‘Spring Is Back Already’ and Other Poems

Xin Qiji was a Chinese poet, calligrapher, and military general whose works of ci—poetic verses written or sung to existing musical patterns—are considered by many to be the best of the Southern Song dynasty (1127–1279). 

From an early age, Xin Qiji’s life was marked by hardship. Losing his father at 8 years old, Xin Qiji was raised by his grandfather. While he had a brief spell studying poetry under the tutelage of Liu Zhan 劉瞻, Xin Qiji quickly moved to martial pursuits, taking up arms when Jin armies launched attacks on Song forces along the Huai in 1161.

While he was known as a fierce soldier and was a decorated general, Xin Qiji’s military career was cut short, as he was forced to resign from his position in the Southern Song court in 1181. It was then that he left for a retreat in the Shangrao Prefecture, and from 1192 to 1203, Xin Qiji lived in seclusion, spending his time reading and creating the ci that he would later become known for.

Xin Qiji’s 623 carefully crafted ci are important for their controlled experimentation with, and expansion of, the existing ci form; and yet he added to it an emotional depth, seen in his quality of haofang (豪放), or “heroic abandon,” as well as a somber tone, as the poet sees impermanence in every flower’s bloom. The following poems, translated by Red Pine, note the arrival of spring and the signs of emptiness found in the natural world. 

Spring Is Back Already 

Spring is back already
I can see it in women’s hair 
in their spiraling new ribbons 
and yet the thoughtless wind and rain 
aren’t ready for the cold to end 
last year’s swallows 
surely are dreaming in West Garden tonight 
and yet I haven’t prepared the sacrificial citrus wine 
much less the plate of leeks 

I have to laugh as the east wind begins 
perfuming plum trees and dyeing willows green 
and doesn’t rest 
and when it does and I look in a mirror 
my rosy cheeks won’t be the same 
and my sorrows won’t be gone 
does anyone know how to separate linked disks of jade 
how I hate to see flowers bloom and fall 
geese heading north today before me

I Came Here to Mourn the Past

I came here to mourn the past
to the top of this tower
with enough wine to dispel my sorrows
as for where tigers and dragons are hiding
I only see the usual changes of fortune
beyond the willows and slanting light
birds returning to the river
great trees moaning along the dike
boats sailing west
someone playing a flute

I think back to Xie An’s manner
his last years on East Mountain
crying when he heard a sad tune
having placed his hopes in his children
he played chess all day
true mirrors are hard to come by
for blue clouds at sunset
who lifts a cup of wine
the wind on the river was wild
the waves this morning washed houses away

Great Bodhisattva of Emptiness

Great Bodhisattva of Emptiness
where did your jade cliff come from
your ten thousand beehives
half open half closed
like finely carved doors or windows
your ancient stalactites
hanging suspended
fluted pillars of ice
the distant sound of crashing waves
the scent of fallen flowers
people wonder
if this isn’t the way to Peach Blossom Spring

Some say it’s the thunderous snoring
of a sleeping coiled dragon
or maybe
Dongting Lake music
the spirits of the Xiang
I think it’s a big pine tree
down in the ravine
its faint song of the wind and rain
in the end who knows
why not the old man
who came here first

Rivers Have No Feelings

Rivers have no feelings
against the broken walls the waves turn to foam
a farewell song in the merciless fading light
cuts my heart in two

Royal willows dancing in the east wind by painted walls
flowers shedding tears in thirty-six palace chambers
who discusses the state of the world in spring
every pair of swallows

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“Spring Is Back Already,” “I Came Here to Mourn the Past,” “Great Bodhisattva of Emptiness,” and “Rivers Have No Feelings,” written by Xin Qiji and translated by Red Pine. From If a Mountain Lion Could Sing: The Lyric Poems of Xin Qiji, copyright 2025 by Red Pine, used by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.