Li Bai or Li Po's
"Drinking Alone by Moonlight": Analysis

A BESTWORD ANALYSIS

To English readers, the virtue of Chinese poetry is not always found in the translation itself, but in the freedom of its unrestrained interpretation.  The complete dissimilarities between the two languages create an intellectual barrier that few translators can competently traverse.  This, and the incredible depth of Eastern poetry, commonly a dynamic of philosophy, spirituality, symbolism, and culture, combines to create an artistic phenomenon that, though few can fully understand, all Western readers can avidly enjoy.  Sixth Century Taoist poet, Li Bai’s (701 – 762, Tang Dynasty) “Drinking Alone by Moonlight” is a perfect example of Taoism expressed through poetic medium.  Its popularity carrying over into Western readership has seen numerous, and very different, translations of the text.  This apparent failure to reach a consensus on a single true translation leaves Li Bai’s poem in a sort of analytical “Limbo,” where all are free to take from the text any meaning they so wish.  This natural evolution of post-structuralism, though obscuring Li Bai’s original meaning, has come to engender a legacy of intellectual heirs that even the Emperor of China himself would be envious of.

Most translations of Li Bai’s “Drinking Alone by Moonlight” are, in fact, only educated interpretations themselves.  What few English readers understand is that Chinese is an ancient and ritual saturated language where many different meanings can be shared by a single mono-syllable word.  A Westerner attempting to even speak the language often falls victim to stresses of the vowels, where even the slightest variation of the word “Ma” means the literal difference between “horse,” “a numb leg,” and “your mother.”  These words are also put to silk in a system of writing where, though thousands of individual symbols exist, there may still be multiple meanings for a singles character.  Even the title of Li Bai’s poem, “Yuè Xià Dú Zhuó,” literally translates into “moon, under, alone, pour wine” just as easily as it translates into “month, later, only, consider.”  In this context, a translator is just as likely to write a title of “Pouring Wine under the Moon” as they are “Only to Consider a Month Later.”
 
As a cultural construct, Chinese poetry is exceedingly profound.  Though deceptively effortless in design, its genius is often found in that very simplicity; the reader having to decipher a complex multifaceted meaning of scholarly allusions and symbolism from only a few uncomplicated words.  A master poet would, quite literally, summarize all creation, heaven and earth, in a few deliberate syllables.   Taoist poetry is, as is our Li Bai, characterized by its philosophically uncritical, almost naive, acceptance of the world.  Dissimilar from the divine hierarchy of Confucianism, and the mortal transcendence of Buddhism, Taoism is a ‘letting go’ and ‘letting be’ in a world unconditionally perfect as it is at that very moment. Its minimalist prose capturing more the values and philosophy than aesthetic appearance of its subject, Taoist poetry would be considered deep even to the Chinese.

It is in this context that the Western reader must ask themselves, “Can I ever possibly understand what Li Bai meant?”  The depth of the content further complicated by the utterly indecipherable language in which it was composed, quite literally, means no native English speaker can ever fully comprehend what Li Bai meant.   The English language is, quite simply, too blunt a tool to serve as a medium for Chinese poetry.  The text looses so much of the culturally rich content characteristic of Chinese poetry in its translation, that to even consider the English product ‘Chinese poetry’ would be artistic heresy. 

Luckily, we are saved by the Taoist philosophy itself.  A Confuciust poet, intellectually elitist by virtue, would scoff at our barbarism, but the all accepting, all loving Taoist would greet us with open arms.  Li Bai would recognize us as an untapped form of artistic expression, and to view our nature as anything but welcome would be defeatist.  His poetry would be open to our interpretation, and whatever meaning we may find in his works would be a blessing.  Though he wrote a poem that had a great meaning to him personally, he freely gives us that same poem to offer meanings of our own.  A Taoist would see a poem as a living creature existing independently from the poet; free to exist in the world, and have a fate all its own.  Though not as immaterial as a Buddhist, the Taoist would still let the rice paper leaflet of a poem float freely on the breeze into the hands of whoever wishes to read it.  It is the Taoist philosophy that gives us the power to read Li Bai and appreciate it in our own way.

A literal, uninterpreted translation of Li Bai’s “Drinking Alone by Moonlight”, by Jordan Dickie, 2008:

Yuè Xià Dú Zhuó     (moon, under, alone, pour wine)
Huā jiā yī hú jiŭ     (blossom, among, one, pot, wine)
Dú zhuó wú xiāng qīn     (alone, pour wine, without, one another, intimate)
Jŭ bēi yāo míng yuè     (to lift, cup, invite, bright, moon)
Duì yĭng chìng sān rén     (couple, shadow, complete, three, people)
Yuè jì bù jiĕ yĭn     (moon, since, not understand, drink)
Yĭng tú suí wŏ shēn    (shadow, disciple, follow, my body)
 Zàn bàn yuì jiāng yĭng     (temporary, companion, moon, shadow)
Xíng lè xū jí chūn     (to go, cheer, must, to reach, spring/joy)
Wŏ gē yuè pái huí     (I, song, moon, irresolute, wander)
Wŏ wŭ yĭng líng luàn     (I, to dance, shadow, remnant, in confusion)
Xĭng shí tóng jiāo huān     (to be awake, accompanying, to make friends, joyous)
Zuì hòu gè fēn săn     (intoxicate/finally, each, divided, scattered)
 Yŏng jiē wú qíng yóu     (forever, to bind, not, merciless, to travel/roaming)
Xiāng qī miăo yún hàn  (heavenly river/Milky Way, profound/remote, cloud)

Your humble writer would be the first to admit the base and ignorant attempt at would-be translation that he has made.  Undoubtedly, linguistic scholars as well as the average elementary exchange students would be able to poke holes using stupefyingly obvious errors in my translation.  The last line, specifically, took some time just to find the proper source for the “milky way” translation that is so commonly found in English translations of this poem; not to mention the “cloud, man” translation at the end that has me scratching my head entirely.  Not only was it necessary to wade through several meanings of the same word to find that one specific fit, but their order alone can easily throw an English speaker off course.  Still, the translation should at least give an English reader a clearer idea of just how open to interpretation Chinese poetry can be; more importantly, the artistic freedom a reader can enjoy by interpreting it.

By a reader simply saying aloud the title, “moon, under, alone, poor wine,” they could very well feel like they’re reading a Post-modern poem in some fashionable midnight club scene.  It would also be hoped, however, that the reader would feel the effects of what could very well be an indirect form of Taoist stress therapy.  By reading the naked translation of the title, the reader could feel a sense being temporarily cleansed of external stressors.  Just by reading the words, though somewhat linguistically scrambled, the general premise of the line finds itself manifesting into a mental image: sitting alone and pouring fine rice wine into a cup, among the spring blossoms of peach trees under a full moon.  

The reader has the unique privilege of having almost complete artistic control over the connotation and symbolism of the poem.  More so than usual, it is the individual reader’s interpretation of Li Bai’s words that will breathe life into its meaning.  The reader may choose to see a peaceful old man, toasting to the memories of loved ones past; perhaps a philosopher contemplating the celestial bodies of the universe; the reader may even see the alcoholic stumblings of a loony old traveler.  The point is: the medium of translated poetry serves as the richest soil for the healthy development of interpretory imagination.

In essence, anyone who reads the uninterpreted translation of Li Bai’s poem will fundamentally rewrite it.  The reader, at the moment that they are consuming the medium, instantly becomes the authority of their given interpretation; the poem becomes their own private intellectual property.  In fact, it should be encouraged to do so.  The reader should feel free to absorb the prose and let the imagery produced by the language lead their imagination wherever they see fit.  The main character of the poem may become a tragic figure, or a deep philosophical symbol engaging with supernatural forces to reveal some great metaphysical lesson.  It would be hoped that the reader would also feel free to simply sit back and take in the words as a gentle digression into a relaxed meditative state where they may cast off the daily stresses for a at least a few moments.  The universal virtue of poetry is, after all, spiritual refreshment.

To your humble writer, Li Bai’s poem can be interpreted in a rather unconventional manner.  Le Bai, or Li Po, was first introduced to the West through American Poet, Ezra Pound (1885 – 1972), as the Japanese Rōmanji translation of Li Bai as Rihaku, the “wandering poet.”  The image of Rihaku, a deep, though somewhat cheery, traveling Chinese poet, wine jug securely fastened at his hip, is the prominent picture Western translations have painted of him.  Consequently, it would be this Rihaku image that would also be the label of popular saké brands in Japan.  Li Bai did, ‘apparently,’ drown drunk while trying to scoop the moon from a river, after all.  This, now fantastic, figure of Rihaku would wander throughout the countryside contemplating and composing Taoist prose that he would then exchange for more ‘inspirational’ pots of wine.  It is this character of Rihaku, a construct of Li Bai’s legend and not his pen, that your humble writer would see sitting under the spring blossoms, toasting the spring moon.

“Drinking Wine by Moonlight,” would provide the spiritually touched setting, a combination of moonlight and alcohol, which our character, Rihaku, uses to personify the Taijitu symbolism of Taoism.  Though your humble writer had initially thought it a drunken anthropomorphism of the moon and Rihaku’s shadow, the poem later dawned as a Taoist lesson on the Western “Yin and Yang” concept of Taoism.  With the bright moon overhead (Yang) and the dark shadow at his feet (Yin), the Rihaku character serves as a dynamic between these two opposites that the Taoists believed was a balanced part of every force in nature.  Rihaku, dancing and singing, becomes a material relationship between these two divine principles.  Later in the poem, they scatter to wander alone, incomplete without each other, only to be found again in heaven.

“Drinking Wine by Moonlight” is mortal symbolism of the Taijitu’s metaphysical doctrines.  Rihaku begins the poem feeling incomplete by being alone.  This missing person could very well be anything we as mortal beings may wish for: wealth, success, or love.  This concept is that we as earthly creatures feel that our lives are somehow missing something important.  Rihaku, searching for meaning, turns to heaven for purpose, toasting the moon.  Upon doing so, he indirectly stumbles upon the discovery that he is a dynamic of heavenly forces, yin and yang, and interacts with the duality of his nature.  He is neither good nor evil; successful nor a failure; he simply ‘is.’  As a human being existing in this world, whatever he chose to be, or how fate saw fit to caste him, by simply being who he was, he was wise and true to his nature. 

In the poem, there is no literal moon or shadow.  These were symbols of the different sides of existence that are opposite, but interdependent.  Just as they both carry seeds of each other within them, they wax and wane, giving way to the cycles they share.  Rihaku, as a singular character, does not exist either.  The moon and shadow exist as a duality of the Rihaku character, but even he does not entirely exist as a whole.  All three of them merge to become an entity unto themselves, ceasing to exist as individuals.  If one should leave, the others would scatter incompletely until they would finally become one again in the infinite wisdom of heaven.

Li Bai’s poem, in spite of any influence acting upon the reader, is still an individual text that stands alone as an incredible piece of work.  The reader need feel no pressure to be ‘correct’ when interpreting “Drinking Alone by Moonlight.”  The apparent meaning and symbolism of a drunken Chinese poet is the last thing an intelligent Western scholar should be laying claim to.  The reader should simply clear their mind and just drink it in.  Let the words fall where they may so that the imagination can take over and paint the beautiful imagery that Li Bai lays out for us.  The poem should simply be accepted for what it is.  The reader, keeping true to the philosophy of the author, should just let it “be.”  Li Bai was, after all, a Taoist.

Written by Jordan Dickie
CEO, Executive Editor
BestWord SEO Copywriting Services
jordandickie@bestword.ca

Home | Poetic Analysis | Sitemap
© 2010 BestWord