(1956–1993)
The son of a noted writer and party member, Gu Cheng began writing poetry in his teens. Often associated with Bei Dao and other Misty Poets, Gu was known for his work’s radiant innocence with a touch of melancholia. He was always seen wearing a stovepipe hat, cut from a leg of blue jeans, supposedly an amulet to dispel evil spirits and safeguard the dreams in his head. He searched for a simple, utopian life in poetry and reality, until his tragic death, some say a murder-suicide, on a small island in New Zealand in 1993. His two-line poem, “A Generation,” with its imagistic brevity and ironic twist, defines the dreams and disillusionment of more than one generation in post-Mao China, and has become a rallying cry of rebellion against ideological orthodoxy and political repression.
the black night gave me black eyes
still I use them to seek the light
—April 1979
On the way back from mowing, in drizzling rain, I saw wet little flowers.
Wildflowers,
stellar spots,
like lost buttons
litter the roadside.
They lack the chrysanthemum’s
golden locks,
don’t have the peony’s
tender looks;
they have only small flowers,
and frail leaves,
wafting faint fragrance
into the gorgeous spring.
My poems,
like nameless flowers,
follow the seasons’ winds and rains,
quietly opening
in the lonely world of men.
—June 1971
In Chongqing’s Shapingba Park, facing distant Geleshan Martyrs Cemetery, among weeds and scattered trees, is a Red Guard cemetery. Following no footprints, my poem and I happened upon it. What more can we say. . . .
1 A Faded Path Has Brought Me Among You
a faded path
has brought me
among you
like a stray ray of sunlight
standing with the tall grass
and short trees
I don’t speak for history
or that voice from on high
I come
only because of my age
staggered you
sank into the earth
crying tears of joy
clutching imaginary guns
in clean fingers
that had known only textbooks
and heroes’ stories
maybe out of some
common custom
on the last page of each book
you drew yourselves
no longer depicted
in the pages of my heart
it has turned against the tide
now wet with leaf-tip blue dew
when I open it
I can’t use a pen
can’t use a brush
I can only use my life’s
softest breaths
to paint some
image worthy of conjecture
2 Geleshan’s Clouds Are Cold
Geleshan’s clouds
are cold
as bloodless hands
reaching for the cemetery
amid fire and molten lead
silent parents
with the same hands
caress their dear children
the slogans they left you
never forgot
maybe they were just what
called death down upon you
you poured a shared belief
into your final breaths
you are not far apart
on one side are fresh flowers
lively Sundays
Young Pioneers
on the other side, beggar-ticks
ants and lizards
you were so young
your hair was jet-black
death’s night
has eternalized your purity
I wish
I were a Young Pioneer
a fresh hanging fruit
and I wish I were you
a newlywed photo
forever frozen
in a happy moment
but I go on living
in gravity-bound thought
like a rowboat
slowly approaching
the dusk riverbank
3 I Have No Brother, But I Believe . . .
I have no brother
but I believe you were
my brother
in the whirs of cicadas
on top of a sandpile
you gave me
a clay tank
a paper airplane
you taught me
to join words in clever ways
you were a giant
though just in sixth grade
I have a sister
but I believe you were
my sister
in the pale green morning
you’d slightly turn
then jump so high
those rubber band chains
that shot you toward the sky
were stretched too tight
I had shortened them some
to bind up my socks
and he?
who was he
who tore off the reed sparrow’s
gold-button wings
sprinkling the ground with blood
who wrapped the antennae of the long-horned beetle
in gauze and flame
made it unsteadily
climb onto the sill
for its pulp-gulping crime
who was he?
I don’t know
4 You Lived Among Tall Mountains
you lived among tall mountains
lived among walls
every day walking the requisite path
never having seen the ocean
not knowing love
knowing no other land
knowing only that somewhere
in some mute fog
an “evil” floated
thus, down the center of every desk
a battle line was drawn in chalk
you were leaving
laughing
to hide strange flashing feelings
as if to hide the glow of the moon
behind silhouettes of trees
in the statutes you found
only callousness and hatred
as spectacular as fireworks
so, one morning
you polished up your belt buckles
with rough leaves
and left
everyone knows
it was the sun
that led you off
riding on marching songs
to look for paradise
until, halfway along
you got tired
tripped into a bed whose headboard
was studded with bullet holes and stars
you seemed to have played in a game
that could start all over
5 Don’t Question the Sun
don’t question the sun
it can’t be responsible for yesterday
yesterday belonged to
another star
that has burnt away
in terrible yearning
these days in the temples
there are only potted plants
and airs of silence
as solemn
as white icebergs
sailing warm currents
when did the bazaar
and the rebuilt merry-go-round
start to turn again
carrying the dancing and
silent youths
toothless children
the elderly
maybe there must always be
lives doomed to be
shed by the world
like the feathers dropped daily
in the camps of white-breasted geese
tangerine, pale green
sweet and bitter
lights come on
in the humid twilight
time has a new lease on life
I’m going home
to rewrite my life
and I haven’t forgotten
to carefully circle the tombs
the empty eggshell moon
will wait here
for the fledglings to return
6 Yes, I Too Am Going
yes, I too am going
to another world
stepping over your hands
despite the fallen leaves
and a thin film of snow
I keep on walking
huge rocks beside me, dark woods
and an exquisite
gingerbread town
I go to love
to seek out kindred spirits
because of my age
I believe
you are lucky
that the earth doesn’t flow
those proud smiles
cannot float up through the red
clay and disperse
November’s drizzle
as it seeps down to you
will filter out
life’s doubts
eternal dreams
are purer than life
I have left the cemetery
leaving only the night and
the blind canes still groping
your headstone inscriptions
groping
your entire lives
farther, and farther, cemetery
may you rest in peace
may that faded path
by some pale green spring
be quietly erased
—January 1980
—I want to draw windows all over the land, let eyes used to darkness get used to the light.
maybe
I’m a child who’s been spoiled by his mother
I am willful
I wish
every moment
were colorful as crayons
I wish
I could draw on dear paper
awkward freedom
draw an eye
that would never cry
a sky
feathers and leaves that belong to the sky
pale green evening and apples
I want to draw morning
draw dew
all the smiles in sight
I want to draw all the youngest
unsuffering loves
draw my imaginary
lover
she has never seen storm clouds
her eyes are the color of the clear sky
she’s always watching me
always, watching
will never turn away
I want to draw distant landscapes
draw a clear horizon and waves
draw scores of happy streams
draw hills
sprouting pale down
I’ll bunch them together
let them love each other
let them acquiesce
let every subtle tremor of spring
be the birth of a tiny flower
and I want to draw the future
I’ve never seen her, and cannot
but know she is beautiful
I’ll draw her fall windbreaker
draw flaming candles and maple leaves
draw the many hearts snuffed out
for love of her
draw marriage
draw one after another early-rising holidays—
stick candy wrappers at the top
and pictures from storybooks
I’m a willful child
I want to erase all unhappiness
I want to draw windows
all over the land
let eyes used to darkness
get used to the light
I want to draw the wind
draw mountain ranges each higher than the last
draw the Eastern peoples’ yearning
draw the ocean—
an endlessly happy sound
finally, in the paper’s corner
I want to draw myself
draw a koala
deep in a Victoria forest
sitting on a calm branch
slow
with no home
no faraway heart
just so many
berrylike dreams
and great big eyes
I am wishing
wanting
but don’t know why
I have no crayons
haven’t had one colorful moment
I have only I
my fingers and the pain of creating
just these tattered sheets
of dear paper
let them go look for butterflies
let them from this day on
be gone
I am a child
spoiled by an imaginary mother
I am willful
—March 1981
(Translated by Aaron Crippen)