Xiong Hong (Hsiung Hung) is the pen name of Hu Meizi, who was born in Taidong in southeastern Taiwan. A precocious child, she began writing at the age of fifteen; much of her early work appeared in the Blue Star Poetry Journal and won her the accolade—coined by Yu Guangzhong in 1957—of “the Muse’s favorite daughter.” She has published three poetry collections since 1968.
A Buddhist all her life, Hsiung Hung has led a deeply religious life and has written many Buddhist gathas or paeans since the 1980s. The mother of two, she has also written children’s poems. With a B.A. in art from National Taiwan Normal University and an M.A. from Chinese Culture University, she works as a designer.
so, life leads to a road where there’s nothing to wait for
lined on both sides with marvelous architecture
enormous towers with staring compound eyes often filled with songs of joy
and small melancholy rotundas
so, sinking to the bottom of the jade cup quivering with shock
are two eye-catching rubies in the necklace of time past:
March and July
if the fortress stacked with dreams caught fire
I would stand there blankly in the rain
watching somebody
beside herself thinking of
somebody else
(1960s)
(translated by Simon Patton)
the dusk: eyes that have wept
watching me, all feeling in flames
and ultimately, that which is visible
and that which is not—
the flames of the five thousand colors go out as one
(you could not bear my trust)
in darkness, the forest trail; in darkness, the wide bridge
while the demon hand that conducts fate is already arranging
(the minute hand chases the hour hand, sure to overtake it)
is already arranging—
in darkest night an even darker death at a quarter past seven
with a shock I realize that the dark moment is over
what is done can’t be undone
even if you look to the west, regretfully
(1960s)
(translated by Simon Patton)
you stand beneath colored lanterns on the other side
the orchestra hushed, I long to wade across this circular pond
across this sheet of blue glass painted with water lilies
me, the lone soprano
me, alone, the sculptor’s hand
sculpting an immortal sadness
a sadness that lives forever inside a smile
the orchestra hushed, globe of the world spinning only east or west
I pray for the point where today and tomorrow meet
on the glossy paper of eternity
but the glow of the lanterns hasn’t moved, stepping your way
I’m already on my way to you
the orchestra hushed
and me, the lone soprano
(1960s)
(translated by Simon Patton)
it brings you no sadness, porcelain water jar
there on the table as in ancient times, or by a limpid spring
you feel no sadness, drinking the sweet coldness it holds
in a deep forest, translucency about to drip from a million leaves
you wander by, trapping the pure liquid in your jar
one by one poems take shape
pouring forth at any time, the music never stops beating its wings
I am a single white feather in its midst
expectation is arranged on my table, as if it were ashore
you wade through heavy leaden time to
make off with this jar
(1960s)
(translated by Simon Patton)
I suddenly think of you:
not the you in the aftermath of disaster
or when all the flowers were gone
why—if they have a direction—do
the tides of humanity run toward separation?
and why doesn’t time’s flowing light lead to you
when a million lamps go out?
that childish first day, like the blade of some stunted grass
then a verdant plain, falling barren
all the grass and trees scorched by your million burning seconds of passion
I should have only sculpted your likeness in glass perhaps
never in concentrated thought
you should have told me long ago perhaps
that there were no temples, no images of the gods anywhere
I suddenly think of you, but not the you of this moment
no more radiant starlight, no more brocade splendor
not in the most beautiful dream, nor in the most dreamlike beauty
a sudden thought
but so faint now the sadness
like ripples left
in the wake of a faraway boat …
(1960s)
(translated by Simon Patton)
bright yellow rape flowers
sway beyond the screen
sunlight
a small child on a bicycle
has no idea of the joy of living
except after grave
illness
(1975)
(translated by Simon Patton)