Five Steps to Compose a Poem

Xun Yu was momentarily stunned. Standing atop the earthen slope, he looked down at Luan Yi and his companions, folding fan swaying gently as they strode with heads held high into the crowd. In that instant, Xun Yu seemed to catch a whiff of charisma about them—a scholar's kind of authority. They had every reason to bear themselves with pride. After all, how many in this world could match their brilliance? Luan Yi’s “Treatise on Wealth” had surpassed the ancient “Guanzi,” and was hailed by masters of the classics as a panacea for a nation’s prosperity; Guo Jia was a fountain of cunning stratagems—his counter-move at Hulao Pass alone earned admiration. Though Dan Fu was not widely known, his studies of military formations and tactics were incisive, capturing the true essence of Sunzi’s Art of War. Xi Zhicai’s eloquence was so sharp he could argue the dead back to life. And then there was Mao Jie—leaving aside his understanding of Laozi and Zhuangzi, his calligraphy and painting alone placed him among the era’s greats.

Even more astonishing, the oldest among them was but thirteen years old. Thirteen!

“Hey! Wait for us! Xun Yu of Yingchuan, styled Wenruo; Xun You, styled Gongda; Cheng Yu, styled Zhongde—here to pay respects at the Wei River Poetry Gathering!”

“What did you say? Divine talent? Ghostly talent? Human talent? Heavenly talent? Earthly talent? Are these…the Five Prodigies of Yingchuan?” At the sound of Luan Yi and his companions introducing themselves, a hundred scholars in attendance were dumbstruck. As if by tacit agreement, they parted to create a clear path straight to the pavilion for the Five Prodigies. Their gazes lingered unabashedly, filled with curiosity and reverence.

During the Eastern Han, women were not as sequestered as in later dynasties; they enjoyed relative freedom. On nights of blossoming flowers and bright moons, they might go out to stroll and play, perhaps in hopes of encountering an ideal suitor. Thus, many noble ladies were present at the poetry gathering, and upon hearing that the Five Prodigies had arrived, could not contain their excitement, exclaiming, “Which one is Luan Ziqi, the divine talent?”

A companion replied, “Naturally, the most handsome one!”

“But…they’re all handsome! How can you tell who’s the handsomest?”

“Divine, ghostly, human, heavenly, earthly—divine talent leads the Five Prodigies, so Luan Ziqi must be at the forefront. Look, it’s that tallest one!” she answered, her face radiant as she pointed to Luan Yi at the very front.

“Wow! That’s him? He’s only twelve and already so tall!”

“He’s already celebrated his thirteenth birthday.”

“What? How do you know when his birthday is? What day is it?”

“I’m not telling! I went to great trouble to find out from someone in Yingchuan!”

“Oh, please, dear sister, tell me! Please!”

“If you give me your signed copy of ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio’ by Luan Ziqi, I’ll tell you!”

At her friend’s exorbitant demand, the young lady’s face fell at once. “No way! My father spent seven hundred thousand coins on that as a gift for the Qiqiao Festival. I’d never give it away. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have someone find out myself. Since Luan Ziqi’s come to Luoyang, I refuse to believe I can’t discover his birthday. Who knows, maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe when Luan Ziqi sees my beauty, he’ll share wine and conversation with me!” At this, her face turned as red as a monkey’s bottom.

“You? The idea of Luan Ziqi fancying you is the real marvel!”

“And what’s wrong with me?”

“Ugly duckling!”

“You’re the ugly duckling!”

“Who are you calling ugly?”

While the two friends bickered, Luan Yi and his party of eight had already reached the pavilion. The Luan family’s attendants waited outside.

Luan Yi approached with unhurried grace and exchanged greetings with Wei Ning and Cai Yan. After the formalities, he ignored Wei Ning and, in a playful tone, reproached Cai Yan, “Sister, you didn’t tell us about today’s poetry gathering on the Wei River—had we not heard by chance, we might have missed such an elegant event.”

Cai Yan replied with a beaming smile, “What are you saying, Brother Yi? Seeing how tired you all were after your journey yesterday, I thought you should rest more, so I didn’t wake you.”

Luan Yi chuckled and let the matter drop, then asked, “Esteemed talents, may I ask what the theme for today’s gathering might be?”

Wei Zhongdao, upon seeing Luan Yi, grew even paler. He coughed and replied, “There is no set theme—compose a poem inspired by the autumn scene. Since Ziqi is famed for divine talent, with works and biographies to his name, surely he’s also skilled at poetry. Why not compose a verse on the spot, so we may witness your talent firsthand?”

Cai Yan only knew Luan Yi wrote what was called “fiction” and had penned the “Treatise on Wealth,” but had never heard of him composing poetry. Hearing Wei Zhongdao pile on the praise, clearly setting Luan Yi up for a fall, she grew anxious and attempted to excuse him, “Ziqi is only here to pay respects today, not to recite poetry.”

“Oh!” Wei Zhongdao exclaimed, feigning sudden understanding. “So the divine talent cannot compose poetry!”

The crowd was abuzz. “What? Luan Ziqi can’t write poems?”

Luan Yi smiled, thinking, I truly can’t write poetry, but if I can’t write, I can still recite. Ignoring the murmurs, he replied with humble composure, “I am willing to give it a try.”

“Excellent!” Wei Zhongdao laughed, stepping up beside Luan Yi and whispering, “I hope your poem will be as popular as your stories.”

Wei Zhongdao’s words implied only popularity, not quality—a veiled hostility. Sensing this, Luan Yi stared right back and retorted with a smile, “Only what is truly good can win the world’s favor!”

The remark left Wei Zhongdao momentarily speechless. “Enough talk. We await your composition, Ziqi.”

In his former life, Luan Yi had always regretted his poor handwriting, and as an adult had purchased thick copybooks to practice daily. After copying Tang and Song poems over and over, his penmanship hadn’t improved, but he’d memorized a trove of poetry. Which one should he choose? Hands clasped, thumbs twining, he paced slowly before the pavilion, the crowd holding its breath lest they disturb him. Cai Yan wore a worried look, but Guo Jia and the others were at ease; in their experience, whenever Luan Yi folded his hands, no problem was unsolvable.

True to their expectations, after a moment, Luan Yi’s eyes lit up and he recited:

“Deserted lanes choked with wild grass bar all comers’ way,
Who in this cool night will sing with me and keep sorrow at bay?
Only the cricket knows autumn’s arrival is early and sure,
The plantain gathers the rain’s patter, loud and pure.
Ancestral wealth, inherited scrolls—my gain,
With transcendence I roam this world, flushed with wine’s stain.
Such foolishness—would you understand my heart?
Not the least harm to nature’s way do I impart.”

Lu You’s “Autumn Thoughts” flowed from his lips, leaving every listener stunned and speechless.

Guo Jia, Dan Fu, and the others were first to applaud. “What a poem! Excellent, truly excellent!”

The crowd finally recovered their wits and broke into loud praise, admiration on every tongue.

Cai Yan’s face brightened, and she mused, “Such foolishness—would you understand my heart? Not the least harm to nature’s way do I impart. The sentiment and imagery are both present, the language fluent, the rhyme precise—surely a masterpiece for the ages.” Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Yi’er, I never expected your poetry to be so fine!”

Luan Yi chuckled inwardly but replied modestly, “I dare not call it good—a fleeting game of words, I hope it brings no displeasure.”

“How could anyone dislike it? The poem is truly beautiful,” someone in the audience responded.

Another called out, “Who’d have thought the divine talent could compose so swiftly, and so well! A poem in five steps—worthy indeed of the name!”

“A poem in five steps?” Luan Yi was startled. In the future, Cao Zhi would be famed for a poem in seven steps, but here he was, a step ahead with one in five.

Seeing Luan Yi outshine everyone, Wei Zhongdao was at first shocked—never had he imagined Luan Yi held such poetic skill. The more brilliant Luan Yi appeared, the more bitter Wei Zhongdao felt. He resented that Cai Yan was always speaking of this Ziqi, always carrying that accursed “Strange Tales” with her. He disliked this young man, so dazzling and gifted. With a cold laugh, he said, “Perhaps the so-called divine talent did not compose a poem in five steps, but had something prepared in advance! After all, any poetry lover is bound to have a few verses on autumn scenery at the ready. To present one as an impromptu composition is hardly impossible!”

At this, many by the river nodded in sudden realization. In their hearts, they thought, “Indeed! I, too, have written about autumn scenes. To pass off a well-crafted poem as spontaneous—quite possible!”

Their reasoning was understandable, for to compose a poem in five steps was, in their world, unthinkable.

When Wei Zhongdao called Luan Yi’s integrity into question, Xi Zhicai couldn’t contain his anger and immediately retorted, “Young Master Wei, to say such a thing is to judge a gentleman by a petty mind.”

“You—” Wei Zhongdao, incensed, pointed and demanded, “Who are you calling petty?”

“I say, whoever judges a gentleman thus is a petty man. Whoever does it, is one!” Arguing with Xi Zhicai was self-defeating; with these words, he had both elevated Luan Yi as a gentleman and disparaged Wei Zhongdao’s character—a double victory.

“Hmph!” Suffering this setback, Wei Zhongdao ignored Xi Zhicai and turned back to Luan Yi. “Ziqi, your previous poem was on too grand a subject—it proves little. Let me set a topic on the spot; if you can compose a poem on it, your true depth of talent will show. Do you accept?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Please set your challenge, Mr. Zhongdao!” With three hundred Tang poems in mind, even if he couldn’t write, he could improvise. Luan Yi was fully confident.

“Very well.” Wei Zhongdao smiled, pondering what topic might stump Luan Yi. Autumn colors, falling leaves, maples, autumn waters—such common scenes would pose little challenge. Only an unexpected subject, one rarely considered, might trouble him. Searching the surroundings, he finally fixed on something across the Wei River: after the rainy season, the river’s edge had receded, leaving behind a pool cut off from the current. Now stagnant and overgrown, with flies and insects buzzing, it was a foul, stinking puddle.

Seeing this, Wei Zhongdao was elated. Let’s see how you compose a poem about that filthy waterhole, he thought. He pointed across the river and declared, “Ziqi, since your talent is so great, why not compose a poem on that?”

“What?”