J. Peter Hobson

Source: Studies in Comparative Religion, Vol. 15, No. 1 & 2 (Winter-Spring, 1983). © World Wisdom, Inc.
www.studiesincomparativereligion.com

I

1. Detesting time’s deepening decadence,[1]
   I would rise free, and journey far away;
2. but my substance is unfledged, too weak
   to harness for flight and floating upwards.
3. Living in filth I find myself befouled,
   and grieve alone, having no confessor.
4. My nights are unquiet; I cannot sleep
   with fearful doubts from dark to dawn;
5. I brood on this boundless universe
   and the long labors of mortal life;
6. we cannot meet men who lived before
   nor question them that come hereafter.
7. I pace about; my cogitation roams;
   I am lovesick for some lost paradise.
8. My will is inchoate, its course unclear;
   my heart is mourning and its sorrows grow.

II

9. My soul plays truant from my body
   which shrivels like a withered tree,
10. whilst introspection, tempered sharp and keen,
    tracks out the means to rectify my spirit—[2]
11. poverty, void, peace—thus happiness,
    wrought from non-action and finding myself.
12. I hear that Red Pine[3] slaked off his dust
    and his is the path I must pursue.
13. I value the True Man’s[4] vital valor
    and hail the Ancients’ heavenward ascent
14. beyond mutability and human gaze,
    leaving names that grow lustrous with time.
15. I know strange tales of men that dwell in stars,[5]
    and the enviable Han Chung gained Oneness.[6]
16. Bodies insubstantial, subsisting far away,
    men’s haunts abandoned for holy solitude,
17. ethereally changing, endlessly upborne,
    swift as gods in flight, subtle as spirits,
18. tenuously visible from time to time
    like essences that glow, and come and go,
19. disdaining dust and cloud and purged of dregs
    they finally forsook this earthly fold,
20. immune from mortality, fate and fear;
    the world sees them not, knows not their like.

III

21. I am dismayed by the seasons’ passing;
    in westward expedition bright suns burn,
22. and fine frosts fall and penetrate the ground
    whose perfumed grasses fade untimely.
23. I wished to wander through this far-spread world
    but years have fled and I am unfulfilled.
24. With whom shall I share life’s final fragrance?
    facing the morning wind I weep aloud;
    
25. Kao Yang[7] is dead, gone far ahead of me;
    alas! with whom shall I shape my course?

IV

26. I say again: if springs and autumns run apace,
    can I stand still in my earthbound home?
27. The Yellow Emperor’s[8] path is now remote;
    I shall beguile myself with Wang Chiao’s[9] sport,
28. feast on the six breaths, drink the dews of night,
    savor the sun-mist, sip the morning haze,
29. hold fast to what is bright, pure, godlike,
    let in the immaterial, exclude the gross,
30. follow the South Wind triumphant in passage,
    gain Southern Retreat[10] in a single sigh,
31. see Master “Kingly Child”[11] and make obeisance
    for the secret of poise in singleness of spirit.[12]
32. The Master says:
    “The Way must be accepted,
    being no man’s to give;
33. it is smaller than small
    and vast without limit.
34. Without turmoil of spirit
    let be what shall be.
35. Make the breath single, concentrate;
    in the deep night meditate.
36. Wait in all emptiness
    till action be stilled
37. and the states fulfilled;
    this is the gate of power.”[13]

V

38. Sublime speech! no sooner heard than understood;
    I cannot wait to start my journeying.
39. Winged angels on the Hill of Cinnabar[14]
     convey me to the Homeland of Deathlessness;[15]
40. at dawn I lave my hair in the Valley of the Sun,[16]
    at dusk dry out my body by the Nine Orbs,[17]
41. suck the fine liquid of the Fountain of Flight,[18]
    press to my lap the Yellow Emperor flower,[19]
42. feel face and form grow jewel-bright,
    prance like a drunkard, dizzy with strength,
43. my substance fire-refined, clear-shining,
    and my mind high-flying, mettlesome.

VI

44. I glory in this Southern Land’s clear flame;[20]
    undimmed by Winter, wild cassias climb;[21]
45. no beast prowls on its awesome mountainsides;
    and on its empty moorlands no man walks.
46. Curbing my clamoring mind I cleave the air,
    embrace a fleeting cloud, float upwards,
47. cry out to Sky Watchman: “Unbar the gate!”
    he stares at me and heaves the portals wide.
48. Recruiting Rain-cloud God[22] as route-guide,
    I ask for Constellation of Great Mystery,[23]
49. halt by Heaped-up Suns,[24] enter High God’s Mansion,[25]
    make for Ten-day Star,[26] look on Pure City,[27]
50. at sunrise set out from Ceremonial Court,[28]
    beneath the setting sun see Mighty Vortex.[29]
51. I draw one myriad chariots to my train
    and marshal them in ranks to roll in line,
52. harness eight dragons[30] that curvet about,
    and hoist cloud-banners that twist like snakes,
53. raise a rainbow flag of infinite hue,
    whose five colors clash in glassy dazzle.[31]
54. Eager heads of the yoke-steeds rise and fall;
    swift hooves of the trace-steeds proudly prance;
55. riders packed together sweep in confused
    medley of moving colors, purposing onwards.
56. Seizing hold of the reins, I point my whip
    towards the realms of Guardian of the East.[32]
57. Skirting Great Radiance[33] we veer to the right;
    Wind God[34] is sent ahead to open the roads;
58. dawn sun glows weakly, not yet full light;
    we are breasting Heaven’s Pool,[35] broaching the ford.

VII

59. Wind Lord[36] goes galloping ahead of me
    to clear the dust and cleanse and cool the air;
60. my flag is borne aloft by phoenixes;[37]
    by Lesser Radiance we meet Guardian of the West.[38]
61. I seize the bright Broom Star as banner,
    as baton brandish the Dipper’s Handle.
62. Sweeping above the land, now high, now low,
    we cleave the air with flowing wakes of mist.
63. When daylight fades and darkness rushes down,
    into our company comes Guardian of the North.[39]
64. I station Civil Service Stars[40] as stewards
    to keep the host of gods in marching rank.
65. The road winds onwards, endlessly remote;
    the pace relents; we are mounting Heaven’s dome.
66. Rain General to the right is route-conductor;
    Thunder Lord to the left commands the guard.
67. Let me traverse the universe without return!
    let high ambition suffer no restraint!
68. I laugh in my heart, and pledge myself
    to pursue delight in whatever pleases.

VIII

69. I am trampling blue clouds in mapless flight
    when, suddenly glancing, I glimpse my home;
70. my groom is grieved and I grow sick at heart;
    the trace-steeds turn about and stare and stop;
71. old memories rise, and images crowd;
    I sob and sigh, but wipe the tears aside,
72. rise above attachment, resume my flight,
    regain exaltation, steel myself and point
73. at Flame God of the South,[41] and rush to him
    set only on gaining the Southern bounds.
74. There beyond formal space lies formlessness,[42]
    like wandering waters afloat on themselves;
75. the Guardian[43] threatens us, forbids encroachment.
    I ride up to Phoenix: “Bring River Goddess[44] along!”
76. We descant “Heaven’s Pool” and “Meeting Clouds”;[45]
    two Shao goddesses entone the Nine Shao chants;
77. I bid Hsiang Maiden make music on the lute
    and Sea-God dances with Yellow River God;
78. sea-monsters and serpents advance together
    in a sinuous surge that coils like snakes;
79. while Rainbow Lady rolls elegantly round,
    Phoenix flexes her pinions, hovering above;
80. the music soars and infinitely penetrates;
    I wander abroad on its resonance.

IX

81. In step with its measure I march ahead,
    break through the barrier and reach Cold Gate,[46]
82. brave the streaming wind to Immaculate Fountain,[47]
    follow God of the North[48] across the sheeted ice,[49]
83. evade the Guardian,[50] gain the forbidden way;[51]
    having traversed the four terrestrial directions
    and celestial sixfold space, I gaze behind.
84. I summon Creator God,[52] look on his face
    as he walks before me smoothing my way.
85. I have fared through the four directions,
    encircled the six voids,
86. ascended the lightning’s crevices,
    gazed down on the Great Abyss.
87. Below lies infinite depth: no earth;
    above is eternal calm: no heaven.
88. I gazed entranced at nothing to see;
    I listen amazed at nothing to hear.
89. I have passed through non-action to the Inviolate;[53]
    with the Sublime Principle[54] I make my home.

Commentary

There are two great anthologies of archaic Chinese verse: the Shih Ching, or “Book of Odes”, and the Ch’u Tz’u, or “Songs of Ch’u”.

Of these, the more familiar in the West, and the more accessible to translation and popular understanding, is the Shih Ching, or “Book of Odes”, beloved of Confucius and gathered and edited by him for the instruction and delectation of his contemporaries because, he said, “there is no guile in them”. Consisting for the most part of folk ballads, they also contain solemn chants to ancestors and longer poems relating the acts of noble and exemplary rulers; they breathe a calm clarity, innocence and sobriety.

The Ch’u Tz’u, or “Songs of Ch’u”, however, being mysterious in content and problematic even to the Chinese commentators themselves—most of whom were Confucianists—have remained relatively unknown in the West. It is from the “Songs of Ch’u” that the present poem Yüan Yu, “the Far Journey”, is taken.

One could say, at the risk of oversimplification, that the native tradition of China divided, in the sixth century B.C., into two streams: Confucianism, which is broadly exoteric and related primarily to the norms of behavior in an ordered, pyramidal society; and Taoism, which is esoteric and related primarily to spiritual realization.

One could likewise say, again at the cost of oversimplification, that the Book of Odes is exoteric and the Songs of Ch’u esoteric, at least in their origins.

Now in any traditional society the exoteric and the esoteric must co-exist, with varying degrees of mutual tolerance and understanding; but it is axiomatic that the various manifestations of the esoteric tradition are far less accessible to precise records and dating, and liable to misunderstanding and misinterpretation on the part of the exoterists. The Tao-Te Ching says: “He who expounds does not know; he who knows does not expound”.

There is no doubt that in China the Confucian “expounders” have, in the matter of the written and the printed word, consistently had the upper hand; and this is one reason why the inherent mystery surrounding the Songs of Ch’u has been greatly compounded up to the present day, despite the fact that its verse forms are, in fact, regarded by many Chinese critics as being the ancestor of subsequent Chinese poetry.

Part of the mystery lies in the following facts: The compilation of the Songs of Ch’u into the great anthology that has come down to us did not take place until the second century A.D., many centuries in fact after the unification of China that was carried out by the Ch’in and Han Dynasties in the third century B.C.. But the compiler himself attributed the composition of the greater part of the Songs, including the “Far Journey”, to a poet who lived in the fourth century B.C. in the Kingdom of Ch’u,—hence the name of the anthology. Now if this attribution were correct, the composition of the nucleus of poems in the Songs of Ch’u would then be far more recent than that of the Book of Odes, for the composition of the Odes clearly preceded their being edited by Confucius by many centuries.

But this assessment of the comparative antiquity of the two anthologies, which would have the “exoteric” “Book of Odes” precede the “esoteric” “Songs of Ch’u”, is belied by their contents. There is apparent in the Songs of Ch’u a mood, and a vocabulary of ideas, that is far more ancient than the accepted attributions would allow. The Kingdom of Ch’u lay outside those trends of Chinese philosophical history that led to the formation of the Confucian canon, and it appears to have been a repository of those spiritual notions that preceded the division into exoteric Confucianism and esoteric Taoism and which are generally described by the not altogether satisfactory terms of Shamanism and Animism. Certainly, we are brought face to face, in the Songs of Ch’u, with an archaic world which appears to predate the sober and ordered innocence of the Book of Odes or, if not to predate it, to belong to a different order of spiritual experience. But this more “primordial” order of things is itself somewhat disguised; it is as if accomplished poets had reshaped a fragmented oral tradition of great antiquity and mystery—and one which they no longer fully understood—into a literary product; or as if the words of ancient rites had, by their sheer beauty and fascination, compelled later poets to perpetuate them in a literary context which partly veiled their meaning.

These observations are intended merely to put the “Far Journey” into context, and there is little point in enlarging here on themes of attribution and dating already pursued with great elaboration by scholars not only in the West but also in China and Japan; it is better to let the poems speak for themselves.

In any case, the “Far Journey” contains its own mystery, because it is not typical of the rest of the Songs of Ch’u: it uses the characteristic language and versification of the Songs, their mood of nostalgia for the otherwordly and the symbolism of the Shamanistic ascent not, as is the case with most of the Songs, in order to describe an almost bitter regret for a vanished era in which there was easy communion between Heaven and Earth and gods and men, but in order to describe a spiritual trajectory from disillusion with the world to full spiritual realization by Taoist techniques; unlike most of the other poems in the anthology it finishes on a note of triumphant achievement.

In brief it describes the following course of psychological and spiritual states:

This last is an extraordinary claim, and one has the right to wonder how anyone that had achieved this would take the trouble to write a polished poem on the subject; this, indeed, is another of the mysteries attending this work. However, the poem is there and it has stood, on all available evidence, in this form for over two thousand years.

Finally, a few remarks on the translation. Since it is undoubtedly a great poem in the Chinese original, I thought it only right to attempt to translate it as a poem. In order to suggest its archaic quality I have, where possible, used alliterative techniques, but I have not resorted to archaic English because, in the first place I could not do so convincingly without obscuring the sense and because, in the second place, the original is extraordinarily concrete and straightforward; it bounds ahead in an almost jangling rhythm. Each Chinese verse consists of two lines of six characters each; at the end of the first line there is added a constant extra syllable corresponding to “ah!” or “oh!”, which doubtless reflects an ancient convention of chanting; I have not translated it, for it adds nothing to the sense and would sound unbearably monotonous in English. The important thing is to sustain the rhythm in order to suggest the pace of the original. To this end I have used lines of eleven or twelve syllables; if, in the interests of conveying the sense, I have sometimes exceeded this measure, I have warrant for this in the original which occasionally adds an extra meaningful character to the six-character line. Similarly, and doubtless to avoid monotony, the Chinese poem occasionally lapses into briefer lines of only four characters; here I have similarly reduced the length of the corresponding English verse-lines.

I should add that in order to make the text comprehensible with minimum recourse to foot-notes, I have generally translated given names by the corresponding descriptive term, e.g. for Fei Lien I have written “Wind God”. These instances are, in fact, mentioned in the footnotes I have appended.

There exist many minor variants in the original text; for the purpose of this translation I have followed the text contained in the Japanese work on the Songs of Ch’u entitled “Soshi no Kenkyū” by the scholar Hoshikawa, including his division of the poem into nine sections.