When the Poet’s Brush Becomes a Sword
- 4 days ago
- 4 min read
Searching for and Meeting Jia Dao
Notes from the Tower of Songs
Issue 2
By Dan KJ Vercammen
Let’s travel back in time to the Tang dynasty to meet an interesting poet: Jia Dao 賈島 (779–843). A Buddhist who, in his poems, seems also fascinated by a Taoist lifestyle. He was also known as
Langxian 浪仙—the wandering immortal.
As the theme of this post is about a sword, it is interesting to refer to the Japanese word ronin 浪人 (langren in Chinese), a wandering samurai who has left his master. Jia Dao may have had a similar life, carrying his sword (officials carried this kind of sidearm) and wandering through China.
We’ll return to him in another post, when we look at his most famous poem: Searching for the Hermit without Meeting Him.
For most of his life, Jia Dao was probably not happy, and his life conditions were far from ideal. He spent about ten years as a Buddhist monk before returning to the world to try to become an official. His studies for the imperial examinations—his possible road to a stable position—were, at first, unsuccessful.
When he finally succeeded, at the age of forty-four, he found little satisfaction. Disappointed with the path that had brought him there, he wrote a poem criticizing the world of officials. This was perhaps his first moment of using the brush as a sword.
But it is dangerous to become a Chinese version of Don Quijote, fighting forces much more powerful than oneself. The officials did not treat him kindly: he was exiled. After a period of rehabilitation, he held some minor posts, only to be exiled again.
He remained poor, unlike many successful officials. Not the dream of a life—rather something closer to a quiet nightmare.
And yet, throughout all of this, he had his poetry.
He was recognized as a poetic talent by his contemporaries and maintained friendships with several poets who supported and mentored him. Not everyone admired his work, however. The Song dynasty poet and statesman Su Shi (Su Dongpo) was critical of his poetry.
I would disagree.
Jia Dao hides behind simplicity. Like a Taoist hermit, he finds solace in simple things, but adds layers of depth—almost like a Taoist alchemist refining something within.
In Jia Dao’s time, the three great currents of Chinese thought—Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism—were often seen as capable of forming a unity. This ideal was called sanjiao heyi 三教合一 (the three teachings joining as one).
Jia Dao’s poetry reflects this integration clearly.
He has:
a Confucian background (through the imperial examinations),
a Buddhist formation (through his years as a monk),
and a sensitivity toward Taoist thought (shaped by hardship and reflection).
With such foundations, one has enough material to write rich poetry.
Today, we approach his work from a Wen–Wu perspective—bringing together the cultural and the martial—by linking poetry with the sword.
Jia Dao’s poem about a swordsman (jianke 劍客) is very short:
劍客（別名：述劍）
十年磨一劍
霜刃未曾試
今日把示君
誰有不平事
Jianke (also titled: A Sword’s Narrative)
I have been polishing this one sword for ten years,
yet its frosty edge has never been tested.
Today I take it in my hands and present it to my lord:
who has a matter that is not right?
The form of this poem is a
—a classical structure of four lines with five characters each. It follows strict tonal and rhyming rules, though that is not our focus here.
Given Jia Dao’s life, it is not difficult to read this poem as a reflection of himself.
The sword becomes a metaphor for his own talent—carefully refined, but never fully put to use. Under the right circumstances, he could have served meaningfully. These circumstances are symbolized by the presence of a jun 君—a cultivated gentleman, an ideal Confucian figure who recognizes and employs ability.
The poet stands ready.
Let us look more closely.
Chinese characters often reveal more than their translations.
In the character 磨 (mo, to polish), we see the whetstone—the lower part being 石 (shi), a stone. The sword appears in 劍 (jian), and the blade in 刃 (ren). The “one” (一) symbolically connects ten years of continuous refinement.
Polishing makes the blade shine—pure, bright, like frost. This is expressed in 霜 (shuang), whose upper part suggests clouds or frozen moisture.
Testing the sword—試 (shi)—is the same word used for testing a person in official examinations. Only through use can value be revealed.
When approaching a lord, one does so with respect. The character 把 (ba) shows hands holding the sword. 示 (shi) evokes offering, altar, or something presented in reverence.
And finally, 平 (ping), translated as “right,” carries the sense of evenness—balance, nothing protruding, all things aligned. This is the basis of peace.
The Taoist ideal of taiping 太平—great peace—rests on this very notion.
We are left with the image of a refined sword, offered by a capable man in service of justice and harmony.
A noble intention.
But one that was never realized in Jia Dao’s life.
He never reached a position where he could truly make use of what he had cultivated. And so frustration, sadness, and anger remained close companions.
His poetry made him known—even across centuries and continents—but it may also have contributed to his misfortune.
We will meet Jia Dao again.
Perhaps next time, we can take away some of his sadness—by looking at Taoist internal alchemy.
Comments