If only all historical icons were also poets, we could see into the souls of history’s biggest names. Among the giants of Twentieth Century politics, only Chairman Mao was a poet, or at least confident enough in his poetry to incorporate it into his greater agenda. To be sure, he was no Asian Walt Whitman, although the theme of glorious workers appears in the canons of both men.

And lest one assume that Mao set pen to paper for purely political purposes, know that before painting the East red, T.T. Mao spent time as a humble library assistant, at Beijing University. His school job did not afford him full time status, however, and he missed out on language classes and study abroad. Some say this imbued him with resentment at intellectuals and academia. In any event, the following few poems give evidence of, like so many other world-shakers, a man of deep contradictions.

I’ve included some categorized commentary to the following poems, not in the spirit of a qualified critic [is there such an animal?], but to draw parallels and comments.

Whatever the scale of his poetic merits in conventional terms, readers of his verses should keep in mind a most salient point. T.T. set his poems to music, manifesting yet again his extraordinary proletarian EQ. For what downtrodden peasant or exploited wage-slave has the time or inclination to pore over words whose meter must be sussed out? If poetry is the language of the soul, music is the means by which it resonates in the heart.

Changsha

-to the tune of Chin Yuan Chun

1925

Alone I stand in the autumn cold

On the tip of Orange Island,

The Hsiang flowing northward;

I see a thousand hills crimsoned through

By their serried woods deep-dyed,

And a hundred barges vying

Over crystal blue waters.

Eagles cleave the air,

Fish glide in the limpid deep;

Under freezing skies a million creatures contend in freedom.

Brooding over this immensity,

I ask, on this boundless land

Who rules over man’s destiny?

I was here with a throng of companions,

Vivid yet those crowded months and years.

Young we were, schoolmates,

At life’s full flowering;

Filled with student enthusiasm

Boldly we cast all restraints aside.

Pointing to our mountains and rivers,

Setting people afire with our words,

We counted the mighty no more than muck.

Remember still

How, venturing midstream, we struck the waters

And waves stayed the speeding boats?

Exegesis: Paralyzed with awe at the majesty and beauty of nature, power-hungry T.T. is inspired to ask, “Who’s in charge of my species?” He then waxes nostalgic for school days, and the bloom of youth. Images of setting people ablaze and iconoclastic muck-raking denote a young man given to extremes.

Comparable Lyrics:

“I want to fly like an eagle

To the sea

Fly like an eagle

Let my spirit carry me

I want to fly like an eagle

Till I’m free

Oh, lord, through the revolution

Feed the babies

Who don’t have enough to eat

Shoe the children

With no shoes on their fee

House the people

Livin’ in the street

Oh, oh, there’s a solution

-Steve Miller, “Fly Like an Eagle”

Yellow Crane Tower

-to the tune of Pu Sa Man

1927

Wide, wide flow the nine streams through the land,

Dark, dark threads the line from south to north.

Blurred in the thick haze of the misty rain

Tortoise and Snake hold the great river locked.

The yellow crane is gone, who knows wither?

Only this tower remains a haunt for visitors.

I pledge my wine to the surging torrent,

The tide of my heart swells with the waves.

Exegesis: Amidst the eternal contention of earth and water, man’s lot is a transient one. Best not to hold on to the past, but rather to drink one’s fill and move on, borne by the tides of time.

Comparable Lyrics

Leaves are falling all around

Time I was on my way…

Got no time for spreading roots

The time has come to be gone

And though I held we’ve drunk a thousand times

It’s time to ramble on

- Led Zeppelin, “Ramble On”

On the Kuangchang Road

- to the tune of Chien Tzu Mu Lan Hua

1930

The whole wide world is white,

Through the snow eagerly we press on.

Crags loom above our heads,

We cross the great pass, red flags waving in the wind.

Where are we bound?

To the snow-swept River Kan.

Yesterday the order was given,

One hundred thousand workers and peasants march on Kian.

Exegesis: As he assumed more and more the role of politico, Mao’s verses began to paint the picture of a man who, while still filled with the simple wonder at nature of a farmer’s son, had a very big organization to manage. Indeed, this poem is virtually an executive memo:

“We have taken inclement weather conditions into account, and concluded that they should not dissuade us from our objective of reaching Kian. Therefore, all staff and associated rural personnel are kindly requested to proceed to Kian, per yesterday’s directive.”

Comparable Lyrics:

Take the last train to Clarksville,

And Ill meet you at the station.

You can be there by four thirty,

cause I made your reservation.

Don’t be slow, oh, no, no, no!

Oh, no, no, no!

- The Monkees, “Last Train to Clarksville”

Against the Second “Encirclement” Campaign

- to the tune of Yu Chia Ao

1931

The very clouds foam atop White Cloud Mountain,

At its base the roar of battle quickens,

Withered trees and rotten stumps join in the fray.

A forest of rifles presses,

As the Flying General descends from the skies.

In fifteen days we have marched seven hundred li

Crossing misty Kan waters and green Fujian hills,

Rolling back the enemy as we would a mat.

A voice is heard wailing;

His “Bastion at every step” avails him nought!

Exegesis: Poetry serves many purposes, but almost inevitably turns camp when employed to glorify war. Not that it was a bad attempt; Coleridge himself couldn’t pull it off, after all. Thank goodness we have heavy metal to snicker at now, so that new odes to battle and death are quickly discounted as juvenile.

Comparable lyrics:

Axes grind and maces clash as wounded fighters fall to the ground

Severed limbs and fatal woundings bloody corpses lay all around

The smell of death and burning flesh the battle weary fight to the end

The Saxons have been overpowered victims of the mighty Norsemen

you’d better scatter and run

The battles lost and not won

You’d better get away to fight another day

Invaders ... raping

Invaders ... plundering

- Iron Maiden, “Invaders”

Reply to Comrade Kuo Mo-Jo

- a lu shih

1961

A thunderstorm burst over the earth,

So a devil rose from a heap of white bones.

The deluded monk was not beyond the light,

But the malignant demon must wreak havoc.

The Golden Monkey wrathfully swung his massive cudgel

And the jade-like firmament was cleared of dust.

Today, a miasmal mist once more rising,

We hail Sun Wu-kung, the wonder-worker.

Exegesis: Approaching seventy, T.T. had come into hisown in terms of narrative efficiency and dazzling imagery. After a lifetime of trying to edify the masses with speeches and prose, he had at last realized that complex socio-political issues are best boiled down to ballads, for contemplative public digestion.

Comparable lyrics:

Johnny rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard.

'Cos hells broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals it hard.

And if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold.

But if you lose, the devil gets your soul.

The devil opened up his case and he said, "I'll start this show."

And fire flew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow.

He pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss.

Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded somethin' like this:

[blistering fiddle solo]

Fire on the mountain, run boys, run.

The devil's in the house of the risin' sun.

Chicken in the bread pin, peckin' out dough.

"Granny, does your dog bite?"

"No, child, no."

- The Charlie Daniels Band, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”

Reply to Comrade Kuo Mo-Jo

-to the tune of Man Chiang Hung

1963

On this tiny globe

A few flies dash themselves against the wall,

Humming without cease,

Sometimes shrilling,

Sometimes moaning.

Ants on the locust tree assume a great-nation swagger

And mayflies lightly plot to topple the giant tree.

The west wind scatters leaves over Changan,

And the arrows are flying, twanging.

So many deeds cry out to be done,

And always urgently;

The world rolls on,

Time presses.

Ten thousand years are too long,

Seize the day, seize the hour!

The Four Seas are rising, clouds and waters raging,

The Five Continents are rocking, wind and thunder roaring.

Our force is irresistible,

Away with all pests!

Exegesis: Fittingly enough, Mojo Kuo played muse to T.T.’s quill sufficiently that he inspired the eponymous mojo for two poems. At seventy, the Chairman had enough perspective to realize the futility of man’s minute machinations in the grand scheme of things. However, the last five lines, smacking of carpe diem and apocalyptic enemy smashing, were obviously written by a senior citizen who still retained healthy levels of piss and vinegar.

Comparable Lyrics:

I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone

All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity

Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind

Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea

all we do, crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

ust in the wind, All we are is dust in the wind

Don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky

It slips away, all your money won't another minute buy

Dust in the wind, All we are is dust in the wind

- Kansas, “Dust in the Wind”

Or, for the last five lines:

Two worlds collide, rival nations

It's a primitive clash, venting years of frustrations

Bravely we hope against all hope, there is so much at stake

Seems our freedom's up against the ropes

Does the crowd understand?

Is it East versus. West, or man against man

Can any nation stand alone?

In the burning heart, just about to burst

There's a quest for answers, an unquenchable thirst

In the darkest night, rising like a spire

In the burning heart, the unmistakable fire

- Survivor, “Burning Heart”

Lastly, I’d like to add for the edification of any who may find my choice of comparable lyrics curious, that Mao was lyrically half a century ahead of his time. I say “lyrically” because, again, these poems were meant to be sung. Only after the Age of Aquarius had come and gone did American and English musicians find the wisdom to incorporate Mao-esque themes in their songs. Furthermore, it is to Mao’s credit that lyrics after the eighties, the vainglorious doggerel of rap, the mindless chanting of techno, are entirely incomparable to his work.