“Waiting for the Unicorn”
Wu Tsao (P’in-hsiang; YÜ-CH’EN-TZU), a native of Jen-ho (present-day Hangchow), Chekiang province, published two volumes of tz’u in her lifetime: Hua-lien tz’u (Flowered Curtain Lyrics) and Hsiang-nan hsüeh-pei tz’u (Lyrics from the Fragrant South and the Snowy North). She also wrote some song poems (ch’ü). Her lyrics, frequently set to music and widely sung, were popular among literate women, courtesans, and performers of the time.
Not much is known about her life. She grew up in a merchant family, married a Mr. Huang, and kept her own name. Because no exchanges of poems of theirs exist, and because there is no mention of him in her poems, it is presumed he was a merchant and that the marriage may have been unhappy.
Sometime between the publication of her first collection, before she was thirty, and her second, after she was forty, her circumstances declined radically. She moved south, probably alone. In the preface to her second collection of lyrics, she writes of ten years of “sorrows and burdens” that were overwhelming. She declines to enumerate them, however, but one gathers from the poems that illness may have been one cause of her depression. In any event, as a result of these reverses, she cast off hope for this life, became a devout Buddhist, and followed the Way of the Pure Land sect. “As for poetry,” she writes, “I gave up writing it.” Poetry was for Wu Tsao a karma, tying her to this world. She never wrote again. Neither the date nor the circumstances of her death are known.
Wu Tsao is admired for a style that is not typically feminine. She is particularly adept at using a vernacular vocabulary and an easy colloquial style to delineate true emotions; her stance is direct and bold rather than languid or contrived. She seems to have identified herself to some degree with the Sung poet Li Ch’ing-chao (1085?—ca. 1151), also a woman, and to have captured some of Li’s most-admired qualities: delicacy, honesty, and grace.
(Julie Landau)
Tune: Ju-meng ling (As in a Dream: A Song)
Title: Swallows
Not all the swallows have left with the spring:
One flies past embroidered curtains into my inner room.
Softly, endlessly, it murmurs;
Could it be saying, “May I stay with you?”
Waiting for an answer,
Waiting for an answer,
With a smile, I reply, “No, you mustn’t.”
(WTT, p. 24)
(Tr. Irving Y. Lo)
Tune: Man chiang hung (Full River Red)
Shut the door against the setting sun
The yard is full of broken flowers, faded grass!
Sparse shades rolled up, the wind blows taut the paper window
Smoke curls from the incense burner
From the sky’s end cry the migrating geese that have passed | 5 |
From the edge of the forest caw a few spots of disappearing crows
...
There is no one—softly, leaves fall on the cold empty step—
Who swept away the petals?
I set down endlessly
The draft of a broken heart | 10 |
Words don’t keep pace
With idle sorrow
Whatever I see
Adds to the stuff of poetry.
Even my own shadow pities me—thin sleeves, | 15 |
Sick soul already three autumns old—
Wait! Inspect the eaves! Absurd—but ask the freezing plum:
Is it still too soon for spring?
(WTT, p. 18)
(Tr. Julie Landau)
Tune: Hsing-hsiang tzu (Fragrant Wandering: A Song)
The night seems endless
Leaves whisper as they fall
The wind oppresses the paper window nonstop.
Steam from the tea grows cold
The stove is dark, the incense finished, | 5 |
Empty as the small yard.
I close the doors,
Raise the wick.
Sorrow is as hard to shake off
As dreams are difficult to summon. | 10 |
And to sleep in the embrace of a cold quilt—no!
This night is one long cold misery.
The dregs of time seep through the clepsydra
The grim sound of a bell
The shrill cry of the geese. | 15 |
(WTT, pp. 18–19)
(Tr. Julie Landau)
Tune: K’u hsiang-ssu (Bitter Longing)
Dusk in the still yard, cut from the same pattern
The phrases of sorrow, still the same
The blend of dreams and autumn lamplight too, the same
Last night the raging of the wind and rain
Tonight again the sound of driving rain
It spatters on and on ‘til dawn—
If only there were fewer plantains!
I wonder, how many cold crickets chatter on the steps?
Outside the window too I hear them crick, one by one,
And beyond the wall, sound after sound
(WTT, pp. 24–25)
(Tr. Julie Landau)
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