Three Poems by Ma Yongbo

 

Conversation by the Autumn Lake

 

 

The external world is also the inner world, for example, 

on a lake darkened by pine trees, a man counts his beard 

then proceeds to count blue delphiniums, thus he sees 

the bow of the boat wedged into the sandy shore: our way 

of entering the inner world seems a bit crude,  

but perhaps no one will get hurt there. 

What will you find there? Incomplete shells, 

footprints? Or some weird branches? 

 

From the distant sandbank comes the lonely cries of wild ducks,  

like abandoned tin cans, separated 

far away, almost dull, 

occasionally one breaks free from a small cloud shadow,  

only to land in another cloud shadow again.  

Why do you call these your inner world: the autumn lake,  

the leaves, our wrinkled ears, thoughts  

between breath and wind? Although 

 

no one is satisfied with the shape of themselves 

in everything. Does this mist come from 

the lake or from your eyes? 

You can’t see me. I’ve been silent, 

but you think I’m still talking, 

saying what you imagine I should say. 

The gurgling of water becomes clearer now, 

is there an outlet in the lake, flowing to a place below?  

 

How to imagine the shadow of the lake, the shadow of a poem 

or the forgery of a poem. Sand. Dogs. The sun shines for a moment, 

this makes sense. Your self is a stone, grass, a fish in the water 

or perhaps a stick, a number, an island 

Then who are you? Break free from the cloud shadows in your heart, 

see the boat cut through the green surface of the water 

hear the rustling flutter of wild ducks before diving into the inner world.

 

 

 

 

Encounter with a Cat on Midnight Streets

 

 

You lay sprawled in the centre of the street, eyes half-open. 

Poor little thing, what happened to you? 

Your gaze seems to ask me, what is life? 

I had just returned from a meeting discussing the meaning of life, 

drunk on wine because life is so beautiful, 

though the discussion was dull, led by zombies. 

I never expected to meet you like this, 

"Death" lying on the path I, "Life," must take. 

As if questioning me, unknown death, how to understand life. 

The midnight street suddenly falls silent, and I hesitate for a moment, 

thinking to find a branch to move your flattened body to the roadside, 

where passing cars will crush it repeatedly, 

until your emaciated pain is swept away by the sun's custodian, 

or it becomes a golden beehive, dripping with blood honey. 

But in the end, I did nothing, exchanging a meaningful gaze with you. 

I turn away, like a soul leaving its shell.

 

 

 

Superficial Snow

 

 

Undoubtedly, the sky favours what's low lying 

That enchanting sense of security. This snow 

makes the room even darker, the windows 

seem to have moved further away from the walls. 

Snowlight streams in, stiffening like your finger joints, 

You could easily leave that rugged chair, 

It's the skeleton of an old friend, 

Embracing you from behind, whispering to you, 

Being alive is a cold spherical doorknob, 

You know the silence of snowfall, 

Different from the premonition of a still earth, 

Different from the blind shouts that follow, 

Like white noise compressed in foam balls, 

A person wading in the pond of that ball, 

Trying to get to the bottom of things. But how to receive 

The gift from a superficial snow, 

How to extract concentrated uranium 

From a fluffy fragment, a snow has fallen, 

It will fall again and again, under different names, 

Gathering the foundations and cornices of shattered heavens 

In a roughly stitched pocket, 

Its requiem buried in its own darkness, 

Abandoned mines, valleys, libraries converted 

From bomb shelters, their unvisited chambers echoing with sighs from nowhere, 

Countless expired books and periodicals lying stagnant, 

But what can one do, even if this snow is a choir with a muffler, 

Even if the arbitrary conductor has scrambled the score, 

So that moist snowflakes plop from the wires 

Onto the umbrellas of passersby, tilting the red ones slightly, 

And snow on the pine trees and showers of shades under trees 

The scent of old catalogues, the fire of reading, coal on the road, 

In the slowing vortex of transparency, a snowflake 

Perches on your nose tip, this pale soul whispers to you: 

"I will only be seen once, that's the essence of things. 

I escaped from a riot in the depths of the universe to report to you, 

That message has been lost in the endless journey, 

Perhaps we'd better forget it. 

Forgetting is the ultimate wisdom, but 

Continue to sing, since you cannot bear 

To call other things by similar names." 

It so says, gently turns around, and returns to 

That eternal and fleeting queue, soon disappearing 

Along a glass piston that rises and falls incessantly, 

Perhaps, that's where your difficulty lies, 

Tearing off a faded label from a swift, continuous and abstract action, 

A snapshot, hanging it on the trembling horizon for development, 

An exaggerated vacant posture 

No longer pointing anywhere, or perhaps 

Pointing to a place that has already changed, 

Is this the anticipated definite moment 

In the chaotic mass around the lake, 

The willow branch inserted into the water spreading ripples, 

All desires beyond this 

Are just a horse sweating in the dark, 

Constantly shifting the invisible weight from side to side, 

Or entering an empty Senate after a political murder, 

Witnessing the turmoil of dust on sunlit marble, 

The dictator and assassin are no longer present, 

Ah, so you're also among them! His exclamation 

Is a snowflake exhaled from a dying mouth, 

Ah, the infinitely compassionate requiem finally established, 

The magma inside things cools down gleaming, 

Solidifying into an end understood by no one, 

Good or bad, snow continues to fall, 

Surface snow falls on the surface of all things, 

This southern snow won't linger too long 

But it temporarily halts the disappearance of one person. 

 

 

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964,Ph.D,representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 7 poetry collections, He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.