A calligraphy brush is more than just a writing instrument—it is a vessel that holds the soul of the poet.
In East Asian culture, where poetry and calligraphy are deeply intertwined, scholar-artists cherished their brushes with great affection and trust. They carefully selected each brush as a reflection of their personal philosophy and emotional depth.
In this article, we explore how poets and calligraphers chose their brushes, and what meanings they found in them—through historical records, poems, and legends that illuminate this intimate relationship.
A Brush as the Mirror of a Poet’s Heart
To the literati, a brush was never just a tool. It symbolized one’s intellect, inner spirit, and poetic sensibility.
The Tang dynasty poet Bai Juyi favored the famed Ziháo brush, made from fine purple rabbit hair sourced from Xuancheng. He wrote:
The purple hair brush, its tip sharp as an awl,
Ode to the Ziháo Brush
Cuts as cleanly as a blade.
For Bai Juyi, the sharpness of the brush reflected the clarity and righteousness he sought in his poetry. In this way, the character of the brush mirrored the values of its user.
To many, the quality of one’s brush revealed the quality of one’s mind. Choosing a brush was a reflection of inner attitude—a visible symbol of invisible spirit.
Writing on Paulownia Leaves: Du Fu and the Brush in Nature
In the works of the poet Du Fu, the act of writing with a brush appears again and again as part of his daily life and emotional landscape.
In one of his poems, he describes:
落日平臺上
春風啜茗時
石欄斜點筆
桐葉坐題詩At sunset on the terrace,
Du Fu
Spring wind sips my tea.
Against the stone railing, my brush slants,
As I sit and inscribe poems on fallen paulownia leaves.
This verse reveals how the brush was not confined to paper. Poets wrote on leaves, stones, fans, even paper screens. It was a tool to capture fleeting moments, to converse with nature, and to leave impressions upon the world.
Madness and the Brush: Zhang Xu’s Wild Expression
Some poets and calligraphers even transcended the brush entirely.Zhang Xu, a legendary calligrapher of the Tang dynasty, was known for composing while drunk, dipping his own hair in ink to write instead of using a brush. This anecdote shows a level of expression where the line between self, body, and language disappears.
It was no longer just the brush that birthed poetry—it was the overwhelming urge to express, even without a brush, that united word and art.
Choosing a Brush is Choosing an Expression
The monk Kūkai once said, “A master does not choose his brush.” Yet in practice, he used different brushes for different purposes, adjusting for size, ink absorption, and desired expression.
Brush types were chosen with care:
- Rabbit hair (Ziháo): Thin and sharp, perfect for delicate, fine-line poetry.
- Goat hair: Smooth and ink-rich, suited for expressive running script or cursive.
- Badger hair: Firm and resilient, ideal for bold standard script and vigorous poetry.
Choosing a brush was as much a creative act as choosing a poetic meter or rhythm. The poet’s tone, breath, and intent were shaped by the brush as much as by the words themselves.
Conclusion: Brush and Poem, Twin Pillars of the Literati’s Heart
To the East Asian literati, the brush was a mirror of the heart, a catalyst for feeling, and a sculptor of the spirit. More than a tool, it was an instrument of introspection, of communion with nature, and of poetic revelation.
What poetry and the brush share is the act of giving form to the movement of the heart. That is why, to poets and scholars, the brush was the most personal, most beloved of all tools.
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