[Poem] SUMMONS TO WINE - A Glimpse of Li He’s Bold, Dreamlike Flair

It’s this friction—between outward revelry and inner turmoil—that makes ‘致酒行’ so memorable, bridging centuries to speak about a universal human desire to find euphoria, if only for a little while.

I love how the poem’s lines sharpen around the theme of impermanence: strong drinks flow, yet we can’t forget that time inevitably chips away at even the most lavish banquet.

Even the simplest lines breathe a contrarian boldness—like the poet refuses to let gloom quell the gusto of raising a cup, even if the aftertaste hints at fear or regret.

I love how each verse leaves a tinge of doubt, as if the poet is urging readers to question whether the next sip will bring peace or only deepen the gnawing sense of impermanence.

Reading it, I can sense an electric swirl—like a door flung open to a storm outside. Each clink of cups intermingles with a silent foreboding, as though chaos might spill over at any moment.

In an era of viral social media parties and extravagant bar scenes, we still glimpse the same pattern: folks seeking a rush, but haunted by the emptiness that follows. This poem feels like a centuries-old mirror held up to that modern nightlife chase.

Sometimes it feels like the poet stands in a pitch-black hall lit only by torches, the dancing flames accentuating hollowness behind the cheers. That tension gives each line a raw, sharp edge.

Compared to Li Bai’s famously celebratory wine poems, Li He’s approach seems darker and more urgent. Where Li Bai welcomes the moon into his cup, Li He’s toasts are overshadowed by the thunder of uncertain fate, making the atmosphere both thrilling and uneasy.

The poem hints at a rowdy setting—cups clinking, laughter ringing out—yet behind each toast stands a faint knowledge that all this fervor fades quickly once the night yields to reality.

Compared to Li He’s softer verses in ‘秋来,’ where a gentle hush frames the season’s shift, ‘致酒行’ crackles with more intense fervor, pivoting from calm reflection to an almost frantic pursuit of revelry in the face of looming troubles.

This poem sparks images of an archaic feast—cups overflowing, hearts heavy with some unsaid grief. It’s as if every toast acknowledges the fleeting nature of life.

Sometimes I imagine a row of disheveled revelers at the poem’s end, the last dregs of wine glimmering in their cups, their boisterous shouts trailing into a hush that reveals just how fragile joy can be.

A brief reflection: it’s as though the poet stands at the center of a swirling carnival, aware that dawn’s light might unravel the illusions. Each verse trembles with that tension, urging us to relish the moment while it lasts.

Modern conversations about escapism often revolve around partying or binge entertainment. Here, Li He’s poem stands as an ancient testament that such impulses to drown worry in wine are nothing new—and neither is the lingering sorrow that sneaks in when the music fades.

Though short, the poem brims with images of a boisterous feast on shaky ground, reminding us that living fully sometimes entails confronting the precarious nature of our happiness.

Comparing it with Li He’s war-charged ‘雁门太守行,’ you see the same electric tension. But while ‘雁门太守行’ evokes frontier gloom, ‘致酒行’ channels that energy into the reveler’s domain, fusing gallantry with the headiness of wine. Both swirl with an undercurrent of intangible sorrow.

One can practically sense the table’s chaos: overturned bowls, laughter laced with desperation, the poet’s pen capturing both the swirl of motion and the hush that threatens to collapse the merriment at any second.

Modern parallels emerge when I think about nightlife in big cities: clubs brimming with music and laughter, yet behind the bright lights lurk personal anxieties. The poem’s blend of lively toasts and lurking darkness resonates with how people sometimes chase euphoria to escape deeper turmoil.

In a swirl of wine-stained laughter, the poem reveals a vulnerable side of humanity: our urge to cling to fleeting joys when confronted by the unstoppable march of time or fate.

When I read it under a dim lamp, I feel both excitement and a faint melancholy—like being at a late-night banquet where revelry masks a tinge of regret.

Comparing it with Du Fu’s sorrowful drinking poems, we notice that while Du Fu laments societal woes, Li He zeroes in on personal volatility—a whirlwind of fleeting feasts and intangible anxieties. Both highlight the ephemeral, but from different vantage points.

Short but jolting: each phrase is a gust of wind carrying both the warmth of wine and the chill of looming fate, a Li He hallmark that fuses merriment with unspoken dread.

Short lines punch through any pretense of subtlety: Li He’s toast is not merely a call to delight but also a challenge to fate—an almost defiant stance in the face of looming shadows.

A bracing current of fierce energy runs through each line, as if the poem itself demands the reader to raise a cup and taste the world’s raw pulse.

Ultimately, ‘致酒行’ reads like a rowdy toast laced with sorrow, exposing how revelry can momentarily stave off darkness, yet can’t fully dispel it. That luminous contradiction is Li He’s poetic forte and it resonates powerfully with readers across ages.

I admire how the poet melds high-spirited banqueting with a sense of mortal fragility, as if each sip of wine could be the last in a world prone to abrupt endings.

A short impression: it’s a toast offered to the midnight sky, the poet’s voice quivering with half-laughter, half-dread, begging time to slow even as the cups go round.

Compared to Li Shangyin’s subtle, sometimes cryptic imagery, Li He’s language here is more direct and forceful—driving the point home that life’s sweet indulgences collide with a darker undercurrent, no matter how brightly the wine might gleam.

Though couched in revelry, each syllable underscores how every high has its hidden cost, as if the poet is urging us to taste the bitterness that often floats beneath sweet illusions.