The very interesting poetry of Mao

Mao was a fine enough poet that despite his legacy in China, his poetry probably would still be remembered today.   If a book on 20^th Century Chinese Poetry was written, he would have been mentioned.  

I will not talk about Mao’s poetic presence in the greater sense of Chinese History.  I do not have that skillset.  Reading Mao’s poetry today in my view really brings out the man himself.   As he was China’s leader for so long, his poetry is a useful tool into how Mao believed his destiny would unfold.   This is a post I’ve been wanting to write for maybe 3 years now.   We keep checking off the boxes folks.   Let’s go:

Some of Mao’s poetry is brutally……sensitive.  As China’s leader, his poetry is even more read of course.  Posters, movies, classrooms.  His poetry is China’s.   By that I mean it is a poetry that could only be written by a patriotic Chinese, during revolutionary times.   This is a Man that truly wanted a Better China.   His poetry reflects that.   However, his poetry, with all its cultural references, is not universal.  It is not as universal as say a Robert Frost poem may be.   His poetry was predominantly written during the great struggle between Mao and Chiang Kai Shek.   No doubt in his mind a struggle between the forces of Good and Evil.   As his destiny unfolds, his verses increasingly contain historical context.  This can especially be seen as Mao begins to realize he will indeed rule China.

As such the “real Mao” emerges.  For all to see.  His poetry is full of defiance as well as a “catch me if you can” swagger about it.

While he probably wrote other poems before these that never got published, Mao’s first known poem is Changsha.    It was published in 1925.  (All of his poems I have gathered from poemhunter.com) 

Alone I stand in the autumn cold 
On the tip of Orange Island, 
The Hsiang flowing northward; 
I see a thousand hills crimsoned through 
By their serried woods deep-dyed, 
And a hundred barges vying 
Over crystal blue waters. 
Eagles cleave the air, 
Fish glide in the limpid deep; 
Under freezing skies a million creatures contend in freedom. 
Brooding over this immensity, 
I ask, on this boundless land 
Who rules over man's destiny?

I was here with a throng of companions, 
Vivid yet those crowded months and years. 
Young we were, schoolmates, 
At life's full flowering; 
Filled with student enthusiasm 
Boldly we cast all restraints aside. 
Pointing to our mountains and rivers, 
Setting people afire with our words, 
We counted the mighty no more than muck. 
Remember still 
How, venturing midstream, we struck the waters 
And waves stayed the speeding boats?

This is considered one of Mao’s more popular and literary poems.   What sets this poem apart for me, aside from it being his first known published poem, is the(you guessed it!) end of the first stanza.

Who rules over man's destiny?

Does he acknowledge that China is perhaps too big and wieldy?  Is this when he first developed the thought that only a “strong man” could rule China?  Mao was 32 when he wrote this.

Later, Mao wrote a poem I sensed expressing his cautious optimism about the Revolution.  His optimism was misplaced, and overly exuberant, as the Long March was yet to begin.

This poem is called The Double Ninth and it was written in 1929.  Mao was 36.

Man ages all too easily, not Nature: 
Year by year the Double Ninth returns. 
On this Double Ninth, 
The yellow blooms on the battlefield smell sweeter.

Each year the autumn wind blows fierce, 
Unlike spring's splendor, 
Yet surpassing spring's splendor, 
See the endless expanse of frosty sky and water. 

Simply put, while CKS was busy fighting the warlords, Mao felt his opportunity to consolidate his position had arrived.  Thus the lines,

On this Double Ninth, 
The yellow blooms on the battlefield smell sweeter.

Yet Mao was still not the undisputed leader of China’s Communist Party.  Indeed, one could argue he was seen at the time as being stubborn and quite replaceable. 

Mt Liupan

Mao wrote this in 1935 near the end of the Long March, in Ningxia.  Today Ningxia’s wall is but a crumble of stone, but during the 30’s Mao found it inspirational all the same.  One line below is on many a tourist’s Tshirt。

不到长城非好汉！

My readers know their stuff. You can find the English translation below.

The sky is high, the clouds are pale,
We watch the wild geese vanish southward.
If we fail to reach the Great Wall we are not men 
We who have already measured twenty thousand li
High on the crest of Mount Liupan
Red banners wave freely in the west wind.
Today we hold the long cord in our hands,
When shall we bind fast the Grey Dragon? 

Meanwhile, Mao was capable of great sorrow and compassion in his poetry.   As most of you know, Mao himself had several wives.  His second wife however,  Yang Kaihui, was executed.  Yang means poplar in Chinese.  杨。（杨木） I will save the details for another post.  A friend of his wife was named “Willow”. 柳 Liu Zhixun。  This poem was addressed to Liu’s widow.

Reply to Li Shu Yi was written in 1957.  Mao was 64.

I lost my proud Poplar and you your Willow,
Poplar and Willow soar to the Ninth Heaven.
Wu Gang, asked what he can give,
Serves them a laurel wine.

The lonely moon goddess spreads her ample sleeves
To dance for these loyal souls in infinite space.
Earth suddenly reports the tiger subdued,
Tears of joy pour forth falling as mighty rain.

Snow was written in 1936.  It is apparently one of his more famous poems, and the opening scene can even be found in Chinese-English dictionaries;

北国风光

千里冰封

万里雪飘

North country scene: 
A hundred leagues locked in ice, 
A thousand leagues of whirling snow. 

I find this poem very, very revealing of Mao.  One would think it was written post liberation, or near to it.  Alas, it was written in 1936.  The final line below is surely referring to Mao himself.  He is most definitely not referring to Chiang Kai Shek or Zhou En Lai.   At the still young age of 43, Mao was feeling his oats.  He had only recently cemented his power as leader of the CCP. 

In this poem he talks of a country he greatly loves, China.  While belittling the other great leaders of Chinese History, finding fault with each one.  The irony is rich.  But one cannot deny Mao's ambition here.  Or perhaps his very confident sense of his destiny.  Of what role he would later play on China's stage.

The war with Japan was still not at it's height.  And Chiang Kai Shek was still the dominant Chinese power.  How could Mao have felt so secure in his destiny? 

Both sides of the Great Wall 
One single white immensity. 
The Yellow River's swift current 
Is stilled from end to end. 
The mountains dance like silver snakes 
And the highlands* charge like wax-hued elephants, 
Vying with heaven in stature. 
On a fine day, the land, 
Clad in white, adorned in red, 
Grows more enchanting.

This land so rich in beauty 
Has made countless heroes bow in homage. 
But alas! Chin Shih-huang and Han Wu-ti 
Were lacking in literary grace, 
And Tang Tai-tsung and Sung Tai-tsu 
Had little poetry in their souls; 
And Genghis Khan, 
Proud Son of Heaven for a day, 
Knew only shooting eagles, bow outstretched 
All are past and gone! 
For truly great men 
Look to this age alone. 

Mao published around 33 poems.  I’m sure a newly discovered poem to be Mao’s would be a big event in China.

My interpretation of the above poetry is mine alone.  Each reader can have his or her own feelings about each poem.

So now we ask the question; how could someone so graceful and introspective with the ink brush be so destructive?  How could someone with such feeling bring so much chaos?

Perhaps Mao could’ve brought a larger contribution towards Chinese History if he had simply just been a poetry professor.  While much has been written about how cold and calculating Mao has been, can we honestly say Mao’s poetry is devoid of feeling and even compassion?

How do we reconcile the two?

I think the answer is that Mao simply was seduced by his own unchecked power, without comprehending the consequences of such.   And no one bothered to rein him in, or even debrief him on what havoc he had wreaked.  So was Mao a Poet or a ruthless dictator? 

How can one read Mao’s poetry and come away satisfied knowing the history of China under his rule?  Above all else, this poetry brings out the swings in Mao’s mood and temperament. And from this confusion came art.  And China is better for it.

My advice is to compartmentalize.  Read his poetry absent any feeling for The Man himself. 

Enjoy it.  Read like you are reading from an anonymous author.  Appreciate his talent, and his love for country.