The Poetry of Chen Dongdong 陈东东
Selections: 1983-1994
Chen Dongdong was born in Shanghai in October 1961, and has lived there most of his life. Chen was a frequent contributor to unofficial poetry journals throughout China during the 1980s, and he was one of the chief editors of Tendency 倾向 (1988-1991) and South Poetry Magazine 南方诗志 (1992-1993). A first officially published collection of poetry did not appear until the early 1990s, although Chen’s poetry often appeared in officially published literary journals and overseas Chinese language literary journals throughout the 1990s. In 1996, Chen was awarded the New York-based Hellman-Hammett Prize, and he spent of few months in the USA as a result.
1) A Long Way Off [远离]
2) A Horse in the Rain [雨中的马]
3) From No. 11 Middle School to Nanjing Road, Thinking of a Greek Poet [从十一中学到南京路，想到一个希腊的诗人]
4) Lamp Lighting [点灯]
5) On the River Watching a City [河上看城]
6) The Bus comes out of the Mountains [汽车出山]
7) The Light of Summer Days [夏日之光]
8) In “Riding on Wine” Pavilion, Sitting Alone, How Should We Read Ancient Poems [独坐载酒亭。我们应该怎样读古诗]
9) Words [语言]
10) The 1960s [六十年代]
11) Reading Paul Aluya [读保尔 爱路亚]
12) A Poem [诗章]
13) Fragments #3 [断章之三]
14) The Studio [画室]
15) 1 (a
16) The Moon [月亮]
17) The Fountain [喷泉]
18) July [七月]
19) The Art Gallery [美术馆]
20) November [十一月]
21) The Destroyer [否定者]
22) Words About New Poetry [新诗话]
23) Longhua [龙华] from A Comedy [喜剧]
24) Two Selections from Episodes [插曲]
I. At Swallow Rock [在燕子矶]
II. Unfinished [未完成]
25) The Deer [麋鹿]
26) The Pagoda [塔]
27) The Bat [蝙蝠]
28) The Temple [寺]
29) The Black Bird [乌鸦]
30) The Garden [花园]
31) The Phoenix [凤凰]
32) The Mauso1eum [陵]
33) The Balloon Fish [鳜鱼]
34) The Crack of Dawn [黎明]
35) Unexpected Words [偶然说起]
36) Reading a Copy of a 1919 Shanghai Paper [读1919年申报]
37) Earlier Poets [更早的诗人们]
38) A Go1den Peak [金顶]
39) In Sickness [病中]
40) Spring [春天]
41) August [八月]
42) The Night of the Sea God [海神的一夜]
43) The Demon Poetry [魔鬼的诗歌]
44) Written for a Persian Rug [为一幅波斯地毯而作]
45) Constellations [星座]
A Long Way Off [远离]
A long way off from the orange grove
a long way from an orange grove in the moonlight
far from the orange grove two bluebirds fly over
and far too from the orange grove slapped by the sound of waves
A long way off from the orange grove
a long way from an orange grove where the river forks
far from the summer's orange grove
and far too from the other orange grove that tosses in the wind
A long way off from the orange grove
far too from sunken stones and flames'
A Horse in the Rain [雨中的马]
In the dark you pick up a musical instrument that's handy. You sit serenely in the dark
the sound of a horse comes from the far end of the room
This instrument is out of fashion, shining in spots
like the red freckles on a horse's snout, flashing
like the top of a tree
the first blossoming of the cotton rose, startles a few thrushes into flight
The horse in the rain too is doomed to gallop out of my memory
like the instrument in the hand
like a cotton rose opening in a warm fragrant night
At the other end of the corridor
I sit sedately as if it has been raining all day
I sit serenely like a flower that opens at night
A horse in the rain. The horse in the rain too is doomed to gallop from my memory
I've picked up the instrument
and softly play the song I'd like to sing
From No. 11 Middle School to Nanjing Road, Thinking of a Greek Poet
[从十一中学到南京路，想到一个希腊的诗人]
The free air of the Aegean sea a stretch of bright blue
at the end of the strand, an old man still loves the sea
still feels the Greek sun
on a rock, a naked woman sings softly
full-figured, a season of summer as smooth as a pebble the rise and fall of waves
on account of this he will not put pen to paper ever again
seventy-nine years of age
he strokes his rough chest
Now I walk out of No. 11 Middle School
and see a clear sky above the Nanjing Road summer passions mean to drip
all over the street the faces of girls are beautiful
like birds, vehicles swoop low past their sides
moving on, I turn into another large street
yearning to smell a breath of the sea
resplendent black rock on the reef
the wind turns the book of poems into a torch
Lamp Lighting [点灯]
Shine the lamp into a stone, make them see
the shape of the sea in it, make them see
ancient fish in it
you ought to make them see the light too, raised high on a mountain
a lamp
The lamp should also shine into a river, make them see
living fish, make them see
a soundless sea
you ought to make them see the sunset too
a firebird fly up from the forest
Light the lamp. When I use my hand to block the north wind
when I stand in a narrow gorge
I think they will crowd around me
they will come to stare at my words
like lamps
On the River Watching a City [河上看城]
In the night's dim light a dog's eyes are like lamplights
fifty pairs of dog eyes
fifty pairs on the same face
they're also like a city of lights
flashing out from the weeds into the river
I arrived on this bank many years ago
I sit on a stone
thinking of that boat moored against the flow
Every night, that dog opens its eyes
like a city of lights
fifty pairs of dog eyes will mesmerize you
I sit in the wind
watching the reeds rise higher than the moon
The Bus comes out of the Mountains [汽车出山]
The bus comes out of the mountains, the hot air rises
did the years that grew in those black stones also have, overlooking them
a hawk, attracted by a snake
plunging straight into the sea
Today this bus is far from flying birds. The driver has urgent business
and drives the bus heaving like a river stag
in those years when serpent-neck dragons traversed rivers, were there also vigilant
eyes, closely following their prey
waiting for a gun's report
One night
ahh, one entire night
a whole night sitting serenely under a tree
will I think back on the bus that appeared out of the mountains
The Light of Summer Days [夏日之光]
These are cool reeds, this is refreshing water
this is a coarse sun, a huge outdoor sun
this is my temporary home, the stay of a half summer
this is my poem
a poem for you to read out loud
This is an intersection, glossy vehicles, and faces moist
as a season of black cobblestones
this is a tree throbbing with the sound of cicadas, the shade that remains of afternoon
and blinding glass
this is the roof that shuts out the bright sun, a shark resplendent
the shape of a returning sail
this is a naked body behind heavy curtains, short dull hair
a golden left leg
a flock of swifts assembles in the middle of the street
this is a day to go out to see the sea, a day to sit alone
a day to speak softly
this is a day for a cool reed mat, the water's in your hand
on the wall behind you appears
a poem
In “Riding on Wine” Pavilion, Sitting Alone, How Should We Read Ancient Poems
[独坐载酒亭，我们应该怎样读古诗]
On the river mist locks in a solitary sail. Dawn enters the temple
large red stones damp satiated
like leaves the autumn frost has left stained
the wind blows flowers fall
like a robin in the hands of shadows stagnant
all this
these were all his lines of poetry. During the Song dynasty[1]
the sea fell and you saw mountain stones, an arid season
city buildings in a pall of dust
But I've passed through a night of heavy rain
on the red stones
green leaves like countless fish
near death, soaked by the weather plump and new
and at this moment tree bark is still rough, floating in the pond
unlike anything
looking across the river, the after-noon Riding on Wine Pavilion sits silently clinging to the mountain
in the midst of all this
I see a flock of fierce birds calling and ripping at the river's heart
wings like knives
we must have thoughts like knives too
in Riding on Wine Pavilion
Su Dongpo’s[2] lines are no more of use
I sit alone and begin to learn to use my own eyes
to see how high the mountain how small the moon
Words [语言]
The rock's shoulders unfold, the wings of birds and warships unfurl
the sun drones like a gold beetle
by chance it enters a white hall
farther away, a red pleasure boat approaches slowly
like another midsummer dusk
in my eyes, between my fingers
table salt glimmers
and that slice of memory deep in the brain's sea
now edged with green, a voiceless song and dance at the far end of the corridor
when the cloud cover finally breaks
schools of fish are drawn toward turrets by the sea
colorful lights will suddenly engulf all branches in flame
illuminating the words of you of me
The 1960s [六十年代]
A red guard crosses the street at an angle. The squad of spear-brandishing men
really looks as if they are iced-over dirt beside a river
the drought star rises, eases open the door and looks in
at seven dead birds
bloody necks, traces of summer on black feathers
from here on I pay attention to people's faces, lips of dim night light
the meek glances identical to a black goat's
from now on I know why wind-breaks must be rebuilt
granite is solid
beech trees keep close watch on the sea of salt blood
Seven birds buried in moonlight
closely I look into each surrounding face as it watches
Reading Paul Aluya [读保尔 爱路亚]
Sometimes the imagination is a piece of ice a feather
a warm March wind a thawing breeze
sometimes between rhythms a hat twitches
a red glove a pair of dancing slippers leap
so much sea smell sea color
mountain smell mountain color
so many sounds laden with peace laden with love
sounds of the imagination of grapes and lemons
at dusk poetry's like a shard of ice
like a quiver of feathers a pair of red dancing slippers pirouetting everywhere
against a blue and orange backdrop
is Paul Aluya so long as he has breath in him
subject to the caresses of a warm March wind a thawing breeze a red woman
Paul Aluya until his last breath
sometimes a pair of blackbirds on entering the dreamlands, the singer is alarmed
he sees an eye climb onto a collar bone
a group of girls walk out into the moonlight
A Poem [诗章]
I love the trees and the lambs when I am beside the body of the earth
a pocket full of stars and every kind of water that flows under stones
over the body of the earth
what I love is dirt itself the outskirts of the village
I'm waiting
for a woman bright eyes white teeth she'll come up beside me
what I love is the sight of her a wild goose lagging behind in a westerly wind
that blue heart of hers a massive glacier
a towering mountain range that I love is
the lute strings' seven shades of sound
life's seven defeats the seven bulls
the seven deserts
what I love is the female sex and pomegranates by the side of a camel
what I love's the sea and schools of fish men and lions
I'm beside reeds
what I love is white iron houses the fresh fragrance of flowers in all seasons
a patch of standing snow a tune that tells of life
Fragments #3 [断章之三]
I was born into a bleak 1961 I've seen the knife blades of the streets twist into the autumn light
how many times I've reached out my hand to the trees in darkness
trees of death and that whole other side of the sun and its greenery
I was born into a bleak 1961 under the ancient eaves of August I move covertly
like the sad declining years of memory
I see dismal scenery
I've touched the coldest constellation
the sun that capsizes the carts
and turns fish to ice I've seen the bats circle, signals of suffering
Occasionally I pluck lute strings and hairs I take my lead from
the snows in the deep winters and spring sometimes the pillow
lays my head on a river of words
facing a window of thick mist
out of newly spilled blood stamens stones flowers the shoulders of pines
I was born into a bleak 1961 my clothes are filled
with fine flames of sand
I was born into a bleak 1961 in the sad shouting
I learned to make memory
I saw the god of darkness in the vast wilderness the god of hatred
the dark curly-headed god of lost hope
I was born into a bleak 1961 headed from one hunger into another
The Studio [画室]
Ridges of ice tower above. Through it
mountain ridges become red blue all colors
fearless of frost, sour evil birds fly to and fro
feathers black and bland
as if they could take the place of the night
These three women stand right there
young, plump
the suns in their breasts are revolving celestial bodies
between them is a jade-green earthen jar
and a posy of gold lotus blossoms dances
And during this calm winter
three women stand on a mountain top like a view of pagodas
from those straight perfect stems
deep gazes are carved by mountain chains of ice
like votive lamps floating in mountain valleys
Their desires are laid out before them, their dance steps
in the sunlight their pink shadows sway tawny daylillies
fearless of the frost, sour evil birds fly to and fro
feathers black and bland
as if they have already taken the place of the gentle night
1 (a
A face appearing makes me think of the horse you write about
the face taking on the appearance of a green spring, your
horse
Dead silence. Behind you in the background there are four scrawny dogs
a leaf falls
your face is a green horse
Again it is the season of the petal-fall, already you've been dead
twelve years
silence
A leaf falls. For the first time I see you clearly
you have a glum face, it
rears up surprisingly, like a green horse
Four thin dogs tag along at your heels
a face has taken on the appearance of a green spring, your
horse
I close the book and
the door, silence
heart gray, my thoughts as cold as you
The Moon [月亮]
My moon is miniscule and bleak
my Sunday piled full of books
I'm sunk deep in various impossibilities
and realize, the sea of time and desire is empty
for ardent flames it's hard to burn long
The night sparkling
how can I deliver this letter on into the dawn
lonely words reflect upside down on the glass of the mirror
like that bat
hesitating as it flies back into the darkness of an enormous dream
like an old record where the needle slides beyond hearing under the lamp
A water truck speeds on briskly, a piano cuts out
the restrictions of spring
my days scatter dust
on the first page of the score I open for you
a blaze of horses and shooting stars dazzle
my flower garden is not yet decided on
a frenzied plant mixes in with the music
the scenario of my hallucination an innocent sunset
my moon miniscule and bleak
The night sparkling, how can I deliver
this letter on into the dawn
I am sunk low in a Shanghai that has lost its luster,
into a narrow loving
I watch your looks fade daily
The Fountain [喷泉]
All things are dedicated to the stream that keeps running, and a fountain
ever sharper its blades of water cut loose the virgin body
A full reservoir of water! A reservoir secretly housing
a huge fire and hot blood
time spread around the fountain
is not the same as memory
or that dawning
or the radiance crushed out under a bulldozer
-- out of the water dawn breaks into spring
a cold trill like the opening of
a switch-blade
Death is in my hands, I've let go shows of emotion
the cart-horse of darkness gallops over the dyke
falling into every line of the yellowing love song
the tearful eyes imagined, under the fountain
in delusions briefly happy
now pressed out by a denseness of the day
Driven out by the denseness of day! The fountain fires
a different barrage of light
a motor boat crosses the lake
Oh bleak water reservoir
the virgins obey the order to step into the bath
their chaste bodies
patted and turned over and over
July [七月]
Once again the bat pulls its black wings back in and comes in
again the walnut tree greets
the summer trade winds
at night like a new line of poetry the fountain in my breast
and the sun is a hen –
July its fiercest egg
In July the torch of delusion rises
on a clear day in July millions
rejoice!
As though harvested by sickles, a lover
walks on the boulevard beneath her, large loose white blouse
two naked breasts wait for the heavy rain
of my caress
Or on an abandoned building site
in the dressing room of a great shapeless playhouse
in the company of an anteater you push it open
wider --
in July life is full ripe
whose hammer will strike?
The bat hovers over the deep of the orchestra pit
the pockets of the walnut tree are full
of firelight and ashes
and the sun a hen
when love spins like a fountain under high pressure
and the sun is a hen --
this July is its hottest egg, definitely.
The Art Gallery [美术馆]
Delusion's painting, for one
for you I arrange an invented landscape
in the afternoon fish-shaped seas motionless
a speed-boat opening a furrow in the silence
Seeds scream out from the womb of August
the shouts are from dying souls
to the left of a church, the disused gallery's dark top floor
I open the summer-facing windows
the invented landscape exists just for you
Constellations appear clearly in daylight
the stiff fin of a blue whale stiffens
I open the summer-facing windows
the painting of my delusions
for one
your tongue opens a furrow in the eulogy of beauty
You pass through the largest shadows in this city
you free your body from the ancient writings and the sound of bells
you hear frenzied slogans too
in the womb of August
the seeds scream
In August's fermented spirit, invention can't complete
the delusion, the gallery is covered by defeated dust
in the air above it
constellations move toward a single setting sun
and a plane cuts a furrow into the dark
November [十一月]
Under a dark sky, Shanghai's more alive than ever
the appealing landmarks that I love dearly
become more resplendent
the massive flames closer to the dark
Noise! The clamor is a better substitute
the cracking of the dawn from cries of birds in lofty places
The Industry-and-Commerce Bank towers deep into autumn
heroes make something out of nothing even more than before
the burning thing, that burning thing
the sermonizing and dying preacher, under a dark sky
it's tiny to its mouth in the sea
see the glass towers soaring out of the water
But I lose track of my body (in the streets and alleys.) Can't imagine
what I actually am
Shanghai's November yearns for beams of light more
on the spire of the last tower
the remnants of summer in the shape of sunlight
a flock of swifts lights up mankind
The Destroyer [否定者]
In the sky you appear above the awful city
summertime your arms spread wide
taking in a bird's eye-view of so many blazing streets
A head zooms down
on either side great conflagrations lick up shadows
it can't possibly catch fleeing thoughts
but can prove
a transparent body's about to arrive
Arrival, appearances
with what kind of finger will you stir things up
will you accept this
when Love-Bathed Hall's morning-payer bell rings
a couple of birds do their morning exercises around the spire
Can you accept it
when a destroyer is born out of fire
and intact stands for the moment on the eaves
The negator
is honey or a tiny thorn
coated in honey
can you accept this
The destroyer
is the sharpness of the thorn brought to the throat
and the drop of agonizing blood within it
Words About New Poetry [新诗话]
The light in the music has faded away entirely. Today
there are only
long-distance travellers
hunting for love in dreams
... "Artists are finished
they've lost their way." ...
A train overturns
a banquet of sleep under a viaduct
-- Wake up push open the window
the children rushing off to school can't imagine
that leaning out here watching them
I'm still in the night before
By the deep well of the courtyard
these ten years of exercises in verse composition
are bound into a book
swallows shuttle formless through it
And under the moon the Indian Ocean
a torrid island nation
the governor-poet is suddenly woken too
barefoot he paces through the study
A Comedy [喜剧] (A series of 7 poems) 1993
1) Longhua [龙华, or "Dragon Flowers," the name of a newly developed Shanghai suburb]
(partial translation)
An incinerator deep in a cemetery. The unadulterated blade of a knife
an exfoliating passion
a finger ring like a platinum spider
dangles on the fine line it unspools
immerses itself in the bloody pool of fire
on its way to snare a soul on the edge of a scream
a cry for help that rips through the vocal chords and their sails
Longhua in September, the treetops above the dust clouds belong to autumn
yet mourners in the procession are in their bare arms
from the monument shadow to martyrs' concrete
to the twilight scatter ashes. In the uproar
the sun veers toward the satellite city of Minhang, and the shiny
new electronics zone. And the judge in the air
has already engaged the dead soprano soul of his choice
Darkness is driven forward by an engine, in the midst of so much extermination
the vehicle can't be stopped. The mortuary lies across from
a small abandoned park: one star shines on a deep dark empty hole
baring the prospect of rot after death
when he lifts her and sweeps past at an angle
trying to surmount sorrow's holocaust
they hear a muffled aria of thunder roll through boiling lava
…..
Two Selections from Episodes [插曲] (A 5-poem sequence)
1) At Swallow Rock [在燕子矶]
From Nanjing's Swallow Rock I look down on the river
noon, a fierce wind is scattering clouds and shadows
like a horse in hot pursuit of the day
by my side, an insurance company girl
I've known only two days
bares a breast of bright sunshine
*
In her office of large windows
a phone rings urgently
startling a probationary employee intent on a card game
a freighting client can't find her
just now her body's stretching toward
a tranquility rarely found on the Yangtze
*
An iron boat. Safety hats
a rubber conveyor belt sprays coal
on a small dock below
a granule of death grows slowly large
its solid core rust-stained
its peach-skin surface has the fine hairs of erotic sensation
*
The river's like an enormous python
spots of cloud shadow roll on the water
on Swallow Rock my hand takes hold of an iron railing and
an old machine -- I point out to her
a flagpole amidst the green growth on the opposite shore
what sort of daydream has climbed to the top of it?
*
What sort of female breast brings forth a flower
a set of lips, brushed lightly by the soft wings of water fowl
her waist accommodates. Her
briefcase lies idle on the grassy knoll above us
the copy of the Rubiyat I placed in it heating up
one line of a Persian poem fits Swallow Rock
4) Unfinished [未完成]
An orange bus
leaps out of a tunnel
The old commuter wears a cap on his head
When he sees the Huangpu River again
there's music in his ear
he transforms into a horse
*
In the big office building the English left behind
I spread out my paper, and decide to write poetry
I want to write
the substance of the bright winter before my eyes
it's my habit to look out the window first
at the dubious scenery
*
I am on the third floor facing south
and saw what
the old commuter couldn't see
on another stretch of the river
like a pair of scissors the sunlight's trimming a horse's mane
the horse head cocked high like the trigger on a gun
(These following 9 poems belong to an un-titled sequence)
The Deer [麋鹿]
The deer is listened to attentively,
pointed out and spoken of, its temples pinned
full of autumn hills.
A great river winds its way, reaching to the next
remembered night.
In the wilderness the deer is at the high point of reverie,
matching the sad stars in the sky.
A prince sits down on a wheelchair, in his desolate palace
there're only storks of bronze waltzing in the air.
Similarly start out from roses,
until they turn to black iron and despair
Two poets weave with their mouths,
retell a season of illusions -- a labyrinth –
every sort of twist, and a motionless moment.
The feet are at hand,
divided up on odd auspicious beasts and rare birds.
But the deer are like isolated cities far away,
hidden deep in the prince's mutilated hills.
The sounds of deer bells trickle down through the night, two poets
listen closely and point to them.
The Pagoda [塔]
The North geese cross the Yangtze, autumn once more
withers and falls. A second time
this autumn throws its spindly pagoda up,
high, aimed at a far
more satisfying form.
The brilliance of perception has been buried already.
Bones, jewels,
golden tiles.
The artist's eyes are unearthing the artist's hands
they daub ancient vistas and dreams.
At this moment the waves begin to roll again. The night tide light
swells, drenches,
attacks the birds circling the turret. In the courtyard trees pick up the sound of the wind
and move, leaves fall to their knees,
beneath the pen a setting sun vanishes.
The North geese roost, sentinels make their rounds.
The shadow of the artist dissolves more quickly.
Perhaps more pleasingly,
a finger ring watches over this abandoned pagoda,
until the sound of the river overflows its banks.
The Bat [蝙蝠]
The bat belongs to a secret hour, flying around the flag of twilight.
The bat's ears hear news
of the harvesting of light,
the curb of evening prayers, and the chime of bells,
the penetrating hunger once again craves
a direction, feathers, a voice to sing with, hung upside down
among the gods of sleep and the sun.
The night's like a mountain quiet and vacant, stretched upon a sea of noisy conversation.
In the belly of the fish, a buried army of ants,
the flags hang limp -- a pensive soul
takes leave of bolts of cloth and black lacquer ware,
and returns to the long-dark city.
Water has flushed out the street, a lone light shines above the palace gate.
The bat's ears lead out
the spirits of peach blossoms and jade stones,
the soul of a white-skinned courtesan,
the bat's ears have passed through ceremonies --
news of the harvesting of light, flying to a higher moon,
it arouses a host of reveries in the dead --
it takes on the face of a child, and flits back to the city of day.
The Temple [寺]
Under hawk wings, an autumn temple –
a frost of dew,
a withered branch, a slow sound.
-- in line with the water, the scenery,
a traveller is moving from far away.
Whose mausoleum looks down across the river? The past radiance,
reek of iron.
A cold thought flies in on a night of intense feelings, one drop brings
down all the rain with it.
One drop washes all stones. The hawk's wings graze us,
cutting open a dark shadow.
The trees and the pagoda absorb sun,
the traveller follows the stairs into the temple.
Fixes on several flower vases in differing styles,
finds fault in one or two scrolls
the dark characters.
Lonely poems have waited long --
in line with the water the scenery
held silent at the awakenings of autumn.
The Black Bird [乌鸦]
There's a new beginning over the peak. A black bird with a golden beak,
bird symbolic of the sun,
time and the state of the soul too.
In the highest place, at the true destination,
all you see is its flight.
A whole landscape,
a whole beauty with a season of decay added in.
Autumn is the western part of the labyrinth,
the part that loves history in its declining years.
Bearing its portents the bird slices in with its wings, secret dark
gold-beaked messenger,
surveying the entire scene, it stops on a pagoda,
joined tight to the dusk before its eyes.
It's amazed at everything that has opened up, the beasts racing in the imagination,
the blessed light,
for itself it sees the blacker prophecy of the blind.
The short tip of its tongue reaches to its extremity, and tells of classical and straightforward books,
books
where each nib has drawn blood.
-- a book is read, the snow flies --
this bird perched alone in the decline of years, this last heartbreak deep in the labyrinth,
undergoes the day and becomes a night,
spread out from the point of termination.
The Garden [花园]
Plants have training. Their desires have been regimented.
They look forward to the self-same afternoon.
Self-same afternoon,
birds roost, leaves fall,
leisurely the serene zither-master strums,
six or seven people are getting drunk in the garden.
Six or seven people
rehearse their roles as plants thick shadows, avoid bad news.
In the depths of the ear, above a dream
of lilies,
the music partitions the autumn,
Ji Kang hovers by. Mouths buried under snakes and bitter bamboo
lust for alcohol.
The sound of chanting grows, closing fingers and hearts secretly.
The plants recover together,
bloom gloriously, open furiously,
and conceive for the intelligentsia of long ago.
The plants open a duct underwater
and a letter drops into
the gardener's hand.
The Phoenix [凤凰]
In the afternoon, the light
fixes on a single point, the wind
has keeled over, the pear tree stands higher than the whole hill.
A window facing the long dyke is open -- "Phoenix, phoenix,"
a desire laps alone by itself,
water and a soliloquy alone.
"I'm worn out already." "I've met my limitations once more."
The pure heart cowers.
-- refinement wilts, river beds turn black, the king-in-waiting
avoids even the earnest hand.
His gold ring slips off, his gold flame
bites deep into the word imagined.
"Phoenix, phoenix," in an opposite world
in palace halls of the past -- mysteries that perpetuate one's self,
constellations in a composite glare. "Phoenix, phoenix" –
the sighing of this written word rends his loneliness,
under the window a book slaps my body.
Again at night he sees it in a dream.
Pear trees talking on the other side of the hill.
"Phoenix, phoenix," a luscious shadow covers
the pure heart cowering inside him.
The Mauso1eum [陵]
The stones still persevere in the wind. The stones are bowed over,
piled up and towering,
intimating their final fate.
The scene decays by the day,
this round, this tilting, this pointless rampart and pagoda
they persevere, strive,
defy a degenerating era, a dispirited and
decadent time.
Flame is pure and simple in dreams,
lighting up the days about to return.
Flame gives heart to a thwarted generation, the last of them,
the secret inheritors of a noble race --
he resists further disease and decline,
a maliciously cultivated rose,
that sows stars and despair.
The scene decays by the day. The clothes are unbuttoned into the mind,
exposing a labyrinth.
Thought concentrated into stone, frozen stones,
every succinct flame,
every dull flame,
has admitted the likeness to autumn
of a person standing in the wind.
The Balloon Fish [鳜鱼]
The female guest attends patiently.
The source of the next generation.
The fire in the next generation's ovens.
The white master of the house makes a circuit and rises up out over the deep he watches
the fish being turned back.
Their eggs flash in the darkest place,
drawing down the roots of grass and high-flying birds.
The white master has crossed the garden –
autumn departs winter arrives,
children already on holiday,
fish-hooks multiply gently beckoning.
A balloon fish has brought news. The white master prepares
his winter clothes. Takes in the books of the summer days,
plants appropriate vegetables,
the white master closes doors and windows, the children are learning
to kill and to cook.
A balloon fish brings with it -- news.
A female guest wakes under a light. Everyday she prays,
everyday she chants,
patiently she awaits another season,
the white master's season for seeing off his guests.
The Crack of Dawn [黎明] 1987
The stork builds its nest in a higher place
-- stands upright, overlooking the dusk, and waits for a star
to fall
when dawn arrives, in a higher place young storks
extend themselves, carry out a pure and dignified mating
And beneath the branch on which they perch, the dull green spit
passes the tiny shadow of a glass tower on to the algae
at the same time sending out the earliest sentinel
a sunken-eyed young hawk, and the sound of bells
before sunrise
Like this a singer awakes, a singer chants
when dawn is split open like a bright tangerine by the night's light
a singer will see himself clearly
a singer will discover
the speechless summer season has already entered his blood
Unexpected Words [偶然说起] 1988
The crow-like locomotion of' old-fashioned autos, the round glasses
of old-fashioned people
a telegram's text, paper, brass keys
spines of old books gilded with gold
lines of tiny characters portray the moon
An iron bridge stretches out
in an earlier age
I labour to guess the direction the water flows. On the riverside dike
I start another sort of touching of autumn
a figure of fine sand, the breasts of a jade blossom hairpin
the lock's eye is slowly
being opened by me
I was born into a bleak 1961, I saw dream worlds on the water
moving leisurely
I accidentally utter
veins of feeling and memory scrutinized by me
Reading a Copy of a 1919 Shanghai Paper [读1919年申报] 1988
On the river's left bank people talk and laugh
cars sweep by like happy birds
the paper is folded into a white mare
I feel it, I've seen it, the burial of black snake-headed fish under the iron bridge
the black fish flash mournful scales
passing out from under the bridge
into the sunlight of late autumn a rustling flow of tears
I hear the sound of metal failing
Merchants so mad the corners of their eyes crack, leave shops behind
go out in the streets and shout
they also possess odd gill-fish as dark as snake-heads
opening in the autumn night
My autumn hair stands on end in the wind, I've finished reading another piece of distant news
the paper is folded into a white mare
if it strides across the bridge
amazed children will crowd around it
Earlier Poets [更早的诗人们] 1988
The place you can reach with your hand, is music
Their knees have all become stone, rough
hard
and a rainfall is as bright as a big fire
When the rainfall is quenched, the fall of leaves on both sides
like a golden temple you can touch with your hand
Earlier poets drop down amidst this
like autumn's light
quietly moored beneath a riverside tower
Earlier poets were intoxicated by the art of chess, attentive in the hand to hand fight
in daylight and black nights that can be touched
their kneecaps like waves of stone
toss and turn
beat on the street scene after autumn rains
the earlier poets bend their bodies down, darkness the same
can be reached by hand
A Golden Peak [金顶] 1989
The most peaceful high place is a mountain of snow, said to be heaven's
bazaar, blooms like the womb and lips of flame
the silent ponderous tree of Buddha already full
whose fingers play softly, with a flip of the hand
a smile and wisdom
grasped in the spring
The girl with golden eyelids who has taken her vows
approaches noon along a hillside path. She halts, inclines an ear
understands the speechless sermon of the sun
her shadow draws back
into a fully round sphere. Around her the mountains grow
wither and fall. Silver rooves. Flying birds. Light
Blooms like the womb and lips of flame, lizards await
the alchemy of the summer season. A snow mountain is the most peaceful high place
the noon hour reached by a daughter of heaven
a background sound of bells is pealing out, the written is being read
swallows twitter. Whose heart is serene, knows all
and opens the first door for her
In Sickness [病中] 1990
In my sickness a garden, the camphor tree taller than an ancient cypress
a nurse heavyhearted as a swan
from the water to the bridge, from dense shadow to forbidden drugs
I dream of flying in my siesta atmosphere
-- the detained sun
already has arranged a heavy rainfall for August
An important elder groans, startles the bright red finger-nailed
lover: who soothes, washes
massages and injects
tears rollout of his obsolete sockets
staunching the pain of roses and money
separated by a walkway, my body leans against a big window
I bow my head to this hospital's sweltering vista of summer
dark clouds gather from everywhere, pond fish float up
a sick woman waits for a watering
when my line of sight moves off the garden
the first raindrop
falls into the palm of the first to die
Spring [春天] 1991
Awaking over the city in spring, I slide down
from the city's highest flag pole
I pass through the gold lion bazaar of spring
I see dust
I see lanterns
a bright-eyed fiancée’s vast sea of a skirt
in the wind
showing off her elegant legs
The gold lion shines on the horses of the night
its mouth spits out mangos and parrots
the jade green man-god who drags it in
a sword in hand
in the springtime sky
In the springtime sky, city buildings still have dull rays of light
shadows point to this fleeting noontime
the birds are restless
and fruit already split
her clothes shed the fiancée faints beneath the flag
I saw another poet sing
I saw vulgar things in the spring wind
the gold lion rises up above the airborne ash
the jade green man-god
who drags it in, a lamp in hand
at the brightest moment
August [八月] 1992
In August I pass through the music room of politics, hear somebody
practice repeatedly that high-spirited little tune
A helicopter throws down a shadow
its upper body like that of a big dragonfly
peeks out from the eaves of a suspended bird cage
I've already walked far, even exited the city
I'm to jump up on a cement dam a hundred meters high
the wind at my back
still carries that high-spirited little tune
The two ears of a tulip, the ears of a four-footed beast in my fancy
the ears of herring scales flashing
already stopped up by the fingers playing
August, I sit down on the dam
can look down at the ridge of the far-off music room's roof
the helicopter almost at the level
of my eyebrows: Can it ride
the high-spirited little tune
-- this seems something dragonflies like to do
The Night of the Sea God [海神的一夜] 1992
This is precisely their night of joy
the sea god's naked blue body is wrapped
in the harbor's fog
in the fog, a boat speeds toward the moon
horse hooves shatter blue tiles
Precisely on this sort of night, the sea god's horse strides over
a trident carelessly lost
They can hear
a bank of steam whistles roll and toss on the roof top
the flesh of one must burrow more deeply into the other
When they get up, singing
lift away the bed's unsleeping wool blanket
rain and fog still adorns the dawn of the harbor
the sea god, riding his horse, wants to find the steel trident
that revealed his wanton night life
The Demon Poetry [魔鬼的诗歌] 1993
Is the demon poetry already here
the tragic form of the one-horned beast now appears
Is the demon poetry already here
in Shanghai in a skeletal tower
constructed from a phantasm
a bewitching braid grows an inch longer
Whose hand pushes open the tinted glass window
Whose shadow dives straight down from the top floor to the garden
and with a knife of darkness
cuts away the feeble fountain in the dusk. The demon poetry
Ah, is it already here
In this waste I hear a sound of remorse
Now who is it that incautiously
opened the long-necked bottle that imprisoned a thunderbolt
a lightning flash suddenly lights an oral cavity that grows sharp teeth
Is the demon poetry already here
overloaded with dust the one-horned beast emits
a baby's cry
Is the demon poetry already here
the hostess of female confinement reveals her dark door
and the pungent Indian incense
of the decadent tower, will change her into a butterfly or
swooning she'll fall toward the soul's palace of spring
Suddenly the one-horned beast breaks through the iron-skinned spire
leans out into the cloudy sky of the Shanghai moon
Ah, is the demon poetry already here
has it already come
When I pass this night below the fountain
when I look up and see the complicated patterns of celestial things
when I even try
to pick the toxic flames in the garden
the demon poetry, has it already come
Is the demon poetry already here
a turn in the stairs snarled in cobwebs
turning on its light
Is the demon poetry already here
the breakfast dishes of the loosened braid
locked in its cabinet
as the hostess' sexual climax is just calming down
the hostess' one-horned beast rises rapidly up
Ah, the demon poetry
has it already come
That sound of remorse, has it come again too
Written for a Persian Rug [为一幅波斯地毯而作] 1994
A garden reveals its true form out of a Persian geometry
the abstract rose receives life
art will present a metered sea of stretched cloth with
the fanned-out tail feathers of a peacock
round wide eyes of ceremonies various and many
Art also makes a gift of time and silence
wrapped up in its own beauty the big rug unrolls into a fabulous view
art will present a metered sea of stretched cloth with
gold and silver without limit
tossing waves soft females
In poetry the Emir drinks to his heart's content
showing off, the lamp a new moon lighting it up
art will present a metered sea of stretched cloth with
an opulent palace
sinking into the design's dark repeated dusk
Art will make a gift of night shades and lonely stars
the abstract rose receives life
art will present a metered sea of stretched cloth with
the love awakened in the breast of the weaver
by the high note of the peacock's prolonged cry
Constellations [星座] 1994
The syntax of stars tangles, their radiance tied in a dead knot
October's libra tilt regulates
birthdays and disease. It corresponds to the stomach
it descends to the gentle belly of shades of night
-- this suspended form
trades its light with scorpios
that shields its sparse public hair, like two different
horoscopes piling together in a calendar
Like two similar desires
a rainbow pointed out recognizably in the snake's
splendor and zigzag,-- the poetry of sexual feeling
sublimated during the days of enduring hunger
a dazzling gold star arrives: The gold star
keen, carves a mermaid's delicate scales
but dusk and dawn, death and resurrection
are run through by the goat and the lion and the ram
I hold a booklet of astrological signs
from confusing prognostications to exact addresses
the compass points at thirty-two positions
at each position a big symbolic nude appears
pigtails, flames, arrows and sexual organs
want to demonstrate to me the course of my life and its
mysterious meaning. – A crutch supports faith
a scythe reaps time, a comet knifes toward the magnificent
centaur, bad luck in the manner of blossoming double-edged sword
inscribes darkness amidst green blood and burning alcoholic plasma
-- the mermaid looks up at a sky full of stars
she can almost see me, lingering in a garden
ornamented by gemini, from the stone fountain
entering in the halo where celestial bodies make a turn
I search the index of a book with no borders, or in dreams I see
a street car racing toward lyra and its next stop
My experience on earth is probably an inverted image
appearing when lit by autumn's fast flowing Milky Way, because the stars
hide away it is even duller
vanishing in unreal cities I once set foot in
yet the discovered artistry I keep
inlaying the words on the zodiac of fate
-- abiding by the laws of light in the night sky
I speak even more constellational
names
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