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石木 Shishu
(late 17th century–early 18th century)
SHIH-SHU
From Stones and Trees: The Poetry of Shih-shu
(late 17th century–early 18th century)
Translations by James H. Sanford
In: The Clouds Should Know Me By Now: Buddhist Poet Monks of China
Wisdom Publications, 1998, pp. 141-172.
INTRODUCTION
WE REALLY DON'T KNOW who Shih-shu was. The name Shih-shu appears to be a pseudonym used one time only for the poet's contributions to a single text, known in modern times as the T'ien-t'ai san sheng erh ho shih chi ( Anthology of the Poems of the Three Sages of T'ien-t'ai and Their Two Harmonizers ).This text consists of three layers. The first of these is an edition of the collected works of the well-known Zen madman and poet Han-shan, who flourished around 650 C.E. Alone, this layer constitutes the Han-shan shih chi ( Poems of Cold Mountain ). But, in fact, both the standard Han-shan shih chi and the harmonized T'ien-t'ai san sheng erh ho shih chi version (hereafter, the Three Sages Harmonies ) contain not only the 307 poems attributed to Han-shan.They also contain forty-nine poems attributed to his co-conspirator in Buddhist mischief and weird poetry, Shih-te, and two poems attributed to their somewhat reclusive fellow traveler, the Zen monk Feng-kan (perhaps best known for his habit of using a pet tiger as a naptime pillow). Together, these three are the Three Sages of Mount T'ien-t'ai.
To the basic Han-shan anthology of 358 original poems, the Three Sages Harmonies adds a second layer consisting of “harmony poems” by Ch'u-shih Fan-ch'i (1296–1370). A harmony poem is a poem that is written in the same structural format and meter as an admired original poem and which at key word positions is also required to use the very same Chinese character as the original. Harmony poems thus constitute a sort of “ poems in the style of ” genre. Since Ch'u-shih was a major Buddhist figure in his century— as well as a prolific poet—his harmonies are a clear indication that by his day Han-shan and Shih-te, in spite of the ragged, colloquial style of their poetry, had become mainstream literary figures worthy of admiration and imitation.
The third layer of the Three Sages Harmonies text, the one which concerns us most directly here, is a further set of harmonies—harmonies to Han-shan, Shih-te, and Feng-kan, but to Ch'u-shih's earlier harmonies to the Three Sages as well.These are the harmony poems produced by Shih-shu. Shih-shu literally means “stones and trees.”According to legend, stones and trees—not paper and silk—were the first venue of the Han-shan and Shih-te poems in the T'ang dynasty.The name Shih-shu is thus a transparent evocation of this legend, and almost certainly a single-usage pen name.
What we can actually know of Shih-shu has only two sources: the content and style of his harmonies in the Three Sages Harmonies and what little he tells us in his brief headnote to these poems. This headnote or preface is dated 1703, and its signature line tells us that it was “written at Stone-sprout Peak on the Yellow Sea by the follower of the Way Shih-shu, who is also know as T'ung-yin.” In his note, Shih-shu tells us that years earlier he had encountered a copy of the Han-shan (Shih-te, and Feng-kan) Collection with Chu-shih's harmonies appended to it. Of this encounter he says, “When I first read his work, I did not know that the Three Sages were Ch'u-shih and Ch'u-shih the Three Sages. But on rereading him it was as if the Three Sages were right there in front of me—such is the unique quality of his work. Thereafter, whenever and wherever I encountered beautiful mountains or imposing waters, felt a gentle wind, or saw the clear moon, I could not help but chant out these brief songs.” For two decades Shih-shu hesitated to dare harmonies of his own to these illustrious poems, but at last he took up “... the rhymes of the three poets and made [my] own rock and tree ( shih-shu ) poems.” In less than a month he managed to finish them all.At the end of his preface, still uncertain if his renderings have equaled “the understanding and compassion” of his forerunners, Shih-shu says he will “...for now tuck [my] poems away, out of sight, on this celebrated mountain. Perhaps after another five hundred years someone will come along, read them, and add harmonies of his own.”
Shih-shu's harmonies were not, of course, intended as autobiography. The reader is free to make what he or she will of the poems and of their author as well. Still, a few suggestions may be in order. Unlike the earlier harmonizer, Ch'u-shih, Shih-shu is not a very insistent Buddhist.While Ch'u-shih tows a fairly orthodox line, Shih-shu—typical of his era perhaps—seems as much Taoist as Buddhist, more a lay hermit than an entempled monk. Indeed, many of his poems use images and vocabulary derived entirely from the Taoist alchemical tradition. Further, as a Buddhist, he is clearly of the “samsara is itself nirvana” variety; for him, the world is far more a realm of enlightenment than a prison-house of sorrow. Indeed, at times he even seems to approach the tantric view of esoteric Buddhism and its watchword “the passions are themselves enlightenment.”
Accordingly, major themes in Shih-shu are a closeness to nature, spiritual transformation within the world, and a glorification of the hermit life of solitude and poverty. But whether in the end these themes reflect Shih-shu's own life and times or are, instead, only spiritual or poetic ideals is a question we cannot answer anymore than we can say who Shih-shu himself really was.
Finally, I might note that as a poet Shih-shu stands well above Ch'u-shih and often surpasses Feng-kan, Shih-te, and Han-shan as well. He need not have worried himself about having to tuck his own poems out of sight somewhere by the Yellow Sea. They are much better off out in the open—where anybody can read and appreciate them.
All but three of the Shih-shu harmonies translated here trace back to Han-shan originals.To compare a Shih-shu harmony to its original model—in English rendering at least—one may look up the same-numbered poem in Red Pine's translation of Han-shan ( The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain, Copper Canyon Press, 1983). The three unnumbered poems are harmonies to Shih-te.
35
the solitary peak stands alone—high, aloof
its shallow brooks frozen, still
overhead dancing clouds soar and wheel: a flock of birds
and jumbled boulders seem, men in conversationits bones, pale white plum blossoms
its flesh, luxuriant green sedges
softly, distantly; song from another world
every verse a harmony on the warmth of spring
40
the rich worry about getting poor
for me poverty would be a good year
I followed fate into these myriad peaks
you don't need a penny herethatched eaves beside a racing brook
cragflowers draping the bamboo fence
in winter, I turn my back to the sun
come summer, park myself at water's edge
134
against the gently flowing spring morning
the arrogant rattle of a passing coach
peach blossoms beckon from the distant village
willow branches caress the shoulder of my pondas bream and carp flash their golden scales
and mated ducks link embroidered wings
the poet stares about; this way, then that—
caught in a web beyond all speaking
92
some speak of ancestral emptiness
a nothing that is yet an infinity
smallest hint of a germ of a blossom
yet, the whole world subject to its callfish swim and animals leap with it
men and women are fed and clothed by it
strange, indeed, its transmutations
one breath swallowing up five colors
133
rather than break my vow to plum blossoms
I have settled here in this disheveled hut
grey sleet seeps through briars at my window
plumes of snow dance around its papered panessteep scarps loom above frozen woods
deep clouds conceal the pool's icy stones
such weather; I stoke up a few charcoal twigs
wish for a way south—to Chiang-nan's shore
149
a charge to students of the Tao:
“nothing to do; nothing to lose”
among the flowers, darkening clouds
above the pines, a sinking sunspring deepens with urgent birdcalls
autumn declines to the cries of insects
dawn: darkness wrapped in darkness
this, the end of every quest
93
You can't negate negation
so how can being be?yesterday I saw a young fellow on a horse
leading a bride home to his gardenfor a few years they looked like flowers
but with age turned ugly, wrinkled
bound together, but not by rope
shuffling their feet, first one, then the other
37
study the Way and never grow old
distrust emotions; truth will emerge
sweep away your worries
set even your body asideautumn drives off the yellow leaves
yet spring renews every green bud
quietly contemplate the pattern of things
nothing here to make us sad
70
as flowing waters disappear into the mist
we lose all track of their passage
every heart is its own Buddha
ease off; become immortalwake up: the world's a mote of dust
behold heaven's round mirror
turn loose: slip past shape and shadow
sit side by side with nothing—save Tao
137
in a dream I see the moon
beams of light woven all around it
the Weaver Girl descends step by step
not even a cloud to hold her upshe asks my name
“No one you'd know,” I reply
suddenly a pine breeze swirls by
dazzling sunbeams flood my window
73
nonsense: these Buddha teachings
illuminating moving bowels and passing water
ignorant of the wellspring of spirituality
they pour mountains and oceans from the same holefur and hair are easily tangled
as the Black Wind whistles its ghastly tune
yet, heed not the howling jackals' cry
rather, relieve yourself among the singing frogs
55
the human body is a little universe
its chill tears, so much wind-blown sleet
beneath our skins, mountains bulge, brooks flow
within our chests lurk lost cities, hidden tribeswisdom quarters itself in our tiny hearts
liver and gall peer out, scrutinize a thousand miles
follow the path back to its source, else be
a house vacant save for swallows in the eaves
94
others know how to forge metals
meld them back into a singularity
they push aside “the man of no position”
slap the silly Zennists downdisputing the tiger; disputing the dragon
calling out the ox; calling out the horse
what kind of place is this anyway?
which has no high—has no low
155
emptiness is a long story
that swallows up heaven and earth
a splash of ink turns into two dragons
stray clouds become an azure doglurking in my bowl: mountains, rivers
wheeling through my breast: a sun, a moon
a fierce wind shreds the ancient mists
grasses and trees bow before its snap and snarl
69
mountains and rivers: flowers of the Tao
but I, sadly, am a writer
no divine voice, talentless
yet, lend me a brush; I'm off and runningbetter an addiction to sunset clouds
to dispense with this sickness of words
let wooded springs purify this old heart
azure clouds burnish the sun red
AFTER SHIH-TE
perfumed springs ripple over skeletal outcrops
in the distance a hint of smoke, rising
I hear perpetual stillness in these hills
sense the rush of swirling waters
white plum blossoms blanket a dozen miles
save for this single, tiny hut
tigers, half-tame, loiter near my door
chattering monkeys guard my gate
a wild mountain-man, white hair streaming
tops the slate summit on a bamboo staff
caught unawares, I laugh at the distant bell
follow the twist and turn of an ancient streamZen-hearted, washed free of all desire
never again will I wander the noisy dust
106
mountain sounds carry a chill wisdom
an upwelling spring whispers subtle tales
pine breezes stir the fire beneath my tea
bamboo shadows soak deep into my robeI grind my ink: clouds scraping across the crags
copy out a verse: birds settling on branches
as the world rolls right on by
its every turn tracing out non-action
AFTER SHIH-TE
my ragged cloak is streaked with mountain shadows
my torn-out sandals scrape bare prints through the moss
home again, I wash my legs, bury my head in my hands…
am I warm? am I cold? I no longer know
82
in the nearby mountains, a green mountain haze
on the distant sea, white sea clouds
the chatter of birds is soundless
the roar of gibbons—absolutely silent
166
autumn mountains: brocades of light
the clouds: endless beauty
I lean on my staff, contemplate crimson leaves
silent: as the birds streaming above me
AFTER SHIH-TE
I climb these hills as if walking on air
body too light to fall
bamboo staff resting against a great stone
torn cloak snapping in the winda lone bird soars the azure depths
far distant springs reflected in its eye
carefree, singing a timeless song
gone—on a journey without end
157
how pitiful, the feelings of the world
still, the hills are not afraid
with forests of trees to clothe them
the hunting ground of poems and versemy heart is free as the white clouds
body light as a crimson leaf
apes and birds pull me forward
lusty as ever, we rise up—cross over
158
when were the stones and trees born?
green, green, layer upon folded layer
granite hard, untouched by the snows
ancient, obstinate, unscathed by frostthe jade tree, just one old branch
but Scarlet Flowers will restore its color
glistening, glossy, endlessly radiant
or darkly sheltered: hidden in the world below
Notes
35. Personification is uncommon in Chinese poetry, but Shih-shu uses the technique fairly often. His mountain has flesh and bones, is lonely and aloof. We also see it undergo a transformation of coldness to warmth that is as much emotional as it is seasonal. Perhaps these two poles, cold and warm, also mark the two modes of the Tao—as unspeakable, unmanifest, and pre-cosmic and as an omnipresent life force scattered throughout each and every one of the “ten thousand things” that make up the world.
40. The price of reclusion in the beauty of nature is poverty and namelessness. Or, perhaps, this price is itself the reward.
134. Shih-shu could have followed the bustling coach across the plain into town and perhaps have encountered a sweet thing or two there. But he would prefer, it seems, to remain faithful to his own hills, his own pond. A light, but perfectly apparent, tincture of eroticism suffuses this poem.
92. Like Buddhist emptiness, the original Tao is without form or substance. Yet it is the source of all manifestations, all transmutations—“the mother of the ten thousand things,” says Lao-tzu's Tao-te ching. The first two lines of the second verse are reminiscent of the opening passage of the recently discovered “lost Taoist text” the Tao Yuan ( Wellspring of the Tao ; translated in Robin B.Yates, Five Lost Classics: Tao, Huang-Lao, andYin-Yang in Han China , Ballantine Books, 1997, p. 173), which as Yates points out is itself reminiscent of an early passage in the Huai-nan Tzu . The five colors here are emblematic both of the Buddhist five senses and the Chinese five elements (earth, wood, fire, metal, and water). Their being swallowed up by one breath seems to bespeak the Tao's evolution outward to the ten thousand things and the subsequent return of the world (or of the Taoist mystic) back to this original formlessness. Outbreath. Then…inbreath.
133. The hermit's life has its difficulties. Being cold, lonely, and wet are among them. Flowers cast a mildly erotic glow here, although plum blossoms, the first flowers to emerge in spring, are perhaps not as promising as the lush peaches and lithe willows of poem 134. Way, of course, translates as Tao, the Way. This does not, however, make this a Taoist poem. The word “tao,” in its metaphorical meaning of “spiritual path,” was the common property of all Chinese religions.
149. This seems quite a dark poem. Technically the theme could be Buddhist impermanence, but perhaps it is really death that is at issue—the untimely end to an unfulfilled life (unless it is the dark mystery of the unmanifest Tao that marks our journey's end).
93. Old age, illness, and death are marks of Buddhist impermanence and sorrow. Having touched on death, Shih-shu here looks at old age. But, oddly, at the end of the poem it's hard once again to tell his exact meaning. Is this old couple pitiful in their infirmity, or blessed in their togetherness?
37. This is an odd meditation. First we are asked to cast aside both body and passions. But having seen the passage of autumn, we may yet, it seems, hope to know new springs still to come.
70. In the first stanza the poet conflates the goals of the Buddhist saints with those of the Taoist “immortals” ( hsien ).
137. This seems to be the account of a real dream. The Weaver Girl and the Herding Boy are two stellar constellations, as well as mythical lovers.Trapped on opposite sides of the Milky Way, they can meet only once a year, on the seventh night of the seventh month. Here the poet seems to become the object of the Weaver Girl's tryst. But just as things are getting nicely started, reality intrudes—and the poet wakes up. Chuang-tzu woke up thinking he might be a butterfly, but this is sadder still.
73. This is a very odd poem. It is just as scatalogical in Chinese as it is in English translation. Of course, Buddhist critiques of the sometimes pretentious Dharma are not entirely uncommon. The Ch'an master Tan-hsia, after all, chopped up an image of the Buddha for firewood. But to liken the Dharma to feces and urine? To reduce cosmology to defecation? Really! And it just gets worse. Are fur and hair meant as erotic images here? And who would laugh at the Black Wind of Death? Why does the poet end up peeing in the pond? Is there more here than meets the eye? Less? Just what is going on? Dear reader, it's up to you.
55. A number of Shih-shu's poems are based on the notions of Taoist alchemy. Among them, this expression of the unity of microcosm and macrocosm is fairly transparent, as is the sense that the true path will takes us back to the Tao. However, the final line is less clear. Is it perhaps an allusion to Chuang-tzu , chapter 20, in which Confucius praises swallows as the embodiment of fastidiousness?
94. The “man of no position” is a common Zen (Ch'an) pat phrase for the enlightened master.Tiger and dragon are yin and yang. Ox and horse are less clear, although the terms do occur in Taoist alchemy as code names for two primary trigrams of the I-ching, ch'ien and k'un , as in the lines of a poem by the alchemical Taoist, Tzu-yang Tzu, the Master of Purple Yang: “Ox without horns / Horse without hooves / This horse, this ox / Father Ch'ien, Mother K'un.” (As a two-character compound, ch'ien-k'un means “Heaven and Earth” or the universe.)
155. The first verse of this poem is not very clear, at least not to the translator. Although the idea that emptiness is a kind of narrative is rather attractive, the twin dragons and the azure dog are entirely puzzling. By contrast, the images of mountains in a bowl and astral entities in the human body are quite direct microcosm/macrocosm talk.The last line in the original Chinese contains a further amusing conceit.The characters translated as “snap” and “snarl” are lao and hou . Each of these consists of the “mouth radical” plus a second element. The radical marks them as onomatopoetic noise words, while the remainder of lao is the lao of Lao-tzu and the remainder of hou is the k'ung of K'ung-tzu (Confucius). Presumably this clues the close reader into the fact that Lao-tzu and Confucius were a couple of babbling windbags.
106. “Non-action”: wu-wei
82. At times Shih-shu expresses doubts about the value of writing poetry—a common problem for Buddhist poets. Birds and gibbons offer, perhaps, a solution. After Shih-te (p. 165). Shih-shu presents himself as a Taoist immortal, about ready to abandon his staff and cloak, waiting to rise into the sky, eager to soar with the birds.
157. In this piece Shih-shu lets poetry, Buddhism,Taoism, and passion all get tangled up.This is his way to enlightenment, one supposes.
158. Stones and trees, of course, spell out Shih-shu's name. The jade tree is phallic, Scarlet Flowers ostensibly an alchemical elixir. Does Tao/Nirvana shine out from the world beyond? Or does it hunker down with us, here, in the world below?
