During the Mid-Autumn Festival I take the time to remember the hard-drinking, wine-obsessed poet Li Bai. The man was as close to a rock star as you’d get in seventh-century China, and the writer of the best-known poem in the Chinese language.
In Putonghua it’s called jìng yè sī (靜夜思), which variously translates to “Quiet Night Thoughts” or “Thoughts in the Still of the Night.” The poem is generally the first one any Chinese student learns, and with good reason. It goes like this:
床前明月光 chuáng qián míng yuè guāng
疑是地上霜 yí shì dì shàng shuāng
舉頭望明月 j tóu wàng míng yuè
低頭思故鄉 dī tóu sī gù xiāng
(Very) roughly translated, it reads as follows:
At the foot of the bed, the moon shines bright:
Almost like frost on the ground.
I raise my head towards the bright moon
I lower it, and think of home.
The image is clear. It’s late in the year. The poet can’t sleep, kept awake by a cold, bright glow. He thinks that there’s frost sitting on the ground—but then he realizes that no, it must be the gleam of the moon: a single, untouchable reminder of home. It’s a subtly, gently perfect poem.