Poem: Spring Night
Poet: Su Tung-p’o
Spring night—one hour worth a thousand gold coins;
clear scent of flowers, shadowy moon.
Songs and flutes upstairs—threads of sound;
in the garden, a swing, where the night is deep and still.
[Burton Watson, translator]
A spring night is to be cherished (“one hour worth a thousand gold coins”) for its beauty: the scent of flowers, the sight of the shadowy moon. This is a simple enough thought. It is with the final two lines that the poem becomes a masterpiece.
We hear “songs and flutes upstairs”—thus a third sense is introduced. The audible revelry contrasts with the visual and olfactory beauty of the spring night. Not that it disrupts it (the night remains “deep and still”), but the “threads of sound” are beautiful in a different way.
Even more important than the contrast of the senses, however, is the information this third line gives us about location. The music is “upstairs.” This tells us that the subject of the poem, the voice of the poem, is located downstairs. That is to say: neither with the revelers nor in the night. Rather somewhere halfway between them, enjoying neither. This is confirmed in the final line, where we see an unoccupied swing, unmoving in the night. There is a place for him in the night; he does not take it. We do not know why.
A spring night is to be cherished, in company or alone it does not matter. Here Su Tung-p’o presents us with a person who cannot cherish the spring night: neither the society it offers, nor the solitude.
[It is interesting, with these thoughts in mind, to consider what a disaster the Kenneth Rexroth translation is. Leaving aside that it is unpleasant English regardless of its accuracy or lack thereof, it captures nothing whatsoever of what I find in the Watson translation. By focusing so exclusively on the images themselves, Rexroth entirely effaces the person from the poem. In Watson’s translation this person is in the margins to be sure, is merely hinted it, but that is precisely the source of the poem’s quiet effectiveness. Rexroth’s poem has no margins whatsoever. It thus becomes a trite bit of nature poetry and nothing more.]