Chapter 47: 123 chapters, the crabapple remains as before

123 chapters, the crabapple remains as before.

123 chapters,

the crabapple remains as before.

Liu Guozong

Last night it was wind, it was rain. The wind blew all night, the rain fell all night. The wind rustled, the rain rustled, the leaves rustled.

Poet Li Qingzhao said: "Last night the rain was sparse, the wind sudden; deep sleep does not dispel the remaining wine. I ask the one who rolls up the curtain, but they say the crabapple remains as before. Do you know? Do you know? It should be: the leaves are lush, the blossoms faded."

I know that the female poet of the Song dynasty wrote about the feelings of spring, the sensations of spring.

At that time our poets were also in the bloom of youth.

When one is in the bloom of youth, one tends to be melancholy and sentimental; how much more so for her, who is also a poet.

What kind of person is a poet? Mr. Lu Xun said, poets upon seeing the moon wane and flowers fall will secretly shed tears; Lu Xun was speaking of ancient poets. In ancient times, people who wrote poetry and essays mostly did so for fame and profit.

For example, the Tang dynasty selected officials through poetry. In the examination hall, as long as you wrote well, the chief examiner would take notice, and you would become a Presented Scholar, a recommended candidate, or even the top scorer; thus you achieved fame and success.

The great Tang poet Bai Juyi, precisely because of a short poem entitled 'Fu De Ancient Plain Grass Farewell', caught the eye of the chief examiner Gu Kuang at the time and thus placed high on the imperial list.

When the chief examiner saw in Bai Juyi's 'Fu De Ancient Plain Grass Farewell' the line 'Wild fire cannot burn it all, spring wind blows and it grows again', he slammed the desk before him and said, 'What a fine line: "Wild fire will not be exhausted, spring wind blows and it grows again." Truly excellent!' Bai Juyi thus gained fame.

Writing a good short poem can change a person's lifelong fate; this is an indisputable fact in Chinese history, especially in the Tang dynasty.

The Tang dynasty is called the pinnacle of Chinese poetry.

After the peak, there must be a valley.

Laozi once said, 'When things become strong, they grow old.' Whenever things head toward the peak, it means they are going downhill.

This is a natural law. Laws cannot be broken. Since the Tang, Chinese poetry has continually gone downhill. Someone might say: the Song dynasty's ci, the Yuan dynasty's qu, aren't they also written well?

Yes, that is ci, that is qu, not poetry.

You should know that ci and qu are the afterglow of poetry's brilliance.

The brilliance of poetry, in China is already history, is the story of the Tang people.

Later generations wanting to use poetry to realize life's ideals, that is a very difficult undertaking.

For example, Song's Li Qingzhao also wrote poetry, and she wrote it well, also aspiring to "in life be an outstanding person"; what was the result? No need for others to say, she herself made it perfectly clear: "searching, searching, cold and clear, sorrowful, sorrowful, miserable, miserable." Look, the poet is already "searching, searching, cold and clear, sorrowful, sorrowful, miserable, miserable."

Although, this is an individual phenomenon. But can an individual not also illustrate the general?

By the Ming and Qing dynasties, poetic creation was nearing its end. Look at that Yuan qu, how petty it is: "Withered vines, old trees, dusk crows; small bridge, flowing water, homes; ancient road, west wind, thin horse; sunset westbound, the broken-hearted person at the ends of the earth." This is not writing poetry or song; it is simply the poet weeping and wailing! Writing poetry to the point of keeping company with dusk crows and thin horses.

This is no longer a poet; this is a vagrant, this is someone at the end of their rope wandering the rivers and lakes.

Writing poetry, to the point of having no food to eat, no home.

Isn't this the decline of Chinese poetry? In the May Fourth era, Lu Xun led the ordinary hot-blooded youth, shouting a few cries at that iron house, issuing the call "Save the children!".

Guo Moruo came forth with *The Goddesses*. People's eyes lit up, taking poetry as a bugle.

Many heard the bugle and charged forward against the three great mountains weighing on the heads of the Chinese. The standard-bearer who marched ahead holding the high flag while blowing the bugle, Mr. Lu Xun, fell.

Then Mr. Guo, blowing the bugle, kept running forward. Many more followed him; as a result, many of those who followed him ran into bad luck. For no reason they became whatever rightists, some went into cattle sheds, some into prisons, still others died under beatings, becoming grudge ghosts.

Writing poetry to this extent is also another great sorrow of Chinese poetry. Those who wanted to write poetry to gain a little fame and reward now fear poetry.

Later, catching up with the red era, they just went with the flow, shouting slogans, chewing on nonsense, and took slogans as poetry. The red storm passed. People then again sought poetry.

In the realm of poetry, can there be no poetry? Thus everyone became poets "six billion divine land all Shun Yao". The streets were full of poets: those selling scallions, those selling candy, those mending shoes, those holding tile knives, all were poets. Even people's farts were poetry. Soon, poets became infamous. This is rare in Chinese and foreign history.

This is certainly not the pinnacle of Chinese poetry; it is a degeneration of Chinese poetry!

Outside the window the rain is still falling, but the wind has blown a little softer, I can no longer hear the wind's sound. Raindrops drip-drop, endless, tangled, just like my thoughts. First, I am not a poet, but I do not rule out that I once wanted to be a poet. However, the people around me all call me 'poet'. I do not know whether this is teasing, mockery, or respect for poetry; I am at a loss!

I have long known that poetry cannot make money. Even if you twist off a few stamens, you will not find customers buying your poetry. Liang Shiqiu also early on expressed his inner thoughts: 'Poetry cannot furnish the rich's living room as decoration, poetry cannot entertain the vast readership. The rich want calligraphy and paintings, the masses want novels and dramas; poetry, a short segment, does not fill the page usefully. Poetry is such a useless thing, so poets who make a living from poetry, if they live next door to you, are naturally a joke. Whether they can ever become sacred in future history is also very slim.'

I do not know whether Liang Shiqiu is a poet, but he voiced the inner feelings of poets of that time. Now the situation of poets is even worse than what Mr. Liang said. This is not that our country does not value poets, but rather the current market economy, whatever urbanization, people all look to money.

Poetry cannot make money.

Reading poetry not only fails to earn money, but also wastes time, delays the effort to make money. Not reading poetry can also make money.