chengdu and du fu

23 October

Another day, we visited the site of the home of Du Fu, China’s most revered poet, whose poems from the 7^th century are still known widely today.  I suppose he holds a similar place to Shakespeare’s in our culture.  He is revered as a defender of the poor, to te extent of giving up his privileged position and going into exile.  His poems make many references to the area were he then lived, and this is thought to have been preserved over the many centuries since, right here in these gardens.  Very recently, archaeological remains of the period have been uncovered on the site, giving the story some credence.  The current buildings are actually 19^th century or later but aim to emulate the sense of his work.  In the centre is a thatched timber framed cottage, which is an idea of what his cottage would have looked like.  (The fact that this is all a reconstruction, and nothing like the 7^th century, is skated over in most of the tourist guides.)   

However ersatz, the very extensive park is definitely a serene haven, with its high wooden halls, covered walkways, flowing water, rocks and mature trees in the best Chinese tradition.  We spent an hour in a tea house sipping our glasses of the clear amber liquid, frequently topped up by a friendly waitress, as Hong taught me how to crack open melon seeds with my teeth for a perfect accompanying snack.  A little traditional music wafted across the lake from somewhere, and fish occasionally broke the surface looking for tidbits.  I’m sure Du Fu would have put it better – but definitely a high point and a calming break to Chengdu’s manic lifestyle.  Here’s an example for late autumn and what we call the hunter’s moon. In translation you miss the careful rhyme scheme, each line seven syllables, and seven characters in Chinese, so that it also looks good in written form.  Hong declaimed it for me, rather gracefully.

Above the tower -- a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.

Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!