Live Encounters Poetry & Writing May 2024.
I Lost That Child, poems by Ma Yongbo.
A special thanks to Anna Yin for her pioneering work in bringing Chinese poets to the international stage.
I Lost That Child
I’ve lost so much, yet I haven’t found myself.
I lost the sweetness of the child’s fingers in my mouth,
lost the clear astonishment in those curious black-and-white eyes.
The laughter in those eyes, now tinged with mockery,
even that mockery has dissipated, perhaps turned into cataracts.
I even lost the vast continent that gently rolled in those eyes,
and the bowed head of the white horse returning from afar, flames on its back.
I lost the multitude of bodies once present,
only the purity of lips kissed by mother remains.
The steadfast love stirred behind frosted glass by the sound of water,
the freshness of corn being husked, untouched by the old sun’s yellowed teeth.
I lost both the ruins and temples within those bodies.
I lost the couple standing by my side,
and at some point, I lost the hand holding mine,
the tobacco scent lingering on the hand and warmth in the palm lines.
I lost them, speaking from dwindling ashes,
speaking of my inherent fatigue, the grey above my head,
speaking of my fate, as if the neighbour next door hangs on by a thread.
I lost the fields in the autumn rain
and the silent black sheep at every graveside.
I cover my face with the darkness, returning to the uninhabited home,
the landless country, back to the womb without a mother.
Embracing what little remains of me, holding my breath, living until death.
Comforter
Out of mercy, God let a dead man dream himself
still living, everything just as it was
daylight, family, city, reliable lamplight
His job tires him as it used to do
the difficulty of translating sentences from a giant blue book
whose bound threads fall loose
Sometimes he understands the sentences
sometimes they seem mysterious, distant like stars
Yet, the land, sky, seasons, house remain the same as before
his few friends still truthful
They sometimes bend over, burying themselves in a book
studying the shades of words, sometimes walk
out of the city to a drying field, in blustery spring wind
drink till late night at a cold, desolate bar
Life is peaceful though changes occur
Some people leave, some die, die of grief
some new faces shine with hopeful glory
In his tearful eyes, the city has expanded
He has a different job in a city far south
Recalling the person he used to be
he realizes ten years have flashed past
He wants no more change, used to failure
God has duplicated the whole universe for his soul
but his enemies increase
Sometimes he senses something has been moved
but doesn’t know what or where it went
He keeps writing poems, tucking them carelessly
into tree holes or between pages of books
Sometimes he finds whole sentences go missing
or inexplicably changed as if written by someone else
Around him, things secretly decrease
First the hilltop is bulldozed flat
several lakes dry up, exposing fearful caves
with huge footsteps at their bottom
Then his friends are replaced by strangers
who wink at each other
Revolution and love still happen
seem so real yet he feels
they never actually existed
as if telling him, nothing can hurt you
You are already dead
Midway Stop
It was an autumn long ago
I was still young then, still in love with something
There are few passengers on the huffing local train.
I’m curled up alone on a long seat,
the vibration of the wheels rocked my head,
suddenly stopped; woke me up
it is late at night and the northern plain is dark,
only the river shimmers and no one speaks,
no-one moves around,only the joint between the two carriages
sighs in frustration like an accordion
like the silence after a dispute between lovers
I stand up and listen. What’s happening?
Where are we? The darkness outside is also listening,
no signal lights are flaring,
no train suddenly burst out from the opposite side
waving ghostly white vapour.
Nothing happened. Suddenly,
in the dark, a bumblebee swoops into the car window,
leaving scratch marks and a clear buzz in the dust;
its whole head looks like a dazed
and painted eye, staring at me blankly.
Many years have passed, the purpose of that trip
I have long forgotten. The only thing that I miss
is the silent gathering of the entire wilderness during the midnight parking
and the uneasiness of the young man who never got off the car.
© Ma Yongbo
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, PhD, translator, editor, and leading scholar of postmodern poetry. He has authored or translated more than 80 published books. Ma is a professor in the Faculty of Arts and Literature at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. His translations from English include works by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, W.C.Williams, John Ashbery, Henry James, Moby Dick, Rosanna Warren and others.