MODULE II

2.1 THE DEBATE BETWEEN WINTER AND SUMMER -

SUMMERIAN ORAL NARRATIVE

Text: https://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/section5/tr533.htm

The Debate between Winter and Summer or Myth of Emesh and Enten is a Sumerian creation
myth, written on clay tablets in the mid to late 3rd millennium BC.
The myth of Emesh and Enten is a Sumerian creation myth that explains the origins of the
world and the gods. It tells the story of two deities, Emesh and Enten, who are tasked with
creating the world.
According to the myth, in the beginning, there was only a vast, primordial sea known as the
Apsu. Within this sea, there were two gods, Apsu and Tiamat. Apsu was the god of
freshwater, and Tiamat was the goddess of saltwater. Together, they gave birth to many other
gods.
As time went on, Apsu became increasingly annoyed with the noise and chaos of the younger
gods and decided to destroy them. However, his plan was overheard by the god Ea, who was
one of his own children. Ea then killed Apsu and took over as the ruler of the gods.
After Apsu's death, Emesh and Enten emerged as vegetation gods from the Apsu. They were
later identified with the natural phenomena of Summer and Winter, respectively. They were
tasked by Ea with creating the world and the rest of the gods. Emesh and Enten began by
creating the land, the sky, and the seas. They then created plants and animals to inhabit the
world. Finally, they created humans to serve and worship the gods.

The location and occasion of the story is described in the introduction with the usual creation
sequence of day and night, food and fertility, weather and seasons and sluice gates for
irrigation.

"An lifted his head in pride and brought forth a good day. He laid plans for ... and spread the
population wide. Enlil set his foot upon the earth like a great bull. Enlil, the king of all lands,
set his mind to increasing the good day of abundance, to making the ... night resplendent in
celebration, to making flax grow, to making barley proliferate, to guaranteeing the spring
floods at the quay, to making ... lengthen (?) their days in abundance, to making Summer
close the sluices of heaven, and to making Winter guarantee plentiful water at the quay."

The two seasons are personified as brothers, born after Enlil copulates with a "hursag" (hill).
The destinies of Summer and Winter are then described, Summer founding towns and
villages with plentiful harvests, Winter to bring the Spring floods.

"He copulated with the great hills, he gave the mountain its share. He filled its womb with
Summer and Winter, the plenitude and life of the Land. As Enlil copulated with the earth,

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there was a roar like a bull's. The hill spent the day at that place and at night she opened her
loins. She bore Summer and Winter as smoothly as fine oil. He fed them pure plants on the
terraces of the hills like great bulls. He nourished them in the pastures of the hills. Enlil set
about determining the destinies of Summer and Winter. For Summer founding towns and
villages, bringing in harvests of plenitude for the Great Mountain Enlil, sending labourers
out to the large arable tracts, and working the fields with oxen; for Winter plenitude, the
spring floods, the abundance and life of the Land, placing grain in the fields and fruitful
acres, and gathering in everything – Enlil determined these as the destinies of Summer and
Winter."

The two brothers soon decide to take their gifts to Enlil's "house of life", the E-namtila, where
they begin a debate about their relative merits. Summer argues:

"Your straw bundles are for the oven-side, hearth and kiln. Like a herdsman or shepherd
encumbered by sheep and lambs, helpless people run like sheep from oven-side to kiln, and
from kiln to oven-side, in the face of you. In sunshine ...... you reach decisions, but now in the
city people's teeth chatter because of you.

To which Winter replies:

"Father Enlil, you gave me control of irrigation; you brought plentiful water. I made one
meadow adjacent to another and I heaped high the granaries. The grain became thick in the
furrows ... Summer, a bragging field-administrator who does not know the extent of the field,
... my thighs grown tired from toil. ... tribute has been produced for the king's palace. Winter
admires the heart of your ... in words."

Enlil eventually intervenes and declares Winter the winner of the debate and there is a scene
of reconciliation. Bendt Alster explains "Winter prevails over Summer, because Winter
provides the water that was so essential to agriculture in the hot climate of ancient
Mesopotamia.”

"Enlil answered Summer and Winter: "Winter is controller of the life-giving waters of all the
lands – the farmer of the gods produces everything. Summer, my son, how can you compare
yourself to your brother Winter?" The import of the exalted word Enlil speaks is artfully
wrought, the verdict he pronounces is one which cannot be altered – who can change it?
Summer bowed to Winter and offered him a prayer. In his house he prepared emmer-beer
and wine. At its side they spend the day at a succulent banquet. Summer presents Winter with
gold, silver and lapis lazuli. They pour out brotherhood and friendship like best oil. By
bringing sweet words to the quarrel (?) they have achieved harmony with each other. In the
dispute between Summer and Winter, Winter, the faithful farmer of Enlil, was superior to
Summer – praise be to the Great Mountain, father Enlil!"

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 2.2. THE SICK WIFE
She had been ill for years and years;

She sent for me to say something.

She couldn’t say what she wanted

Because of the tears that kept coming of themselves.

“I have burdened you with orphan children,

With orphan children two or three.

Don’t let our children go hungry or cold;

If they do wrong, don’t slap or beat them.

When you take out the baby, rock it in your arms.

Don’t forget to do that.”

Last she said,

“When I carried them in my arms they had no clothes

And now their jackets have no linings.” [She dies.

I shut the doors and barred the windows

And left the motherless children.

When I got to the market and met my friends, I wept.

I sat down and could not go with them.

I asked them to buy some cakes for my children.

In the presence of my friends I sobbed and cried.

I tried not to grieve, but sorrow would not cease.

I felt in my pocket and gave my friends some money.

When I got home I found my children

Calling to be taken into their mother’s arms.

I walked up and down in the empty room

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 This way and that a long while.

Then I went away from it and said to myself

“I will forget and never speak of her again.”

NOTE ON THE COLLECTION OF POEMS BY THE TRANSLATOR ARTHUR WALEY

For thousands of years the Chinese maintained a level of rationality and tolerance that the West
might well envy. They had no Index, no Inquisition, no Holy Wars. Superstition has indeed
played its part among them; but it has never, as in Europe, been perpetually dominant. It follows
from the limitations of Chinese thought that the literature of the country should excel in
reflection rather than in speculation. That this is particularly true of its poetry will be gauged
from the present volume. In the poems of Po Chü-i no close reasoning or philosophic subtlety
will be discovered; but a power of candid reflection and self-analysis which has not been
rivalled in the West.
Turning from thought to emotion, the most conspicuous feature of European poetry is its pre-
occupation with love. This is apparent not only in actual “love-poems,” but in all poetry where
the personality of the writer is in any way obtrude. The poet tends to exhibit himself in a
romantic light; in fact, to recommend himself as a lover.
The Chinese poet has a tendency to be different but analogous. He recommends himself not as
a lover, but as a friend. He poses as a person of infinite leisure (which is what we should most
like our friends to possess) and free from worldly ambitions (which constitute the greatest bars
to friendship). He would have us think of him as a boon companion, a great drinker of wine,
who will not disgrace a social gathering by quitting it sober.
To the European poet the relation between man and woman is a thing of supreme importance
and mystery. To the Chinese, it is something commonplace, obvious—a need of the body, not
a satisfaction of the emotions. These he reserves entirely for friendship.
Accordingly we find that while our poets tend to lay stress on physical courage and other
qualities which normal women admire, Po Chü-i is not ashamed to write such a poem as “Alarm
at entering the Gorges.” Our poets imagine themselves very much as Art has portrayed them—
bare-headed and wild-eyed, with shirts unbuttoned at the neck as though they feared that a
seizure of emotion might at any minute suffocate them. The Chinese poet introduces himself
as a timid recluse, “Reading the Book of Changes at the Northern Window,” playing chess with
a Taoist priest, or practising caligraphy with an occasional visitor. If “With a Portrait of the
Author” had been the rule in the Chinese book-market, it is in such occupations as these that
he would be shown; a neat and tranquil figure compared with our lurid frontispieces.
It has been the habit of Europe to idealize love at the expense of friendship and to place too
heavy a burden on the relationship of man and woman. The Chinese erred in the opposite
direction, regarding their wives and concubines simply as instruments of procreation. For
sympathy and intellectual companionship they looked only to their friends. But these friends

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were bound by no such tie as held women to their masters; sooner or later they drifted away to
frontier campaigns, remote governorships, or country retirement. It would not be an
exaggeration to say that half the poems in the Chinese language are poems of parting or
separation.
The poet, then, usually passed through three stages of existence. In the first we find him with
his friends at the capital, drinking, writing, and discussing: burdened by his office probably
about as much as Pepys was burdened by his duties at the Admiralty. Next, having failed to
curry favour with the Court, he is exiled to some provincial post, perhaps a thousand miles
from anyone he cares to talk to. Finally, having scraped together enough money to buy
husbands for his daughters, he retires to a small estate, collecting round him the remnants of
those with whom he had shared the “feasts and frolics of old days.”
I have spoken hitherto only of poets. But the poetess occupies a place of considerable
importance in the first four centuries of our era, though the classical period (T’ang and Sung)
produced no great woman writer. Her theme varies little; she is almost always a “rejected wife,”
cast adrift by her lord or sent back to her home. Probably her father would be unable to buy her
another husband and there was no place for unmarried women in the Chinese social system.
The moment, then, which produced such poems was one of supreme tragedy in a woman’s life.
Love-poetry addressed by a man to a woman ceases after the Han dynasty; but a conventional
type of love-poem, in which the poet (of either sex) speaks in the person of a deserted wife or
concubine, continues to be popular. The theme appears to be almost an obsession with the
T’ang and Sung poets. In a vague way, such poems were felt to be allegorical. Just as in the
Confucian interpretation of the love-poems in the Odes (see below) the woman typifies the
Minister, and the lover the Prince, so in those classical poems the poet in a veiled way laments
the thwarting of his own public ambitions. Such tortuous expression of emotion did not lead to
good poetry.
The “figures of speech,” devices such as metaphor, simile, and play on words, are used by the
Chinese with much more restraint than by us. “Metaphorical epithets” are occasionally to be
met with; waves, for example, might perhaps be called “angry.” But in general the adjective
does not bear the heavy burden which our poets have laid upon it. The Chinese would call the
sky “blue,” “gray,” or “cloudy,” according to circumstances; but never “triumphant” or “terror-
scourged.”
The long Homeric simile, introduced for its own sake or to vary the monotony of narrative, is
unknown to Chinese poetry. Shorter similes are sometimes found, as when the half-Chinese
poet Altun compares the sky over the Mongolian steppe with the “walls of a tent”; but nothing
could be found analogous to Mr. T. S. Eliot’s comparison of the sky to a “patient etherized on
a table.” Except in popular poetry, puns are rare; but there are several characters which, owing
to the wideness of their import, are used in a way almost equivalent to play on words.
Classical allusion, always the vice of Chinese poetry, finally destroyed it altogether. In the
later periods (from[8] the fourteenth century onwards) the use of elegant synonyms also
prevailed. I have before me a “gradus” of the kind which the later poet used as an aid to
composition. The moon should be called the “Silver Dish,” “Frozen Wheel,” or “Golden

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Ring.” Allusions may in this connection be made to Yü Liang, who rode to heaven on the
crescent moon; to the hermit T’ang, who controlled the genius of the New Moon, and kept
him in his house as a candle—or to any other of some thirty stories which are given. The sun
may be called “The Lantern-Dragon,” the “Crow in Flight,” the “White Colt,” etc.
Such were the artificialities of later Chinese poetry.

History of Chinese Poetry

Introduction
Chinese poetry can be divided into three main periods: the early period, characterized by folk
songs in simple, repetitive forms; the classical period from the Han dynasty to the fall of the
Qing dynasty, in which a number of different forms were developed; and the modern period
of Westernized free verse.

Early Poetry

The Shi Jing (literally "Classic of Poetry '', also called "Book of Songs") was the first major
collection of Chinese poems, collecting both aristocratic poems (Odes) and more rustic
poetry, probably derived from folk songs (Songs).
A second, more lyrical and romantic anthology was the Chu Ci ( Songs of Chu), made up
primarily of poems ascribed to the semi- legendary Qu Yuan (c. 340 BCE- 278 BCE) and his
follower Song Yu (fourth century BCE).

Classical Poetry

During the Han dynasty (206 BCE- CE 220), the Chu lyrics evolved into the fu, a poem
usually in rhymed verse except for introductory and concluding passages that are in prose,
often in the form of questions and answers; often called a poetical essay (i.e. Robert van
Gulik). One of the fine examples of fu is Xi Kang's Qin Fu, or "Poetical Essay in Praise of the
Qin".
From the Han dynasty onwards, a process similar to the origins of the Shi Jing produced the
yue fu poems. Again, these were song lyrics, including original folk songs, court imitations
and versions by known poets (the best known of the latter being those of Li Bai).
From the second century CE, the yue fu began to develop into shi or classical poetry- the
form which was to dominate Chinese poetry until the modern era. These poems have five or
seven character lines, with a caesura before the last three characters of each line. They are
divided into the original gushi (old poems) and jintishi, a stricter form developed in the Tang
dynasty with rules governing tone patterns and the structure of the content. The greatest
writers of gushi and jintishi are often held to be Li Bai and Du Fu respectively.
Towards the end of the Tang dynasty, the ci lyric became more popular. Most closely
associated with the Song dynasty, ci most often expressed feelings of desire, often in an
adopted persona, but the greatest exponents of the form (such as Li Houzhu and Su Shi) used
it to address a wide range of topics.

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As the ci gradually became more literary and artificial after Song times, the san qu, a freer
form, based on new popular songs, developed. The use of san qu songs in drama marked an
important step in the development of vernacular literature.

Later Classical Poetry

After the Song dynasty, both shi poems and lyrics continued to be composed until the end of
the imperial period, and to a lesser extent to this day. However, for a number of reasons,
these works have always been less highly regarded than those of the Tang dynasty in
particular. Firstly, Chinese literary culture remained in awe of its predecessors: in a self-
fulfilling prophecy, writers and readers both expected that new works would not bear
comparison with the earlier masters. Secondly, the most common response of these later
poets to the tradition which they had inherited was to produce work which was ever more
refined and allusive; the resulting poems tend to seem precious or just obscure to modern
readers. Thirdly, the increase in population, expansion of literacy, wider dissemination of
works through printing and more complete archiving vastly increased the volume of work to
consider and made it difficult to identify and properly evaluate those good pieces which were
produced. Finally, this period saw the rise of vernacular literature, particularly drama and
novels, which increasingly became the main means of cultural expression.

Modern Poetry

Modern Chinese poems usually do not follow any prescribed pattern. Poetry was
revolutionised after the May Fourth Movement when writers try to use vernacular styles
closer to what was being spoken rather than previously prescribed forms. Early twentieth-
century poets like Xu Zhimo, Guo Moruo and Wen Yiduo sought to break Chinese poetry
from past conventions by adopting Western models; for example Xu consciously follows the
style of the Romantic poets with end-rhymes.
In the post-revolutionary Communist era, poets like Ai Qing used more liberal running lines
and direct diction, which were vastly popular and widely imitated.
In the contemporary poetic scene, the most important and influential poets are the group
known as Misty Poets, who use allusion and hermetic references. The most important Misty
Poets including Bei Dao, Gu Cheng, Duo Duo, and Yang Lian were all exiled after the
Tiananmen Square protests of 1989.

ANALYSIS OF THE POEM

The poem "The Sick Wife" translated by Albert Wendt is a powerful and poignant poem
about a wife who is dying and her last wishes for her family. She is burdened with the
knowledge that she is leaving her children without a mother and she wants to make sure that
her husband will take care of them. The poem also presents a powerful portrayal of the pain
and loss that can be felt when someone we love is gone.
The wife, who has been ill for years, calls for her husband to say something to him. However,
she struggles to articulate her thoughts due to her emotions overwhelming her, and instead,

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she cries. She expresses her concern for her children, urging her husband to take care of
them, to ensure they don't go hungry or cold and not to beat them if they do wrong. Her final
request is for her husband to rock the baby in his arms, a simple but tender act that brings
comfort to the child.
As the wife takes her last breath and dies, the husband shuts the doors and bars the windows,
leaving his motherless children behind. The husband's reaction to his wife's death is a
powerful portrayal of grief. He weeps openly when he meets his friends at the market, unable
to contain his sorrow. He asks his friends to buy cakes for his children and sobs
uncontrollably in their presence, unable to hide his pain. The husband tries to forget his wife,
but her memory is too strong. He walks up and down in the empty room, trying to come to
terms with his loss, but he cannot forget her.
The poem also suggests the enduring influence of the mother in the lives of her children, even
after her passing. When the husband returns home, he finds his children calling out for their
mother, longing for the warmth and comfort of her embrace. The husband is reminded of the
love and care his wife provided to their children, and he is unable to fill that void.
The poem conveys a sense of helplessness and loss that the husband feels. He tries to move
on by walking around the empty room, but the memories of his wife are too strong, and he is
unable to forget her. The last line of the poem, "I will forget and never speak of her again,"
suggests the husband's attempt to cope with his grief by suppressing his emotions and
memories of his wife. However, this line also hints at the impossibility of forgetting someone
we love deeply.

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 2.3. ‘THERIGATHA’ POEMS BY BUDDHIST NUNS (KISA GAUTAMI POEM)

The Therīgāthā, often translated as Verses of the Elder Nuns is a Buddhist text, a collection
of short poems of early enlightened women who were elder nuns (having experienced 10
Vassa or monsoon periods). The poems date from a three hundred year period, with some
dated as early as the late 6th century BCE.
According to Thanissaro Bhikkhu, the Therigatha is the "earliest extant text depicting
women’s spiritual experiences." in Theravada Buddhism.
In the Pāli Canon, the Therigatha is classified as part of the Khuddaka Nikaya, the collection
of short books in the Sutta Pitaka. It consists of 73 poems organized into 16 chapters. It is the
companion text to the Theragatha, verses attributed to senior monks. It is the earliest known
collection of women's literature composed in India.

The poems in Therigatha were composed orally in the Magadhi language and were passed on
orally until about 80 B.C.E., when they were written down in Pali.[4] It consists of 494
verses; while the summaries attribute these verses to 101 different nuns, only 73 identifiable
speakers appear in the text.[3] Like the Theragatha, it is organized into chapters that are
loosely based on the number of verses in each poem.
While each poem in the Theragatha has an identified speaker, several of the Therigatha texts
are anonymous, or are connected with the story of a nun but not spoken to or by her in one
case, no nun seems to be present, but instead the verse is spoken by a woman trying to talk
her husband out of becoming a monk.
More so than the Theragatha, there seems to have been uncertainty between different
recensions about which verses were attributable to which nuns some verses appear in the
Apadāna attributed to different speakers. Longer poems later in the collection appear in the
Arya metre, abandoned relatively early in Pali literature, but include other features indicative
of later composition, including explanations of karmic connections more typical of later texts
like the Petavatthu and Apadāna.

Kisa Gotami

During Buddha’s time, there lived a woman named Kisa Gotami. She married young and
gave birth to a son. One day, the baby fell sick and died soon after. Kisa Gotami loved her
son greatly and refused to believe that her son was dead. She carried the body of her son
around her village, asking if there was anyone who could bring her son back to life.
The villagers all saw that the son was already dead and there was nothing that could be done.
They advised her to accept his death and make arrangements for the funeral.
In great grief, she fell upon her knees and clutched her son’s body close to her body. She kept
uttering for her son to wake up.
A village elder took pity on her and suggested to her to consult the Buddha.
“Kisa Gotami. We cannot help you. But you should go to the Buddha. Maybe he can bring
your son back to life!”

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She immediately went to the Buddha’s residence and pleaded for him to bring her son back to
life.
“Kisa Gotami, I have a way to bring your son back to life.”
“My Lord, I will do anything to bring my son back”
“If that is the case, then I need you to find me something. Bring me a mustard seed but it
must be taken from a house where no one residing in the house has ever lost a family
member. Bring this seed back to me and your son will come back to life.”
Kisa Gotami went from house to house, trying to find the mustard seed.
At the first house, a young woman offered to give her some mustard seeds. But when Kisa
Gotami asked if she had ever lost a family member to death, the young woman said her
grandmother died a few months ago.
She moved on to the 2nd house. A husband died a few years ago. The 3rd house lost an uncle
and the 4th house lost an aunt. She kept moving from house to house but the answer was all
the same every house had lost a family member to death.
Kisa Gotami finally came to realise that there is no one in the world who had never lost a
family member to death. She now understood that death is inevitable and a natural part of
life.
Putting aside her grief, she buried her son in the forest. Shen then returned to the Buddha and
became his follower.

Kisa Gotami and the Mustard Seed: An Old Story Retold in Verse

A long time ago a very young mother

Named Kisa Gotami gave birth to a son—
A child who was the light of her life.
The mother’s love was second to none.

Not long after her son was born,

The poor child grew sick and died.
“Who can bring my son back to life?
Have pity!” Kisa Gotami cried.

The villagers knew that there was nothing

They could do to help and suggested
That she seek out the help of the Buddha.
“He can do wonders,” they attested.

She found the Buddha and beseeched his help.

“My only son has died,” she wailed.
“Can you bring him back to life.
Everything I have tried has failed.”

The Buddha calmly said, “I will help you.”

The poor woman waited with bated breath.

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“But first you must find for me
A family that’s never been touched by death.

“When you finally encounter that home,

Tell the family there’s something you need—
Just one thing to take to the Buddha—
And that’s a single mustard seed.”

With great excitement the mother ran

From house to house—to every abode.
But death had visited every family.
On her face, great disappointment showed.

After a long, unsuccessful search,

The young mother came to realize
That everything born had to die;
Everything had to have its demise.

She understood the law of impermanence

And that her suffering was not unique.
She now saw life from a new perspective;
Her eyes were open, so to speak.

Kisa Gotami returned to the Buddha

And started to follow his teachings--the Way,
Or Path to Enlightenment,
Which still guides many seekers today.

Note on the Poem

The story of Kisa Gotami and the Mustard Seed is a classic Buddhist parable that has been
passed down through the generations. It is a story that teaches us about the impermanence of
life, the inevitability of death, and the importance of acceptance.
The story is powerful because it highlights the human condition of grief and loss. Kisa
Gotami, like many of us, was unable to accept the reality of death and was determined to
bring her child back to life. Her quest for the mustard seed was a desperate attempt to hold on
to the past and to avoid the pain of loss.
The Buddha's lesson to Kisa Gotami was simple but profound. He asked her to find a
household where death had never occurred and to bring back a mustard seed from that home.
The lesson was that death is a natural part of life, and that every family has experienced loss.
This realization helped Kisa Gotami to accept her son's death and to move on with her life.
The story also teaches us about the power of community and compassion. Kisa Gotami's
quest for the mustard seed took her from door to door, and in the process, she met many

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people who had experienced loss. This experience helped her to understand that she was not
alone in her grief, and that others had suffered as well.
The story of Kisa Gotami and the Mustard Seed reminds us that life is fleeting and that we
should cherish the time that we have with our loved ones. It teaches us that acceptance and
compassion are essential for healing and that we can find comfort and strength in our
communities. Ultimately, the story encourages us to live in the present moment, to appreciate
what we have, and to let go of what we cannot control.
Furthermore, the story of Kisa Gotami and the Mustard Seed also emphasizes the Buddhist
concept of impermanence, which is the idea that all things are constantly changing and
nothing is permanent. The story shows how attachment to people and things can cause
suffering because everything is subject to change and eventual loss.
The Buddha's instruction to Kisa Gotami to find a mustard seed from a household where no
one had ever died was a deliberate and powerful lesson. It showed Kisa Gotami that death is a
universal experience and that it is a natural part of life. By accepting this truth, Kisa Gotami
was able to let go of her attachment to her son and find peace.
Overall, the story of Kisa Gotami and the Mustard Seed is a powerful parable that teaches us
about the impermanence of life, the inevitability of death, and the importance of acceptance
and compassion. It shows us that suffering is a natural part of life, but that we can find
healing and comfort through community, spiritual guidance, and acceptance of the present
moment.

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