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Week 15 - Poetry - Humanities

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On a sweltering night in the city of Guangzhou, China, I first heard the name Li Bai. I was alone in a busy bar, sipping on frosty Tsingdao beer and working on a short story masterpiece. 

Suddenly I felt a presence behind me.

"What are you writing,?” the girl asked, peering over my shoulder.

She was looking at the page in front of me trying to decipher my caveman-like scribbles. 

"Nothing," I said, crumpling the paper and shoving it in my pocket. 

She pulled up a chair and told me I reminded her of the ancient poet Li Bai. Apparently he was a man who also wrote under the influence, producing some of his best work with a drink in one hand and a pen in the other. 

"Never heard of him," I said. “But sounds like my kind of writer.”

We chatted a little longer but, as is often the case, just as I was beginning to feel a connection she got up a left. Feeling sorry for myself, I ordered another beer, and got back to my masterpiece.

Five years later I was thinking of that fateful night as my train sped through the countryside. The girl, I never saw again and, as for my masterpiece, it ended up in a drawer and never saw the light of day.

I did, however, learn a little more about Li Bai - the poet I was compared to all those years before. 

He was born sometime around 701AD and is considered one of China’s greatest poets. Besides writing, he was a man with other talents too. He was a statesman, a thinker, and prolific traveller. And yes, he had a knack for drinking people under the table.

His hometown is believed to be Jiangyou, a city two hours north of Chengdu and the final destination of the train I was on. With a population of only 2.5 million it is seen in the eyes of many Chinese as a backwater. There are only two reason to go to Jiangyou: to visit the Li Bai memorial or to sample their world-famous pig intestine noodles.

I was definitely there for the memorial.

The centre of Jiangyou is bustling and loud. Rickshaws dominate the streets, weaving in and out of traffic causing havoc. Amongst the chaos, though, Li Bai is never far away. There are statues of the bearded poet are dotted all around and some of his most famous are carved into the ground of the pavements.

Amusing Myself

Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk

Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes 

Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream

Birds are far off, people too are few

Li Bai’s tipple of choice was choujiu, a strong milky-coloured liquor distilled from rice. He was a great believer that when choujiu flowed, the words did too.

His lifestyle fascinated the Chinese people, even more than his poetry sometimes.

The common Chinese person was (and still is) bound by structure and tradition and they rarely saw a man so blatantly carefree. All he did was travel, write poetry and drink. A hippie before hippies existed.

In the memorial I can see this fascination still remains. The exhibition halls are full of portraits depicting the poet in different states of intoxication. In fact, in every painting he is either drowning himself in alcohol or sleeping off the effects of a few too many.

I wander the extensive network of buildings of the memorial. It includes temples, tree-lined pathways and pools of carp, all decorated in the style of the Tang Dynasty. The halls contain calligraphy and scrolls dating back over 1000 years. At the age of 15 Li Bai left Jiangyou and you can find detailed maps of the poets travels down the Yangtze River and up into the heartland. 

One of the texts I read also details a little more of his extravagant lifestyle. He was a notorious womanizer and a keen swordsman. The latter skill coming in useful, no doubt, when he had run-ins with some of the husbands on his travels. 

Leaving the memorial I picked up a small bottle of Baijiu in the souvenir shop. Its potent rice liquor similar to the stuff Li Bai drank. At one of his statues I raised the bottle and took a mouthful. I sipped a few more along the way to the train station.

Li Bai died at the ripe old age of 66. Story goes that he was chasing the moon ‘s reflection in a river and fell in. It goes without saying that he had a few choujius beforehand.

Drinking Alone with the moon

From a pot of wine among the flowers

I drank alone. There was no one with me

Till raising my cup I asked the bright moon

To bring me my shadow and make us three

I knew I was drunk when I ordered a bowl of pig intestine at a restaurant beside the train station. Best in town apparently.

“Did Li Bai like pig intestines?” I ask.

“They were his favourite,” the owner said.

I take one last swig of my baijiu and put my pen and paper on the table. Suddenly I felt some inspiration coming along.


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