Wang Ching-hsien, who writes as Yang Mu, was born in Hualien on the east coast of Taiwan. After receiving a B.A. in English from the Christian Tung-hai University and completing mandatory military service, he earned an M.F.A. from University of Iowa in 1966. He went on to study comparative literature with the late Shih-hsiang Ch’en at University of California, Berkeley, from which he received a Ph.D. in 1970. He is a professor of comparative literature at University of Washington, Seattle. Since 1996 he has also served as Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences at National Dong Hwa University in his hometown.
Yang Mu started writing poetry while in high school and published his first book of poetry, By the Water’s Edge, in 1960. Under the pen name Ye Shan, he was first known in the 1950s and 1960s for his sensuous, classically flavored poetry, although he was equally interested in symbolism and high modernism. The adoption in 1972 of the name Yang Mu signaled a new direction in his poetry, toward bolder artistic experimentation on one hand and critical reflections on history, philosophy, and social reality on the other. Yang Mu is a leading essayist, a prolific editor, and a highly respected literary scholar who publishes in both Chinese and English. To date he has published twelve books of original poetry in Chinese and two volumes of poems in English translation (see the bibliography).
None. At the harbor I measure my paleness
with a compass
On the road home dead birds
with wide-open, laughing eyes
A rifleman wipes sweat from his brow in the teahouse
watches the scenery …
For the ninth time we talk about the clouds
but the dim-witted girl is always beautiful—
even though the slab’s green moss is crushed
and chimneys are reckoned
she still loves to laugh, she’s still so beautiful
For the hundred and seventh time we talk about the clouds
Yes, she still loves to laugh, she’s still beautiful
there are still dead birds on the road
the rifleman still wipes sweat from his brow in the teahouse
watches the scenery …
(1958)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
Walk with me into cicadas humming, into fretfulness
Count horses on the entablature
dust-kicking chestnut horses
Calculate age by the river’s edge
Sleeper, your hands are pythons
He walks, a shifting shadow, slowly rises
through the palace
to where I sit cross-legged
leaving that empty space to me
yesterday’s me
The spot where you drew water from the river
I turn to stare
A blue gourd floats
so do the traveler’s lips
Give me ashes, loneliness in clamor
A rosary from the future moon and stars
Counting the beads, you put out the light I sought
North-northwest, beautiful fire watcher
coming from the forest, do you hear stars howling in the east?
The moon to the right, we cross the river at high speed
(1959)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
No flaming pomegranate in May, spring passes quietly
Setting a ribbon afloat, a hyacinth sits on the slope
Darkness falls around me, mountain wind leaves little behind
but a corner of dusky sky, its lacy clouds, and willow catkins
I lean against a felled tree
whose rustling flows endlessly on
I won’t sing anymore, my dear
Spring has turned me into a young girl in a red dress
chasing the bright butterfly of a chiming bell
In sadness I lie down, become a new grave
listen to the vibrating bell from the other side of the river
Spring passes, quietly taking me away
(1962)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
1 In the midnight cornfield
my head on the river’s dam, I dream
of spring partridges
taking flight from the bank
like clouds emerging from hills. Twilight
a wine shop’s fading banners trail—
sadness from the chimney of a paper mill
reflected in the brass-stand mirror
“My eyes are dim, love is like
a napalm bomb” burning away
your arms, your shoes, your book of fairy tales
In the midnight cornfield
you lay your head languidly
on the chilly river’s dam, always thinking
of a city where golden apple trees have died, our city
On a snow-drifting, wine-sipping winter night
someone knits a pair of wool socks for you
and wipes coffee stains from the candle stand
the gesture of an aged hand
a farewell song
your dagger, your dagger
your water bag, your water bag
2 Or on the streets after the shops have closed
on the revolving city walls
a bell is ringing
On a distant island, the bell rings
while you sit reading a letter
and listen to the motor’s sound
Well water
churns your shadow
and breaks subterranean stars and clouds
“My eyes are dim, flowers fall
on my night-dreaming bed, my eyes …”
Many spring lamps
many banished rainy nights
thinking about Dryden’s All for Love
on the bookshelf by the window
footprints in the yard, the corner of a shirt, brass bells
He is a wild goose of no return, dust of no return
that flaps up and falls
a window that opens and closes
(1965)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
First, the wall’s particular mood
maturing behind warp and woof of satin and paper
like a crop anticipating autumn
an allusion reaches from the painting on the screen
transmitted through a teapot
snagging with a smile
knocking over landscapes and butterflies
in swift vehicles and
sojourns at inns. Forlorn
guilty, packing, a familiar tune
Don’t know the mood when the sun sets and dew falls
I paint my eyebrows
while you head for the wine shop
(1967)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
Still the sound of reed catkins
grinds with ripping
force over a cup of remaining wine, streets aslant
This return did not meet the winter month of drifting wind and snow
Where the bell chimes, a flock of crows arrives
to ask about an untimely death at the Buddhist monastery. Yes
in my memory you are a collapsed stone Buddha
You still smile, but brambles grow like enticing potted plants
behind your ears, under your arms. You were muddiness on the South Mountain
born of chance kneading, even returning to green moss now
you have enjoyed centuries of fragrant incense, the midnight wooden fish
Monastic scandals constantly brought to your sight
You are no god—
They say I committed murders for you
must’ve been before I went over the pass
and now I’ve forgotten … or only vaguely recall
When I escaped, floating clouds saw me off to the mountain’s joining
When I left, he still sat on the peak with flustered faces….
His dejection at departure was caused by drunken sickness and autumn melancholy
and at that time you just stood coyly in the sound of bells and drums
gazing down at a few praying men and women
waiting for me to return, dig wells, grow vegetables for those greedy monks
(1969)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
1 Poisonous scorpion fluids and thorny
shadows cover my complexion when tides fall
To the east of the broken bridge, black hair spreads out
Dressed as a tired homecoming man
I pull the oars
and row into what seems an unfamiliar bay
A torn map of the constellations in my pocket
a howling wind
Through the dense foliage I see
my enemy sipping tea after food and wine
2 This orange-scented village deserves to be
burned down … a ribbon of smoke surrounds the ancient well
until frogs croak loudly
We wake up on ashes
birds vanish into the clouds
It is quiet all around
My eroding bones are in an awkward state of phosphorus deficiency
Before and after rain I get
melancholy and homesick. At moments like this
a firefly always flits up from the old mansion’s ruined garden
nimbly, shyly
It must be my enemy’s
only daughter, my wife whom I killed by mistake
3 The story has no ending
Cymbals strike on All Souls’ Day
peach trees grow as usual
When sharpening a knife makes me sweat
the hillside turns pale, the river ripples as the boat sinks
the wine sours at the bottom of the jug, tears reflect
a flock of migratory birds in the fresh, familiar frost
My mourners are scattered in foreign lands;
some become blacksmiths, some peddle medicinal herbs.
(1969)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
ETUDES: THE TWELVE EARTHLY BRANCHES
1. Rat
Prostrate, we wait
for midnight—shapeless midnight
except for a bell chime
coming like childhood
from three streets away
Turn and pay homage to long-absent Aries
Kneeling like a field sentry in the dark
I advance northward
Louisa, please face the Earth God
worship him the way I worship your sturdy shoulders
2. Ox
NNE ¾ E Louisa
fourth watch, chirping insects occupy the peninsula I just left
Like Aldebaran, I search the wide-open
valley, a bamboo grove on the other side
Hunger burns on combat lines
Fourth watch, the intermittent lights of vehicles
quietly flash
across your raised thighs
3. Tiger
Gemini daybreak. Listen
to the earth’s raging tears
Listen, my crawling comrades
unclean melons
Listen, east northeast and north
exploding spring, incendiary shells, machine guns
helicopters chopping up the morning fog. Listen
Louisa, what does the Persian rug say to you?
What does the Asian mud say to me?
4. Hare
Please face east when the Crab
shows an array of autumn hues with its many-legged obscenity
Versatile
My metamorphosis, Louisa, is incredible
Patterns of wilderness embroidered on my clothes
swallow baby girls like nightfall
I slaughter, vomit, sob, sleep
Versatile
Please repent with me toward the east
toward the hares of next spring
running and leaping over streams and death’s bedding
Please testify with all the pleasures of your senses
Versatile
5. Dragon
Lion in the west (ESE ¾ S)
Dragon is the occasional East in legends. Now
we can only define a constellation of ecstatic groans
with complete nakedness
East southeast south, Louisa
you who bleed profusely
and suffer so much
are my most allusive bitterest
secondary star
in the constellation of the Leech
that I define
6. Snake
Or leave me with your dew-drenched morning flowers
7. Horse
Louisa, the wind’s horse
gallops along the shore
Provision was once a rotten shell
I am a nameless water beast
lying on my back all year long. Libra at noon
in the western hemisphere, if I am overseas …
in bed, cotton sways on the brimful plain
Libra hangs over the corpse-floating river of lost dignity
I hold the distorted landscape
with my groin. A new star rises from the south
Can my hair and beard be heavier than a shell, Louisa?
I love your smell as you kneel toward the south
like a sunflower moving with time
longing for an unusual curve, oh Louisa
8. Ram
“I’ll be your fullest winery.”
In the afternoon Capricorn sinks into
the shadow of the old continent. High like Taurus at fourth watch
I suck and press the surging vines
Surging vines
the harvest flute slants west
Is Louisa still feeding doves on the porch?
Slanting to the west, poisonous stars
please cover me with her long hair
9–10. Monkey-Rooster
Another dashing arrow
45 degrees oblique:
the equestrian archer falls, embracing an armful of moonlight
Rise, rise, rise like the monkey, please
I am a weeping tree by the river
the hesitation of Capricorn
The sun has set to the west
11. Dog
WNW ¾ N
Fill me with the water of the seven seas
Din at first watch ambushes a square
a drizzling rain falls on our rifles
12. Boar
Louisa, please hold me with all the tenderness of America
accept me, a fish of wounded blood
You too are a shining fish
rotting in a polluted city. Louisa
please come back to life in the olive orchard
and lie on your back for me. Second watch
a dewy olive orchard
We have forgotten a lot
a steamboat brings back my poisoned flag
The eagle hovers like a vulture for latter-day carnage
North northwest and west, Louisa
you will scream
when you find me dead upon my victorious return
lying cold and stiff on your naked body
(1970)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
1 If I could write you
a summer poem, when reeds
spread vigorously, when sunshine
swirls around your waist and
surges toward your spread
feet, when a new drum
cracks in the heat; if I
rocking gently in a skiff
riding down to the twelfth notch
could write you an autumn poem
when sorrow crouches on the riverbed
like a golden dragon, letting torrents and rapids
rush and splash and swirl upward
from wounded eyes; if I could write you
a winter poem
a final witness to ice and snow
the shrunken lake
the midnight caller
who interrupts a hurried dream
takes you to a distant province
gives you a lantern, and tells you
to sit quietly and wait
no tears allowed …
2 If they wouldn’t allow you
to mourn for spring
or to knit
if they said
sit down quietly
and wait—
a thousand years later
after spring
summer would still be
your name—
they’d bring you back, take away
your ring
and clothes
cut your hair short
and abandon you
by the edge of the enduring lake—
then at last you’d belong to me
At last you’d belong to me
I’d bathe you
and give you a little wine
a few mints
some new clothes
Your hair would
grow back the way it was
before. Summer would still be
your name
3 Then I’d write you
a spring poem, when everything
begins again
So young and shy
you’d see an image of maturity. I’d let you shed tears freely
I’d design new clothes and make a candle for your wedding night
Then you’d let me write
a spring poem on your breasts
in the rhythm of a beating heart, the melody of blood:
breast images and the birthmark metaphor
I’d lay you on the warm surface of the lake
and let the wind recite
(1973)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
—TAINAN, TAIWAN
1 The enemy side has entered the muggy droning of cicadas
I look up from below stone steps; dense broadleaf trees
open into a bed of wind—
giant cannons have rusted. And I don’t know how to calmly ravish
her new blue flowered dress
in the history of stampeding gunsmoke
A bright expanse delights me
like a European sword boldly piercing through
a fallen torso. We go up the steps
drum in the troops, but when I
loosen her row of twelve buttons
I find what welcomes me still are her familiar
cool breasts asserting a birthmark
Enemy ships deploy on the sea
we sweat and get out of the rain
2 Enemy ships are busy preparing for attack at dawn
we sweat as we set up defenses
Two pillows build a cannon mount
cicada droning fades away, the subtropical wind
churns into a swaying bed
To begin with you are a water beast from another land
so smooth, so clean
your limbs more slender than ours
Your accent sounds crisp too
it’s a cry for help when ramparts crumble
and false as a dried-up well
Whenever I bend over, I hear your
endless empty echoes
3 The giant cannons have rusted, gunsmoke
vanishes in history’s broken pages
but I, worried, caress your waist
Once more the row of glossy green broadleaf trees
waits for me to lie down and name it slowly
Seen from the bell tower
it’s one of your slanting pendants
each pearl is a battle
bullet holes from fierce fighting all over the trees
In my embrace of sulfur smoke, Holland’s body
rolls like a windmill
4 Counting in silence, I slowly loosen
the twelve buttons of the new dress
In Zeelandia sisters share
a dress that falls off easily in summer: the wind comes from the strait
and teases the open butterfly collar
where I thought I’d discover an archipelago of spices. But who would know
what appear before me still are
those cruel mint-scented breasts. Ihla
Formosa,* I’ve come to lie on
your bed of cool wind. Ihla
Formosa, I’ve come from far away to colonize you
but I have surrendered. Ihla
Formosa, Ihla
Formosa
(1975)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
Solitude is an ancient beast
hiding in my jagged rock heart
A stripe on his back that changes color—
I know it’s a protective device for his species
Loneliness in his eyes, he often stares at
distant floating clouds and yearns for
celestial shifting and wandering
He lowers his head and muses, allowing the wind and rain to whip
his abandoned ferocity
his wind-eroded love
Solitude is an ancient beast
hiding in my jagged rock heart
When it thunders, he moves slowly
laboriously, into my wine cup
and with adoring eyes
looks at a twilight drinker
I know at a moment like this he regrets
having left his familiar world
and entering my cold wine. I lift the cup to my lips
and with kindness send him back into my heart
(1976)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
Noontime
leaves sway gently outside the screened window
swaying to an ambiance, an incomprehensible romance
(The G string is hard to control, she says, her hair falling to the left)
Head lower, her ring finger presses music from a Granada wind
Chanting the rosary inside the window, a nun raises her head—
a wanderer’s horse saunters by in the distance
The horse trots so slowly; she has counted twelve rosary beads
The wanderer vanishes over the horizon. So Lorca says …
The papaya trees near the ranch
are rapidly bearing fruit. The noontime air
seems to carry an abundant stillness
Twelve years seem still too—
she’s finally learned to control the G string, even
the beautiful timbre of the note
Then I hear, I hear the sound of a chinaberry growing
and at the same time dropping fruit: at first
the span between leaving the branch and touching the ground is short
seven years, twelve years later, it has gotten longer and longer
(We measure it with silken threads of spring rain, but I
can hardly endure the span of separation)
The moment the chinaberry plumbs through the octave
then another moment—a low, bitter dripping sound
one lower than the first, more bitter
than the first
At last it hits the ground. She raises her head
and sees me listening gloomily to the invisible leaves
swaying gently outside the screened window. At noon
a white cat naps on the balcony
Last winter’s dried leaves gather before the steps
dried leaves from years ago pile up in my heart
“I’ve finally learned to control the G string,” she says, “like this—”
with a smile; her ring finger presses easily, like a prairie
a Granada wind….
The poet opens the door and walks to the intersection. Quiet noon
suddenly a cluster of gunshots; Lorca
is speechless as he falls
People push open the windows to look
knocking over several pots of pansies
Under the fierce sun the prostrate chinaberry is one octave lower
ending a short-lived grand romance in silence
(1976)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
FORBIDDEN GAME 2
In a faraway place, behind the maple grove turning red
a river swells after a fresh shower
I can hear the sound of trout breathing each other in
hear the evening smoke report on autumn’s abundance
and desolation. But a serene mood
is louder than all these sounds
more solemn too—in a faraway
faraway place
Allow me to rethink the question of time. “Music”
you say as you lay your left hand on the octave, “is a temporal
art. What about spatial arts?
And combinations of time and space? And …”
And the uplifting, ecstatic joy of the union of time and space
and spirit. Sometimes
I can’t help facing a river swollen after a fresh shower
after the maple grove and evening smoke
before serenity
Sometimes you can’t find my traces
(even if you try very hard), sometimes
night falls slowly on this side of the valley
A bugle echoes through the fortress. I walk a path
leading directly to death and eternal life
You may be able to find it on fantasy’s
prairie, on the edge of dream
in tears, in blood
I find it hard, hard to believe this is a dead man’s song
floating in a simple, moving legend
accompanying rumor (a bugle
echoes through the fortress): people stand around and listen
till pounding cavalry hoofbeats surround the town
getting closer and closer … then the people
innocently disperse
“There is the joy of the union of time and space
and spirit,” the poet says
“an uplifting, ecstatic joy”
In a faraway place
a river swells after a fresh shower
and looks serene
But I hear a mood more serene, more sonorous
than any sound, a slight rage real
as a low cry, on the edge of dream and memory
in tears, in blood
How do you forget that reality—
across the preparation of reeds, whispers of stars and trees
homework of the moon and sea—how do you forget a street
some fruit and wine (even
if you can)? I can’t imagine
the gunshot that leads to death and eternal life
when I enter the maple grove
turning red, I cannot imagine
this is a dead man’s song, floating in
a simple, moving legend
accompanying rumor—
a bugle echoes through
the fortress
(1976)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
FORBIDDEN GAME 3
Try to remember
the great concern in Granada
try to remember your language and pain
green winds and green horses, your
language and happiness—your occasional happiness—
beyond the grove by the awakening riverbank
a donkey’s hoofbeats at this moment are louder than wine and harvest
She wishes to talk to you, with multisyllabic words
she wishes to talk to you (with gestures too)
She inquires about the direction of the church
though this doesn’t mean a young person like her
already understands religious Granada
Saint Michael, please protect
this good, curious girl
bring her up
teach her to hear—as she listens to the bell chime—
history’s deeper sigh
recorded in an obscure place in the textbook
on the other side of the olive stained-glass window—
the peasants’ sweat
the soldiers’ blood
Teach her to recognize the row of fig trees on the riverbank
A wind once came from the assembled fortresses
and persecuted a boy who left home on Sunday
(his love as pure as his cap
he could recite Lorca’s new poems)
The boy once lay dying under a row of beautiful
fig trees, too soon to shed
a peasant’s sweat and a soldier’s blood
Teach her to listen and know all this
Then you can give her back to me
a radical heathen
We’ll spend the whole winter
studying rhetoric and semantics then
forgetting rhetoric and semantics. We’ll
spend the spring traveling
discussing Granada’s myths and poetry
in a tavern throughout the night. We’ll
do field work and interviews
and together spend the long summer vacation
collecting folk songs and proverbs. And autumn
will find us inside a red-leafed window
wiping away peasants’ sweat and soldiers’
blood; the little donkey’s hoofbeats will
be louder than wine and harvest
You will love such a good, curious girl
Saint Michael, try to remember
that great concern
(1976)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
FORBIDDEN GAME 4
Chilly sunlight brightens up a rain gutter
It’s so quiet: the residents may be reading morning papers
no exciting news
can destroy this morning’s emptiness
Hovering slowly, surviving mosquitos
trace shiny vectors. There’s not even a breeze
I sit at Granada’s edge
meditating on the poet’s bleeding heart
A guitar leans in a corner of the tavern
in the lingering warmth of last night’s fire
I say to myself: “Music is at best
ornamental to the story, so are melody and rhythm”
When the music’s lost (for example, now)
the story is still there, the hero still alive
so is the one he said good-bye to
now combing her hair in a flowering garden
If music is really fit for defining love
is love merely ornamental to life?
So I sit wondering, a few gray pigeons on the street
strutting and pecking around. There was bleeding there once
“Love, when it vanishes (for example
this moment, or tomorrow, or next year)
can life go on?” Someone insists
love is the whole of life
Still thinking
I sit at Granada’s edge
A donkey comes up from the other end of the street
followed by a bleary-eyed man—
last night he spread six rumors. Yet
“when love vanishes, life can still be
finished out.” Delighted, I move toward this conclusion
Heros are still learning cross-country warfare and demolition
even if he gets killed in a foreign land or only
executed by the cavalry in the morning, the once-leaping
life still lives in a place farther than Granada
the one he once said good-bye to still
combs her hair in a flowering garden
This conclusion satisfies me
as I lift my head to look at the chilly sunlight
brightening up a rain gutter. I get up from the desk
Someone picks up a guitar in some corner of the house
and repeats a faraway grand romance
Delighted, I walk toward the pecking pigeons
The man with the donkey (last night he’d
already spread six rumors about me)
turns around to beckon me with bleary eyes—
the guitar suddenly stops
a cluster of gunshot …
(1976)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
SOMEONE ASKS ME ABOUT JUSTICE AND RIGHTEOUSNESS
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
in a neatly written letter
mailed from a town in another county, signed
with his real name, including social security number
age (outside my window rain drips on banana leaves
and broken glass on garden walls), ancestry, occupation
(twigs and branches pile up in the yard
a blackbird flaps its wings). Obviously he has
thought long without reaching an answer to this important
question. He is good at conceptualization, his
writing is concise, forceful, and well-organized
his penmanship presentable (dark clouds drift toward the far end of the sky)—
he must’ve studied calligraphy in the Mysterious Tower style. In elementary school, he
probably lived in congested public housing in a back alley behind a fishing harbor
He spent most of his time with his mother, he was shy and
self-conscious about speaking Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent
He often climbed the hill to watch the boats at sea
and white clouds—that’s how his skin got so dark
In his frail chest a small
solitary heart was growing—he writes frankly
“precocious as a Twentieth-Century pear”
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
With a pot of tea before me, I try to figure out
how to refute with abstract concepts the concrete
evidence he cites. Maybe I should negate his premise first
attack his frame of mind and criticize his fallacious way of
gathering data, in order to weaken his argument
Then point out that all he says is nothing but bias
unworthy of a learned man’s rebuttal. I hear
the rain getting heavier and heavier
as it pours down the roof and fills gutters
around the house. But what is a Twentieth-Century pear?
They were found in the island’s mountainous region
a climate comparable to the North China plains
Transplanted to the fertile, abundant virgin land
a seed of homesickness sprouted, grew
and bore flowers and fruit—a fruit
whose pitiful shape, color, and smell was not mentioned in classics
Other than vitamin C its nutrient value is uncertain
It symbolizes hardly anything
but its own hesitant heart
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
They don’t need symbols—if it is reality
then treat it as such
The writer of the letter has an analytical mind
After a year in business management, he transferred to law. After graduation
he served in the army reserve for six months, took the bar exams twice….
The rain has stopped
I cannot comprehend his background, or his anger
his reproach and accusations
though I have tried, with the pot of tea
before me. I know he is not angry at the exams, because they are not among his examples
He speaks of issues at a higher level, in a precise, forceful
well-organized manner, summarized in a sequence of confusing
questions. The sun trickles onto the lawn from behind the banana trees
glitters among old branches. This isn’t
fiction—an immense, cold atmosphere persists
in this scant warmth
Someone asks me a question about
justice and righteousness. He was the neatest boy in his class
though his mother was a laundry woman in town. In his memory
the fair-skinned mother always smiled even when tears
streamed down her face. With her soft, clean hands
she sharpened pencils for him under the light
Can’t remember clearly, but it was probably on a muggy night
after a fiery quarrel his father—his impassioned speech and heavy accent that even his
only son could not fully understand—
left home. Maybe he went up to the mountains
where the climate resembles the North China plains to cultivate
a newly transplanted fruit, the Twentieth-Century pear
On autumn nights his mother taught him Japanese nursery rhymes
about Peach Boy’s conquest of Devil Island. With sleepy eyes he
watched her rip out the seams of old army uniforms
and scissor them into a pair of wool pants and a quilted jacket
Two water marks on the letter, probably his tears
like moldy spots left by the rain in the corner. I look outside
Earth and heaven have cried too, for an important question
that transcends seasons and directions. They have cried
then covered their embarrassment with false sunlight
Someone asks me a question about
justice and righteousness. An eerie spider
hangs upside down from the eaves, bobs in the false
sunlight, and weaves a web. For a long while
I watch winter mosquitos fly in a dark cloud
around a plastic pail by the screen door
I have not heard such a lucid and succinct
argument in a long time. He is merciless in analyzing himself
“My lineage has taught me that wherever I go I will always
carry homesickness like a birthmark
But birthmarks come from the mother, and I must say mine
has nothing to do with it.” He often
stands on the seashore and gazes far away. He is told that at the end of the mists and waves
There is an even longer coastline, beyond them, mountains, forests, and vast rivers
“The place that Mother has never seen is our homeland”
In college, he was required to study modern Chinese history and he memorized the book
from cover to cover. He took linguistic sociology
did well in labor law, criminology, history of law, but
failed physical education and the constitution. He excels in citing evidence
knows how to infer and deduce. I have never
received a letter so full of experience and fantasy
fervor and despair with a cold, poignant voice
a letter that strikes a perfect balance between fervor and despair
asking me, politely, about justice and righteousness
Someone asks me a question about justice and righteousness
in a letter that permits no addition or deletion
I see the tear marks expanding like dried-up lakes
In a dim corner fish die after failing to save each other
leaving white bones behind. I also see
blood splashing in his growing knowledge and judgment
like a pigeon released from a besieged fortress under fire—
a faint hope of the exhausted yet persevering resistance—
it breaks away from the suffocating sulfur smoke
soars to the top of a stench-filled willow tree
turns around swiftly and darts toward the base of reinforcement troops
but on its way is hit by a stray bullet
and crushed in the deafening encounter, its feathers, bones, and blood
fill a space that will never be
and is quickly forgotten. I feel
in his hoarse voice that he once
walked in a wasteland, crying out
and screaming at a storm
Counting footsteps, he is not a prophet
He is no prophet but a disciple who has lost his guide
In his frail chest that pumps like a furnace
a heart melts at high heat
transparent, flowing, empty
(1984)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
’Tis calm, indeed, so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Like pushing aside layers of reed stalks, at summer’s end
when the aroma of firewood through chimneys wafts gently in the air
comes to me creeping low, on a soft breeze—a calling
unfolds delicately, yet seems just around my eyelids—
when the swaying clumps of duckweed, their color stirs up bits of memory
when the long-tailed dragonfly flies toward me, hesitant
and trembling toward me, it hovers above the twilight-dyed ripples
and tries to land on a thorny water plant
scattering powdery pistils, making the dusk return to the swiftly
changing moment when I push aside layers and layers of reed stalks
like pushing aside layers and layers of reed stalks at the end of that faraway summer
So I see, like the last ashes in an incense burner
in front of the already dim altar that insists on shouting
in silence, trying hard to elevate the instant to an eternal memory
in my faint unease like transparent moth wings flapping
outside the window, sound of dried, broad leaves like hearts, blowing about one by one
circling in the wind before falling at random into the cool shade of the empty courtyard
I see an expanse of light on the startled pond at summer’s end
lingering at ease, softly chanting a long, ancient tune, intending to
turn fate into luck when frogs croak at intervals in the lonely hour
when crickets besiege childhood wilderness, when I push aside layers and layers of reed
stalks to find time slowly transcending summer’s end
(1985)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
Sitting among dry cicada husks
you start worrying
for no reason
Past, present, future …
the future?
Hair lightens with each washing
skin translucent from love
you’re behind in your piano practice
Suddenly you realize the tea’s getting cold
a moment
of bewilderment
In the yard
chrysanthemums seem smaller. You close your eyes
not wanting to look at them, but recall your childhood
of surprising crabapple red, peacock
blue, perilla purple, peony yellow …
the sound of scissors cutting and wrists
bumping on wooden bolts of fabric
Then you think: When I am old
will I be able to unfold as easily
as satin brocade on a slick surface
to unfold, to spread out, with such dazzle?
(1991)
(translated by Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith)
THE TRAVELER’S HEART: A VARIATION
“The great river flows night and day,
In the traveler’s heart, sorrow never ends.”
—Xie Tiao (464–499)
Quietly I gaze, and note how
heavenly bodies take turns passing before me
how their countless hues fill my weakening heart
how sounds, spreading in all directions, get louder and more varied—
are the competing lights trying to block me?
I concentrate on capturing
gathering it all into my bosom, whether
loneliness or sorrow, this moment when I face the
great river. In the wind I wave with a sentimental gesture
at the row of drooping willows that tremble in thunder and lightning
But I stand alone, at the intersection of time and space
my gray hair wandering in the direction
of the slowly darkening sky, toward an eventual compromise
affirming that all the gains and losses are nothing but emptinesses
The great river flows night and day
Do not tempt the books or the sword that I have long neglected
I look left and right, and all I see are reeds in the haze
nodding their heads for no reason. Instantaneously all sounds and colors
cease to be, yet the universe is moved, looks at me with tear-glistening eyes
and grasps the dynamic particles near and far so that they cannot
stir me with their momentum, the compelling will of the Creator
or with the instinct for adventures
the desires and longings …
Perhaps because of it all
I am not allowed to sigh in the dark
or cry in the shadow of being abandoned, left behind
deprived of love and caring:
The great river flows night and day
(1992)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
Look closely at my gray hair under the light:
Were last year’s snowstorms unusually fierce?
At midnight, when I sat alone between the tumbling sky and earth
I say, with a hand on my chest, I missed you
Maybe you worry about the stars in the sky
some will be expelled from Capricorn when spring arrives
But I recognize them each time I look in the mirror
they have long found a home on my temples
Maybe you care about the cassia tree
in the moon: Is it wounded
or will it bloom? So you ask
I never think about it before autumn comes
If Wu Gang* dies from fatigue, I will take his place
See the morning dewdrops rolling on the sunflower leaves
trying to balance themselves between veins
Jade and pearls adorn the back of your hair like philosophy and poetry
only prettier than dewdrops, and more concerned
Fish-scale nebulae in the northern hemisphere cast their reflections
on the surface of the sea where mackerel swim. Quietly
I look for a navigation route, and muster all my strength
to display time on the proud beach of my forehead
In old age I will still play the piano for you
like this, I will send you on a voyage to Byzantium—
when the end is near, there will be tranquility
“Über allen Gipfeln …”
(1993)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
—TO THE TUNE METAMORPHOSIS 2
BY PHILIP GLASS
If the tide, at the speed of memory, unceasingly
if I, with the same heart, if the tide, just once
during all the nights and days when we are apart
told the story from beginning to end—
a circular tune, a meandering
discourse, about life and death, highs and lows
an answer to a call coming from afar
On the surface of the steadily cooling sea
like the frail breaths of white birds who, deep into the season
fly over the faint wakes of passing ships
if the tide once did
if I, with the same heart
(1994)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
(LEO TOLSTOY: FROM ASTAPOVO … TO SONYA)
What kind of heated will ignites the apples of my fading eyes repeatedly
in the cold night, and at last
the moment when the train disappears with a long whistle and I, lost, stand
near the end of the railroad tracks in the midst of rapidly evaporating steam and fog
Sigh, Sonya, Sonya my love
my love has been extinguished, cut off
and so has my hate
I have lost the power and the determination to conjure up
your face, your voice, your graceful concern and indifference
Under the light brown hair as you grow old
your smooth, insouciant forehead will display nothing, yet
even now, I am almost lost
in your tender smiles and reproaches
in your habitual sulking and fears
Only in your diary
do I exist, and will live on haphazardly—
I can still be moved by a cup of tea
from the past; I still linger, when the dusky twilight
creeps near and envelops the window where I sit alone
I still remember how, sadly, I come to slowly
from some philosophical concepts, with a hand on my chest
pieces of paper scattered across the floor
But I can’t recall much else, maybe
the bright yellow blooms swaying on the prairie
like stars at the roof-corner of the train station, yellow flowers
that spread endlessly along the roadside, sparkling on the prairie
we once saw—how they shine by the corner of the roof
as I think of some such names
tones, strokes of handwriting, traces of
complete solitude
(1994)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
*Zeelandia is the seventeenth-century Dutch name for Tainan, an ancient city in southwestern Taiwan.
*In the sixteenth century the Portuguese called Taiwan Ihla Formosa (beautiful island).
*Wu Gang and the cassia tree in the moon refer to a Chinese myth reminiscent of the Greek myth of Sisyphus. For his offense Wu was made to chop down the cassia tree, which immediately grew back where it was cut.