(1930–)
A native of Hong County, Sichuan Province, Shang Qin (Shang Ch’in, “Shang bird”), pen name of Luo Yan, also known as Luo Ma, was forced to serve in the Nationalist army in Chengdu in 1945. As a reluctant young soldier, he traveled all over southwestern China, and in 1950 he went to Taiwan with the army, from which he was honorably discharged in 1968 as a sergeant. From 1969 to 1971 he attended the International Writing Program at University of Iowa. Over the years he has held a number of jobs, ranging from clerk, gardener, and owner of a noodle eatery to editor for China Times Weekly. He retired in 1992 and now lives in suburban Taipei, spending most of his time reading, writing, studying Chinese color woodblock prints, and collecting antique ink stands and porcelain.
Shang Qin was first exposed to the works of Lu Xun and Bing Xin when he was locked up in a storage for attempting to run away from the army. He collected folk songs in Yunnan and Guizhou Provinces and started writing poetry. In 1955 he published his poems in the Modern Poetry Quarterly and joined the Modernist School shortly thereafter. He has also been closely associated with the Epoch Poetry Society. Shang Qin was the first poet in Taiwan to take a serious interest in surrealism, which had a profound influence on his prose poems in the 1950s and ’60s. To date he has published four books of poetry in Chinese; individual collections have also appeared in English, French, and Swedish translations (see the bibliography).
I walk behind others, snap up the splinters of air that have been cut by the men’s knife-edged trouser creases and the shavings of air that have been planed off by the women’s mouths, and try to sew them together; but I cannot cleanse the air that has been polluted by their hair.
Then the dog that follows me picks up my sighs and uses them as chewing gum, and the melancholy of the dog is carried away by the ants at the foot of the wall and used to build an anthill.
(published 1957)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
When I look out through the window in front of my desk I see a little concrete shed with a flat roof, situated about twenty-five meters from the window. It used to serve as a garage but now stands abandoned. Last winter someone, I don’t know who, leaned a bamboo ladder against the shed and the ladder was one third taller than the roof.
Outside the window grow a few stunted cherry trees. In winter I can see the water marks and the cracks in the walls of the little shed through the sparse branches of the trees, and that helps me to retain a certain sense of reality. But when winter passed and spring quickly took its place, the profuse blooming and untimely withering of the pale cherry blossoms never troubled me—and now without my being aware of it summer has arrived.
One afternoon I sit at my desk, utterly overcome with boredom. Holding on to the lower edge of the desk, I lean backward in my chair. At that moment a scene suddenly presents itself before my eyes. I can no longer see the little shed, with its stained and cracked walls, which is hidden behind the dense foliage of the cherry trees, but above the highest branches of the trees I see—oh, the bamboo ladder is still standing there, and that part of the ladder that sticks up above the roof of the shed stands there unsupported. Just now the sky is blue as the sea and at this very moment a white cloud slowly sails past the uppermost rung of the ladder. At the same time an idea takes shape in my brain and I say to myself: “What the devil! How could such a preposterous idea enter into my head?” While I sit there and reproach myself, my colleague, Mr. Chen, who has been standing behind me since I don’t know when, says:
“What’s the matter? Thinking of someone again, are you?”
“What the devil!” I say, pointing at the ladder and the cloud, “can’t you see?” At that very moment the ladder suddenly begins to move—someone is probably carrying it away.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Shouting like a madman and with complete disregard of the danger he jumps across my desk and out of the window and falls flat on the ground, all the while shouting madly: “Hold on! Hold on!” I can only lean my head on the desk and sigh.
(1957)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
A little boy pointed at a tree by the roadside and asked me: “What kind of tree is that?”
It was in the third month of the year and I replied: “A tree.”
The trunk and the branches of the tree were silver-gray and the green leaves were as tender as the little boy’s small hands. But my answer didn’t satisfy him; in a fit of anger he tossed his head and cried: “Tree? What kind of tree?” How could I answer him? It was in the third month of the year, you see, so I said: “You are too young, my little friend.—How old are you?”
“Six and a half,” said he.
“Good,” I said and patted his head, which was covered with long, fine hair. “I’ll tell you in six months’ time, when you are seven.”
Six months passed as if they had swum over a small pond. The maple trees revealed their goose-red webbed feet and let them dance in the wind. But the long-horned grasshoppers and the crickets had already robbed me of the boy’s friendship—he never returned to ask me what kind of tree it was.
One evening when twilight set in I picked up a scarlet leaf from under the tree and said to an old man who happened to pass by: “This is a maple leaf.”
The old man gave me a look typical of the grasslands in autumn and replied indignantly: “I know!” And then he joined the leaf piles whirling in the westerly wind and walked away with heavy steps.
(1957)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
One day when I had finished work and returned to my bedroom, I first pulled off one of my gloves and threw it on the bed. I then pulled out a cigarette from the packet and stuck it in my mouth. Just as I had lit the match and was preparing to inhale, I suddenly found myself staring through the black smoke curling above the flame at the rough and once-white glove, which had been colored red by red earth, black by black earth, and red-brown by a mixture of red and black earth.
At that moment, as it had left my hand, the glove was naturally quite empty and flat. The index finger was bent and formed an angle of thirty degrees, the little finger I couldn’t see, as it was squashed and hidden under the ring finger and the middle finger; it looked indeed as if the glove had lost one finger—oh, how it must suffer from feelings of loneliness and pain. I hurriedly shook my hand and extinguished the match, pulled off the other glove, and in great haste threw it beside the glove on the bed.
The other glove landed on its back with spread-out fingers, deprived of strength. The tips of the fingers pointed at the first glove, with which it formed a right angle, from a distance of about ten centimeters. To say that the gloves were resting wouldn’t do, since they were actually quivering. There they lay, a pair of rough and red-brown gloves that had once been white. What better symbol than these gloves of total hopelessness, utterly empty sadness and a human being who has reached the utmost degree of degradation? Not even a widow who dances a slow waltz with an overcoat.
(1957)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
1
2 An eight-or nine-year-old boy sits beside a pond about three meters broad, filled with water so dirty that it reminds you of a lens in a pair of sunglasses, and shouts at two water buffalos that are wallowing in the water: “Woo! Woo!” at the same time pulling with all his might the ropes that pierce their nostrils. One of the two buffalos gives him a look filled with disdain, while the other tosses its head, spurting out dirty water through its nostrils, and these are the only replies the boy gets.
A wind of the third degree blows over the grassland in the vicinity.
The little boy starts to beat the surface of the water with a slender bamboo rod and at the same time points toward the grassland, which is billowing in the wind. “Ah, my forebears, my ancestors, come up here and look! See how green the grass is, and how tender! But ah, the grasses are fleeing, trying to escape the God of Wind who is pursuing them! How tall the grass is! If it isn’t beaten down by the huge wheels of the God’s chariot, you won’t even have to lower your heads to graze it….”
But the two buffalos don’t even glance in his direction; they toss their heads sideways, stir up some mud from the bottom of the pond with their tails, and toss it in the air, as if waving their hands and saying: “Mind your own business!”
The little boy suddenly lets go of the bamboo rod and the ropes and runs quickly toward the wind; once he has reached the grassland he pulls up a handful of long grass, hurries back to the pond, puts the grass in his mouth, chews on it, and then tries to persuade them with his mildest voice: “Oh, my dearest, come here! This grass is so tender and so sweet!” Then he sniffs at the grass and says: “Oh, how fragrant! Come here! Come and eat! Oh, my darlings, how tender it is, and how sweet!” At the same time he pulls the ropes.
One of the buffalos, which seems to have smelled the fragrance of the grass, begins to get up, but the water, shining and black as asphalt, caresses the huge grayish-red belly of the buffalo with its warm and soft hands. Having turned its head and gazed at the boy and the grass in his hands, the buffalo suddenly rolls over on its side: the black water is forced to the sides of the pond and then rushes back and embraces the buffalos, as if they were newlyweds reunited after long separation; the water covers the backs of the buffalos and swells around their necks. But the little boy comes down flop beside the pond.
3 We all know that if the boy hadn’t lost his flute (ah, but we don’t know how he lost it!), he probably wouldn’t have had to go to all this trouble. He sits there by the side of the pond, now looking at the two buffalos that wallow in the dirty water, now looking at the grass that is about to flee from the grassland, crying bitterly until the sun with a smile goes down behind the mountains and in reverse order gives the chromatic lights back to the sky.
(1958)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
After the young prison guard noticed that at the monthly physical check-up all the height increases of the prisoners took place in the neck, he reported to the warden: “Sir, the windows are too high!” But the reply he received was: “No, they look up at Time.”
The kindhearted young guard didn’t know what Time looks like, nor its origin and whereabouts, so night after night he patrolled the zoo hesitantly and waited outside the giraffe pen.
(1959)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
—IN MEMORY OF THOSE DAYS WITH YA XIAN AT ZUOYING
This is perfect. If I must withdraw every hand gesture in my previous life under this cold weight, if I must repeat every word that I’ve spoken, every laugh, in this timeless space, just as I promise to—that I will withdraw every footprint I left in my previous life—but there’s no need. This is perfect.
This is great. No more “time.” No more words. Shadows are touchable water weeds. This path is no longer a path. Wild mustard green and burdock. This is already the roof ridge. “Between Indian strawberry and Aaron’s Beard.” Wonderful. Pushing aside the weight and coldness of the moonlight, I withdraw my footprints. Footprints return to themselves….
Tonight in the midst of existing without “time” and words I come to the tree-shaded path where we used to see each other off many times. (“Is my old friend coming tonight?”) Tonight is my old friend coming? I pace back and forth. When the Milky Way slants to the east, I vaguely sense time rising in my substanceless body: a newborn child proclaims by crying—the rooster has crowed. And I know only too well—that when it comes to those footprints, I have already overdrawn.
(1963)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
All of a sudden, I close my right fist tightly and pound it on my left palm. “Pow!” How empty the wilderness is! Yet in the morbid sky a flock of pigeons flies by: are they in couples or singles?
With my left hand I hold my loosening right fist, whose fingers slowly stretch yet, unable to go all the way, can only turn around and around in my palm. Ah, you innocent hands that have worked but are to keep on working, have killed but are to be killed in the end, how you resemble a pair of wounded birds. Yet in the dizzy sky a flock of pigeons flies by: are they in couples or singles?
Now I use my left hand to caress my trembling right hand gently, but the left hand trembles too, making it look even more like a woman pitying her wounded partner, a grief-stricken bird. So I use my right hand to caress my left hand gently … perhaps those flying in the sky are hawks.
In the anemic sky, not a single bird. Innocent hands tremble from leaning on each other, hands that have worked but are to keep on working, have killed but are to be killed in the end, let me raise you up high, how I wish to release you—like releasing a pair of healed birds—from my arms!
(1966)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
Each time I look through the slats in the louvre window I watch this little road, which runs alongside the river and which doesn’t as yet qualify for the name of street, until darkness falls and watch the dim light of the street lamp, which is lit I don’t know when, turn bright, and I keep on watching until the man walking his dog appears in the circle of light thrown by the lamp.
Each time I have to wait until the man has almost reached the lamppost before I can see the gray dog that trots behind him. The closer the man gets to the lamppost, the more closely the dog follows him. Once the man stands right beneath the lamp, the dog disappears. I imagine that for some reason or other it is raising its hind leg against the post; but once the man walks past the lamppost, the dog suddenly overtakes him. The dog gets farther and farther away until the man is beyond the boundaries of the lamplight.
A man who owns such a trusty and interesting dog is indeed to be envied.
One day I am struck by the thought that I would like to say hello to that man, and I leave my little wooden hut. On my way toward the lamppost I realize that I too have a trusty dog following behind me and that the dog suddenly overtakes me when I walk past the lamppost. It runs farther and farther away until it disappears outside the circle of light.
(1976)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
Ever since my colleague got married, I may be said to have taken over the little wooden hut that he had built himself on the bank of the river. But at practically the same time I took over a hutful of mosquitos.
Ever since I replaced the original louvre windows with screen windows, I have been deprived of the pleasure of observing how the shadow of myself that the lamp used to throw on the windows turned into a puppy.
In order to expel the hordes of small creatures from the first territory that I had ever owned, I immediately installed a screen door.
But doors have to be opened.
A number of uninvited guests eventually avail themselves of this opportunity to slip in. Even though I am particularly careful, a single mosquito may disturb my peace. But what disturbs me most of all is neither their humming and buzzing nor their bites.
It is rather that this heart of mine cannot tolerate the presence of others. Once I have a feeling that another living creature is present in the hut, I get restless; I can neither write nor read—I can’t even think. When in vain I have tried to kill them or drive them out with the aid of books and articles of clothing and they have disappeared, I can only sit there and wait until they reappear. When at long last I detect a mosquito crawling on the screen door, I think: “OK, if you want to get out I’ll oblige you!” But when I get to the door it has already fled into the dark recesses of the room.
Disgusting! The hatred in my heart is beginning to torment me.
At that moment a wily plan is beginning to take shape. I strip down to my underpants. As I am well aware that mosquitos aren’t particularly fond of light, I place the stool at a fair distance from the lamp, where there is still sufficient light for me to see clearly. Absolutely still, I murmur under my breath: “Hey, come and eat!” I think in my heart that a mosquito isn’t a human being who requires a great deal of pressing.
But I was wrong: mosquitos don’t understand human speech, it’s true, but nevertheless they are not so stuffy. If my exercise a while ago hadn’t made my skin smell of sweat, the mosquito certainly wouldn’t have accepted my invitation. I think someone once said: “An evil smell emanates from a man whose heart is full of hatred.”
And mosquitos are creatures attracted by foul smells.
In the end it arrives, silently and quietly, but not at the place where I want it to land. I notice a pain in the calf of my leg, feel how the skin throbs of its own accord, and am just about to move my leg around when the mosquito has flown away.
It’s enough to make me irritated. But the more irritated I become, the more I have to restrain myself. And I remind myself of the fact that mosquitos always attack those parts hidden from view. I therefore continuously shift the position of my legs on purpose, while at the same time I slightly wave my right hand, until the mosquito, deprived of an alternative choice, lands on my left upper arm, which I keep perfectly still.
“Good!” I don’t know whether it’s because the mosquito has heard my silent cry of triumph that it suddenly conceives of flying away. Even though it lands again on the same spot it still seems somewhat timid. All the time I exhort myself to show restraint and be patient and try as hard as I can to hold my breath. It seems as if the mosquito already has enough confidence in me to take a little stroll among the sparse downy hair on my upper arm. Of course I know that it is looking for a suitable spot to attack.
I have already started to feel a slight pain in the skin and I can see the spot where it has sunk its sharp snout. To begin with, the feelers on either side of its mouth are slightly curled against the skin and by then the sucking mouth has quite clearly penetrated still deeper, as only the feelers can now be seen above the skin.
This is a common mosquito of a kind that frequents human habitations, but it belongs to a species that breeds among the grass, not in stagnant, foul-smelling water. It’s rather large and quite unlike the tiny spotted mosquitoes you find up in the mountains. It may indeed be said to be very attractive, and the well-formed and smooth wings on its back are a dazzling gray.
It’s no exaggeration to say that the shape of the mosquito is attractive. Its belly is elongated without being emaciated, and it’s adorned with alternating black and white stripes. Most beautiful of all are the six long legs. Each leg, which is about twice as long as the body, is divided into three sections of different length and thickness. When the mosquito is standing up, the four front legs present a picture of a well-balanced composition; and furthermore the various degrees of inclination of the three sections of the legs, which fully accord with the laws of mechanics, give the viewer a sense of complete stability.
But what are most fantastic are the two hind legs. Look at them now, raised high in the air, a movement that is adjusted to the inclination of the body of the mosquito when the sucking mouth is penetrating deeper and deeper into the skin. The tail of the mosquito is now raised and the entire body forms an attractive angle of fifteen degrees against my skin. The two hind legs move continuously in a rhythmic fashion, probably as a result of the exertion involved in sucking blood.
In this way the belly of the mosquito, which originally was clearly marked by black and white stripes, is beginning to expand and assume an indeterminate color. What I actually observe are expansion of the stripes: those that originally were black turn reddish brown, and those that were white change to pink, and while this happens I continually restrain myself and endeavor to be patient.
That’s it! You have already sucked my blood into your belly.
This situation reminds me of the blood tests in the army. When the nurse pierced the skin in the crook of your arm with her needle, she would ask whether you felt any pain and you would at the same time watch the red blood rise in the syringe. The difference is that a blood test is an “event,” while the fact that a mosquito is sucking my blood into its belly under no circumstance can be considered an “event.” I am sure that you don’t get this. What I vaguely perceive is that this is an exchange of life. The pity is that this exalted perception is so transient. When the stripes on the mosquito’s belly have disappeared entirely and have been replaced by a reddish brown color and I am struck by the deep sensation that the mosquito has become intoxicated by my blood, I can almost hear myself cackle viciously, deep inside.
The mosquito is actually drunk, it has become intoxicated on human blood.
The swelling belly of the mosquito isn’t only reddish brown, it also shimmers in the glare of the lamp. The mosquito is indeed drunk. Its two hind legs, which are raised in the air, not only have ceased to move but seem to have lost their power and droop feebly. But the mosquito has no intention of leaving after having eaten its fill. It is really drunk. Excellent!
In this situation a member of the human species who is several tens of millions times larger than a mosquito naturally doesn’t need to resort to strong measures. I slowly raise my right hand, put out the index finger, and press it lightly against the body of the mosquito. When I rest my finger on the mosquito I can feel the resilient belly, and I can even measure the temperature of my blood inside it.
When I remove my finger, the mosquito has ceased moving. Its sucking mouth is still buried deep in my skin. The rascal is far too greedy and self-indulgent. What I cannot fully understand is if it is because I don’t want to soil my hands with blood that I don’t apply enough pressure to make its belly burst, or whether it is because I fear to see that the blood of the mosquito is in fact my own, or whether it is for some other reason.
In any case the mosquito isn’t dead yet, it has merely fainted.
Pinching it between my thumb and my index finger, I lift up the mosquito and place it on the palm of my left hand.
I am rather sorry for the mosquito for having fallen into my trap.
Perhaps I ought to set it free, if it could be revived?
I begin to suffer from remorse. I have fed a mosquito with human blood, infected by hatred. Will that hatred be propagated if the mosquito should suck the blood of another human being? If this mosquito should breed a new generation of mosquitos, would they be driven by hatred to suck the blood of humanity? Of course, all this is baseless speculation. The most rational explanation is that even though my heart for a moment was filled with hatred, this hatred would probably be dissolved when the blood was sucked into another existence.
But in the end I refuse to set the mosquito free. I quickly make a paper ball and imprison the mosquito in it. In all seriousness, even if hatred can be transmitted, there is no reason to believe that humankind would be lacking in that feeling. And as to heredity, mosquitos will continue to suck blood, even though they are not motivated by hatred.
What really worries me is that the awareness of sorrow, which is a uniquely human characteristic, may be transmitted to the insects.
(1982)
(translated by N.G.D. Malmqvist)
Tonight the streetlights where I live went out at midnight as usual.
While I looked for my key the kind-hearted taxi driver aimed his headlights at me as he backed up. The ruthless glare projected the inky silhouette of a middle-aged man onto the iron gate. It was only after I had found the right key on the chain and inserted it straight into my heart that the good fellow drove off.
Then I turned the key in my heart with a click, pulled out the delicate piece of metal, pushed the gate open, and strode in. Soon I got used to the darkness inside.
(1987)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
—IN MOURNING OF SOMEONE
An eyewitness recounts: “At the beginning I was simply stunned by what he was doing, when I saw him walking above the tips of silvergrass swaying in the breeze, wondering if he wasn’t indeed Bodhidharma! He raised his cane high, shoved both of his arms outward and hard, as if he were roaring; maybe he thought he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Though the stream was shallow, there were caverns left by illegal excavations. But I didn’t hear any sound of water; it was early morning on the sixteenth day of the month, the moon was especially full, the sky was very blue, so there was no reason why he could not reach the other shore.”
Neither his clothes nor even his shoes were wet. According to the autopsy report, he was drowned by moonlight.
(1987)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH THE WALL
Ever since she left, this cat has been coming in and out of my place as she pleases; doors, windows, even walls can’t stop her.
When she was with me, our life made the sparrows outside the iron gate and windows envious. She took care of me in every way, including bringing me with her hands the crescent moon on nights when there was a power outage, and emitting cool air by standing next to me on humid summer nights.
I made the mistake of discussing happiness with her. That day, contrary to my usual reticence, I said: “Happiness is the half that people don’t have.” The next morning, she left without saying good-bye.
She’s not the kind of woman who would write a note with lipstick on the vanity mirror. She didn’t use a pen either. All she did was inscribe these words on the wallpaper with her long sharp fingernails: “From now on, I will be your happiness, and you mine.”
Since this cat started coming in and out of my place as she pleases, I have never really seen her, for she always comes at midnight, leaves at daybreak.
(1987)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
I fold a letter from the back, it’s whiter on this side, a good thing that man doesn’t like to write on both sides. I fold it and fold it again, then fold it diagonally into a cone, then cut it with a small pair of scissors, cut it and poke it, then
I’ve always thought snow is made this way: I open the cut-out letter, it’s a good thing that man’s handwriting is so light that it doesn’t show through, white, spread out, a six-petaled snowflake lies on a yellow palm of hand.
Yet in the sky three thousand kilometers above or even higher, a group of angels are at their wits’ end when they are faced with the littering bodies on a big square below, and as the temperature suddenly drops below zero, their arguments and sighs gradually crystallize and fall one by one.
(1990)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
Sunday, I sit on an iron bench with a missing leg in a quiet corner of the park to enjoy the lunch I bought at a fast-food place. As I chew, all of a sudden it occurs to me that I have not heard a rooster crow in a few decades.
With the bones I try to put together a bird that can summon the sun. I can’t find the vocal cords, because they no longer need to crow. Their work is incessant eating and they produce themselves.
Under the artificial sunlight
there is neither dream
nor dawn
(1993)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
The alarm bell sounds, the train is coming. My daughter in my arms pushes me away and turns her head around. The rumbling sound covers up the ringing of the bell, whose red eyes keep on blinking. This is how the gaze in my daughter’s eyes is carried away by the train. She doesn’t even know what distance means.
At the same time my gaze is frozen too, because this city is suddenly cut up: the breathing, the air, the clamor, the wailing—all cut into two halves until the security rail rises. And the other half of my nostalgia for this city lives on.
(1997)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)