Classic Poem

Over the last century,
when it comes to painting birds
there has been Lü Chi of late
and earlier, Pien Ching-chao.
These two masters worked at likeness,
they did not work at feeling:
licking their brushes, focusing their eyes,
distinguishing each feather.
Now Lin Liang writes his birds,
he only uses ink:
unroll the silk, and half the surface
is windswept by dark clouds!
Waterfowl and land birds—
each done marvelously;
hang them up and the entire room
takes on a vibrancy.
Up a deserted mountain, among ancient trees
and a river's angry waves,
two falcons suddenly appear
perched high on frosted cliffs.
Tensing bones, preening feathers,
full of dynamism:
from all four walls, in the sixth month of the year
autumn squalls arise!
One falcon peers straight down,
eyeballs never moving;
immediately we sense those eyes of his
never miss a hair!
The other falcon lowers his head
and is about to swoop:
soon, we feel, he'll shake his pinions
in the soughing wind.
The silken fabric may be fading
but this killer instinct will never disappear!
Horns perched above so awesomely,
talons, fists of iron!
Almost like two sad barbarians,
eyeballs popping out!
When northerly winds blow up the sand,
and autumn grasses wither,
if only I could take them on my arm
and mount an iron-clad steed!
The evil birds amidst the grasses
they would all strike and kill
and under ten thousand miles of cloudless sky
their feathers and blood spatter round.
I have heard tell, Emperor Hui-tsung of Sung
was also skilled at limning these hawks.
Later he lost the throne, of course,
and starved, a prisoner in Five Kingdoms.
Thus I know that painting is the art of a petty man:
work at likeness or work at feeling—
both give empty fame.
And hunting and riding out on horseback
are also trivial pursuits:
“Without, he engaged in promiscuous birding”
says the classic book.
But the present sovereign, noble and dignified,
has stopped such wanderings;
everyday he repairs to the Palace of Literary Brilliance
for lectures on the classics.
And so at South Sea and West Lake
the imperial avenues are deserted;
the masters of hunting and keepers of the game
are all poor, down and out.
Lü Chi, white-haired,
sits beside a brazier of gold:
at sunset he comes home,
without a penny for wine.
In ancient times, the highest wisdom
did not prize mere things;
who dared then to parade before the king
decadent arts and skills?
Oh Liang! Oh Liang!
May your paintings in future
not be worth much money:
thus preventing later generations
from doting on art and the chase!