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He Zhaolun – Mother

Profile He Zhaolun LE Poetry & Writing July 2018

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Mother and other poems by Chinese poet He Zhaolun

He Zhaolun (born 1970) is an outstanding contemporary Chinese poet. Since 1988 he has been writing poetry, which has been published in numerous newspapers and magazines in China and elsewhere. Zhaolun has published 3 Sangshaws, edited one Sangshaw, and has been awarded the first Dragon Culture Gold Award instituted by Yan Huang Culture research Institute. He lives in Jinzhou Liaoning Province, China. He believes that the coming together of poets across the world will create love and healing for all.


Mother

I always used to touch,
Mother’s rough face over and over.
Then, from her gray temples,
Hand to be frozen.
After hot her white hair as early winter snow,
Wrinkles like a river, more exquisite than sewing needle point –
Going through my close-fitting cotton-padded clothes.

Dew watching on grass without sleep,
Cherishing memory of mother’s village.
Mother’s great love,
With fragrance of breast milk for a long time.

I must know,
Mother’s withered breasts,
Must have been storing golden grain.
The rolling barns,
One hundred times more than obesity in our happiness,
One thousand times more than vanity of our happiness.

Land can speak out,
Those words with tears.
The most worthy of love,
Allows me to embrace mother’s silence again.

Old Time, Old Photos

From a pile of old photos yellowed,
I went back to mother’s old time so beautiful—
Her youth like wheat swaying,
Wheat fragrance swaying in front of eyes,
Wheat smell scattering around me.

Good sweet inched into old time,
Mildly pushing me to move forward,
I grasp mother’s skirt and hand,
Feel warm to preserve fingerprints,
Instead of happiness bloom,
So beautiful to fulfill the future.

A pile of yellow old photos, old time so beautiful—
Mother’s wheat no longer green,
Weeds grow fast year after year,
She kept cattle and sheep in mind,
Thinking of bitterness for a lifetime,
Don’t need me to say any words.

So I keep the old time,
Keep the beauty of the old days,
Turn over a few times, warmer in sunlight

An ear of wheat, tender in field,
Just like mother still constantly swaying,
Scattering wheat fragrance from yellow old photos.


母亲

总习惯把手翻过来背过去
摸一摸母亲粗糙的脸
然后,从她花白的两鬓
又把手停下来
焐热北方初冬的雪
皱纹里的河流,比缝补的针尖细腻——
穿过我贴身的棉衣

失眠的露珠站在草叶上守望
怀想母亲的村庄。月光煮熟米饭
经年的瓷碗收藏天下温暖
从来都有奶水般的膻味

但必须要知道
母亲,干瘪的乳房
一定储存过落地成金的五谷
连绵起伏的粮仓
比我们的肥胖幸福百倍
比我们的虚荣幸福千倍

大地可以说出来
说出这些有泪水的词语
最值得热爱的理由
再允许拥抱母亲的沉默

旧时光,老照片

从一堆发黄的老照片里面
我回到母亲的年代,旧时光很美——
她的青春像麦穗摇曳不停
摇得我眼前一阵麦香
周身上下弥散开来

好香的麦浪漫过旧时光
不紧不慢,推着我向前迈步
抓母亲的衣襟和手
觉得温暖能够保存指纹
代替幸福花开
铺满未来

一堆发黄的老照片,旧时光很美——
母亲的麦子却不再绿了
大把疯长的草,岁岁枯荣
掩埋她的牛羊和山岗
可以苦想一辈子
不需要我说

就这样
保持旧时光的美
不时翻开几遍晒一晒阳光

一株骨子都酥软的麦穗
就是母亲,依旧摇曳不停
从发黄的老照片上,弥散又一阵麦香


Mother Told Me about Great-grandmother

Great-grandmother alive more than eighty years old,
Her life is much longer than grandmother,
Great-grandmother lives religiously,
Poor with Buddha beads in hand.

Grandmother died early, father loses his mother when six,
Great-grandmother had to bring him up,
The life always like a dervish,
Almost see through the world thoroughly,
As to wooden fish itself,
Found her belief transparent.

Water to swallow tolerance,
A bowl for food, a bowl for detachment ,a bowl for Buddha.
It´s a pity that I was late to the world,
She passed away on another road.
Her feet like three-inch-flowers,
She walked with body swaying,
And tried hard to take it easy.
Great-grandmother disappeared among flowers,
Only wind to support her.

Mother told me about great-grandmother,
A lamp in hand,“Amitabh” is all her life.

No resentment of the dust,
A good-natured old Buddhist,
So many years, guided us.

The Soil

A leave doesn’t know,
It belongs to earth,
Until it falls.

A tree turns old,
It doesn´t fall
It belongs to root
Until it´s exhausted.

In my heart,
There is a pure soil,
Spring never fades
A plant flourishing in it.

Leaves are like childhood of migratory birds,
And the roots are our family indeed.

 


听母亲提起的曾祖母

曾祖母八十多岁健在
住世的时光比祖母要长
这位老菩萨善行度日
手不停歇,把苦水像念珠一样搓

祖母去世得早,父亲六岁没娘
曾祖母拉扯命苦的孩子
总把生活像苦行僧一样过
几乎把水与火读得透彻
比得上木鱼的空
变世态为澄明

总把宽容化水咽下去
一碗充饥、两碗淡定、三碗即成佛
可惜我来到世上
她就往另一条路上走
一朵酷似三寸金莲的花
颤颤地摇曳了几下
稳住脚跟之后
消失在油菜丛里
受清风供养

听母亲说曾祖母信佛
手把一盏油灯,“阿弥陀佛”了一辈子

没有嗔怨的尘灰
老菩萨生得慈眉善目
这么多年,苦心度化我们一回

泥土

叶落的时候
才知道
自己属于泥土

树  枯老了
才感觉
走不出泥土的
是根

我的内心
有一片纯洁的泥土
长着  不凋谢的
一株春天

叶是童年的候鸟
根是家园