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Su Shih - Passing the Night at Hai-hui Temple
Identifier
013851
Type of Spiritual Experience
Background
Su Shi (January 8, 1037 – August 24, 1101), also known as Su Dongpo, was a Chinese writer, poet, painter, calligrapher, pharmacologist, gastronome, and a statesman of the Song dynasty. His poetry has a long history of popularity and influence in China, Japan, and other areas in the near vicinity and is well known in the English speaking parts of the world through the translations by Arthur Waley, among others. In terms of the arts, Su Shi has some claim to being "the pre-eminent personality of the eleventh century."
Su Shi had two wives and a concubine. His first wife was Wang Fu (王弗, 1039–1065), an astute, quiet lady from Sichuan who married him at the age of sixteen, when Su was nineteen. Wang Fu died in 1065, on the second day of the fifth Chinese lunar month (Gregorian calendar June 14), after bearing him Su Mai (蘇邁). Heartbroken, Su wrote a memorial for Wang (《亡妻王氏墓志铭》).
Ten years after Su Shi's first wife died, Su composed a (ci) poem after dreaming of the deceased Fu in the night at Mizhou (present-day Zhucheng). The poem, To the tune of 'Of Jinling' (江城子), remains one of the most famous poems Su wrote.
In 1068, two years after Wang Fu's death, Su married Wang Runzhi (王闰之, 1048–93), Wang Runzhi spent the next 15 years accompanying Su through his ups and downs in officialdom and political exile. Wang Runzhi died in 1093, aged forty-six, after bearing Su two sons, Su Dai (蘇迨) and Su Guo (蘇過). Overcame with grief, Su expressed his wish to be buried with her. During his deceased second wife's birthday, Su wrote another ci poem, To the tune of 'Butterflies going after Flowers' (《蝶恋花》), for her.
A description of the experience
Passing the Night at Hai-hui Temple
In a bamboo chair for three days I travel among the mountains,
Among the mountains it’s very beautiful but seldom level far.
Down we plunge to the Yellow Springs, then ascend to the blue void,
On the thread-path we always jostle the monkeys.
When we find the storied tower cramped in a mountain hollow,
My thighs ache, my hungry belly grumbles.
Northward across a flying bridge our steps patter,
The surrounding wall’s a hundred paces like an ancient city.
The great bell is struck, a thousand fingers are joined in welcome,
The high hall receives the guest, even at night not barred.
From the pine tank the lacquer ladle pours rivers of water,
The “original unsullied” is washed still lighter.
When I fall into bed my snores startle all my neighbours;
Boom! the fifth watch drum, the sky is not yet bright.
The wooden fish calls to gruel, clear and shrill,
I hear no voices but hear the sound of sandals.