Tao Yuanming’s beautiful meditation on the silent joy that can be found in the simplicity of nature and solitude, this poem reflects his love for the peacefulness of rural life.
饮酒·其五
結廬在人境，而無車馬喧。
問君何能爾？心遠地自偏。
採菊東籬下，悠然見南山。
山氣日夕佳，飛鳥相與還。
此中有真意，欲辨已忘言。
Drinking Wine: No. 5
I built my cottage where others dwell,
Yet there is no bustle from the horses and carriages.
You ask ‘How can this be?’
With my heart set elsewhere, place becomes removed from itself.
I gather chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge,
Wistfully gazing towards the southern mountains.
The mountain air at sunset is delightful,
Birds in flight flock together, returning.
In these things there is true meaning,
I long to explain it but fail to find the words.
Translation notes
This was one of the first Chinese poems I studied, and I found it one of the most memorable. The vocabulary and grammar are straightforward, though there are sections where my translation differs from other texts.
The first line reveals a lot about each translator’s approach to this poem. The second character lu 廬 (which I have translated as ‘cottage’) is often translated as hut. The fourth character ren 人 can either be read as ‘human’ or ‘others’ (as in other humans, as opposed to oneself). The fifth character on the first line, jing 境, can either be translated as realm (as in the metaphysical), or a literal place. Depending on the translator, you will either hear of a humble poet who has built a hut in the realm of humans, or a successful politician who has built a cottage where others live. Given what we know about Tao Yuanming’s life, I have tended towards the second version, which is less commonly found in English translations. The final character of this line xuan 喧 is often translated to ‘clamour’. I prefer ‘bustle’, describing a noise associated with other people’s busyness.
I take a similar approach by translating di 地 in the third line as ‘place’. Not ‘my place’, not ‘this place’, not ‘one’s place’. This invites an exoticised, metaphysical connotation for those who wish to find it, as does the translation of xin 心 to heart. In classical Chinese, the character xin 心 translates to something like ‘the root of one’s intent’. It can therefore mean heart or mind in English, but we must remember there is no real differentiation between the two. Like many of the poems in this collection, the original text offers nothing more specific. The final line of the poem is all the more impactful if we assume that the poet has been as concise as he can be in the preceding lines.
Finally, a line that I have not seen reliably translated in many places: fei niao xiangyu huan 飛鳥相與還 (birds fly each other together return). Many translators take shortcuts here. Some focus solely on the first verb 飛 fei (to fly) and end up with ‘fly together’. Others fixate on the final verb huan 還 (to return), yielding ‘return together’. However, neither of these interpretations carries the full meaning. In English, we can’t adequately translate the meaning of the birds ‘togethering’ each other, although this is what the poet intends to express. I have even seen one translation that suggests the birds fly ‘two by two’, which is closer to the intended meaning but awkward. Instead of ‘fly together’ or ‘return together,’ I feel that using ‘flock’ to represent ‘相與’ provides a more nuanced understanding that aligns with the original text’s intention, which I have translated as ‘Birds in flight flock together, returning.’