Wu Sheng is the pen name of Wu Shengxiong, who was born in Xizhou, Zhanghua County, in central Taiwan. He graduated from Pingdong Agriculture College in 1971 and has been a biology teacher at Xizhou Junior High School ever since. In addition to teaching, he farms in the fields.
In the 1980s Wu Sheng was a leading nativist poet and he remains best known for his depictions of rural Taiwan. He was invited to attend the International Writing Program at University of Iowa in 1980. To date he has published five books of poetry and four volumes of essays. “Rainy Season,” included below, is written in Hokkien.
In a dry wind
Sheaths of rice straw tremble
In an abandoned field
On an afternoon that is cool
Not for lack of warm sunlight
The old people of my village wither away
In crumbling courtyards
And finally, who remembers
That the old people of my village
Like a sheath of rice straw
Once sprouted, flowered, and bore fruit
From sprout to sheath of rice straw
Is the chronicle of life for everyone in my village
(1972)
(translated by John Balcom)
Have a smoke
Have a drink
Damn this miserable weather
Shoot the bull
Flirtin’ with somebody else’s girl
Damn this miserable day
Bitch and grumble
Figure your pay and what things cost
Damn this miserable life
When it ought to rain it don’t
When it ain’t supposed to
It rains without lettin’ up
Does as it pleases
Pourin’ down rain
Damn, just gotta go on livin’
(1972)
(translated by John Balcom)
PREFACE TO VIGNETTES OF MY VILLAGE
Long, long ago
The people of my village
Began to look up with hope
The sky of my village
Is so indifferent
Indifferent blue or gray
Long, long ago
My village lay in the mountain’s shadow
A vast ink painting
Dark and troubled
Pasted on the faces of the people of my village
Long, long ago
For generations on this piece of land
Where no wealth or prosperity grows
Where no miracles are ever produced
My ancestors wiped away their sweat
And brought forth their fated children
(published 1972)
(translated by John Balcom)
Bare-armed, who cares about the latest fashions?
Barefooted, who cares about being poetic?
Wiping sweat away you chant your own poem
Intoning your own verse
Who cares for affected literary moods, much less
Becoming part of history?
Lines of awkward footprints
Are written on the honest soil
Along the broad fields our ancestors
Sweat over
Never contending, never arguing,
silently waiting
If flowers blossom and bear fruit
Who can ask for anything more?
If blistering blights
Or violent storms come
Erasing those bitter footprints
There is no sadness, no regret,
they will continue
No swords or knives are worn
There are no learned discussions on virtue and wisdom
Be content today hoeing and plowing
Someday, when you are forced to stop
You’ll willingly lie down to be a part
Of the broad earth
(1975)
(translated by John Balcom)
In my village there is a slaughterhouse, at the entrance
of which is an animal spirit tablet.
The tablet says: “Spirits begone!
Do not come back, do not return
Each one hurry
Find a new abode
Do not come back, do not return!”
Every festival the butchers come from all around
To fearfully burn incense and make offerings
Why don’t you just accept it
You are beasts born for slaughter
Why not resign yourselves?
Oh, pigs, dogs, fowls, and beasts
There’s no need to cry, to accuse, or
Be surprised—on one hand they worship
On the other, they butcher and pray for peace
There’s nothing wrong with that
There’s no need to cry, to accuse, or
Be surprised—they butcher
They worship, fearing the return of your innocent souls
To demand life. Pigs, dogs, fowls, and beasts
Spirits begone!
(1977)
(translated by John Balcom)
IN THE WOODS OF A FOREIGN COUNTRY
I have never heard a wind
That conveys such an urgent message
I have never heard a bird song
Calling with such distant homesickness
I have never heard a river
Whispering with such tender longing
In the woods of a foreign country
I pace the riverbank every day at dusk
Stirring up the sighing leaves covering the ground
I guess they also know, I have
So many concerns to express
As I stroll, as if in a trance
All sounds
Become thousands of words
Mumbled again and again
Like swaying willows on the riverbank
Entangling me
Those youthful words
How many years has it been? We haven’t brought them up again
Not because they have faded, nor because they are forgotten
But out of bashfulness
In this unpoetic daily life of worrying about daily needs
They are concealed deeper than ever
In the debts that drag on from year to year
In every quarrel and angry outburst
A few days after leaving home
It seems like it’s been ages
Every day around dusk in the woods of a foreign country
All sounds
Often become thousands of words
Mumbled again and again
Like swaying willows on the riverbank
Entangling me
(1981)
(translated by John Balcom)
I won’t discuss the art of poetry with you
I won’t discuss those complicated and ambiguous metaphors
Let’s get out of the study
I’ll take you for a walk over the length and breadth of the land
To see all the new shoots
And how they struggle in silence to grow
I won’t discuss life with you
I won’t discuss those profound and abstruse philosophies
Let’s get out of the study
I’ll take you for a walk over the length and breadth of the land
To touch the cool, clear river water
And see how it irrigates the fields
I won’t discuss society with you
I won’t discuss those heartbreaking strifes
Let’s get out of the study
I’ll take you for a walk over the length and breadth of the land
To visit farmers here and there
And see how they wipe their sweat away tilling the land in silence
You’ve lived a long time in the noisy bustling city
Poetry, life, and society
You’ve already argued about them a lot
This is the busy season for sowing
And you’ve paid us a rare visit
I’ll take you for a walk over the length and breadth of the land
To appreciate the spring breeze
And how it softly blows over the earth
(1982)
(translated by John Balcom)
THE WORST THING ABOUT WRITING POETRY
The worst thing about writing poetry
Isn’t racking one’s brains
Isn’t the sleepless pursuit
Isn’t the toil of choosing the right words
The worst thing about writing poetry
Isn’t working on a poem
for long lonely years
And not receiving any response when it’s done
Nor is it the little fame
That invites the jeering of peers
The worst thing about writing poetry
Isn’t the mind’s feeble attempts
To contain the crashing waves
Of poetic emotion
The worst thing about writing poetry
Isn’t looking life’s imperfection in the eye
Yet being unable to do anything about it
Nor is it having to bear the pains of life
That constantly weigh you down
Even if it hurts, still you must patiently
Seek the bloodstains
Perhaps the worst thing about writing poetry
Is not knowing any other way
Besides writing poetry
To combat the immense sadness of life
(1997)
(translated by John Balcom)