This followed on from a 1980 original which had only the first four poets. It's a fascinating thing. The first major question which arose for me surrounded the position of these writers in the Chinese society of the eighth and ninth centuries. Young provides piercing introductions to each, as well as an overall one. I didn't get the impression they were courtiers of the type we can possibly imagine. They seemed independent of at least some of that, though I'm sure there were influences, preferment, pensions and so on which arose from that centre of power. What I was after in thinking about that was a definition of the word "poet" in this circumstance. They seemed glimpsers, still-pensive-moment recorders, rather than prolix commentators. The job of poetry was a little different. Is it poetry at all? Or is it even more concentratedly so? (Don't like the idea of the "it's just different" dull-minded imagined reply.) The "what is poetry?" discussion, especially across cultures, is an interesting one. These things went through my head. The major revelations in the introduction were quite how much leeway there was in terms of translation on the one hand, because of the mechanics of the Chinese language, and contrastingly the fact that these works in their original could exude meaning not only horizontally but vertically - the characters as they were written influencing each other multi-directionally. This element is no doubt often, or even always, lost in translation, along with the highly specific cultural references which underlie parts of the expression. All of which has the corollary of congratulation to Young for a book so pleasurable to read. These poems are surprisingly corporeal, but I guess that surprise emanates from too little knowledge. They use very tight images of things, juxtapose them with one another, and extract highly distilled direct meaning - there's nothing particularly identifiable as diffuse here. Or hard to fathom in essence, though in line with the above we may well be missing tangents. There is a definite feeling of looking out at a landscape, the seasons, birds, in many cases, careful feeling of the way through to significance in few words. There is also a slight smile in some, mention of drunkenness and self-pity, loneliness and yearning, again sparely. And sensuality has its part, particularly in some works of the last poet, Li Shang-yin, where images feel as though they could be (highly civilised!) double-entendre. As one perhaps imagines, green is the signal colour throughout. Goodness knows how many times it is mentioned in this book: suits me very well.
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