播江攪海 Rolling The River Churning The Sea
原來行者力量大,不容說,一把拉在天井裡站下。那陣風越發大了,好風:原来行者力量大,不容说,一把拉在天井里站下。那阵风越发大了,好风:
逐句解 Line by line
But Pilgrim's strength was great. Without allowing any argument he hauled them both into the courtyard at one grip and stood them there.
量 is liàng in 力量, strength. 一把 is one grab — the number takes its ordinary tone slide before a rising tone.
And that gust of wind grew greater still. A fine wind it was:
Nine characters carrying both the narrative and the announcement, so this unit opens the poem from inside itself rather than standing in front of it as a bare tag would.
It fells the trees and breaks the forest till wolf and tiger fret; it rolls the rivers and churns the seas till gods and spirits grieve.
倒 is the verb dǎo, to topple — not the adverb dào the same character has twice taken already in this chapter. Every rhyme word here is level: yōu, chóu, zhōu, tóu, yōu, and the opening line rhymes at its midpoint too.
It heaves over the rock of the three peaks on Mount Hua, and lifts the four continents of heaven and earth.
華 is huà in the mountain's name — Mount Hua, the Western Marchmount, one of the five sacred peaks. The 1716 dictionary gives that reading explicitly under the plant radical, and the ancient glossary 爾雅 names the mountain as the western of the five. 乾 is qián in 乾坤, the reading it took in the Daoist's rhapsody, not the gān it takes elsewhere here.
In hamlet and cottage every household bars its door; through the whole village the young hide their heads.
舍 is shè, a dwelling. 藏 is the verb cáng, to hide — the noun reading zàng belonged to the jade in the stone, some two thousand characters back.
Black cloud lies wide and blots out the Star River; the lamps give no light and the ground is dark from end to end.
星漢, the "Star River," is the Milky Way. The poem has moved from forests to mountains to the village and now to the sky, and it ends on the light going out.
The wind poem is the fourth showcase in the chapter and the first with nobody in it. The others gave a self-portrait and two defeats; this one describes weather, and it does so at four widening scales — trees and beasts, then a named mountain and the four continents, then one village, then the sky.
The third couplet is the one that matters. After two lines of cosmic exaggeration the poem drops to bolted doors and children hiding, and the exaggeration works backwards to make that domestic detail frightening rather than quaint.
It ends in the dark. 燈火無光 — "the lamps give no light" — is the last image, and the next thing anybody sees in this chapter is a pair of lights in the air.