Having lived in a country that did not impose any lockdown and, more importantly, not having anyone I personally know be bereaved by COVID, I probably have less reasons than most to feel relieved at seeing it go. I will not comment any more on it. Let this be this blog’s final word on the pandemic, complete with a poetic send-off.
Saying Good-Bye to the God of Disease I – Mao Zedong
Mauve waters and green mountains are nothing
when the great ancient doctor Hua Tuo
could not defeat a tiny worm.
A thousand villages collapsed,
were choked with weeds,
men were lost arrows.
Ghosts sang in the doorway of a few desolate houses.
Yet now in a day we leap around the earth
or explore a thousand Milky Ways.
And if the cowherd who lives on a star
asks about the god of plagues,
tell him, happy or sad, the god is gone,
washed away in the waters.
July 1, 1958
Saying Good-Bye to the God of Disease II – Mao Zedong
Thousands of willow branches in a spring wind.
Six hundred million of China, land of the gods,
and exemplary like the emperors of Shun and Yao.
A scarlet rain of peach blossoms turned into waves
and emerald mountains into bridges.
Summits touch the sky.
We dig with silver shovels
and iron arms shake the earth and the Three Rivers.
God of plagues, where are you going?
We burn paper boats and bright candles
to light his way to heaven.
July 1, 1958
Discovering Mao Zedong’s poetry was a real eye-opener. I assumed at first to see either petty little nothings or dull versified dogma published on the back of his fame (or notoriety, perhaps). What I instead saw was a poet of real skill and power. The poems above could have been written under any other name and would have been just as worthy of publishing.
But surely a man responsible for the deaths of millions of innocent lives (he tops the Wikipedia page for “List of political readers and regimes by death toll”) cannot be worthy of such praise? Surely his work, if any, ought to be the first to be smouldered on the pyres of cancel-culture?
Without dabbling into an invective against either Mao or cancel-culture, all I will stress is the need to have a deeper and complicated view of human nature–one that recognises that every one of us is a complex contrivance of attributes and potentials that in some cases turn nobleness into savagery and love into ruthlessness. Words like “bad” or “good” are not useful in describing anyone, though we live in a day and age that increasingly seems to think so. The poems above show that Mao was perfectly capable of artistic sensitivty and nobleness of thought.
I certainly expect the readers of this blog therefore not to be so pig-headed as to suspect me of exonerating Mao or downplaying the tragedies of any mass murderer in any way. Yes, the world might have been better off had he never existed, but I certainly see no reason to excoriate his poetry for that reason. Mao was not a monster. He was fundamentally and imperfectly human–all too human–and if one wants to acquaint oneself with a more complicated human portrayal of him, then I can warmly recommend reading the excellent introduction to The Poems of Mao Zedong by Willis Barnstone and then of course the succeeding poems, where the two above come from.
There we learn that Mao was greatly versed in the Chinese classics and this is reflected in his poetry–an ironic fact considering he perhaps more than any other single figure is responsible for the wholesale annihilation of traditional Chinese culture. While traditional forms of Chinese verse are perhaps not recognisable in translation, the references to cultural and religious symbols in them are very obvious. Just look at the titles!
Analysis
The theme of the pair of poems above is that of a celebration of modern technological achievement, most obviously in the field of medicine. Although they hail the new, they are very cleverly interwoven with traditional cultural references. In the poems, disease is not objectified in the modern sense, but deified in the traditional one, and armed with modern medicine, we are bidding farewell to those spirits that have throughout the ages haunted man.
The poems celebrate more than just modern medicine, however. The first poem notes the advancements in modern transportation and the discovery of the universe:
Yet now in a day we leap around the earth
or explore a thousand Milky Ways.
and once again these are balanced by traditional cultural references. Here, in the succeeding line referring to “the cowherd who lives on a star”–an ancient folk-tale about a cowherd doomed to live at the end of the Milky Way ral references. Here, in the succeeding line referring to “the cowherd who lives on a star”–an ancient folk-tale about a cowherd doomed to live at the end of the Milky Way. Now that space travel is becoming possible, humans will also be able to make contact with him (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowherd_and_the_Weaver_Girl). Now that space travel is becoming possible, humans will also be able to make contact with him.
This juxtaposition of the modern with the old is notable in the second poem too. It starts with a very beautiful and timeless description of the natural world.
A scarlet rain of peach blossoms turned into waves
and emerald mountains into bridges.
Summits touch the sky.
That could have come from any Chinese classic. Yet we are celebrating at the same time the human, technological domination of this landscape:
We dig with silver shovels
and iron arms shake the earth and the Three Rivers.
Disease itself pertains to this old world that man has begun to vanquish. Practically this might have been through advancements like sterilisation and inoculation, but no mention is made of it. Instead, Mao solemnly evokes a ancient religious ritual that bids it farewell.
We burn paper boats and bright candles
to light his way to heaven.