Sefl Translation
Page 4
i experience death again
in the famous land of exiles
a wanderer has nowhere to go
i, a bird of passage that faces a new disaster to survive
i, a lone wolf with his soul tied to the far corners of the earth
i used to have two tongues
one chinese and the other english
i used to have two hearts
one east and the other west
but i have nothing left now
only this instinct to wander again
Untitled
the poets on the earth are as numerous as the stars in the sky
but no one will outshine the other
the stars in the sky are as numerous as the poets on the earth
hanging high and cold without joy
my poetry my life
my nonchalance my solitude
in my starless world
i shall burn all my poetry
the sky without me
the earth without me
The Puzzle of an Unknown Poet
till death
i still do not understand
why when i presented the essence of my lifetime—
the poem that had no precedence nor following—
to the famous poet for him to read
he scanned it ten lines at a time
and speaking not a word
returned
it
to me
his eyes looking elsewhere
i had a feeling that somehow his shoulders were slightly
askew
Early August Morning
fine rain in the air
birds calling
sunshine penetrating leaves
and
fragrance of flowers
unknown
from no one knows where
Untitled
a person is a religion
knowledge may be a source of non-knowledge
don’t you see that the sky is imbued with meaning
only when the birds are flying in it?
whether taoism, buddhism or christianity
it’s all soul on paper
this heart is a primitive soil
that remains pure, primitive and innocent
the earth, nature and the sun
all these may wear away
till then everything easily decayable of ours
may gain eternity in destruction
My Country
from the time when i could remember things
it seems that i had never written anything eulogising my country
although i had been written off over and over
by that era
i am now gazing at its un/familiar face
from another corner of the world
without feeling any sweeping passions
or surging tears
in fact i am watching
a tv drama that has nothing to do with all that
the beautiful filipino woman
yelled for her boyfriend to take her back to the philippines
who was a korean
guest working with her in japan
she was yelling:
back to the philippines!
back to the philippines!
but to me it sounded like: back to china back to china!
and i felt for that filipino servant
and i was even that filipino servant myself
knowing full well
that i wasn’t half as good as her
except for an ethnic multicultural entry-free green card
all i have is this half face whose make anyone could
easily tell
so i ended up tonight smoking half a dozen extra mild malboro
and wondering to myself why the bloody hell i should
have been keeping away from it all for so long?
and before i went to bed
i went to the map of the world again
and touched that place that i used to call home
with a force that made myself cry:
you bastard, my country!
Solitude
at the cruel, frightening moment
of the night
the maliciously-intended globe
sheds such a light that one has nowhere to hide
the dream is lurking somewhere close
as i touch my teeth
life is pretty normal
but my heart is dying a death
Declaration of Independence
china
i cannot find you
my language
does not have you in it
my pen
does not write you
my territory of living
is not under your jurisdiction
my life
belongs to myself
even this language
is not your sole patent
it used to be called chinese
and is now a tool only
My Two Women
The woman I had before
Looked a bit old
She looked like my mother
But was tougher than her
She wanted me to be loyal to her
And did not allow me to have two hearts
If she permitted me to go to bed with her
She made me apologize
For what I have not done
This woman I now have
Looks quite young
I jump headlong into her arms
In spite of myself
But this woman is always so cruel
And remains so cold
However deep I get into her
I can’t get to her heart
My previous woman was called hua
And my current woman was called ao
For the sake of freedom
Both can be abandoned
Note: hua: China; ao: Australia.
Untitled
some people are destined to be living after their death
(trees turn into furniture)
some, living while living
(pigs turn into human beings)
some become lines of poetry
(fish enter the arts)
some poems become lines of people
(the cows’ milk)
the person who lives after death
does not have to, is not able to and does not want to
listen to the sound of praise and appreciation
the person who lives after death
I think, is the way I may be like in the future
that I now am imagining as I write this poem
ah, the person who still lives after death
Don’t Say
How lonely you are
There are so many trees around you
Standing so apart
That they never communicate with each other in the dark
When you walked home late at night
Someone shoveled up the embers from the fire pan
You had a feeling
That that was life
Just as you entered the door
Your shadow made a noise
You looked back and saw that it was the homeless dog
It was then that you thought of writing this poem
Sinking into Darkness
I can tell you
That I may not be long in this world
But I am laughing
So are you
I can tell you
That I may not be long in this world
But what does it matter if
I can finish writing this poem as I am driving home
I can tell you
That I may not be long in this world
I won’t know what happens after
Only you do
I can tell you
That I may not be long in this world
And that my darkness falls before you
For which you should feel happy
I can tell you
>
That I may not be long in this world
And that this hand that holds the mouse
Will soon become hollow, reduced to the bones
I can tell you
That I may not be long in this world
Leaving as swiftly as the cancer cells
Soon to be larger than darkness, smaller than it, than nothingness
Flying Close to the Earth
As a writer
you are no nobler or humbler
than anyone
You fly close to the earth at night
eyes not bedazzled
by the world of desires
You talk with those who don’t read
about things that have nothing to do with reading
you fly close to the water
You see every lonely heart
moving you see the falling age
sinking into boredom at a faster pace
The good virus that kills better than SARS
every patient better dressed than at any other time
you fly close to the skin
Listening to the dead soul dying again under the skin
for a writing man
being forgotten is your posthumous royal title
The Lights
I switched on all the lights
In this not-too-large room
I switched on all the lights
Two lamps on the head of the bed
One lamp on either side of the mirror on the opposite
wall
One lamp standing in a corner
These tube-like milky-coloured lamps
And an incandescent lamp by the bedside
I switched them all on
They didn’t know why I
Switched them all on
In this transient 4.5-star room
The night fell fast
Winter
Every day with me the fly suns himself
On the window sill of this room
Long dead is he
But I am still alive
It’s Going to Snow
The typing fingers have invaded the coldness before snowing
Snow still, snow still
A poem across the sky
Admired, unadmired, covering all depths
And shallownesses
No possibility of misreading
Entering poetry, entering the world
Lower than earth
Earlier than falling
The Story
They are separating
Splitting everything down the middle:
Their money
Their furniture after depreciation
And their son
Although they can’t cut him in half
The way you treat a piece of wood
He can live either way
For a consented period of time
Except that they won’t be able to transplant the tree in
their backyard
Which goes much deeper than their marriage
He said: how much do you say it’s worth? I’ll give you
the money
She thought and said: well, let’s just have it cut down
and have done with it
The marriage gone, why would you want to keep the tree?
He said: fair enough; let’s get someone to cut it down
And we’ll share the cost—
I was jolted back
Into reality
To see her plant another tree
Zero Distance
Human relationship
Never reaches zero distance
Up close
It’s the standard thickness of a condom
At their closest, there are two
Beings, separated by a skin
No Title
When the English language comes flooding in
I’ve lost my memory
The 5,000-year-old structure collapses overnight
As my tongue straightens like a penis
In a time-honoured blankness
Like the brains, like this country
My eyes are flying over Australia
Murmuring, confusedly, in a dream
It’s the mumbling of the primitive
It’s the dream-talking of the modern
Walking through the encyclopedic bush
One is stifled by the literature of swarming ants
I’m no longer able to pronounce the word ‘nation’
And even less able to talk about the twisted politics
Pretty soon, I’ll forget my parents
And brothers altogether
Alas, in this boundless English
That sensation of heaven and earth being swept
I am left alone with myself
Amidst billions of the people in the world
Chinese
Past target for attack
Current target for research
Forever target for alienation
Red Green Yellow
the night’s three-coloured pansy
the red curtains, drawn up, never let down
the green mosquito net, stains of blood
if not red then green, if not green then red
how much do I wish to die tonight
Memory
the musical wind is sweeping across the shivering red field
the fragrant musical notes and the sweet rhythms
are streaming gurgling into the soundly sleeping memory
the crickets are loud and the stars are leaping
a string of green night dew is hanging from the long
neck of the moon
the whole forest is evenly echoing my own breathing
on the silvery night vibratory with the stringed
instruments—
beautiful dream shadows disappear with the awakening
where is the news of her wind under the icy scorching sun
leaving only this invisible memory?
The Bridge
he is leaning against the sun setting on the railing of
the bridge
somewhere a plonk
splashing pearls of blood
he looks down
and sees a head
like the moon in the cloud
coming out and going in
like a dream a thousand years ago
that has just been dreamt
“good”
at this moment the director said
and all the cameras closed their eyes
The Pig Incident
once I poured boiling water on a pig
you know it’s only a dirty pig
his body stinking all over and his snout smeared with
mud and shit
his shrieking sounded particularly pleasant to me
the old master scowled at me with pitying accusation
I sauntered off thinking it was only a dirty pig
many years have gone by and I had forgotten that
incident
but tonight the dirty pig body has connected with the
pitying human eyes
I hear the sad shriek again from the heart of my hearts
yes he’s stinking all over and his snout smeared with
mud and shit
he’s only a dirty pig
but the dirty pig body has clearly grown with the
pitying human eyes
Moon, Rain, Night, Summer, Frost, etc.
moonlight
soundless rain
at midnight
wetting
every tile
summer night
frost on the ground as usual
Untitled
so quiet under the moonlit shadow of trees
your face against my heart
the tall parasol trees embracing on the sky
and you, too, asleep in my arms
your neck rested on my naked arm
the moon-bud slipped inside dark leaves
your sweet and so
ft nipple in my mouth
as a breeze ruffled across the gurgling spring
i inhaling your greedy breath
two water lilies shivering in expectation
you motionless and me
each inside each
“Nightingales Have Stopped Singing, Too”
Nightingales have stopped singing, too
A soft, mellow light of gold is flowing all over you
I bury my thirsty mouth of long drought
Like a crucian carp to sip the cool
Green blades of grass are rustling beneath our buttocks
And mulberries have dyed the nest of birds purple
Your face flashes from behind the hill
As I drop into the pond of deepest blue
Untitled
The wind ferociously tears at the tree
Bending it to the ground
Like a decaying old man
Tossing its dense hair
Like dispersed hoary clouds
The hatred of the tree
at the roots
The wind gently whispers through the foliage
The trunk tremulous
Like a fingered harp
To the last thinnest twig
Like an electrified wire
The love of the tree
in the wind
Untitled
i take you
in my arms
as a mother
caressing her baby
a mature baby
the moonlight streaming
over the closed lids
in harmony
into the open heart valves
you, a sweet candy
soaked in my curved
glass
brimming with honey
liquid
dissolved into the moon
in transparency
Untitled
Rain, I stood on the street
A girl in creamy clinging clothes, a flowery umbrella
A curved breast vague on the glistening bitumen
To and fro, endless buses, what time
Whose face, so familiar, so strange—
The teenagers in each other’s arms, no decaying old men
Night, nowhere to go
The expectation of stars so soundless, so remote and
glimmering
Bright, brighter; nearer, then total darkness
Endless imaginings flashed up and died out, unconscious