Immortal's Palm Tea

by STEVEN D. OWYOUNG
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This essay is dedicated to Frank Hadley Murphy, author of The Spirit of Tea, for his kind introduction to the poet Li Bo for which I am most grateful. Murphy and his admiration for the poet informed and inspired my work on Preface and Poem, Li Bo’s inimitable verse on tea.

Li Bo 李白 (a.k.a. Li Bai, Li Taibo 李太白, 701-762 CE) was one of the greatest poets of the Tang dynasty (618-906 CE), a golden age renowned for its literature and fine verse. Celebrated for his love of wine, he composed many rhymes about the moon and drinking. Such was his adoration of both, it was even said that he drowned reaching drunkenly for the orb’s shimmering reflection in the water. Though he wrote much about wine, only a single poem devoted to tea remains from his oeuvre. This is a story about how that tea poem came to be written and about the timbre of a poet who is still greatly admired to this day.

It was the rare occasion when Li Bo drank alone. As one of the most famous poets of his day, he was hardly ever by himself, especially when traveling. Yet on one deserted night, with none but the moon and his silhouette for company, he wrote in easy solitude of wine and reunion under a distant starry sky.

月下獨酌        Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon

花間一壺酒      Amidst flowers with a pot of wine,
獨酌無相親      I drink alone, companionless.
舉杯邀明月      Raising a cup, I invite the bright moon
對影成三人      To add my shadow, and we become three.
月既不解飲      But the moon does not drink
影徒隨我身      And the shadow simply follows me.
暫伴月將影      Moon and shadow are but fleeting partners,
行樂須及春      Yet one must find joy in life.
我歌月徘徊      As I sing, the moon lingers;
我舞影零亂      I dance, and the shadow stumbles after.
醒時同交歡      While sober, we shared our happiness;
醉後各分散      Now drunk, we go our separate ways.
永結無情遊      Forever bound, roaming without a care,
相期邈雲漢      We will meet again beyond the Milky Way.

For the poet, the moon was an inconstant companion, waxing and waning, and disappearing altogether, like a departed friend, only to reappear, long lost and warmly embraced. Looking at the moon was an expression of longing, a yearning for home, and the lonely search for faded memories. Li Bo was a master of simplicity, and in the poem "Pondering in the Quiet Night," the moon was the mirror to his soul:

床前明月光      Before the bed, bright moonlight
疑是地上霜      Like frost on the ground.
舉頭望明月      Raising my head, I gaze at the clear moon.
低頭思故鄉      Lying back, I think of home.

Li Bo was usually surrounded by friends and admirers who welcomed him everywhere, feasting him with sumptuous foods and rounds of fine wine. He was always encouraged to drink, to loosen his poet’s tongue and top the last verse sung. To him, imbibing and inebriation were familiar pastimes and among his favorite themes, for he wrote many poems dedicated to drink and all its muzzy pleasures. An excerpt from his famous "Bring in the Wine" describes one night as he caroused with Daoist friends and praised their gustatory excess in fervent words that turned from breathless yearning to certain destiny:

烹羊宰牛且為樂
會須一飲三百杯
岑夫子丹丘生
將進酒杯莫停
與君歌一曲
請君為我傾耳聽
鍾鼓饌玉不足貴
但願長醉不願醒
古來聖賢皆寂寞
唯有飲者留其名

… Boil the mutton, butcher the ox, all for joy!
Muster a draught of three hundred cups.
Master Cen and Master Danqiu,
Bring in the wine, the ceaseless cups.
Just one more song for you,
Please just listen closely.
Bells and drums, delicacies and jade? All nothing!
I just want one long binge, not sobriety!
Old sages and worthies? All forgotten!
Only great drunks leave behind their names …

Li Bo was an exemplar in a long line of artists for whom wine was their muse. He was inspired by its fragrant scent, its soothing taste, its dizzy release from convention. Enlightened by wine, he chanted his songs, revealing truths in flashes of insight and scintillating verse, while holding communion with the heavens. For Li Bo, the aesthetic power of drink was a seduction. Siren wine was the path to freedom, the very way to unfettered creation.

As he was too famous to be ignored, officialdom sought his company, knowing his literary light reflected well on them. The palace too sought his presence, doting on his every word. But he cared nothing for high office or its company. His friend Du Fu wrote "Eight Immortals of Drink," a poem that illustrated Li Bo’s challenging response to one imperial command:

醉中往往愛逃禪
李白一斗詩百篇
長安市上酒家眠
天子呼來不上船
自稱臣是酒中仙

Drunks often love to run and hide,
Like Li Bo, who writes a hundred poems on just one pint.
Dozing in a wine shop in Chang’an;
The emperor summons him, but he won’t board the palace barge,
Declaring, “I am the Immortal of Wine!…”

When he deigned to appear at court, his drunken antics earned Li Bo enemies. Careless and irreverent, his poetry offended the emperor’s favorite, and the wayward poet was dismissed from imperial service. Freedom suited him, and he traveled far and wide. For Li Bo, traveling was a way to engage nature, to explore its phenomena and discover from within and without its transcendental forms. Natural landscapes of overwhelming majesty spurred him to delve beyond the material world, inspiring him to write the simple but profoundly moving words of "Shangyang Terrace":

山高水長      Towering mountains, great rivers;
物象千萬      The forms of things are myriad.
非有老筆      Compelled to wield my old, worn brush,
清壯可窮      I ponder their pure spirit.

His wanderlust was described as a Daoist desire “to return east to Penglai,” the eternal isles, and a wish to “ride with winged immortals to Cinnabar Hill,” the alchemical source of everlasting life.

Even when roving, Li Bo avoided officials. Journeying south, he met with friends in towns and cities along the way. Each day was the same. Returning nightly from drunken celebrations, hung over and drawn, he revived midday and headed out again for another round of carousing, carefully skirting the nighttime haunts of officials, seeking instead the discrete corners of the pleasure districts or the incognito of rustic inns. Away from urban centers, the rural tracks neatly covered him from overbearing bureaucrats and unwanted invitations.

Sometimes, he lived in temples and monasteries. Taking sanctuary among abbots and monks, he stayed in their guest quarters, coming and going as he pleased, returning in time to monastic calm and tranquility. Small temples provided shelter and spiritual respite along the way. The great monasteries, with their fine libraries and scholarly monks, offered intellectual discourse and mental challenge. To Li Bo, temple life was a retreat, a time of rejuvenation for mind and body, especially when ravaged by wine and rich fare.

Temple tea offered the means by which Li Bo repaired himself. In herbal form, tea was medicinal and a particularly effective panacea for the ills of drinking. Monasteries produced fine tea and some were renowned for the unusual properties of their leaf. When expressly prepared in strong prescriptive draughts by the temple master, tea all but guaranteed recovery. Longer cures – an austere regimen of tea and a vegetarian diet – more than justified, if not fortifying against, the next epicurean splurge on delicacies and casks of fine wine.

Yet, if he owed his health and preservation at all to tea, Li Bo did not acknowledge the debt. Unlike his many verses to wine, he wrote but a single poem dedicated to tea, and then only because he was obliged to do so. He composed the work -- known simply as "Immortal’s Palm Tea" -- while he was in the old capital of Nanjing in 752 CE. He was comfortably lodged at the Temple Refuge of Radiant Clouds, a large monastery with famous tea gardens just northeast of the city, when he received an unexpected visit from his nephew Li Ying.

Li Ying, whose Buddhist name was Zhongfu, had traveled all the way from Jingzhou, a town in Hubei where he was Zen master of Jade Spring Temple. His journey was not purely by chance: Jade Spring and Refuge of Radiant Clouds were sister institutions, two of the greatest Buddhist monasteries of the Tang. The reason for his visit was not clear, though just months before in the previous year, the Venerable Yüqüan Huizhen, the highly respected Buddhist teacher at Jade Spring Temple, died at the age of seventy eight. The passing of so eminent a monk may well have prompted Zhongfu’s presence in Nanjing. But the Zen master likely came to consult with the clerics responsible for the monastery’s tea. Temple Refuge of Radiant Clouds was well known for its tea production and gardens; even the eighth-century master and sage of tea Lu Yü picked tea there. In any case, when Zhongfu learned that Li Bo was in residence at the monastery, he arranged a reunion, carefully preparing gifts for his uncle. When they met, he presented the poet with tea and a poem. The monk’s verse was subsequently lost in time, but Li Bo’s composition was commemorated thereafter as a major contribution to the poetry of tea.

The tea given to Li Bo was a specialty of Jade Spring Temple. The tradition of tea there was begun by the late Venerable Yüqüan Huizhen who use to pick leaves from bushes that grew wild along the stream banks of a nearby spring. The old monk dried the leaves in the sun, stored them away for his personal use, and brewed the tea with the temple’s fine spring water. He drank the tea every day for the remainder of his long life; his health and youthful vigor and ageless complexion were attributes of his habit. It was believed not only that Huizhen’s regimen allowed him to live to the esteemed age of seventy-eight but also that his tea owed its herbal properties to the pure waters of the stream, the benign sun that shone upon the temple, and the reverent care with which it was made. Following in the late master’s footsteps, Zhongfu now oversaw the annual spring harvest and the curing of leaves.

The large-scale production of tea by Jade Spring Temple was something of a new venture; one with risks as well as benefits. For a large monastery like Jade Spring, tea was a significant expense but also an integral part of monastic life. Ritual offerings of fine tea were made daily to the deities, and ordinary tea was drunk throughout each day by thousands of monks and scores of priests and lay penitents and volunteers. In temple routine, tea was substituted for the mid day meal and its herbal brew was an essential aid to meditation. Moreover, the preparation and service of fine tea was an important part of temple ceremony, highlighting the welcome of distinguished nobles, reverend clerics, and high officials into its halls. The temple’s yearly consumption of tea was considerable and a drain on its treasury. While it was true that the harvest and processing required the seasonal help of nearly the entire clerical and lay community, the investment of time and labor amply provided the temple with its own tea for ritual, ceremony, and hospitality. Temple savings – even profits – were to be had by the production of its own leaf.

In the enterprise of tea, Jade Spring Temple was endowed with several advantages. Together with Temple Refuge of Radiant Clouds in Nanjing, Guoqing Temple in Tiantai, and Lingyan Temple in Changqing, Jade Spring Temple in Jingzhou was one of four great Buddhist monasteries of the Tang dynasty. Such grand institutions functioned as religious universities, administrative and political centers, and focal points of faith. Like many holy places, Jade Spring Temple was set in a splendid panorama and possessed an impressive physical scale that swept beyond the vast monastic compound and into the surrounding countryside. Jingzhou was famous for its scenic mountains, fine forests, stalactite caves, and bubbling springs: the waters sprung from caverns deep within the mountain, the source known as Jade Spring, after which the temple was named.

As a prominent place of worship, learning, and patronage, Jade Spring temple was an important destination for pilgrims and tourists. During Buddhist festivals and holidays, the paths up the mountain were packed with people making their way to the monastery. Along the way, pavilions and towering pagodas dotted the hillside, providing the milling crowds with scenic views and a moment’s rest from the climb. Reaching the temple gates, visitors were met by a flock of vendors loudly hawking souvenirs, charms, and street food or just a bowl of tea to quench one’s thirst. Inside the temple grounds, throngs of pilgrims jostled beneath the dappled shade of ancient cedars and soaring gingko trees before stepping into the cool darkness of immense worship halls. Once inside, they marveled at the golden images and colorful silk trappings, their ears filled with the sound of bells and drums and rhythmic chants of scripture, all amidst flickering candlelight and swirling clouds of fragrant incense. Special guests of the abbot and wealthy patrons of the monastery were ushered through inner corridors to quiet reception rooms, there to admire garden and scenic views while sipping tea prepared by the temple tea master. As they took their leave, each was given a small gift of the temple’s own tea.

Under Zhongfu’s direction, Jade Spring Temple needed to increase production to ensure a surplus beyond the requirements of the monastery. A surfeit allowed for the presentation of the temple’s tea as tribute to the emperor and members of the imperial family, particularly the regional rulers of principalities surrounding Jingzhou. A surplus also permitted the sale of tea at the great markets of Chang’an and Luoyang. Such a thing as its own tea turned into a source of pride and income for the monastery and its extended community as well as the region as a whole.

In Nanjing, the Zen master Zhongfu explained all this to Li Bo as they sat drinking the temple’s tea. And though he was not a poet, Zhongfu did excel at expository composition, and skillfully provided all pertinent details about his tea in the verse he gave to Li Bo. In keeping with the literati tradition of exchanging poetry, Li Bo complied with Zhongfu’s request for verse in reply, writing not only a poem but also an important encomium:

答族侄僧中孚贈玉泉仙人掌茶並序

余聞荊州玉泉寺近清溪諸山，山洞往往有乳窟，窟中多玉泉交流，其中有白蝙蝠，大如鴉。按《仙經》，蝙蝠一名仙鼠，千歲之后，體白如雪，棲則倒懸，蓋飲乳水而長生也。其水邊處處有茗草羅生，枝葉如碧玉。惟玉泉真公常採而飲之，年八十余歲，顏色如桃李。而此茗清香滑熟，異於他者，所以能還童振枯，扶人壽也。余游金陵，見宗僧中孚，示余茶數十片，拳然重疊，其狀如手，號為“仙人掌茶”。蓋新出乎玉泉之山，曠古未覿。因持之見遺，兼贈詩，要余答之，遂有此作。后之高僧大隱，知仙人掌茶發乎中孚禪子及青蓮居士李白也。

Preface and Response to the Gift of Jade Spring Immortal’s Palm Tea from my nephew, the monk Zhongfu

I have heard of Jade Spring Temple near the clear streams and serried hills of Jingzhou, where all the mountain grottoes possess stalactite caves, where the many tributaries of Jade Stream mingle, where the white bats are as big as crows. According to the Book of Immortals, bats were known as celestial mice. After a thousand years, their bodies turned white as snow. When perched, they hung upside down. Drinking the stalactite waters, they were long-lived. Everywhere along the stream, there is tea with stems and leaves like blue-green jade. Only Master Zhen of the Jade Spring Temple used to pick the tea to drink. He was over eighty with a complexion like peaches and plums. This tea is pure in fragrance and mellow in taste, different from other teas. Thus, it restores youth and reverses decay, enhancing longevity. While in Jinling, I saw my nephew Zhongfu who showed me several tens of tea leaves, all curled and layered, shaped like hands, and bearing the name Immortal’s Palm tea. It is newly produced from the hills of Jade Spring Temple: nothing like it has ever been seen before. Since Zhongfu presented me with this tea and a poem, he wishes me to respond. Therefore, I have written this introduction. Hereafter, the eminent monks and great recluses will all know that Immortal’s Palm Tea began with the Zen master Zhongfu and the Buddhist layman Green Lotus, Li Bo.

仙人掌茶      Immortal's Palm Tea

常聞玉泉山      Ever have I heard of Mount Jade Spring,
山洞多乳窟      Of its mountain grottos filled with stalactite caves
仙鼠如白鴉      And immortal bats as big as white crows,
倒懸清溪月      All hanging down above the clear, moonlit stream.
茗生此中石      Tea grows among the rocks
玉泉流不歇      And along Jade Spring’s ceaseless flow.
根柯灑芳津      Root and stem exude a rich fragrance;
採服潤肌骨      One whiff nurtures flesh and bone.
叢老卷綠葉      Lush and voluminous, the green leaves;
枝枝相接連      Branch upon branch, row upon row.
曝成仙人掌      The sun dries Immortal’s Palm,
似拍洪崖肩      Coddling it like Hong Ya’s shoulder.
舉世未見之      The world has never seen the like,
其名定誰傳      But who will spread its name?
宗英乃禪伯      Nephew Ying, the Zen master
投贈有佳篇      Presents this tea and a beautiful poem;
清鏡燭無鹽      Both are bright mirrors embellishing ugly Wuyen,
顧慚西子妍      But I am shamed by the beauty Xizi.
朝坐有餘興      Even so, this morning I joyfully
長吟播諸天      Sing this song to the Heavens.

~~~~~ · ~~~~~
"Immortal’s Palm Tea" was noted as the first poem to incorporate the actual name of a tea in its verse. The poem was also one of the earliest accounts of dry, loose leaf tea, and Li Bo was the first poet to describe the sun dried finishing of the leaf and its peculiar shape and form. Tang tea masters like Lu Yü generally used a highly refined, solid dried paste of tea in the form of a small cake or wafer. Washed, steamed, pressed, pulped, and baked, caked tea was highly processed. Unlike cakes or wafers, the whole leaf of Immortal’s Palm tea was slowly dried by the sun and retained nearly all of its natural oils, nutrients, and potency.

Li Bo was magnanimous in his preface and poem, and Zhongfu must have been pleased by the poet’s high praise of the tea, especially its christening with so distinctive a name as Immortal’s Palm. As for Li Bo, he graciously fulfilled a family duty. It could not have been otherwise, and it would not do to turn duty into a dilemma. When asked by his nephew for the favor, he was bound by blood to honor the request, and Zhongfu's being a respected cleric from a major temple made it all the easier to grant the wish. No, it was the least he could do, a small but meaningful gesture to family and faith.

And besides, life was uncertain. He and his nephew might meet again. One could never really tell what the future held, especially when the poet was restless and always on the move. Li Bo just might find himself on Jade Spring Mountain sometime, wandering late and alone on a wine soaked night, waving a drunken farewell to the waning moon, stumbling towards the temple, and eager for a bittersweet sip of Immortal's Palm tea.


Commentary
Immortal’s Palm : Although the name was invented by Li Bo centuries before, it is a curious fact that xianren zhang 仙人掌 later also came to mean "cactus" in Chinese. The flat leaves of the exotic prickly pear plant (Opuntia stricta) appeared like the hands or palms of an otherworldly being, thus giving the cactus its name "Immortal’s Palm" in China. Cacti were unknown in China being New World plants native to North, Central, and South America as well as the Caribbean. In 1540, European mariners returned to the Continent bearing a specimen of Melocactus (Melon cactus) from the West Indies. Cacti were introduced to Asia in the seventeenth century, entering Japan in 1669. The first medicinal use of cactus was noted by Zhao Xüemin 趙學敏 (1719-1805) in the Chinese pharmacology Bencao gangmu shiyi《本草綱目拾遺》, the 1765 revision of the Bencao gangmu《本草綱目》originally published in 1596 by Li Shizhen 李时珍 (1518-1593).

Xian 仙 means “an immortal” in Chinese. The character is composed of two pictographic elements: the radical ren 人 representing a man next to the element shan 山 for mountain. Lexicographic commentaries explain the character as representing a person ascending the highest places to live and to become immortal. The term xianren 仙人 means “an immortal being” but one who is not only endowed with eternal life but also spiritually powerful. Immortality was achieved by spiritual and physical practices as well as by alchemy. The alternate character for xian 仙 is xian 僊, which also means “immortal.” The character xian 僊 is composed of two elements: the radical ren 人 representing a man next to the element xian 䙴, a word meaning “to soar like a bird.” In early nativist and Daoist imagery, an immortal was a bird-like, feathered being that roamed and flitted about the Void. Immortals in religious Daoism were human beings and were divided into three kinds. Heavenly immortals were living persons who transcended earthly bonds in broad daylight. Earthly immortals lived in mountains and forests. Enlightened persons became immortal only after death.

Jade Spring Temple (Yüqüansi 玉泉寺) was located on Mount Jade Spring (Yüqüanshan 玉泉山), western Dangyang County, Hubei. The temple was one of the four great Buddhist monasteries in the empire, a sister institution to the Qixia si 棲霞寺 (Temple Refuge of Radiant Clouds) in Nanjing were Li Bo resided.

Jingzhou 荊州 was a prefecture located in present Danyang County, Hubei, a place considered within the heartland of tea.

Zhongfu: It is interesting to note that Li Ying's Buddhist name "Zhongfu" 中孚 is also the name of the sixty-first hexagram in the Yijing 易經 (Book of Changes), wherein the term exemplifies the condition of being centered and calm and in accord with the inner and outer. Such an auspicious name for a Sinitic Buddhist monk resonated profoundly with his ancient Chinese culture, linking the Zen master Zhongfu metaphysically and philosophically with early nativist and Daoist traditions.

The Book of Immortals (Xianjing《仙經》) was a book of Daoist scripture (now lost) that most likely dated from the late Han through the Six Dynasties period.

Master Zhen (Zhengong 真公) was the Venerable Yüqüan Huizhen 玉泉惠真法師 (673-751 CE), a celebrated Buddhist monk and teacher at Jade Spring Temple who lived to be seventy-eight years old.

Jinling 金陵 was an old name for present Nanjing 南京.

Hong Ya 洪崖 was a servant in the palace apothecary of the fabled Yellow Emperor; alternatively, he was said to have been an immortal three thousand years old during the time of Emperor Yao and still living during the Han dynasty. To “pat” or “rub” Hong Ya’s shoulder was to bestow health, longevity, and immortality.

Wuyen 無鹽 was the nickname of Zhong Lichun 鐘離春 (a.k.a. Zhongli Chun 鐘離春), a famously ugly woman of the State of Qi during the Warring States period. Described as “ugly beyond compare,” she risked death to advise her prince. Moved by her loyalty, King Xüan of Qi 齊宣王 (reign 319-301 BCE) made her royal consort. Li Bo, who played the role of Wuyen in his poem, compared Zhongfu’s tea and poetry to “bright mirrors,” a generous and flattering image.

Xizi 西子 was the nickname of Xi Shi 西施 or Shi Yiguang 施夷光, one of four famous beauties in history. It was said that she was considered even more beautiful when she frowned. In a story of self-sacrifice and intrigue, Xi Shi and the beauty Zheng Dan 鄭旦 were sent in vengeance from the State of Yüe to beguile King Fuchai (Ji Fuchai 姬夫差, reign 495-473 BCE) of the State of Wu. Infatuated by their charms, King Fuchai neglected the duties of his throne, and the kingdom of Wu was defeated by Yüe forces in 473 BCE. Once again, Li Bo flattered Zhongfu, this time by comparing the monk to the famous beauty.

"Heavens" here refers to the zhutian 諸天 or the many realms of the Buddhist cosmology, i.e., the entire Universe. Despite his embarrassment, Li Bo graciously received Zhongfu’s gifts, promising to promote Immortal’s Palm by reciting his poem to his many friends as he traveled about the country.

Figures
(As always on CHA DAO, you can click on each image to view it in a larger size.)
1. Liang Kai 梁楷 (ca. 1140-1210)
Li Bo, 13th century
China: Southern Song dynasty
Hanging scroll: ink on paper
Tokyo National Museum

2. Ma Yüan 馬遠 (active ca. 1190–1225)
Viewing Plum Blossoms by Moonlight, 13th century
China: Southern Song dynasty
Album leaf: ink and color on silk
Metropolitan Museum of Art

3. Li Bo 李白
Shanyangtai tie 上陽臺帖 (Shangyang Terrace), 8th century
China: Tang dynasty
Handscroll: ink on paper
Palace Museum, Beijing

4. Main Gate (Hall of Heavenly Kings)
Qixia si 棲霞寺 (Temple Refuge of Radiant Clouds)
Nanjing, Jiangsu

5. Courtyard, Ponds, and Side Hall
Yüqüan si 玉泉寺 (Jade Spring Temple)
Dangyang, Hubei

6. Pavilion and Bridge
Yüqüan si 玉泉寺 (Jade Spring Temple)
Dangyang, Hubei

A Song-Dynasty Tea Poem: Zhu Xi's "Tea Stove"

by LAOCHAGUI
[[EDITOR'S NOTE: One of the most important goals of CHA DAO is to emphasize and elucidate the connections between tea and the rest of Asian culture. Readers of CHA DAO are already aware of the intricate connections between tea and poetry in China. Today we are pleased to present a contribution by our distinguished colleague LaoChaGui, who offers us here the text of a tea poem by Zhu Xi, along with annotations and his own new English translation of the poem. To illustrate further the connections among the arts of China, LaoChaGui has also furnished us with his own original calligraphic version of the poem, which we include below (be sure to click on the image for a larger view of this beautiful document). ¶ LaoChaGui hails from Cambridge, Massachusetts; he currently teaches American Culture at Wenzhou University in southern Zhejiang Province. He holds the Bachelor's degree in Chinese Language and Literature from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Chinese poetry and philosophy have been among his interests for over a decade. LaoChaGui's other interests include the Chinese 'scholar aesthetic' and recluse- or hermit-culture in general. Interested readers should also have a look at his excellent tea blog, AMATEURS DE THÉ CHINOIS.]]


Zhu Xi is regarded by many as the most influential Chinese philosopher of the past millennium. He belonged to the Lixue (理学) school of thought, most commonly known as 'Neo-Confucianism' in English. Zhu Xi codified the philosophy of Lixue with his commentaries on the four classics recognised by Lixue -- the Analects of Confucius, the Mencius or works of Mengzi, the Doctrine of the Mean, and the Great Learning -- the latter two works being individual chapters from the Zhou Li, one of the classics of Confucianism. Zhu Xi’s work was considered unorthodox during the Southern Song Dynasty, but was adopted after his death by the Yuan Dynasty, and became official doctrine up until the early years of the Republican period, to the point that men espousing beliefs which ran contrary to Zhu Xi’s commentaries would be considered unfit for government service.(1) Zhu Xi was also a famous calligrapher; some of his original works are still extant.(2)

Zhu Xi was born not far from Fuzhou, where his father was a local official; however, he spent 40 years of his life in and around Chong’an county (today’s Wuyishan City.) He had learned to drink tea from his father, who loved tea to a fault. Later in life Zhu Xi used the pseudonym “Tea Immortal” (茶仙) to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself, as his writings were considered heterodox.(3)

The subject of Zhu Xi’s tea poetry was almost exclusively Wuyi Mountain’s tea gardens and environs, along with the tea they produced. The imperial tribute tea of the Song was green tea compressed into small cakes; it was the most celebrated tea of the age. Names such as "Moon Rounds" (月團茶) and "Dragon and Phoenix Rounds" (龍鳳團茶) are found in tea poetry through the ages, and refer to this Song-style tea cake, which was ground into powder and whisked into a foamy white or green liquid before drinking.



In the following poem, Zhu Xi is boating on the Nine Bends Creek, which winds its way among the famous Wuyi Cliffs. He discovers a round hole in a rock, and imagines it is a stone tea stove left behind by immortals.



茶灶 朱熹 CháZào -- Zhū Xī

仙翁遺石灶 xiānwēng yíshízào
宛在水中央 wǎnzài shuǐzhōngyāng
飲罷方舟去 yǐnbà fāngzhōuqù
茶煙裊細香 cháyān niǎoxìxiāng

'Tea Stove' by Zhu Xi

Stone stove left behind by immortals,
Lies crooked in the center of the stream.

Tea finished, two boats drift on abreast,
Tea smoke; wafting delicate fragrance.(4)


Notes

1. Hong, Qinfu. Confucianism In Cross-Cultural Dialogue (Shanghai: Shanghai Education Publishing House, 2004), page 69.

2. For an example, see the Wikipedia entry on Zhu Xi sub voc. "Achievements of Zhu Xi in the art of calligraphy."

3. http://www.wuyishantea.com/007/Html/charenchashi/083292259192848.htm (text in Chinese).

4. The fourth line is particularly difficult to render concisely while remaining at once true to the original meaning and the conventions of English. 'Tea smoke' is presumably the smoke from the charcoal fire that has been lit to boil water.

Tea Moons, Circle Poems, and Mesostics

by ADRIAN LURSSEN
[[EDITOR'S NOTE: Not long ago the US Mail brought me one of the more extraordinary packets I have been privileged to receive. It contained an envelope of creamy ivory stock, adorned with a postage-stamp from the Republic of China that shows Yixing teapots being filled with tea. The envelope was stamped in red capital letters, 'DO NOT BLEND' [sic]. It was stamped, moreover, on the back with tiny poems in continuous-circle format. Inside were a number of small cards, made from heavy card-stock paper, each painted -- in tea -- with a full moon, and inscribed with a tea-related mesostic poem. I could not have been more delighted. I asked the poet if he might favor the readers of CHA DAO with a sampling of this beautiful and inventive art-form, so germane to our discussions and yet so fresh and unforeseen, and here -- just in time for the full Harvest Moon -- he has done so, with a lucid and stimulating explanation of what it is all about.

ADRIAN LURSSEN, a distinguished poet who has been published in such eminent venues as AGNI, holds the MFA in Fiction from George Mason University. Born and raised in South Africa, he brings an unusually global perspective to his writing -- and a lively and perceptive mind to his tea-drinking, as readers of CHA DAO will already know. He is the Founding Editor of a splendid literary journal, PRACTICE: NEW WRITING + ART, which deftly juggles the arts, verbal and visual, in innovative ways for the new millennium. It is a pleasure to share his work with you here. (To enlarge the images, click on them with your computer mouse.)]]

I recently learned via Lew Perin's Babelcarp translator (of Chinese tea terms into English) that the word YUN, used to describe a tea's aftertaste, translates literally as RHYME.

This is an exquisite fact; yet another example among many of how poetry and Chinese tea are inextricably linked. A tea doesn't have an aftertaste - it has a rhyme! The rhyme is soft or strong. Like some word rhymes, it can be felt at the back of the throat. Or on the lips. Or the tongue.

I could go on, but actually have been asked to describe tea moons, mesostics, and circle poems. And yet here I begin, without rhyme or reason.

Tea moons are moons that have been painted using tea. That's one simple definition. Lately I have been doing exactly this because 1) I think the results are beautiful, and 2) it serves as a personal record of teas I might never drink again. (This season's Baozhong. Or, a 1960s Zhong Cha. Or, an aged Shui Xian in limited supply.)

Whenever I brew a "notable" tea, I always place a few extra leaves in a tiny gaiwan sitting to the side and add a splash of hot rinse water from my main pot or gaiwan. Later in the day I'll return to the steep in that little gaiwan and, using a small watercolor brush, I'll paint moons on 3 by 5 inch cards (made by Italian paper company Fabriano and called Medievalis 208 S.) I have a large and growing collection.

I like moons made of tea. They remind me of farmers watching the spring sky for the correct moment to harvest leaves.

Generally, the moon also reminds us of the passage of time. And naturally, in ways too numerous to mention, time has everything to do with tea. The shape - a circle - also brings to mind the lip of a cup, the mouth of a pot, an unbroken bingcha.

The idea of tea moons came from Scottish artist, poet, publisher Alec (Eck) Finlay - who was the subject of a recent interview published in my literary magazine, PRACTICE: NEW WRITING + ART.

My friend Susan Tichy - the mag's poetry editor - conducted the interview. After the issue came out, Susan traveled to Scotland and met Eck Finlay in person. She presented him with a gaiwan and some Wuyi yancha (all PRACTICE contributors get tea from us). In return, Finlay sent me a tea moon. His was created in a slightly different way: he'd spilled tea (our Wuyi) onto a sheet of paper, placed a cup in the spill, and left it to dry. The spill and the cup turned into the faintest hint of a moon. It was lovely.

Seeing that first moon was like being struck by lightning. I understood it as a way to capture the remarkable experience of tea, which is weighted by time but actually in practice quite fleeting. (It is the same inclination, to me, that leads a person to make tasting notes. Some teas wait decades to be drunk; the experience, when it finally arrives, takes a mere afternoon. How to make it last?)

And so, tea moons - created in two different ways. There are bound to be so many more.

Lately I have been experimenting with Finlay's original method, which relies on chance more than mine does. I like it very much and have been doing more in that style. I think both methods have their place in an expression of tea art (whatever that happens to be) - one might be seen as an act of will, the other an act of chance.

The painted moons are contrived to capture the specific colors of a brewed tea in the shape of a moon - as I said, a personal record of a tea life over time. The spilled moons do this, too, but they're magical for the way chance is involved: a cup is placed in spilled tea and as a result, a moon like no other is formed.

No need to compare, both have their place, but I mention them side by side here for this way they seem to represent two sides of the tea experience. Water temperature, pot size, leaf amount, harvest day, steep time, storage duration, leaf quality, blend recipe - all of these represent something we can control, the act of human will imposed upon tea. Like painting a perfect moon with a brush.

And then there is the part played by the unexpected, the random. The unpredictability of a winter season. Or, the unpredictable growth of a tea bush in any given year. The strength of the sun the day the leaves are picked. The vagaries of storage. Your mood when you brew a pot. (To name just a few obvious ones.) A chance spillage. A cup set within the spill. The moon that appears in turn. Aspects of chance, the art arising from it.

***
This all started not with moons but with circle poems.

In the PRACTICE interview, Susan and Eck Finlay discuss his worldwideletterbox project, which - in short - involves placing circle poems in letterboxes at 100 locations around the world. (Read the interview here; it is a truly amazing project and deserves a better explanation than mine. For the sake of space and time, I'll focus only on circle poems.)

Circle poems have no beginning, middle, or end. They start where you jump in, they end where you jump out. Their meaning often changes, depending on where you choose to start. And, surprise, they are perfectly suited to the subject of tea. Last spring, while working on the magazine, I started writing tea circle poems - and oh boy has it been fun. My first was to do with aged sheng pu-erh ("in time a cup for now a leaf") - which must be read in a circle.

Circle poems by their nature seem to mirror the circular process of tea, which is probably more spiral than circle: plant to leaf to pot to cup to lips to pot to cup to lips to pot to cup to lips, etc. And, like moons, in shape they resemble cups, pots, and tea cakes. And the circle itself ... again, like time.

My favorites so far have to do with Da Hong Pao ("a tea between rocks a mist between pours") and Yixing ("a pot seasons a tea seasons") - both of which also must be read in circle form.

The poems are made into rubber stamps and then pressed in ink onto the back of the tea moon cards. All part of the fun.

***
Along the way, Eck Finlay - who seems to live for collaboration they way I live for tea - urged me to start writing tea mesostics.

The mesostic form was invented (and used extensively) by American artist/composer John Cage. It involves writing a poem of only one word per line that forms, in vertical intersection, a word that relates to the theme or subject of the poem. Whew. (It's like an acrostic, in which the first letter of each line spells something, but in this case the word appears within - not at the beginning.)

For example, a mesostic about aged uncooked pu-erh:
Or this one, to do with Wuyi yancha:


What I love about mesostics - which, like circle poems, are harder than they seem - is that the backbone word, the vertical intersection, can be read as an ending to the short poem. (Ex: Among rocks, leaves borrowing ambient strength: Oolong.) And as Finlay pointed out, the trick is to create mesostics that are more than mere lists. Although I like this list-type meso, to do again with yancha:


Another thing about mesos that I like so much: their grid-like nature and the vertical/horizontal text remind me of neifei. Or, of Chinese text grids in general. For this reason, and for all the other obvious resonance(s), I've been including related mesostics on the tea moon cards I've been painting.

Here's another, relying on "instruction" - which seems to me a frequent motif in tea art:


I've also been sending the cards out as gifts - collected in a series of seven. Each card can be read by itself, or as part of a larger whole: one poem about tea in seven stanzas, seven mesostics. And the recipient, the reader, can re-order the cards for each reading. Like tea, it's all part of that dance between chance and will.

All of which to say: you should try your hand at a circle poem or mesostic. Like tea, it is oh so addictive. And fun!

(by the way, I have been drinking a 1996 Menghai #7542, well stored for a decade in Hong Kong, while writing this. I can't yet put into words what the brew tastes like, but I can tell you that it rhymes on the roof of the mouth.)

Lu T’ung and the “Song of Tea”: The Taoist Origins of the Seven Bowls [Part 1 of 2]

by STEVEN D. OWYOUNG
[[EDITOR'S NOTE: By now Steven Owyoung, one of the world's authorities on tea and a veteran contributor to CHA DAO, will need no introduction. His topic in this essay is the "Song of Tea," one of the most quoted (and perhaps least understood) pieces of ancient literature on tea. Few even of our most learned readers will know the details amassed in this fascinating essay, which expertly weaves together elements of biography, history, Daoist thought, human physiology and nutrition, numerology, and tea culture, in a virtuoso illumination of this famous poem. (Along the way, he also sheds some important light on the Cha Jing of Lu Yu.) ¶ Unless otherwise indicated, all translations (including that of the "Song of Tea" itself) are Owyoung's own. His new English version of the entire "Song of Tea" -- a text far more substantial than the excerpt usually cited -- first appeared in Beatrice Hohenegger's Liquid Jade: The Story of Tea from East to West (St Martin's Press 2007) pp. 20-21. The complete translation appears here, in very slightly revised form. ¶ Because of its substantial size, this essay will appear in two parts.]]

Seven Bowls of Tea

The “Song of Tea” is one of the most beloved tea poems known the world over. Its verses on “seven cups” of tea remain as famous today as when written in China over a thousand years ago during the T’ang dynasty (618-906 A.D.). The Song was composed by the Taoist recluse Lu T’ung (775-835 A.D.), a celebrated poet and connoisseur of tea. Lu T’ung was inspired by a gift of tea from an official high in the ranks of the imperial court. The tea was named Yang-hsien, after the gardens where it was grown for the exclusive use of the emperor. Surprised and delighted by the present, Lu T’ung brewed the tea and drank. Bowl after bowl, he felt the tea transform him until it seemed that he became immortal. The story of Lu T’ung – his life, poetry, and tea -- provides an understanding of the “Song of Tea” and the idyllic but fragile world of the T’ang literati.

Lu T’ung and Lu Yü

Lu T’ung hardly lived a dangerous life. He was, after all, a gentleman of leisure. Indeed, for all of his sixty years, he lived in retirement, realizing the literati dream of being free from the dusty world to write and pursue artistic pastimes. Erudite and cultured, he was a poet of considerable eccentricity and a noted connoisseur of fine tea. For a time, he lived as a hermit in the mountains near the eastern capital. His lofty, independent style was admired by the wealthy and the powerful. While ministers and officials might fret and toil for rank and fortune, they could always look to Lu T’ung as the ideal among them, unsullied and beyond the fray. Fame for Lu the recluse was unfortunate but rewarding. And in truth, his celebrity kept him in the highest company and in the rarest tea. Yet, the farther from solitude he strayed, the closer he came to the imperial court and its lethal intrigues. In a knotted twist of fate, Lu T’ung’s passion for tea proved to be his undoing. His perfect life ended abruptly and very badly.

As a connoisseur, Lu T’ung naturally drank tea. But in the late T’ang, nearly everyone did. Tea was everywhere: from the palace to the cottage, from the northernmost borders to beyond the eastern seas. There were tea shops and market stalls and itinerant tea sellers offering a bowl of tea on the streets and alleys of every city and town. Among the elite, tea was an aesthetic pursuit, an artistic and culinary endeavor codified by the Ch’a-ching, the Book of Tea. Published in 780 A.D., the Ch’a-ching was a canonical work written by the great saint of tea, Lu Yü.

Lu T’ung, who was no relation to the elder tea master, studied the Book and became expert as a connoisseur. He was thirty years old when Lu Yü died around 804 A.D., but there was no history of their meeting. Yet, Lu T’ung might well have shared tea with Lu Yü when the master was still alive; one or two apocryphal stories survive. Both men certainly held a good deal in common. They were deeply learned but disdained official life, devoting themselves instead to scholarship and poetry. And, despite their eremitic characters and eccentric personalities, they were admired and patronized by the high and mighty of the imperial bureaucracy. Late in life each faced personal tragedy. Lu Yü lost his teacher and foster sister. Lu T’ung lost his life. But the great bond that connected the men was tea, especially the use of tea in Taoist meditation and inspiration.

Saint of Tea

In life and lore, Lu Yü and Lu T’ung were intimately associated with Taoism. Lu Yü was particularly accomplished in cosmological and alchemical studies, interests that began when he was young. Lu Yü was orphaned at the age of two and abandoned “desolate and exposed” along the shores of the West Lake in Ching-ling, Hupeh. Discovering the child, the head priest Chi-kung took the foundling to the Lung-kai Temple, a Ch’an Buddhist monastery. Cloistered, the boy was raised as a little monk, or so the story was told. But there was another tale for the telling. According to legend, the toddler stayed at the monastery only briefly before he was sent to live with the Li family. Master Li was a Confucian from Huchou, an eastern town famous for its tea gardens on the southern rim of Lake T’ai. When he retired from office, Master Li “divined a dwelling place” in which the augury foretold the move south to Hupeh near the Lung-kai monastery. Master Li set out in anticipation of a peaceful, retired life; he was known by the Taoist name Ju-kung, Master Child. When the priest Chi-kung learned of the family’s arrival from Huchou, he asked them to care for the small orphan. Master Li fostered the child and raised him like a son with his own daughter, Li Yeh, a brilliant and precocious girl of five. The two grew up as sister and brother and were tutored together, learning Confucian belles-lettres and Taoist teachings. At the age of eight, Lu Yü returned to the monastery. But not for long. Desiring to study the classics and unhappy with the intellectual strictures imposed by his teacher Chi-kung, Lu Yü – aged just eleven – rebelled. Deserting the monk and monastic life, Lu Yü joined a traveling troupe of actors, trying his hand at playwriting and comedic skits. On discovering Lu Yü again, the old priest relented and granted the boy time to study non-Buddhist literature. As a young man, Lu Yü spent many years as an itinerant scholar and later roamed the wilds of Szechwan searching for tea when war and chaos forced him south of the Yangtze. Mixed with the mass of refugees fleeing the bloodshed, Lu Yü found himself in the tea town of Huchou, the home of the Li family, and reunited with Li Yeh.

After the death of her parents, Li Yeh returned to her hometown as a young, unmarried woman to become a Taoist priestess and one of the foremost poets of the age. She lived near Lake T’ai and cut a striking figure against its dark, broad waters in her Taoist robes of deep yellow and a many-pleated cape of shimmering, translucent silk. She carried a bamboo staff of nine knots, and as she walked, her lotus crown of gauzy petals trembled with each step. Her exoticism, beauty, and allure were all heightened by her exceptional talent as a poet. She was often found at the K’ai-yüan Temple surrounded by admirers. Finding Li Yeh in Huchou, Lu Yü settled there, building a small hut on the banks of the T’iao-hsi, a stream within walking distance of the large imperial tea estates near the lake where Li Yeh lived. The familial ties between Lu Yü and Li Yeh were renewed and close, their visits with one another recorded in exchanges like the bitter-sweet poem by Li Yeh entitled, "Lying Ill above the Lake, Happy for the Visit of Lu Yü":

Long ago, the night you left,
the moon shone harsh as frost.
Now you return at a time of bitter mists.
We meet again; but as before, I lie here ill.
Wishing to speak, tears first fall.
Urged to drink T’ao Ch’ien’s wine,
I respond, chanting a poem by Hsieh Ling-yün.
Now, all at once, we’re perfectly drunk ...
What else could we possibly do?

Li Yeh’s teasing, unrestrained love poems made her a favorite among the highest literary circles and she soon attracted the attention of the emperor. Answering the imperial summons, she traveled to the capital Ch’ang’an by boat and litter under escort, a watchful but arrogant company of palace eunuchs sent to fetch her. She entered the inner palace, entertaining the emperor, composing poetry in his praise, chanting her poems to him, and accompanying her songs for the sovereign’s ear on the soft-sounding zither. All seemed well until Li Yeh astonished everyone by abruptly leaving the palace after a single month. Her parting was amiable for she left with presents from the emperor, but her release from the inner chambers of the palace was still a source of comment. Her strong streak of independence was called “masculine” by her admiring male contemporaries, and for most of her unconventional life, she was held in awe as a courtesan of the most extraordinary order.

Lu Yü was nothing if not a fair match for his foster sister. In due time, he received his own invitation to the imperial palace, but not because of his looks or personality. Lu Yü described himself as “ugly” and “biased and irascible and often subjective.” He stuttered and was distant and aloof, ignoring company, preferring to wander about chanting poetry and Buddhist scripture, “wailing and weeping” until people thought him mad. He had a deep, reclusive bent and enjoyed solitary study. Even as a teenager, Lu Yü showed great literary promise. Escaping the monastery, he impressed and gained the support of several important officials who recognized his innate talent and sponsored his education with literary collections, teachers, and academic opportunities. Later in life, he rose on a literary tide that granted him several titles, ranks, and positions, swelling even to the use of the title Imperial Instructor and an honored seat on the editorial board of an imperial compilation on rhyme. Lu Yü was an eclectic scholar and wrote on a variety of subjects, including political and social theory, genealogy, famous people in history, officialdom, and local histories.

As a Taoist, Lu Yü was deeply committed to the T’ang imperial house, honoring its ancestral line to Lao-tzu. When rebels defied the throne, Lu Yü expressed his outrage and loyalty by composing a series of poems called the Four Lamentations and The Obscuring of Heaven. To honor the triumph of the imperial forces over the rebel armies of An Lu-shan and Shih Ssu-ming in 763 A.D., he dedicated the casting of his bronze brazier to the victory. Lu Yü’s faith in the throne was severely tested when his foster sister Li Yeh receive another imperial summons. Ascending the august dragon throne, the emperor Te-tsung called for her to ornament the inner palace where she was inducted into serving his personal court. When Ch’ang’an was attacked in 783 A.D., the emperor fled, leaving Li Yeh and other palace ladies behind and at the mercy of the rebel general. When Te-tsung returned to the capital the next year, Li Yeh was denounced by eunuchs and charged with crimes against the state. The emperor learned that while in the rebel’s hands, Li Yeh wrote a song in praise of the general. It was understood that her poem was coerced from her by her captor but there was no assuaging the emperor’s anger. Her art, Li Yeh’s own poetry and music were used in evidence against her. Li Yeh was humiliated, tortured, and executed. If a lament was written to mourn Li Yeh, none survived. Lu Yü was shocked and saddened by the unimaginable loss of his sister and friend.

In addition to the priestess Li Yeh, Lu Yü counted among his Taoist friends the noted recluse Chang Chih-ho, who, like Lu himself, also lived in a hermitage on T’iao-hsi Stream. It is unknown if Lu Yü was celibate, but he never married; that fact alone brought him close to a priestly life and stature. The popular notion of the man was revealed in an image of Lu Yü. In the late T’ang, tea merchants commissioned glazed porcelain statues of Lu Yü that showed him seated, wearing a Taoist miter – a tripartite, lotus-form headdress -- and reading a handscroll. Given out along with miniature tea sets by the merchants to their favored customers, the ceramic figure was revered as the “Saint of Tea.”

Lu Yü studied Taoist alchemy and was remarkably current on all of the theoretical developments of the eighth century A.D. in the esoteric field. In 759 A.D., he visited Mount Mao, the founding site of Shang-ch’ing Taoism and repository of its most sacred scriptures. The Ch’a-ching (Book of Tea) and a lost work known as The Interpretation of Dreams were among his most overtly Taoist writings. Lu Yü’s profound Taoist experiences provided great personal insight into the intimate connections between tea and Taoism, notably the prescriptive use of tea in the preparation and service of the drink. All were manifest in the Book of Tea.

Hermit of Mount Sung

In the mind of Lu T’ung, the elder tea master Lu Yü and the Ch’a-ching were models of the art of tea and eremitic Taoism. By a quirk of fate, Lu T’ung was born in one of the most sacred of Taoist places. His hometown of Chiyüan, Honan was famous for Mount Wangwu, “mountain of the King’s chamber,” where in hoary antiquity the Yellow Emperor received the Scripture of the Divine Elixirs of the Nine Tripods. The hundreds of medicinal plants that grew abundantly on the slopes attracted physicians and apothecaries like the early T’ang alchemist Sun Ssu-mo who roamed Wangwu in search of herbal remedies. Ssu-ma Ch’eng-chen, the twelfth patriarch of the Shang-ch’ing Taoist sect, lived in tranquil seclusion on the sacred mountain in a palatial temple built for him in 724 A.D. by Emperor Hsüan-tsung. The sanctity of his surroundings imbued Lu T’ung with a deep sense of the spiritual, and Taoism was held by him all of his life -- his poetry and tea, reflections of its teachings.

Lu T’ung practiced the art of tea in Stone Village, a place near Mount Wangwu where he lived in a country villa with his wife and children. Originally from Fangyang, Loyang, he was a member of an aristocratic clan and belonged to landed gentry, his status and means allowed him a life devoted to family and the aesthetic ideal. He called himself "Master Jade Stream" (Yü-ch'uan tzu) after a local mountain spring, laying claim to the cosmic yin, the expressive Taoist force of water. While on pilgrimage to Mount Sung, one of the five sacred mountains of Taoism, he stayed to live in seclusion for years on Lesser Stone, a peak rising amidst the monastic sanctuaries that flourished on its slopes. There he pursued scholarship, poetry, and tea in a tranquility broken only by the visits of family and friends. It is a question as to what moved Lu T’ung to abandon his solitude. But he descended from his Taoist hermitage around 810 A.D. and entered the old city of Loyang.

Known as the Eastern Capital, Loyang was the official city and residence of the crown prince and a major market and entrepôt of the empire. Divided by the Lo River, Loyang boasted three great marketplaces strategically located in the city’s northern, eastern and western quadrants and accessible by an intricate network of canals and channels. In the seventh century A.D., “more than ten thousand boats from all over the country” crowded about the T’ung-chi Bridge near North Market. Just as the imperial capital Ch’ang’an in the west served as the trade terminus of the Silk Road, Loyang in the east funneled tribute grains, silk, and tea and all the exotic goods and materials of the abundant south to the western capital. Borne on the waters of the Grand Canal, the wealth of the empire streamed into bustling Loyang where the nobility, officials, and merchants shared in the riches, gathering in select neighborhoods near the southern gate and building great mansions and splendid gardens.

Lu T’ung arrived in Loyang a celebrity. He owed his fame in part to the lunar spectacle of 810 A.D. and to a long, intricate prose poem he entitled "Eclipse of the Moon" to commemorate a wintry scene of ice and cold when the midmonth moon and its radiant light were gradually dimmed:

... At first it seemed that a white lotus
Had floated up from the Dragon King’s palace.
But this night ... was not like other nights;
For now we saw a strange thing:
There was something eating its way inside the rim ...
Ring and disc crumbled away ...
Darkness smeared the whole sky like soot ...

The poet then told the ancient tale of “a demon frog that comes to eat the moon,” a monstrous creature lustful yet careless of evil, choosing only to devour luminous purity. Lu T’ung then addressed the horror directly:

With lips stretched wide and gaping jaws, you eat insatiably.
You have fed your disobedience by eating the eye of Heaven.
How long before the Lord on High ordains your execution?
[after A.C. Graham, trans.]

"Eclipse of the Moon" circulated widely, and Lu T’ung gained a reputation for fantastical images and literary bombast as well as derring-do. High officials at court were impressed, particularly those who believed the poem to be an attack on the eunuch clique clawing its way to power through the shadows of the imperial palace. Many thought that Heaven represented the emperor, and the bright moon symbolized the pure light of a loyal and incorruptible official who warned against the growing evil of the eunuchs and was utterly destroyed by the “demon frog.” The name Lu T’ung was on the lips of all the gossips. The famous writer of ancient-style prose, Han Yü, even wrote a poetic response to Lu T’ung, a move that earned both men the enmity of the eunuchs.

The power of the eunuchs was insidious and formidable. Only months before the eclipse saw the establishment of the Office of Privy Affairs, an inner palace department staffed by eunuchs who controlled the flow of documents from the bureaucrats of the outer palace to the emperor. The Office was headed by chief eunuchs who exercised the informal but nonetheless influential privilege of advising the throne. The might of the Office was reinforced by eunuch commanders of the palace armies stationed on alert just west of the capital. With their grip on the throne tightening, the eunuchs reveled in their success, becoming more abusive and voracious in their appetite for power, cowing all who opposed them.

No minister dared write what Lu T’ung had written. They had seen firsthand the vindictiveness of eunuchs who sent their enemies into exile or to death. The more timorous officials feared for Lu T’ung, but to the eunuchs Lu T’ung was no threat. Sipping tea in a hut on a faraway mountain, the hermit was beyond serious consideration or scrutiny. In the eunuchs’ eyes, he was merely an eccentric of means but of little consequence. Just let him step down from his mountain and come into the capital, however, and he would then answer for his sarcasm and their discomfort. Let him pray that day never comes. To harried courtiers, on the other hand, Lu T’ung’s boldness, his bravery, and untrammeled expression were heady stuff, particularly to scholars like Han Yü, officials anxious to relieve the trials of bureaucratic life with respites of poetry and tea, elegant pastimes at which Lu T’ung so effortlessly excelled.

Lu T’ung first met Han Yü when the official climbed Lesser Stone Peak where Lu lived in seclusion on Mount Sung. The sacred mountain lay just southeast of Loyang, and its sights and sanctuaries attracted the literati as a place of refuge from the hubbub of the city. In 807 A.D., Han Yü, who was originally from Loyang, had returned with his family to the secondary capital for a two-year appointment at the imperial university. He frequented Mount Sung, taking leave of light teaching duties to visit the famous hermits on the mountain. Finding Lu T’ung’s hut, Han stopped to pay his respects and stayed for tea. By 809 A.D., Han Yü and Lu T’ung were friends for some time. The two men also had a personal connection and were distantly related through Han Yü’s wife who came from an aristocratic family, the same prominent Lu clan of Fanyang to which Lu T’ung belonged. After the lunar event in late 810 A.D., Lu T’ung composed his poem on the “demon frog,” and Han Yü wrote a reply, “The Eclipse of the Moon: An Imitation of the Work by Lu T’ung.” Poetry was the mutual medium of expression for them, but their means were separate and particular: Lu T’ung the hermit critiqued palace politics from afar; Han Yü the official crossed superiors and eunuchs at close range. Han ran afoul of the throne and its eunuchs many times and was once exiled to the far south, a virtual sentence of death. The two men commiserated with one another over the state of affairs at court. From that time on, Lu T’ung was a member of Han Yü’s literary circle.

The Poet

Lu T’ung’s poetry was extreme, full of hyperbole and exaggeration, drawing on strange allusions and discordant prose. His baroque style, especially when directed at a target, was devastating or overwhelmingly flattering. He once met a poet named Ma Yi and afterwards sent the new friend a poem expressing his admiration:

There is only a single heart, spleen, and bones,
Peak-craggy, jag-jutting, sheer abyss-creviced
Knives and swords as the peaks and cliffs,
While flatlands let loose into heights like Mount K’un-lun.
No place for it in Heaven,
Earth cannot receive it,
Nor do sun and moon dare steal its splendor.
[after Stephen Owen, trans.]

Lu T’ung’s words and images were irrepressible -- ardently passionate, nearly inflammatory. When writing a poem, Lu visualized every detail, remembering and enhancing a scene with his vivid imagination. His memory was a sharp knife that he candidly confessed to wielding: “All my life I’ve made friends like a petty man, but I remember you right before my eyes as though actually seeing you.”

Reclusive in practice, effusive in company, Lu T’ung was an odd contradiction in personality that attracted admiration and made friends of fellow poets like Ma Yi and Han Yü. His affability was a useful thing, not only to himself but also to his friends. During his visits to the peak, Han Yü and Lu T’ung called on the famous recluse Li P’o, a man of great ability and integrity, who had been appointed to a government post but had refused to come out of retirement to assume official duties. Accompanied by Lu T’ung, Han Yü eventually convinced Li P’o to come down from the mountain and go into Loyang. Less certain was whether or not Han Yü might well have persuaded Lu T’ung to give up his life of seclusion. In any case, soon thereafter, Lu T’ung left Lesser Stone Peak for the eastern capital, but not before encountering a far more influential patron.

While still atop Mount Sung, Lu T’ung befriended Meng Chien, Advisor to the Heir Apparent. At the time, Meng Chien was in disgrace and in exile from court, sent to Loyang and demoted to the prince’s staff as punishment for victimizing some innocent in Ch’ang’an. But Meng Chien was a man of power and consequence. His usual duties at the imperial capital were as Vice Minister in the Ministry of Revenue and vice executive officer in the Censorate, no trifling offices by any means. Meng belonged to an influential family whose patriarch was the eminent physician Meng Shen of the early T’ang. The Meng clan boasted its own poet laureate, Meng Chiao, who was Meng Chien’s nephew and a major figure in Han Yü’s literary circle. Meng Chien was also Grand Master of Remonstrance, an imperial advisor whose duty was to correct and admonish the emperor on policy and matters of state. Because of Meng Chien’s position and closeness to the throne, the emperor Hsien-tsung dispensed his punishment with a light and lenient hand. From the imperial perspective, it was neither politic nor safe to let Meng Chien languish away far from Ch’ang’an: the throne sorely needed officials of caliber to give sound advice and carry out its reforms. Predictably, the exile was temporary and short. But while in Loyang, Meng Chien took his leisure, enjoying the pleasures of the city and lavishly entertaining local luminaries, including the eccentric poet Lu T’ung.

Lu T’ung’s literary prowess and unconventional manner impressed Meng Chien who, as everyone, cultivated relationships for political as well as personal reasons. Meng had read "Eclipse of the Moon" in copies that circulated throughout Loyang and Ch’ang’an and had rightly judged that friendship with its courageous author only enhanced his own stature among scholar officials and perhaps even with the emperor himself. Learning of Lu T’ung’s taste and connoisseurship, Meng Chien favored him with gifts of the most expensive and exclusive caked teas. As a man of wealth and resources, he could acquire any rare tea in the markets of the two capitals. But on one occasion, Meng Chien gave Lu T’ung a present of Yang-hsien, the Son of Heaven’s own tea. Made exclusively for the throne’s private use, no market carried it and no amount of gold or silver or copper cash could buy Yang-hsien tea. It could be acquired, however, but only direct from the hand of the emperor. Not a problem for the wily and savvy courtier. As imperial counselor, Meng Chien’s sage advice to his sovereign was often pried from him by gifts of rare imperial tea. More to the point, the emperor Hsien-tsung was not above bribing his own ministers to keep them happy and close at heel.

[[Part 2 of this essay can be read by clicking here.]]


Image Credits

FIGURES 1, 2: Taoist
Chao Meng-fu (1254-1322 A.D.), attrib.
Portrait of T’ao Hung-ching, 14th century A.D.
China: Yüan dynasty (1279-1368 A.D.)
Album leaf: ink and color on paper
36.7 x 30.4 cm.
National Palace Museum, Taipei
Taiwan, Republic of China

FIGURE 3: Lu Yü
Artist unknown
Portrait of Lu Yü
Dynasty and date unknown
from a version of the Ch’a-ching
Woodblock printed book: ink on paper

FIGURE 4: Ch’a-ching, Book of Tea
Lu Yü, Ch’a-ching (Pai-ch’uan hsüeh-hai, ed., dated 1273 A.D.), 3 chuan
Sung dynasty
Woodblock printed book: ink on paper

FIGURE 5: Saint of Tea
Artist unknown
Saint of Tea, 10th century A.D.
Porcelain with pigments and glaze
H: 10 cm.
T’ang-hsien, Hopei

corax on cloud's 2003 silver dayi sheng pu'er cha

the munificent mr chan kam pong, known online as 'cloud', has supplied a staggering number of samples -- literally round the world -- to participants in his 'Let's have a cup of 2003 Silver Dayi' tea tasting. for this, four entire bings of 2003 silver dayi brand sheng pu'er cha were broken up and distributed. no detail was left unattended: even the postage was tea-related, using special HK postage stamps that featured traditional chinese tea-containers with their red labels. there are copious photos of the tea in various stages of dismantling and packaging on cloud's website. his only stipulation was that each participant in the tasting produce a 200-word review of the tea.

i was the fortunate recipient of one of these samples. for my review, my fantasy was to produce a poem in traditional 七言 詩 [qi yan shi] form -- the seven-character genre popularized in classical chinese culture, from the han dynasty onward.
the genre became famous in the bo liang format, so named after the 柏梁 臺 'bo liang [cypress beam] pavilion' in the gardens of the long-reigning emperor wu 汉武帝 [han wu di, trad. 漢汉武] of the western han dynasty, but arguably reached its zenith centuries later, in the seven-character 近體詩 [jin ti shi] of the tang dynasty.

but even if that had been within my poetic power, i knew it would have severely reduced my readership! so i have settled for the faint impression of a tang-style poem, in the verses tendered below. i say 'faint' because -- even apart from the loss of the vital tonal 'music' of chinese verse -- the bo liang demand of universal end-rhyme is virtually impossible to achieve in english. in poor recompense for this loss, i have tried to achieve an english prosody that might seem to invoke the traditional rhythmic chanting style used for declaiming such poems in putong hua, and have preserved the essential couplet-compositional nature dear to chinese poets. given the stringent limitations of the metrical genre, and my attempt to use [wherever possible] single-syllable words, i have set aside my usual austere tea-tasting reportage for a more impressionist group of images. i hope that these will nonetheless evoke something of the luxuriant experience, and sensuous pleasure, of a pu'er cha tasting. think of this poetic rendering as rather in the relaxed mode of 古詩 [gu shi, a less stringent genre]. chan kam pong, xie xie ni!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ · ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
gu zheng sings its clear sweet notes.
warm sea breeze wafts through the room.

table set with cups of jade,
gong dao bei and pin ming bei.

water boils to eyes of crab,
wets the leaves of chan kam pong,

silver dayi sheng pu'er,
nestled in the white gaiwan.

brief to rinse, and then to rest,
then again -- this time to brew.

in a flash i scent the smoke,
wood-fires built in far yunnan,

made to dry and parch the leaf.
first brief sip rolls on my tongue.

tea is thick, rich, strong, forthright,
tawny hue of tiger's eye,

coats the mouth and lingers long.
not a tea for faint of heart.

brew and brew and brew and brew,
each infusion, longer still,

keeps the pu'er taste alive:
smoke and wood, with moss and must.

further brews, and then a mix
first of bitter, then of sweet.

sharp smoke scent, slow sip, and then
cool and fruit. and then, smoke yun.

dry sensation, not too strong
tugs at tongue and mattes the mouth.

further brews: the sweet hui gan
fills the mouth when sip is gone.

many brews: the leaf, first brown,
swells and grows, and flushes green,

full of smoke, then more alive;
gives its liquor, rich and gold.

comes the evening. shadows fall.
round the moon a wreath of ... cloud.

-- corax

Korean Tea Texts, Classical and Modern [iii]: An Outline and Select Highlights of the Dongdasong《東茶頌》

by WARREN PELTIER
[[EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the third in a series of entries by Warren Peltier on Korean tea texts. For the first and second entries, click here and here. This third entry is an examination of the Dongdasong of Seon monk Cho Ui 艸衣禪師.]]

Previously, we looked at a broad overview of Korean tea books both classical and modern. When we examine the contents of Cho Ui’s book Dongdasong (Praise for Eastern Tea) 《東茶頌》, we can learn many things about Cho Ui himself. It’s apparent that he was very well versed in Chinese tea classics. He must have spent a tremendous amount of time gathering tea references, studying them, and then being inspired to write poetic verses about them. He is one of Korea’s greatest tea scholars. We should admire him for his works and contribution to tea culture and tea history. Here I provide a closer look at the general contents of the Dongdasong, a 2,300-word essay divided into 31 parts.

Part 1 is a description of the tea plant and its characteristics. Cho Ui quotes the Classic of Tea 《茶經》where Lu Yu describes the tea tree for us: “The tea tree is like the Gualu, leaves like gardenia, flower like white rose.” Gualu 瓜蘆 is also called Gaolu 臯蘆, which we know today as Kuding cha or Ilex kudingcha; the leaves of which were also prepared and drunk as tea even in ancient times. (Gualu and Gaolu are ancient words for this plant.)

Part 3 quotes Shen Nong's Classic of Food 《神農食經》: “When tea is consumed for a long time, it causes one to gain strength.” Cho Ui records the quote as coming from Yandi's Classic of Food《炎帝食經》; the two figures are sometimes regarded as being the same person. This quote comes from Chapter 7 of Lu Yu's Classic of Tea. Shen Nong's Classic of Tea, if it ever existed, is a long-lost book; only fragmentary evidence of it remains in quotes such as these.

Part 4 cites Luo Da Jing’s 羅大經 Song-dynasty poem Tea Sounds 《茶聲》:

松風檜雨到來初，急引銅瓶離竹爐。
Pine winds and juniper rains first arrive; Quickly I lift brass bottle to leave bamboo stove.

待得聲聞俱寂後，一甌春雪勝醍醐。
Waiting until after voices heard all fall silent; One bowl of Spring Snow surpasses fine wine.

Note: 'Pine winds and juniper rains' is a poetic way to describe the sound of boiling water. It’s like wind soughing in the pines and light rain falling on juniper branches. This is exactly the moment to remove the brass bottle (kettle) from the tea stove, in order to prevent the water temperature from rising too high for green tea. When all sounds fall silent (as from the kettle), a bowl of powdered green tea picked in early spring is sipped in quiet contemplation -- a beverage to which not even the best wine can compare.

Part 5 quotes the Er Ya's 《爾雅》definition of Jia 檟, one of the ancient characters for tea: “Jia is bitter tu”. The Guang Ya 《廣雅》 dictionary is also quoted: “In the areas of Jing and Ba the leaves are picked as a drink; aids in sobering from alcohol. It makes one sleep less. Both of these entries are found in Chapter 7 of the Classic of Tea.

Part 6 cites an anecdote about tea in the Yanzi Chunqiu 《晏子春秋》which is also recorded in Chapter 7 of the Classic of Tea. The Yanzi Chunqiu is a record of taking tea with meals, and is important because it illustrates the use of tea as a food (rather than a beverage) early on in the history of China. Yanzi Chunqiu was written in the Spring and Autumn period, around 550 BCE.

Part 7 cites the Shen Yi Ji 《神異記》, which gives a tale of picking tea. This too is recorded in the Classic of Tea, Chapter 7 《茶經七之事》 .

Part 8 quotes a story from the Yi Yuan 《異苑》 which gives a tale of offering tea to spirits. Also recorded in the Classic of Tea, Chapter 7 《茶經七之事》 .

Part 9 cites Zhang Meng Yang’s 張孟陽 poem, 'Deng Cheng Du Lou Shi' 《登成都樓詩》. Yet again, this is recorded in the Classic of Tea, Chapter 7 《茶經七之事》.

Part 10 gives an account of Sui Dynasty emperor Sui Wen Di 隨文帝 drinking tea; found in Sui Shu 《隨書》; and finding it efficacious as a medicine. Sui Shu is a history of the Sui dynasty (581-618 CE), written in the Tang.

Part 11 cites another Tang Dynasty historical record, the Yun Xian Za Ji《雲仙雜記》 by Feng Zhi 馮贄. This contains an anecdote from yet another historical record, the Man Ou Zhi 《蠻甌志》, of the custom at the Jue Lin Temple 覺林寺of producing 3 grades of tea; the highest grade, “Purple Horn Velvet Fragrance,” was reserved and used as an offering to Buddha, while the lowest-grade tea was consumed by the monks.

Part 12 gives reference to Du Yang Za Bian 《杜陽雜編》 by Su E 蘇鶚; written in the Tang Dynasty. The tea served to Princess Tong Chang 同昌公主 had nicknames like “green flower” and “purple bloom.”

Part 14 mentions Cai Xiang of the Song dynasty. And mention is made of the green cake teas called Dragon Phoenix Ball (Long Feng Tuan) 龍鳳團 of what is now the Wuyi and Jianou area of Fujian. Dragon Phoenix Ball was an Imperial Tribute Tea.

The ideas in part 15 are cited from Cai Xiang's 蔡襄 Record of Tea 《茶錄》, written in the Song; the remarks repeated are found under the heading “Fragrance.” Tea has natural fragrance and taste. Anything added to the tea (to try to improve flavor or scent) effectively spoils it.

Part 18 cites Northern Song-dynasty references from the Chuan Ming Record《荈茗錄》, written by Tao Gu 陶谷. In this book, the Wuyi area is poetically described as “countryside of vermilion mountains and green waters.” The book, part of a larger work, is divided into 18 sections which describe some interesting anecdotes during this era in tea history.

Part 21 cites Su Yi's 蘇廙 16 Grades of Hot Water 《十六湯品》, written in the Tang Dynasty. This book describes the states or condition of boiling water for tea and classifies them into 16 grades. The book expands upon the states of boiled water as described in Lu Yu’s Classic of Tea.

Part 22 quotes the Classic of Tea: “Tea has Nine Difficulties; one is manufacture, two is distinguishing quality, three is utensils, four is fire, five is water, six is roasting, seven is powder, eight is boiling, nine is drinking....” These are what Lu Yu considers as the main points to grasp in producing a satisfactory, salubrious bowl of tea.

Part 26 cites Lu Yu's Classic of Tea 《茶經》and other sources giving reference to the best growing conditions (soils, mountains) necessary to produce the finest tea; while stating which types of tea buds make the finest tea.

Part 27 gives reference to Zhang Yuan's Record of Tea. He cites the section on picking tea. In Record of Tea, picking tea the first 5 days before Gu Yu (Before the Rains) is the finest tea; second in quality is the 5 days after Gu Yu (After the Rains); inferior is the next 5 days after this period. Then, Cho Ui states for picking Eastern Tea, before or after Gu Yu is too early. But after Li Xia (Start of Summer) passes, this is the proper time to pick it. So tea-picking times vary depending on growing area.

Part 28 also cites Zhang Yuan's Record of Tea, this time citing the section on tea manufacture.

Part 29 also cites the section on Brew Method from Zhang Yuan's Record of Tea. There is also some interesting commentary added to it.

Part 30 quotes Lu Tong’s 盧仝 'Tea Song'《七碗茶歌》.

Part 31 also quotes Zhang Yuan's Record of Tea, the section titled 'Tea Drinking Method'; but perhaps a better title would be 'Tea Enjoyment Method.' This section in Zhang Yuan’s book doesn’t specifically state how tea should be drunk, but rather, with how many guests to drink tea.