Jiao Tong (Chiao T’ung) is the pen name of Ye Zhenfu, who was born in Gaoxiong in southern Taiwan. He received a B.A. in drama and an M.A. in art from Chinese Culture University, and is pursuing a Ph.D. in comparative literature at Fu Jen Catholic University. He is currently associate editor of the literary supplement of China Times and an associate professor of Chinese literature at National Central University.
Jiao Tong started writing poetry in 1980 and has won a national prize. Best known for vivid portraits of human characters, he has published four books of poems to date. He also writes literary criticism, reportage, children’s stories, and plays.
From the time her only close relative, A-Xiong, became a sailor and drifted off to foreign places, she passed the next thirteen years in a blur, and ended up beneath the neon bar signs of an ocean port. In a narrow alley by the river, now thirty years old, she had learned all the ways of the world, hawking the springtime of her life in unlicensed buildings littered with cigarette butts and betel juice. Thirteen years went by in a blur, as the clear river turned murky and continued to flow into the sea.
That evening she discovered the naked customer on her bed was none other than her long-lost older brother. Without stopping to weep or put on clothes, she dashed out the door. In one instant she gave her lifetime of love to the unfeeling water.
(1980)
(translated by Denis Mair)
Constantly I dream of punching a time clock
From Wuchang Street a happy bus rounds the corner at West
Gate District
Morning wind awakens the gleam of winter sun.
Every day I fill out forms and resumes,
I have combed the want ads over and over again,
The classified employment section thick with notices
That appears in the same spot each day
Jostling for space. The sun sets and rises,
Once my resumes have been mailed I fill out new ones.
Always a bundle of nerves, I stand in some office
Sounding off my background and age.
The sun rises and sets,
My heart full of wishes like a milkweed pod—
More distant than youthful dreams
Colder than poverty.
The pub closes for the night,
Alley cats lurk in the shadow of a building,
I kick an empty can from Wuchang to West Gate District:
The sun is down, streetlights are on,
From that glimmer at the edge of sky
There’s no telling dusk from dawn.
(1987)
(translated by Denis Mair)
Yamaguchi Shintaro held the rank of second-class private and was assigned to the 124th Infantry Company. He was a fierce fighter, distinguished for the blazing intensity of his performance in battle. Everyone honored him with the title “Demon Platoon Leader,” and he received an imperial medal of honor.
The Demon Platoon Leader survived a hundred battles. He was only wounded once, on the Siberian Front, when seven regiments lost a whole regiment’s worth of fighting strength to syphilis. Thank heaven for penicillin: he escaped from the jaws of death and was sent to the Chinese battlefield.
From the time the Imperial Army landed at Hangzhou Cove until it took Nanjing, our intrepid platoon leader won the highest favor with bold exploits of raping four women each day.
The Demon Platoon Leader was a man of exceptional endowments. Each centiliter of his sperm contained 25,999 ferocious spermatozoa, with a volume per ejaculation of 20 milliliters. Each month he could produce seventeen gallons of highly corrosive sperm fluid. When the moon was full, his third testicle would appear, and his metal-hard penis would lengthen by 13 centimeters.
Patriotism smoldered in the heart of the Demon Platoon Leader: before each act of intercourse, he stood at attention and sang the national anthem.
(1993)
(translated by Denis Mair)
In this city under siege from all sides
The streets have all closed their eyes
A 60-watt bulb rouses itself while others sleep
To stand guard through the dark night
In this apartment where promises are locked out in the night
Moths invade in pairs
Two fallen moths land on a page
A comma and a period, keeping uncertain distance
Doing battle on the borderline of sleep
Out of fear of being mired deeper
In the clutches of sleep
I sit straight and turn these pages
Planning underground revolt against yesterday’s conclusions
My future leaves its slumber once and for all
A story of some kind will break the siege and escape
Beginning and end fight an all-out battle in the alleys.
The shape of someone who has lost his footing
Mistakenly rushes into the minefield of reverie.
(1997)
(translated by Denis Mair)
The lock on the back door is seized up with rust
From not being opened for years
Narrow passageway locked as sternly as a snake’s cage
Even though we hold the key tight
Latch that refuses to be moved by anything
Like a tongue about to speak, but thinking better of it
Open mouth entangled with nightmare murmurs
Open lips starving for language
(1997)
(translated by Denis Mair)
A forgotten waltz steals back under my pillow
Abducting a half-finished dream
I remember a letter with no stamp
A postal transfer slip with no address
I rise from bed and crouch over an old desk
Sentences with object phrases hard to omit
Missing subordinate conjunctions
Blue-ink tears running down
Bashful dialect
Dwindling shape of a strawberry-colored dress
Hint of scent from black hair over the shoulder
All rubbed out by the eraser of dawn
(1998)
(translated by Denis Mair)
The frequency I infringe upon
Air-raid tunnel of the subconscious
Always against the law
Broadcasts distorted body image and odor
Sometimes receives a special short wave
In the manner of a ballroom dance
Rehearsal for love with no chance to happen.
Dragnet of sirens outside this air-raid tunnel
These days
Casualties of love are all too high
I try weaving unforgettable dialogue
To prove the leading man was at the scene.
My secret frequency is often low on voltage
It desperately needs an electric outlet.
(1998)
(translated by Denis Mair)