city, between the sea and the serene wonder of West Lake. The man-made lake had been Chen’s joy: pleasure boats drifting, music drifting, all day and at night, hills framing it on the inland side, singing girl houses on the shore close to the city. Elegant, well-funded religious retreats for Cho and Sacred Path dotting the northern shoreline, green roofs and yellow, the upswept curves, bells ringing the hours for prayer, the sound crossing the water.
There were fireworks on the lake at festivals, and music from pleasure boats all through the night, lanterns floating on the water …
Not a place that would prepare you for Lingzhou Isle. Here, you needed to take any exercise in the earliest hour, before the heat battered you into torpor, lassitude, fitful daytime naps in a sweat-soaked bed.
They were doing their dawn routine, father and son, his usual frivolity that they were assailing some evil fortress, when a cleric came running up (running!) from the temple at the end of the village.
It seemed, if the man was to be believed (and understood: he was stammering with shock), that something miraculous had transpired. Honourable Lu Chen and his honourable son were entreated to come see.
The usual cluster of villagers had gathered to watch them exercise. The elder Lu, the poet, was famous and amusing, both; it was worth coming to see them. That same group trailed them west through the village, and others joined them as they went, past the yamen (not yet opened for the day, there was never a need for administrative haste here) and along the path—carefully, watching for snakes—to the temple.
Eventful moments, let alone loudly declared miracles, were not the daily coinage of the isle.
Red and yellow flowers, wet and heavy.
Forest’s edge, the path in rain.
I remember peonies in Yenling
But this south is very different from the north.
Can an angry ghost travel this far?
Cross the strait, afflict an exile’s life?
Or does Lingzhou hold only its own dead
Wherever they might have been born?
In the rainy season we lose the stars.
We do not lose friendship and loyalty,
Good talk, courtesy, the virtues of this time
As they are of any age ever in Kitai.
I think of friends far away and my heart aches.
I drink wine with new companions.
They have opened their gate to a stranger.
Kindness is a brightly feathered bird on a branch.
We listen to their bell as it rings.
We drink and they refill our wine cups.
I will count myself honoured and blessed
Whatever becomes of my last days.
He had written that in springtime on their wall, running hand, large letters, the wide brush quick. The poem emerging as if discovering itself. He was known for improvising in this way. It would seldom be one’s best writing but would have a different kind of value, created right there, in the moment, as the black ink defined the wall.
They had been very happy, the clerics, entering the room after he was done, seeing his words. It would help them a great deal, once it became known that a poem by Lu Chen was on a wall in Lingzhou Isle.
He did this for friends, he did it for joy. He’d lived poetry all his life: carefully revised or swiftly improvised, drunken or sober, dark night, moonlight, morning mist, from the heart of power or protesting against it, or exiled, finally, here.
The clerics had stared at the wall, the words. They had touched his hands, bowing over and over. Two of them had wept. He had suggested drinking in celebration. Said he very much wanted wine, which was only truth. One of them had gone across the village and come back with Lu Mah.
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