(1964–1989)
Born as Zha Haisheng to a peasant family in rural Anhui, Hai Zi is one of the most mythologized Chinese poets today. He attended Peking University from 1979 to 1983, and then taught at China University of Political Science and Law. Committing himself totally to poetry, he composed over 250 short poems and a number of long poems within the brief span of seven years. On March 26, 1989, two days after his twenty-fifth birthday, Hai Zi threw himself in front of a train in Shanhaiguan, the eastern end of the Great Wall. Although his suicide, caused probably by schizophrenia, bore no direct relation to the tragic event on Tiananmen Square two months later, the younger generation regards it as a symbol of self-sacrifice in the pursuit of spiritual salvation. A copy of Thoreau’s Walden and a Bible were found in the sachet Hai Zi had carried on the day of his death.
the North
pulls at your hands
hands
pluck off gloves
they are two small lamps
my shoulders
are two old houses
that hold so much
they’ve even held the night
your hands
on top of them
illuminate them
because of this in the morning after our parting
in the light of dawn
I carry a bowl of porridge with both hands
thinking of the North
separated from me by mountains and rivers
two lamps
that I can only distantly stroke
—February 1985
Facing the Ocean, Spring Warms Flowers Open
starting from tomorrow, become a content person
feed the horses, split wood, roam the world
starting from tomorrow, I’ll concern myself with grains and vegetables
I have a home, facing the ocean, spring warms flowers open
starting from tomorrow, I’ll write letters to all the relatives
to tell them of my contentedness
what that content lightning flash told me
I will tell everyone
give a warm name to every river and every mountain
strangers, I send you my blessings
I hope for you a splendid future
I hope that you lovers become family
I hope that in this dusty world you become content
I only hope to face the ocean, as spring warms and flowers open
—January 13, 1989
spring, ten Hai Zis fully revive
on the brilliant landscape
mocking this savage and sorrowful Hai Zi
why your long, deep sleep?
spring, ten Hai Zis release their throaty roars
encircling you and me, dancing and singing
pulling at your black hair, riding you rushing wildly away, dust swirling
your pain at the cleaving spreads over the earth
in spring, only this savage and sorrowful Hai Zi
remains, the last one
child of the dark night, steeped in winter, losing his heart to death
unable to extract himself, in deep love with an empty, frigid village
where the grain is piled high, blocking the window
the six family members use half of it: mouths, eating, stomachs
half is for planting and reproduction
great winds blow from the east to the west, from north to south, with
no thought for the dark night or the dawn
in the end what will your daybreak mean?
—before dawn 3–4 o’clock, March 4, 1989
(Translated by Dan Murphy)