Skip to main content

And a Little Jade

 




 Qin Shi Huang Di

259 – 210 BC

First Emperor of China

(An Eighteenth Century portrait)

 


And a Little Jade                                  

Qin Shi Huang Di

aspiring to eternal life

swallowed drops of Hydrargyrum

with a little jade.

 

In the spheres of runaway silver

he saw reflections of himself –

more and more, with new worlds born

under his almighty finger

 

until he grew tired of disintegration.

Qin folded up the firmament.

He gathered centrifugal planets

to return them all to where they began

 

amalgamating wayward drops.

He slowed the quick-willed silver globes

with his omnipotence.

When all the drops had coalesced

 

the imperial Qin, unaware

of all he did not know

lifted his drink to the setting sun

and felt at one with the universe.

 

For Qin Shi Huang Di

his journey to eternity

began with drops of Mercury

and a little jade.

 

 

 

 

 

This ferocious ruler, coming to the throne aged 13, was the first emperor of China. Qin Shi Huang Di lived through troubled times – his family history was extraordinarily turbulent, with  assassination attempts and dreadful retributions, and huge numbers of people killed judicially and many more lost on gigantic projects, such as wall and canal building.

But most remarkable and memorable of all is his huge mausoleum with its army of terracotta soldiers which thousands of workers began constructing early in his reign.

This colossal vanity project bears testimony to his omnipotence along with his concern with death and what it may bring.

Qin was said to have despatched hundreds of young men and women in search of the elixir of eternal life. They were never seen again, only too aware of what the tyrannical Qin’s reaction would be if they returned empty-handed.

Exactly how Qin died remains controversial, but it seems a preparation of mercury was the cause of his death.

It isn’t difficult to imagine how the apparent vitality of mercury – that fluidity, unpredictability and mutability as celebrated in its name of quick-silver – might be thought to bring its own attributes of eternal life to such an obsessed emperor.

And the other constituent of his elixir, jade – the heavenly gem, eternal and mystical – brought its own special qualities.  Not only was this precious mineral associated with imperial ritual, but as it was believed to be indestructible, it was thought to impart some sort of immortality. Jade objects were often buried with the (rich) dead, particularly in the form of intricate burial suits.

So Qin killed himself in the very process of striving for immortality.

 

Why write a poem about him?

Qin’s story, with its terrible self-fulfilment, has a powerful drama. Poetry allows the telling of it as if it’s just happened. Who knows – and does it matter – how ‘true’ the story may be? Poetry can take liberties in bringing it all to life – (that life again!) – even though thousands of years have passed.

I’ve always found mercury intriguing.

Of course something like this would never be allowed to happen now.

But I remember prodding a shining drop from a broken thermometer, breaking it into those mini globules, and then rolling them back together to see them magically restored into one again.

What power in a finger tip!

And how mysterious, reminiscent of planets, gravitational fields, invisible attractive powers – even whole solar systems…

I was never tempted to swallow it, but as I read about Qin and his obsession, I began to understand something of his fascination, the crazy logic of drinking that elixir and even started to feel sorry for him – although how he ruled makes Peter the Great seem like Edward the Confessor.

And as his story continues to be told, and more is learnt about him, perhaps he has after all achieved a sort of immortality?

 

 

 

An earlier version of this poem was published in the anthology New Contexts 1, published by Coverstory books

 

www.coverstorybooks.com

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Concatenation of Catchwords

    My daughter’s cat has captivated her family. Even I – being more of a dog person (Timmy our Jack Russell hates cats) – found myself admiring his grace and beauty, and all those skills a cat deploys and enjoys.  Thinking about their cat, I realised how many words contain 'cat'; so it was that this poem took shape. Predictably, I then thought I should write a dog poem. I didn’t actually get very far, having identified only a few dog words: after dogma/dogmatic, dogged, lying doggo and Venetian doges I began to run out. So the dog poem had to wait, its tongue hanging out. But having just gone to my (big) dictionary and found a long list of dog words and phrases, ranging from a certain Shakespearian Dogberry through dog collars, dog days and dog-eared to a dog’s dinner, the Dogstar and dogwatch, I now feel like telling Timmy something can be found to be thrown, and he can wag his tail – even chase a cat.    A Concatenation of Catchwords   Where ...

Gold

  . But maybe I should offer no apology. Poetry has the right, responsibility even, to deal with all that is human: to communicate, to share emotion, to stimulate thought and to help understanding – along with  much more of course. So listen then for a moment to a man, normal in many ways, convinced of his own normality and decency, yet deeply involved in evil. Evil is so complicated. Horrific actions can be justified; they may not even be seen as such by the perpetrator, when evil is all around and worse things are being done... Gold   My name is Hellinger.  I mine for gold. Not for me those specks of dust flushed down some distant stream, nor heavy work with spade and hammer upon unyielding rock.  The gold I find has been refined – I leave it to others to fire the furnace.  My finished gold falls in little balls to rattle in my bowl.   No fight, no piracy – this is not stealing, rather rescue. No gold rush here – t...

Wings of Song

  Just me, and that sound. One man,  earth and time-bound; one bird, free in an empty sky. A unique occasion. But a moment shared by so many others... Which experience then, despite – or because even – of its unoriginality, I hope might justify another  poem.   Lark Is that it, that little speck – is that the bird which never stops to take a breath, the bird whose song someone called a silver chain of many links – can you see where it begins, this chain of sound linking me to somewhere high – like the string of a kite, a vanishing line which tugs with a life of its own, as if sounds by themselves could draw me up towards the origin of that song – while all I can do is strain my neck focusing upon infinity as I scan the sky, seeking the source of a singing that hints at eternity?