Ling Yu (Ling Yü) was born in Taipei County. She received a B.A. in Chinese from National Taiwan University and an M.A. in East Asian languages and literatures from University of Wisconsin, Madison. She divides her time between Taipei and Yilan, where she teaches at National Yilan Institute of Technology.
Ling Yu wrote fiction before she turned to poetry in the early 1980s, when she became editor of the revived Modern Poetry Quarterly. She has since published four volumes of poetry. In 1991–92, at the invitation of Professor Helen Vendler, she was a visiting scholar at Harvard University.
SINCE YOU CAN’T ADVANCE YOU CAN’T RETREAT EITHER (FROM “THE TRUNK SERIES”)
Go into the right side of the trunk
turn right, and there’s the village of memory
Go into the left side of the trunk, turn left, and there’s
the exit that takes you forward
The middle is your prison cell
Every day you sit up straight
collecting toys
Each drawer contains
a calendar
Each day you must resolve
one contradiction, and you practice being on time
to the bathroom. On time to the office building
you practice running home
before darkness falls, so as not to be caught out
in the dusk
so as not to walk through the wrong door
(published 1992)
(translated by Andrea Lingenfelter)
Kungtung Mountain
I walked far away in a dream and then I came back. First light
gone, getting close to noon, imitated a bird
imitating a human voice. Just as before
a house by the road, tiny insects
imitating a human voice
strode up a wooden staircase, swung
in the mirror. Dreamed until midnight
Fought as far as Kungtung, every last soldier
This was as far as the old man got
There was snow in summer, many men lost feet and others lost hands
Those who lost their heads
were all left on Kungtung. Today
the old man has lost his admission ticket
Kongtong. The number of hotels here keeps growing
some people collect admission tickets, souvenirs
and there is also a reenactment of that year’s battle
Push the map to the north
the north
is already nearing the horizon as distant
as the sky
People with birthmarks on their faces are searching for relatives
as are people with tattoos
Those marks ring their eyes, as if
they’d been born with the third eye, or
they had dreamed too much
Dogs howl
A certain kind of dream often appears
on nights when the moon is full. Stride up
a wooden staircase, peer
at my own shadow
Now the moon with edges gnawed sharp by the dogs
is like a malevolent dream, wandering far enough away and then
turning back around
Mount Peng
It is still a long way to Mount Peng
Dreams walk on the ground, beneath clusters of windows
they flee
Huge volumes of refugees surge onto Mount Peng. In late autumn
blue-colored birds are hunted
mounted on sheet iron
on a section of trunk taken from a sapling
—its two young footprints
have left imprints on his chest—and
a length of flame as swift as a foal
Blue-colored bird, its feathers are the first to die
and then its two eyes and then its speech
From a chilly ferry, Mount Peng
is not far
People intent on their journeys take over every
winter nest. So goes
the dream. Dreaming that the blue-colored bird
spreads its wings and flies away from the woods and even looks back
and speaks to the dream
Yang Pass
—Delighted to See Daybreak After a Sleepless Night
At first a large bird—for reasons unknown to me—came shrieking
across the way and then something with wings swiftly
brushed past the corner of the house and daybreak that white horse majestically
burst into the room and lifted its luminous brow
I went to a village and then another
village, passing through, exhausted
yet unable to sleep
each day my records show
that this extraordinary horse appeared. But
the best kind of horse, or those said to be the best
come from Yang Pass in the west where there is at least
one that has wings and what’s more it understands human speech
And for a long, long time I didn’t
open my mouth to speak, even if you plied me with wine
pressing urgently and what’s more several times people even cut
my feet with ropes
Yuyuan
—According to an ancient legend, Yuyuan, or the Abyss of Yu, was where the sun went when it set.
Went to Yuyuan to visit the imprisoned sun
Those wings that chafed at their lot were its
crime
Its wings furl up a corner of the darkness, bleeding
Sharp arrowheads fastened tightly to its vital parts
It says, even in my dreams it hurts
to breathe
And even if it got rid of its wings, even if
the sky could not bear
a head, dreams go on
My neck is still listening intently: the daylight
passing through dark night
calls to me
Zhao Pass
—Riding the #208 Bus and Thinking of Wu Zixu Crossing
Zhao Pass
Left hand pressing the window, a night full of snow and ice
right hand pressing the window
a night full of snow and ice, a night
full of snow and ice. Covering up Zhao Pass
And then, strand by strand, my hair turns traitor
my face is everywhere, behind
fugitive wheel ruts, while pursuers are still searching
the barking of tracking dogs draws closer and closer
and in the mirror, I am already a grandfather
Someone calls out my childhood name, hoping
I will be recognized, to add
to the severity of these barbs
Tonight I want to cross Zhao Pass, by a path
over the most treacherous topography, and to embrace
that warmest of strangers
the watchman—coolly
he sizes me up, as if
the temperature of the snow were the same as my heart
Lanpini Garden
—According to legend, Maya, Sakyamuni’s mother, held on to the branches of the Tree of No Sorrow with her hands, and the Buddha was born from the right side of her body.
Mother, her gaze passed over
Me, passed over the limbs
Of the Tree of No Sorrow
I was born. The sky
Was as before, sometimes daylight and sometimes
Night
I walked down a narrow lane, in the darkness
Many shadows returned to their place of birth
From my time in mother’s womb, I already knew
How to meditate
A cart followed me, casting off
A bundle. Swiftly it disappeared
Into a dark alley
I didn’t open it, it was
My only scripture
I know
I walked in a narrow lane
Time was right behind me, dogging my heels
I didn’t say good-bye to her
Mother
Her gaze passed over me, passed over
The horizon that grew more distant with each passing step
Sometimes it is daylight and sometimes
Night, in solitude
I return to my mother’s tear-wrapped womb
—That primeval warm
Turbulence—
I am inside, meditating
(published 1992)
(translated by Andrea Lingenfelter)
| 1 | two hands grasp two feet | |
| leap forward | (toward the front of the square) | |
| somersault back | (buttocks facing the most crowded part of the square) | |
| somersault forward | (in the most crowded part of the square | |
| ever shrinking ever smaller) | ||
| somersault back | (ever shrinking ever smaller) | |
| somersault forward | (ever shrinking) | |
| jump back | (ever smaller) | |
| …… | …… | |
| being stepped on | (only the eyes are left) | |
| (the square is obscured by buttocks) |
2 pressed up against the spot just under the ribs
braced against a pole
that end of the pole braced against
a spot
the spot just under the ribs
the spot just under the ribs
has a little weight because it has a little
weight and so they hover
spreading open pairs of arms, pairs of legs
they hover because of
a pole because it is pressed up against
the spot just under their ribs
3 right hand flies up high in the air
cuts through cuts through cuts
through the brick’s weakest
point
exploding brick flies off
in every direction and with the sharpest
body flies up to find
the right hand
4 a mouth, spitting out
flames. for the darkness on all four sides
for the darkness coming
too soon for
it incites you. from within the body
spontaneous combustion in a winding passage
scuttles out and crosses the square for
everyone who catches fire recognizes
his fellows
5 what sort of person sweeps through this square
with the speed of flight?
two arms outstretched to embrace
then emptiness extends its hand
is it the rope moving?
or is it the flesh?
(always wearing a smile)
on a set street corner
embracing each other’s body
then brushing past each other and gone
is it the speed?
or is it an actual embrace?
landing in her partner’s place
(always wearing a smile)
each one casting a sidelong glance
at the empty space left by his partner
6 between head and arm. flames are wings. turn
head. arms
balance. find direction
swing between the stairs and
the street. a hunchback
moves toward the dusky square
swinging. a distant flock of doves
takes flight and links up with their arms
turn. flame. turn. all of the wings
fly toward the sky. arms. all of the arms
lift. heads lift. conveying
a belief in Pure Land. lift. flames. lift
wings. the doves return to roost in their cages
all of the hunchbacks walk away from the dusky square
7 I know Fate entirely how to
grasp a pair of hands
right hand flings off sadness left hand
flings off happiness right hand flings off
sadness left hand flings off happiness
sadness happiness sadness happiness
right hand left hand right hand left hand
sadness happiness sadness happiness sadness sadness happiness happiness
right left right left right right left left
hand hand hand hand hand hand hand hand
I know nothing of Fate how to
grasp a pair of hands
8 some dozen hands certainly some dozen hands reach out
pulling me pricking me pummeling me poking me pinching me
I retreat to a dark corner and retreat again to a dark
corner a dark corner dark
corner to examine my flesh. my flesh it
bears no wounds only spontaneously I have grown
wings I have grown wings
I spring out to the sound of applause I spring out and
I leave the self I was yesterday back there I simply
leave the self I was yesterday
back there
9 and with that the bindings are loosened
leaving behind a length of palsied rope
push open the door and push open the door again beyond the door is a door
the world of a door open the door and open the door again and walk down
a cramped stairwell and open the door
and open the door again. walk down a cramped stairwell
and open the door and open the door again. above
there is the world of a door—push open the door
and open the door again and look into the distance beyond the door at unreachable regions
and push open the door
push open the door again
feel a length of rope in the darkness
and slowly bind yourself
(published 1993)
(translated by Andrea Lingenfelter)
FREEZE-FRAME IN THE MIDST OF WAR
All of the Babies Have Disappeared
Bombs. Exploding in babies’
private parts All of the babies
have disappeared
A face made of skin and resembling a rapidly ripening
fruit hangs from the limb of a tree
The tree’s branching limbs are like a mother’s desperately outstretched
arms. Too late
because of the sudden weight these arms
bow and shudder
Where Is My Head?
—Taken from the Myth of Xingtian
In the department store next to a busy part of town
such a tall mass grave
. . . . .
heads bowed, all of the brothers are searching
for heads
In a dark alley the enemies are still tracking someone down
and the road is strewn with surveillance equipment. With our tits
we keep watch on our surroundings, navels dripping saliva,
dressed up like ordinary people out shopping
the maggots on the heads are like rows
of tears, and because of our visit
their seething quickens—unfamiliar heads
because of the proddings of memory they twist and are distorted
and even more strangely
take on a resemblance
(published 1996)
(translated by Andrea Lingenfelter)