Like Yang Mu, Chen Yizhi, and Chen Li, Chen Kehua (Ch’en K’o-hua) was born in the coastal city of Hualian. He trained as an opthamologist at National Taiwan Medical School and has practiced in that capacity since graduation. In recent years he has been a postdoctoral research fellow at Harvard Medical School.
Chen began writing poetry in 1976, while in high school, and published his first book of poems, Whale Boy, in 1981, followed by eight more. His recent poetry draws extensively on Buddhism, often underlining the conflict between body and soul. In 1997 he published a book titled The Heart Sutra in Modern Verse, which juxtaposes verses of the classic Buddhist text with twenty original modern poems.
A prolific and versatile writer, Chen has also written fiction, essays, plays, film criticism, and song lyrics.
—WATCHING MARCEL MARCEAU
little by little I no longer believe that
he’s trying to please with his sadness—
the stage crowded with symbols
and allusions looks vast because
the swirling breeze of the imagination
gently triggers syllables in the brain
he says he’s lonely
he writes poetry, juggling soft signs
that leave even less of a trace than words …
he binds himself
he is carving time
he plays a game of tug of war with himself, miserable child,
it seems as if too much probing
has made him a loner, off on his own and
immersed in a game he alone understands
then he’s ripped to shreds
fought over by hordes of visible ghosts
he is tripped up by his own shadow
he smashes every mirror in the room
he tries to escape
he holds my hand, teaching me how to caress
there’s no escape … I agree
numerous silent thoughts
flash by in an instant—on stage
humanity is everywhere looking for a loophole
he insists on pointing it out without language
he shifts an enormous, invisible boulder on his own—
dribbling an innocent ball
he tells me that this is the planet on which we live
weary of Olympian tasks, he says he wants to take a break
and join the rest of humanity
(1983)
(translated by Simon Patton)
I see you so clearly walking toward me from my previous life
into my future
and into my future’s future
the present is all I have. each time I wake
from dreamless sleep
I worry I’ve missed my chance,
my chance and you with it—
how I want to go back to that second of error
freeze-frame the image
and make time stop:
you forever getting up to go
and me forever reaching out my arms
(1985)
(translated by Simon Patton)
NO CHILDREN ARE BORN IN THIS INSTANT (FROM “IMAGINARY EXERCISES IN LOVE AND DEATH”)
no children are born in this instant.
for so long in the infinite stillness not a single mystery has hatched—
deformed, remnant limbs droop from
a disorderly arrangement of vacant insect eggs.
I hear umbilical cords gather in darkness:
a snapping in two and falling
no desires are born in this instant.
I remain wide awake, torturing the flesh with
an extreme, wakeful tension like two adjacent internal organs
wearing away at each other fleshily day and night
and making my belly groan with obscure pain
right hand uncoordinates with left
wolf cries hide in my pupils, love
is sewn tightly into the muscles of my chest. no feelings of beauty
are born in this instant, the degeneration of an entire century
collects in the bags under my eyes
no voices are born in this instant.
those who once spoke
have packed up and left—
an inexplicable urgency closes in
I keep my mouth shut for this weakened, feebly pulsing world
should I burst out crying with tears of joy
for a silence so rare in the universe?
(there was originally no need for such tears)
and so there are no children born in this instant.
despair is like the extended description of thickened asphalt
the earth completely flat
breathing comes to a gradual halt in a place
far from the pillow. dark as a brick, night
shuts in and guards the already formed
you fill in the answers yourself
there are no questions in this instant
no questions are born in this instant
(1985)
(translated by Simon Patton)
(FROM “INTERIOR DESIGN”)
even the dragonflies are dizzy, this sixth finger
signed obliquely to a paper surface
of pure white thought
turning and turning
like the blades of a helicopter unable to
take off, circling the thumb
but unable to raise intellect to the heights of spirit—
tired and irritable
and certain to roll off the table eventually
(1986)
(translated by Simon Patton)
(FROM “INTERIOR DESIGN”)
according to the list
in good order he takes off his tie, ring, dentures
glasses, credit cards
and condom. till he is completely
immersed in transparency
in front of the mirror he becomes
completely gentle
world-caring
unable to debate or
have an erection.
(1986)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
on TV I watch a young father who
has taken out a mortgage on a house on a slope on some distant hills
mornings he wakes up smiling on slightly ruffled sheets, a dream of serenity
satisfaction in his eyes
I watch him exercising in the sunlight on that gently rippling lawn
his shoulder muscles supple, untensed; his breathing relaxed
he has just the right amount of epidermal fat on him. Welcome, he says. Come
and join us
his invitation is sincere
he flashes a set of sparkling white teeth
I watch another young father drive off in his car to
another far-off hillside
he has a very Chinese face, a very Taiwanese accent
a very Japanese work ethic
and very American consumer habits
he says: Let me give you a word of good advice
This is the perfect choice for you—
although there aren’t any houses on the hillside yet
on TV I see the smiling wife he has chosen
and his altogether too beautiful son
the three of them sitting down to
the recommended daily allowance of calories and balanced electrolytes:
I’ll let you in on a little secret
the secret of true love
I lean forward in my seat
he tells me to wash with a certain brand of soap
and to use a new improved toilet paper
now on special
on TV I see a young father who looks a little like me
his hair is trimmed neatly at the back
he radiates confidence
Your shirt is a little creased, he warns me, and the style is out of fashion
You’re a little hunched over, and your mood is negative.
There are flecks of white in your hair, and you have quite a bit of dandruff. on TV
I see
the me I should be, a lover of tidiness
smiling happily and standing in front of a house
I own
You don’t still believe in those old ideals, do you? the man on TV asks me
in the forest of trees on the safety island
an occasional thin mercury streetlight shines
few cars travel the purplish asphalt road:
City, city. soon you’ll have spread all the way up here…
he puffs on his cigarette nervously, a worried look in his eyes
unable to see the distance
on TV after dinner I see
(and finally remember) what that hillside used to look like
the long silvergrass and the patches of cinquefoil
in which a skinny brown kid from the neighborhood used to hide
leading his buffalo this way
he said: Poverty killed off many of the finer qualities I once had. …
yet prosperity has added such glorious miseries.
on the TV, I am convinced at this moment
that he has found true happiness—
this citizen of a subtropical island
who is also keen on physical fitness, public welfare, and culture
I feel a deep loathing and admiration for him
like I would for a brother who grabbed all the family advantages for himself
on the TV after dinner
from block after block of towering high-rise downtown apartments
a succession of young fathers hurries off to dispose
of the day’s accumulated information and emotion
before tonight’s garbage collection
inviolable, this city rhythm—Good evening.
Would you like to own your own home too?
inviolate, this adult destiny. every night
before the garbage truck shows up, all the young fathers rush out
to dispose of themselves
(1986)
(translated by Simon Patton)
MESSAGE BOARD AT A TRAIN STATION
A-Mei, A-Cao
I took the 11:37 southbound train first the fact is I don’t hate you
if the typhoon comes tomorrow
call me at (00) 7127#998*
father. my child, remember me
give birth to the baby first
Chen, don’t wait for me
my home is not in TaipeiECHO: ECHO
what I owe you
I’ve already found a job
after a long, long time, essence
clashes with phenomenon severely
may you come home soon
three hens and Chinese broccoli
are all fine
yours most truly will pay you back
(1992)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
His love for me was arguably beyond ordinary friendship….
Without me, perhaps he would not have renounced the world and become a monk.
—Xia Mianzun on Master Hongyi
After all, I had to pass a life of utmost glory
before I could prove that all doctrines
are empty. I love your heart
I care for your form even more
such is our destiny. I am willing
to go through
a thousand, ten thousand
calamities, like a butterfly
losing its way in a tempest of blossoms
do I have to suffer like this each and every moment
cut off food, hair, thoughts
and must I cut off this mental flower of supreme beauty
so as to release myself
from the affliction of the tight chest and the dry tongue?
In the zenith of the sky a moon not quite full
like the branch I planted with my own hands, yet to bloom
a man of obsession, shallow in the understanding of the Way …
the butterfly bids spring blossoms farewell
it asks: how can you be so utterly unaware of your own beauty?
flowers live and die in their own way.
amid the living and dying of myriad blossoms
am I not just a man stealing a glimpse at their reflections in the water?
after all, a life is but a long good-bye
(may we be born and live together in peace and cultivate innate wisdom in another life)
so I leave behind love
so I leave behind obsession
so I leave behind sorrow
so I leave behind joy
so I
(1993)
(translated by Michelle Yeh)
waking from that dazzling night of the anus’s first opening
we find that the back door was only unlatched, not locked
the womb and the large intestine are identical rooms
separated only by a warm wall
we dance amid desire’s flowerings
limbs tenderly unfurling, feeling
that we are the start of a new breed
doomed in the face of the storm history is perhaps about to rain down on us
none of the unfortunate predictions uttered by the throat of Freud have ever come true
(we are the start of a new breed
exempt from poverty, sports injuries, AIDS)
allow us to bare our consciences and our anuses for your inspection
and under your illuminated magnifying glasses
you can examine how we writhe like members of the rat tribe
feeling ecstasy and agony
our body hair drenched in blood as if caught in a spill of dye—will we
have the good fortune to prove the necessity of sodomy in the years left to us?
the way things are going, we’ll be on our way home before the back door’s locked up
our bed lowered directly into the grave
the perverts having once again come to the end of their day of glorious deceit
no one knows what putrefying reasons lie concealed within the stitched-up wound
but at this point why don’t we just bleed to death?
(whoever says he wants to go and corrupt morals is the first to leave the group
there where the flowers grow profusely he brandishes his halo
he at least will never prove sodomy’s necessity …)
but the anus is only unlatched
misery constantly escapes from the crack under the door like
a light bulb blinking on and off throughout the night
as we embrace, embrace again, we refuse to believe that the ways of making love
have been exhausted
or that the pleasures of the flesh have been cast aside
but at this point why don’t we just throw in our lot with the silent and healthy majority?
why don’t we throw our lot in with the majority?
majorities are OK
sleep is OK
having sex is OK
not having sex is OK too
whether you tap it or push it open
the anus will always
remain unlatched …
(1995)
(translated by Simon Patton)
walking my twilight self through fallow fields I see
acres of withered sunflowers still tracking the western sun
with their proud heads
a lizard’s tail shed on a ridge between fields
looks like a lithe snake in miniature
it doesn’t stop wriggling
the whole time I watch
a kid from the village shows me a dead frog, long dead
he says: Look! It’s still moving …
waving unconsciously, those webbed arms and feet
look like they’ll go on for a long time to come
I walk on toward night’s most perfect phase
reaching into the dark to my heart’s content
the light of those stars still glows
but in that moment I realize they’re long dead
I make my pause in the dusk of the daily round
and listen for death’s performance still
head held high, I wave one hand
flapping it like the lizard’s tail
and put on a show in the amber light of sunset …
I know that I’ll still go on living, that we’ll
go through the motions for a long time to come
(1996)
(translated by Simon Patton)
*“Butterfly Dream” is based on the biography of the legendary Li Shutong (1880–1942). As a young man living in Shanghai, Li was a famous literatus—poet, calligrapher, engraver, and Beijing opera singer. He studied Western painting in Japan from 1905 to 1911, during which time he taught himself to play the piano and performed in the first modern Chinese drama staged by overseas Chinese students in 1907. After returning to China, he taught music and art at Zhejiang Teachers Academy, Hangzhou, until 1918 when, at the age of thirty-nine, he decided to become a Buddhist monk. Known as Master Hongyi, Li was highly respected as a great Vinaya teacher. Xia Mianzun (1886–1946), a colleague and one of Li’s closest friends, was a writer well known for his essays.