Daoist Perspectives in Classical Chinese Poetry — Daoist Talks (VII)
Chinese poetry offers another way of approaching the ideas in my Daoist Talks: opposites, empty space and the creative process. I want to begin with Li Bai’s Quiet Night Thought, then turn to an image of wild geese reflected in water. The two passages come from different settings. What draws me to them is how much can happen with very little being said.
Li Bai: Quiet Night Thought 《静夜思》
Li Bai (701–762) needs little introduction to readers of Chinese poetry. Here I am interested less in rhyme or metre than in the movement of the poem: the moon above, its light below, the head raised and then lowered.
床前明月光，疑是地上霜。
举头望明月，低头思故乡。
Before my bed lies a pool of moonlight;
I could imagine it is frost upon the ground.
I raise my head and see the shining moon;
I lower it again, thinking of home.
This English rendering follows the version used in the original article; it is intended as a guide to the images rather than an attempt to reproduce the Chinese verse form.
Opposites in Quiet Night Thought
Moon above and moonlight below, head raised and head lowered, the place where one stands and the home far away: the poem moves between these simple contrasts. A change in the direction of a glance is enough to turn an outward scene into an inward one. I recognise something of the economy of ink painting in that movement.
Reading the Poem
The speaker momentarily takes moonlight for frost, looks towards the moon, then bows his head in thoughts of home. We are told almost nothing about his circumstances. There is no explanation of why he is away and no long statement of emotion. Homesickness arrives through the light and the gesture. The moon is present; home is absent.[1]
The Power of What Is Left Unsaid
What fascinates me is that the voice could belong to almost anyone separated from home. I can imagine an exiled official, a soldier far from his village, or a young woman living away from her family. These are possibilities the poem opens for me, not claims about Li Bai’s own situation when he wrote it.
In a landscape painting, mist may conceal most of a mountain, leaving only a few peaks or trees visible. I have to complete what I cannot see. A poem can ask something similar of its reader. The few things present make room for what is missing.
Wild Geese and Spontaneity
Another image that has stayed with me is that of wild geese passing over water. The birds do not set out to leave a reflection, and the water does not try to retain it. For a moment, an image appears. In the English version used here:
Wild geese pass through the wide sky;
their image sinks into the cold water below.
The geese have no intention of leaving their image;
the water has no wish to keep it.
An earlier version of this article attributed these lines to Du Fu and placed them in the Three Hundred Tang Poems. That attribution was mistaken. The underlying passage occurs in the Chan Buddhist collection Chanlin sengbao zhuan (禪林僧寶傳), in the chapter on Tianyi Yihuai. It is a teaching image, rather than a verified poem by Du Fu.[2]
The philosopher Chang Chung-yuan uses the image in his discussion of creativity, which was my point of departure.[3] The reflection arises from the encounter between birds, light and water. Neither the birds nor the water need to manage the result. I find this a useful way of thinking about the moment when a painting begins to work without being pushed.
This brings me back to wu wei (無為), action without unnecessary forcing. The Chan setting of the passage and my Daoist reading should remain distinguishable. For me, their meeting is productive: a brushstroke needs preparation and attention, yet too much insistence can take the life out of it.
I have kept Wang Ziwu’s portrait of Du Fu below as part of the essay’s visual conversation with Tang poetry. Du Fu is the subject of the painting; he is not the author of the wild-geese passage.
A Personal Connection: Wang Ziwu
I had the privilege of knowing Wang Ziwu (王子武) personally. His portraits bring a physical presence to these poetic voices: a raised cup, a bent shoulder, a face turned upwards. I was particularly delighted that he also painted me. My long hair and beard apparently offered him a welcome change of subject. Elsewhere I have told the story of a student prank involving one of his paintings.
Perhaps that is where these readings return me to painting: to a movement or a few marks that leave something unresolved. The moonlight remains on the floor. The geese have already gone. What does the image leave with us?
Footnotes
[1] The earlier version of this section acknowledged an AI-assisted analysis. The reading has been revised here, while retaining its focus on opposites and the reader’s imagination. ↩
[2] See 禪林僧寶傳, chapter on 天衣懷禪師 (Tianyi Yihuai). The passage compares uncontrived awareness to geese crossing the sky and their reflection in cold water. The English rendering above is adapted from the version previously quoted in this article. ↩
[3] Chang Chung-yuan: Tao, Zen und schöpferische Kraft, Diederichs Gelbe Reihe, Düsseldorf, 1975, p. 51. This is the edition cited in the original article. ↩
Related articles: Daoist Talks (VI): Principles of Dao in Painting · Student Prank with Wang Ziwu · From Daoism to Zen in Chinese Painting
Explore Art & Writing
Art Portfolio → Featured Artworks → Arts & Philosophy Journal → All Articles
Explore Asian Art Essays for writing on Chinese painting, calligraphy, aesthetics and art history.
Available Artworks
Original works are available on FriedrichZettl.com and Saatchi Art
Leave a Reply