- 639
Song Cao 1620-1701
Estimate
20,000 - 40,000 USD
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Description
- Song Cao
- POEM IN CURSIVE SCRIPT
- ink on paper, handscroll
signed Sheling Song Cao, and with three seals of the artists, song cao zhi yin, geng hai qian fu she ling, hui qiu tang, and with one collector's seal, lang an. Titleslip, frontispiece, and colophon by Wu Ping, signed Kanbai Wu Ping, dated yihai (1995), summer
Catalogue Note
Artist's inscription:
The cock crows when the mountains look bleakest. At the base of the Swallow Cliff white waves arise. A thousand miles of boats and carriages--all expectant people. Among writers of a hundred years, you stand out. Everywhere you extend your generosity, you accommodate many gentlemen; poor and desolate, we feel our age. The verdant trees and autumn clouds contain infinite thoughts. Seen from afar, the spirit infuses the rivers and banks. Composed in response to Vice Magistrate Gong.
Meeting amidst mountains and rivers, we urge each other to drink. Life everywhere is at the mercy of the high ministers. Deep in the palace you have presented your own ‘Changyang Rhapsody’; among people at the front seats you have often been promoted as a latter-day Jia Bocai. Over the decade morning stars often have entered your view. Having traversed the three rivers, you have temporarily returned home, decorated and honored. While your composed suggestions are compiled in the national histories, you stop in the Huaiyin region to fish. Also composed in response to the Vice Magistrate.
The boulders, lofty and precipitous, cannot be scaled. Unbearable is the solitude of surveying the world. After traveling here several times, my beard and brows have whitened. Only the mountain monk continues to while away his time. The hermit’s grotto is rustic and expansive. The autumn wind blows along the river in search for deep mountain passes. The bell rings once, but its sound distantly lingers. The sun, having risen behind the near peak, is not to set slowly. Matching Jiaoshan’s rhymes.
It is rare to meet a bosom friend in chaotic times. Turning to look east, I sigh deeply. Several rocks stand in the middle of the river. Blue snakes a hundred feet long emerge from the cold peaks. Across the water are distant tree-lined mountains. The autumn sky is all lit by the moon. I take the bamboo path to find my way home. Leaning on my staff, I pace back and forth through a beach with fishers. Distantly from the beach, the mountain path continues. The sounds of war drums are few. Follow me not, ash and hateful eyes! The dusk rays and yellow flowers both remain as before. We divide cups before the frost under a copper-colored tree, and ride old horses homeward against the autumn wind. Sorrowfully I turn my head, mesmerized by the fort, staring up at it despite my desire to continue on the homeward path. On Shuangjiang, having ascended Beigu Mountain once more.
Crane Grove in the south is now obscured by ten thousand parks. Hand in hand, we once came to this place to listen to a reed whistle at night. At the bamboo-lined monastery, monks worry about border horses. Through the stone bridge, water flows along fishers' homes. On the river reflections of clouds fuse with reflections of mountains. All over the ground pine flowers mix with rice flowers. The old friend from north of the city I expect not to come. I send my lonely thoughts into the vast universe. Traveling from Crane Grove, I passed through mountain farms, and ascended again an ancient temple in a bamboo forest. Viewing a large river, I wrote this for my good son-in-law Hanchen’s approval. Recent compositions by Song Cao of Sheling.
Colophon:
Song Sheling Cao was a native of Yancheng in Jiangsu. After the Ming was vanquished by the Qing, he became a remnant subject. Commentators considered him a beacon of virtue in accordance to antiquity and a worthy exemplar. As a calligrapher, Song Cao, along with Fu Qingzhu (Fu Shan, 1607-1684) and Wang Juesi (Wang Duo, 1592-1652), explored new realms of self-expression. This scroll of his original poems is dashing and untrammeled. Arising from his nature, it transcends his conscious intentions. It is a pity that his calligraphic works have rarely survived. The few that have been collected are treasures alike. In summer in the yihai year (1995), the eighty-fourth year, Kanbai Wu Ping.
The cock crows when the mountains look bleakest. At the base of the Swallow Cliff white waves arise. A thousand miles of boats and carriages--all expectant people. Among writers of a hundred years, you stand out. Everywhere you extend your generosity, you accommodate many gentlemen; poor and desolate, we feel our age. The verdant trees and autumn clouds contain infinite thoughts. Seen from afar, the spirit infuses the rivers and banks. Composed in response to Vice Magistrate Gong.
Meeting amidst mountains and rivers, we urge each other to drink. Life everywhere is at the mercy of the high ministers. Deep in the palace you have presented your own ‘Changyang Rhapsody’; among people at the front seats you have often been promoted as a latter-day Jia Bocai. Over the decade morning stars often have entered your view. Having traversed the three rivers, you have temporarily returned home, decorated and honored. While your composed suggestions are compiled in the national histories, you stop in the Huaiyin region to fish. Also composed in response to the Vice Magistrate.
The boulders, lofty and precipitous, cannot be scaled. Unbearable is the solitude of surveying the world. After traveling here several times, my beard and brows have whitened. Only the mountain monk continues to while away his time. The hermit’s grotto is rustic and expansive. The autumn wind blows along the river in search for deep mountain passes. The bell rings once, but its sound distantly lingers. The sun, having risen behind the near peak, is not to set slowly. Matching Jiaoshan’s rhymes.
It is rare to meet a bosom friend in chaotic times. Turning to look east, I sigh deeply. Several rocks stand in the middle of the river. Blue snakes a hundred feet long emerge from the cold peaks. Across the water are distant tree-lined mountains. The autumn sky is all lit by the moon. I take the bamboo path to find my way home. Leaning on my staff, I pace back and forth through a beach with fishers. Distantly from the beach, the mountain path continues. The sounds of war drums are few. Follow me not, ash and hateful eyes! The dusk rays and yellow flowers both remain as before. We divide cups before the frost under a copper-colored tree, and ride old horses homeward against the autumn wind. Sorrowfully I turn my head, mesmerized by the fort, staring up at it despite my desire to continue on the homeward path. On Shuangjiang, having ascended Beigu Mountain once more.
Crane Grove in the south is now obscured by ten thousand parks. Hand in hand, we once came to this place to listen to a reed whistle at night. At the bamboo-lined monastery, monks worry about border horses. Through the stone bridge, water flows along fishers' homes. On the river reflections of clouds fuse with reflections of mountains. All over the ground pine flowers mix with rice flowers. The old friend from north of the city I expect not to come. I send my lonely thoughts into the vast universe. Traveling from Crane Grove, I passed through mountain farms, and ascended again an ancient temple in a bamboo forest. Viewing a large river, I wrote this for my good son-in-law Hanchen’s approval. Recent compositions by Song Cao of Sheling.
Colophon:
Song Sheling Cao was a native of Yancheng in Jiangsu. After the Ming was vanquished by the Qing, he became a remnant subject. Commentators considered him a beacon of virtue in accordance to antiquity and a worthy exemplar. As a calligrapher, Song Cao, along with Fu Qingzhu (Fu Shan, 1607-1684) and Wang Juesi (Wang Duo, 1592-1652), explored new realms of self-expression. This scroll of his original poems is dashing and untrammeled. Arising from his nature, it transcends his conscious intentions. It is a pity that his calligraphic works have rarely survived. The few that have been collected are treasures alike. In summer in the yihai year (1995), the eighty-fourth year, Kanbai Wu Ping.