ZHENG XIAOQIONG

Language

 

I speak in this rough, abrasive tongue

forged in iron — the language of those who work in silence

the tongue of tightly fastened bolts

the cracks and scars in the metal

the language worn and weathered, like calloused hands

fierce, tearful, unfortunate

the language of hunger, of pain

the language of unpaid wages that rings out

over the machines

the language of physical ailments

of amputated fingers, of subsistence,

of the shadow of unemployment that lurks

a sad language

between the damp cracks of oxidized iron…

 

… I recite it in whispers

 

between the roar of the machines. A dark language

language of sweat, of rust

or of the vulnerable gaze of a young female worker

or of the wounded worker at the factory gate

its language of pain — language of tremoring bodies

of fingers that will never be compensated

 

Switches, workshops, laws, a system. I speak in a language

stained with dark blood

the language of identities, of ages, of illnesses,

the language of capital… the language of fear and howling.

Tax collectors, petty bureaucrats,

the bosses, the temporary residence permits. The language of migrant workers

the language of those who leap from rooftops

the language of GDP, of grand projects. The language

of the cost of the children’s tuition

 

I speak of stones. Of overtime. Language of violence

I speak of the… abyss. Of the steps of existence

that march toward unknown places

A language that clings to the railing of life,

in the midst of the futile wind…

 

I speak—

 

in this rough and abrasive language

that pricks with every thorn

at this fragile era!

*

语言

I speak these thorny, greasy languages

cast iron—the language of silent workers

screws tightened, the metal’s folds and memories

hands worn like calluses—languages

fierce, weeping, unfortunate

painful, hungry language—the oncoming wages owed to the machines, occupational illnesses

the language of fingers broken, foundations of life, in the shadows of unemployment

rusty seams in the iron, these sad languages

 

… I whisper them softly

 

in the roar of the machines. A dark tongue. Sweat’s language. The language of rust

… like the helpless gaze of a young female worker

or the injured worker standing at the factory entrance

their language of pain — a language of tremoring bodies

of fingers maimed and never compensated

 

Switches, workshops, laws, a system. I speak in a language

pocked by dark blood

the language of identities, ages, illnesses,

the language of capital… the language of fear and howling.

40px; the tax collectors, petty clerks

the bosses, the temporary resident permits. The language of migrant workers

the language of those who leap from rooftops

the language of GDP, of great projects. The language

the language of the cost of schooling for children

 

I speak of stones. Of overtime. The language of violence

I speak of the abyss. The staircase of existence

that march toward unknown horizons

the language that clings to the railing of life

in the futile wind…

 

I speak—

 

in this rough and abrasive language

that stings with all its thorns

at this fragile moment!

*

Máquinas

that ravenous machine, devours daily iron, plans

stars, dew, and drops of salty sweat, it sharpens its teeth repeatedly

spitting out profits, bills, bars… it watches injured fingers

unpaid wages, obscure occupational diseases, memories so bitter

nights so vast, how many survive on iron sheets

carrying the debt of poverty, standing, wandering sadly

over this damp and cold metal, how much love remains balanced among the iron

the heart of this world is as hard as iron, the life of the temporary worker

austere and bitter

she does not know how long the stars, shadowed objects, will take to fall

so that her sensitive heart may reveal itself

with enormous machines behind her, a deep and furtive rumble grows

like love, like hate, like pain, like threads of life sprouting from the glow

of the moon, crouched among the steel, they hiss and fade

their aging veins bathed in the rust of passing time

destiny resembles that pair of soft little hands on the hard machinequietly living, their blue flame illuminating your tired face

*

机器

that hungry machine, daily consuming iron, drawings

stars, dew, and salty sweat, it repeats picking and cleaning its teeth

spitting out profits, money, bars… it watches wounded fingers

unpaid wages, the shadow of occupational diseases, memories so bitter

night so vast, how many survive on sheets of ironindebted to poverty, standing, wandering sadly

on this damp and cool metal, how much love remains balanced between the iron

the heart of this world as hard as iron, the life of the temporary worker

austere and grim

she doesn’t know how long the stars, objects with shadows, will take to fade

so that her delicate heart will reveal itself

with huge machines behind her, a somber and stealthy roar grows

like love, like hate, like pain, like threads of life that spring from the glow

of the moon, crouched among steel, they hiss and decay

its aging veins soaking in the rust of passing time

destiny resembles that pair of soft, delicate hands on the hard machine

quietly living, their blue flames illuminate your weary face

***

SHEN HAOBO

Shen Haobo (沈浩波) is a Chinese poet born in Jiangsu in 1976. He studied at Beijing Normal University, from which he graduated in the late 1990s. He is regarded as one of the central figures of contemporary Chinese poetry. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, he actively participated in the movement known as the Lower Body (下半身, Xiàbànshēn), a school advocating direct, colloquial language, the incorporation of corporeality and sensory experience as poetic material, and a deliberate rejection of the formal and rhetorical conventions of traditional and official Chinese poetry. Shen Haobo is also a editor and promoter of independent poetry in China. In 2006 he founded Motie (磨铁图书) in Beijing, a publisher that has become one of the country’s leading commercial imprints, with special attention to voices outside institutional circuits.

Republic

all those platonic calls

those with warped boldness

those who think themselves kings and judges

those who dream of showing the paths

to conduct straight behavior for men given

those plump and colorful worms

stir their hidden venomous hair

driving away wolves and lions

driving away desperate youths

driving away indecent women

driving away lunatics and beggars

driving away pickpockets and thieves

driving away Satan

driving away the Jesus who pays no heed

driving away the poet

driving away me

no

your exile is unnecessary

I was just passing through

seeing the shape of your world

I already understood

the Republic

is unworthy of the madman or of me

 

​​​​​​2013|10|07

*

理想国

Those who are called Plato

Those with warped minds

Those who think themselves kings and judges

Those who dream of pointing out the way for humanity

Those fat and vivid worms

Fanning out sneaky venomous hairs

Chasing away wolves and lions

Frightening desperate youths

Shocking indecent women

Scaring lunatics and beggars

Driving away thieves and robbers

Chasing away SatanDriving away the Jesus who does not listen

Chasing away the poetChasing after myself

No

there is no need for your exile

I was just passing by

to see what your homeland looks like

I have already understood

The Republic

is not worthy of me or the madman

2013|10|07

*

Menuda mierda

I keep thinking of writing a poem

titled “What a load of crap”

I think of writing it because

“What a load of crap” is what I’ve been saying

to my heart for so many years

to those on television who talk endlessly

bla bla bla

and I think to myself inside: what a load of crap

I see those on social media

who talk endlessly, bla bla bla

and I think again: what a load of crap

I see in life those who talk endlessly

bla bla bla

and I think again: what a load of crap

Even when I myself never stop talking

inside me a reflex triggers:

what a load of crap

I had planned to keep this phrase inside forever

to prove my good intention toward this world

today I say it out loud at last

because for this world

I still harbor even better intentions

2015|08|04

traducción de Tyra Díez

*

都是狗屁

 

I’ve always wanted to write a poem

named “What a load of crap.”

I want to write this poem because

“What a load of crap” is what I’ve told myself for so many years

watching those on television

who babble on and on

I think to myself: what a load of crap

watching those on Weibo and WeChat

who babble on and on

I think to myself: what a load of crap

watching those in life

who babble on and on

I again think: what a load of crap

even when I myself keep talking, blah blah blah

inside me a reflex triggers: what a load of crap

I had intended to keep this phrase inside forever

as a sign of my good will toward this world

today I pronounce it aloud at last

because for this world

I still hold greater good intentions

2015|08|04

*

Las estrellas del cielo patrio

The first day,

a poet

wrote a poem

and posted it on a social network forum.

A short while later,

some ideograms

had transformed into **.

He looked at the text

trying to deduce

and found that the *

had replaced “human rights.”

 

Oh, in our homeland,

“human rights” are dangerous words.

Of course, of course.

It’s understandable, it’s understandable.

 

The next day,

a poet returning from Tibet

wrote another poem

and posted it on social networks.

He discovered that certain ideograms

had transformed into *.

We compared the text,

made deductions

and discovered that the *

were two ideograms: “Living Buddha.”

 

What? In our homeland,

is “Living Buddha” also a dangerous expression?

I thought for a long time.

Oh, so that’s how it is.

It’s understandable, it’s understandable.

 

On the third day,

a poet from Yunnan took his own life.

Many wrote poems in homage to him;

the forum became a vigil,

a vigil akin to a starry night,

with countless stars in the firmament.

*************

*************

As if the deceased lit the way with small lamps.

 

The * this time

replaced the word “suicide.”

 

The night after that poet’s death,

perched at my computer,

I gazed at the stars of the homeland’s sky

with an infinite ache in my neck.

2007

*

 祖国的星空

Day One
A poet
Wrote a poem
And posted it on an online forum
Soon discovered a word
Had turned into *
We checked the context,
Re-examined again and again
And found that this *
Represented “human rights.”

Oh, in our homeland
“Human rights” are a delicate term
Of course, of course
Understandable, understandable

The second day
A poet who had returned from Tibet
Wrote a poem
Posted it on the online forum
Found that a word too
Had become *
We looked at the context again
And found that *
Was the two characters “Living Buddha.”

Eh? In our homeland
“Living Buddha” is also a sensitive term?

I thought for a long time
Oh, so that’s how it is
Understandable, understandable

The third day
A poet from Yunnan killed himself

Many wrote poems in his memory;

The forum turned into a vigil,

a vigil like a starry night,

with countless stars in the sky.

*****

*****

As if the deceased lit the night with small lanterns.

 

The * this time

replaced the word “suicide.”

 

On the night after that poet’s death,

I hunched over my computer,

looking up at the homeland’s starry sky

with an ache in my neck that wouldn’t end.

2007

***

YANG LI

Yang Li (杨黎, Chengdu, 1962) belongs to the so‑called “third generation” of Chinese poets and helped propel the influential No-No movement (fei fei, 非非主义). He founded the magazines The Plague and The Draft. He began writing in 1980, during the post-Mao opening, from a stance critical of the prevailing literary canon. His poetics move away from metaphorical lyricism and the introspective tone that characterized the return of subjectivity after the Cultural Revolution. Instead, he proposes a style close to orality, free of rhetorical flourish, focused on everyday experience. The rejection of metaphor is a political position: immediacy as resistance to the solemnity of tradition. Yang Li writes about routines, minimal thoughts, and ordinary situations. That apparent clarity does not exclude ambiguity.

Wood

It is

undoubtedly

a piece of wood.

Long

when laid on the ground,

heavy

to carry on the shoulder,

once it was

covered with leaves

that whispered

in the wind’s breath.

Back then everyone drew near to it

with care,

lifting their gaze

to behold it,

and sometimes exclaiming:

“Oh, what a wonder!”

then stepping away.

Other times

when the sun’s light

lit up

the whole forest

or a part

of its foliage

and it clothed itself in dawn’s glow

these leaves would blink

under the sky.

Now,

collapsed,

without a voice,

it is only a trunk

that gives off no sound.

Previously

it would cradle with

just a gust of wind

or

roars that echoed everywhere.

But now

no longer.

Now it is

only

a piece of wood,

with one of its

ends

somewhat undefined,

and the other

— for me—

also

undefined.

I observe

standing, in the night’s darkness

this piece of wood:

Oh!

Wood,

you were once graced

by beauty,

your branches reaching up

toward the sky, toward the ground,

toward the sweet dream of children,

toward the tick-tock,

that distant and still sound.

But above all, toward

all the distant glances

that saw you

without being able to describe your shape.

Today

nothing is the same,

you have lost your former colors

and the birds

that once nested here;

above all you have lost

those flowering days.

In conclusion,

from these pieces of wood

homes will be made,

boats that sail

toward the distant sea,

firewood will be forged to stoke

the flame

that will illuminate all darkness.

This piece of wood

cylindrical,

long,

that sits on the ground,

that is carried on the shoulder;

this piece of wood

reminds us

of the forest’s season

when every calm leaf

rested

in the wind’s breeze

under the moonlight

*

木头

Of course

it is a piece of wood

laid on the ground

it is very long

to be shouldered

it is a little heavy

it once was full of leaves

in the wind

still rustling

everyone who came near it

was careful

or paused,

lifting their eyes

to look at it

sometimes exclaiming:

Oh, how far away it seems

and other times

oh

sunlight shone

on its leaves

on the forest as a whole

or part of it

beneath the sky

they glittered

but now

it has fallen

fallen into a single piece of wood

that makes no sound

even when rain falls

and yet it is

no longer a voice

whereas before

even a gust would

hiss and roar across the world

but now it cannot

Now it is

one piece of wood

at one end

not very clear

at the other

also not very clear

I mean

in the dark night

standing in the wood’s center

Oh, wood

you were once graceful

and real

those sharp leaves

all pointed outward

toward the surroundings

toward the sky, the ground

and toward children’s night-time

sweet dreams

toward that tick-tock

that distant, still sound

toward the unachievable

every eye

could touch you

yet could not describe your form

but now

it is another shape

losing its former color

and, those

birds that once perched on it;

above all you have lost

the flowering days

In short,

these pieces of wood

will be turned into houses

into boats to sail

toward the distant sea

and some will be burned

to light the entire dark

Wood

this round one

the long one

laid on the ground

carried on the shoulder

this wood

recalls for us

the forest season

when every leaf lie in repose

beneath the night wind

under the moonlight

*

木头头

Of course

it’s a piece of wood

laid on the ground

it is very long

to be laid on the shoulder

it is a bit heavyit once grew with leaves

the wind rustles through it

everyone who nears it

approaches with care

or stops,

look up at it

and sometimes

Oh, what is that

that makes it seem further away

sometimes

oh

sunlight shines

on its leaves

on the entire forest

or part of it

under the sky

it flickers

but now

it has fallen

down into a piece of wood

that makes no sound

even in rain

it still does not voice

whereas before

even with the wind

it hissed and roared

across the world

but now that cannot be true

Now it is

another form

losing its former color

and those

birds that perched on it

have also lost

the days of blooming

All in all, this wood

will be used to build homes

will be made into boats

to sail toward distant seas

some will be burned

to light every shadow

Wood

this circular one

long one

laid on the ground

carried on the shoulder

this wood

recalls for us

the forest’s season

when every leaf lay calm

resting

in the breeze of the wind

under the moon’s light

*

Vociferar

from one river bank

we shout to the other shore

I wonder if anyone heard us

only I know he did not turn his head

he went along the bank

into the distance

so far away that no matter how loudly we shout

our voices could not reach him.

*

大声

We stand by the river’s edge

shouting loudly to the opposite bank

not knowing if he heard us

only that he did not turn back

he is moving away along the bank

toward the far distance

so far that even if we shout louder

he cannot hear us

we are shouting

—

***

CHUN SHU

Questions Before Sleep

Do you think you are an intellectual?

Do you think you’re an existentialist?

Do you think you enjoy soy sauce noodles?

Do you think you collect antiques?

Do you think you’re modern?

Do you think you’ve advanced much?

Do you think you’ve achieved your ideals?

Do you think you love your country?

Do you think you love the truth?

Do you think you dare to speak your mind?

Do you think you’re not afraid of retaliation?

Do you think you are a good writer?

Do you think you are a poet?

Do you think you’re a good mother?

Do you think you’re a good father?

Do you think you’ve ever loved?

Do you think you are a moral person?

Do you think Weibo has advanced China?

 

Do you think? Do you think? Do you think?

 

Do you think they are spiritual leaders?

Do you think you’re a fanatic follower?

Do you think there are topics that must stay hidden?

Do you think there are people you must not provoke?

Do you think this novel is autobiographical?

Do you think you have talent?

Do you think your work will endure?

Do you think you have secrets?

Do you think you are generous?

Do you think you have lived up to others?

Do you think you are responsible?

Do you think you follow the rules?

Do you think your conscience is clear?

Do you think you are arrogant?

Do you think you want revenge?

Do you think you fear death?

Do you think others like you?

Do you think you are tiresome to others?

Do you think you still have a future?

Do you think you’re behind the times?

Do you think you are alone?

Do you think what you write is poetry?

 

To drive someone crazy,

you only need to leave them

alone with their own questions.

*

睡前提问

by Chun Shu

 

Do you think you are an intellectual

Do you think you are an existentialist

Do you think you enjoy fried noodles with soybean paste

Do you think you collect antiques

Do you think you are modern

Do you think you have progressed

Do you think you have realized your ideals

Do you think you love your country

Do you think you love truth

Do you think you dare to say what you think

Do you think you are not afraid of retaliation

Do you think you are a good writer

Do you think you are a poet

Do you think you are a good mother

Do you think you are a good father

Do you think you have loved

Do you think you are moral

Do you think Weibo has promoted China’s progress

 

Do you think? Do you think? Do you think?

 

Do you think they are leaders

Do you think you are a devoted follower

Do you think there are things you should not say

Do you think there are people you should not provoke

Do you think this novel is your autobiography

Do you think you have talent

Do you think your work will last

Do you think you have secrets

Do you think you are broad-minded

Do you think you have answered for everyone

Do you think you are responsible

Do you think you keep to the rules

Do you think your conscience is clear

Do you think you’re arrogant

Do you think you want to take revenge

Do you think you fear death

Do you think you are pleasing to others

Do you think you are detested by others

Do you think you still have a tomorrow

Do you think you’re outdated

Do you think you are lonely

Do you think what you write is poetry

 

Make someone go mad

by simply leaving him

to ask himself

*

Selfie

I take a naked selfie

I examine the scar from my Cesarean

before the closet’s mirror

after a shower

 

There was no one to take the photograph

so I took it myself

This photo cannot appear in a book

It cannot be posted on social media

not even on Instagram

they would delete it as porn

I look at it with objectivity

it isn’t bad

The mirror is a little dirty

my breasts are somewhat small

and my scar

reads like a long dash

I grew fond of itas a photo

it is flawless

I still feel youthfully vibrant

I still feel a certain confusion

Suddenly I remembered many past events

that year, after a fight with my boyfriend

I bought a plane ticket

and traveled to Qingdao

an old military friend picked me up at the airport

we drove along the coast

the China Sea, the Yellow Sea

the sea before me

is the Pacific Ocean

*

自拍

自拍一张裸照

有我的剖腹产伤疤的

在衣柜镜子前

洗完澡后

没有找到合适的人给我拍

我就自己拍了

这张照片 没法出现在书里

没法发朋友圈

甚至没法贴在Instagram——

会被当成色情照片删掉的

我用客观的眼光打量

还可以

镜子有点脏

胸有点小

那道伤疤

犹如一个破折号

转而我爱上了它

作为一张照片

它无可挑剔

我发现我还是那么青春

那么迷茫

我一下子想起很多往事

那年，跟男朋友吵完架

我买了张去青岛的机票

退伍的军人来机场接我

我们开车经过海边

中国的海，黄海

对面的海叫太平洋

2016，9，25

***

LI SUO

frialdad

sitting in the waiting room

like before an exam

I mentally review

what I will tell the doctor:

urticaria

insomnia

soporifics

graying that multiplies

early ovarian failure

my body

like the wrinkled page of an exam

torn

strange

foreign

the lawn mower passes by

and no one pays attention to the grass’s cries

*

contra Mil canciones de amor

at sixteen I rode bicycles

twenty miles to see mountains, gather stones

at seventeen you took me

to try a Big Beef burger

exotic

far away

at eighteen you made me hear

the three greats of Chinese rock

and you accompanied me out of Xinjiang

while you stayed behind

twenty years of going and coming

unintelligible silences

during the reunion

you confronted those memories

from another life

and you were grateful that he had filled them with color

even though he only remembered

fragments of his adulthoodvanished in a life of tones and dust

black and white

you thought the reunion

could be a sweet ballad or that you could

ask about his parents’ health

or perhaps be like a distant aunt to his children

until one night

he sent you a photo

in underwear

tight

his body

slightly chunky

***

en 1979 en el campo no había toallas sanitarias

the mothers’ companions Zhang Yanli and Cui

Xiaowen during class

spanned long periods

with hands hidden in the desk drawer’s wrappings

crumpling newspaper over and over

until it became something soft

my mother, eighteen years old

had not yet started menstruating

but she knew well what her

companions did

inside her, she thought how lucky she was