Classic Poem

I
The secluded gentleman,
In sympathy with the extraordinary,
And in love with the strange,
Scorns the world and is unmindful of prestige.
He breaks away from human endeavor and leaves it behind.
He gazes up at the lofty, longing for the days of old;
He ponders lengthily, his thoughts wandering afar.
He would
Climb Mount Chi in order to maintain his moral integrity;
Or float on the blue sea to amble with his ambition.

II

So he invites his trusted friends,
Gathering about himself a group of like-minded.
He gets at the essence of the ultimate secret of life;
He researches the subtle mysteries of Tao and Te.
He regrets that the common people are not yet enlightened;
He alone, transcending all, has prior awakening.
He finds constraining the narrow road of the world—
He gazes up at the concourse of heaven, and treads the high vastness.
Distancing himself from the exquisite and the common, he abandons his personal concerns;
Then, filled with noble emotion, he gives a long-drawn whistle.

III

Thereupon,
The dazzling spirit inclines its luminous form,
Pouring its brilliance into Vesper's Vale.
And his friends rambling hand in hand,
Stumble to a halt, stepping on their toes.
He sends forth marvelous tones from his red lips,
And stimulates mournful sounds from his gleaming teeth.
The sound rises and falls, rolling in his throat;
The breath rushes out and is repressed, then flies up like sparks.
He harmonizes ‘goldenkung’ with ‘sharpchiao,’
Blendingshangandyüinto ‘flowingchih.’
The whistle floats like a wandering cloud in the grand empyrean,
And gathers a great wind for a myriad miles.
When the song is finished, and the echoes die out,
It leaves behind a pleasure that lingers on in the mind.
Indeed, whistling is the most perfect natural music,
Which cannot be imitated by strings or woodwinds.

IV

Thus, the Whistler
Uses no instrument to play his music,
Nor any material borrowed from things.
He chooses it from the near-at-hand—his own Self,
And with his mind he controls his breath.

V

By moving his lips, there is a melody;
By pursing his mouth, he makes the sounds.
For every category he has a song;
To each thing he perceives, he tunes a melody.

The Music is
Loud, but not raucous,
Tenuous, but not terminated.
Pure, surpassing both reed and mouth-organ,
Richly harmonious with lute and harp.
Its mystery is subtle enough to unfold fully pure consciousness and enlighten creative intelligence;
Its essence is refined enough to explore completely the hidden and plumb the depths.
It holds back the distressing abandon of a Whirling Ch'u melody;
It regulates the extravagant dissipation of a Northern Ward song.
It turns floods into drought,
And turns Pure Creativity into Solid Intelligence.

VI

Since the cantos induce all possible transformations,
The applications of the tunes are unbounded.
The harmonious and happy are made joyful and satisfied;
The grieved and wounded are torn within.
At times it is deep and dispersed—about to break off;
At other times it is strong and harsh—filled with high spirits.
It wanders slowly to and fro, persuasive and clear;
It rises swiftly in a crescendo, complex and intricate.
Though you be lost in thoughts, it can bring you back to your Mind;
Though you be distressed, it will never break your Heart.
Whistling combines the eight sounds into perfect harmony;
Indeed, it stabilizes extreme pleasure without going to excess.

VII

Now, if
You climb your lofty terrace to look out at the view;
You open your study door and let your gaze roam the distances;
With a gasp you raise your head to look up and tap the rhythms;
With a din your long-drawn canto resonates with reverberations.
Sometimes the melody rolls out easily and turns back by itself;
Sometimes it hesitates, and then lets loose again.
Sometimes it is soft and yielding, tender and pliant;
Sometimes it is rushing and vigorous, like the sound of waves and gushing water.
Unexpectedly, the echo is suppressed and the torrent dries up;
Then a pure note floats out, limpid and bright.

VIII

Now excessive vitality stirs up an effusion,
A confusing mixture, interchanging and intertwining,
Like a rising whirlwind,lieh-lieh,
Tracing echoes,chiu-chiu;
Or like the long-drawn neighing of a tatar horse,
Facing into the cold wind of the northern steppes.
Or also like
The wild goose leading her little ones;
The flock cries out as it flies over the desert wastes.

IX

Thus, the Whistler can
Create tones based on the forms,
Compose melodies in accordance with affairs;
Respond without limit to the things of Nature,
Trigger his inspiration, sending echoes rushing off,
Like a turbulent torrent bursting forth,
Or clouds piling up endlessly,
Now breaking up, now running together,
About to die out—and then continuing.

X

Fei Lien, the Wind God, swells out of his deep cavern,
And a fierce tiger replies with a howl in the central valley.
The Southern Sieve moves in the vaulted sky,
And a bright whirlwind quivers in the lofty trees.
It shatters our crammed-up cares and scatters them,
Purging the turbid constipations of life's dusty cloud.
It works the changes of yin and yang in perfect harmony,
And transforms the base vulgarity of lewd customs.

XI

Now if the Whistler
Wanders over lofty ridges and crags,
crossing a huge mountain,
And, at the edge of a gorge,
overlooking a purling stream,
Sits down on a massive rock,
And rinses his mouth with the sparkling spring;
Or leans into a luxuriant profusion of marsh-orchids,
In the shade of the elegant charm of tall bamboos—
Then his warble pours forth,
An endless succession of echoing reverberations.
He unfolds the melancholic thoughts harbored mutely in his mind;
And arouses his most intimate feelings, which have long been knotted up.
His heart, cleansed and purified, is carefree;
His mind, detached from the mundane, is sylphlike.

XII

Should he then
Imitate gong and drum,
Or mime clay vessels and gourds;
There is a mass of sound like many instruments playing—
Like reed pipe and flute of bamboo—
Bumping boulders trembling,
An horrendous crashing, smashing, rumbling.
Or should he
Sound the tonechih, then severe winter becomes steaming hot;
Give free play toyü, then a sharp frost makes summer fade;
Move intoshang, then an autumn drizzle falls in springtime;
Strike up the tonechiao, then a vernal breeze soughs in the bare branches.

XIII

The eight sounds and five harmonies constantly fluctuate;
The melody follows no strict beat.
It runs, but does not run off;
It stops, but does not stop up.
Following his mouth and lips, it expands forth;
Floating on his fragrant breath, it travels afar.
The music is terse and exquisite, with flowing echoes;
The sound stimulates brilliance, with its clear staccatos.
Indeed, with its supreme natural beauty,
It is quite distinguished and incomparable!
It transcends the music of Shao Hsia and Hsien Ch'ih;
Why vainly find the exotic in Cheng and Wei?

XIV

For when the Whistler performs,
Mien Chü holds his tongue and is distraught;
Wang Pao silences his mouth and turns pale.
Duke Yü stops singing in the middle of a song;
Master Ning restrains his hands from tapping and sighs deeply.
Chung Ch'i abandons his lute and listens instead;
Confucius forgets the taste of meat and stops eating.
The various animals all dance and stomp their feet;
The paired phoenixes come with stately mien and flap their wings.
They understand the magnificent beauty of the long-drawn Whistle;
Indeed, this is the most perfect of sounds!