Chapter 79: Of All the Talent in the World, He Possesses the Lion’s Share (Part Four)

“‘The grass upon the plain withers and thrives with each passing year. Wildfires cannot consume it all; with the spring breeze, it is born anew.’ This is a line Yu is especially fond of—so simple in words, yet so rich in meaning.”

“‘White bones lie exposed in the wilds, for a thousand miles no rooster crows. Of the people, but one in a hundred survive; the thought breaks one’s heart.’ For this, Yu holds great respect for Yulang’s compassion for the suffering masses.”

“And then there was the song just now, ‘Life is like a fleeting song and wine, how long do we truly have? Like morning dew, the days gone are ever so bitter.’ All these show, Yulang, that you are indeed capable of composing fine verses.”

“Yet I cannot understand why, when the broad road lies before you, you insist on taking a sharp and unusual path simply to catch the eye.”

To catch the eye!

Ruan Yu had spoken at length, and before he finished, his sharpness showed through.

“So next comes the real challenge. I knew it wouldn’t be so easy.” Zhang Yu’s smile faded as he replied solemnly, “A sharp and unusual path, catching the eye? Brother Yu, I do not quite understand what you mean by this.”

“‘Do not worry you’ll go unrecognized on your journey; who in the world does not know your name?’

‘Once one has seen the great seas, no other water will do; apart from Mount Wu, no clouds are worth a glance.’

These lines are not without merit, but once you turn to seven-syllable verse, it falls short of the highest rank.

Look at the literary world today: is there anyone renowned for seven-syllable poems?

Such works do not fit the times and are destined to turn to dust.”

“That’s sophistry—just because there are few great seven-syllable poems in our age, you would cast the entire form aside?” Xu Gan interjected.

“But what Brother Yu says is not without reason. Compared to five-syllable verse, seven-syllable poems are indeed more mixed and crude.”

A debate broke out among those present, and Cai Yong had no intention of stepping in to mediate. He sat calmly, watching the two young men he so admired—one his beloved student of many years, the other the dazzling young Master Zhang who had recently amazed him. Rather than intercede, he preferred to let them argue to their hearts’ content.

Truth becomes clearer through debate, and besides, he was curious to hear why the talented Zhang Yu so favored the seven-syllable poem.

Before Zhang Yu could reply, it was Wang Can who spoke first.

“Brother Yu, I must disagree.

Though there are few great seven-syllable poems, the form itself is beyond question. In the pre-Qin era, the Book of Songs and the Songs of Chu already contained seven-syllable lines. The ‘Cheng Xiang’ chapter of Xunzi is predominantly seven-syllable.

Since the founding of the Han, aside from the ‘Lou Hu Song’ and the ‘Shangjun Song’ recorded in the Book of Han, there are also Sima Xiangru’s ‘Fanjiang Chapter’ and Shi You’s ‘Jijiu Chapter.’

Rather than say seven-syllable verse is out of step with the times, it would be better to say that no true master of the form has yet appeared.”

“Ah! Zhongxuan, you are mistaken!” Ruan Yu shook his head with a confident smile.

“What you mentioned from the Book of Songs and Songs of Chu is incomplete. I don’t mind adding a few examples for you.

In Emperor Wu’s time, Dongfang Shuo once wrote: ‘I believe the dragon is without horns, but to call it a snake, it has feet. Skittering and creeping, good at clinging to walls—if it’s not a gecko, it’s a lizard.’

The ‘Little Wheat Song’ says: ‘The wheat is green, the barley withered—who will reap it? The wife and the mother-in-law.’

And this old children’s rhyme: ‘Pure as snow, muddy as clay, the highest generals are timid as chickens.’”

With a sweep of his long sleeves, Ruan Yu continued, “Do you not see? Seven-syllable lines are for banter and jest, for the rhymes of the city streets and alleys. They are not true songs, nor true poetry, nor music for the zither—at most, they circulate among common folk, children, and women, but are unworthy of the halls of high culture!”

Cai Yong frowned slightly; to him, Ruan Yu’s words seemed rather extreme. Yet on reflection, there was some truth to them—seven-syllable verse, after all, had produced few masterpieces and could hardly compare to the five-syllable poem.

Wang Can wanted to respond, but Zhang Yu stopped him. This was his own matter to resolve; he could not let a youth younger than himself defend him.

Listening to Ruan Yu, and reflecting on his own research and thoughts since arriving in this world, Zhang Yu realized why seven-syllable poetry was not popular at this time. The heavy warning in his heart against using poetry and song too freely began to ease.

Many later readers have scoffed at protagonists who traverse the ancient world relying on poetry and song, and Zhang Yu had once thought so too. The rise of any literary form is inseparable from its era.

Take seven-syllable poetry: it did not bloom in brilliant glory until the Tang Dynasty, though its history stretches far back. Why, then, was it long neglected?

Could it only flourish in the Tang?

Certainly not.

In the Han, and even now in the late Eastern Han, there is no shortage of seven-syllable verses—but they were overused, and led astray. As Ruan Yu had just said, though seven-syllable poetry is fluent and smooth, it too often falls into the realm of the “vulgar.”

Before the emergence of five-syllable poetry among Han literati, the fu was the main literary form for four centuries. Aristocratic youths and literary scholars, steeped for generations in the ornate and dazzling style of the fu, prided themselves on elegance and refinement. How could they look kindly on the “coarse” form of seven-syllable verse?

In the Jin Dynasty, Yu Zhi once wrote: “Ancient poetry had three-, four-, five-, six-, seven-, and even nine-syllable lines. Three-syllable poems such as ‘Zhenzhen heron, the heron flies’ were often used in hymns for court sacrifices. Five-syllable poems such as ‘Who says a sparrow has no horns, how else could it poke holes in my roof?’ were often used for banter and entertainment. Six-syllable lines like ‘Let me fill that golden cup’ were also used in court music. Seven-syllable lines such as ‘Chirping yellow birds rest in the mulberry’ were likewise used for jest and merriment.”

If both five- and seven-syllable verses were used for amusement, why is seven-syllable poetry considered more “vulgar”?

It all comes down to rhythm.

Five-syllable lines, with their light beginning and weighty end, have a steady and composed tone. Seven-syllable lines, with a heavy start and lighter finish, sound brisk and flowing.

Because the rhythm of seven-syllable lines is so smooth and easy on the tongue, they were developed earlier than five-syllable lines, and adopted for inscriptions, folk rhymes, and palace riddles.

This form, because of its accessibility and wide use among common people, came to be labeled as “vulgar.”

Because it was seen as vulgar, people in the Han did not consider seven-syllable lines true poetry; because of this vulgarity, the refined scholars of Wei and Jin shunned them, and so until their brilliant rise in the Tang, seven-syllable poems could only crawl through the mud of the common folk.

“Brother Yu, regarding your remarks on seven-syllable poetry, I have something to say.”

“Please.”

“The vulgar has its merits, as does the refined. We should look at things dialectically.” Regardless of whether the others understood, Zhang Yu continued,

“The vulgar is down-to-earth; the refined, elegant and beautiful. But why should the two not be enjoyed together?”

“I have a poem, called ‘Quatrain’:

Two orioles sing in the green willow,
A row of white egrets ascends to the blue sky.”

When Zhang Yu finished chanting, it was as if a vivid, lively scene of early spring unfolded before every listener’s eyes.

“The window frames the eternal snows of the western mountains,
At the door, ships from distant Wu anchor on the river.”

“Each line paints a scene, and together they blend in harmony—marvelous!”

“An object observed, and feelings expressed; every detail intertwined—can this truly be seven-syllable verse?”

Amid the chorus of praise, Zhang Yu turned a piercing gaze to Ruan Yu. “Two orioles, one row of egrets—are these vulgar, or are they wondrous?”

“Even so, seven-syllable verse still carries a sense of frivolity, lacking the necessary balance of simplicity and ornament.”

Zhang Yu smiled. Having understood the crux of the matter, the problem was easily resolved.

He had always wondered: compared to five-syllable lines, seven-syllable lines emerged even earlier, so why did “seven-syllable poetry” fail to achieve major status until the latter Six Dynasties?

Was it truly because it was out of step with the times, or because the common people could not appreciate it?

On the contrary! It was precisely because the people understood it too well that the scholars looked down on it as crude and vulgar.

If “seven-syllable poetry,” as a form of lyric expression in Chinese, inherently lacked adaptability, how could it, alongside the five-syllable poem, come to define the two great branches of classical Chinese verse?

At this moment, Zhang Yu was filled with an inexplicable confidence.

Ruan Yu, seeing his smile, for the first time felt a flicker of uncertainty.

“You claim that neither in this age nor in all of history has there been anyone renowned for seven-syllable verse;
You say that seven-syllable poetry is intolerably vulgar, unfit for the halls of elegance;
You say that seven-syllable poems are frivolous and insubstantial, lacking the essence of true form...

I say, you are mistaken.

With me, Zhang Yu, in this world, seven-syllable poetry will surely flourish!”