Chapter Seven: Composing Poetry at the County Academy

“Brother Song, this is Miss Li Mo’er, daughter of the Li family of Mianzhou. Her father and mine both serve as officials in Jingzhou. My father is visiting relatives, and as Miss Li is on her way to Fuzhou to see her own kin, she decided to enjoy the scenery of Jiangnan along the way,” Kong Zong explained in a gentle voice. Song Mu immediately cupped his hands in greeting; since she too was the child of a scholarly family, even though she was a young lady, she deserved a good measure of respect.

Moreover, judging by her proud bearing, she was likely much cherished at home.

“Greetings, sir. So, you are a descendant of the Song family of Shiyang.” Standing beside Kong Zong, Li Mo’er spoke without the slightest reserve, her crisp voice ringing out as her bright eyes, curious and sparkling, sized up Song Mu, whose brows were like drawn swords and whose eyes glittered like stars.

“Yes, I am Song Mu, the seventeenth-generation eldest grandson of my family. I am rather ashamed,” Song Mu replied with a calm expression. At this, the young lady blinked, and then, without much courtesy, she abruptly asked, “I’ve heard that the Song family of Shiyang was once famed across the land. I wonder, sir, how are your poems and essays?”

Song Mu was taken aback and glanced at Kong Zong, who merely smiled wryly, as if tacitly approving this sudden and somewhat tricky test.

Yet, as there was no malice in her words, Song Mu answered with composure, cupping his hands, “I have dabbled in a few poems, but my essays are much the same—none are worthy of much attention.”

“But you are already a Tongsheng, Master Song. Surely your poetry and prose have some merit? Why not recite a piece for my appreciation?” Li Mo’er was persistent, continuing her inquiry at the county academy gate, her manner more like an old pedant than a demure girl.

Seeing this, Kong Zong hurried to mediate. “Miss Mo’er, as Tongsheng, we dare not flaunt our poems and essays here. Brother Song is indeed talented, though he has been unwell lately. Perhaps another day, when he is feeling better, he can compose something new for your enjoyment. What do you think?” As he spoke, Kong Zong turned to Song Mu and said, “Brother Song, please do not mind. Miss Mo’er is most fond of poetry and has quizzed me many times these past days.”

Song Mu gave Kong Zong a grateful look. He well remembered the poem he’d written for the Tongsheng exam—at best, it followed the proper tonal patterns, but otherwise, it was lackluster. To recite it here at the academy gate would indeed be embarrassing.

Relieved by Kong Zong’s rescue, Song Mu nevertheless noticed the young lady’s dissatisfied expression. He quickly cupped his hands again and said, “Brother Kong, Miss Mo’er, shall we enter the academy first? I have had some inspiration these past days. If Miss Mo’er does not mind, after class, I will write something for you to critique.”

“Oh?” Both Li Mo’er and Kong Zong’s eyes lit up at once. Just then, the bell in the academy sounded, and the group nodded and entered together.

The three hurried in, but Li Mo’er, after a moment’s blinking, proved relentless. “Master Song, since you claim you have inspiration, why not compose something for me right now?”

“I most enjoy comparing poetry and prose with others,” she declared.

Song Mu was momentarily at a loss, glancing awkwardly at Kong Zong. Where had this girl come from, to be so insistent with a stranger upon their very first meeting?

Kong Zong’s brow furrowed deeply. When Li Mo’er had returned with her father and the others, Kong’s own father had only said her family was not to be offended and instructed him to treat her well. Even he had been tormented by her sharp tongue these last few days. She had followed him to the academy today, utterly unreserved and without the least bit of scholarly lady’s restraint.

Seeing Kong Zong’s helpless look, Song Mu could only sigh. He was about to politely decline when someone nearby called out—

“Master Xun!”

Song Mu quickly turned and saw Master Xun approaching. He hurriedly bowed, but Master Xun spoke first. “Song Mu, this young lady wishes you to compose a poem?”

Song Mu was dumbfounded, but Li Mo’er immediately stepped forward, bowed, and replied, her face smiling yet still proud, “Yes, Master. Master Song has just promised me.”

Her clear voice carried in the academy, and many turned to look, whispering and pointing.

Master Xun blinked, stroking his chin. Only Song Mu felt thoroughly exasperated; he’d come to the academy to study, yet now found himself in this predicament.

“Song Mu, do you truly have some inspiration?” Master Xun asked. Song Mu hesitated and could only nod silently.

“Very well then. Your choice of words in poetry is solid, but your lines lack fluency. It has been some time since I last tested you. If you truly have some ideas today, compose something for me to see,” said Master Xun, clearly interested.

Song Mu regretted his earlier bravado. If only he’d refused outright. Now he was riding a tiger and could not dismount, especially with Master Xun encouraging the affair. There was nothing for it but to steel himself and write.

Soon, word spread through the academy that Master Xun was going to test Song Mu’s poetry. Scholars and students rushed out from their classrooms to watch as Song Mu set up a desk in the courtyard, took out his brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, smoothed a sheet of bamboo paper, and prepared his ink.

“The headmaster is really going to test Song Mu. Was his poem at the Tongsheng exam really that good?”

“Barely passable, I’d say. Didn’t you hear the headmaster? All form, no substance. Otherwise, how could a son of a literary family place only thirty-something?”

“Alas, it seems the Song family’s literary tradition truly has declined. Their main branch is finished, not even as good as their relatives in Hongzhou.”

A few students whispered among themselves, while the scholars speculated on what poem would be set and whether Song Mu could produce anything worthwhile.

Pan Wenhao and Qi Dazuo exchanged a glance, both showing schadenfreude and mockery. They were usually the ones who bullied Song Mu and knew his abilities well—competent in the classics, but utterly tone-deaf in poetry, to the point that even the teachers joked his verses could only fool country bumpkins.

The two of them now spread various rumors among the crowd.

Yet Song Mu paid no heed to the noise around him, his mind focused on composing. He was perfectly capable of crafting lines, but with so many watching, if he failed to come up with something impressive, he would be looked down upon even more.

He had not been reborn into this world only to be trampled on again.

With this thought, Song Mu formulated his plan.

“Young lady, since it is you who set the challenge, you shall choose the topic for the first poem,” Master Xun said calmly, turning to Li Mo’er.

Song Mu looked up at her. The girl, delighted, stepped forward, then gave a contemptuous snort at the chattering crowd, flicked her sleeve to reveal a tiny gourd, took a couple of hearty gulps, frowned, and suddenly announced, “I most enjoy poems that praise objects. Master Song, write one about this.”

She ran to a pond beside a rock and pointed at the moss growing there. “This flower.”

“Moss blossoms?” Song Mu was momentarily at a loss; Kong Zong, too, paused to think.

The scholars and students murmured among themselves. Some who fancied themselves poets began to search for fitting lines.

Poems praising objects had been popular since the Tang dynasty; in the Complete Tang Poems, there were 6,262 such works. All literati loved to use objects to express ideals, lending an air of elegance.

Yet to write about moss blossoms—an easy start, but to truly express one’s aspirations through it required thought.

“I have set the topic. Please begin, Master Song,” Li Mo’er said, coming to stand before Song Mu’s desk, looking up expectantly. Song Mu met her gaze, his mind racing.

After a moment, inspiration struck. He dipped his brush in ink.

Seeing how quickly he set pen to paper, the onlookers turned in surprise. Some of the scholars’ faces showed astonishment as Song Mu wrote the opening line:

“Where the sun does not shine, spring still arrives in time…”

…

“Moss blossoms, small as rice grains, open as proudly as the peony.”

A scholar stepped forward and read Song Mu’s five-character regulated poem aloud, then paused in surprise.

At first reading, the poem seemed merely smooth and coherent, but as the last word fell, the underlying emotion—using the object to express one’s resolve—emerged naturally.

Even the smallest flower, no larger than a grain of rice, still strives to bloom as brilliantly as a magnificent peony.

This sentiment moved the scholar to exclaim, “Wonderful!”

Other scholars gathered around, reading it and nodding in agreement. This poem far surpassed anything they had just conceived.

“How remarkable, this Song,” one student whispered.

“He must have poured all his talent into this one poem,” another muttered.

Meanwhile, Song Mu titled his work “Moss,” and as the character for moss was written, a surge of white energy burst forth, swirling around him before merging into his body.

It was the breath of literature entering the scholar, signifying that the poem was his original creation.

From now on, whenever this poem was recited by scholars, it would nourish the Song family’s literary lineage.

Song Mu was overjoyed. Although he had borrowed the poem from the great Qing poet Yuan Mei, this world had accepted it, and the influx of pure literary energy left him feeling invigorated and clear-headed.

…