Myth of Arrival

To understand what motivated Ch'iu Chin (Qiu JIn) and her work we need to remember the time period in which she lived. China had just been internationally disgraced by the invasion of the Eight-Nation Alliance (Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the United States) which sought to put down the Boxer Rebellion in North China in 1900. The Boxers were anti-foreigners, especially anti-missionaries, whom they saw as attempting to corrupt their civilization with non-traditional ideas. From this defeat young intellectuals like Ch'iu Chin began to develop ideas for a revolution that would topple the Qing Emperor, who they saw as weak and corrupt, and by extension, to topple many of the more repressive aspects of traditional Chinese culture In Wolf and Witke's anthology, Women in Chinese Society, they have this to say about the motives and philosophy that drove Ch'iu's writing:

Despite some attention to specific grievances and their remedies, the main theme of Ch'iu Chin's writing was intense, total rejection of the traditional woman's role. Specific problems combined to create in her eyes an evil atmosphere of oppression, blackness, numbing confinement, degrading ignorance. In the 'black prison' created by 'darkness and ignorance,' most women did not even realize the danger inherent in being divorced from the reality of the world, and even those who did wish to save themselves and others were robbed of the will and capacity to act. The darkness pervading the world of women appeared to Ch'iu to be a particularly painful manifestation of that greater blackness which enveloped the whole Chinese nation. This perception did not lead her to a comprehensive theory of social revolution, but rather to a tremendous emphasis on breaking out of and eradicating the stifling prisons of traditional Chinese society — an analogous, but less specific and more romantic, approach. Buddhist-inspired visions of heaven and hell and the Bodhisattva's redemptive role suggested the way. Ch'iu clearly differed from those reformers who believed women's problems could be solved by correcting the specific abuses that they (and she) condemned. Feminism was not an isolated matter for Ch'iu, but an integral part of the political problems to which she sought solutions (57).

Many of Ch'iu's earlier poems set the mood for this rejection. Themes of isolation from female friends, loneliness of her marriage and being cut off from the rest of the intellectual world by traditional male values and ideas predominate much of her early work. Indeed, one might argue that her marriage to Wang Zifang was one of the main forces that drove her to her revolutionary convictions. In the anthology Women writers of traditional China the editors state:

In September 1903, after Wang had bought a post in the imperial bureaucracy, Ch'iu and their children joined him in Beijing. Two events soon altered Ch'iu's life and art: Wang's declared intention of taking in a concubine and Ch'iu's friendship with members of Beijing's progressive elite. Wang's disloyalty liberated and emboldened Ch'iu, while her new friends introduced her to patriotic and feminist causes. Her shi and ci [types of poetry] of this period, including the twenty-five dealing with her estrangement from Wang and twenty-two zengda (literally, "presentations and replies") addressed to friends and men and women of achievement, are rich in theme, tone and emotional complexity (632-33).

This poem I present here, I think, captures that beauty and frustration:

秋瑾〈秋日獨坐〉
小坐臨窗把卷哦，湘簾不捲靜垂波。
室因地僻知音少，人到無聊感慨多。
半壁綠苔蛩語響，一庭黃葉雨聲和。
劇憐北地秋風早，已覺涼浸翠袖羅。

Here is my translation. I had trouble with the concept in line 2 of "bamboo/ refusing to curl" (I think I went so far as to wonder what sort of weak bamboo would curl up like a leaf?) until it was pointed out to me I had mistranslated the line and it should really read, "bamboo curtain," or a curtain made out of bamboo. That helped me a lot.

I rest briefly by a window to open
and read a book, the bamboo curtain
refuses to curl but hangs silently
in waves. Since my isolated home
is a secret, I have few friends;
but my emotions become endless
when boredom finds me. Listen
to those locusts cry; half the walls
are wrapped in green moss.
The rain and yellow leaves
in the courtyard are each
other’s accompaniment. Early
autumn wind, pity these northern
lands; even now I feel your chill
pierce my silken jade sleeves.

Here is a different translation from Chang and Saussy's anthology:

Sitting Along on an Autumn Day

Sitting for a moment by the window, I read aloud,
Unfurled bamboo curtains hanging silently, wave-like.
My residency remote, hidden, friends are few;
When boredom overtakes me, emotions many.
The wall half draped in green moss, cricket cries resound;
The courtyard full of yellow leaves, raindrops provide accompaniment.
Oh, pitiable northland, where autumn wind comes early;
Already I feel the chill penetrate my green silk sleeves. (640)

Work Cited:

Sun Chang, Kang-i and Haun Saussy (eds) Women writers of traditional China: an anthology of poetry and criticism. Charles Kwong, associate editor; Anthony C. Yu and Yu-kung Kao, consulting editors. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. (1999)

Wolf, Margery and Roxane Witke (eds) Women in Chinese Society. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. (1975)

Mistletoe sent this link to me, thank you very much! It is collection of Qiu Jin's poem in original Chinese. It was from that page I found this poem to translate:

秋瑾〈對酒〉

不惜千金買寶刀，貂裘換酒也堪豪。
一腔熱血勤珍重，灑去猶能化碧濤。

For a precious sword I would not resent spending a thousand gold coins;
let me barter my black robes for the wine that would be fitting for a hero.
“But do not give away your hot blooded breasts,” I counsel myself, “for
even if my blood gushes out, it will turn from red into blue waves!”

Credit should be given where it is due and I must thank children's book author and poet Sandie May Angel for helping me with this translation:

赤壁怀古

潼潼水势向江东，此地曾闻用火攻。
怪道侬来凭吊日，岸花焦灼尚余红。

High, high; this powerful water as it tumbles to the east;
at this spot they attacked using fire or so I once heard.
I see and when I came here to pay my homage, no wonder
that the scorched flowers on the bank are still red.

My friend Dian sent me this translation of a poem I wrote this morning. It is Malaysian:

Rintihan Narcissus

Bayanganku samar
ditelan ombak, semuanya
bergerak pantas.
wajahku tercela
oleh bebunga laut yang
terapung.

Thank you, Dian! You rock!

Here is the original.

Narcissus' Lament

You can't look
at yourself in these
waves, everything
moves so fast. My
face, marred
by floating
sea flowers.

The poem I am working on today is an earlier one, written perhaps in Ch'iu Chin's (Qui Jin) late teenage years or early twenties. It should be noted that while there are numerous biographies written about her most deal with Ch'iu Chin "the Revolutionary" and very few even mention Ch'iu Chin "the Poet." I find this odd since her work is found in several modern anthologies of Chinese poetry; The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry (2005) and Women Writers of Traditional China (1999) as examples. Of the few biographies that do deal with her writing at any depth, I recommend Mary Backus Rankin's Early Chinese Revolutionaries (1971). Not only is it wonderfully researched with depth and clarity it also allows us a look into Ch'iu's early influences, which might help us understand her better. Rankin writes:

Both parents were exceedingly indulgent to their older daughter. She was tutored with her elder brother and acquired a good knowledge of the classics, history and poetry. Ch'iu also evidently liked to picture herself in the role of a knight-errant (yu-hsia). She read swashbuckling novels, learned to ride a horse and use a sword and she was proud of her ability to drink huge qualities of wine. This upbringing was poor preparation for Ch'iu's marriage in 1896 to Wang T'ing-chun, the son of a wealthy merchant … There was little scope for Ch'iu's pastimes in the conservative, substantial Wang family and her conservative husband was small consolation. Although they soon had a son and later a daughter there was slight affection in the marriage. At the Wang home Ch'iu wrote poetry and was unhappy. (40)

Here follows a poem, I believe, from that period. Already certain motifs that will continue through her work appear here; her willingness to give up traditional "feminine" roles in order to follow her dreams (in this case, all that books represent), identifying happiness as being in the company of other women, a combination of a curiosity with the world combined with a muted sexuality that, even if it is in simply mentioning the "gauzy spring gown" she is wearing, is still present. Chang and Saussy note that "'treading on the green' [in my translation 'field'] or 'taqing,' was a festival marked by outings to enjoy spring air and to walk on the newly greened grass" (634).

相見歡

因書拋卻金針，笑相評，
忘了窗前，紅日已西沈。
春衫薄掩，簾幕晚新妝，
踏青明日，女伴約鄰人。

Here is my translation. Unlike other of Ch'iu's poetry found in earlier blog entries here, I could only find one other translation of this poem. Indeed, there are many poems that do not seem to have been translated into English at all. I am sure a translator better skilled than I might find it an interesting and highly rewarding task bringing her "complete work" to a modern reading audience.

“Xiang jian huan”

I set aside my women’s sewing needle
so I can read a book. We laugh;
we play “cynic;” you challenge
my views and I challenge
yours, while beyond our window
the disregarded sun
has set scarlet in the West.

In my gauzy spring gown I pull
the curtain closed and clean
my evening toilette until
it glows fiercely . Tomorrow
we shall try out the old saying,
“treading on the field.”

Come with me, dear neighbor;
I ask you, I want you to be my
very own female companion.

Now, as an example of comparison and my belief that translations do not happen in a vacuum, here is the translation I found in Chang and Saussy's anthology. I consider it the superior of the two, but I enjoyed attempting my version as well. I hope you enjoy both, thank you.

To read a book, I toss aside my embroidery needle.
Laughing, you and I play the critics,
you challenging my views and I yours,
unaware that beyond the window
the vermilion sun has set in the west.

In my light spring gown,
I draw the curtain.
My evening toilette sparkling fresh.
"Treading on the green," tomorrow;
I'll invite my neighbor to join me
as my female companion (634).

Works Cited

Rankin, Mary Backus. Early Chinese Revolutionaries; radical intellectuals in Shanghai and Chekiang, 1902-1911. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. (1971)

Sun Chang, Kang-i and Haun Saussy (eds) Women writers of traditional China: an anthology of poetry and criticism. Charles Kwong, associate editor; Anthony C. Yu and Yu-kung Kao, consulting editors. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. (1999)

Picking up where we left off with the poet Qiu Jin (Ch'iu Chin), we see that the two years she spent in Japan, 1904 to 1905, were productive ones. Chang and Saussy describe them this way:

In June 1904, having outgrown Beijing and her friends, Qiu left for Japan after arranging for the care of her children. During her roughly eighteen months in Tokyo (early July 1904 to late December 1905, interrupted by a four-month return to China), she studied at Jissen School for Women and participated eagerly in feminist and anti-Manchu activities, eventually attending workshops on bomb making and joining the Restoration Society (Guangfu hui) and the Revolutionary Alliance (Tongmeng hui). She also edited the Baihua bao (Colloquial language monthly) … all her [poetry] of this period have feminist and patriotic themes, the one often interlaced with the other. Despite incantational evocations of modern Western events and personalities, her mind–set is profoundly traditional-Chinese in its reverence for Han legitimacy and racial ancestors, virulent denigration of the Manchus, and glorification of individual, quasi-solitary heroes, including failed assassins, who affected the course of history through the repercussions of their successful or failed actions. For the first time we see expressions of her own willingness to die for China. (633)

But by late 1905 she decided to return home to help with preparations for war. Giles reports of an incident on her return that led to her poetry being preserved for the ages:

Two of her friends, Mr. T'ao and another, met her on her return to Shanghai, and saw her off on the final stages of her journey home. Knowing her to be an accomplished scholar, they begged for some autograph composition as a memento, and Ch'iu Chin responded by copying out, before she left Shanghai, a small volume containing the product of her muse — that is to say, 150 short pieces of poetry of various kinds. It is to this fortunate incident that we probably owe the preservation of her poems, for after her death the manuscript was printed and published. (7–8)

I find this poem remarkable for it speaks to her frustration of wanting to do great and noble things, but being hampered by unfair social norms. I do not think you need to be fighting a revolutionary war to feel similar emotions:

滿江紅

小住京華﹐
早又是中秋佳節。
為籬下黃花開遍﹐
秋容如拭 。
四面歌殘終破楚﹐
八年風味徒思浙。
苦將儂強派作蛾眉﹐
殊未屑﹗
身上得，男兒列。
心卻比，男兒烈。
算平生肝膽上因人熱。
俗子胸襟誰識我﹖
英雄末路當折磨。
莽紅塵何處覓知音﹖
青衫濕！

Here is my translation. Again, I am sure there are mistakes but the nice thing about rough drafts is that I can always go back and fix them:

A short rest in the Capital,
now it is already Mid-Autumn Festival.
There beneath the fence
chrysanthemums are all in bloom,
even autumn looks cleansed.
Fragments of song makes me long for my home, Chu;
after eight years, in vain I long for the flavor of Che.
How cruel of them to have sent us by force into femininity,
they show never a shred of mercy!

Despite my ability, I am not allowed into the ranks of men,
but my heart burns fiercer than any man's!
Let me say this: often in my life
my body has been roused to fury for the sake of others.
what vile men can claim to know who I am?
Heroism is borne out of the ordeals at the end of the road.
In the red dust of this foul world,
where can I find an understanding friend?
My green robe is soaked with my own tears.

Here is a translation I found in the anthology Women writers of traditional China: an anthology of poetry and criticism (I would highly recommend this book to anyone wanting to get a good overview of ancient and not so ancient women poets of China):

A short stay in the capital,
So soon again the fine Mid-Autumn festival.
There beneath the fence
Yellow flowers are all in bloom,
Their autumn looks seem cleansed.
Fragments of songs all round finally shattered Chu,
Eight years of tastes and flavors: in vain I've longed for Zhe.
How cruel to have been forced to be a lady,
Really, never a shred of mercy!

I cannot get into
The ranks of men.
But my heart burns
More fiercely than a man's.
Let me say that in my life
My spleen has often been roused to fury for others' sake.
What vulgar man could ever know me?
Heroes confront ordeals at the end of the road.
In this dirty world of red dust,
where can I seek an understanding friend?
My green robe is soaked with tears. (651)

This is a version from Voices of the Song Lyric in China:

Short sojourn in the capital,
so once again it is the fine festival of midautumn.
There beneath the hedge, the yellow flowers are all in bloom,
their autumn looks seem cleansed.
As songs lingered on the four sides, Ch'u was finally penetrated;
after eight years, vainly I long for the local flavors of Che.
How unkind to have sent me by force to be a woman—
surely there has been no caring.

My body cannot get into the ranks of men,
but my heart burns more fiercely than men's.
Let me say that in my life my mettle has often been roused to fury for others.
What vulgar man would have a mind to know me?
For the hero, there would be ordeal at the end of the road.
In this ill-bred world of red dust,
where can I seek an understanding friend?
My green robe is tear-soaked. (143 – 45)

Finally, this is a translation I discovered by Michael Mikita, III, of San Francisco State University:

Just a short stay at the Capital
But it is already the mid autumn festival
Chrysanthemums infect the landscape
Fall is making its mark
The infernal isolation has become unbearable here
All eight years of it make me long for my home
It is the bitter guile of them forcing us women into femininity
We cannot win!
Despite our ability, men hold the highest rank
But while our hearts are pure, those of men are rank
My insides are afire in anger at such an outrage
How could vile men claim to know who I am?
Heroism is borne out of this kind of torment
To think that so putrid a society can provide no camaraderie
Brings me to tears!

Works Cited

"Coda: The Heroic Feminine" from Yu, Pauline, editor. Voices of the Song Lyric in China. Berkeley: University of California Press. (1994)

Giles, Lionel. Ch'iu Chin: a Chinese Heroine. London: East & West, LTD. (1917)

Mikita, III, Michael A. A New Translation of Qiu Jin's Crimson Flooding into the River. Comparative Literature Student Association at San Francisco State University. (2005)

Sun Chang, Kang-i and Haun Saussy (eds) Women writers of traditional China: an anthology of poetry and criticism. Charles Kwong, associate editor; Anthony C. Yu and Yu-kung Kao, consulting editors. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. (1999)

Tsan-chih, Chʻiu. Chʻiu Chin chuan. Taipei: Lian huo tu shu kung shih. (1969)