Miho Kinnas

REVIEW: ‘River East, River West’ by Aube Rey Lescure – reviewed by Susie Gordon

DECEMBER 9th 2023

 

RIVER EAST, RIVER WEST

Aube Rey Lescure

Duckworth Books, publishing 25^th January 2024

pp 339

 

The best books are the ones whose charactes you think about even when you’re not reading; the ones you miss when you reach the end. Aube Rey Lescure’s River East, River West is one such book. The novel takes its name from the two halves of the city of Shanghai – Pudong (east of the Huangpu River) and Puxi (west of the Huangpu) – where segments of the narrative takes place. Told in an exquisite literary yet strikingly accessible style, the novel interweaves the stories of the two main protagonists with aplomb.

Aube Rey Lescure is a French-Chinese-American writer who grew up between Shanghai, northern China, and the south of France. During her upbringing in Shanghai, she lived in both the colonial-era concessions of Puxi and the futuristic skyscrapers of Pudong, only coming to understand the dichotomies and divisions of the city until she was a teenager. It is partly her unique insight into a biracial, third-culture identity played out in a city like Shanghai that powers River East, River West.

The characters experience (and embody) many of the divisions of modern China itself. The novel opens in Shanghai in 2007, and focuses on fourteen-year-old Alva, who is perturbed by her American mother Sloan’s engagement to their wealthy landlord, Lu Fang. Then, the focus shifts to Qingdao, in 1985, where Lu Fang is a lowly shipping clerk who harbours hopes for a brighter future despite being haunted by memories of the Cultural Revolution. With China opening up to foreigners and capital, Lu Fang meets an American woman – Sloan – who shifts his perspective and makes him question his life trajectory. Decades later, Lu Fang marries Sloan, forcing him and Alva together as step-father and step-daughter.

Both threads of the narrative are supremely engaging, with settings and characters that never descend into Orientalising caricature or cliché the way many “China novels” do. This is testament to the authenticity of Rey Lescure’s voice. Her writing is sharp, dry, and often witty, with an unfussy empathy that makes the characters appealing even in their darker moments.

Of her novel, Rey Lescure writes “Nowadays, when China is always in the news in relation to the specter of global coflict, I wanted to immerse readers in the daily lives and private dreams of these characters – their commutes and supermarkets, their jealousies and dramas, their heartbreaks and desires.” In this, she has very much succeeded. Yet outside of the microcosm of quotidian dramas, Lescure paints with wider brushstrokes a portrait of a country that is as complex and multifaceted as the novel itself.

 

Aube Rey Lescure has a BA from Yale University. She has worked in foreign policy, and has coauthored and translated two books on Chinese politics and economics. She was an Ivan Gold Fellow, a Pauline Scheer Fellow, and an artist-in-residence at the Studios of Key West and Willapa Bay AiR. Her fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Guernica, The Best American Essays 2022, The Florida Review online, and more. She is the deputy editor at Off Assignment. www.aubereylescure.com

 

 

~

REVIEW: ‘The Vanguards of Holography’ by Annie Christain (reviewed by Johnny Payne)

DECEMBER 4th 2023

 

THE VANGUARDS OF HOLOGRAPHY

Annie Christain

Headmistress Press, 2021

99 pp.

 

When speaking of “The Vanguards of Holography,” one is first tempted to speak of pop culture, as the volume’s tutelary spirits tend toward epigraph figures such as Kanye West, Billy Corgan, and Patton Oswalt.  But a more proper place to begin is with the French avant-garde poet Francis Ponge, beloved interpretive object of Jacques Derrida.  His poem “The Telephone,” published bilingually in Poetry Magazine in September 1952, provides a suitable point of reflection.

             From a portable base with a felt sole, dependent on five yards of wire of three kinds which twist without impairing the sound, a crustacean is unhooked and gleefully buzzes…

While between the breasts of some siren under a rock a metal point vibrates.

Nothing comes out of nowhere.  After all, this volume overtly touts its lineage in the title.  Its poems take us afresh to the fascination of the surrealists and Dadaists, the “historical avant-garde,” with all things modern.  They often brought a childlike wonder, combined with adult sass, to emerging forms of technology, seeing them less as instrumental life improvements and more as sites to marvel at, but also to prompt thoughts of decay, destruction, death, those alliterative counters to life, as in Guillaume Apollinaire’s “There Is”:

There is this ship which has taken my beloved back again
There are six Zeppelin sausages in the sky and with night
coming on it makes a man think of the maggots from which the
stars might someday be reborn

There is this enemy submarine slipping up beneath my love…
There is this infantryman walking by completely blinded by
poison gas.

With appreciable wit, Annie Christain catalogues relentlessly the techno-phenomena surrounding us, defamiliarizing them by staging the multiple anxieties about them of the speaker, persona, often undecidable as she/he/it/they.  This being is mutable, alternately tormented by basic yet outrageously physical processes, yet strangely calm and even seemingly in control, even on the verge of being overwhelmed, as in “O.K., Miles Per Hour”:

No one cares about keeping the details right in period piece movies anymore—don’t you get it?

I only have until the next solar eclipse to figure out what a sun-body is and how I lit it.

<We’re kind of like attached to a moving dry cleaner conveyer roller where

                        duplicates of ourselves are assigned to other hangers.>

Whichever self we choose to embody is the front— I’m on the rooftop terrace because Einstein said that’s where my space-time won’t bend as much—keep up.

The world presented seems a flat simulacrum, even when it has four dimensions.  There is no real history available.  The closest one may come is “keeping the details right in period piece movies anymore.”  And even that forlorn reality is at a remove from a remove, the best case being to “lose oneself” in a costume drama, rather than in history itself.

“We’ll Always Have Terracotta Warriors Dusted in Han Purple, Never Looking Behind” presents what Roland Barthes referred to as a “fictive nation.”  In this faux place, real heartbreak isn’t strictly possible.  Rather, we are given a simulation of what that heartbreak might look like, when viewed as a radiograph.

What remains of the warriors is what my outside body was from the start—very ill, but human-looking from ten feet away or more. The Han Purple stacks the air unevenly, and my core self walks away on that grand staircase. My favorite concubine may think she left me, but two thousand years on Earth is ten minutes to me in the upper dimension, so here it’s like it never happened.

One thinks of Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase,” a visual representation of the seemingly nonsensical phrase “outside body,” rather a body in motion promoting the idea that there could be a core self both psychologically and physical separate from all the other selves.  This should be normal in our age, according to the poet, governed by a flux of time in which two thousand years is equivalent to ten minutes, when it’s in the “upper dimension.”

The poems in this collection are full of that kind of offhand fireworks.  It would be a mistake to think that “Vanguard” doesn’t offer emotional depth of a kind, but it plays out and pays out slowly, the “I” too dispersed to isolate a single event, except as an ever-evolving displacement.  One may have a favorite concubine, but that lover, like the self, is always already multiple.  One cannot speak of things phantasmagorical because everything manifests as real. Everything is visible, in plain sight, but it simply shows as continuous flux.  If one contemplates it long enough, Duchamps’ nude is moving because it is moving.

A tacit longing floats through these pages, as in “I’m From the Earth Where Only Three Astronauts Walked on the Moon.”  There exists a wistfulness about the fact that in such a dynamic, hard-charging universe, everyone’s hyper-elevated consciousness makes it nearly impossible to connect in the quietly contemplative ways that were presumably easier before Einstein, Oppenheimer, and the space age.

Now I’ll never be able to touch a naked woman

whose skeleton has holes behind the eye sockets.

This submerged sorrow can only be expressed in isolated phrases, in a passing manner, as the poet-seeker-I-you-we-them-he-she-they labors without cease to amalgamate into a sentient self.  And even the most degraded of human activities is more clinically, impartially watched than ultimately judged.  From “Rolling on the Floor with Punches”:

Watching snuff films at computers, a man on clipboard taking notes. Blink twice.

In these poems, it is less relevant to speak of similes and symbols than it is to speak of phenomena.  Yet in the ingenious and theatrical, yet resolutely prosaic presentation of them, one gets suddenly surprised by lyricism.

When you can still discern my burned initials through an adult film star’s tattoo concealment, her authentic crystallization still happened no matter what, bringing out her Diamond Man, and that’s important to reveal.

In a book unafraid of ostentation, I find myself over the life of its pages becoming increasingly aware of its moral center and ethical compassion.  I couldn’t decide whether the author was modulating as she went, or whether I was, like Duchamp’s nude, gradually catching up with myself.

 

— Johnny Payne

~

REVIEW: ‘Night Jasmine’ by Goran Gatalica (Miho Kinnas)

DECEMBER 19th 2022

 

Publisher: STAJER GRAF, Zagreb, Hrvatska (Croatia)

Editors: Emiko Miyashita, Geethanjali Rajan, Marina Bellini, Dejan Pavlinocić, Sanela Pliško, Tomislav Maretić.

Price: 18 € (135kn)

 

**

 

A new book of haiku, “Night Jasmine” by Goran Gatalica, is a book of concentration. Not only because haiku is the art of close attention, but clearly, tremendous efforts and coordination have gone into creating this beautiful book.

 

A dark-red, transparent semi-circle over the Jasmine blooms is striking on the cover. The bilingual title, printed vertically in a calligraphy font, is the swing of the double swords. The book consists of one hundred fourteen haiku written originally in Croatian are translated into six other languages; the informative prose sections are in Croatian and English.

 

The haiku appear in the four-season chapters with the symbolic section titles – Passing cloud, Searing Heat, Wind Chimes, and Scent of Snow – respectively. Artistic calligraphy accompanies each subtitle. Each haiku in seven languages occupies a page. (The introduction named Croatia, USA, France, Italy, Czech Republic, India, and Japan.)

 

Those who understand two or more languages appreciate the challenge of haiku translation: “A thorny path,” once a veteran translator characterized the process. Considering the lack of any commonality between English (or Croatian) and Japanese in vocabulary or grammatical elements, the translations in this paring require additional considerations; the satisfaction of successful outcomes, therefore, is sheer joy. In addition, disparate cultural assumptions, aesthetics, and literary traditions pose constant challenges in literary translations of any combination.

 

Encompassing seven languages, the voyages in seven seas are highly ambitious. However, the Japanese translations in the book are loyal to the English translation (assumed to be faithful to the original), carrying over the exact image for every haiku, and its execution is meticulous. Unfortunately, although the contributors’ biographic information is comprehensive, each translator’s individual contribution details are unavailable.

 

**

 

The book structure is necessarily complex. In a way, this complexity and multi-layer construction of the book resemble Goran Gatalica’s haiku. The most prominent characteristic of Gatalica’s haiku style is its preciseness and intensity created by complex layering. His juxtapositions of objects are often sharp and highly strategic, and the message of his verse transcends clearly and powerfully.

 

Let’s begin with the title poem:

 

night jasmine —

her bloomed soul brings water

to a refugee

 

This haiku is a superb example of layering. The juxtaposition of night jasmine, fragrant and mysterious, and a refugee, the hard reality, is striking; I see a woman (or flower – interchangeable in this magical atmosphere) admired by the narrator; she/it is beautiful in her existence, and appearance. The night jasmine offers fragrance, too. The verse represents the act of quiet yet deep empathy.

 

This technique stands out in many of Gatalica’s haiku. As a result, a reader may need not consult the author’s name before they can spot Gatalica’s haiku. A haiku published in the latest issue of Frogpond (Volume 45:3, Autumn 2022, Haiku Society of America) is a prime example: it contains solid images that manage to express a political comment contrasted by helpless ordinary citizens who nevertheless remain hopeful.

 

Gatalica’s skillful preciseness is also effective in suggesting something more subtle.

 

evening coldness. . .

mother puts one of the pills

between her teeth

 

The moment this verse captures is priceless. “One of the pills” slows one’s reading, and “between her teeth” makes a reader experience a tablet’s hardness and the capsule’s softness. “Evening coldness” and “teeth” send shivers down the spine.

 

autumn chill —

the barber lathers soap

into a silver dish

 

Again, “chill” and a “silver” dish are a perfect coupling. The barber’s hand movement is like a scene in a film. Gatalica is a winter’s poet – like Buson was. The objective way Gatalica’s lens comes close and focuses on a subject reminds the reader of Buson’s technique, like lighting /one candle with another/ spring evening or The camellia —/it falls into the darkness/of the old well. There is no ambiguity in the atmosphere of these poems. If Goran was a free verse poet, he might write like Robert Lowell. His accuracy is graceful.

 

City cannon —

mother’s hyacinths tremble

in the flowerpots

 

This haiku of sophistication creates a barrier in the air around the hyacinths: it is not the flowerpots that tremble but the plant itself. What an exciting distinction! The delimited space depicts the absence of the mother.

 

Alone at the beach

the pinot noir from Chile

full of starlight

 

Chilean wine began appearing worldwide as a substitute for French wine. The details evoke the beautiful coast of Croatia, a personal moment, and the expanse of the thought travels.

 

summer lightning

our cat jumps

from the bookshelf

 

The use of “our” makes the poem alive. The bookshelf defines the internal space, and “our” cat gives the multiple observers of the cat: A couple at the table; lightning lit their faces as they both watch the jump, then they look at each other—such a translucent moment.

 

There are many approaches to writing good haiku. In one collection of one poet, Goran Gatalica’s Night Jasmine, we note various ways the poet’s attention to detail captures the poet’s laser-sharp observation.

 

Lastly,

 

spring sunshine

my wife is singing

in a light blue bathrobe

 

 

This poem is delightful: Light blue is the perfect color to share a happy, ordinary moment. A passing moment in the privacy of one’s home skillfully organized transcends a ubiquitous image of happiness to many of us who live in distant places, in different languages. It proves how powerful and universal a small poem can be. We should celebrate a highly successful book of haiku by this talented poet.

 

~

REVIEW: “They Called You Dambudzo” – A Memoir by Flora Veit-Wild (reviewed by Miho Kinnas)

 

“They Called You Dambudzo” is a memoir by Flora Veit-Wild, Emerita Professor of African Literatures and Cultures at Humboldt University, Berlin. She was born in West Germany in 1947. “Dambudzo” was Dambudzo Marechera, a novelist and poet, an enfant terrible of modern literature, born in Southern Rhodesia in 1952.

With their two young boys, Flora and her husband Victor arrived in Harare, the capital of newly independent Zimbabwe, at the end of 1982. Dambudzo was homeless but a legendary writer in Harare, where he remained since his unintended return from Europe. He had been a writer tramp for a few years in Europe after being kicked out of New College in Oxford, where he attended on scholarship.

Flora and Dambudzo met in Harare and immediately fell in love, or entangled.

He died in 1987 of pneumonia caused by AIDS. Flora took care of him till the end.

She did not write a formal biography of Dambudzo Marechera for she felt she was too close to him. Her interpretations of his poems given in this book are often tied to the circumstances of his writing. She must have offered and encountered different readings of the same poem over her years of teaching since that’s the beauty of poetry: no amount of background information limits the effect and interpretation of good poems. Background information as such does not fully explain the motives of one’s life decisions, either. This book is a personal biography: a biography of love between the writer lovers, told often in an intimate second person voice.

What FloraVeit-Wild did to preserve Dambudzo Marechera’s work was tremendous. Marechera, now called the best writer in Africa of his generation, didn’t leave much behind besides a few brilliant publications before his death. His return from Europe coincided with the nation building following the hard fought independence. Publishers stayed away from Dambudzo’s radical and disturbing, yet highly artistic and un-nationalistic, writing; he was often drunk and seemingly paranoid.

Throughout the review, I will call Flora by her first name because that’s how we met. The two of us were in the Iowa International Writers’ Workshop for Creative Nonfiction with Cutter Wood in 2014. The roster showed the participants’ residencies spreading over thirteen countries from Bangladesh to Argentina and South Africa. Most of us lived in two or more languages and chose to write in English. Germany was Flora, and Japan was me.

In the Iowa writers’ workshop, Flora was on a mission to write this memoir. Infected by her enthusiasm, I bought two books: Cemetery of Mind (a collection of poems by Dambudzo Marechera, compiled and edited by Flora) and Moving Spirit (a book that emerged from the tribute symposium for Marechera at Trinity College, Oxford, 2009.) Then, in the spring of 2022, the topic of African poets came up while conversing with a poet friend. I opened the Marechera books, which I hadn’t touched for a while. I was excited when I found, on the internet, that she completed the book.

Let us consider the title, “They Called you Dambudzo.”  Dambudzo is his name in the Shona language that was spoken in the region where he was born. Flora informs us:

They called you Dambudzo (‘the one who brings trouble’) because they were destitute. 

Here, “They” refers to the family; however, Dambudzo’s This is “they” from An Interview With Himself describes “they” of his early life:

 

They ranged from the few owners of grocery stores right through primary school teachers, priests, deranged leaders of fringe/esoteric religions, housewives, nannies, road-diggers, factory workers, shop assistants, caddies, builders, pickpockets, psychos, pimps, demoralized widows, professional con-men, whores, hungry but earnest schoolboys, hungry but soon to be pregnant schoolgirls and, of course, informers, the BSAP (British South African Police), the police reservists, the TMB ghetto police, the District Commissioner and his asserted pompous assistants and clerks, the haughty and rather banal Asian shopkeepers, the white schoolgirls in their exclusive schools, the white schoolboys who’d beat us too when we foraged among the dustbins of the white suburbs, the drowned bodies that occasionally turned up at Lesapi Dam, the madman who was thought harmless until a mutilated body was discovered in the grass east of the ghetto, the mothers of nine or more children and the dignified despair of the few missionaries who once or twice turned up to see under what conditions I was actually living. 

 

The list grows longer as he lives on. By the time Flora finalized the title, I could not help but wonder who else she might have added from the fact-finding journey she took as his biographer after his death. She visited his family (your mother was so proud of you,) tracked down the twins you played ‘office’ in a cardboard house and an old type writer you found at the dump, met with the people who knew Dambudzo in London and Oxford (he obviously had a chip on his shoulder about being black,) and many literary figures Dambudzo knew in Africa and elsewhere. Many felt guilty and received her as if she was a tax collector. Quite a few suddenly declared themselves as Marechera’s best friends and believers of his talent. She would meet his other white woman, too. People suspected her motive as his executor, suggesting her misappropriation of his material.

The book begins with Prelude. The Prelude rushes – it is slightly confusing or incoherent for the reader who is not yet familiar with the story. The sudden switch to direct speech such as “You had not written a will,” or “On the day you died, I collected your papers,” might throw you off. But if you return to Prelude after reading the book, you will appreciate it differently. She speaks directly to Dambudzo in the first chapter (many chapters are only 2-4 pages long) and another toward the end. The second-person style grew on me: I hear the tender voice of the woman who loved him despite all the hardships during and after the life with him: The price, high or not, she paid to follow her desire. The composites of short chapters make the book choppy despite her consistent language. Readers should be assured, however, that this book answers all of the questions:What does it mean to live with HIV? To be infected and infect others and meet another who’s on the chain of infection? What was her husband doing? How did she become the executer of his affairs without a will? What was happening in the newly independent Zimbabwe? Flora had anticipated all sorts of questions.

I believe that the choppiness and confusion I feel while reading are because certain things are not made for language. There are things we don’t talk about, or we only whisper a few words and nod as if we understand them. They are, for example, adultery, cancer, AIDS, abortion, depression, and racism. We are not good at articulating these topics in any language. In addition, racism overshadows everything; the racial society directed Dambudzo’s talent. And it was the 80s. We were just beginning to find out about AIDS. We did not have the knowledge or awareness to talk about it. Nevertheless, Flora kept the meticulous record of Dambudzo’s diagnosis of AIDS followed by her and her husband’s HIV positive test results and life thereafter with HIV.

Dambudzo believed in the power of language. Flora asked him as many others did: Why did he not write in his native language? He answered: Shona, the language he grew up in, was filled with violence. So he chose English, yet he didn’t take the colonial language as it is; You have to turn it upside down until it screams your screams. What he meant is described by Édouard Glissant, a French Caribbean writer and philosopher, thus: He (Glissant) intentionally destabilized and de-categorized the standard French to establish the new relationships between the words and the objects to make the others know that he was different. Flora also wrote: You would not allow any white liberal art lover to feel comfortable patting the back of a black writer from the ghetto, however gifted he might be. You would always bite the hand that tried to feed you. Relations, what Glissant called it, are also the technique of poetry or poetic language where most of work is done by associations. Post-colonial writings take the associations to where the colonialist imaginations haven’t been. Dambudzo’s poetry and novels represent that style.

His reputation was made by his novels, but it was his poetry where he communicated his feelings toward Flora and his other white women. The Amelia Sonnet is a series of thirteen poems; Amelia is Flora; Amelia was Heinrich Heine’s woman who didn’t share his feeling. Amelia is the archetype of the unrequited love and the unattainable ideal woman. Yet, in Dambudzo’s poetry, we cannot expect Heine’s lyricism sung in the melodies of Schumann or Schubert. Flora writes:

 

The Amelia Sonnets, which he wrote in anticipation of my departure, talk about his fear              

of abandonment. The ordinary objects around him, the dust, the crockery, the

cockroaches, turn into symbols of absence. 

 

The last four lines of the poem, The visitor, are haunting:

And she, my human hunger, grew pale, lost appetite, became haggard

Shunned by her own kind. Outraged storms, as if fired from some

Celestial cannon up there, day after day blew down upon us. Amelia

Drowned. I shunned man and his daylight ways. I make the terrible pact

And nightly may visit her in spite of her horns and forked tail.

They are the Black Sunlight love sonnets, borrowing the title of Dambudzo’s other prose work. They express perhaps more than his anxiety about Flora going away for a month. His comment:

Another part of the ambiguity of the Amelia poems is that I know that Amelia will never be mine, wholly mine, my own. To love somebody is to want them all the time, to want to drown their identity in one’s own identity, that everything they do or say or decide or think is centered on what I am.

Flora knew she couldn’t give what he wanted. Flora also knew and understood what her white body meant to him. Dambudzo’s words:

Amelia is white; I am black. . .Amelia does not have any sense of race . . . In a very personal sense, it does not matter at all what race Amelia is, but there are times, especially when I have gone through some shitty incidents or I remember some of the things which were happening here before 1980, that’s when I feel very violent towards Amelia. 

Flora keeps asking herself: Why Dambudzo? Do we have a choice in who we love? Perhaps, love is something not made for language, either. In the beginning, it must have been a thrill. Being infatuated with him is easy to imagine. Marechera’s accent. The voice. His talent. His mannerism. In an interview with Fiona Lloyd, a journalist, she admitted that it might not have happened if she had met him a little later once her initial excitement of moving to a new place and meeting new people had time to wear off a little.

And there was his theatricality. Nadine Gordimer recalled him answering Flora’s question about what he was like:

 

‘Marechera was seated beside me at the writers’ workshop,’ Gordimer remembered. ‘Of course, he always made an entrance like an actress, very late, with that big red scarf flying. . . ‘

 

Flora also writes about herself:

 

I had always had a longing for the wondrous, the fantastic, the outlandish. . . Dambudzo appealed to the clownish, melancholic, poetic part of me, which was menacingly dark and colorfully bright at the same time. . . He led me through many closed doors.

 

He was the perfect storm.

She couldn’t extricate herself from him, from the troublesome relationship for a long time. She writes how he banged on her and her husband’s bedroom window in the middle of the night demanding that the taxi driver needed to be paid. Then, there were times like the scene shown in the memoir: Dambudzo performed his long poetic sequence, “My Arms Vanished Mountains” written during her absence, with the background music of Ravel’s Bolero.

 

The story’s left arm was missing

It needed thick-lensed spectacles

They watched him fall from the tenth floor

Chewing gum stuck to his dentures

Such a sun

Such a crying morning song

Falling directly on the spikes

This is my body 

That is my pencil. 

 

The poem is the wide winding river, filled with longing and yearning. The forty-minute performance given by not completely drunk Dambudzo would charm her all over again.

Yet, she was not blind:

 

It was an exciting and a daunting journey into the life and work of the ‘black heretic.’ At times I felt overwhelmed by the effort of it, at others thrilled by the miracles I unearned. I felt so many things, Dambudzo: grateful, gratified, inadequate and, indeed, full of love.

           

Yet, I had a price to pay.

 

Before arriving in Zimbabwe, while she and Victor lived in Nurnberg, she had taken a course in miming. Later, she ran workshops for children. I was wondering why mime, but when I came to the end of the book, she talked about her Gestalt therapy puppets – they made a perfect symmetrical bookends of who she is. Her playful creativity flourishes also in these forms.

She writes about her depression:

 

A year after I had started my position and work as a professor I cracked. 

I had my first bout of clinical depression.

The Lady in Black made her appearance.

 

Years of psychotherapy and medication followed. I learned to do my job.

 

I also learned to live with the visits from the Lady in Black. . . At some point I gave her a body I could talk to or scold or throw against the wall: a gestalt, made of fabric, cardboard, wire ribbons, and beads.

 

Flora began making her puppets. Like her fascination with miming, the puppets became companions. It started with Lady in Black. She quotes CG Jung:

 

‘Depression is like a lady in black. If she turns up, don’t shoo her away. Invite her in, offer her a seat, treat her like a guest and listen to what she wants to say.’

 

Other puppets followed. She writes:

 

that many people who saw her puppets proclaimed that they must have been inspired by her connection with Africa but she refutes by saying that she does not feel they are, apart from the general penchant in cultures worldwide —including Africa —.

 

Isn’t this what Dambudzo was saying? He said in an interview:

 

‘I would question anyone calling me an African writer. . ‘He is not a writer for a specific nation or a specific race. 

Their minds were merging, but Flora kept her private and professional life separate for decades. The memoir was a surprise or confirmation. Her last chapter ‘Out of Closet’ is touching.

 

In all those years, there was the public face of your biographer and editor, of the teacher the critic, the Dambudzo Marechera’ authority’ as people started to call me, the face of the committed scholar who would safeguard your legacy, commended by many, envied and reviled by others. Behind that public face, only known by some, imagined by others, was the private one, the face of the woman who had loved you and had lain in your arms, had seen you die and had her own physical grievances to bear. 

 

And yet, it took more than thirty years until my two Marechera faces blended into one. 

 

The trigger to write the memoir came in 2009 at the Celebration of Marechera at Oxford. Someone asked her: “What was your real relationship with him?” She answered: “I suppose it is time that I write my own story.” And she did. With or without the trigger, I believe that it would take time to be able to write about some things in life if it is at all possible. We also need to be at a certain age to be able to put a pen to paper.

 

The Prelude ends with the last fragment from the Amelia Sonnet sequence.

Time’s fingers on the piano

play emotion into motion

the dancers in the looking glass

never recognize us as their originals.

 

Her recollections might have appeared unrecognizable at times with the passage of time. However, by paralleling her memory with ongoing life and by carrying on speaking to Dambudzo, Flora made the memoir vivid in images and intimately tangible.

 

(“They Called You Dambudzo” A Memoir by Flora Veit-Wild, James Currey, An imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd.)

 

~

 

REVIEW: Reading Lenard Moore’s ‘Long Rain’: Tanka Has Always Been A Perfect Form For Love (Miho Kinnas)

FEBRUARY 14th 2022

 

Long Rain by Lenard Moore. Berkley, California. Wet Cement Press, 2021. 140 pp. $16.00.

 

 Review by Miho Kinnas

 

霖The kanji character for the title Long Rain, is pronounced na・ga・a・mé in Japanese. The Japanese poetry has been associating the word with the sound of another verb, na・ga・mé・(ru) —眺める that means to glance, look, view, stare, watch, or focus for some time. Playing with similar-sounding words for cascading effects and their meanings for counterpoints have been traditional in Japanese poetry. The state of mind when we watch the rainfall day after day is universal and timeless; reading Long Rain is to observe the passage of time, the fleeting moments, and the love of past and present. We stand behind the poet’s shoulders in a room, a square, a doorway, or a moving vehicle.

The book is divided into four sections, not by seasons as traditional tanka books, but by the four universally recognized elements: Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water. Most of the poems contain a keyword that belongs to the element; more interesting, the poems in each section as a group merge into the energy of the title element.

 

 

EARTH ・地

 

The Earth poems firmly ground us. The pace of the poem is andante, and we take each step steadily in this section.

 

country night

how many bullfrogs telling

where they are

as I walk the soggy earth

that my grandfather once plowed

Although Lenard Moore’s poems are innovative, they are never outrageous or pretentious. They are filled with subtle surprises that are created by the juxtapositions of things, deft handling of nuances, and noun choices.

 

 

on the porch

watching you

pick yellow apples

I long to eat

when you return

 

The poem above needs no explanation: It’s such a delicious poem. A reminiscence of William Carlos Williams’  This Is Just To Say?　Or the tanka, Loved as if sucking sweet peach juice and I know I was a woman in my previous life^[1] by Tawara Machi?

Two extra lines of tanka (in addition to the three lines of haiku) are not used for explaining what had started as haiku: the scenes, the people, and the actions unfold as we read, but at the end of the reading, we have everything in front of us at the same time. These five lines (legs) have their way of working (walking.)

 

at the beach

the two of us alone

I felt her legs

open wider and wider

in the darkening air

 

Here is the introduction to Long Rain in a few words:  Long Rain is a book of love poems of grounded, long-lasting, erotic, familiar love.

And for such a relationship, sometimes, a night can be generously long. Simple yet rich joy expands the night.

the night is long

a tavern just off the road

with one parked car

but the man and woman hug

to the song on the jukebox

 

WIND・風

 

The section shows more movements, and the reader anticipates the next unfolding. The poems are far more suggestive and moving faster.

man with a goatee

hunkers in the onion patch—

the wind lifts,

while I descend the steps

into early light

It is mysterious. Tanka is a form both the writer and the readers understand that no more explanations will be added. The poet builds tanka carefully, paying attention to each word.

And we gulp it down with a breath —and read it again. And again.

 

I sniff the wind

as the scent of honeysuckle

rises from the path

Her blouse blows wide open

the shape of her full breasts

 

A surprise is a necessary element in poetry.

 

The next poem depicts a scene as if it is the beginning of a film, yet enough is said. A detailed sight and sound and “shapes on the wind” — what’s that? The sixth sense? The interpretation is up to each reader.

stranger nearing—

in an angle of sun

the hound’s bark

grows deeper

and shapes on the wind

 

 

FIRE・火

 

Fire: hot, bright, burning, maturing, rupturing, ripeness, and agedness. The stories thicken in this section. The word “old” appears a lot here, such as “old homestead,” “old bulldog,” “old photographer. “ An old man must be an old man, not just a man. A black woman must be a black woman: It is an extended noun, not an adjective + noun.

 

The items of our daily life stream in: clothesline, the shack door, hospital, wheelchair, exhaust smoke, shacking sweet corn, the sloping fence, wire fence, post office, telephone booth. And a woman is, of course, pregnant.

rising sun

the pregnant woman walks

through falling mist

with the fragrance of pine

the ancient path narrows

The following tanka is precious. It is so simple and small, yet each word, each line, forces  a reader to ponder.

 

anniversary

a point of light flickers

on the buffed floor—

our daughter notices it

while cooking breakfast

1) anniversary – what (which) anniversary?

2) a point of light flickers – what light? how does it move?

3) on the buffed floor — the clean floor – a loving family

4) our daughter notices it – what did she say? how old was/is she?

5) while cooking breakfast – was she cooking?what did they have?

 

A day we take for granted is eternalized.

 

The signature Lenard Moore poems: They are the oil paintings with deep southern colors.
a black man bending

over the low cotton bush—

gunfire on his back;

the flap of a burlap sack

while blues hide in my throat

 

Music is sensed. Music, especially jazz and blues flow out of his work; his poetry readings are often framed with music; the poet lives in music.

 

There is no doubt there’s music in the next poem, even though it is not spelled out.

Unbearable heaviness. A poem like this one is the direct link between the spirit of blues and the essence of sabi. The merged aesthetics characterize Moore’s work.

heading home —

dozens of planes roaring

in the night sky;

no wind pushing back

the suburban heat

 

When the poem oversees the broader landscape, this American tanka rooted in Japanese waka (more traditional tanka) reflects further back at the Chinese classics. This poem reads like a Tang dynasty poem in the North Carolina setting.

autumn moon rises;

rot of pumpkins rides the breeze

on remnants of fog;

old cabin on a hillside

where hungry wild deer roam

 

WATER・水

 

A Japanese composer, Takemitsu Toru, wrote a series of music on the theme of water. He went to see a dam emptied for a repair and saw a freshwater stream that kept flowing separately from the main river. Water often runs unexpectedly in independent forms; the section of Long Rain also includes many different bodies of water.

 

twelve noon

a green tin lunchbox gleaming

behind the courthouse

goldfish swimming under

water lilies in the pond

 

The poem above is densely packed. It takes courage and experience to write a poem like this one. A mere pond behind the courthouse, where we meet the misery of others and our own, holds the poem together.

sleepless

I listen to your breathing

this shortest night

the warmth of thighs

all over my body

 

And sometimes, the night is too short even for the man living the long-lasting love. The short night, incidentally, is a kigo (season word) of summer in haiku. The effect immediately intensifies the poem to the readers aware of a great number of haiku showcasing what short night could evoke. In this poem, the restlessness shortest night exudes sensuously.

 

One more tanka:

 

rain ends—

reflection of headlights creeping

down the two-lane road

and from out the hushed woods

a black cat crossing my path

 

Even a very long rain eventually ends. In this poem, the speaker is driving; the rain ended because he left the raining area or it stopped; the poem shows how time is exchangeable with space. A multidimensional parallel world appears in five lines.

 

*

 

Lenard D. Moore (born in Jacksonville, North Carolina, in 1958) is an internationally acclaimed poet, especially known for his work with Japanese forms, and is the author of The Geography Of Jazz, A Temple Looming, and The Open Eye, among other books. He is the founder and executive director of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective, and co-founder of the Washington Street Writers Group. He was the First African American President of Haiku Society of America and is the Executive Chairman of the North Carolina Haiku Society. (from Long Rain)

Moore teaches African American Literature and Advanced Poetry Writing at the University of Mount Olive, where he directs the literary festival.

^[1] Translated by the reviewer. From The Chocolate Revolution, Tawara Machi

 

~

 

REVIEW: ‘A Gap In the Clouds: A New Translation of the Ogura Hyakunin-Isshu’

(Miho Kinnas)

The Ogura Hyakunin-Isshu is one of the most popular poetry collections in classical Japanese literature. Since its reputed compilation by Fujiwara no Teika around 1235, it has been widely read and parodied. Artists produced artworks inspired by the poems, and a card game made in modern times is still played in Japanese homes. The presence of classical poetry stars, including the authors of The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book, and the protagonist’s model in the Tale of Ise must be one reason for its enormous popularity. The poems chosen are not necessarily the best works of the respective poets, and many have suspected political undercurrents in the selection. Such speculations add more mystery to the collection. The thirteenth century in Japan was a chaotic time in history: the grace and elegance of the aristocratic era, as depicted in these poems, was a thing of the past. Still, as the introduction to this book states, “Poetry was central to life and reputation among the ruling elite of medieval Japan, but these beautiful poems have endured because their themes are universal and readily understood by contemporary readers. They include love, loneliness and mortality, as well as the passage of the seasons and the beauty, of natural phenomena. Many are steeped in the rites and sensibilities of the Shinto religion, with gods to be found in every natural thing.” It is no wonder, therefore, that numerous translations into contemporary Japanese and many other languages along exist, along with annotations.  A Gap in the Clouds by James Hadley and Nell Regan is one of the newest efforts.

First, I read A Gap in the Clouds from the beginning to end without any critical thought. I tried to imagine how an average reader new to Hyakunin-Isshu and expecting poetry would find this book. The page layout is artful, and all of the one-hundred poems are very accessible. The book introduces the reader to who a hundred poets were and what type of subjects they dealt with. The translations are consistent with the principles described in the introduction. I thought, maybe, they achieved the goal for the book.

Then, I read the original poems and the contemporary translation with annotations in Japanese to refresh my memory and compare the details. I  read classical Japanese to a degree, but the annotation and an “old-word” dictionary are indispensable. I chose a particular book^[1] for reference because it is one of the newest translations, and the translator Koike Masayo is a prominent poet and a favourite of mine. Her translations are in free verse. The length varies, and it is a creative translation without going overboard.

The authors of A Gap in the Clouds have worked very diligently to convey the gist of each poem with the constraints as explained clearly in the introduction. I had thought their process was reasonable and understandable at first. I will explain the objections that came to me after having read the books and thought things through.

Quite a few unfortunate grammatical misunderstandings have altered the context.^[2] I noticed very puzzling phrases^[3] and a ‘prosy’ style of writing in general. It’s possible that while polishing the final output, unintended changes crept in. Some are possibly considered as an alternative interpretation. Such instances are common in translations, and I have no intention of nitpicking. However, one question that kept coming back to this reviewer’s mind was whether this book challenged to claim that poetry was something translatable.

There are some delightful translations. For example, the words “tendril,” “vine,” and “entwined” of #25 (refer to the introduction, please) replicate the tangle of the original very well. #32 contains the phrase “one-by-one,” which doesn’t exist in the original; however, the insertion added animation that works beautifully.  #72 also works quite well to replicate the waves, if not its flirtatiousness.

In No. 96, however, the translation conveys the poem’s surface meaning, but certain eroticism is completely lost. The first seventeen sounds of the original describe a garden in intricate language: The play on words on seduction and the snow-storm-blown flower petals constitute a charming adjective for a garden. The written-out translation somehow erases the imagery.

The circumstances under which these poems were written were far more social than a popular image of poets agonising over their lines and diction. These poems were written for greetings, occasions, and competitions. Many were written to show off knowledge of allusions, wonderful metaphors, and witty or irate responses. Some of them mock love affairs. True emotions do exist; some poems are more emotional than technical. Literally, one hundred different voices, attitudes, and backgrounds of the elite class spans about four hundred years are crammed in this anthology.

Overall, this reviewer’s biggest complaint is that the translated poems sound overly monotonous; they do not sound like a hundred poets’ voices. I may be asking for the different level of considerations which may be out of the scope of the authors’ intentions; however, some deconstructions might be interesting to some readers.

Knowledge of the background stories might transform the reading experience of some of the poems. The first example is #60. The last sentence, “So I say,” helps accentuate the author’s strong-headedness. At the end of the book, the note mentions the author is the daughter of Izumi Shikibu, the representative poetess of the classical poetry world. But if a reader knows that this poem was a spontaneous come-back to a man who teased her whether she received advice from her mother who was living in Ama no Hashidate at that time, it might have added more colour to the poem.

#7. It may be a matter of interpretation; however, the two moons the poem deals will heighten its poignancy once a reader knows those two moons belong to the parallel worlds: one being the moon the author sees at night in China; The other moon was the moon of long ago in his hometown where he’d probably never return. In fact, he didn’t return to Japan.

How do you incorporate such backgrounds? You might ask. It must be hard. However, I know an example by Kevin Young, who did this for Basho’s poem.

 

Look at its shape

the moon is just a young girl

sent to bed^[4]

 

The original poem (miru Kage ya / Mada katanari mo/you zukiyo or 見る影やまだ片なりも宵月夜) doesn’t contain a word “girl” or “bed.”

The translation by Jane Reichhold is:

 

see its slim shape

it is still not developed

the new moon this night^[5]

 

One more step removed, her literal translation is like this:

see shape <> / still immature /new moon evening [or good]

 

Basho used Katanari, knowing it was the word used for a girl-child as being “pure” in the Tale of Genji and emphasised the young moon’s elusiveness (You Zuki). You Zuki is a” young new moon that appears only early in the evening and then disappears,” according to Reichhold’s definition. I recognise that haiku and waka are different; David Young offered new translations for the selected haiku, yet his translation made me immediately go to the original poem in Japanese and other translations, and found it satisfying.

I want to discuss pronoun use in a couple of poems. #5 specifies that “I hear a deer cry out.” I noticed it on my first read, and the poet Koike Masayo also writes about the difference between having a person and a deer in the scene. She maintains that the presence of “I” dilutes the poetics of the piece, and “I” might be somewhere, but it functions just as an ear, let the deer cry out, and “I” should remain in hiding. The translation also works just fine without “I hear.”

Likewise, #6 begins with “I cross toward the sky.” By this, the man is placed in a fantasy world. However, the poem deepens when the reader knows the man is awake late into the night and is standing in the cold in the palace as he looked up at the sky, which plays out the legend of Magpie, a bird of black and white like the dark sky and the bright stars. Grammatically, that is how one should read it.

#9 is one of the best-known and most beautiful poems by Ono no Komachi. Regrettably, the use of the “you” personification destroyed the complexity and the atmosphere of this poem. The poem’s focus should be the quiet reflection about the passage of time: The peak-time flower petal is not the only beauty there is to be appreciated. The highly technical sound and the flow of the poem didn’t survive the translation.

As mentioned earlier, those who write and translate poetry constantly wonder whether poetry is a translatable thing – whether it functions when taken out of the world it was written in. Translating into contemporary Japanese is a challenge; translating into a foreign language adds another layer due to the total lack of common knowledge and expectations. Even with contemporary poems, solely translating the text without knowing how the poet’s writing style and viewing things is risky. Needless to say, knowledge of allusions and historical backgrounds are basic requirements. A poet/translator must pack it back into the destination language in a poetically appealing way. It is a humbling exercise. It is the duty of cross-cultural translation to encompass all of those aspects. If the end-product is a beautiful creation inspired by the original poems, but not a translation in the traditional sense, I would love to read it. I am inquisitive about what the step-by-step process of their translation was like.

 

Miho Kinnas is a Japanese writer and translator of poetry. Math Paper Press of Singapore published “Today, Fish Only” and “Move Over, Bird.” She grew up playing the Hyakunin-Isshu card game.

 

^[1] Hyakunin-Isshu trans. Koike Masayo (Vol. 2 Japanese Literature Series) Kawaide-Shobo

^[2] #11, 19, 20, 27, 47, 49, 52, 56, 57, 59, 63

^[3] #3lily-of-the-valley I would like to be informed of the allusion.  It seems unnecessary and spring flower seems an ill-fit.  #88 shipwrecked!

^[4] Moon Woke Me Up Nine Times – Selected Haiku of Basho Translated by David Young

^[5] Basho The Complete Haiku Translated with an introduction, biography & notes by Jane Reichhold. This book is invaluable.  David Young heavily depended on her extensive research and translations.

 

~

 

REVIEW: “Professor Su Jing’an in His Later Years” by Dong Jun

(Patrick Schiefen)

OCTOBER 14th 2019

 

It is fundamentally human to disregard our own mortality, to believe – especially through our younger years – that we’re indestructible, even immortal. Yet Death is undeniable; it casts its shadow across every aspect of our daily lives whether or not we dare to look. After all, all things must come to an end.

So it is appropriate that death plays a large but quiet role in Dong Jun’s Professor Su Jing’an in His Later Years, revealing itself in its various forms throughout the short story in ways that are true to life. Its influence can be felt in every character’s actions, in their personal relationships, and, ultimately, in their association to identity. It serves both as an explicit motivation and as an unspoken one. It is even there in the book’s title, asking us to confront life’s finality before a single page has been turned.

With his ticking clocks and his conversations about legacy, Professor Su had already confronted the passing of time, to some degree, in the years before he is introduced to us.

As it goes, we, like the narrator, meet the retired Professor Su in the middle – or, more accurately, in the middle of the end – of his life, after the seventy-four year old academic requires a caretaker at his eclectic estate, the Bamboo and Plum Blossom Pavilion. There, with his wife and housekeeper, the professor oversees his now modest life like clockwork, though to which, if any, of his many international clocks that decorate his study he follows remains unknown.

Hoping to gather insight into the prestigious professor’s accomplishments, the narrator initially accompanies Professor Su as he moves through his daily routine with particular pride, crediting his not-yet-diminished sharpness on the habits he keeps. He wakes up to a pot of coffee and a glass of milk each day, he walks in reverse down his street after sunrise as exercise, and he eats salty sprouts and fermented bean curd with every meal, all the while making time to read, write, and construct those blue book sleeves for his library.

He criticizes his peer for being senile while comparing his own age to “a good tune played on an old fiddle.”

At first glance, it seems true; he is an aging man who both looks back on his life with fondness and looks forward to a rewarding and productive future – a future which, according to his planner, will see him to “at least a hundred.”

It is time’s indifference to people’s plans that sends Professor Su and the narrator on an unexpected trajectory, as death weighs more and more like gravity. His marriage evaporates suddenly, his rival is left hemiplegic after collapsing in front of a crowd, and his mentor loses his fight with lung cancer. In some ways we are more a companion of time than of Professor Su, as we observe his evolving relationship with his everchanging surroundings.

Sid Gulinck, a Belgian sinologist and certified interpreter, translates Dong Jun’s first-person narrative with a casual ease, weaving both observation and exposition with language that allows us to step into the intimate realities of the characters. It helps that the story is composed as a near timeline, one that starts by familiarizing the reader to a life already lived and then slowly departs – or, arguably, crash lands – as lives are propelled forward.

With each glimpse into this timeline, Dong Jun raises the stakes ever so slightly until we have no choice but to reckon with the effects that time has on who we are and who we will become. Plans and relationships are no match and reveal themselves to be fragile when up against such a relentless force.

As the story progresses and life’s tiny and mundane tragedies pile up, the characters must learn, like the rest of humanity, to examine even the most well-intentioned habits and to submit to what cannot be controlled. Professor Su, in particular, has staked so much of his identity on the illusion of control that when the rug is pulled out from under him he is faced with the existential threat of the death of self.

How he deals with this is at first is relatable, if a little predictable: he shuts his doors to all but the housekeeper, allows his routine to unravel, refuses to shave or shower or brush his teeth, and changes all of his clocks – the timekeepers – in an illogical manner. He caves to all the things he has been fighting against.

It is when he forgoes his established life completely that the Dong Jun’s narrative delivers on the unexpected.

Death may be the endpoint for us all but it always seems to come as a surprise. The real surprise, however, is the way we try, as humans, to negotiate with it. By the end of Professor Su Jing’an in His Later Years, Dong Jun reveals through his subject that by being overly concerned with doing so, you can lose perspective on what you have and who you are.

When Professor Su finally asks the narrator, and by extension us, “Who might you be?” he is offering an opportunity to decide if we are the sums of our pasts or, simply, whatever we may be in the flash of this moment.

Professor Su, at the end, has more or less already made up his mind.

 

Dong Jun (Author)

Sid Gulinck (Translator, Chinese to English)

Professor Su Jing’an in His Later Years

Penguin Random House/Penguin Books

2019, 55 pages

 

Patrick Schiefen is an expatriate writer from Upstate New York who currently writes and performs in Shanghai, China. His writing is greatly influenced by topics of identity, politics, and sexuality and aims to build community through his writing. His work has appeared in various publications both inside and outside of China, most recently in High Shelf Press and A Shanghai Poetry Zine.

“If You Know, You Know” is his first collection of poetry and was launched with the help of Literary Shanghai in September 2019.

Find more information about him on Twitter, @p_schiefen, or on his website, patrickschiefen.com.

 

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REVIEW: The Euphoria of Violence and The Absurdity of Heroism in Ai Wei’s ‘The Road Home’ (Aiden Heung)

OCTOBER 7th 2019

 

Ai Wei (Author), Alice Xin Liu (Translator, Chinese to English ) , The Road Home, Penguin Random House/Penguin Books, 2019, 81 pages

 

Violence, by definition, is the intentional use of force against oneself or others to inflict injury, death or trauma. Despite being widely reprimanded and censured, more often than not, the use of violence is justified, or even celebrated once it is labeled as nationalism. The mistaking of violence for glory is like a ghost that can never be exorcised, and is the basis of countless tragedies. It is therefore a writer’s responsibility to reflect on these tragedies, and ask why they occurred, even if he knows there won’t be any answers. As for readers, it is up to us not to forget.

That is exactly what Ai Wei does in his novel, The Road Home. One of the most lauded authors of the 1960s generation, he writes about the insignificance of a life entangled in a hostile social environment, eulogizing on the greatness and tenacity of human nature by trying to understand our raison d’être. He cares about those who find themselves “under the wheels of creakily-forward-moving history”.

The story takes place around the time of the China-Soviet border conflict, several years after the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. An obsession with violence already permeates the small village where the main protagonist Jiefang, a teenage boy, lives. In school, teachers show students the different modes of Soviet weapons and teach a military drill game to expose and catch “enemy commanders”. Jiefang often confronts his nemesis Strongbull, and their typical way of solving problems is a fist fight.

In the village, people spy and tell on each other, and torture the children of “four sinister elements, or people considered inimical to the new regime”. One day, when the children discover a trench full of bullets, joy “spreads like wildfire” in the village. Jiefang takes an active part in finding and hoarding them.

Trouble comes when Jiefang’s father is reported as a counter-revolutionary for painting a picture of the war hero Dong Cuirun bombing a bunker beneath a portrait of Chairman Mao. To atone for his father’s “crime” and redeem himself as a son of a counter-revolutionary, he has to become a true hero; a scarred soldier in the war. Jiefang makes use of the gun-powder inside a bomb he accidentally finds, and thus embarks on a “heroic” journey.

 The story centers on conflict: between Jiefang and Strongbull, between Jiefang’s father and the Revolutionaries, and between “politically correct” people and counter-revolutionaries. In any conflict there must be a winner or a hero.

Violence permeates the air. “Jiefang thinks the smell of gunpowder is the best smell in the whole world, all of the pores of his body open up after he smells gun powder and his whole being is relaxed”. It is every boy’s dream to become a hero and be received with “ drums and gongs”. However, in the end, the euphoria of violence leads only to fear and insecurity; Jiefang constantly escapes into the shells of the bomb for solace.

The story is full of metaphors. The smell of gun powder and the squirrels are particularly interesting, reflecting the antithesis of themes, as if the author were offering his own idea of redemption.

The setting is simple, logical, and almost true to history, with a touch of dramatic exaggeration that lifts the story to a higher level of tragicomedy. It leads us to ponder the uselessness of human endeavor, and the futility of being better or different in an absurd society, especially when this endeavor is tarnished from the very beginning by illusions.

Praise must also be given to Ai Wei’s dispassionate approach to the story. He tells but does not judge or suggest. He is the kind of writer who toys with the shadow of death by using the idea of a blade instead of blood.

Alice Xin Liu’s translation perfectly conveys the details and the mood of the text itself, as many historical facts are made easily approachable through her words. This is not an easy task for a novel with a strong connection with China’s tumultuous past.

If the purpose of this story is to “commemorate the past and enlighten the future”,  Ai Wei certainly delivers. Half a century later, we now more than ever need to be reminded of the dire consequences of conflating violence with heroism.

 

Aiden Heung is a prize-winning poet born and raised on the edge of Tibetan Plateau. He holds an MA in literature from Tongji University in Shanghai, the city he calls home. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous online and offline magazines including Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Literary Shanghai, Proverse Anthology, The Shanghai Literary Review, New English Review, The Bangalore Review, Esthetic Apostle, Mekong Review, among many other places.He can be found on twitter @AidenHeung or www.aiden-heung.com

 

 

Continue reading

Carlo Rey Lacsamana – ‘Spoliarium’

JULY 4th 2022

Carlo Rey Lacsamana is a Filipino born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. His works have been published in magazines in the U.S., Canada, the U.K., Germany, Scotland, The Netherlands, Australia, India, and Mexico. Visit his website or follow him on Instagram @carlo_rey_lacsamana.

 

Spoliarium

I am standing in front of the most famous painting in the Philippines, Juan Luna’s Spoliarium (1884), at the National Museum in Ermita, Manila. It is the first picture that welcomes the eyes. I position myself some 10 feet away from the painting to accustom my eyes to its immensity and distance myself from the huddling spectators competing for photographic territory, like desperate paparazzi who don’t bother fixing their eyes to what they are photographing.

Something is new and disconcerting here: Today, paintings are celebrated like pop concerts. Young people respond to art by taking pictures. The immense size of the painting demands from the first timer and the expert the same immensity of attention and silence. It is only in attention and silence that paintings can speak. But such demand is too wearisome, too time-consuming for a society of short attention spans. It takes a lot of patience and time to really look, instead of just a touch away to photograph.

The Spoliarium measures 4.22 m x 7.675 m (about 13 ft x 25 ft). The size of history. I am suddenly reminded of the prophetic words of Walter Benjamin:

“Where we see the appearance of a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe.”

There is not a detail in this picture which does not portray a sense of human catastrophe: the shadowy outlines of the horrified and stunned spectators in the background; the bloodthirsty Roman politicians eyeing the spectacle of the “bloody carcasses of slave gladiators,” in Rizal’s anguished description; the surviving gladiators helplessly dragging their slain comrades; and the woman in the right corner who turns away and sinks down in disbelief disgusted by the cruelty of man. Perhaps she is the wife, or the sister, or the mother of one of the murdered slaves. (How many times did we see these figures in real life?) All situated in the gloom. It is a picture of history. A history of catastrophe.

In his Theses on The Philosophy of History (1940), Benjamin proposes another way of looking at history: “To articulate the past does not mean to recognize ‘how it really was.’ It means to take control of a memory, as it flashes in a moment of danger.” For Luna, painting was a way to grasp history. His choice of a bygone historical moment as his subject (which may have pleased the judges of the Exposición Nacional de Bellas Artes in Madrid so much that they gave him the first prize) conveys the capacity of painting to render history a visibility, the recognition of a memory. The act of painting reinforced by a sense of compassion and ancestral appreciation. To paint is to take control of memory. In most situations, painting intertwines with remembering. It is the crisscrossing of the present and the past. One interrogating the other. The Spoliarium as a whole is a picture of tragic remembrance. What is being transmitted – what is worth remembering – is a historic truth, and according to Theodor Adorno, the condition of truth is to allow suffering to speak. The aim of the corporate media is to package and commodify suffering to make it profitable, thus disengaging suffering from its historical context, making it void and voiceless.

In a dysfunctional educational system, history is taught as a cluster of insubstantial facts, names, and dates to be memorized instead of constructive and debatable truths.

At school we were forced to learn historical facts, which invite little sympathy from us students. Details that do not awaken our curiosity, lessons that fail to connect with the spirit of our times. I find it a miracle that a painting like Spoliarium can tell us more of the blood and spirit of history than any academic schooling can. It is this capacity of art to remind that poses a threat to our society that is prone to historical amnesia and collective forgetfulness. To think about history is not to think about the so-called “big” moments in history from which the familiar names of the textbook protagonists always resurface. No. To think about history is to think about this side and that side of suffering: the enormous price paid by the nameless and the faceless, like the slaves in the Spoliarium.

Luna’s theme, situated in a particularly tragic moment in Roman history, enables us to see and articulate the tragic character of our own history. It is the tragic character of the histories of the colonized and the oppressed, which the powerful have desperately and unsuccessfully tried to marginalize, the very substance of our collective memory. History is tragic, what is tragic is history. This historical sensitivity evoked by the painting is precisely what the corporate media and the entertainment industry are trying to glamorize and stereotype today. The effect is to deny the present any significant meaning. Luna insists that the only way to approach an understanding of the present is through history, by taking control of our memory. Any kind of shortcut is not an option.

Spoliarium mirrors the two magisterial works of Luna’s contemporary, Jose Rizal: Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. Both the painting and the novels reflect the concrete social crisis of their day. Both Rizal and Luna belonged to that group of intellectuals in the 19th century that used art as an agent for social change. They believed in the tremendous capacity of art to shape society, and, in the words of Antonio Gramsci, “to destroy spiritual hierarchies, prejudices, idols and ossified traditions.”

Step a little closer. Look: A mass of dark color surrounds the painting cut by a beam of light (which resembles a glowing lamp inside an interrogation room) to bear down on the figures of the dead slaves. The immensity of the painting is reduced to that sight of death.

Take two steps back. Look all over again: A visitor who sees Spoliarium for the first time will notice that the first thing their eyes respond to is the image of the dead slave, the lifeless body which endured unimaginable pain outstretched in the foreground. It is the pictorial center. It is the point of reference that connects all the painting’s spatial details. And these spaces in the painting evoke different forms of death, which, in the past and in the present, are constant.

1.) Cultural Death: The barbarity of the Roman spectacle is not dissimilar to the kind of spectacle the mass media is trying to concoct in its coverage of wars and aggressions by sensationalizing and de-contextualizing.

2.) Social Death: The indifference of the public towards certain forms of oppression, our present society’s lack of determined self-scrutiny, and the apathy and distance of administrators to the situation of the oppressed, as if neither suffering nor death speak to them nor move them.

3.) Economic Death: An economy embedded in a system which prioritizes the interests of foreign and private enterprise aggravates the insuperable gap between the rich and the poor and fuels the hatred of conflicting classes.

4.) Spiritual Death: The hopeless resignation of the woman and the restless grief of the surviving slaves. The overwhelming bitterness that shakes the foundation of faith.

5.) Physical Death: The unjustified suffering of the oppressed as they perish by inches.

The Moroccan poet, Hassan El Ouazzani, condenses these forms of death in a few provocative lines:

“For sure

the land will offer

new dead people as sacrifice, processions of the blind,

and more medals.”

– A Truce (from Hudnatun ma, 1997)

Spoliarium’s image of death speaks as eloquently today as it did more than a hundred years ago. The forms of death Luna and his generation had to wrestle with are more or less the prevailing forms of death we struggle with today. Only appearances have changed.

It is facile to simply acknowledge Luna’s masterly artistic skills and his contribution to the arts in this country; more than anything else, his great contribution belongs to human awareness. He had the lucidity to recognize the inexplicable suffering inherent in history. And this lucidity is a gift to the living. What the powerful want is to deny the present of its history, its memory. A present without history is without future. Today’s prevailing post-modern art, awash with narcissism and nihilism, seem to be complicit in this denial.

Walter Benjamin in his eighth Thesis writes, “The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the emergency situation in which we live is the rule. We must arrive at a concept of history which corresponds to this.” Luna’s slaves assert the emergency situation. What the powerful deny, the dead affirm. That the slaves are the main figure of this painting, the oppressed that have been unperceived and disregarded for five hundred years, claims our memory. Spoliarium provides a historical perspective enabling us to interrogate the present whose deliberate forgetfulness is the source and cause of our country’s wounds.

No other painting of Luna or after him in the history of painting in this country has given us such a tool of awareness. To acknowledge our own suffering and struggle through the suffering and struggle of others is a kind of lucidity that underlies a spark of hope. What more could you ask of a painting this size, this beautiful, this deeply moving in its mood of pain, and pity?

~

 

Bhaswati Ghosh – ‘Homes and the World’

 OCTOBER 4th 2021

 

Bhaswati Ghosh writes and translates fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her first book of fiction was ‘Victory Colony, 1950’. Her first work of translation, ‘My Days with Ramkinkar Baij’ won her the Charles Wallace (India) Trust Fellowship for translation. Bhaswati’s writing has appeared in several literary journals. She is an editor with The Woman Inc. and is currently working on a nonfiction book on New Delhi, India. More about Bhaswati: https://linktr.ee/Bhaswatig

 

*

 

Homes and the World

 

From womb to the world, I bring emergencies in my wake.

 

1. LAJPAT NAGAR

 

Ten days after I’m born, democracy in my country gets turned on its head; constitutional rights are left meaningless for all practical purposes. The Indian government has just declared a state of Emergency. While I have no memory from that time, people who do still recoil in remembered fear when talking of those “Dark days.” Of disappearances and forced sterilizations, of tortures, interrogations and blank newspaper pages – a way to refuse toeing the government line.

My mother has to fight her own emergency, meanwhile. Her marriage has just fallen apart and she’s back in her parents’ home in Lajpat Nagar in New Delhi. When I come bundled up from Holy Family, the Christian missionary hospital where I am delivered to Kasturba Niketan – the refugee rehabilitation colony where my grandmother works, my mother is in desperate need of a job.

Before that first house grows on me, the Emergency has been lifted and my mother finds employment. Her old employer – the library at Delhi University – takes her back, making an exception on its policy regarding rehiring former employees. Her pre-marriage work record helps as much as her post-marriage personal crisis.

The house that my mind stretches the farthest back to is the one we move to from Kasturba Niketan. It’s a two-room rented accommodation, a part of the full house owned by Mr. Khera, one of the thousands of Punjabis displaced by the Partition of India who made New Delhi their home in the 1950s. This house is where I would first learn the power of a bribe when my mother puts a slim Dairy Milk bar in my hand as she and my brother sneak out to watch Trishul – a just-released Hindi film about a son growing up to avenge his wronged mother. Its stuffy interiors would also make Khera’s house (the name we would simply remember it by later) my earliest mischief-making workshop. One evening when I can’t be seen anywhere, the family would throw a fit and a search unit go out to find me. When they all return empty-handed and shakily tense, I emerge from behind a sofa where I had been hiding all this while, unable to determine what the fuss is all about.

Somewhere between accompanying Grandma to the hospital where Grandfather is being treated for cataract and loitering about the courtyard that’s obscenely disproportionate in its expanse as compared to the matchbox interior where we reside, I figure out Grandma wants to be in her “own” house and this is not it. I go to the family altar one day. It’s a wooden hub where all the gods and goddesses live inside picture frames or as small idols. I take one of my slippers and start thrashing with it the photo of Ganesha, the god of good fortune. I beat him black and blue, my toddler mouth lashing in tandem, “Why aren’t you giving Grandma her own house?”

 

1. SRINIVAS PURI

 

I will learn to be patient.

 

We’ve moved houses again, but this too, isn’t Grandma’s own house. She has worked to rehabilitate refugees who fled into India after the country’s Partitioned independence but hasn’t yet been rehabilitated herself. She and Grandpa also lost all their property overnight when the country was divided into India and Pakistan in 1947.

It’s a sarkari (Hindi for government-owned) accommodation she has been given. This is where I will make my first real friends with whom I would laze on summer afternoons, sampling tart raw mangoes with chili powder and playing pitthhoo. This two-room house with grey cabinets that packs the six of us – me, my brother, our mother, grandfather, grandmother and maternal uncle – is the happy haven where mother helps me with school work and grandfather keeps up with my post-school meal tantrums. This is where I learn the algebra of a community. The buckets of water my anemic mother draws during summer months from the house on the ground floor to cope with the water scarcity bothers me but I’m not yet big enough to share her load. Neighbours help us forge equations by letting us watch Sunday telecasts of Hindi films and cricket matches on their televisions, women (mothers and grandmothers) huddle on charpais to knit sweaters in the winter, Janmashtami and Ram Lila celebrations every monsoon and autumn see both adult and children kick butt as different neighbourhood groups try outsmarting each other in decorations and performances.

This is also where I learn the chemistry of fear.

One October morning, the prime minister, the same one who declared the Emergency ten days after I was born, is assassinated. I’m nine years old now. Her death makes parts of my city combustible. Members of the Sikh community – the one to which the two bodyguards who shot the PM down belonged – are dragged out of their houses and burned alive. Many of them are torched inside the taxis they drive across the city. The violence is allegedly carried out at the behest of the ruling party to avenge its leader’s killing. On our neighbour’s faces, I see the terror that emerges when fire reacts with fear. Section 144C is clamped in various areas, making it illegal for groups of people to gather in public. Women become widows overnight, their children fatherless, their families left without any earning members.

The violent killing of our prime minister has shaken me, but I’m unable to grasp the burning mayhem that follows. I think of Baby as I hear about Sikhs being burned and butchered. Only a year ago, I was part of a small crowd that had huddled in the living room of Baby, a lanky Sikh teenager, and her family living across us shared. We were there to watch the finals of the 1983 cricket World Cup. India had startlingly entered the finals and faced the formidable West Indies team. As we watched the nail-biting final over, holding our breath, the collective gasps transformed into yowls of joy. India had just beaten the West Indies and our cheers along with those of Baby and her folks became louder as the Indian captain lifted the World Cup, his big grin refracted on our faces.

 

III. C. R. PARK

 

I am finally double digits old, and Grandma finally has her own house. If you could call it one, that is. She’s no longer entitled to a government quarter and has been pushed to the wall to get the construction of her house started on the modest plot of land she bought in another corner of South Delhi. When the six of us arrive in our semi-constructed new house, we don’t yet have an electricity connection. My brother and I have to soon get used to studying in candlelight and armies of mosquitoes as we prepare for our impending half-yearly examinations.

The area we’ve come to live in is named after an Indian freedom fighter, but this is its cosmetic name. It has another, more official name – EPDP Colony. The last two letters of that abbreviation – expanding to Displaced Persons – bear the genetic code of our family history. Unlike the mostly voluntary displacements that have seen me move to four different houses in the ten years of my life so far, those two words point to a more sinister, irreversible type of displacement. The kind Grandma and Grandpa experienced when they lost what Grandma calls their “Desh,” literally meaning one’s country, but in essence meaning homeland, to the Partition of India some thirty years before my birth. She tells me about the country’s division along its eastern and western borders. She and Grandpa came from the east, and after years of negotiations, a group of folks, including Grandpa, were able to get the central government to sell them plots of land at a subsidised price.

Three years after we move to this house — I am teen now and I bleed every month – there’s a lot of bloodshed in our colony. A group of Sikh gunmen have attacked the neighbourhood on the eve of Kali Puja, when Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction is worshipped. In the years following the assassination of Mrs. Gandhi, the prime minister killed by her bodyguards, demands for a separate Sikh homeland gain momentum, resulting in one of the most violent periods of insurgency in independent India.

There are four different worship venues spread over the colony and the gunmen go from one to the next to hunt their victims. I’m in one of the venues, playing the harmonium for my friend as she sings in a music competition. I’m supposed to sing after her. She can’t complete her song, though, and starts weeping in the middle of it. I wonder what has suddenly made her so nervous and by the time I understand the reason, all I know is that we need to run as fast as we can. There’s commotion all around. My eyes search for my mother in the audience. As soon as I spot her, the three of us join the terrified crowd to make our escape. A neighbouring resident gives us shelter. Cramped in his family’s living room I blankly watch the TV where a weekly biopic on Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal king, plays. An hour or so later, we get a hitch from a car and make it home, where my grandparents are oblivious to the harrowing events gripping the neighbourhood. When they hear about it from us, they are as relieved to have us back unharmed as they are shocked. Over the next several weeks, we reel in fear as we learn how close neighbours were gunned down not too far from our house. The gunmen, apparently on a mission to avenge the high-handed anti-terrorist measures of Punjab’s Bengali governor, choose to shoot men dead right in front of their wives and mothers, even as they spare the women and children.

About a month after the dark night of Kali Puja that never came to be for us that year, I find a small scrap of paper that I take to my grandparents. It has these words written in Hindi, “Beware and be prepared.” As my grandmother reads it aloud, I can see the panic it brings to both her and Grandpa’s face.

“Who could it be?” I probe them and while they don’t offer a direct answer, I’m advised to be more careful. We need to be on our guard, Grandma says. The worry on their faces deepens, and I can’t take it any longer.

“I wrote that note,” I tell them. We all have a comforting laugh as they rebuke me. The house nameplate behind which was the letterbox mocks me for days, weeks and years, asking why I carried out that cruel prank on the two people who helped develop the very foundation of who I was. I am unable to come up with a satisfactory answer.

This house, my Grandma’s own, will become my most intimate, most unforgiving secret-hoarding twin. It will grow as I do, bleed in its puberty, struggle restlessly for identity in its youth and eventually reconcile to the inevitability of coming of age. This is where my mother will attach wings on me to help my creative talents soar, find the money from her meagre salary to enrol me to dance and music classes, teach me the art of reciting Bengali poems and songs to sing at Durga Puja competitions, and take me from one venue to the next for inter-school music competitions. This is the house where she’ll have a custom cabinet built to house and display all my prizes.

In the end, the house will turn into my sole mate as its cold hands pull me inside its crevices when I’m fifteen. My grandparents will die within a year of each other, leaving me an empty nester. Only, I’m a fledgling here, with no experience of flying.

I will learn to give in to the ghostly clasp of a brooding house.

I finish school, go through university, join the workforce. Governments come and go – from the right, centre, to a medley of right, left and everything in between. Mosques are razed to the ground, self-immolations take place to protest against reservations to lower castes in education and jobs, more blood flows through the streets and more terror attacks rock the country. I keep descending deeper and deeper into my cave.

One day, I quit full-time work and become even more home-bound. Every morning, I walk on the terrace, taking in bird calls and morning scenes – children off to school, office traffic, and vegetable vendors with their heaped carts. For the first time in decades, I feel relaxed, inside and out. Embracing my introvert soul wholeheartedly, I become a part of virtual writing and blogging communities, the online world safely cocooning me in a mesh of seemingly like-minded souls.

I come across a fellow blogger whose family history follows a track similar to the skewed trajectory of my own. We are both second-generation refugees, with borrowed nostalgia and quilted memories we’ve inherited from our grandparents. We’ve both, him more than me (he’s from Punjab), been scarred by and survived terrorism. We read and comment on each other’s posts and write guest posts on each other’s blogs. We go on to collaborate on the editing and publication of a book written by an activist working with Adivasis in Central India. Two years after we first meet through our blogs, we get married.

After twenty-four years of living in this house, my grandmother’s own, I step out of it.

From home to the world, I’ve carried with me my mother’s hardship, the politics of my homes, and my grandparents’ displacement anxiety. At the same time, I’ve also been able to transcend some of these through an admixture of time’s healing passage and the unique circumstances that became a part of my story.

That’s more than a refugee heir could ask for.

 

~

 

Karolina Wróblewska – ‘But I didn’t want to be a strawberry’

AUGUST 2nd 2021

Karolina Wróblewska is a Shanghai enthusiast. She has lived here for over a decade, mesmerised by old Shanghai lanes and their inhabitants. Trained in sinology, she enjoys Chinese ink wash painting and writing about her Shanghai experience.

 

But I didn’t want to be a strawberry

 

I like to imagine myself as a memories collector. I find, gather, organise, and appreciate; a seamstress that arranges snippets of fabric into intricate patterns. No wonder, because since childhood, I wanted to be a dressmaker. One of these days, I will take out my patchwork and admire its beauty.

***

The first telephone set appeared at our home somewhere in the eighties. It was a blue dial. It was such a novelty that my sister and I wanted to call someone at all times. It was this kind of magic we could not comprehend. How could a piece of plastic make a ringing noise, and upon picking up the handset, your grandma’s voice came from the inside of it? Incomprehensible magic. You had to have a reason to make a phone call, and therefore we were not allowed to touch it.

But my parents were at work when I returned home from school. (Those were good old times when people were not afraid of letting children come home from school independently, with house keys dangling from their necks.) Hania was a good friend of mine. She was my classmate and a neighbour too. She had two long braids. Her mum was a hairdresser, and her father was a policeman. Her family must have had the telephone installed about the same time as us, so Hania and I came up with a great prank, alternating once at her place and once at mine, we would take out a thick book of yellow pages and call people randomly.

We usually started the conversation by pretending that we called from the kindergarten. Depending on who answered the phone, we would say something like: “Hello Sir, your grandson is waiting for you at the kindergarten. You forgot to pick him up. Come quickly, please!” We tried to sound like adults; kids are so naïve. Seldom an angry man’s voice on the other side of the line would scold us, and we were frightened, sometimes a drunk would utter unintelligible words at us, rarely we were threatened: “Making stupid jokes! I’ll find you, and you will see!” We would hang up the receiver promptly. But I remember an old lady who answered the phone and willingly had a conversation with us. She spoke in a soft and pleasant voice. I feel she must have been very lonely, and our prank was a nice digression in her otherwise lonesome existence. I remember we were asked a lot of questions, so the conversation went on and on. We laughed, and the lady seemed cheerful too.

We were found out as soon as a telephone bill arrived, and it put an end to our games.

***

I once came across “Orange Crush”, an essay written by Yiyun Li. Although she lived thousands of kilometres away from me, I could absolutely relate to her story. In her piece, she described the first time she was exposed to western culture in the form of an orange drink for the Chinese market branded as Tang. A bottle of the beverage was so expensive that you could buy tones of oranges for the same price. A monthly lunch allowance would be just enough to buy a bottle. The drink came into the market with an appropriate TV  commercial. The family on the TV screen was not only very healthy but utterly happy. Needless to say, all thanks to Tang.

It was China in the nineties. It reminded me of my own experience, which must have been a decade earlier, maybe the beginning of my primary education—Poland in the eighties.

There were no commercials on TV back then, but we too looked up to America. Same as the narrator of “Orange Crush,” I also had my little American Dream. I wanted to taste exotic fruit, like a banana or an orange. It was an unattainable thirst. Back then, we could only get locally grown fruit and vegetables, so it was up to my imagination to picture myself tasting something so out of the ordinary. Until one Christmas when all of a sudden there was a delivery of bananas to our local supermarket. My mum must have accomplished a challenging task, nearly a miracle, to buy a tiny bunch of bananas.

The view of bananas was so unreal that I consumed my first ever banana in front of a giant mirror in the hall of our apartment. I cannot even recall the impression the taste made on me. All I know is that there I was, standing facing the mirror in a cool, nonchalant pose pretending to be someone for whom eating tropical fruit was the most ordinary thing on earth. For a moment, I turned into somebody else. And I thought how great that would be to be this somebody else.

The banana was soon gone, but the memory of the absurdity of the situation remains vivid till this very day. Since then, I have tried Chinese cuisine, Japanese, Thai. I have tasted sushi, curry. I have eaten avocados, passion fruit, papayas, pomelos. All the things I had not dreamt of because I did not know of their existence whatsoever.  With time they became common and ordinary.

***

At one point, I wanted to be a scientist, like my grandfather. He was a biologist. He showed me the magical world seen under the microscope; tiny particles of plants enlarged under the magnifying glass. When I was about seven, we spent summer at a lakeside somewhere near my hometown. We would take long walks in the woods during which my sister and I were trained to recognise trees by the types of leaves, barks; poplar, oak, birch, aspen, chestnut. We could distinguish them all.  It was there where I carried out my first ever scientific experiment. My parents were displeased. My mum, in particular, did not appreciate my sudden rush to science. Looking back, I don’t blame her. In my research, I wanted to prove that my corrective eyeglasses (which I was terribly embarrassed by) can float on the surface of the lake. I guess that subconsciously I wanted to get rid of them. The experiment proved me wrong. My glasses (not the first pair within a few months) drowned in the depths of the lake. I, therefore, bowed out from further research.

***

The bakery was my favourite pastime game. There was a sizable sandpit in a playground right behind our apartment building. It was rimmed with a short concrete wall with wooden boards on top of it. All the kids from the neighbourhood loved to spend time there. We had plastic moulds, which we filled with wet sand. Upon flipping them over on the boards, the perfect loaves of bread, cookies, stars, shells and cakes appeared. Miraculously, we could somehow sense the aroma of freshly baked pastry. One of us would be a baker, and the rest were customers. “How can I help you?” would the baker ask. “I’d like this loaf of bread and a star cookie, please”, a customer would reply. “Here you are!” In the way of claiming our orders, we would smash the purchased items with our little hands. Bang! And a loaf would turn back to scattering of sand. Bang! And the same would happen to the star, the shell or the cake.

***

The baking game was great, but “treasure hunting” was probably even better. It meant walking at the back of the apartment buildings in our settlement, under the balconies. There were usually very narrow paths between the buildings and flowerbeds. Searching for treasures meant simply to look for garbage thrown by accident away from the balconies. Once, someone threw out their balcony, not quite unintentionally, a whole box of metal buttons. That was one of the best trophies ever. For many years afterwards, mum would still use them to replace lost buttons in our jackets, trousers, shirts. But it was not the greatest. The greatest treasure ever was thrown out of a car that stopped abruptly on a busy overpass going towards the city centre. Right next to the overpass was an empty clearing with only a few bushes and tall grass that nobody ever mowed. Our block-of-flats was just beside it, so we kids used to play there a lot. And so, on one ordinary day, a car stopped nearby, and a bag full of goodies landed in the grass. It contained some trash; old, broken toys. The only item I remember, which must have been my prize, was a black lace fan. In my little eyes, the fan was the most magnificent object ever.

***

There was some aura of scandal around our next-door neighbour – E and a romance too. I didn’t understand much of it, especially why was there a woman banging on E’s door in a fury one day. She lived alone with her teenage son, and from time to time, she had male visitors. Some were foreigners. One of them, Bogdan, was one of a kind. In my childhood years, people were not allowed to travel abroad, not even possess passports. The iron curtain between us and the rest of the world was tightly sealed. To me, Bogdan was a representation of that unattainable wonderful world. He was tall, handsome and gallant; a real gentleman, very generous too. Bogdan always used to bring presents, so the entire neighbourhood was awaiting his visits. Once, he got my sister and me a tiny doll each. The dolls weren’t much bigger than our hands, but to us, they were the most precious toys in our collections. We loved them and admired Bogdan even more. The other time he brought a set of extraordinary butterfly brooches. They were made of wire and stocking knit. Each butterfly was a different colour. All the ladies (including my sister and me) were to select one brooch. What a difficult choice that was!

***

In winter, my dad and I used to go skiing. Only two of us were the sporty ones, so mum and sister stayed at home. The company that my dad worked for owned a small resort in Karpacz, in Karkonosze Mountains. It was an old, probably post-German villa with the fabulously sounding name Zameczek (The Little Castle). He and I went there nearly every winter. We rented a tiny room in Zameczek and went skiing from morning till dusk.

On the main street of Karpacz stood a miniature windmill, to some incomprehensible cause called The Windmill of Love. I used to demand to be taken there every time we went to the mountains. I stood in front of a petite windmill, mesmerised. Tiny figurines of a miller and his wife on the balcony made me freeze enchanted. It was rising inversely proportionate to myself. As I was growing taller, year by year, it was shrinking in my eyes. Nevertheless, I was always staring at it with admiration, not noticing its decay and fading colours.

Winters used to be colder and snowier than we get nowadays. It is one of the most evident and visible proofs of climate change. These days we have snow in April sometimes, but winters are generally milder than they used to be. I grew older, my father changed the workplace, and we stopped going to The Little Castle altogether. With time I even forgot how to ski.

***

I remember that I always wanted to be a princess. (Thus, I loved going to the Little Castle in winters.) Every year our kindergarten threw a costume party, and for a few consecutive years, my mum dressed me up as a strawberry. Maybe she did not have the resources to make me a princess, but most likely, she just thought the idea too clichéd, too trivial. She wanted something out of the ordinary. I must admit that my mum worked miracles to turn pieces of material into such an incredible, bespoke outfit. The costume included green headwear that resembled a calyx, and there was even a tiny pedicel sticking out. The dress was made of some green nylon fabric. Back then, to buy a piece of cloth was a marvel, so my mum must have had supernatural powers to achieve that. There was a white collar around the neck with a couple of strawberries embroidered on it. And on top of all that, an enormous strawberry was sewed on the front, from the waist down. The strawberry was bright red with white achenes and three green sepals. Everybody admired my mum’s talents and adored my dress. But I, as every girl of my age, wanted to be a princess. I didn’t want to be a strawberry.

***

It was a childhood of spellbinding beauty, enchanting and joyous—that childhood of mine. How many of the numerous toys children nowadays are given by their parents and family friends will be cherished and remembered like that miniature doll in a bright dress or cute, rinky-dink butterflies I was given all those years ago?

I look at a pile of presents under the Christmas tree. December 2020. Two girls compulsively open their beautifully wrapped gifts. There is only a little time to admire each gorgeous, expensive, new toy. It is quickly glanced at as if in passing. Pieces of torn wrapping paper land on the floor, covering already unwrapped toys. Another box is being lifted and the procedure repeated. By the time the last boxes are opened, it’s nearly bedtime. The pile will occupy space on the carpet, or maybe an adult will mercifully put them aside before good night.

04.2021

~

 

Karolina Wróblewska – Guilin Park

JANUARY 4th 2021

 

Karolina Wróblewska is a Shanghai enthusiast. She has lived there for over a decade, mesmerised by old Shanghai lanes and their inhabitants. Trained in sinology, she enjoys Chinese ink wash painting and writing about her Shanghai experience.

Guilin Park

It was pure naivety on her side to go to a park in the middle of October holiday to seek some tranquillity. She realised that as soon as she reached Guilin Park on Wednesday morning. Renshan renhai, as they say in Chinese, which literally means people mountain people sea, or in one word – crowded.

It felt unreal to be surrounded by this sea of people while in other parts of the world people sought shelter in their homes, and were advised not to leave their seclusions unless necessary.

Nevertheless, she was determined to find a quiet spot, away from the crowds, where she could open her drawing pad and do some sketches of nature, pretending it was a remote place, somewhere in the country, not a busy park in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world. She spotted a little pavilion on a tiny hill. To find the way to the top of it was not easy, because the stairs were hidden among tall trees and bushes, and there was a pond on the other side of the hillock.

She was surrounded by vivid colours. The grass was dazzling green. The sun shone brightly, the sky was perfectly blue and so was the still water of the pond, mirroring the heavens. As if to complement this idyllic ambience from time to time she could sense the sweet fragrance of Osmanthus blossoms. The most marvellous and ephemeral scent ever.

Her chosen spot looked completely deserted but while she was climbing the winding stairs she noticed a man coming out of nowhere, aiming the same direction. They reached the pinnacle at the same moment. The situation was awkward. It was obvious that both of them wanted to be left alone, but none wanted to withdraw. The spot was too perfect to give it up easily. The pavilion was surrounded with a short concrete fence, and the passing which constituted an entry to the little square in front of the building was blocked by a blue tape, so none of them could give way and go to the opposite side.  She put her bag down, he put his flask on the wall. “He might as well stay,” she thought generously, after all, she wanted to avoid crowds not a single person. He must have thought otherwise because, after a while of hesitation, he grabbed his glass flask filled with tea, which has probably been refilled many times, and turned to mildly rusty colour, and left.

Pretending to be indifferent to the situation (although she did feel guilty a bit), she took out her sketchbook and pencils and sat quite restfully on the short wall. As soon as she made herself perfectly comfortable she heard the sound of a whistle. She looked around, and as could be expected, there was a guard down the mound near the pond pointing at her and shaking his head as if saying, “sitting on the wall is not allowed.” “I should have brought my bamboo chair” – she thought. People do bring strange objects to parks all the time. People here carry strange objects around the town all of the time! No one would be surprised or indignant. Even today she saw old men strolling around the park lanes with beautifully ornamented cages and birds inside them. Not to mention all those senior citizens with their own foldable stools that frequented subways during rush hours.

Let alone strange things that happen here all the time. Just yesterday she had witnessed that utterly surreal scene. She walked down Shanxi Road when suddenly someone walking a dog came straight at her. As she stepped sideways to let them pass she nearly bumped into a pig! It was quite a handsome pig with grey patches all over its pink body; as if carrying a map of the world on its back. The owner, a young man, was pushing his pet gently forward with nudges. Would anyone pay any attention to a bamboo chair if she brought it to the park? Very unlikely. She caught eye contact with the guard, made an OK sign with her hand and stood up, just to lean against the wall, which was less comfortable but still acceptable.

She created a little view of a pond with a small stone bridge over it, with an old crooked tree, a strange stone, so-called guai shitou or gongshi, and a pagoda in the distance. Gongshi means Scholar’s rock and is a must-have element of a traditional Chinese garden, and so should also appear in landscape paintings. Three places in China are sources of scholar’s rocks. The ones in Shanghai are the most probably from Lake Tai area, from neighbouring Jiangsu province, so are called Taihu stones (Taihu shi). Their appearance must be very unique, the shape irregular, and they have to have some holes and cavities in them.  And so she placed a big and perfectly irregular Taihu shi in the foreground. Her sketch emanated calmness. The place she created was quiet and deserted, and so black and white compared to the bright colours of the nature that encircled her on that perfectly sunny day.

She has always been surrounded by woods, she thought dreamily. The view of the crippled tree made her think of those handsome, tall trees in her Chinese name; Lin sounded dignified and earnest. Funnily enough by adding merely three drops of water to her two slim trees you would get yet another version of lin – a shower; thousands of little tears. But it was a bright day with no threatens of showers.

At some point, by the corner of her eye, she noticed the man with the tea flask on the other side of the pavilion. There must be another way up the mound to the other side of it. He placed his bottle on the wall and put his hands together in prayer. He bowed several times and was gone.

She witnessed a great and clandestine scene, she thought. The park was once  (at the beginning of the XX^th century) privately owned by a rich gangster. She knew that much. It’s a very picturesque place full of magical hidden corners, beautiful pagodas, charming pavilions, tiny hills, old bamboo trees. The place radiates wealth and splendour. There is water, there is a mountain, elements of a perfect landscape much loved by southern Chinese.

Now, she was sure of that, she uncovered a great secret, she had figured out that the man (most probably) was a descendant of that powerful family.  He comes to pay respects to his ancestors, intimately when no one is there. She was overwhelmed by solving the mystery. No one else, but she knew who the man was.

She continued drawing, occasionally disturbed by passers-by who probably wanted to take a photo with the house as a background. And they did with the pavilion and a foreign lady in the background. But she did not mind… She drew.

At one moment “a descendant” of the rich gangster appeared again with his glass tea flask and a middle-aged couple and gesticulating was explaining something to them vividly. “So what is this place?” she asked as if in passing, pretending disinterest, but in fact deeply curious to hear about his family secrets. “It’s Guanyin pavilion, you know?” She turned back, and behind herself she noticed a large board hanging above a beautifully carved front door. The sign in huge golden characters on black background clearly stated Guanyin ge. She realised once again that she tends to be carried away by her imagination quite some times.

Of course, she knew the slim statue of Guanyin, seen so many times in Buddhists temples. “She is the Goddess of Mercy, you know?” “I do.” And upon realizing that she can understand what he says, he explained with great engagement: “You see those twisted stone stairs? They are so tricky, that old person should not try to climb them. And do you know why? Because human life is intricate. In the course of our lives, we deviate from the straight route. That’s why our life path is not straightforward, just like this path up the hillock. Now we must climb up this mound to seek Guanyin’s mercy and forgiveness, repent the sins, you know?”

The couple was still there, mesmerised by this surreal scene. It seemed there was something wrong there. A Chinese man was explaining some intricate stories in his mother tongue using sophisticated expressions to a foreign woman, and she nodded as if in understanding. “Do you understand what he says?” – a man asked in disbelief. “I do,” she replied and immediately was overpowered by the feeling of losing the ability to comprehend this foreign speech. It happened repeatedly before. Often when someone praised her language skills she froze and blocked the words from her ears.

As expected, from that moment onwards she couldn’t grasp the meaning of what he was trying to convey. “Blah, blah, blah, you know?’ “No,” she admitted with shame. “No?” now he was surprised. “It’s history, you know?” She might as well keep on nodding, after all, she knew he was introducing her to the history of Guilin Park, which was not owned by his ancestors after all, and which she could later google. So she was “nodding in advance.”

And later on, she did make it up and learnt that the residence was built by one of the three most infamous Shanghai criminals, Huang Jinrong, in 1929. Even Wikipedia states his occupation as a gangster!

Huang and his family moved to Shanghai from Suzhou when he was only 5. He was a good and obedient child. As a young boy, he worked as an apprentice in a picture framing shop near Yu Garden. Back then he did not show any signs of making a gangster. Later on, he shifted to work in his father’s teahouse. Here he found opportunities to make connections with the underground world and built his first gang. He led a double life. In 1892 Huang entered the French Concession police force and became a detective in the Criminal Justice Section. He proved to be an outstanding detective. Doubtlessly thanks to his wide connections in the criminal world. Having built a broad network of informants he had great achievements. It is said that he used to accept bribes and gifts while receiving visitors in his teahouse. “Friends” would pay for dropping investigations, or intensifying the investigation on their enemies. He worked for Police force while running his profitable “business” at the same time, until his dismissal. Some say he crossed a line by beating in public a son of one of Shanghai Warlord in 1924. He was even arrested but soon released thanks to the help of his faithful friends; two other prominent figures of The Green Gang – Du Yuesheng and Zhang Xiaolin. Some say he simply retired in 1925. After that, he entirely devoted himself to the shady businesses of qingbang triad.

He must have sinned greatly throughout his life. Now she understood the need of those winding steps up the hill to Guanyin Pavilion climbed to repent of sins.  She understood also the meaning of qingbang repeated by the old man in the park as if the alien word would be more understandable if is repeated enough number of times (qingbang meaning green gang).

“Blah, blah, qingbang, blah, blah, qingbang (…)” the man perorated. The situation got a bit awkward, she was not sure whether to nod or to shake her head. Maybe her face expression was not showing enough understanding or emotions, because she was soon left to herself again in the pious vicinity of Guanyin. Not for long though. Soon a rather very elderly lady, with heavy make-up, wearing a traditional dress (from some ancient times), with bizarre ornaments in her hair and a silk flat fan with a wooden handle, so-called tuanshan, appeared with a male photographer. Lin put her sketchpad down and looked at the scene with a certain dose of disbelieve. The woman was looking fantastical, as she posed with grace half-hidden behind the fan. She was mesmerised by the absurdity of that scene. There were other people like herself here, acting as if they existed in another world and a different era. They too left her alone, soon afterwards.

The drawing was nearly completed; an idyllic picture of a non-existing landscape, an idealized world. From far away she could hear a man’s voice. He was singing old Shanghai hits, she knew them from the soundtrack of “In the Mood for Love” by Wong Kar Wai. Her favourite movie. “Huayang de nianhua”. She was moved by the feeling of nostalgia. “Ruguo meiyou ni”. The tune made her emotional. Nage bu duo qing”. She wanted to run down the winding stone stairs to listen to it at close range. It didn’t matter that the old man was not a first-class singer, but just merely a neighbourhood songster. “Ni zhen meili”.

She eventually went down the stairs. Down there people were doing more strange things. Some women were dressed up in traditional Chinese qipaos, made of shiny colourful fabrics. They posed with paper sun umbrellas, which were as colourful as their qipaos. They would raise their hands high up and freeze in that pose like statues of ballerinas or dancers accidentally scattered around Guilin Park. Their shadows were dancing simultaneously with them as they changed their postures. They looked somewhat grotesque but heart-warming at the same time. They were all smiling and laughing, clearly having a good time, indifferent to the glares of onlookers. They did not mind little kids running here and there around the place, adding ambience to that spectacle. The weather was splendid and the photographs would look fantastic on their moments on Social media.

Eventually, she made it to the open-space gallery where an enthusiastic crowd was just applauding the home-grown singer. He was still singing some old hits to the great delight of people. There he was, dancing and gesticulating with exaggeration to the rapture of gathered Shanghainese ladies. It was an extraordinary and peculiar performance. The crowd was clearly in a festive mood. Everyone was so cheerful and joyful, you could tell it was the middle of the long October holiday, and for a moment people forgot about their worries, everyday problems. As if the world outside Guilin Park was an entirely different reality.

But the sun will only be up for a few more hours, and eventually, before dusk, they all will have to wrap up their belongings and return to the real world, and people mountain people sea will flood Shanghai streets again.

October-December 2020.

 

~

 

Yejia Zhang – ‘The Cyclical Nature of Everything’

AUGUST 10th 2020

Yejia Zhang is a second-generation Chinese Canadian studying Medicine in Ontario, Canada. She seeks to use the arts to explore pluralism and eventually inform her future practice. For her, stories are crucial to illuminating the complexity of people and their differing needs in a field that is intrinsically human.

 

The Cyclical Nature of Everything

On July 1st at 10 p.m., my father drives me to the Toronto Pearson Airport. Unlike the interaction that would have unfolded a couple of years prior, the hour becomes filled with chatter.

“I really recommend visiting Huangshan, or Yellow Mountain, someday. Your mother and I had our honeymoon there.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, having heard the stories mentioned but not having the associations needed to etch each distinct place into memory. “What was it like?”

“We took a nine-hour bus to get there, stopping in Anhui along the way to eat. The place didn’t even have running water, but the food was delicious. We met two girls along the way and quickly became friends – we were young then, so it was easy.”

I know that my father, who only ever complained about not being able to provide more for us, would not have had it any other way. As the freeway takes us arching high above the ground, before us emerges a vast sea of lights speckled with fireworks for Canada Day.

“The mountain was beautiful,” he continues, “but accommodations at the top were very expensive, and we had no money. So your mother and I got bundled up and spent the night in a cafeteria. Even then, we were very happy.”

I imagine two figures laughing amid food scraps and crumbs, just married, dirt poor, and full of life.

“Did you actually fall asleep?”

“Of course, right there on the ground. And we woke up the next morning to see the sunrise.”

“It must’ve been breathtaking.”

“It was. There’s a name for the five most beautiful mountains in China, called 五岳. But they say that if you go to Huangshan, you won’t even want to see the five.”

I listen in awe as images fill my mind and colour the blackness of the night. Without a sense of time, we pull into the airport parking lot. He helps me bring my luggage inside and reminds me for the umpteenth time not to lose my passport.

“Text me when you pass security, and then I’ll leave,” he assures me. “And remember to update us regularly throughout your trip.”

I vigorously affirm his every instruction, aware of the disputes my parents had over my safety and the paranoia my father had to overcome for me to now find myself in this airport.

When it’s time to go, I find it difficult to part ways – it always is, because the journey is always a long one. But this time I stand confidently to reassure him of the trust he put in me, and take a step toward a home full of characters I cannot read.

“See you in two months,” I say, and heave my bags onto my shoulder.

I imagine my parents at the top of the mountain, starry-eyed and eager to see the world. Waving goodbye, I pass through the gates.

~

 

Karolina Pawlik – “Maud of Enduring Shores”

FEBRUARY 3rd, 2020

Karolina Pawlik is a Shanghai-based researcher, lecturer and writer of mixed Polish and Russian origins. Trained in anthropology, she is mostly interested in visual culture, especially typography evolving in Shanghai since the Republican era. Some of her poems in Polish have been published in Poland. “Migraintion” is the first poetry series she has written in English. 

Maud of Enduring Shores

 

*

“Why Prince Edward Island?” I was asked by surprisingly many friends, including even those who grew up in English speaking countries. “Because L. M. Montgomery shaped my life. She was the first to tell us that girls could write, experience thrill of getting their poetry published, win competitions, go to university, love performing in public, be devoted teachers, confess love first. She encouraged us to judge men depending on the quality of the essays they write and the books they inspire one to read, and not merely by their smiles or social status. She was the one to teach us that friendships with equally intelligent men are inevitably complicated, but worthwhile. She instilled in us confidence that girls, and women, can be persistent in their dreams and strive for equality, and yet she did not come to ‘liberate’ us. She did not question aggressively, disdain, or reject conservative morality in which so many of us grew up as well, but showed us instead how to discreetly negotiate self-growth and how to create one’s own secret, genuine, beautiful spaces. It had incredible impact in that small town, which transitioned from a heavily industrial to a postindustrial phase, and where many people still joke about unmarried women today. She shaped my enthusiasm for life, my love of the sea and the forest, and my ability to find beauty in every struggle, and something delightful in the most miserable room in town.”

 

*

The plane descended on a rainy night into an overwhelming fragrance of resin. I stayed in an old wooden house, which had once belonged to a rich merchant, in an old-fashioned room with floral wallpaper, overlooking a big tree. Over breakfast my host asked for my name. It was difficult for her to pronounce, so I smiled and said “I actually have a Chinese name too”. Since then, she only called me “Yafeng 雅风” or “my girl”, which made me feel home in a new, unprecedented way. In such unforeseen circumstances, amid the Canadian autumn, my Chinese name acquired new meaning and additional sparkle. The host had moved to Charlottetown from northern China, and had visited Shanghai with her mother not long ago.

 

*

I was sitting with a book by the lighthouse, awaiting the sunset accompanied by hundreds of crows flying over the waters, when a young student arrived with a diary and began writing. Suddenly she asked, “Maybe you would like me to take a photo for you? I guess you don’t get too many chances, and it’s such a beautiful spot. It’s getting dark, but still nice”. I hardly get pictures of me taken by strangers, but her offer was so considerate that I decided to accept. I offered to take a picture of her in return.

“Are you here for Anne?”

“Actually for Maud, I think. She is so much more than Anne for me. I didn’t read all of the Anne series, but I read so many other books and The Blue Castle was one of the most important for me. In fact, the first room I had of my own was all in blue. Preparing for this trip I read two volumes of Maud’s diaries and I keep thinking how hard and difficult it was for her, of her persistence, of the contribution she made along with many other women, who pushed step by step to obtain things we have today and which we so often take for granted. It really touches me when I read about her doubts about remaining single for much longer, and I want to tell her ‘Do not compromise – you will regret it’, but at the same time I understand that she will regret destroying herself as well, with a complete lack of financial stability, of support, or home – fighting her literary battle day by day, so often feeling so cold and hungry. So somehow I really feel I am here to express gratitude for what a role model she remained for us when we grew up, and to feel inspired in these times when women’s freedom and equality is questioned again in so many places across the world, and evil parochial morality takes over families and societies that believe themselves to be proudly Christian. What if we owe something to the next generations of women too? However, I have been told here that she is not read much in Canada anymore.”

 

“Yes, that is true. But now that we are talking I begin to think maybe I should actually read something. You know how sometimes your own things do not feel exciting enough, because they are too familiar? My family is actually related to Montgomery. My grandmother used to stay in that house in Green Gables. We are reading some of Montgomery’s diaries for one of our psychology major classes. Some people believe she committed suicide.”

 

*

Out of the schools in which L. M. Montgomery taught only one survives. Tourist season was over and there were no volunteers willing to take care of this relatively remote place, so I could only peek through the windows from the outside.

 

My driver was waiting patiently nearby. I knew I was paying him with money I earned myself at the university, and I was very happy and grateful that such simple deal was possible, or in other words that I did not have to be bothered to sustain any special relationships with men, just to be taken to more distant or inaccessible places, as Maud constantly had to. He mentioned Anne again, and I said one more time “I adored and still adore Anne, and I decided I will keep all of her books my whole life, but Montgomery is really much more than that single book or protagonist. I am actually truly disappointed by how it’s all just about Anne all the time here. L. M. Montgomery was such an important person as a feminist, a teacher, a reader, a writer, a critically thinking believer, a nature lover, a pen friend, a keen observer of social life. She had such a great sense of humor and duty too. I actually thought your shops would be full of inspirational quotes for those struggling with their writing, or family, or a Church-related crisis of faith, or education reforms – to empower people, to make them smile and reimagine things, but it’s just all about Anne – as cute, innocent, and pale as she could possibly be. Did anyone try, for instance, having creative writing workshops or oratory courses next to this school?”

 

The driver squinted in the bright sun, and smiled in the way of old uncles from Maud’s novels – with little understanding of the core issue this girl in front of him was struggling with, but full of touching support and faith. “Tourists want Anne, so we give them the Anne they are looking for. But who knows – maybe one day a young lady will write something very different, or move here, and things will change.”

 

*

In the morning I sat with a cup of coffee, recalling my walk on the red shore, with oyster shells underneath dry seaweed crunching under my feet. I wondered if Maud was reincarnated, as she so much wanted to be, and if so, in whose body is her soul now? I thought of the many female writers I have admired over the years, of the hardships of their writing, and their distinct life paths. I thought of generations of women struggling to gain a voice, be taken seriously, and be heard. I thought of how many insightful comments and valid observations on social life and spirituality survive in Maud’s diaries, yet they could never be made in public. I wondered how much we have failed to notice, and learn, and understand, because so many equally bright women were effectively discouraged from sharing their critical thoughts and dissimilar experiences in any form. I also looked at the news, after a long offline detox, and learned that Olga Tokarczuk – author of my beloved Flights – was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. It somehow made this journey complete.

 

*

Over Christmas, as I went back to reading L. M. Montgomery’s books, I suddenly realized that I never edited this text and sent it to any literary journal, as planned, after returning from Canada. I also understood in my little home in the lane, named lovingly like properties in Maud’s stories, that one major reason why I keep responding so strongly to her books must be because for years I have lived this anxiety she captured so thoroughly and touchingly – the constant threat of being sent away from the place one loves more than anything in the world, because of a wrong thought or a disrespectful action. It suddenly occurred to me how many of us love Shanghai so dearly while always knowing that there is this other life to which one may be sent back against one’s will. No matter how much devotion or admiration we have, we will never be allowed to belong entirely here – there will be always someone to remind us that we came from elsewhere, and cannot decide our own fate. Fortunately this can never take away much of the beauty. And our gratitude for the people who welcomed us and learned to cherish our presence will always be stronger than any fear.

 

~

 

Michael Linn – “Nature’s Refuge: Parks of Shanghai”

AUGUST 26th, 2019

 

Michael Linn is a writer and teacher from Oxfordshire in England. He has written a number of poems, as well as two children’s novels A Tale from Wonderful Wigworth and Rebecca Rose and the Red Bicycle. He has lived in Shanghai for the past three years.

Nature’s Refuge: Parks of Shanghai

Writers over the years have often stated how parks and areas of nature are vital in stifling cities because they cleanse the soul and mind of the grease and dirt of the modern, metallic, merciless metropolis. Walt Whitman called nature a ‘teacher and a comforter’; William Blake would often frequent Peckham Rye in order to escape the black, suffocating smoke of London (and it is where he saw those beautiful angels); Henry David Thoreau found nature’s slower rhythm and gentleness as a superior alternative to the greed, consumerism and lack of spiritual nourishment in the modern, capitalist American society of the 1900s.

Parks in the city are a rustic refuge from the consumerist and financial battle zones; they are the open windows that let in cool, fresh air to the stuffy, dirty room of the city.

I am going to now tell you about my very own natural refuge and open window in our home of Shanghai.

When I first moved onto Pingwu Lu (near Jiaotong University) a few months ago, there was a sinuous ribbon of blue fence skirting a piece of large land near my apartment. After consulting Google maps, I discovered that this was a venerable, beautiful park called Huashan Greenland. Why it was fenced and closed was a mystery to me at first (and no internet searches or local residents could assuage my distress and bemusement at its closure). I prayed that it would reopen (and dreaded that it might be closed permanently).

On the third day of living in this area, the mystery was solved when I spied, upon a section of the encompassing fence, a small sign nailed to it. I could not decipher the Chinese symbols, but I could read a date that was in vibrant, red, bold letters: 06.06.19. I presumed that this was the date on which the park would reopen after, presumably, undergoing renovation. The date I saw this sign was on 07.05.19, which meant I would have to wait a few weeks to see if my presumptions were correct.

In the meantime, I went on morning walks past the blue fence and the secret garden behind it down the little streets and alleys that surrounded Pingwu Lu. I was not alone in my rambles as many other local residents also had to replace morning walks in the park with walking on the roads discontentedly beside it. There are many older, local residents around this area, all possessing a gentle nature, polite smiles and memories of old Shanghai and China that the young, naïve modern skyscrapers and business offices shooting up around the area have no idea about; memories of a China that young, naïve, new residents like me and many others have no idea about. Hardships and struggling economies are hard to grasp when luxury apartments, European-style cafes and flash cars are common sights.

My apartment, however, is an old one and although I am fond of it there is no denying that it looks like the scruffy schoolkid compared to the well- off child that the luxury apartments up the road represent. However, both old and new, roughed and pristine, are needed to create a great city instead of a generic one.

06.06.19 finally came. As I walked towards the park to catch a taxi to work, I had no reason to doubt or question famous Chinese efficiency because, just as the sign had proclaimed, the park had reopened on this exact day and, already on this morning, was full of eager morning ramblers. It was a perfect day for it, one of those divine, bright, warm ,golden mornings where nature and the city are singing in harmonious joviality.

That warm evening, where the harmonious song was still being sung but was slightly quieter, I had the chance to take my maiden walk around the park.

When I got to the park, a natural masterpiece decorated with trees, ponds, pink and white peonies as well as meandering paths, it was buzzing with life and energy: runners and walkers; young, excited children; world weary, lethargic elderly; strong, young basketball players; solitary, gentle thinkers. I walked amongst them with contentment and joy in my heart. This was nature’s playground and all of nature’s children were welcome to come and play. Van Gogh said that ‘nature laughs in flowers’ and all around this park I could hear jolly laughter from its pink, purple and red residents.

We had all walked into the park with different masks, identities, and levels of contentment from the individualistic, isolating city but now had had all become equal children of nature. This is the true beauty of city parks: they are indiscriminate, communal, and egalitarian. They are where we can go to reclaim our ‘noble savage’ soul and exist in peace alongside complete strangers; where motherly nature can tend to our wounds that are inflicted by working in the harsh, dangerous workhouse of the city. From Huashan Greenland and Fuxing Park to Zhongshan Park and Century Park, Shanghai is lucky to have these natural havens that we can escape to. So whenever you feel beaten down by the world or you want to share your joy with someone, take yourself to your local Shanghai park because the trees, flowers and jovial birds will be happy to have you. Let nature care for you; she is a loyal friend that we have far too often neglected and taken for granted.

I have visited Huashan Greenland many times since that day it reopened. In my personal opinion she looks the best attired in early evening or sunny mornings, so these are the times I often dwell there. Whitman was right: parks are teachers and comforters. Being amongst nature, in China and in England, has taught me compassion, empathy, and that you do not need to move at a fast, aggressive, and all too human destructive pace to get things accomplished. As Lao Tzu said, ‘Nature does not hurry but gets everything done.’

Nature has also comforted me by providing me with the medicine to take away the fears, anxieties, and lack of contentment that isolation in the city and in our apartments can induce. The natural world is immortal and will easily outlive us, but during our lives, which are full of so much angst about death, we can go to a beautiful park, forget about our inevitable ending, and gift a piece of our soul to eternity. We must not abandon the progression, thrill, and culture that cities cradle, but we must find a balance between the art of nature (parks) and the art of humans (cities) and not let the latter take over the former.

 

~

 

Jennifer Mackenzie – “Village Wedding”

JANUARY 7th, 2019

 

It was early November and a gale was blowing off the sea.  The official day for heating to be turned on was some weeks away. The cold leapt into you like a demon.  You paced from room to room in the apartment, drinking tea, diving under the doona, reading while pacing, or on the sofa wrapped in the felt-like fabric which contained the essentials for a passable electric blanket.

It was the wedding of someone we knew who worked in another company, and a bus was to take us two hours northeast to a village of cobbled footpaths, neat buildings and an abundant market garden.  The bus was unheated and circled the city twice before all the guests to be transported were catered for.  A brown winter landscape confronted us.  Grey thatched buildings, bare trees decked in plastic bags, dry and stony river beds where water had long ceased to flow, where garbage clogged their suppurating banks.

At the village, we moved through a sequence of small rooms to where the bride and groom were displayed.  If our friend was cold, she showed no sign. Her full beautiful face was as round as the moon, perfectly made-up, her white frock hooped out, half-covering the suited legs of her new spouse, who looked as good as he ever would.

The wedding feast in a nearby restaurant was as cold as Heilongjiang in winter, and by the time the fish was served, the guests appeared decidedly blue, despite the warming power of a dozen toasts.  The mood, however, was warm and generous; the ladies of the village laughed, cackled and debated their way through the banquet, pressing an array of tasty dishes and a knock-out mao-tai on the guests.  When the bus driver woke from his nap, he blared the horn and we boarded, waited half an hour while the return route was decided, and drove into the black night.

The gale continued.  A week later, we saw our friend. The whitegoods we had given her just squeezed into her tiny apartment.  For the first time in our friendship of several years, she was not smiling.  Her voice hit a pitch which had our ears ringing. He is never home, she said.  I come home from work, and I sit here. He never washes.  He comes home at three or more in the morning, in a suffocating odour of smoke and beer.  He yells out, cursing me.  I used to spend my evening with friends, and we’d talk about the future.

 

~

 

Beaton Galafa  – ‘Songxi Village. Or, How to Write about Songxi If I Were That Good’

DECEMBER 24th, 2018

 

After I read Binyavanga Wainaina’s How to Write About Africa, I’ve always wanted to do a piece like his. But there is no work that one can do, in the same style as Binyavanga’s, that can rival his greatness. Yet, as an admirer, I sometimes have to borrow his heart and hand to express how I feel about certain places. And, it will not always be satire. If you have read Binya – as those who love him sometimes shorten his name to, do not raise your expectations. This piece doesn’t resonate with the magical literary expertise in his. Neither do I possess the same ingenuity as Binya. And, while Binya talks about Africa – my motherland, I talk about a distant place. Far from the colonial tropes of a dark continent Binya attacks. Far from the complexities of modernization. Yet maintaining a scintillating but low presence in a thousand years of China’s history. Or the world’s.

The village. You wind along the snaky road that connects it to the rest of Pujiang County, swerving through mountains and the lotus flower gardens at its entrance. Until its residents welcome you at the plaza outside Xu Family’s Ancestral Hall. It can be any other tiny place insignificant to the outside world, its people trapped in their own ruins for millennia. Unless something peculiar happens. Like shelling of the village in 1942 during the Japanese vengeful attacks after the Doolittle Raid. A history that confines itself in tiny bullet scratches on a grey wall a few feet from the village’s dispensary. This is a narrative of the village’s only living World Wall II witness. A nonagenarian who makes you imagine his livid experience when the village woke up to sounds of tanks and ammunition one morning over half a century ago. You relieve it through interpretations of a celebrated local poet. Your American friend can’t decipher anything from the old man’s Pujiangese – a dialect he never encountered in his one year of Mandarin.

Should you happen to be called, to live through the history and culture of this village, you might find yourself in need of writing. It might be in a diary, hopping that after you die, it will be discovered by the world. Like the diaries of Captain Lawrence Oates, Robert Falcon Scott and their friends. When death came travelling through blizzards and frostbites of the South Pole as they camped the last days of their lives out in 1912. Or you might simply be on a writing mission. Here, you will find writing about the village relevant, and wish you were me – sometimes doing it for nothing but the desire to emulate and consequently taint Binya’s art of writing about places.

On your way to Songxi, the green fields lying on both sides of the road will tempt you into getting your laptop out – or anything you’ve brought for the mission. Suppress the feeling. You’ll need the energy.

First, talk about the people. You will not find it easy skipping the landscape. The streams. The ancient stone walls that resemble ruins of Mwenemutapa. You’ve already drawn parallels between ancient Zimbabwe and the Chinese of ancient Songxi in your mind. But once you remember the faces of old men and women sitting around the square in front of Shao Family’s Ancestral Hall, sharing cigars and stories, you will want to narrate the glows on their faces. Your fingertips must follow them from the light of lanterns hanging in the village’s streets to moonlight bouncing off their foreheads as their laughs sink into the hushed night. Include their imitation of the ni hao and buyong xie you attempt the first morning you walk past them basking in the glory of a bright morning sky. Do not forget the old man whose house you walk past every day afterwards. Narrate to your readers how he’s always seated in his sitting room, front door open, watching television, sometimes eating, sometimes smoking – and how your Indian friend observes that at times he’s both eating and smoking. You and your friend conclude there is no other way of defining life.

You’ll not manage to describe the people in one paragraph. You will need a second, where you will narrate how the people welcome you on your first night. The dragons and lions dancing and disappearing in the darkness. Kids surrounding you to hear if you can speak Pujiangese – or at least any other dialect. Ignore the phone cameras and drones hovering above you. They are local tourists capturing the very moments that you will be experiencing. Focus on the one small boy who follows you everywhere, in a vest with BRYANT printed at the back and a pair of yellow shots going beyond the knees. In him, you will learn of Songxi’s love for basketball. But that will probably be on vacation, because out of the village’s three thousand people, you will learn it is mostly the grandfathers and grandmothers you meet in your evening and morning strolls who have stayed behind. The rest have been swallowed by the metropolises of China. The boy, and another one from your host family, will be disappointed when they learn you can only play football.

Next, you will want to talk about the Cockscomb Mountain standing tall on all sides of the village. Imperfect timing. You cannot wander from nature to nature. People always need a new story. Do not talk about the murkiness of the walls on some old houses and walls standing on the banks of the Ming Stream. Your readers will not understand how that fits for description of a village you profess profound love for. Instead, narrow your focus to the grey paint on the new houses lining the village’s streets and the stone walls. And how light from the sun bounces off into the streets and backs of yellow and orange fish swimming in their shoals at the conflux of the Ming and Hidden Stream.

You can extend the narrative to a part of the stream because you’ve been coerced into an encounter with nature this soon again by the gods. You can’t resist the call. Describe how hiding under bridges, reappearing and disappearing beneath the village’s stone houses, the Dongwuyuan Stream earned itself the charming name of Hidden Stream. Don’t explain how you find the name charming. You’re not obliged to. And, you never know how far your work will travel. So, do not forget to liken the bridges to catacombs. Or something bigger. Those familiar with the ancient Roman Empire might find a home in your heart. In Songxi. In the stream. And your name might forever be hailed.

You must also not forget the moon, and that one night you see it traversing through a cotton cloud. You will have to follow it. To the moment it gets swallowed in dark clouds, leaving the night to stars momentarily, before reappearing above the mountain to the north of the village. To conquer darkness again. The night’s silence can be ignored. It’s too abstract. Unless you include crickets that chirp through it, accompanying nocturnal readers and writers, and those who obsess about darkness and go out to admire its hollowness from a balcony. With this, you must take them through sights of lanterns around the village, as you stand high at the balcony staring at the shadows of the Cockscomb Mountain which you must describe next – lurking around the village – from a drone’s angle.

You must present the Cockscomb Mountain with extra care. Your readers have probably been to the Himalayas, the Andes, Everest, Kilimajalo and Mulanje. They will not sit there all day reading your gibberish. Not until you tell them how the mountain towers over the village from all sides, strategically keeping off enemies of ancient Songxi in times of war (probably). Successfully hiding from the perilousness of foreign contact. You must explain how the mountain’s tears form the Songxi Stream that flows through the village, dividing itself into the two streams that rejoin to form one big stream again near Xu Family’s Ancestral Hall and together head for Puyang River. As you let the streams slip away, scare them (your readers) with the four dragons (could be lions) guarding a plaza where ancestral veneration occurs in front of the hall.

You must finish your writing with one traditional ceremony. Describe to them a night filled with joy from locals as they watch performances of young people celebrating Chinese Valentine’s Day. You must explain to them how if they are lucky they might have a chance to float a lantern on the Ming Stream, mumbling a wish. At times a prayer for a possible return once they run out of time in the village. At times a wish to stay forever young – like Songxi. Make them feel like they are the lanterns in your love story, floating on waters under a dark night – away from the staring cameras of curious people on the stream’s banks. Away from the tumult of the night. Away from your story.

 

~

 

Beaton Galafa – ‘Songxi Village’s Sichuan Opera: The Man with Changing Faces’

SEPTEMBER 17th, 2018

 

13^th August.

Today will be a great day. The villagers and the authorities in Pujiang are officially welcoming us to Songxi, in a forty-minute-long ceremony. As the sole representative of my country in the 2018 Jinhua Homestay Project, I thought of spending the night memorizing Mu Hong Pu Gong, Pujiangese for the Mandarin Nihao Pujiang – meaning ‘Hello Pujiang’. But there is no need. I will definitely not be the first to greet the people who are now packed in Xu’s Ancestral Hall. I arrive a little late, along with my team. I found them waiting for me downstairs at our residence earlier.

In the hall, all the benches have been occupied except for gaps in the first two rows. These have been reserved for us – representatives of each of the fifteen countries. The upper sections of the hall are occupied by cameramen. I squeeze myself past a few German and South African friends between the first and second row, and find myself a seat. Kung Fu soundtracks emanating from speakers in the background of the stage fill the air. The Master of Ceremonies appears on stage. He honours the VIP, participants of the project, two Ukrainian painters sitting in front of us, a retired Associate Professor, the Mayor of Jinhua, and several others.

Roy and Kathrin, from Israel and Germany respectively, are invited on stage. After speeches of gratitude and optimism, they are given a large flag that has small flags of our countries printed on it – like stars clinging to the sky, deep in the night. They hold it with the Mayor, after which Roy grabs it and waves it around. He waves it nonstop, until the Mayor points to Kathrin. The crowd laughs. He nods, waves it around once more, and then hands it over to Kathrin. The crowd laughs again. She repeats the ritual. One after the other, the fifteen country reps sitting in the two front rows greet Pujiang in their own mother tongues. Moni Pujiang! It echoes back to me, as I think of how I could’ve possibly perceived it if I were Pujiangese – and what it would mean. The MC asks us to greet Pujiang in its own dialect.

Mu Hong Pu Gong!

The ceremony is officially open.

Two dragons appear from the stage’s laterals. On the right of the stage is a red, gold, and white one. It zigzags its way around the ground, rises mid-air, and dances around the open space beneath the stage. On the left is a yellow, green, and gold one. It remains overshadowed by the one on the right, often rising high enough to stare into the audience but lower than the earlier one. As the red and gold dragon towers over us, the other cranes its neck, cowers back, and raises its head again before withdrawing, as if it is searching for someone whilst trying not to be noticed.

The stage is soon taken over by an opera performance from a lady who keeps stretching her limbs, at times twisting her hand and fingers in various directions. Her reddish-pink robe, a pair of white trousers, and a black sleeveless top with a pink flower patch on the chest beneath the upper section of the robe complements the smile on her face. Her eyes stare directly into ours, and even when she’s not looking at us, it does not fade away. The smile only dies when she’s back minutes later to help show a famous calligrapher’s work, drawn right there on the stage. This – the calligrapher’s work – was done with a live performance of a woman in the background, seated next to a table where the calligrapher lay his bowl of ink and white cloth as he moved the painting brush around. She slowly plucked the strings of an ancient zither, as if in anticipation of its echoes to inform her next move.

After these three performances – by the two dragons, the opera singer, and the calligrapher – a masked man walks onto the stage. He is carrying a fan, and wearing a black pair of trousers, and a black shirt with red, pink, and brown stripes running from the neck through the waist to somewhere beneath it. His body is covered with a red cloth from the shoulders to just above the ankles. In flashes, he makes several turns with his head, like a monkey picking fruit in an orchard when the owner isn’t around. He moves forward a little, falls back, changes direction, and scratches his cheek. The moves are accompanied by a Kung Fu soundtrack in the background.

When he first appeared, his face was not the one I’m seeing now. I turn to my neighbor to ask if she noticed it too. She doesn’t hear me. I re-focus on the man. He shakes his head a little, and a yellow face appears. Moments later, he turns around again. A new face appears – blue and black, and a red tongue; white stripes from the eyebrows to the back. The crowd cheers. He brings out the fan in his hand. He splits it into bits and continues with his head movements. The faces repeat themselves on him. One has a butterfly on it. The other looks like a lion, the other a tiger. He lifts his left leg, bends it a little over the knee of his right, and withdraws it. He moves back, then forward, this time carrying a sword. This is a subgenre of the Sichuan opera – the Bian Lian.

Outside, there’s a metric beating of drums whose rhythmic sound pattern is coming through the hall’s entrance. After the Bian Lian, the ceremony is over. It’s time to tour different places – mostly the homes of craftsmen and women in the village. I rush to the door where the drumbeat is coming from. There it is.

In the plaza in front of the hall, old women in camouflage tops, short skirts, and red military berets stand on two opposite sides of the square. They have red bands tied beneath the shoulder on their left arms. Hanging from their necks are the drums. In unison they raise their sticks and release them to land on the right side of the drum. The strokes resemble a heartbeat as the sound fades behind us and the murky grey houses along the streets to our next destination.

~

雷淑容 -《每个人心里都有个奥吉》(第2部分)

JUNE 11th, 2018

 

五

 

翻译进行到第五章，维娅在情人节那天邀请男朋友贾斯汀去见父母，结果他的抽搐症犯了。书里写道：“我想，今晚我们大家都装作什么也没看到。服务生。我的抽搐症。奥古斯特在桌子上压碎玉米片，用勺子把碎片刨进嘴里的方式。”

土豆说，如果贾斯汀在我们学校，大概也会被歧视，虽然他是个很不错的小提琴手，但他有抽搐症，父母离异，严重缺乏爱，这些都是他的弱点。有时候学校盛行的就是丛林法则，弱肉强食。

他的话让我不禁一愣。可不是么，如果没有一个良善的大环境，我们每一个人都可能变成弱者，都可能遭到歧视和不公正的待遇。换句话说，人人都有可能成为奥吉，只不过程度不同而已。

土豆直点头，你看杰克，他虽然很勇敢，但不喜欢学习，成绩不好，家庭经济条件也很一般，他选择跟奥吉做朋友以后，立即遭到了全班大部分同学的孤立。大家不跟他说话，假装他不存在，奥吉调侃他：“欢迎来到我的世界！”

是的，我顺着他的思路分析，书中的每一个孩子，他们的生活其实都不是完美的，都有内在的缺点或者外在的缺失。米兰达很漂亮，在学校成功成为人气女孩，但她付出的代价是撒谎和世故；萨默尔几乎可以算得上一个完美的女孩，不过她是混血儿，而且她也有巨大伤痛——父亲去世，与妈妈相依为命；维娅也几乎没有缺点——但她的痛苦正来自于有一个像奥吉一样的弟弟，并从小就承受着各种指指点点。所有这些，包括他们对奥吉的爱，对弱者所表现出来的善良，在糟糕的环境下都可能让他们成为鄙视链上的一环。

“你这么一说，我就明白了。”土豆说，“记得我们班的女孩Z吗？她爱吃，是个胖墩，成绩差，脾气古怪，每天她在Q面前都是一副得意扬扬的样子，命令他，训斥他。但是她转过身，别的同学对她也是命令和呵斥，因为她长得胖，其他同学也欺负她。在大家眼里，她和Q是一样的人。”

“你再想想看，受到歧视和嘲笑的除了胖子，是不是还有瘦子，个子特别高或者特别矮小的人，穷人家的孩子，农民工的孩子，长相不好看的孩子，单亲家庭的孩子，成绩差的孩子，性格内向的孩子，乡下来的孩子，总之一切看起来跟大多数人不一样的人？”我说。

“是的，其实我也被歧视过。记得那年我钢琴比赛拿了大奖吗，我回到学校，却遭到一些人的耻笑，他们说我娘炮，长得太白，不是男人，只有女人才会弹琴。一开始我很生气，还跟他们打了一架。后来我发现，他们一点也不了解古典音乐，他们根本是嫉妒。”

“咦，你怎么连这事也不告诉我？”

“我只是不喜欢你保护欲过度的样子。”

 

六

 

一天，土豆回家塞给我一篇文章。是2012年12月8日莫言获得诺贝尔文学奖后在瑞典文学院的演讲，标题叫《讲故事的人》。他用颜色笔在两处做了重点记号。一处是：

上世纪六十年代，我上小学三年级的时候，学校里组织我们去参观一个苦难展览，我们在老师的引领下放声大哭。为了能让老师看到我的表现，我舍不得擦去脸上的泪水。我看到有几位同学悄悄地将唾沫抹到脸上冒充泪水。我还看到在一片真哭假哭的同学之间，有一位同学，脸上没有一滴泪，嘴巴里没有一点声音，也没有用手掩面。他睁着大眼看着我们，眼睛里流露出惊讶或者是困惑的神情。事后，我向老师报告了这位同学的行为。为此，学校给了这位同学一个警告处分。多年之后，当我因自己的告密向老师忏悔时，老师说，那天来找他说这件事的，有十几个同学。这位同学十几年前就已去世，每当想起他，我就深感歉疚。

另一处是：

我生来相貌丑陋，村子里很多人当面嘲笑我，学校里有几个性格霸蛮的同学甚至为此打我。我回家痛哭，母亲对我说：“儿子，你不丑，你不缺鼻子不缺眼，四肢健全，丑在哪里？而且只要你心存善良，多做好事，即便是丑也能变美。”后来我进入城市，有一些很有文化的人依然在背后甚至当面嘲弄我的相貌，我想起了母亲的话，便心平气和地向他们道歉。

作为回应，我给他看第八章的译文。小说已经发展到了尾声，奥吉与全班同学一起参加五年级“走进大自然之旅”，他的长相遭到了一群外校七年级学生的挑衅，杰克挺身而出，其他三位原本敌对的同学也出手相助，结果引起了一场打斗，导致奥吉受伤。这一不幸事件在毕彻预科学校引起巨大的震动，让奥吉和几个保护他的朋友成为风云人物。在毕业典礼上，奥吉不仅因为成绩优异登上了学校的荣誉榜，还被授予亨利·沃德·毕彻奖章——因为他以安静的力量激励了大部分同学的心灵。校长图什曼先生在致辞中以善良为主题，发表了一番发人深省的讲话。他说：

作为人类，我们所拥有的，不只是善良待人的能力，还有选择善良对待他人的能力……善良是一件如此简单的事。真的太简单了。需要时的一句鼓励。一个友好的举动。路过时的一个微笑。

 

七

 

过了一阵子，我上网时注意到土豆更新了QQ空间，发表了一张图片说说。是他在卫生间墙上拍到的一只西瓜虫。他写到：

以前我喜欢猫，喜欢狗，喜欢兔子、金鱼、熊猫、蝴蝶、鹦鹉等一切好看的动物，总是觉得苍蝇、蜈蚣、西瓜虫这样的丑虫子很恶心，不由分说，一巴掌打死。但是现在我明白，生物有高级和低级之分，但生命没有贵贱之分。西瓜虫只是无意间跑到了我家，它有它活着的理由，我觉得自己跟它没有什么分别。小时候看丰子恺的《护生画集》，不懂他为什么说护生就是护心，现在我懂了。所以我小心翼翼地把它放进纸巾，送它到小区的花坛里。

 

八

 

《奇迹男孩》结尾处，作者帕拉西奥写了一篇致谢词，在感谢了一大堆家人和同事之后，她感谢了一个不具名的小女孩：“我想感谢冰激凌店前的那个小姑娘以及所有别的‘奥吉’们，是他们的故事启发我写了这本书”。我意识到这应该是作者的创作缘起，背后应该有一个动人的故事。上国外的网站一查，果然。

事情是这样的，帕拉西奥是一位出版社的编辑，她育有两个“土豆”。有一天，她带着孩子们外出玩耍，在冰激凌店排队买冰激凌时，发现队伍前面有一个小女孩脸部有非常严重的缺陷。她三岁的小儿子乍一看立刻吓得哭了起来。帕拉西奥觉得很尴尬，她立即意识到孩子的哭叫会伤害到小女孩和她的家人，便急急带着儿子们走了。就在他们离开时，她听到小女孩的母亲用非常冷静和友好的口吻对自己的孩子说：“好了，孩子们，我们该走了哦。”

这真实的一幕后来被帕拉西奥写进了杰克的故事，只不过把妈妈的身份换成了保姆。

回到家以后，帕拉西奥感到后悔和自责，她觉得自己当时不应该一走了之，而是应该换一种方式去处理，比如带着孩子和小女孩说说话什么的。她一直在想这么一个问题：这个小女孩和她的家人每天要经历多少次这样的场面？就在那天晚上，她听到了美国歌手娜塔莉·莫森特演唱的歌曲《奇迹》，这是一首她很熟悉的歌，但直到那时，她才真正听懂了歌词：

医生从遥远的城市

来看我

他们站在我床边

对眼前的一切难以置信

他们说我一定是上帝亲自创造的

奇迹

迄今为止他们不能提供

任何解释

 

这首歌词后来如我们所读到的，被放在全书之首，作为题记。帕拉西奥一天之内受到两次触动，当天晚上，她就找到了创作灵感，开始动笔写小说。

我把这个背景故事讲给土豆听。他喃喃地说，噢，原来每个人心里都有个奥吉。

 

 

九

 

三个月很快就过去了。2015年元旦，我准时完成了《奇迹男孩》的译稿，交给了出版社。

我郑重地感谢土豆如此深入地介入我的翻译工作，在这个过程中，我们互相帮助，像朋友一样互相沟通和倾听，安然度过了初到异乡最艰难的三个月。

他说：“妈妈你看，帕拉西奥是图书编辑，你也是图书编辑，她给她的儿子们写了一部《奇迹男孩》，你也给你的儿子翻译了一部《奇迹男孩》。是的，妈妈，我觉得这是你为我翻译的，谢谢你。”

 

 

十

 

秋天，土豆顺利进入上音附中高中学习，追求他的钢琴家梦想。

开学没多久，他突然带回了一个消息，让我大跌眼镜。

原来他的小学同学建了一个班级聊天群，三十来个孩子你拉我，我拉他，他拉她，在虚拟空间重新聚到了一起。大家都发各自的近照到群里，讲述各自的新学校、新班级、新朋友。个个都意气风发，个个都长大了，让人刮目相看。

热闹之际，他向同学询问Q的近况。然后就有相熟的同学把Q拉了进来。

让他感到吃惊的是，小学里发生的一幕幕又再一次上演了。

“哟……”有人说。

“滚！”

“白痴进来干什么，从哪儿来回哪儿去！”说这句话的是土豆曾经的好朋友。

“怪胎没有资格进群！”

“呵呵，笨蛋还学会用QQ了?”

“本群不欢迎你，别把你的皮肤癌带进来！”这个人也是土豆曾经的好朋友。

“你是我们的噩梦，我们没有你这个同学！”

 

……

 

眼看着对话框越来越长，惊叹号越来越多，同学们像得了传染病，一个个加入到驱逐Q的行列，跟三四年前一模一样。不过这一次，土豆决定挺身而出。

“我们早已经小学毕业了，我们是高中生了，我们已经长大了！但是，我看到，我们一点也没长大，我们还是几年前那群愚昧无知的小孩，欺凌弱小，毫无怜悯心，还以为自己正直、勇敢、充满爱心！XXX，XXX，我对你们简直失望透顶，你们不是我的朋友，我为曾经是你们的朋友感到耻辱！如果你们不学习、不反思，永远不会知道真正的勇敢是什么，也不会明白真正的悲悯是什么，直到你们被欺凌的那一天。Q！咱们一起退群吧，骂你的这些人不配做你的同学，他们现在伤害不到你了……”他在QQ群里愤然写道。

“然后呢？”我问。

“大家都沉默了。Q听了我的话，退群了，然后我也退了。”

“你感觉有点失落吧，但是又特别欣慰，很孤独，又很悲壮？”

“是的，这跟我选择做钢琴家一样，感觉既孤独又悲壮。妈妈，我想我终于明白《傅雷家书》里，傅雷对傅聪说的那句话了：先做人，然后做艺术家，最后再做钢琴家。”

 

~

       雷淑容 – 每个人心里都有个奥吉》(第1部分)

 

JUNE 4th, 2018

一

 

三十多年前，在我生长的小山村里，有一户人家生了一个傻儿子。他生下来就没有名字，人们都叫他傻子。

傻子是智障，不仅面瘫，还瘸腿。他的父母没钱给他治病，也没心情善待他——因为他是全家人的耻辱和噩梦。他们让他吃剩饭、看冷脸、睡狗窝，对他动辄谩骂和诅咒。在迷信的小山村，人们认为一个残疾的孩子是恶灵转世，是不祥的征兆，对他指指点点，骂骂咧咧，避之唯恐不及。不过，傻子听不懂，他总是呵呵呵地傻笑，把所有的恶意当善意。

大人们很忙，他们不会打傻子。但村里的孩子会。

傻子成天没事干，喜欢在山野之间闲逛，他要么一路开心地采野花，扔得满地都是，要么追逐飞鸟或者蝴蝶，一路嗬嗬嗬地叫。也许是因为孩子们觉得他不配获得快乐，一见到他，立刻就会追上去打。傻子腿不好，逃不掉，经常被打得鼻青脸肿，山村不时回荡着傻子凄厉的哭喊声：“呜呜——呜——”

那是我记忆中惊心动魄的画面，一群孩子在春天的山花烂漫中，在夏天浓密的树林里，在秋天金黄的谷场上，在冬天皑皑的雪地上，追打一个嗷嗷叫的傻子。

谁都可以欺负傻子，没有人保护他，没有人给他一点点关心或者同情。除了他们家的大黄狗。大黄狗是一只大型犬，长相凶猛，对外人总是没完没了地狂吠。但它一点儿也不嫌弃傻子，总是跟在傻子身边，像是他的保护神。正因为大黄狗不离左右，村里孩子的暴行才没那么猖狂。

我怕大黄狗，也怕傻子。我怕傻子用脏手碰我的衣服；怕他嘴角拖着长长的口水；对着我咿咿呀呀说完全听不懂的话；我怕他畸形的长相会传染；怕他进入我的梦境，把美梦变成噩梦。每次路过他家门口，我都会把心提到嗓子眼上。有一天，当我从他家门口蹑手蹑脚经过的时候，只听见一阵低沉的咆哮，接着大黄狗跃门而出，朝我扑过来。我吓得连哭带叫，没跑出几步，就跌坐地上。我绝望地闭上眼睛，等着它的撕咬。

但是很奇怪，大黄狗不但没有扑上来，反而突然哼叽一声，一屁股坐在了我身边。我抬头一看，只见傻子正摸着它的头，嗬嗬嗬地傻笑着。

那是我第一次与傻子对视，也是我唯一一次真正看清他的脸——他的头是变形的，五官歪斜，但是他眼神温柔，像一只刚出生的小绵羊。

傻子没长到十岁就死了。他的父母甚至都没把他葬在家族坟地，而是在山坡上随便挖了个坑，草草埋了。他就像一棵野草，短暂地来到这个世界，自生自灭。奇怪的是，很多年以后，村子里的人和事我都已经淡忘，唯有他的样子我还记得清清楚楚。

 

二

傻子的故事像一个巨大的秘密，一直埋在我心底，从未对人说起。直到我的儿子长到十四岁。

2014年10月，我和儿子土豆搬到上海，住进了一间小公寓，为来年春天考上海音乐学院附中做准备。

对儿子而言，这是一个重大的决定。他在十四岁之际下定决心要成为钢琴家，意味着他不仅要离开喜欢的学校、老师和同学，离开家乡，离开舒适的家，离开正常的生活，更意味着从此离开宽阔的罗马大道，走上一条苦心孤诣追求艺术的羊肠小道。这是一个孤独的选择。

上海的公寓很旧很小，除了他的三角钢琴，几乎家徒四壁。再加上人生地不熟，自然就生出凄凉的感觉。恰好这时，我接到了一个翻译任务，不假思索就应了下来，同时做了一个严格的进度计划：每天1500字，雷打不动，三个月完成。以我的经验，到一个新地方，只要尽快开始做事，就能迅速融入当地的生活，摆脱茫然和无助。

我几乎是在仓促打开第一页的时候才知道主人公是一个非正常的十岁孩子。这孩子大名叫奥古斯特，小名叫奥吉。这本书的书名是《奇迹男孩》。

从一开始，我就把土豆拉进了我的翻译旅程，把他变成了我的第一读者兼“翻译助理”。因为在这个全球化的时代，几乎全世界的同龄小男孩都拥有同步的娱乐生活。奥吉是一个即将上初一的小男孩，而土豆即将从初中毕业，他们之间天然存在许多共同的密码。接下来形成了一个惯例，当我完成每天的翻译任务离开电脑时，土豆就自动坐到电脑前追看我的译文，检查有没有出现常识性错误或者过于成人化的语言——这是我的要求，奥吉只有十岁，我希望译文符合他的年纪和他所在的时代，不要落伍，也不要成人化，虽然他的思想比同龄孩子成熟。土豆自然当仁不让，甚至吹毛求疵。

“奥吉妈妈的分数计算糟透了，你应该说‘弱爆了’！”

“夏洛特穿的卡洛驰凉鞋，中国人不这么说，你最好改成‘洞洞鞋’！”

“奥吉说，图什曼先生是我新学校的老板，你可以把老板改成‘头儿’！”

“只有傻瓜才会选修领导课，‘呆瓜’更好！”

当然，他也被奥吉的故事深深吸引。一方面，奥吉读《龙骑士》《纳尼亚传奇》《霍比特人》，玩《龙与地下城》，对《星球大战》情有独钟，如数家珍，跟任何一个普通孩子都没有区别；另一方面，从他出生起，在他仅十岁的生命里，动了大大小小二十七次手术，从来没有真正上过学。因为先天畸形，他所到之处，人人侧目或者避之唯恐不及，他被叫作老鼠男、怪物、E.T.、恶心男、蜥蜴脸、变种人、瘟疫。这种巨大的反差让人揪心。

翻译一天天向前推进。如我所预料的，我们在陌生大城市的生活也慢慢从容起来，像一条小溪的水汇入到大河。但奇怪的是，随着译文进度加深，故事越来越扣人心弦，土豆却变得话越来越少。到“奶酪附体”一节时，我注意到他有点不对劲。他在电脑前默默地坐了一会儿，一句话没说就练琴去了。这有点反常，平日里他总是兴致勃勃地跟我讨论书里的细节，什么黑武士、什么徒弟打扮、什么神秘战地游戏，连奥吉出生时，“放屁护士”放了“史上最大、最响、最臭的一个屁”也能让他津津乐道半天。接下来连续两天的“万圣节服装”和“骷髅幽灵”，他都选择了默默离开。我摸摸他的额头，没发烧。问他是不是想家了，他摇头。继续追问时，他抬起头，眼睛里突然有了泪光。

“妈妈……我们班也有个奥吉，你记得Q吗？……我错了，呜呜，我觉得自己简直不是人！”他哭了出来。

 

三

 

我当然记得Q。他是土豆的小学同学，一双怯怯的大眼睛，单薄瘦小，像一棵小豆芽，他的行为和反应比同龄孩子要慢一些。土豆曾经告诉我，Q不会写字，不会数数，没法完成家庭作业，老师向他提问，他总是答不上来，抓耳挠腮地只说两个字：“我痒……”土豆还说，班上很多人都不喜欢他，觉得他笨、傻、土，不愿意和他交朋友。我还记得曾经跟土豆有一番长谈，告诉他每个小朋友都像森林的树，各有各的生长节奏，有的高，有的矮，有的快，有的慢，学得快的同学不应该歧视学得慢的，应该帮助他们。我让他保证过，要绝对善待Q，不能有任何形式的歧视、嘲笑、欺侮。事实上，在翻译的过程中，我也想到了Q，也想到了傻子。

“我是向你保证过，而且我也帮过他……但是我也像杰克·威尔那样犯过错，而且……”

杰克·威尔是班里唯一善待奥吉的男生，是他的同桌兼好友，也是他每天上学的动力以及让他可以躲开各种异样眼神和议论的保护伞。与杰克·威尔相反的是朱利安——同学们孤立奥吉，大多都是出于冷漠和无意，避而远之或者另眼相看——唯有他总是想方设法用恶毒的话语和行为刺激奥吉，伤害奥吉，还试图联合别的同学集体孤立奥吉。万圣节那天，奥吉阴差阳错地没有穿原计划的化装服，无意中偷听到了朱利安与杰克·威尔的一番对话。原来，杰克·威尔善待奥吉并不是出于真正的友谊，而是校长图什曼的安排，杰克·威尔甚至说，“如果我长成他那个样子……我觉得我会自杀。”奥吉受到严重打击，从此拒绝上学。

土豆犯的什么错呢？他告诉我，Q患了一种叫鳞屑病的皮肤病，经常抓痒，以至于全身皮肤粗糙，好像永远在掉皮屑——这也是他无法听课、无法完成作业的原因。全班同学都不敢接触他，害怕被他传染，尽管老师向大家保证这并非传染性的疾病，但每一个人都生怕与他有肌肤接触。正如奥吉的遭遇一样，Q自然也成了全班的“千年奶酪”，没有人愿意跟他同桌、搭档打球、做游戏，没人愿意接触他沾过的任何东西。轮到Q值日发作业本，所有同学都不接，有人拿到后马上移到窗台上晒太阳“消毒”，有人还干脆直接拂到地上去，土豆也一样，好几次把作业扔到地上去了。Q为了向同学示好，每天午饭后主动帮同学收拾餐盘，他个子小，动作慢，经常来不及收，于是就有同学直接拿盘子摔他、打他……土豆虽然没有这么做，但是也心安理得地等着Q帮他收拾盘子，这样的情形持续到小学毕业。整整六年。

六年！说实话，我太吃惊了。一直以来，我自认为很了解儿子，他在我眼里像水晶球一般单纯、透彻，没有丝毫杂质，没有任何秘密。然而他竟然在六年时间里心里憋了一件这么黑暗的事，这得有多大的心理阴影。

见我瞪着他，他委屈地说：“如果我告诉你，你就会逼着我跟Q做朋友，如果我跟他做朋友，我所有的朋友都会不理我，不仅不理我，还会欺负我，如果有人欺负我，你就会跑到学校里保护我……这太丢脸了……”

“呃……”我的心理阴影更大了。

 

 

四

 

Q的事情，我没有责怪土豆。一方面，他们已经快毕业三年了，分散在各中学，Q去向不明，要道歉的话，连人都找不到——即便找到他，这个歉又该从何道起？另一方面，土豆意识到自己的错误，已经自责不已，知错就改，永远都不嫌迟。

故事继续向前发展。不得不说，《奇迹男孩》不仅是一本及时之书，还是一本现实之书、全面之书。作者帕拉西奥可谓儿童心理学高手，她不仅了解孩子丰富敏感纤细的内心世界，还对中学校园的人际和生态了如指掌。她以复调的方式来写奥吉的故事：第一章叙述者是奥吉自己，第二章换成了奥吉读高中的姐姐维娅，第三章是唯一跟他要好的女生萨默尔，第四章是杰克，第五章是维娅的同学和男朋友贾斯汀，第七章是奥吉与维娅共同的好朋友米兰达，第六章和第八章又回到奥吉的视角。六个孩子，每个人都从自己的视角来看待、描述、理解奥吉，对奥吉的命运和遭遇进行多侧面、多方位地剖析和解构，人物与情节环环相扣、息息相关，构成了一个立体的中学生交往图景。可以说，几乎每一个孩子都可以从中找到自我的投射。

土豆投射的对象自然是杰克。这个小男孩成为奥吉的同桌、好朋友和保护者，但他一开始并不是自愿的，而是校长图什曼的刻意安排。他对奥吉的情感有一个从出于责任到成为真正友情的过程。在无意中伤害奥吉，两人经历了一段时间的“断交”后，杰克幡然醒悟，他出手打伤了朱利安，选择重新回到奥吉好朋友的位置。

看到这里，土豆说：“妈妈，奥吉在现实生活中几乎是不存在的。他出生在一个幸福的中产阶级家庭，爸爸妈妈姐姐外婆都无条件爱他，他坚强、勇敢、聪明、见多识广，动手能力强，知识丰富，字写得好，不仅善良还很幽默，是一个品学兼优的学霸，他的优点可以让人忽略他的长相。杰克最后变得很勇敢，不惜打掉朱利安的一颗牙齿来维护奥吉，换作我，也会这么做的，因为朱利安是个混蛋，他虚伪、狡诈、势利，任何一个有良心的人都不会真正跟他做朋友！”

“那你的意思是？”

“其实我也想成为杰克那样的人，但是我不能，有两个原因，第一，Q有皮肤病，而且他性格脆弱，爱哭，成绩差，我没办法跟他做朋友；第二，我有几个好朋友，他们有的是奥数天才，有的是长跑冠军，有的是作文高手，他们每个人都很优秀，都很诚实、善良、开朗，我不可能不跟他们做朋友。”

“没错，你发现了小说与现实之间的差距。奥吉确实是作者塑造出来的理想形象，他有疾，但并不残。他外表看起来不正常，其实内在心智、行为能力和品格不仅正常，更要优于普通孩子。正因为如此，他才可以不用上残障学校，而是跟普通孩子一样上常规学校，甚至是毕彻预科这样的名校。这也正是我们觉得故事引人入胜的原因：一个外表不正常的孩子，要进入一所正常的学校，必将造成巨大的反差，产生强烈的矛盾冲突。奥吉不仅是医学奇迹，还是一个传奇的文学形象，人们喜欢阅读传奇。”

“作者为什么要这样写一个传奇？”

“我想，作者也许是想让人产生思考，如果像奥吉这样的‘奇迹’小孩要融入正常学校都那么难，那比他境况更差，需要特殊照顾的残疾孩子怎么办？从某种程度上来说，奥吉代表着一种分界线，在他之上，是普通人，在他之下，是需要特殊照顾的人，也就是我们所说的残疾人。在现实中，绝大多数的残疾人过着我们无法想象的黑暗生活，他们要么缺胳膊少腿，要么眼盲耳聋口哑，要么有智力或者语言障碍，甚至有可能集几种残疾于一身，而且他们可能从孩提时代起就遭受歧视和欺侮，一生都被正常社会抛弃和排斥。运气好的，有家人的支持和关爱，衣食无忧；再好一点，可以上特殊学校，学一点谋生的本领；运气最差的，不仅挣扎在贫困生活中，被外人排斥，还会遭到家人的歧视，比如我跟你讲过的傻子。就像你说的，在我们跟他们不能做朋友或者非亲非故素不相识的情况下，应该怎么办？难道就应该觉得他们低人一等，就可以欺负他、嘲笑他、打骂他，或者当他人对他们进行歧视和欺辱时，无动于衷地旁观？”

“可是也有很多传奇的残疾人啊，比如霍金？”

“没错，在这个世界上，有一些残疾人是奇迹中的奇迹，他们的天才强大到可以突破残疾的限制，赢得全世界的喝彩与尊敬，甚至改变世界，比如霍金，比如作家史铁生，比如日本的盲人钢琴家辻井伸行，比如澳大利亚的演说家尼克·胡哲等等，但他们无一例外，背后都凝聚着艰辛的付出和家人巨大的关爱。应该说，他们的成功有多大，背后的痛苦就有多大。而且他们是极少数的幸运儿，是被上帝选中的人。”

“妈妈，你打过傻子吗？”

“没有。我一直怕他，从来没有帮助过他，或者给过他一个笑脸，即使那天他救了我，我也没有对他笑一下。这是妈妈一生中最后悔的事情之一。”

“妈妈，如果不能跟他们做朋友，那该怎么办？”

“其实你只要克服一下内心的恐惧就可以了。只要选择不害怕，你就会发现，做不做朋友一点都不重要，你甚至都不用去帮他们，只要正常对待他们就是最大的善意。”

 

~

宁岱 -《我的两位数学老师》

JULY 3rd 2017

 

(A translation of this piece, by Nyuk Fong Parker, can be found below.)

 

从小学到中学，我记忆最深刻的数学老师有两位。一位是初中二年级开始给我们授课的刘克智老师，一位是高中两年的李德雨老师。两位老师曾经互为师生，可讲起课来却完全是截然不同的风格。

刘老师给我们上课的第一天，正值刚开学的日子，课间休息时，同学们有说不完的话。刘老师是在上课铃响起的时刻，站到我们教室门口的。当时我们都明白他大概就是新来的数学老师，可铃声还没停，老师也没走进来，就都抓紧时间继续说话。直到大家突然意识到什么，先后闭上嘴巴时，我才觉出铃声已经停了好一会儿了。怎么老师不说话也不进来呢？我看着依旧站在门口外的刘老师。他一脸严肃地望着教室里的我们，一行行扫视，一个个注视。他一身略有褪色的深蓝色中山装，高大黑瘦，手中的数学书被他来回搓揉地攥成了一根小棍。待教室完全安静下来后，刘老师才沉默着走进来，把手里的书往讲台上一撂，“上课！”对刚才的长时间等待，只字未提。以后他天天如此，服装不变，表情不变，目光不变，等待不变。后来我也不记得从什么时间开始，我们变了，只要是老师一站到门口，不管铃声是否还在持续，就立即安静下来。

刘老师还有个特点，上课时从来不说一句与数学无关的话，开口就是讲课。他不看数学书，那课本每次就那么卷卷地往讲台上一躺，下课再被老师抄走。刘老师从不点名批评学生。他有个绝技，能把手中的粉笔掐成药片那么薄，准确地向他所要的方向砍过去。谁上课说话或做小动作，刘老师就停下讲课，掐一截粉笔打过去，然后一句话不说地盯着那位同学，直到他意识到自己的错误，自己纠正了，才继续讲课。一次我跟同桌玩碳素墨水，刘老师一截粉笔不偏偏不倚直接打进了瓶口里。我俩惊讶着老师投掷的准确，看着粉笔头在墨水瓶中冒气泡，忍不住笑起来。刘老师依旧是目光严肃地盯着我们。那目光逼得我们忍住笑，逼得我们把瓶盖盖上，拧紧。可刘老师仍旧不开口继续讲课，目光定在墨水瓶上。没办法，我们只好把瓶子收到课桌抽屉里，从此再没在课堂上拿出来。

我很喜欢刘老师。喜欢他是从他留家庭作业开始的。刘老师要求作业要用数学纸来完成，还要像做手工一样把中间折叠一下，用角尺和圆规在上面画，还要写问、答、定律、定理等许多文字，像是写作文。这些都太好玩了。自从他给我们讲授数学开始，我就觉得数学作业特别容易，对他的严肃和不拘言笑也就不在意了。

我同桌是个特别喜欢课间找老师聊天的学生，而我因为课外学着音乐和美术，课间要赶作业，从未被她拽去过。她经常回来后告诉我，刘老师又夸谁谁谁进步大，谁谁谁有数学天分只是粗心了。我期待刘老师夸奖到我，可从来不曾有过。刘老师夸奖的，总是那天课堂上第一次举手发言的学生。每当回忆起这一点，我又觉得好像见过刘老师笑，只是不再课堂上。

上中学时，我不知道刘老师的全名。那会儿还没有想知道老师全名的想法。总觉得只要是说“刘老师”，大家都应该知道就是我的数学老师。现在想起来，跟刘老师学数学，对我人生最大的提高，不仅仅是让我喜欢上了数学，更重要的是让我学会了自觉，尽管刘老师从来没提过这个词，只是用他坚韧的目光和长久的等待。

高中时，我们换了李德雨老师教数学。又是我那同桌打听到的，李老师是刘老师的老师。可一开始，我还是很怀念我的刘老师。

李老师跟刘老师太不一样了，从作派到讲课方式都完全不同。李老师不光年龄比刘老师大很多，而且总是穿件蓝色大马褂。这在上世纪七十年代的北京中学里是很少见到的。李老师每天一走进教室，就要很认真地把数学书打开，翻到他这节课要讲的页码，用个长长的教具木尺压在讲台上，压住课本。讲课中，李老师还不时地翻看一下。课堂不安静时，他会用那木尺敲讲台或黑板。

其实，李老师和刘老师有师生关系，还是能从一个习惯看出来的。李老师也从来不点名批评学生，不管错误有多大。可李老师的嘴永远都不停，无论遇到什么事情，都要评论一番，都要回忆他小时候或曾上过的教会学校。他见什么评什么。语调平稳，表情随意，却总有无穷无尽的风趣词语，时刻准备着对我们的缺点狠狠地“冷嘲热讽”一番。比如他正讲着课会突然停下来，生动地介绍他小时候喜欢过节，是因为期待卖货郎。卖货郎走街串巷使用的拨浪鼓叫卖，他小时就总期待拔浪鼓的声音。拔浪鼓是一个小圆鼓边缘用小绳拴两个小球，卖货郎在手里那么一摇，它就没有屁股没有根基地发出响声……我们正听得兴趣盎然时，李老师突然话锋一转，说就像现在有些学生上课时前后左右地扭头说话；李老师批改作业后，会讲起小时候看戏，特别热闹，他最喜欢看武戏，遇到演员基本功差，动作没做好，一甩长衣袖把脸给蹭花了，扮的是武生却成了小丑相，就像有些学生那涂得乱七八糟的作业本。听他讲课，我们总是笑声不断，欢乐无比。到后来，我每天等待数学课的心情，就像等待一场相声晚会。

李老师给我印象最深的，是他总爱说一个英文词“雷日包”。第一次听老师说这个词是有同学上课迟到，李老师停下讲课，面无表情地看着那同学坐到位子上以后，问我们谁知道人身体上一共有多少根骨头。正当我们漫天乱数瞎猜时，他说了句“雷日包”。然后可能想到我们是学俄语班，解释说：英语非常形象。用英语说一个人懒，它不直接说你这个人懒，而是说这些骨头懒。英语“雷日包”就是懒骨头的意思。教会学校的老师都是用英语教学，谁迟到老师就叫他“雷日包。”我们大笑起来。以后一有同学迟到，我就望着李老师，等待他那句“雷日包”。可我从来不敢迟到，怕老师说我的骨头懒。其实我也不愿意迟到，喜欢听李老师说“相声”。 后来工作时接触到英语，我特地请教英语好的人“雷日包”怎么写。对方说，骨头是bone，懒骨头是中国人才有的俗语吧。我不甘心，最后还是在字典里查到了lazy bones，译为“懒人”。李老师是在告诫我们不要做懒人，是要让我们在人生的每一分钟里都不偷懒、不懈怠。

高中毕业后，我就没再见过李老师，以后也不可能见到了，他已经去世了。可我见过一次他的照片。那是中学毕业五六年后，一天有个中学同学给我打电话，说《北京日报》上刊登李老师的照片了，介绍他退休后义务指导武警战士学数学。我去找到了那张报纸，看到了我的李老师。他仍旧是那和蔼可亲的样子，退休却仍不闲散。我和同学相约去看望老师，可之后一直忙，忘记了。又过了五六年，那时我正在国外学习，快要回国了。有天晚上做了个梦，梦中的场景像是个小型图片展览会。我先见到了刘老师，他依旧是表情严肃地讲述着什么，引导我往会场深处走，最里面正中央是李老师，他正站在他的大幅照片前风趣幽默妙语连珠，却不似我们的课堂效果，未引起周围阵阵欢笑。梦醒后想到那景象都是黑白的，一个念头刺了我。我想，回国后一定要去看望李老师。回国一个月后，我打电话问那也已成为数学老师的原来同桌。同桌说，李老师两个月前病逝了。……我怠慢了李老师。可我真想告诉老师，离开中学后，我一直没敢怠慢生活。

刘老师和李老师是我一生崇敬的老师。他们一个教导我做人要自觉，一个教导我做人不偷懒。他们都是非常优秀的数学老师，可他们对我数学之外的教诲，更让我受益终生。

（原载于《心理月刊》2012年十月号）

~

Ning Dai – ‘Lessons’ (translated by Nyuk Fong Parker)

JUNE 30th 2017

Throughout the course of my education from primary to secondary school, two math teachers stand out in my memory. One of them was Mr Liu Kezhi, who began to teach us during our second year at middle school. The other was Mr Li Deyu, who taught us in our second year of high school.  Mr Li had been Mr Liu’s teacher, but they had completely different teaching styles.

Mr Liu’s first day of teaching was the start of a new school year.   My classmates and I had spent recess chatting. When the bell rang for the lesson to start, Mr Liu appeared at the classroom door. At that moment, we all guessed that he was the new math teacher. However, the bell had not yet stopped ringing, and the teacher had not come into the classroom, so we seized the opportunity to carry on talking. Suddenly, something dawned on us. One by one we fell silent. The bell had stopped ringing. Why had the teacher not said anything? Why hadn’t he come into the room? He was still standing in the doorway. I looked at him. He was watching us sternly. His eyes swept over us, row by row and one by one. Tall, slender, and dark, he was wearing a slightly faded navy-blue Chinese tunic suit. The math book in his hand was rolled into a small bat, which he was rubbing. As soon as silence had fallen, Mr. Liu finally walked in, not saying a word. He threw his book on the desk and said, “Let’s begin.” He did not mention his long wait outside the classroom. From then on, he was exactly the same every day, not changing his outfit, expression, look, or demeanour. I couldn’t remember when it started, but we changed. Whether the bell was ringing or not, when we saw Mr Liu at the door, we stopped talking straight away.

Mr. Liu had another distinctive feature. During class, he would never say anything that wasn’t related to math. When he opened his mouth, it was to talk about the lesson. He never looked at his text book. It always lay rolled up on the desk, and he took it away when class was over. He also never criticized a student by name. He had a special trick, pinching the chalk in his hand until it was as thin as a pill, and accurately shooting it in the direction of his target. If a student talked in class without permission or made inappropriate gestures, Mr Liu would stop the lesson, take a piece of chalk, and flick it at the student, then stare at the culprit without a word. He would only continue with the lesson when the errant student realised their mistake and corrected it. Once, my deskmate and I were playing with carbon ink. A piece of Mr Liu’s chalk landed squarely in the ink bottle. My friend and I were astonished at the accuracy of our teacher’s aim. As we watched the chalk bubbling in the ink, we couldn’t help but laugh. Mr Liu continued to stare at us. His sternness stopped our laughter. I closed the lid on the ink bottle tightly, but Mr Liu didn’t continue with the lesson. He was eyeing the ink bottle. We had no choice but to put it into the desk drawer. We never took it out again during class.

I was very fond of Mr Liu. I started to like him the first time he gave us homework. He asked us to complete it on math paper, folded in the middle, as if doing crafts. We were to use an angle ruler and a pair of compasses to draw on it or write questions, answers, laws, and theorems, as if we were writing a composition. It was fun. Thanks to Mr Liu, I discovered that math homework could be easy and enjoyable. I forgave him for his serious words and manner.

My deskmate liked to chat with teachers. I was never able to do this; I studied music and art outside of class, so I had to fit my homework in during class time. She often told me that Mr Liu was praising so-and-so for making great improvements, and said so-and-so had a talent for math but was not careful enough. I looked forward to a word of praise from Mr Liu, but it never came. He tended to compliment students who raised their hands for the first time in class. When I thought about that, I felt as if I had seen Mr Liu’s private smile.

I didn’t know Mr. Liu’s full name at secondary school. I was at the stage when I felt no need to know what teachers were called outside of class. Just calling him “Mr Liu” was enough; everyone would know I was referring to my math teacher.

Now that I think about it, learning math from Mr Liu enriched my life in major ways. I not only began liking the subject, but – more importantly – I learned the meaning of self-awareness, even though he never taught it directly. All he did was wait patiently, tenaciously, for us to develop it on our own.

Our math teacher at high school was Li Deyu.  It was my deskmate who told me that he’d  been Mr Liu’s teacher as well. This was some consolation; I still missed Mr Liu.

Mr Li was very different, both in his bearing and in the way he taught. He was a lot older than Mr Liu, and always wore a blue mandarin jacket – a rare sight in Beijing’s secondary schools during the 1970s. When Mr Li came into the classroom each day, he would open his textbook earnestly and turn to the lesson. He would then place a long wooden ruler on the desk to hold the page down. While he taught, he would turn the pages for an occasional look. When the class was noisy, he would use the ruler to rap the desk or black-board.

The fact that Mr Li  had been Mr Liu’s teacher was also visible in one habit. Like his student, Mr Li would never target a student by name for criticism, no matter how big their mistake. But he never stopped talking. He liked to comment on everything that happened, talking about his childhood and the Christian School he had attended. He remarked upon everything he saw. He had a smooth intonation and casual expression, but never held back with a joke or a cutting riposte. For instance, he would suddenly stop in the middle of a lesson and tell us a lively anecdote about his younger days. Apparently, the reason he’d enjoyed festivals as a child was because he liked the peddlers who wove through the streets, calling out their wares while they beat their wave drums. He always looked forward to the sound of those drums. The wave drum is small and round, with two small balls tied to its side. As the peddler shook the drum, the sound rang out in a jagged rhythm.

As he told these tales, we would all listen, entranced. But Mr Li would change the subject abruptly, to teach us a lesson about classroom distractions. Students nowadays, he said, were always turning their heads to chat with their friends during lessons.

Each day, after Mr Li had reviewed our homework, he would describe plays he had attended during his childhood, bustling with the noise and excitement of the theatre. His favourite dramas had military themes. He had seen actors with poor technical skills who could not execute their moves well, messing up their face makeup with a sweep of their long sleeves, appearing more like clowns than martial artists. Mr Li compared this to our messy homework notebooks. It was always fun to listen to him in class; he always raised a laugh. I looked forward to math class as if waiting to watch a cross-talk show.

My strongest memory of Mr Li is his fondness for the English phrase “lazy bones.” The first time I heard him use it was when a student was late coming to class. Mr Li stopped the lesson and watched, expressionless, as the student took his seat. Then, he asked if any of us knew how many bones we had in our bodies. As we were guessing and counting, he uttered the words “lazy bones.” He knew we were learning Russian, so he started explaining that the English language was figurative as well. To describe someone as lazy in English, there was no need to say it directly; it was enough to say that his bones were lazy. He’d learned it at the Christian school he had attended. Lessons there were taught in English, and latecomers were always labelled “lazy bones”. We all laughed when he told us. From then on, whenever someone was late for class, I would look at Mr Li, waiting for him to say it. I didn’t dare to be late, partly because I was afraid of being called “lazy bones”, but mostly because I enjoyed his “cross-talk” so much.

Later, when I came into contact with English through my work, I asked a colleague to teach me how to write Mr Li’s pet phrase. My colleague was confused. She thought it came from a Chinese saying. I didn’t believe her, and finally found it in a dictionary. It was only then that I understood its true meaning: Mr Li had been cautioning us not to waste or neglect even a moment of our lives.

After I graduated from high school I never saw Mr Li again, and I never will – he has passed away now. However, about five or six years after I left school, I saw a picture of him in the Beijing Daily. A friend from secondary school called me, saying that a piece had been written about him. After he retired, he had volunteered his services to teach math to soldiers in the armed police force. I found a copy of the newspaper, and there was my Mr Li – his usual amiable self, still working, even in retirement. My friend and I talked about visiting him, but we never got around to it due to our busy schedules.

After another five or six years, I was studying overseas. Just before I came back to China I had a dream about a small art exhibition. Mr. Liu was there, wearing his usual solemn expression. He seemed to be narrating something, guiding me further into the exhibition hall. In the middle of the deepest part of the hall was Mr. Li. He was standing in front of a large portrait of himself, rattling off humorous, sparkling patter. The effect was different from his classroom discourse. His audience were not laughing. When I woke up, I realised I’d been dreaming in black and white. A thought struck me. I knew I had to visit Mr Li when I returned to China. A month after I got back, I called my old deskmate, who was now a math teacher. She told me that Mr Li had passed away from an illness two months earlier. I had lost my chance. I had neglected him, but what I’d wanted to tell him was this: I had never neglected a single moment of my life since leaving secondary school. That was the lesson he had taught me.

I have never forgotten Mr Liu and Mr Li. My respect for them has lasted throughout my life. One of them taught me to be aware of myself; the other taught me never to be lazy. They were brilliant teachers, but the education they gave me was more than mathematics. What they taught me will benefit me for life. It had nothing to do with numbers.

~

Miho Kinnas – ‘Haruki Murakami’

JUNE 27th 2017

 

I buy his new book, Killing Commendatore, and get on the bus. It’s written in his usual style but sentences seem slightly longer. Does he use more layered adjectives? Or there are more parallel nouns.

The bus I am on turns left. It should have been the right turn. The machine voice names an unfamiliar stop. I’ve been on this route since childhood. The bus passes a grey complex. It skips a hospital with two ambulances parked outside. The sign on the street corner reads The Town of Boat in the Bay. I have heard the name before. Like a cat watching an intruder, I was ready to jump off any minute.

Oh, I know. Murakami uses more metaphors than before. Rather elaborate metaphors. I did check the destination when I got on the bus. I wonder whether a wife goes missing as she normally is in the books he writes. The voice says the next bus stop will be my usual stop.

 

~

Ryan Thorpe – ‘Money for the Dead’

JUNE 2nd 2017

When I first heard of tomb sweeping day in China, I worried about my own ancestors. As a friend described the ritualistic way that Chinese people burned fake money and other paper goods to the dead, I imagined what this system might actually look like if it were true. If only China burned money from the dead, then my ancestors might be destitute. As a Christian family, we prayed instead of burning paper gold ingots, so this Tomb Sweeping Day, I decided to fix this mass inequity that might exist in the afterlife. At this moment, my grandparents might be working in some wealthy Chinese household in the afterlife, sweating the day away while their employers counted money burned by their relatives.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by this move to monetize the afterlife, though. If anyone were going to create a financial system for the forever after, it would be China. After two years of living there, I have seen parents’ dedication towards earning money and creating a better future for their children. Today, though, I wanted to even the playing field and help my ancestors overcome their circumstances and give them some of the peace they deserved.

To accomplish this, I turned to my girlfriend, Melissa. As a native Chinese, she might be in a position to instruct me on the finer parts of sending money to the afterlife. She had once described the people in her village burning paper money to their ancestors along the river that ran through her small village in Hubei. She explained how their small mounds of a paper money, paper houses, and paper iPhones caught fire, and how the smoke rose farther and farther up in the sky until it collected in some kind of celestial inbox. She suggested the area around Dongbaoxing Road, not far from my apartment, because that area hosted a large crematorium, and of all the areas of Shanghai, that would be the most likely place to offer gifts to the dead.

As we walked, we tried to decide to whom we would burn gifts.

“My grandparents, of course,” I said. “Isn’t it bad luck to burn gifts to the living?”

She nodded seriously as if I had just stumbled onto some great truth, and I tried to not think about who I might want to curse by burning some money their way. If burning money to the dead might give them money, then maybe burning money to the living might take it away. I wasn’t sure how the check book of the universe worked, but the thought distracted me from the task of seriously sending gifts to my grandparents.

“You can send money to anyone dead,” she said. “What about someone famous? If they’re from America, then they could probably use the money.”

“Shakespeare?” I offered. “He might need a little something.”

“That’s one thick envelope,” she said.

As we boarded the subway towards the area near the crematorium, she tried to explain to me the way it all worked. First we would buy gifts and place them in a special envelope with the name of the recipient on the front with my name and the date in black marker. Then, we would draw a chalk circle on the ground, placing the gifts in the center, and then lighting them on fire. Everything had to burn completely. As the fire died down, I would light three sticks of incense, hold them in both of my hands, and bow towards the fire. After thinking good thoughts about the recipients of my gift, I would stick the incense in the ground near the burning site.

The entire ceremony sounded simple enough, but I felt unsure about enacting the process. With this ceremony, I walked on foreign territory. As I went through these motions, others would see me, judge me, question my sincerity as I tried to honor my ancestors with a foreign tongue. I also imagined Shakespeare’s face when he received all these gifts from some random American in China, two nations he barely knew. His lips fumbling over the slippery words.

“Do you think we should get Shakespeare something extra?” Melissa asked. “He’s one of your favorite authors. I feel like we should do something special.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s burn an iPhone to him. Shakespeare would be an Apple user if her were alive today.”

I tried to imagine that as well, but as I imagined Shakespeare compiling a music list, downloading his favorite apps, and navigating the Internet on his iPhone, he felt less like Shakespeare to me. The Shakespeare I knew stood locked away in a time vault with a quill in one ink-dyed hand. “Let’s see,” I said.

We exited the subway, and I followed my girlfriend around while she politely asked people where we could find a store that sold the gifts for the dead. No one was sure where we could find such a place. At the grocery store, the clerk hinted at a place closer to the subway station. Near the subway station, she asked a pedicab driver who told us that it was near and for 10 RMB, about a dollar and a half, he could take us there. My girlfriend thanked him, and we kept walking. At the front of a nice apartment complex, a security guard told her that it could be found down the road past the grocery store.

Melissa turned and announced our direction with a smile. “I knew I could find this place.”

I followed after her with the umbrella and her ten pound purse that contained a laptop, back up umbrella, and the other uncountable things hidden within the folds of a woman’s purse. As my arm ached, I thought about how Shakespeare might appreciate her MacBook and a few other items as an offering, but I stayed silent. Without her help, I would never come close to completing this ritual. Alone in Shanghai, my language abilities kept me restricted to certain activities, and burning money for dead ancestors required speaking only in Chinese. In this ritual, the dead were mono-lingual, and I required her translation services.

The rain fell slowly as if the sky felt unsure about what it wanted to do, but a light rain meant a safer ground. Melissa explained how we couldn’t carry around the gifts to the dead into other people’s shops because having these gifts near someone living caused bad luck. These were items that were purchased and then immediately burned to avoid contaminating the land of the living.

We found the store a half-kilometer beyond the grocery store in a small shop with metal racks and stacks and stacks of paper money, silver and gold paper ingots, and paper gold bars that could be burned as an offering. Melissa explained the situation to the old man who ran the shop and who nodded gravely at her description of our intentions. The old man felt concerned about the likelihood that my gifts would reach my ancestors, but he dug around until he found a large, yellow envelope with a large seal on the front in Chinese. He explained to Melissa its importance who then translated his message to me.

“He says that this is a special long distance envelope,” she said. “It’s like DHL for the afterlife.”

I nodded as if I understood the difference between one envelope and another, but I needed this man to understand that I was serious about giving money to my ancestors. He suggested sending only American money and hard currency like gold because he wasn’t sure if the spirit world would react well to Chinese money flying towards American and British recipients. After glancing over all the paper goods, we selected several stacks of hundred dollar bills and a box of gold ingots, which we felt would be valuable in any context. No matter what the exchange rate, gold carried some value. As I looked at the fake Chinese money that held denominations in the thousands and millions, I wondered if inflation were a serious concern in heaven, and maybe money lost all value due to its inflation over time. In this society, something random like tin or rosewood might carry the value of precious materials, but I decided to leave the economics of the afterlife to the Chinese experts. I would send whatever they recommended.

In this case, the shopkeeper recommended several bundles of tissue paper as an accelerant because unfortunately, American paper money failed to burn as well as some other currencies, and the man did not want us staring at a fire that failed to get going. Even the gods fell victim to the basic laws of thermodynamics. We selected a large bundle of tissue paper and piled our goods on the closest table.

After writing Shakespeare’s name on one envelope and my grandparents’ names on the other, Melissa consulted with the guy where to burn our pile of gifts. He gave us directions to a place by the river just a block away, and we thanked him several times. He thanked us with a thick smile for our purchase and handed us a stick of chalk and a small bundle of incense.

I wanted to photograph the old man, standing there in the frame of his little concrete store with the crowded shelves of cursed gifts for the dead, but it didn’t feel right. Like much related to death, I felt like he should only be observed rather than recorded, as if death suffered from a life-long affliction of camera shyness.

A short walk later, we found ourselves on a little pedestrian path next to a river. Behind some bushes, small groups of people stood beside their own burning offerings. Melissa and I skirted past the first group of people who maintained five offering piles burning and found ourselves an empty stretch of sidewalk. The air hung thick with smoke, and our eyes burned while we juggled the bags of offerings, the umbrella, the heavy purse. Melissa took everything from me and handed me one bag of offerings and the chalk.

“Make our circles like theirs,” she suggested with a glance at the ground next to us. I looked at their circle, which looked more like a long over with two lines jutting out from one of the long sides. In this way, the oval never closed but stood open, and I was sure that had some sort of significance, but I did not know what it was.

The chalk kept breaking against the wet pavement, until I held a fragment of chalk less than a half an inch long. I used different fragments of chalk to finish my two circles, but after some effort, they were complete. Melissa suggested breaking the ingot box apart to use the lid as and boxes as bases for my offering, and I immediately liked the idea. I started on Shakespeare’s offering pile. I first layered several handfuls of tissue paper while trying to light the hundred dollar bills on fire. The entire process proved far harder than I imagined. With the rain dripping on my fire, the smoke of the other wet fires filling up our eyes, and the hundred dollar bills refusing to burn, several minutes passed before the small fire started going.

Melissa passed me a short length of plywood that she had found near someone else’s abandoned offering pile, and I used it to try and open up my fire a little and get all the layers of money to light up properly. After the fire started to burn, Melissa handed me the plastic bag of paper gold ingots, and I sprinkled those on sparingly, making sure each of them caught fire and burst into a strange green flame for a moment before succumbing to the heat. As the pile burned lower, I broke open the incense and grabbed three sticks. I lit them in the flames like Melissa instructed me, and I slowly bowed three times, trying to think of all the moments Shakespeare touched my life from England to Duke to Texas to Shanghai. He served as a drawstring that cinched up much of my past, and as I bowed for the third time, I thanked him as much as one can thank the dead. I did not say any words. Instead, I tried to feel thankful and hoped that the smoke would carry my sentiments beyond the clouds.

I planted the incense in the flowerbed near the offering site and started in on my grandparents’ pile. Melissa called my name, and I looked up. She was taking my picture, and I smiled in reaction.

“Don’t smile,” she said. “This isn’t a smiling time.”

My smiled faded, and I went back to focusing on the funeral pile. I repeated the process of offering up the paper gifts, and I only relaxed when I lit the incense. I bowed the first time, thinking about how long it had been since I had seen my grandparents. They died when I was still young and a lap grandchild that was passed from person to person like a puppy. I bowed a second time, trying to remember what they looked like, their faces buried in memories more than half a life ago. The thick grey eye brows of my grandfather that always looked like he was about to ask a question. The kind smile of my grandmother who always smiled like she had just finished baking something. I bowed a final time and focused on thanking them for making the man I was today. Despite their distance, I always felt like they surely maintained some hand in my life from the afterlife. Looking down on me from their position and shaping my will towards a man I would be proud to be. I planed the incense in the flowerbed and then poked the fire with my stick to try to ensure that it was completely burned through.

I joined Melissa under the umbrella. She couldn’t see due to the smoke. The smouldering remains of my offerings inside the smudged chalk circles still released little bursts of smoke, but for the most part they stood silent. We left the unburned incense and our plywood stick and tossed our garbage as we headed back to the subway. We passed other families waiting on the steps up to the street for a spot to open up next to the river. The bags containing their gifts to the dead hung from their hands. As I passed, they politely nodded. I nodded back. I did not smile.

Continue reading

Merilyn Chang – ‘Orison’

SEPTEMBER 23rd 2023

 

Merilyn Chang is a journalist and digital media manager based between New York and Berlin. She’s studied comparative literature and creative writing for her bachelor’s and has since been working on her first novel. Her work has been published by Dazed, Resident Advisor, Fact Mag and more.

Orison

 

Walk back with me to the green house no one lives in anymore.

Thursdays always taste grey and red, but for you, it was my

favorite day. When we spent most nights walking and the furthest

we’d ever made it was between three pieces of land all wedged together

like cars on Madison Avenue. We talked about

Running around a desert in north Asia, on prairies or tall grass,

Sleeping in tents. I saw all the stars but I couldn’t capture it on a camera.

We sat 10 feet away from the tent, in my mind, on a black blanket.

You laid down, your head close to my hip and you put your right hand on my lower back.

We don’t kiss or anything, yet. It would be just warm enough for a light

jacket in late August, except we were both in different places.

And other people were there too, in our minds.

But you were still in mine, every day. Every day I think about cooking pork

on your stove top that was covered in burnt char from the days before.

Everyday, the raspberry vitamin drink you made me and the mold

growing in the blender and the rain that day, before we walked to the

atrium style train stop, before you called my name under the underpass and it echoed in threes,

cascading off the walls. Cars fettered water in our direction but we didn’t care.

Think of a gentle without cold. And hands trimming facial hair. We

are not tender because we choose to be but because we would not be,

without tenderness. Slice the lemons so thinly and I’ll play an augmented seventh

on the Rhodes against the wall. You liked dissonances and my favorite part is the

Resolve after the muddle. The ray of light that comes when you stand in the perfect

position under a bed of leaves sounds like a fifth after six black keys.

At night we sleep and Jeff Buckley plays sweet harmony.

All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter. It’s never over. He hangs brightly

and breathes lightly. My sweet. Sugar plum. We never made it there.

Summer would be rolling on wood floors, hands dancing around the metal

pull-chain of a ceiling fan. But autumn was for strawberry sheets, waiting for a

relapse in the summer. In the green house where no one lives anymore, the landlords

upstairs say prayer at 5 in the morning, as we come home and unload stands

and gear and quietly walk up stairs that became drums in a song.

Think of me fondly. In November, send sweet songs and dissolved melodies.

Missing was never complete as much as it was a reach for completion.

Loving is only done out of survival but sometimes it feels enough to throw a car in the water.

Complete me dear, for I don’t think you could ever complete me. But glasses

still hold water, and trains still run east. The dining room table is still

covered in green from last night’s feast. All you can remember.

 

Can I tell you something? We were in the part of the dream, now

where the world was ending and the ground was orange, the sky was lilac.

There were palm trees outside the window, glowing green. I was in the part

Of the library with every single book ever written. A man sat at the

center in a suit. Told me I could read. And I looked down and you messaged me.

Do you know what you asked? You asked if I remembered the last time

we kissed. The dream ends there and I wake up and it is my birthday

and three days ago I was tripping on something that kept me up till

10 in the morning, and I thought of walking again to the green house.

Sweep old contact shells from the floors and pick at cold blades of the AC

vent. Lay me down, and bring in the utensils that beg for meat to cut into.

But don’t cut into it. Think of the whole that comes from mercy.

Sometimes I watch old videos of you and freeze the frame right when the

light hits your eyes and I remember the way you looked at me the third time

I saw you. You have stars in your eyes, sometimes. I am giving you the spoon now

and asking you if you will please wash it twice. I am holding the blue to the light

while you stand on chairs. I am, again, in the part of the Dream where the world is ending

and I am walking east out of the library under the palm trees

wondering if you’ll meet me. The grass has grown slightly.

And the air smells like rain from October four years ago.

 

~

William Ross – Three Poems

SEPTEMBER 4th 2023

~

Tom Veber – two poems (translated by Kaja Rakušček)

FEBRUARY 6th 2023

 

Tom Veber (1995, Maribor) is an artist, who works at the junction of theatre, music, visual arts and literature. His poems were published in Croatia, Hungary, Greece, France, Austria, Germany, Russia and China. His poems are published in two collection The breaking point published in 2019 by Literarna družba Maribor publishing house, and in collection Up to here reaches the forest, published last year by ŠKUC – Lambda.

 

***

 

Your skin has a scent

of New York in the fall

when low clouds descend

over the narrow city streets

and you try to answer all questions

affirmatively

since you suspect the departure within yourself

and departures are always softer

in flocks of white lies

 

your eyelashes remind me

of narrow birch tips in Québec

in that park

where you held my hand for the first time

in that moment

I could assert with certainty

that my knees

melted into clouds

like in some Renoir painting

 

your protruding collarbones

paint the picture of the sharp Moher cliffs

of Western Irish shores

do you remember how whale backs

reflected the light

at sunset

like live mirrors

how the salty wind

stroked our flushed cheeks

how we laid down in the grass

and for hours stared

at each other

at the soft sky.

 

~

 

***

 

I am leaning against the window sill

my gaze is meandering around the city

I see some movements

some strokes into loneliness

I alternately sip green tea with rice milk

and smoke your cigarettes

I wait standing wide

I am greedily shrinking up

I am puffed up like a cat

before an attack

I shiver with everything

that can break

in a matter of seconds

I wait for you

continuously louder

you observe me

in ambush

your eyes scrape

across my heated body

you aim

you press

you shoot.

 

 

~

 

Yeng Pway Ngon – ‘阳光’ translated as ‘The Sun’ by Goh Beng Choo

JANUARY 2nd 2023

 

Yeng Pway Ngon (1947-2021) was a Singaporean poet, novelist and critic in the Chinese literary scene in Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. A prolific writer, Yeng’s works have been translated into English, Malay, Dutch, and Italian.

 

阳光

你比我早起

在我窗外好奇地张望

你悄悄攀进来

爬上我的床，静静躺在

我身边

 

你的手指拂过我的身躯

如拂过

一排破旧的琴键

 

你的耳语

你的体温

你的甜蜜

令我哀伤

 

(20/5/2019)

 

The Sun

You wake up earlier than me

glancing around curiously outside my window

stealthily you climb

onto my bed lying beside me quietly

 

Your fingers run through my body

as if running through

a row of broken piano keys

 

Your whisper

your warmth

your sweetness

sadden me

 

 

~

 

Cleo Adler – ‘Three Questions’

DECEMBER 26th 2022

 

Born and raised in Hong Kong, Cleo Adler holds a B.A. in English and an M.A. in Comparative Literature. She writes poetry, essays, and reviews about travel and introspection, memory, and music. Published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine, Tentacle Poetry, and Literary Shanghai. She works between archives and libraries.

 

Three Questions

 

‘L’ is a sly and sluggish sound crawling out from the tip of the tongue,

as in ‘lax’, ‘listless’, and ‘nonchalance’, where ‘nonchalance’

is the mask worn by men whose tongues curl back

and roll out an ‘r’ in a matter of milliseconds that measures their effort.

 

How many words can we learn humming Simon and Garfunkel songs?

 

With my ears, I almost feel by touch their mouths stretch,

lured to suck their smacking lips and gnawing teeth.

I’ll never make their tongue mine,

but mine can coil around theirs and glide along slippery waves.

 

When I was four, I hated drawing curves so much that I cried

when copying the number ‘3’ ten times but

in my youth, I flaunted cursive writings in my homework.

It’s a tempting exercise to sketch a map of a walnut

since there’s no single way of making out its furrows.

How I dream of claiming it my laurel.

 

What good do words do?

 

They think theirs open up a meadow of daffodils

where you see the sun in a new light.

I say they are a desert where what we do is walk in circles

because that’s how our body works, the same way

my skin is tanned and my tongue is stiff.

 

Everyone prefers sunshine that’s brighter, warmer, more upfront,

but what I covet is one I’ll never be, nor be a part of

— although it grows in me—

for all my pestering and whining,

for the sake of the sense or eros.

 

Are words a fish or a fish trap?

 

It’s not about how to get the fish and forget the trap.

I have trouble with spelling, so to me,

a nicely woven basket does little harm; what I want to

forget is the fancy that with it a fish will be given.

 

At the river near where I live, there are men who

catch fish and put them into large foam boxes.

The next moment, they toss them to egrets.

 

Let us go fishing there one day.

 

~

Yuan Changming – Six Poems

OCTOBER 24th 2022

Yuan Changming hails with Allen Yuan from poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include 12 Pushcart nominations & 14 chapbooks, most recently Homelanding. Besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline & Poetry Daily, Yuan served on the jury and was nominated for Canada’s National Magazine Awards (poetry category).

 

 

A Triword Poem: for Qi Hong & All Other Separated Lovers

 

to                     get(her)           to-gather

 

 

~

 

 

Siamese Stanzas: Snowflakes

 

~

 

Love Lost & Regained: 2 One-Sentence Poems for Qi Hong

 

1/ Love Lost: a Rambling Sentence

 

How I sometimes wonder

Whether it is because you wear

Your years so well or because the years

Wear you so well that I fell in mad love with

You after as long as 42 years of separation without

Knowing each other’s whereabouts, again at first sight

With the whole Pacific Ocean between our shortening arms

 

2/ Love Regained: a Periodic Sentence

 

At a fairyfly-like moment

On a bushy corner of nature

Preferably under a tall pine tree

In Mayuehe, our mecca or the hilly village

Adjacent closely to the bank of the Yangtze River

With myriad tongues from my hungry innermost being

Each eager to reach deep into your heart, where my soul’s

Fingers could caress every single synapse of your feminine feel

Between the warmth & tenderness of love, across the Pacific & the Pandemic

I’ll join you

~

 

I/我 as a Human: a Cross-Cultural Poem

 

1/ Denotations of I vs 我

 

The first person singular pronoun, or this very

Writing subject in English is I, an only-letter

Word, standing upright like a pole, always

Capitalized, but in Chinese, it is written with

Seven lucky strokes as 我, with at least 108

Variations, all of which can be the object case

At the same time.

Originally, it’s formed from

The character 找, meaning ‘pursuing’, with one

Stroke added on the top, which may well stand for

Anything you would like to have, such as money

Power, fame, sex, food, or nothing if you prove

Yourself to be a Buddhist practitioner inside out

 

2/ Connotations of Human & 人

 

Since I am a direct descendant of Homo Erectus, let me stand

Straight as a human/人, rather than kneel down like a slave

 

When two humans walk side by side, why to coerce

One into obeying the other as if fated to follow/从?

 

Since three humans can live together, do we really need

A boss, a ruler or a tyrant on top of us all as a group/众?

 

Given all the freedom I was born with, why, just

Why cage me within walls like a prisoner/囚？

 

~

 

Lesson One in Chinese Character/s: a Bilinguacultural Poem about Heart

 

感：/gan/ perception takes place

when an ax breaks something on the heart

闷: /men/ depressed whenever your heart is

shut behind a door

忌：/ji/ jealousy implies

there being one’s self only in the heart

悲：/bei/ sorrow comes

from the negation of the heart

惑：/huo/ confusion occurs

when there are too many an ‘or’ over the heart

忠：/zhong/ loyalty remains

as long as the heart is kept right at the center

恥：/chi/ shame is the feel

you get when your ear conflicts with your heart

怒: /nu/ anger influxes when slavery

rises from above the heart

愁: /chou/ worry thickens as autumn

sits high on your heart

忍:/ren/ to tolerate is to bear a knife

straightly above your heart

忘: /wang/ forgetting happens

when there’s death on heart

意: /yi/ meaning is defined as

a sound over the heart

思: /si/ thought takes place

within the field of heart

恩: /en/ kindness is

a reliance on the heart

 

~

 

Directory of Destinies: a Wuxing Poem

– Science or superstition, the ancient theory of the Five Elements accounts for us all.

 

1 Metal (born in a year ending in 0 or 1)

-helps water but hinders wood; helped by earth but hindered by fire

he used to be totally dull-colored

because he came from the earth’s inside

now he has become a super-conductor

for cold words, hot pictures and light itself

all being transmitted through his throat

 

2 Water (born in a year ending in 2 or 3)

-helps wood but hinders fire; helped by metal but hindered by earth

with her transparent tenderness

coded with colorless violence

she is always ready to support

or sink the powerful boat

sailing south

 

3 Wood (born in a year ending 4 or 5)

-helps fire but hinders earth; helped by water but hindered by metal

rings in rings have been opened or broken

like echoes that roll from home to home

each containing fragments of green

trying to tell their tales

from the forest’s depths

 

4 Fire (born in a year ending 6 or 7)

-helps earth but hinders metal; helped by wood but hindered by water

your soft power bursting from your ribcage

as enthusiastic as a phoenix is supposed to be

when you fly your lipless kisses

you reach out your hearts

until they are all broken

 

5 Earth (born in a year ending in 8 or 9)

-helps metal but hinders water; helped by fire but hindered by wood

i think not; therefore, I am not

what I am, but I have a color

the skin my heart wears inside out

tattooed intricately

with footprints of history

~

DS Maolalaí – Five More Poems

JUNE 27th 2022

 

DS Maolalai has received nine nominations for Best of the Net and seven for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022).

 

 

Machinery moves.

 

lowering their winches,

cranes toil

and hoist skyward. the city

ticks taller, as mountain

and glacier-

spun time. from the top of this hill

and across the horizon

machinery moves

in a restful

slow motion,

swinging its balance

like the fat backs of spiders,

tucking untidiness

to the corners

of maps.

 

 

Daydrinking

 

it’s good – drinking wine

on these hot afternoons

on these days when we have

to be nowhere. we sit on the porch

at our second-hand table

and watch people walking

and coming from markets;

pushing strollers and pulling

at dogs. we get up and make

toast; bring it out with some ham,

old roast chicken and freshly

cooled bottles. occasionally

come out with coffee

or tonic on ice. white wine

all summer like snowmelt

from alleys; as yellow as suns

through the rise of the smoke

from that factory over the river.

as yellow as corn and as rippling

in pour as a field of it flowing to breezes.

you lean back, exhale, pull

at ivy which clings to our brickwork.

I look at your neck in the arc

of its stretching, like a cat standing up

on the back of a torn-apart couch.

 

 

Him.

 

it’s not that I’m an atheist

really – just don’t

want Him coming

to my wedding.

for christ sake –

it’s important to me

but that’s not the same

as Important –

 

not in the way

of a famine, of floods

running streets. He’s got better

to do (given grand schemes

and everything). if He’s real

then I shouldn’t take

his time. and if people maybe

stopped inviting Him

so often to weddings

 

then maybe He’d

stop making sunsets

so wonderful for them.

stop making birdsong

and mountains and rainbows

and other tacky garbage

for people to admire.

prevent some disease

and stop killing the innocent;

 

let’s get Him less lyrical.

put Him to work.

 

 

Maj 7th

 

we are in the back of this bar

up in phibsborough centre,

near the bohemian grounds.

he is back for a wedding –

we are getting a drink

and waiting for friends

to come meet us.

he talks about life now

as it happens near

amsterdam – has been studying

law there a year. talks about girls

and then tells me my scar’s

looking well – I must have

my own stories. I touch it – my finger

runs fishhook to eyebrow. feels folds

in the skin where the stitching

made crumples and seam. it’s true –

I look dashing when light

falls at angles. my eyes arch

and spiral, as if to a maj

7th chord. he rolls up

a cigarette, licks paper,

lights up and hands it to me

when I ask. it’s a light beerish saturday

evening in dublin. there’s a stretch

to the weather and clothes

have been drying on lines.

 

 

25 feet

 

my balcony faces a bicycle shop.

people come by with bicycles – men

pick them up, twist their spanners,

test tensiles, pump wheels.

hand cash out for bicycles,

trade like hard cattlemen. a ten

year old girl sits on top of a white/pink

and spun apart engine. kicks forward

and rolls up the pavement

quite slowly and wobbling for 25 feet.

behind her, her father stands

next to the salesman. they watch

as she goes and comes back.

 

~

DS Maolalaí – Five Poems

JUNE 20th 2022

 

DS Maolalai has received nine nominations for Best of the Net and seven for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022).

 

A settle of saturday morning

 

breakfast with baker

by fegans in the settling

feathers of saturday.

mostly clear, though the sky

drops occasional spatters

of rain out of grubby

grey clouds; a fumbling toss

of a ten penny coin. we are both

having coffee. I’m eating,

jack’s waiting on breakfast.

two tables over, a french couple kisses

with hands in each others’

jeans pockets. it’s may

now – the summer has sparked

a good light out, like all of the lighters

outside all the bars

every evening at 7 o’clock.

like lights outside cafes at 11am

between french girlfriends’ fingers

and in waitresses hands on a break.

a pigeon walks under the table

and picks at a dropped piece

of bacon. it steps around ash

and is fat grey and silver.

it’s remarkably clean

for a bird.

 

 

Some flattery.

 

“look”, I said eventually –

he’d caught out the lie

about something I’d put

in the cover –

 

“I don’t want to sound

as ungrateful as I think

this will sound,

but it’s not as if anyone

really reads poetry.

of course I still hope

you should take

both the poems,

and take where I mentioned

my rising respect

for your press and achievements

as an editor

with the implication

it might be

some flattery. it’s not

 

as if either of us

hoped our careers

would involve some small magazine

printed way out in sligo. well,

maybe you did – I’m sorry;

I had aspirations.

and it’s not either

that I don’t

really want you

to publish me –

 

just, you know, you should

know that, given the option

I’d have gone probably

with faber

or someone

else first. shit.

wouldn’t anyone?

they pay.”

 

 

Nature will do things

 

the last guy who lived here

grew garden potatoes

and carrots. now flowers sprout up

in that corner each spring – all white

and bright yellow,

like tropical frogs

climbing stems.

I have let them go wild,

but nature will do things,

even when left

out untended. once

a goose landed,

falling like knocked-

over furniture. pawed about,

biting at seedlings and dandelions

while I stood by the door jamb

drinking water and watching it move.

 

 

Freedom, unpredictable.

 

kids in august summer

and sunning the park – just like dogs;

so unpredictable! and I never know,

walking from work,

what they are going to do

next – if they are going

to yell something

or kick a football at me. and yet,

it’s all so fine – it’s freedom, unpredictable

and I’m not feeling threatened.

I was like that myself once, though in my mind

I haven’t changed much

in 15 years, beyond perhaps gaining

a tolerance for alcohol.

 

it comes especially

when I see people I went to school with

at that age; like a brick

falling out of a house, I remember being part

of a whole

structure. the one

from when we all

were holding each other. it’s strange.

and yet, I was not an animal,

and they are not

either;

 

more like flowers. like when you drop seeds

in the garden and forget about them,

trying to make a meadow. staying inside

for weeks. the strong ones surviving, the weather

all closed. one day you open your door

and outside it’s all poppies,

grown and rained on. wet to a height

of five feet, perhaps more.

 

 

Manifesto

 

theme grows like plants

out of eaves, out

of gutters and fascias. it is not

laid like bricks – it’s not planned,

it is natural leaf. theme turns

to the sun and from dirt

in the corners of structure.

I cannot stand gardens. love dandelions,

thistles and daisies. divisions

on motorways, hemlock

wild garlic and nettles where rats

can lurk, biting and pissing.

the space between pavements

where people pass walking

and don’t look around, look ahead.

 

~

 

Xing Zhao – Two Poems

FEBRUARY 21st 2022

Xing Zhao is a writer and translator. He has written about contemporary art, culture, design, travel, and LGBTQ for publications including Architectural Digest, The Art Newspaper, Time Out, and OutThere. He is interested in ideas such as memory, exile, elsewhere, and displacement. He lives in Shanghai — a city that is not his home and writes in English — a language other than his native tongue. He is working on a collection of short stories and a long story, both with sentiments that permeate his poetry.

 

I Smell Him

 

I smell him

on me,

on the blue-black corduroy jacket

I’m wearing,

in the back of the closet where it’s hiding.

 

His smell stays with me

as though he was sitting next to me,

eyes

behind his thick black-framed glasses

a quiet gleam,

lips fluttering

are wings of a butterfly

dancing in a rainforest of luminous green.

 

What is he thinking? I think,

his mind is a storming sea,

drawer inside drawer

insider drawer

to which I do not have a key.

Mandalorian, Skywalker, and Jedi,

KAWS, The North Face, and Noguchi.

Words pour out of him and

I feel dizzy.

I wish

he’d stop speaking.

Does he know

I’m not at all listening?

 

The jacket

is the color of night

where blue enters black

and black becomes blue,

nocturnal animals sing songs,

rivers run across fields.

 

Lingers the smell of him,

of green moss grown on spruce

the morning after rain,

of ink smudged

on fingers,

of bergamot

blent into black tea,

of tobacco and stubble,

of him sitting at the bar of the coffee shop

when the barista says,

“He looks so clean.”

 

I want to know

if he knows

that he smells of rain,

of spring,

of a white T-shirt

billowing on a line in the wind,

of arms wrapped around my back

squeezing so tight

I hear a crackle in my spine.

 

In his jacket,

do I smell of him?

knowing his knows,

thinking his thoughts,

feeling how he feels,

when he’s sitting across the table,

our legs so close

they are almost touching,

when I lean over his shoulder and

pick up the book he’s reading,

when we walk side by side

to the park,

coffee in hand,

the sun is gold,

when he so casually hands me his jacket

the color of night,

the scent of fire,

and says,

“Yours it is.”

 

~

 

Green Island

 

 

My eyes are full of blue,

my heart is full of blue,

in this seaside town where

sky is made of glass and

waters are turquoise,

people cool as sea breeze.

 

You beam your twinkly eyes

in this dazzling midday sun,

I have springs to my steps

looking for my coconut drinks.

You say, “This is like Europe,” and

I say, “It is Malaya.”

On this island of green,

palms idly swing.

 

 

~

 

Russell Grant – Three Poems

OCTOBER 25th 2021

 

Russell Grant is a poet from Durban, South Africa, living and working in Shanghai. He teaches high school English Literature and is the leader of the Inkwell Shanghai Poetry Workshop, as well as Head of Workshops for Inkwell Shanghai. His work has appeared in A Shanghai Poetry Zine and the Mignolo Arts Center’s journal Pinky Thinker Press.

 

After the Fact

 

– for the fallen at Zhengzhou

 

There is water in the creek, and in the sky,

and on his face, he who I watch from above

 

striding abreast the flow which

lumbers towards the Huangpu, mounted

 

by creek birds that hole up in the day

like forgotten promises.

 

He lumbers, too,

sucking at anxious air; drawing ancient breath;

 

burdened: 70% water, 30%

fermented fruit and guilt

 

The surface of the creek bristles in the rising wind

while a ginger cat suspends its cool indifference

 

to chase down shelter

in a vacant guard hut.

 

To the West a father

mounts a placard at a subway station exit,

 

sometime after the fact

and waits for her.

 

Above this, above all of this,

again the coiling sky spits, weeps

 

on towers, on parks, on runners and bikes,

on leaves loosened from their trees and

 

scattered on the concrete,

on the fathers of drowned daughters,

 

and on ginger street cats bristling in the wind

like the ruined surfaces of creeks.

 

 ~

 

Double-slit Experiment

 

• A sonnet for K, who helped me see again

 

Sunlight on the river blinks,

tracing waves both endless, and startless:

I observe their immaculate leaps

up from pregnant nothingness to sudden

bright peaks

shedding all possible past and future ways.

 

At night I trace your sleeping breath

like a pilot mapping your tireless rhythm

guided along all possible decisions

coming finally on gasping reality to rest:

 

Please forgive me my delayed noticing

and allow us sweetly in this moment to collapse

into a warm and most unambiguous

darkness. To settle the score between known and perhaps

and denounce all possible worlds but one

so we may find stillness before our breathing is done.

 

 ~

 

Longing

 

• A Daoist Ode to Condiments

 

Longing is the sauce of all unhappiness

She said, the clock adjusting like an uneasy guest

I search for a complement to your ungarnished bliss

 

Be like water, sufficient and saltless

Add nothing to the heartless breast

Longing is the sauce of all unhappiness

 

I grow weary of your philosophied spareness

Is there really no additive, no further drop to test

my resolve to find a complement for your ungarnished bliss?

 

Be like water, sufficient and saltless

Add nothing to the heartless breast

Longing is the sauce of all unhappiness

 

My deepest want, my soberest wish, is

that you quiet, please, this damned request

Longing is the sauce of all unhappiness

I long for an antedote to your ungarnished bliss

 

 

~

 

Melvin Tan – The Night Is Still Young. (A Haibun)

OCTOBER 18th 2021

 

Melvin Tan is a writer from Singapore. Years ago, he found himself asking: “If I die in my sleep, what is the one thing that I want my friends to remember?” Poetry, he decided. He never looked back. The fact that he has never been to university didn’t stop him. He taught himself by reading contemporary Singapore poetry. His poems are featured by Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Singapore Writers Festival, MINI Singapore, the University of Canberra and others.

 

The Night Is Still Young. (A Haibun)

 

Then and there, are here again Flashbacks The past is now the

present Memories laid to rest come back to haunt This heavy night,

sidling in the very silence A wake of sleepless thoughts “Sorry!”

I cry and cry The response is curt Sorry, echoes the Dark I regret

the chance I did not take Missing what I would never have This

chapter of my life scattered in the winds, only to surface on still

waters There is nothing I can do Time is short yet the night

is long Too quiet to sleep, I toss once more

 

黑夜里独白

纷乱不宁的思绪

我难以挣脱

 

~

 

‘When One Lid Closes Another Opens’

– Cleo Adler (pen-name)

SEPTEMBER 27th 2021

This is an elegiac poem dedicated to the late Mr Fou Ts’ong, a renowned Chinese pianist who had been living in exile in the UK since the Cultural Revolution in China. The piece was composed as a reflection on his life and artistic practice three months after he passed away due to Covid-19.

 

When One Lid Closes Another Opens

 

Every time you played,

murmurs rumbled

from your petrified horse.

Some muffled Tuvan songs

in undertone.

 

You carried in your luggage

not only that voice,

but blood-stained debris

from a place that

kept falling apart,

 

because of which

when they admired caged

crystal flowers you sent

hooded men and women

riding on volcanoes.

 

At ‘home’, if so decreed,

the twin colours of keys

could flip.

What nurtured you

crushed you, from start to end.

 

Here, only blackness mirrors.

Between your instrument

and dilating pupils

millions of mouths chanted.

That very voice, in ‘our tongue’.

 

Perhaps this is a cursed tongue.

All your life you saw

a circle close.

Now that you left us,

it starts over.

 

In memory of Fou Ts’ong (1934-2020)

 

~

Nicole Callräm – Three Poems

SEPTEMBER 20th 2021

“They”

~

 

Katie Vogel – Two Poems

SEPTEMBER 6th 2021

Dutch, Swiss, and German, Katie Vogel has lived and worked in Shanghai for almost two years. She is a Bachata lover, fall leaf cruncher, yogi, and poet. With a B.A. in Creative Writing, her work has appeared in Parnassus, Visions, and ASPZ.

 

Farewell

 

I leave you softly

a heron listening

 

water cresting

bony sure knees

home grounding the heart

in morning solace

 

two feet never rise at once

one lingers on earth’s wet marrow

like the last friend swinging

coolly on a porch rocking chair

comfortable

 

the scene changes

something is not quite right

 

a bent cattail discolored

the kingfisher’s calculated dive

absent

 

new swallows nest and caw

the heron preens again

scratching the unscratchable

feeling

 

though all is right

perfect even

the sky is also home

and wings cannot wait for winter

 

 

~

 

Repatriation 

 

There is something in silence

which shakes down trees

 

once planted on dusty lanes

hedged with scooters and noise

 

and people and life unfurling

the same velocity

 

waterfalls don’t know themselves

too heavy with breathing

 

rushing falling breaking and rebirthing

dispersing in every direction

 

absorbed in sky sun skin of the earth

and any human within five miles

 

sound rattles out of a cage

never built.

 

My city is far, far away.

 

I lay on the grass. If you zoom out,

you would see squares of earth –

 

sectioned portions you could fork and

eat in one bland bite.

 

Grass cool, I listen with all my skin:

voices from another time

 

race along each blade

 

tickling my cheek,

familiar,

packed with life.

 

 

~

Jonathan Chan – Four Poems

AUGUST 31st 2021

Jonathan Chan is a writer, editor, and graduate of the University of Cambridge. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore, where he is presently based. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and creative expression. He has recently been moved by the writing of Tse Hao Guang, Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr., and Balli Kaur Jaswal.

watching

 

waiting at the bus stop, two pull

up, departing in different roads. patrons

alight, soles on tarmac, late afternoon

hues of white or blue or green. hands

graze skin, children tugged along, screens

pocketed. the flurry weaves around my

bench, chatter blending into revved

 

engines. shorts and shoes move toward

the trail, cloistered between tracks and

concrete. eyes flash for a peacock or

chocolate pansy, those brilliant bursts

of orange, or the eerie dash of white,

emigrants drifting in the evening

breeze. midday flutters away, my

seat grows cold, and i dream of an

inch of another’s peace.

 

~

 

idiomatic

 

a small, needful brightness

worked his way through the

consonance of sunlight and

wind, at times unhurried, at

 

others with a turbulence like

red ants. once he faced a

cleaved road, elsewhere he

followed a stream back to

 

its spring. he sits in the shade

of old stories, however

atavistic, crawling with the

guilt of maternal likeness:

 

the silhouette of a bow,

curved as a snake, the ringing

of a bronze bell, hands cupped

over his ears, the sharpened

 

axe, clean through timber.

scrawled in dark ink, my teeth

begin to chatter, lips curved in

lashing strokes of red.

 

~

 

a likeness of flowers

after Wong Kar-wai

 

the past is something he

could see, but not touch:

 

years fading as if

glass had been pulverised

 

to grey ash, soot accumulating,

visible beyond grasp,

 

everything blurred and

indistinct. he yearns for all that

 

had left– if he could break

through that pile of

 

ash, return before the days began

to vanish, thumbs pressed,

 

anguish whispered, buried with

mud in the groove of a tree.

 

 

 

awakening

after Craig Arnold

 

to wake in the presence of

daylight, swollen eyes before

 

congealed lustre, sluggishly

unfurling between sorrow and

 

possibility. to live in the glory

of softness, before the deadened

 

grip of the day’s agitations, the

fumbling for a pressure valve,

 

a fire escape. to breathe in the nodes

of mirth, or are they a kneading

 

heaviness, the dull puncture of

flayed language? to see in the absence

 

of sequence, knife scraped against

serrated surface, the drum and rustle of

 

text and headline. to lean into opening

air, that sonorous exhalation,

 

particulate in a burnished dance. to

wake into rippling sunlight, diverting

 

the gaze, so tired from the gleam of

blue, to that beloved flash, that

 

effortless flicker. to wake in

the presence of daylight.

 

~

 

Jonathan Chan – Three Poems

AUGUST 23rd 2021

 

Jonathan Chan is a writer, editor, and graduate of the University of Cambridge. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore, where he is presently based. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and creative expression. He has recently been moved by the writing of Tse Hao Guang, Rodrigo Dela Peña Jr., and Balli Kaur Jaswal.

 

overnight

 

unwrapping a thin conclusion, as porous as

mulberry paper around a styrofoam wedge,

 

stained with the depth of wine, hanja and

hangul vanishing with geometric distance,

 

the same tremble at the edge of swallowed

disarray, darknesses as dreaded as they are

 

familiar, clocked around a cone of warm,

jaundiced light, circle stark on a cragged

 

floor, and the mind callous for the touch

of an old face, found in the frisk of a

 

barely lucid afterthought, fingers firm to

frost at the hem of my pants, eyes slow

 

to bear the witness of morning light, thin

soreness and early vision, a formal feeling

 

and then the letting go –

 

~

 

roadways 

 

up the ascent of the overpass, there

is a sunset. the taxi driver gestures

for you to take a picture. his hands

are held by the wheel. a phone camera

snatches only the overlay of blues, greys,

oranges, brushed over in thick swathes.

the light shimmers over the emptied

roads. it bounces between the grilles

and beams around the workers sprawled

like cargo. an N95 dangles above the

dashboard. circuitous concrete makes for

fruitless gazing. somewhere a wish is

displaced beneath the wheels. the strain

of a load is and isn’t a metaphor. the slosh

of coffee in a flask makes for a taut

afternoon churn. hiroshima pulses

against the windows. high beams make

themselves invisible. if you wait long

enough you might see immanence and

glimmers. even if you bear some hurt

today.

 

~

 

routines

 

at most, condensed in the

passage of domestic life, the

few fistfuls of need, of essence

distilled in the rotary of sunrise

and dusk – the first intake of

conscious breath, the first

stream of water down the

gullet, the first sight of light-

dappled trees, the first thin

flip of ingestible verse, the

first note eased into the ears,

the first waft of coffee in a

firmly-gripped thermos, the

first moment of silence,

drawn back into calm, the

source from which all shall

return and proceed.

 

 

~

 

Xe M. Sánchez – ‘Güelga Fonda / Deep Mark’

AUGUST 16th 2021

Xe M. Sánchez was born in 1970 in Grau (Asturies, Spain). He received his Ph.D in History from the University of Oviedo in 2016, he is anthropologist, and he also studied Tourism and three masters. He has published in Asturian language Escorzobeyos (2002), Les fueyes tresmanaes d’Enol Xivares (2003), Toponimia de la parroquia de Sobrefoz. Ponga (2006), Llué, esi mundu paralelu  (2007), Les Erbíes del Diañu (E-book: 2013, Paperback: 2015), Cróniques de la Gandaya (E-book, 2013), El Cuadernu Prietu (2015), and several publications in journals and reviews in Asturies, USA, Portugal, France, Sweden, Scotland, Australia, South Africa, India, Italy, England, Canada, Reunion Island, China, Belgium, Ireland, Netherlands, Austria, Turkey and Singapore.

Güelga Fonda

 

Esti poema entamelu

nel mio maxín

fai cincu años, nel cuartu

d’un hotel de Shanghai,

Shanghai ye un llugar

que dexó una güelga fonda

na mio memoria

-un poema ye xustamente eso-.

Ye un d’esos llugares

au puedes atopar un bon poema

per cualuquier requexu de la ciudá

(o atopate a ti mesmu

nesti mundiu llíquidu).

 

 

~

 

Deep Mark

 

 

I started this poem

in my mind

in a room of a Shanghai hotel.

Shanghai is a place

that left a deep mark

in my memory

-a poem is just that-.

It is one of those places

where you can find a good poem

in any corner of the city

(or you may find yourself

in this liquid world).

 

 

~

 

Chen Liwei – Five Poems (translated by Susie Gordon)

JUNE 14th 2021

Chen Liwei is a member of the Chinese Writers Association, and Vice Chair of the Tianjin Writers Association. He is one of the five leaders of the Tianjin Publicity and Culture System, and was Editor-in-Chief and Senior Editor of a special edition on Chinese New Economic Literature for Bincheng Times. Chen is the author of the novels People of the Development Zone《开发区人》and Tianjin Love《天津爱情》as well as a monograph on literary theory titled ‘An Introduction to Chinese New Economic Literature’. He has published the contemporary poetry collections ‘Cuckoo in the City’《城市里的布谷鸟》, ‘The Crazy Tower’《疯塔》, ‘Dreaming About Red Lips’《梦里红唇》, ‘Life is Beautiful《本命芳菲》, and ‘Remote Sounds of Xiao’ 《箫声悠悠》, a volume of classical verse titled ‘The House on Zhen River’, and the prose collection ‘Watering Dried Flowers’《给枯干的花浇水》. In March 2016, a seminar on his work was held at the China Museum of Modern Literature.

 

Frog Sounds

 

Frog sounds – a liquid that’s deeper than a river,

blending into one as they rise and fall.

 

We all remember the suffocation of childhood.

For me, it was the umbrella of the moon on a summer night.

 

Open it when you want to hear; close it when you don’t.

Tonight I’m walking through the rugged foreign land of middle age.

 

I hear the sound of laughing frogs from the water,

like passing someone in another country with an accent that’s familiar.

 

Ask me how far away my youth is; ask me how far away my hometown is.

Ask me how far away my lover is; ask me how far is the other shore.

 

I have tried to answer with several books’ worth of words.

Suddenly, I realize what I’ve got in return for my efforts:

 

a frog jumping into the water with a plop;

frog sounds, like night. The years are as long as ever.

 

蛙声

 

蛙声是比河水要深远的液体

当它们汪洋成一片，此起彼伏

 

整个世界都感到童年没顶的窒息

小时候，它是夏夜月光的伞

 

想听时就打开，不想听时就合上

今夜我走在异乡崎岖的中年

 

所有水面都传来谈笑般的蛙声

像在他乡遇到的口音相似的路人

 

问我青春多远，问我故乡多远

问我爱人多远，问我彼岸多远

 

我曾尝试用几部书的文字努力回答

忽然发现，自己的努力，换来的

 

不过一只青蛙跃水的一声“扑通”

接下来，蛙声如夜，岁月如旧

 

~

 

Willow Flute

 

Playing it takes me back to childhood; I travel back to ancient times.

The wilderness strikes up a symphony of spring.

 

Birds lead the song; the river is the chorus; the sea is an echo.

The mountains, trees, and flowers dance together.

 

The sound is green, with tender buds

like golden light dancing between the conductor’s fingers.

 

The whole world is illuminated! The present, the past,

the world of youth, old age, and a blurred middle age.

 

As long as it is spring, as long as there are willows,

just a hint of long, shiny hair is enough.

柳笛

 

吹一声就穿越到童年，穿越回古代

整个原野马上奏响春天的交响乐

 

鸟儿领唱，河水合唱，大海回声

群山和所有的树木、花朵一起伴舞

 

这声音是绿色的，是带着嫩芽的

像是指挥家指间舞动的那一道道金光

 

整个世界被照亮！现在的，过去的

青年、老年、以及模糊的中年的世界

 

只要是春天，只要是柳树，只要

油亮的一丝丝长发，就足够了

 

~

 

Thinking About the Afterlife

 

However many people you meet, you will forget them all.

However many cities you visit, you will leave them all.

 

What most people want is a regular life, not positions of power;

generations have fought for it – a fight without swords.

 

Plant a flower and let it bloom as it should;

write a word, and make it clear,

 

for in the long afterlife, with no end in sight

you won’t necessarily plant or write

 

So if you get to know just a few people, you’ll remember the ones you meet;

If you visit just a few cities, you’ll fall in love with their streets.

 

想到来生

 

认识多少人，就要忘记多少人

走过几座城，就要告别几座城

 

人生的座位比龙椅还要抢手

一代代的争夺根本用不着刀兵

 

种一朵花，就让它开得干干净净

写一个字，就把它写得清清楚楚

 

因为在漫长的没有终点的来生

你不一定找到种花、写字的工作

 

因此认识几个人，就记住几个人

走过几座城，也就爱上几座城

 

~

 

Falling Leaves

 

You take a step and a leaf falls.

Each step you take is a gust of autumn wind.

 

The spring that you walked through that year has disappeared;

I went back several times but couldn’t find it.

The autumn mountain that I asked you about that year has grown old;

The inscriptions on the cliff walls have long since been stained and weathered.

 

From ancient times to the present, leaves have fallen all over the world –

sometimes as fast as a gust of wind;

sometimes as slow as a drop of spring water.

 

I came on a leaf of emerald;

I left on a leaf of gold.

 

落叶

 

你一步一片落叶

你一步一片秋风

 

那年走过的春天已经消失

好几次回去也没有找到

那年问过的秋山已经老去

丹崖绝壁的刻字早斑驳风化

 

从古至今，整个世界有落叶在飞

有时像一阵狂风那样急促

有时像一滴泉水那样缓慢

 

我乘一片翡翠的叶子而来

我乘一片黄金的叶子离去

 

~

 

Ironing

 

If you don’t iron your clothes, they’ll be full of mountains and rivers.

There are no such mountains on mine.

 

When I first bought this garment, it was like a newly built city:

the houses were in order, the streets were straight and clean.

 

Not even in the field, when it was still a skein of cotton,

did it look so pure in the autumn wind.

 

When do the wrinkles appear? When you’re stuck in traffic,

with the passage of time, or tangling and jostling in the washing machine…

 

Sometimes, with just a single glance back,

the old city collapses, taking everything with it.

 

With the heat of the iron, with the comfort of the steam,

the wrinkles are forced to give themselves up, or forget themselves.

 

Ironed clothes are smooth on the body; the mountains and rivers are flat.

The invisible bumps, only it knows.

 

熨衣

 

不熨，衣服上的山川就不平

可衣服上本来没有这些山川

 

刚买回时没有，那时它像一座新建的城池

房舍错落有序，街道笔直井井有条

 

在田野时也没有，那时它只是几朵棉花

在秋天的风中一不留神暴露了纯洁

 

皱褶出现在什么时候呢？路途的拥挤

时光的积压，洗衣机里纠缠、扭打……

 

有时，仅仅是一回眸的瞬间

曾经的城池就坍塌了，连同一切

 

在熨斗的高温下，在水雾的安慰下

皱褶被迫放弃自己，或主动忘却自己

 

熨后的衣服穿在身上山川平整

那看不见的坎坷，只有它自己知道

 

~

Chen Liwei – Four Poems (translated by Susie Gordon)

JUNE 7th 2021

Chen Liwei is a member of the Chinese Writers Association, and Vice Chair of the Tianjin Writers Association. He is one of the five leaders of the Tianjin Publicity and Culture System, and was Editor-in-Chief and Senior Editor of a special edition on Chinese New Economic Literature for Bincheng Times. Chen is the author of the novels People of the Development Zone《开发区人》and Tianjin Love《天津爱情》as well as a monograph on literary theory titled ‘An Introduction to Chinese New Economic Literature’. He has published the contemporary poetry collections ‘Cuckoo in the City’《城市里的布谷鸟》, ‘The Crazy Tower’《疯塔》, ‘Dreaming About Red Lips’《梦里红唇》, ‘Life is Beautiful《本命芳菲》, and ‘Remote Sounds of Xiao’ 《箫声悠悠》, a volume of classical verse titled ‘The House on Zhen River’, and the prose collection ‘Watering Dried Flowers’《给枯干的花浇水》. In March 2016, a seminar on his work was held at the China Museum of Modern Literature.

 

Tea

 

Some things seem like yesterday, but when you think about them too much,

they collapse, like a bubble of soap to the touch.

 

For years and years, the group would gather,

but many years later, their names have been lost.

 

Thirty years ago, a teacup was placed on a table.

Thirty years later, that teacup and table are still in my heart

 

but the world can no longer find their shadows –

neither the tea leaves that danced in the cup

 

nor the water that was brought from the yard and boiled

 

茶水

 

有些事情恍如昨日，一认真回忆

却像美丽的肥皂泡一触即溃了

 

很多年，很多人曾济济一堂

很多年后，很多人的名字想不起来

 

一只茶杯放在三十年前的桌子上

三十年后，茶杯和桌子还在心上

 

世界上却再找不到它们的影子

还有，那些在杯中翩翩起舞的茶叶

 

那些从院子里打来，并烧开的水

 

~

 

Fourteen Lines Written in Shenze

 

Time slows down here.

A minute is as long as a whole childhood.

A road is as long as an entire youth.

 

Childhood is a piece of endless white paper;

if you make a mistake, you can erase it and write it again.

Youth is a mottled palette;

when the wind blows, it sticks to the fallen canvas.

 

I was born here. I grew up here. I left.

A path has been hollowed out in the field.

Swimming in the blue river has turned it into a dry bed.

 

I rushed away from here, and took a minute –

a minute to recall my childhood; a minute to recall my youth;

a minute to slow down into a dry and distant river:

unseen waves, raging silently.

 

写在深泽的十四行

 

时间，在这里慢下来

一分钟有整个童年那么长

一条路有整个青春那么远

 

童年是一张无边无际的白纸

写错了什么都可以涂掉重写

青春是一块斑斑驳驳的调色板

风一吹，和倒下的画布粘在了一起

 

我从这里出生，长大，离开

把田间的小路走得坑坑洼洼

把蓝色的河水游成干枯的河床

 

我从这里匆匆走过，用一分钟

回忆童年，一分钟回忆青春

一分钟慢成一条干涸而遥远的河

看不见的波涛，在无声汹涌

 

~

 

Railsong

 

Parallel with the sleepers,

I count them one by one, with just one sound

 

and suddenly find that before and after

there are two endless distances.

 

A person is a sleeper

lying in the center of time.

 

The rails of history cannot see the beginning or the end.

One is the body, the other is the soul.

 

钢轨的声音

 

以和枕木平行的姿态

一根根一声声地数着枕木

 

突然发现，前后

竟有两个无尽的远方

 

一个人就是一根枕木

每个人都躺在时间的中心

 

历史的钢轨看不见首尾

一根是肉体，一根是灵魂

 

~

 

Floating Like Snowflakes

 

Snowflakes fall from the sky.

The closer to the ground they get, the quieter they are.

 

I am one of them –

stealing and carving myself with the cold.

 

There are more than a million possible patterns,

but I can never quite carve the one I want.

 

While others are blooming with dead branches,

I have already fallen to the ground and disappeared.

 

I am just a teardrop,

but my face was once a flower.

 

浮生若雪

 

雪花们从天上落下来

越接近地面，他们越安静

 

我就是其中的一朵

偷着用寒冷雕刻着自己

 

美丽有超过千万种图案

我却总雕不出想要的那种

 

人家借着枯枝怒放的时候

我早已掉到地上不见了

 

我只是一滴泪

虽然有过花的容颜

 

~

 

Jessie Raymundo – Three Poems

MAY 24th 2021

Jessie Raymundo teaches composition and literature at PAREF Southridge School. He is currently a graduate student at De La Salle University-Manila. His poetry has appeared in a few publications in print and online. He lives in a small city in the Philippines with his two cats.

 

Memory with Water

For now let’s talk about sinking

cities, said my mother

who carries a pair of Neptunes

in her eyes & paints about phantoms

 

in Philippine poetry. Gravity is when

the psychiatrist assessed you

& located a heart that is heavy

for no reason. In an instant, you were

 

in the sea: a merman sticking his head

above the surface, swathed in salt

water, standing by for austere arms,

like a remembrance possessed by echoes

 

of phantoms playing on a record player.

Almost always, there are greetings–

at sunrise, say hello to clouds, to roosters,

to the maps of music you made in your mind.

 

& when the morning arrived as a Roman

god of waters & seas, you finally crawled on land.

 

~

 

Gravity

 

I reread your letter & your voice

dives into my ears like shooting stars.

Words frozen, punctuation marks

like walls of a citadel.

The historic walled city where

you sketched me in a centuries-old

cathedral. I held the rosary we’d made

from old broadsheet newspapers.

The sweatier I got, the more

the beads around my wrist warped.

All statues without heartbeats

staring at you. All motionless,

rendered livelier by their staring.

More than three hundred summers ago,

Newton stared & witnessed

a heart fall out of the blue.

An aged brick, separated.

A bead detached. You’d never age

another year older. Everywhere, the devout

bending knees to the ground, saying prayers,

breathing without you. & I, too, living,

praying, motionless to adore the voice

the way I did the woman, spaces

like dust from space.

 

~

 

Bushes

 

Nights like these, we summon

a body, have it

abandon the wind-

down routine, the needed spindle

to prick the finger before the deep

sleep, how the curse is fulfilled:

dimming the lights, shutting the eyes

to omnipresent devices,

& if the mind begins to wander,

noticing it wandered. In front of your house,

our stomach rustling, filled

with the unseen, craving for eyes & ears.

Lola, you remember, has names

for these night noises: nuno, tianak,

sigbin. Fear not, it is just

us, the neighbors you have never

spoken with. How your fingers shiver

now, this moment with the woody stems

of your nightmares, our movements

synchronized under the spotlight

glare of the full moon.

 

 

~

Megha Rao – ‘Applause’

MAY 17th 2021

 

The land I own is myself. I am dirt that became earth, and earth that became sky.

There are days when I am

so majestic, I am more spotlight than performer.

More magic than magician. And then there are days

when I wake up with my own blood in my mouth. When I am cancelled shows and empty auditoriums. When my only performance is the one-act play of getting out of bed.

On those days, I am the most epic of all superstars. On those days, I remind myself that every heartbeat

is an applause.

 

~

 

Yunqin Wang – ‘Before the Ox Year Comes’

MAY 10th 2021

Yunqin Wang is a writer based in Shanghai / New York. She writes in English, Chinese, and occasionally Japanese. She has been an editor for The Poetry Society of New York. Currently, she lives in Shanghai, where she serves food at a beer bar and music at a livehouse.

Before the Ox Year Comes

 

Wrinkled by Manhattan air,

my orange reclines to the kitchen board

the way Ma saw me off back home.

As I walked further, her body drew smaller,

not made by the distance,

but age, fast like a blade,

without being taught,

I’ve mastered knifing the fruit.

 

To read in a full city the letter

you wrote in an empty house

would be cruelty. In New York,

the best park is the empty park.

 

What was I thinking then,

taping boxes, listing gadgets,

popping cetirizine in between,

cardboards of lives unassembled

in the slant-ceilinged loft. Two hundred

 

people bid for my bad vacuum.

I was giving everything a price,

parts after parts of me to nonchalant hands.

I think tomorrow, it will be the Year of the Ox.

 

Things still live in Chinatown:

winds, bricks, moxibustion.

Cargos swallowed up in a squall.

Gazes of satellites. Things

you can’t walk away from. Then things

 

that are no good on a New Year’s Eve:

you take out the trash, smashing glasses,

going to a barber. All those superstitions

assuring you how easily a good

life slips away. In the old cassette,

 

I recited Li Po, with a lisp, skipping lines,

I was imitating Peking operas in my raw throat,

Su San in exile, drunken concubine, and Ma

kept saying yes, yes… As long

as I kept going, she was happy.

 

“Once shrouded, the earth

was bitten open by a Rat. ”

This I was told by a zodiac book,

and I’m a Rat child. I think of the twelve years

traveling vessels, race-walking

in the backstreets of borrowed lights,

plucking footsteps, piling toy pistols

and foreign postals, so as to walk

on every rope on the dock of the bay.

To find the right ship. I’ve watched

 

gangplanks yawn and close. Mudlarks

holding onto a jade tile, and this time,

I might soon be home.

 

The h-mart receipts slipped

out of my basket of American dreams.

Conversations at the B7 gate. You wrote me

a recipe on this side of the continent where

the final ingredient has long been extinct. Leaves

stuck to your presbyopic glass. This first Shanghai rain.

And your letter, all safe, all sound.

 

(2020 NY – 2021 SH)

 

~

 

Yunqin Wang – ‘The First Dream’

MAY 3rd 2021

Yunqin Wang is a writer based in Shanghai / New York. She writes in English, Chinese, and occasionally Japanese. She has been an editor for The Poetry Society of New York. Currently, she lives in Shanghai, where she serves food at a beer bar and music at a livehouse.

The First Dream 

 

On the cold hospital bed, a baby’s heart

beat like a sheet of flame. Something small

and strong in an aseptic room. She arrived

on a clear Sunday morning, where jazz

is played down at the Jing’an Temple,

men lounging in bed, watching their wives

collecting mail. She arrived with an announcement,

silent like a leaf. When the doctor handed her

the first towel, it was by instinct that she knew

it had nothing to do with the crying, but a prize

for her safe landing. She learned scents.

Felt skins. Saw shapes and colors without

rushing to name, the world full of possibilities.

What came next was an earthquake. 1996

was such a peaceful year that the earth trembled

like a huge cradle. In a flash, she saw streets

reeling backwards. She heard music

in broken things, then fell asleep

like water in yet another tide.

It was the first dream of her life. And now,

20 years later, curling in the bathtub

in a shaking room in Seattle, the dream

suddenly comes alive and she realizes

whoever built the earth must have made a terrible mistake:

he must have reached for the sky to plant the first seed,

thus the world, made upside down.

The girl grew bigger each day. Along the road,

collected stones like counting clouds. Sang

to the wrens on poles ancient tales of how

they all once kinged the lands. It is with such a dream,

that the girl learned to wing, for the rest of her life,

on the earth’s vast apron.

 

 

~

Nicole Callräm – Three Poems

APRIL 26th 2021

Nicole Callräm is a diplomat and poet. All she writes describes her personal point of view and in no way represents the official position of her dear government (especially on matters of love and life). Currently stationed in Shanghai, she finds this land of beauty and history to be endlessly inspirational. Her muses are dreams…and the flowering streets of this city.

 

willow

 

endless stretching toward water

 

hair moving in the breeze

 

disarming me

 

undressing the wind

and my stunned soul

 

music of jewels

are the staccato of rain on soil

leaf upon jade leaf

 

I love you

your vulnerability

 

this canal is fish scales in sunlight

 

and you

you gesture

after its movement

as though to stop the stream’s departure

as though you had something to lose

 

weeping

 

separation

single green soul

 

I too

know how to move

at the mercy

of heartache’s cruel flow

 

~

 

how to understand the world

 

copper leafed

fingers

rock a dirt cradle

……………..thick with blue flowers

………until buttercup pistils nap in sun.

 

I am shadow

………moss on stone

 

how am I to understand this world?

 

each tree is meditating

………petals—

………errant thoughts

………fluttering

………across pure

………blue consciousness

 

vines whisper

 

oh, sweet rot and earth

………how am I to understand this world?

 

green is inadequate

 

it’s like saying freckle

to describe the one thousand ways

light touches

your body

 

if there is a god

………may I leave life

………as this forest

as

………………shards of seafoam

………………dancing through honey

 

~

 

kikuzakura

 

the flowering tree in my garden is sublime

every flushed bough

one thousand pinched cheeks

countless kissed lips

……..sensual pink goddess

 

I wonder how it feels to be impeccable–

 

I’ve asked so many times

sitting in her perfumed

air

 

the only answer:

…………leaves in wind

 

at sunset by my bedroom window

130 impossible petals pressed against glass

 

I am wishing that life were this simple

 

that I knew when to bud and when to blossom

that I knew when I was at my peak

and everything I had to offer were self-evident

 

no one questions the intentions of a Sakura blossom in spring

(except for me)

 

I wonder what she feels tonight

each perfect

rose cup

overflowing

with liquid moonlight

 

does she ask what this all means?

 

does she see me watching her?

 

do her leaves hurt and sap rush when I read her this love poem?

 

when I sleep with her flowers scattered through my hair

does she dream of me?

 

～

David Tait – Three Poems

APRIL 19th 2021

David Tait’s poetry collections include Self-Portrait with The Happiness, which received an Eric Gregory Award and was shortlisted for the Fenton Aldeburgh First Collection Prize, and The AQI, which was shortlisted for the Ledbury Forte Prize. His poems appear in Poetry Review, Magma, The Rialto and The Guardian. In 2017 he was Poet-in-Residence for The Wordsworth Trust. He lives in Shanghai and works as a teacher trainer.

 

The Snowline

 

I miss how the fields would give way to snow,

how it seemed decided between the world

and it’s watcher the exact moment

that whiteness would grow tangible.

 

Then fells, bright white and endless,

as if you could bow your head across the snowline

then raise it and be covered with a crown of frost,

fat icicles dangling from your beard.

 

I remember a farmhouse once straddling the middle

and felt jealous at the gift they’d been given,

a front door of spring and a garden of winter.

 

Whenever my heart walks through the snowline

I stop to listen to the whispering trees.

And I wonder if I’ll ever make it home.

 

~

 

At Tianchi Lake

 

There’s a small boat rowing out

from the North Korean border

and it’s the only surface movement on the lake,

too far off by far for us to hear it

the military base over there like a cabin

that can only be accessed by a slide.

 

The water changes turquoise in blotches

the lake a mirror of rolling clouds

and though our viewing platform teems

with crowds there’s silence, then the mist

climbs the mountain, creeps slowly towards us.

 

We stay for hours as it’s all we’re here for.

We stay through the rain and through the hail.

The mist comes and goes and with it the view.

We watch a hawk hunting song birds,

we watch a tour group unfurl a banner that says:

“The Number 1 Chongqing Battery Company”.

 

Mostly we watch vapour –

the way it climbs the far side of the mountain

then dips towards the lake, the way tendrils of mist

skirl down to the blue like souls reaching out

for the world, the shock of being taken away too soon,

of being pushed back out to the wild sky.

 

~

 

The Panorama Trick

 

He’s doing that trick again with his camera –

some picture of a landscape: where he’ll appear

on both the left and right sides of the picture

laughing at our mother, or pulling a face.

 

To us it was first rate magic, and almost incidental

were the landscapes between faces, pine forests in

Scandinavia, suspension bridges and monuments.

How does he move so fast? Does he have a twin?

 

The trick, like death, was to creep up behind her,

to settle in some blind spot and wait.

My mother’s hand slowly tracked the panorama

 

as he chuckled behind her. He’s doing it still,

but no longer emerging on the right-hand side. Our mother

keeps panning to the right, keeps waiting for him to appear.

 

~

 

DS Maolalaí – Four Poems

MARCH 15th 2021

DS Maolalaí has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

 

The onion smell.

 

my window is open.

through it

stumble words,

each holding a glass

to its chest,

with the onion smell

of hotdogs

and the sharpness

of discount

white wine. out

on the shared patio

my neighbours

are having a party. chatting

about drunken train-rides,

sex stories

and loud laughter

bright like running water. I

am inside, mean

with a mean book

and a glass of my own,

searching the silence,

too hungry to live

on the scent

of fried meat. I close my window

against any intrusion of company

and turn on the radio.

biting an apple

I light a candle

to mask that onion smell.

 

~

 

My favourite ex-girlfriend

 

in the pub

in a blizzard

around 2014

with james,

near to dispatch

sneaking out

when the shift

had got busy. enjoying

our beers; discussing

the job

over lunch

with a cold pint

of lager – deciding

who was hot

in the office. we were kids

I suppose, or just barely

not kids – considering work

in the light

of the schoolyard.

I mentioned

that one girl –

can’t remember

her name – made me think

of my favourite

ex-girlfriend. it was true,

I suppose, in the way

these things are –

they were both

at least blonde

and quite serious.

 

~

 

A new hat.

 

I buy a new hat

and a turtleneck

jumper. you also

buy jumpers,

a cardigan

and button-up

blouse. on the walk

back through town

we get two scoops

of ice cream

and sit a while,

nudging each other

whenever we see

a new dog. I am wearing

my hat – the rest

are in bags.

we can’t try them out

in this boiling

hot heat.

when we’re done

with the ice cream

we go back to the house.

something, in all this,

is happening.

 

~

 

My painting.

 

there are buildings

stacked in red

and textured orange,

with windows

picked ahead

in white squares.

 

and you can tell

it’s a view of a river

because the bottom half

is the top

made blurry

like a reflection

on the uncalm water

you get in dublin

 

though the buildings here are not red

they are blue,

or grey

with pessimistic eyes

 

horizontal slashes

done with a brush

haphazard, raised

and a shape

that could be a person

picked out

in lighter colours.

 

it is on my wall

near to the window

and visible from the toilet

if you don’t shut the door.

 

we all have things

that bring sparks in our lives

it just happens that mine

is a landscape

 

done in red

which looks much like dublin

if you look at it

through non-prescription

glasses.

 

~

 

DS Maolalaí – Three More Poems

MARCH 8th 2021

DS Maolalaí has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

 

The mattress.

 

the building manager

works for a company

which also sells furniture.

bargaintown. they’re quite

well known, and we go in,

tell them where we live.

expect a discount

on our new mattress

and get nothing

if you don’t count

delivery.

 

it’s a five minute walk,

even carrying the mattress;

I could probably do it

myself. we take it

all the same. they’ve let us

have a dog – no sacrifice

on their part, but I guess

we feel we owe them. we don’t –

we pay rent. chrys

makes good money, and I

do alright. we can meet

our responsibilities – god damn

there’s nothing like it.

 

we can afford full price

on the mattress.

if they made us pay delivery

could afford it.

 

~

 

Dirty.

 

and you’re hanging out

in the hallway of your building

just because that’s where

the washing machine

1. laundry;

you need clean clothes

if you want to keep your job,

keep your friends

and keep your girlfriend

happy.

 

a neighbour comes out

while you’re waiting.

she’s young, she’s pretty,

and she lives next door,

and walks past fast

just as you’re packing

a handful of underwear.

you say hi

and keep looking

as she opens the door

and goes out.

 

you’ve met her husband;

he seems nice,

even if he didn’t have a corkscrew

when you needed one.

but this

is still embarrassing;

no-one likes a girl

to know their pants get dirty.

 

at least, not very

early on.

 

~

 

How it was that evening.

 

the wind ran hard

and stampede steady,

knocking down grass

like the corners on pages

of an interesting

book. and the sky was a dull

red colour outside,

his daughter

crying, some god

or other

making rain.

 

 

~

 

DS Maolalaí – Three Poems

MARCH 1st 2021

DS Maolalaí has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

 

The safety of populated lights.

 

cars on the street

which settle into spaces,

heavy and hanging

as hocks of aged beef.

 

the windows all open

over closed shops and offices

releasing cigarette clouds

like cold morning mouths.

 

a woman walking quickly

to get out of a side street

and back to the safety

of populated lights. a man

 

feeling casual

at the door

to his apartment,

adjusting the weight

of his groceries.

 

~

 

The copper of bones

 

trying my hand

again at Selby Jr

in my comfortable

apartment

with its balcony

in the Dublin

northside. Last Exit

doesn’t work now –

neither does

Requiem. I first

came across them

in elbowish rooms

in Toronto and the north

end of London. something

of the copper

of bones here

I thought. something

of life – a toilet

by the stove

and four feet

from the bedclothes. and art

needs discomfort

to appreciate

properly. Selby

doesn’t function

when the water

heater does.

 

~

 

The names of plants.

 

reading a book

and learning the names

of various grasses,

the texture of trees

and how to tell a flower

from another flower.

nothing much like close

to the beauty

of the pasture scene

spread before us

like marmalade

scraping over bread,

but I must admit,

begrudgingly,

it does give poems

some variety.

~

 

Brady Riddle – Two Poems

FEBRUARY 22nd 2021

 

A. J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.

 

On an Asphalt Carousel 

 

I spin like a horse without reins.

Head inclined, my mind melts

like fresh tar, drenches the floor

in a floodlight of weariness.

 

My legs scream blind exhaustion

from a forgotten memory of running

without shoes or feet.  My body flashes

in camera-quick blinks of delumination.

 

My ears, frantic to erase the echo

of footprints, the static noise of a million boys,

falling in line to mount me, collapse inside themselves,

bear scars as witness to nothing my body claims to feel.

 

I turn my black eyes inward,

focus on the conceptual force of circulation,

desperate to believe.  I am first.

I will last.  The in between

will pass in fuzzy fury, forgettable as any other

dream.

 

~

 

from Jellyfish this Illustration 

 

of independence.  These free-

                                                floating,

aquatic hobos epitomize lack

of definition, lack

                              of confinement,

lack of interest in conventional

                                                  ly travelled

                                                  pathways.

Instead, they wander

            the waves,

turning &

            diving

            on mere

            whim.

 

~

 

Camelopardalis 

 

Spots of skin call attention

to elongated neck, desire

to graze trees that that cannot live

without atmosphere.  Herbivorous tendencies

manifest themselves as mournful echo

of midnight.  I am faux Narcissus,

staring at such a familiar reflection.

It is not mine.  I am not its.  We are not even

in the same hemisphere of reality,

yet my legs walk

on grassless skies, my mouth opens in mock

consumption of nothing.  We exist in simultaneous

stasis, destined to disappear

every dawn.

 

Ren Jie writes poetry and fiction. He recently graduated from Yale-NUS College in Singapore, majoring in Literature and Creative Writing, and currently works at NYU Shanghai as a Global Writing and Speaking Fellow. In his writing, Ren Jie engages with and explores questions about culture, religiosity, and the experience and narratives that surround familial life.

 

Three Business Days Abroad

 

1. When three days’ reply is too long. Here is a glittering mesh of sun and steel. Here the construction of a crane, like a half-bow, to a cloudless sky, missing the sun. Scaffolding is tribute, twisted like a nest of harsh lines.

 

2. This dimple of dust is impurity. Fragrance is anesthetized: the sterility of office floors, swept clean, fogged hourly. Fogged like the traces of home. Fogged like the swirl of raindrops: a summer storm, brittle needles shattering into blackened streams. Drip down to gutter-water drains, to refuse.

 

3. Rotund hopes can only stop and sink. A globule of whiteness hovers, like some calcified hope, clinging to a paycheck, to blankness.

 

4. These office walls soak the chatters. Your stutter, your chinese is violence concealed, peeling off the walls, spittle landing on coat and suit. Wilting, your starched collar flattens into silence.

 

5. On the bus home, creases of your shirt fall like waves, enveloped by a springy ooze, the pooling of yellowing sponge. A sticky urge, collapsing between fingers.

 

6. This brief shower reminds you of absence. Outside, a company of mosquitoes hovers over puzzles, the wriggling structures of a newborn, hatching like thin reeds. They rise like fragmented rust; like autumn snowfall, offerings to a troubled sky.

 

7. You scramble stray threads. In loose ends, some semblance of warmth. Her long hair like blessing, some healing for the stretch marks.  The crook of her arm, the coarseness of your sheets.

 

8. The dirt track has since become waterlogged. Your fingers curl for warmth, in puddles that splash against the ankles. Stiffened hairs, dampened fabric-worn socks, drifting like spidery foam. Spring rain pools like stains of darkness.

 

9. The whispery cry of a toilet door, cleaving itself ajar. The creaks, the sudden gusts of wind. A thin silver of light: like absolution, like some searching for sleep.

 

10. The thunderclap feels foreign. The new glasses speak exclusion. You gasp at the tepidity of tapwater, at the gleam of a half-shadow, the whiteness of a sink. Another city’s water always tastes bitter.

 

11. When you wonder: “Is this home?” Your baldness stares back, a glimmer, an egg; where lamplight frames a face, swollen like a thin bulb, tired on windy nights.

 

12. But the city cares not for tired eyes. The pounding, the shrill cry, rising in construction thin as graves, rising as a shower of sparks. Cities build their roots on scars.

 

13. You refresh your inbox. You wait for an answer.

 

~

 

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Isabella Peralta is a storyteller and educator from the Philippines. She uses the written word to explore what speaks most to her, from racial identity and food politics to diasporic literature and love. She double majored in Literature & Creative Writing and Theater at New York University Abu Dhabi and is currently pursuing a master’s degree in Madrid.

 

a history of pronunciation

 

you chased younger sister around the province

stringing letters together like your mother’s only bracelet

your collection of words spilling from pockets:

the neighbor’s profanities in five-letter words,

the street vendor’s cries of balut and taho,

the seamstress’s snippets of iskandalo

 

older cousin helped to give each word a flavor

as they fizzed on your tongue like sari-sari store soda

pagsamo was durian from lola’s backyard,

sayang was sour as kalamansi rinds,

mahal dripped from your lips like sweet mango nectar —

a candy-coated profession of unrequited love

 

on your seventeenth birthday, your mouth grew numb

as the neighbor’s son kneeled, tarnished band in hand

nanay whispered promises of paradise into your hair

as you stood by the window before your rushed vows

you tossed your words into the endless sky

to become a blank canvas for the land of the free

 

three years before nanay died, your eldest daughter scribbled

on a black board as dark as the night you left home

flower and flour, tier and tire, affect and effect, altar and alter

you stumble over silent letters, tongue twisting with consonants,

each stutter a bitter seed rooting into your tongue

until the day you sacrificed speech, mouth brimming with buds

~

 

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David Huntington is managing web editor at SpittoonCollective.com. His work is published or forthcoming in the likes of Spittoon Literary Magazine, Literary Hub, and Post Road; his screenplay ‘New Violence’ was selected for the 2018 Middlebury Script Lab.

 

I’d left my city open that night

 

and when I woke I closed it.

 

I tidied my pages

and crossed the streets.

 

The beggars took their corners.

My students looked down the long halls.

 

From my tower

I could hear the summation

and a tin-like hammer near Xujiahui.

 

I went to the sculpture park and read a book

among the statues I didn’t know what to do.

 

It took only one rain to shed summer.

The streets became numb and increased their tension.

 

At the intersections it was always as if

one of those raincoats cupped a pearl.

 

I walked over my city, over and over it.

Its towers grew taller every day.

 

Because I wore gloves I dropped my phone

it broke on the glassy street—

 

the rain drove the heat down into the belly.

 

Turned around as I stepped off the subway
all my roads slick black and the faces like lamps

beneath their umbrellas—

 

It seemed the traffic might never move again.

She met me in a small brown bar.

NOVEMBER 25th 2019

David Huntington is managing web editor at SpittoonCollective.com. His work is published or forthcoming in the likes of Spittoon Literary Magazine, Literary Hub, and Post Road; his screenplay ‘New Violence’ was selected for the 2018 Middlebury Script Lab.

 

May the Smuggler

 One day I simply awoke

     within an enemy—

     Even to crouch home

     would be a crime.

The trees pummeled the air.

The merchants spoke in accusations—

     I gave an urchin boy my native coin, he said:

          Only the emperor

          is permitted cartography.

     I said I trespass not by will:

     But in the deeper will of sleep, they took me.

          Wisemen pray to the syndicate,

                                                 he said.

     That’s the word these days.

Around this town I wandered a river

saddled by a bridge

of whitish stone and righteous.

The whole day and none crossed, though

arched so pure and paramount.

     I feigned interest with a cobbler,

     asked: Must not there be some other road?

     But his foreign language only rang

     like intonations of my name—

Were they on to me?

But of course they were.

The tall grass shown like mackerel.

     All the townsfolks’ eyes were hidden from me.

     Night had fallen: An unwelcomed traveler

     is made into a prowler.

     Lapping moonlight from a puddle,

     I cursed the will who willed me so

and envied the hearthlit silhouettes.

All men do not wake equal . . .

     The bridge was silent

     and wholly blue.

     I knew not to which land it crossed, only,

     that I looked too like a villain here.

          And so I tried the crossing.

          Swiftly, then slowly—

          The old stone slabs were magnificent and true.

          It was then the river saw me, a stranger—

          its currents coiled

                    and waters arraigned!

     Blindfolded and beaten, took.

     I was not righteous; they were not wrong.

As the townsfolk wrote my sentence,

I knew there had never been hope.

We see green only

when the snake wills it.

          They say:

                  Wisemen pray to the syndicate.

Now in my cell that is all I do:

Scratch dates in the clay

and as sleep descends, utter:

May the smuggler steal me home.

 

~

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