Born in Tainan in southwestern Taiwan, Yang Chichang (Yang Ch’ih-ch’ang) graduated from the middle school in 1929 and studied in Japan from 1930 to 1933, upon his father’s death. For most of his life he worked as a journalist in his home country.
Yang published his first poem in a school magazine in Taiwan in 1928. While a student of Japanese literature in Japan, he befriended Neo-Perceptionist writers, joined several poetry societies, and published two books of poetry in Japanese in 1931 and 1932, respectively. Of the many pen names under which he wrote, Shuiyinping was the most frequently used and best known.
In 1935 Yang founded Le Moulin Poetry Society with Li Zhangrui, Lin Yongxiu, Zhang Liangdian, and three Japanese poets. The name Le Moulin (“Windmill”) was inspired partly by the French theater and partly by the common sight of windmills in Tainan. They published a poetry journal under the same name, which folded after four issues. Le Moulin advocated surrealism in contrast to the mainstream of realism at the time and was criticized for this reason.
In 1979 Yang published a book of collected poems, Burning Cheeks, which was translated from Japanese to Chinese by the poet Huan Fu in 1989 and by Ye Di in 1995. In addition to poetry, Yang published fiction, literary criticism (on Chinese, Japanese, and Western literature), and essays.
The air in the room is as deep as the bottom of a well
Her long gown rolled up to her panties
Misato caresses her curvaceous leg with a white hand
The pipe’s sound, jazz, the smell of sweaty armpits, and….
Awakening from a dream, I see a note: “Bye-bye” signed “M”
Rose-colored rouge, a lipstick in its case
Consciousness, defeated, flows somberly by
(1934)
(translated by John Balcom)
Duanduan, a young nun, opens the window.
The boundless night is growing steadily. Duanduan stretches out her white arms and folds them tightly to her bosom. In the fearful nighttime air, the Buddha on the altar smiles solemnly. Duanduan awakens and grows excited. Quiet shadows; the lamps burn all night long.
Frightened by the order of the night, Duanduan walks down the illusory path of sex. Why aren’t my breasts as lovely as those of other young women? Why do my eyes reflect only a forgotten color….
A red glass lamp continues burning. A greenish bronze clock disturbs a cold heart. The main hall of the convent is as cold as a parking lot.
In the reddish shadows, the idol moves.
The sword of Weituo, the temple guardian, flashes. The eighteenth Arhat sits astride a fantastic tiger. Duanduan puts her palms together, feels faint, and swoons.
At the tolling of the bell at dawn, Duanduan gets up. The incense emits fragrance. Sitting upright and looking straight ahead, Duanduan weeps. The sutras are chanted.
—O, Mother, Mother
Duanduan offers her virginity to the gods.
(1934)
(translated by John Balcom)
In the flax-colored sunset
The gloves of the falling leaves dance
On my chest my cheeks
The wind warms itself in my pocket
The autumn mist
Sheaths the streetlights in soft petals
Together hate and regret
Flicker in a smile
Cheeks burn with loneliness
The patterned groundcover the name of which I’ve forgotten
Listens closely to the echo in a shell
A sand dune close by
Pities its own desolation
(1935)
(translated by John Balcom)
A gray tranquility beats in the breath of Spring
Roses shed their petals in a rose garden
Under the window, a young girl’s love,
quartz, and a specimen of the heart’s
Melancholy
I play an organ as blue tears fall from my eyes
The beret’s pitiful wound
The cicadas cry in the garden
A young girl lifts her veined hands at sunset
An old-fashioned corpse hangs in the wood behind the sanatorium
The butterfly embroidered in the folds of her blue skirt is flying …
(1935)
(translated by John Balcom)
On the liquid emerald of the sea
The sounds of the gulls’ wings carry poetry
And fly to the window of my heart
But the green venetian blinds will never open again
Words are embroidered in the corner of a handkerchief
Crabs climb round the edge of my memory
In a rowboat’s wake on the sea
Autumn colors the bored sky
I cast my hook and line in the afternoon
Catching futile time
(1935)
(translated by John Balcom)
Following a flock of sheep into a hawk-colored basin
Playing my flute
In the distance I hear the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves
An open two-wheeled cart goes by
Headed for Parnassus, or so its white plaque says
An offering to Pan an ancient amphitheater
The antique music is a dissonant leisure land
On the street of countless flower poems and
Shining oats, eating grapes, I step over
The idle tools of a forsaken garden, tracking
The farmer’s footprints
(1936)
(translated by John Balcom)
In the antique sky
Moonless memories lie buried in snow-white flowers
In the seasonal wind
My poems melt one by one
Crickets cry everywhere beneath the window
Pale is the wounded soul’s look
An organ plays at dusk
Scattering my poems on the wind leaving no trace
Butterflies drift
In the music of
Sickly leaves
Fluttering with fear of the whites of a suicide’s eyes
I am infected by the scenery
(1936)
(translated by John Balcom)
RUINED CITY: TAINAN QUI DORT
1. Dawn
For white terror
Crimson lips emit a blood-curdling scream
Early in the morning, the wind grows still, playing dead
My feverish body is covered with bloody wounds
2. An Attitude Toward Life
The sun breathes into the branch tips of the trees
At night the flying moon indulges itself without sleeping
A thought slides from my body and spirit
Crosses the Strait, challenging the sky, and on a pale
Night wind flies toward
The gravestone of youth
3. Ritual Song
Ritual instruments
The sketch of many stars plus the song of dancing flowers
Gray brain matter dreaming of a no-man’s land of dementia
Soaking wet in a ray of light like a rainbow
4. Ruined City
People who sign their names on the defeated surface of the earth
Blow whistles, hollow shells
Sing of ancient history, land, home, and
Trees, they all love aromatic meditations
O, dusk when autumn butterflies fly!
For a prostitute singing a barcarolle
The lament of home is pale
(1936)
(translated by John Balcom)
No matter how my heart aches
I’ll never sing a song of love again
Even though it’s been three years and ten
But still my song turns to love
Even as my youthful cheeks do fade
And wrinkles about my eyes have lately strayed
The wind blows
Distant roses shed faint odors through the air
As spring’s footsteps nearer draw
The warmth in the land grows …
Butterflies skim the air languidly
All the cicadas go chirr-chirr
The gravestone—well, that is history!
(1938)
(translated by John Balcom)
Flowers and flowers
Rain down without pity
Fearfully anxious, hypocritical eyes
A woman dead among the petals!
The landscape murders expression and a pure thought
Becomes high-priced consumption
In the prism of a flower
A pale-skinned aesthetic
Leads to a brilliant tragedy
O, the sea!
O, flowers drifting on the sea!
Dancing wildly
In the spindrift at the site of an ancient city
Wet is the flower’s spirit, a song on boorish lips
Spurting blood
Fruit of the Holy Spirit born of desolation
Celebrated by the fossil of solemn misfortune …
O, the flowers amassed
All forgotten, they rot
(1939)
(translated by John Balcom)