Song Of The Guitar. Comments

This traditional musical instrument is a pipa. It is more akin to a lute. It has a softer more plaintive sound than a guitar. Gentlewomen, formerly, learned to play it. Why westernize a lovely poem?

despite the translation - I love it!

I had an LP of Chinese classical music and this poem was reproduced in the foldout. I loved it then and I love it now. One of the most poignant verses I have ever read. My blue sleeve is wet.

元和十年，余左迁九江郡司马。 　　明年秋，送客湓浦口， 　　闻舟中夜弹琵琶者。 　　听其音，铮铮然有京都声。 　　问其人，本长安倡女， 　　尝学琶琵于穆曹二善才。 　　年长色衰，委身为贾人妇。 　　遂令酒使快弹数曲。 　　曲罢悯然，自叙少小时 　　欢乐事，今漂沦憔悴， 　　转徒于江湖间余出官二年， 　　恬然自安， 　　感斯人言， 　　是夕始觉有迁谪意。 　　因为长句歌以赠之， 　　凡六百一十六言。 　　命曰《琵琶行》。  　　浔阳江头夜送客，枫叶荻花秋瑟瑟。 　　主人下马客在船，举酒欲饮无管弦。 　　醉不成欢惨将别，别时茫茫江浸月。 　　忽闻水上琵琶声，主人忘归客不发。 　　寻声暗问弹者谁，琵琶声停欲语迟。 　　移船相近邀相见，添酒回灯重开宴。 　　千呼万唤始出来，犹抱琵琶半遮面。 　　转轴拨弦三两声，未成曲调先有情。 　　弦弦掩抑声声思，似诉平生不得志。 　　低眉信手续续弹，说尽心中无限事。 　　轻拢慢捻抹复挑，初为霓裳后六幺。 　　大弦嘈嘈如急雨，小弦切切如私语。 　　嘈嘈切切错杂弹，大珠小珠落玉盘。 　　间关莺语花底滑，幽咽泉流水下滩。 　　水泉冷涩弦凝绝，凝绝不通声渐歇。 　　别有幽愁暗恨生，此时无声胜有声。 　　银瓶乍破水浆迸，铁骑突出刀枪鸣。 　　曲终收拨当心画，四弦一声如裂帛。 　　东船西舫悄无言，唯见江心秋月白。 　　沉吟放拨插弦中，整顿衣裳起敛容。 　　自言本是京城女，家在虾蟆陵下住。 　　十三学得琵琶成，名属教坊第一部。 　　曲罢常教善才服，妆成每被秋娘炉。 　　五陵年少争缠头，一曲红消不知数。 　　钿头银篦击节碎，血色罗裙翻酒污。 　　今年欢笑复明年，秋月春风等闲度。 　　弟走从军阿姨死，暮去朝来颜色故。 　　门前冷落车马稀，老大嫁作商人妇。 　　商人重利轻别离，前月浮梁买茶去。 　　去来江口守空船，绕舱明月江水寒。 　　夜深忽梦少年事，梦啼妆泪红阑干。 　　我闻琵琶已叹息，又闻此语重唧唧。 　　同是天涯沦落人，相逢何必曾相识。 　　我从去年辞帝京，谪居卧病浔阳城。 　　浔阳地僻无音乐，终岁不闻丝竹声。 　　住近湓江地低湿，黄芦苦竹绕宅生。 　　其间旦暮闻何物，杜鹃啼血猿哀鸣。 　　春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒还独倾。 　　岂无山歌与姑笛，呕哑嘲哳难为听。 　　今夜闻君琵琶语，如听仙乐耳暂明。 　　莫辞更坐弹一曲，为君翻作琵琶行。 　　感我此言良久立，却坐促弦弦转急。 　　凄凄不似向前声，满座重闻皆掩泣。 　　座中泣下谁最多，江州司马清衫湿。

What a beautifully done short story in verse form. The story flows along but every so often the poet sprinkles a trail of jewels along the plot to give us place and time and a feeling that we are there. Absolutely terrific and the crown jewel is his compassion for the woman and her tale.

The poem is long but i loved it. Chu-i- Po is a wonderful storyteller, writing with captivating and adoring poetic lines.........

Such sadness can only be comprehended by those who have faced similar sorrow. I am beginning to wonder if it is actually sadness (rather than love) that makes the poetry world a uniquely applealing medium? Or I may go as far as saying that human's sorrow has actually given birth to the medium which we now call 'poetry'? Any answer?