the oriole's trill.
Moved by that song, I almost burst into groan, and
As a whole pitcher of wine was there, I clung to it.
Then, wildly singing, I was looking at the rising moon;
Before my sword routine was over, I let myself go mad.
An important characteristic of Li Bai's poetry is the fantasy and note of childlike wonder and playfulness that pervade so much of it, brimful. This fantasy attributes to a fascination with the Daoist recluses who practiced alchemy with their own bodies and ascetic living in the deep mountains in the aim of becoming immortals. There is a strong element of Daoism in this work, both in the sentiments they express and in their spontaneous tone, as well as many of his poems that deal with the moon, often described as its rising to be modulated into realm of imagination through passing from the actual moonlit scenery to a mad vision of deities and immortals of the Daoist pantheon. This is another affirmation of Li Bai's affinity with the imperial past, his continuity with traditions of old ballads and archaic songs in 'gu-feng' old style characterized by the use of hyperbole and the playful personifications of the moon, stars and other celestial objects, to one of which, and we should keep in mind that fact, he was connected by his name of 'Tai Bai' or Venus -- the grandiose planet and the most beautiful embodiment of his distant in space grand ancestors of his supernatural lineage.
The whole poem runs for the sake of its last line, in which the term 'wang-qing' sets the tone. What does it actually mean? It means that the poet "gets outside the limits of the human world" to be truly free from its fetters to produce his mysterious transcendence through the imagery and word coinage. The whole poem is just a preparation for what remains outside of our viewing; we can only conjecture what has happened then with this inimitable master of illusiveness and transformation.
The last line tends to raise more questions than it answers. Perhaps, that's just the way Li Bai would like it. According to legend, a Daoist hermit once asked the poet about his swordplay style, which was renowned for its power to vanquish demons "in their own territory." For this, the poet should enter into the state of madness to be face to face with the evil. Li Bai viewed his sword as more spiritual than a drunken play, replying the hermit this way, saying, "My sword is used to cut off chaotic thoughts of the mind that block cultivating the ways of Dao." The hermit did not understand the lesson by the merest hint, so Li Bai threw his sword into the air and, before the hermit had the time to come to his senses, vanished himself without a trace, baffling the poor Daoist even more with the magic trick he just viewed by his own eyes.
The art of feint is fundamental to the drunken swordplay. A swordsman relies on a rich arsenal of feints to defeat an opponent. Tricking his enemy into revealing an opening, he takes advantage with full knowledge of his own ruse, of what has been left exposed for the sake of trapping. Fakery is even more central to the drunken-sword style, which is wholly based on attempting to fool the opponent. Of all the imitative styles, it is the least faked so long as the drunken stylists are the only practitioners who can directly experience their own spirit. An animal stylist can never really be a tiger or a dragon which one imitates in one's exercising; so, ultimately, it all relies on visualization and imagination. But a drunken stylist can get really drunk, letting oneself go to extreme (nevertheless, there is a style of the drunken monkey so far; yes, you read that correctly, a kind of "a double trick" to entangle the opponent in the fullest). Yes, the drunken stylist has to drink and drink enough in order to overload oneself. It can hurt one's health, and that's counter to all martial artists, in principle, who have not reached a certain grade of mastery. It can be likened to a masseur: the beginner exploits a lot of one's own energy but a mature expert knows how to treat this or that patient without exhausting oneself.
I would imagine that this poem is the beginning of a long night of exercising with the drunken sword (zui jian). Most 'gong-fu' masters, at the beginning of their routine performing, stand out with their erect posture and alert eyes, but not so for Li Bai's style: he stands askew; hence the term 'qu' (bent, crooked) used in the last line regarding his swordplay, not for the 'wildly singing' as in the previous line. His eyes seem almost sleepy; his head cocks to one side with an attitude of laziness or cockiness, it's hard to be sure. Li Bai is one of China's foremost drunken sword artists, so you never know where he is coming from exactly, whether he is wasted or coiled to strike into the opponent's opening, his weak point.
As it has been mentioned earlier, the drunken method is a form of imitative 'gong-fu.' Most of the martial styles imitate animals: tiger, crane, snake or even the mythical dragon. Imitative styles are shamanistic in nature; practitioners connect with the spirit of an animal and express themselves by embodying that spontaneously burst vigour. In many ways, the animal 'gong-fu' echoes animal movements performed by shamans both in Asia and America. The adepts of 'gong-fu' and shamans act as a medium between the worlds; they accrue their power in the real world from their connections to the animal spirit and inhuman realms. Regrettably, this so much interesting theme is the subject of very few researchers who have tried to address an underlying connection between shamanism and imitative style of martial arts. On the other part, there are other forms of imitative 'gong-fu.' These fighting methods mimic failings in the human bodily condition, such as being manacled or having only one arm or being blind. And the most popular among them, again, is the drunken style which, instead of bonding with an animal, represents an altered state of consciousness tapped for empowerment through the visible weaknesses and unpredictability. Many shamans use alcohol and other illicit substances like mushrooms or anuran poisons to enter a state of trance. For shamans, such a state is the source of their magic, which enables them to forecast the future, control the elements and perform acts of healing known as Exorcism. Extending this to the drunken swordplay, one might ask whether it is a trick to get an opponent to drop his guard or it might be something more. For Li Bai, I think, his drunken sword became his calling. He was born into a family, in which its leader, Li Ke, his father, was well-versed in the Classics and familiar with the so-called 'polite arts,' among which fencing was favourable along with archery, chariot driving, versification and calligraphy so far.
Just as it is hard for a virgin to pretend to be otherwise, it is hard to act drunk without experiencing insobriety. The drunken master appears to be out of control, but only until the opponent drops his vigilance to attack him at his weak point by surprise. It's a way to fool the opponent, in between, getting drunk and being clear. When completely drunk, you are dead without your capability to have the upper hand; if you are totally drunk, you cannot perform drunken sword properly even if you are an experienced practitioner who imitates the form and spirit, but awaits the attack, suddenly becoming widely open in a counterattack. When you are tipsy you are braver than usual; you can exceed your limitations to be above your normal conduct. Besides, the warmed-up by alcohol energy reach every part of your body to make it act and react spontaneously faster. It is for this very reason that intoxicants are often connected with the Daoist (shamanistic) practical experiences.
Sometimes, when the sober logic fails, a drunken magic can take over to point out of the truth. One possible explanation is that the sword player is actually some form of 'mudra' oneself, a relic of shamanistic sword practices. The Hindu "Prana-mudra" or "a life-giving-force-mudra" is the most similar, even balancing in the Yin-Yang's way if the sword is interpreted as a symbol of leading to death. However, it would be a stretch of trying to show an evolutionary connection between the military and civil arts.
While the use of intoxicants for spiritual growth was well established in ancient spiritual practices, it always was so, the razor's edge. It can cut off the chaos or it can cut out the heart, depending on the steadiness of the hand of the wielder. And a steady hand is just what a drunken stylist should wield. Accordingly, it would be as incorrect to interpret the drunken sword practice as some sort of consent to drink to excess
.
Regarding the poet's skills at his swordplay, definitely, there are not so many talks about his style of fencing known as "Li Bai zui-jian" (Li Bai's Drunken Sword), but some information we can get from his poetry (see the poem "Fighting," for example). In addition, from "The New History of Tang" we know that Li Bai mastered his swordplay with General Pei Min, the greatest Tang-period master of swordsmanship and a true treasure-trove of ancient China.
As is said, "sword is the king of weaponry"; he who masters his sword is treated as a true warrior. From the viewpoint of swordsmanship, a sword is a kind of cold weapon; from the standpoint of personality, it is a sort of influence on the societal environment.
General Pei Min lived during the Kai-yuan ruling period of Tang (713–741). According to official records, he was the first fencer among all generals in all under heaven. He was so good at it that together with the other two geniuses, Li Bai and Zhang Xü, was acclaimed as a national patrimony. All the three were bosom friends and true masters of their trades.
Generally speaking, there is a list of