Poetry - December 2025/January 2026 - The Way of Tea
 |
| Cover design - The Way of Tea (A New Translation of The Classic of Tea) |
The Classic of Tea, or Chájīng, is a Chinese text over a thousand years old. Written by the scholar Lù Yǔ, it is the earliest known extant — and perhaps the most famous — book about tea. Short, poetic, and utterly ancient, it gathers the foundations of tea culture into a single work. My new translation, which I have called The Way of Tea, is a reimagining of that classic: a retelling which draws in part on literal translations of the Chinese, and in part on free interpretation.
My “translation” uses another form of translation in itself, as this retelling is written in an English approximation of juéjù (絕句), a Chinese poetic form that flourished in the Tang dynasty — the very age of the Chájīng. Juéjù consists of a quatrain, written either in five characters (wǔyán juéjù) or seven characters (qīyán juéjù) per line. It is known for its compression, vivid images, and the subtle turn of thought that often appears in the third line. In its time, it was considered one of the finest tests of a poet’s skill: to say little, yet suggest a world.
Because English cannot mirror the compactness of Chinese characters, or the intricacy of tonal patterns, I have used an approximate form inspired by juéjù — four lines each of five syllables, more or less, and no rhyme scheme — echoing some of the shape of classical juéjù while remaining natural in English. This gives each poem a measured pace, a sense of restraint, and enough space for image and meaning to settle. It resembles haiku in brevity, though it comes from a different lineage.
I began writing the poems around the same time I fell in love with Yunnan tea: an ancient, noble leaf which, after being smuggled to India by the British East India Company, became the forebear of much of what the world now knows as tea. Upon discovering it, I rapidly set about sharing it with the tea drinkers around me, through my wife and I’s teas and herbal blends company at The Herb Farm in Cumbria, England. (theherbfarm.co.uk)
Lù Yǔ’s writing carries me to the misted green mountains of Yunnan in much the same way the tea itself does. Our Blencathra in Cumbria may not have much in common with Wuliang Mountain, Yunnan, but I can still dream. Perhaps that is ultimately what poetry, like tea, is: a dream of the hills, bursting into leaf.
Here is a sneak preview of the first part, 'The Source'.
My “translation” uses another form of translation in itself, as this retelling is written in an English approximation of juéjù (絕句), a Chinese poetic form that flourished in the Tang dynasty — the very age of the Chájīng. Juéjù consists of a quatrain, written either in five characters (wǔyán juéjù) or seven characters (qīyán juéjù) per line. It is known for its compression, vivid images, and the subtle turn of thought that often appears in the third line. In its time, it was considered one of the finest tests of a poet’s skill: to say little, yet suggest a world.
Because English cannot mirror the compactness of Chinese characters, or the intricacy of tonal patterns, I have used an approximate form inspired by juéjù — four lines each of five syllables, more or less, and no rhyme scheme — echoing some of the shape of classical juéjù while remaining natural in English. This gives each poem a measured pace, a sense of restraint, and enough space for image and meaning to settle. It resembles haiku in brevity, though it comes from a different lineage.
I began writing the poems around the same time I fell in love with Yunnan tea: an ancient, noble leaf which, after being smuggled to India by the British East India Company, became the forebear of much of what the world now knows as tea. Upon discovering it, I rapidly set about sharing it with the tea drinkers around me, through my wife and I’s teas and herbal blends company at The Herb Farm in Cumbria, England. (theherbfarm.co.uk)
Lù Yǔ’s writing carries me to the misted green mountains of Yunnan in much the same way the tea itself does. Our Blencathra in Cumbria may not have much in common with Wuliang Mountain, Yunnan, but I can still dream. Perhaps that is ultimately what poetry, like tea, is: a dream of the hills, bursting into leaf.
Here is a sneak preview of the first part, 'The Source'.
It is a dream of the hills,
bursting into leaf:
trees like bamboo,
vast in the mountains;
flowers of white rose,
the waking mist: cha,
jia, she, ming, chuan —
it is called tea upon the slopes.
It is a dream of the south,
tea that loves the sandstone,
weathered shale, phyllite,
slate of Wuliang;
hates the opaque clay
of a long life left
unexamined, lost
in dark’s stagnation.
Come to the mountain,
learn the tea’s stillness,
its frugal virtue —
elixir of life
grows like ginseng,
amrita, sweet dew —
take just one sip…
it is spring in Yunnan.
bursting into leaf:
trees like bamboo,
vast in the mountains;
flowers of white rose,
the waking mist: cha,
jia, she, ming, chuan —
it is called tea upon the slopes.
It is a dream of the south,
tea that loves the sandstone,
weathered shale, phyllite,
slate of Wuliang;
hates the opaque clay
of a long life left
unexamined, lost
in dark’s stagnation.
Come to the mountain,
learn the tea’s stillness,
its frugal virtue —
elixir of life
grows like ginseng,
amrita, sweet dew —
take just one sip…
it is spring in Yunnan.
PS. A note on the names used in the second stanza here. Tea culture was young enough when Lù Yǔ was writing that there was still some lingering debate over what to even call “tea”: chá, jiǎ, shè, míng, or chuǎn…
茶 (chá)
This is the word that ultimately won and, by way of Min Chinese rather than Mandarian pronunciation became our word “tea”. By the Tang dynasty it was becoming the standard term, and Lù Yǔ places it first in his list of names. Importantly, the character 茶 was relatively new, emerging from earlier forms of 荼. Its adoption marked tea’s rise from medicinal or regional plant to a distinct cultural object.
檟 (jiǎ)
An older, classical term, found in early dictionaries. It tends to refer to tea as a bitter plant or tree rather than a refined drink. When Lù Yǔ included it, he was anchoring tea in deep textual antiquity — saying, in effect, “this thing has always been here, even if we once called it something else.”
蔎 (shè)
A rarer and more obscure name, likely regional and archaic even in Lù Yǔ’s time. Its inclusion matters precisely because it is fading. Lù Yǔ was preserving linguistic memory, not recommending usage.
茗 (míng)
茗 often refers specifically to fine tea or young leaves, and later becomes a term of elegance and refinement. By the Tang, it already carried cultural prestige. When poetry spoke of 茗, it usually meant tea as an aesthetic pleasure, not just a drink.
荈 (chuǎn)
Typically an older or coarser term, sometimes associated with later harvests or stronger, more bitter tea. It often appears in contrast to 茗. Including it allowed Lù Yǔ to acknowledge differences in quality and use without judging them.
Comments
Post a Comment