Zheng Chouyu (Cheng Ch’ou-yü), pen name of Zheng Wentao, was born into a military family in He’nan Province and as a child traveled all over China with his father. He grew up in Xinzhu in northwestern Taiwan and graduated from National Zhongxing University with a B.A. in foreign languages and literatures. He received an M.F.A. from University of Iowa and for many years has been teaching Chinese at Yale University.
Zheng started writing poetry in the early 1950s. The lyricism of his work from the ’50s and early ’60s has made him one of the most widely read Chinese poets in Taiwan and China. Many of his poems from that period have been made into songs. After a hiatus of ten years, he resumed writing in 1975; to date he has published a dozen books of poetry.
Ever since I came to the mountains, my dear friend,
My days have turned around—
Going always from dusk to dawn.
Every night, I brush past the shoulders of dark boulders
To stand on the howling peak
And sing. Here alone but undaunted I can be high-sounding.
Displayed above is the poet’s family tree.
Oh, the blood relation of wisdom needs extension.
So I carve transparent names deeply in the whole sky
And sing. Here alone and undaunted I can be high-sounding.
(1952)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
I passed through the South of Yangzi
The face waiting at the turn of seasons, like a lotus flower,
blooms and wilts
Without the east wind, the willow catkins in March do not flutter
Your heart is like the lonesome little town
Like its streets of cobblestones near nightfall
When footfalls are silent and the bed curtains of March not unveiled
Your heart is a little window tightly shut
My clattering hooves are beautiful mistakes
I am not a homecoming man but a passing traveler….
(1954)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
The forest is at my feet and my cottage is still up there.
The fence having come in sight is hidden again at the turn of the path.
Someone should be waiting by the door,
Waiting for the new books I bring and the zither repaired.
But I bring only a jug of wine,
For the one waiting has already left.
Clouds on my path and on my clothes,
I’m in someone’s vague thought.
Up here I find neither birds’ song nor flowers’ smiling faces.
I’m in a cold dreamland….
The forest is at my feet, but my cottage is still up there.
The fence having come in sight is hidden again at the turn of the path.
(1954)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
Too high are the surrounding hills, making the clear sky
Look like a window painted blue …
We draw a curtain of clouds
To make shade and a fringe of rain
I used to love the chimes of bells
But now for your sake I worry about rain or shine in the little yard
Forget it
Who cares if our union in this life is rooted in eons of wisdom
Now that you and I have been destined to meet
Like two little fish in this watery lane
(1955)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
After three thousand years of wandering
He has at last taken off his wanderer’s shoes on the westernmost peak
And the gate is closed Intermittent knocking is heard on the animal-head ring
Who has returned standing on the front steps?
Who has returned, having trailed every star and holding his bowl?
Then an ancient hoary male voice is heard
Sounding from the jingle of the inverted bell
Now that he is back at the mountain gate he takes his time entering
He recalls the ferrying the drinking and the pecking
And turns around to look once more
At the world of six times seven
(Oh bells and drums the wondrous forty-two syllables of the magic tara)
The evening prayer of the first day begins in holding the incense
Letting the wooden fish swim forth from the lotus under the tongue
My soul
Is neither far nor near
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
Every night, the stars come to my tiled roof and draw water
I lie on my back at the bottom of the well. What a deep well!
Ever since there’s the skylight
I feel as if I could tear off the ice and snow covering my body
—I am the spring in the northern land that cannot be denied
All stars are pretty, taking up by turn the week’s seven nights
And what about the little blue star of the south?
The water from the fountain spring is already swaying within the four walls
And the jingling earthen jar is not yet drooping.
Oh, all stars are pretty
But there’s only one name that sounds in my dreams
A name as free and easy as running water …
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
STOPPING AT A MINOR STATION—A DEDICATION
Two trains meet at a minor station four hours past midnight
Many of the two rows of windows along the two trains face each other
By chance, someone draws the blinds, failing to see what place it is
This is a minor station….
Could there be two people sitting by windows facing each other
Ah, old mates from childhood long apart
Meet on the road both going toward dawn but in opposite directions
But this is a deep cold night at year’s end, blocked by wind and rain
Besides, like a traveler’s dreams, these are days of no surprises
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
Leaning askew is a row of languid books
In straggling heights a ladder for soul-searching
Sweetness flows down and gets contained in the last cup
Enticing the bee’s legs is the pale-yellow fake honey
Rainwater begins to erode the mural a scroll of
An overcast sky in worn-out glaze A stultifying
Empty bed is a spread of soft gray snuggling up to me
And I am merely a human exhibit
An exhibit for sale and not for sale
I am also a still life in the company of wood and wind
On dismal days I am an open book
With the title page already turned last night
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
The song of birds has knocked on my window, sounding like glazed inverted bells
All through the night raindrops have moistened the blue monk’s habit in my dream
Now hanging from the tall banana tree outside
Early morning, like a little girl on tiptoe, has come
To peep at the tonsure of my youth with a kind of regret
A touch cool to the skin, saying, “Oh, to go home now!”
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
The woodpecker pecks incessantly, like the footsteps of someone crossing a bridge
The whole afternoon the woodpecker pecks
While the hillock has already shifted its shadow to the other shore of the rivulet
We too have sat through the afternoon and walked
With sounds like footsteps across the bridge, traveling far
As far as the home of the setting sun—Oh, yes
We shall stay the night on the other side of the sky, where there are no stars
(1957)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
Drunken, I let the silent night flow in my body
And, plugging my ears, I let mystery echo in my body
The scent of flowers oozes from my skin
At this most beautiful moment I let myself be worshipped
And accept a sacrifice of flying streamers from a thousand families
The stars hang down in strings, making the wine overflow between my lips
The fog is still and cold like praying eyes
Numerous eyes casting their gaze across my hair
I wish to return, brushing the vegetation off my body
I have returned to being a range of green hills lying supine
(1959)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
The autumn territory is divided under the setting sun
At the border, yellow chrysanthemums stand in silence
And he has come from afar, drinking soberly
Outside the window is a foreign country
He longs to step out and in one stride attain homesickness
That beautiful longing, within the reach of a stretching arm
Perhaps it’d do no harm to get drunk
(He is an enthusiastic taxpayer)
Perhaps he should sing aloud
And do more than the chrysanthemums
Merely standing by the border.
(1965)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
I heard the temple bell again
And took it for the Galway left on the gramophone overnight
Dewdrops glided down the pine window
And split the spectrum of the morning sun into seven different whites
The last of which I’m drinking
The milk in the glass
But the nun who brought the milk left before dawn
And shut the door
(1984)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)
The red leaves become sparse … autumn rain comes seven days out of ten
But overnight the north wind brought
An invitation from snow
So I get busy with clothes against the chill, while my wife, afraid of winter, and
Our winter-loving children get their gear ready
For frolic in the snow. I fill the tank … and we set out northeast
To become guests
To be received by snow all over the sky, and all the way
To return greetings of welcoming smiles
Sparse woods and farmhouses stand in fresh postures, as if waiting
And not quite. Distant hills too
Have turned heaven and earth’s lasting marriage into a new affair
But I hesitate, when we arrive at the snowy plain that looks like my native place
There’s no path … nor do I have the heart to tread on the soft tender skin of new snow
How could I say “virgin beauty,” newfangled words, to describe age-old “love fright”?
Ah, children!
(1984)
(translated by Shiu-Pang Almberg)