and plane trees and metasequoias have shed all their leaves.
Despair is the same thing happening over and over,
the same days like a white noose
slipping around your neck, then loosening.
You go out, hoping to bring back a different version of yourself,
but what comes back is still that same lifeless face.
Nothing ever truly ends—
they only vanish, not perish,
they still exist beyond your field of vision.
Nor do things ever truly happen—
they are feints, meaningless gestures,
irregularly shaped clutter, piled in a cold, empty backstage.
You want to move to another room to live,
but the part of you that can’t die is always in another
identical room, sitting there in the dark,
staying up all night, not speaking,
waiting for you to enter, to see him,
and facing each other in silence.
Black River
The deep black river seems to have stopped flowing
within it lie inverted palaces
it never freezes, even in winter
on its snow-white banks,
no footprints of man or beast dare approach its silence
this is the finest way, leading to other silences
and oblivion
The Last Moment
— Written on the Day of Completing the Translation of Helen Vendler’s Poetic Essays
A page rustles, for a little while
like a face in the desert hesitating
then melting away
a man steps onto another path in the woods
A murder without a target is perfect
as a stranger in native clothes
holding a key or a sword
crushed berries smearing the stones
The universe falls silent again
as if waiting for his decision
whether it is still time to choose to vanish
in the white steam trailing the summer mountaintop
to listen once more to the echo of nobody
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.
He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 including nine poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) composed of 1178 poems celebrating 40 years of writing poetry.
People always think of food when they hear about fish. They imagine the splendor and magnificence of the ocean or that sweet film about a coming of age story in Finding Nemo. This is a story for the ages, concerning land development meeting natural resources and the bounty and abundance of Mother Nature.
The writing in this story is a masterful blend of the lyrical, fantastical and the dire realities of climate change and the extreme changes to the environment due to human interference when it concerns the delicate balance of the ecosystem of a lake. It is filled in the beginning with the wonderment of the animal world and even can be quite magical at times.
Life in a pond can be tricky to navigate at the best of times but life is good for the catfish Xi and his friend Joe in the tranquil waters of his lake. Xi turns a telescopic eye to a penetrating view of the environment. In the beginning there is a tolerant understanding of the outside world. Xi, a catfish, lives in the watery depths of a pond with his friend Joe.
This story stimulates interest around the subject matter of grief for a life lived without difficulties and challenges, and loss, how dangerous human intervention is when it comes to matters in the animal kingdom. It’s a sad story filled with the violence and brutality of man in the natural world.
Humanity soon comes to the lake and the lake soon becomes a tourist hotspot. A hospital for Covid-19 is built at the edge of the lake and a maritime museum. In the process, animal life is killed by pollutants and removed from the lake as well. Life as Xi knows it is coming to an end. There’s an imbalance that occurs at the lake as modern life creeps up upon the animals at the lake.
Xi begins traveling to Florida and hopes to make it his new home but undergoes a violent and jarring meeting with a ferocious and curious dog. Xi is rescued and taken care of by its owner. The owner, Fred, then travels to Florida to their lab where animals of all kinds undergo the horrific experiences of experimentation at the hands of human beings.
After every traumatic experience Xi undergoes he braces himself for what will happen to him next. The researchers and Fred have no qualms about eating hot fin soup in front of Xi. The Florida researchers win the Nobel Prize but it comes at a terrible cost. The fragility of plant life and the animal kingdom that co-exists interdependently in the lake is not taken into account and it is not understood by human life. Humanity fails to intervene to save nature and the environment.
They are eager to kill, maim, mutilate and destroy in the name of science, research and experimentation. The human beings in this story have no respect for the natural world. They think their research will lead them to getting acclaim, international prizes and that they are doing it for the glory of mankind. They think nothing of how valuable the life inside the lake is.
Here are a few quotes from this fascinating yet tragic story that reveals man’s greed and his need for power, control and total domination over the natural world.
“It was a lake – clear, serene and old as earth.”
“The lake was surrounded by big trees that attracted especially the migratory birds. In winter, it would become a meeting zone for numerous birds – from the bigger ones like geese, waders and storks to the tiny ones like warbles, wagtails and pipits.”
“Without protozoa, there was nothing left for zooplankton to eat; and while zooplankton couldn’t grow there, invertebrates had to starve and die. As there were no invertebrates, fishes were not required to make an effort to look for a prey.”
“Despite some caring masters having such concern for their finned subjects, Joe would feel rather offended that the catfish community was being disdained. No doubt, they could collect food from any level but were bottom feeders as well. Now, as the doctor suggested to the farmer to remain careful about throwing peas into the pond, the catfishes began to harbor a deep resentment against him.”
“Whether they ever reached Florida is another matter.”
“They saw objects resembling hooks containing delicious food, tied to lines coming down from above. All the fishes thought it to be a great feast offered by someone in the sky so they happily scrambled to swallow the hooks, only to get the hook points pierced into and anchored inside their mouths, gullets or gills.”
“Some investor decided to construct a 4-star hotel on the lake to attract even more tourists from home and abroad. For this purpose, pneumatic caissons were utilized, and an underground tunnel was built using the same technology. To implement the plans at minimum cost, the lake was drained, and the mud and silt thus collected were used to elevate the banks. An artificial island was made in the shape of a palm frond, upon which a multi-storied building was erected.”
“It had a height of five to six feet, two legs, two eyes, fingers and so on, but no tail, fins or gills. Since Xi had previously heard about the human physique from his dearest pal Joe, he could easily recognize that it must be a human.”
Here are a few words about the author.
Born in the village of Majkhuria in Bangladesh, Rehanul Hoque started by writing poems at an early age. Falling ‘upon the thorns of life,’ Rehanul takes refuge in the lap of nature. He also seeks pleasure in playing with words. He believes beauty is religion and literature can build a habitable earth by promoting harmony and truth together through the appreciation of beauty. He dreams of a future ruled only by love.
Rehanul’s works have appeared in different journals, magazines and anthologies like The Wagon Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Penwood Review, The Pangolin Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Piker Press, Cacti Fur, LUMMOX 9, Literary Yard, NAT SCAMMACCA CULTURAL MAGAZINE, AZAHAR REVISTA POETICA, Asian Signature, North Dakota Quarterly, The Cyclone will End, and Love in Summer.
A promotional video for “The Immigrant Catfish”:
This review was previously published on the website Modern Diplomacy on September 2, 2024.
Hayley sat silently on the sofa in her living room; a shiny brass pole lamp scattered illumination over the four walls and the television was on but muted. The colorful figures on the television danced in confusion in reflections on the linoleum floor. Hayley was slender, almost petite; she had raven black hair and attractive features: a pretty face, bright blue eyes and an old-fashioned rosy complexion. But her eyes were clouded. She sat quietly, still as a statue, except for her hands, which twitched furiously, Hayley had just turned forty and had had Parkinson’s Disease for the past twenty years.
She continued sitting because standing and walking was such an unwelcome adventure, frequently resulting in missteps, staggering collisions with the furniture or walls, even falls. At length, the telephone rang–the land line, not the cell she kept at hand–and she was forced to get up off the sofa. As she rose, her head swam, she saw little white spots in front of her and she teetered on her feet. She was unalarmed, for the dizziness often came and went. The phone rang again. She hurried a little, struggled to put one foot unsteadily before the other. She brought her cane into play. The telephone continued to bleat.
It was like walking through deep water, thought Hayley, as she reeled and staggered to the telephone table. It was always worse when she had been sitting or reclining for a while. Reaching a trembling hand out, she grasped the phone just as it stopped ringing. She put the receiver to her ear and listened intently. She spoke hello into dead air, frowned, and slammed up the phone. She glanced at the Caller I.D. screen and scowled. No number or message appeared.
Another hallucination! she thought bitterly. She’d cancel the land- line, except she never knew when her cell might lose power or malfunction; and she needed a reliable connection to emergency services. She’d have to get an extension wire in order to place the phone nearer the sofa. She sighed. The hallucinations were a new addition to her condition. The tremors and the difficulty in standing and walking was one thing, but the delusions were something else again. She couldn’t trust what she heard, what she saw.
Suddenly Hayley glanced at her cell, noted the time “I’ve got to get going,” she murmured aloud. “I’ve got a date, and that doesn’t happen every night!” Indeed it didn’t. Hayley hadn’t dated regularly in ten years, ever since her disease began worsening. The half dozen dates she’d had over the last couple years or so didn’t count, she decided. They had all been unspeakable disasters, blind dates set up by friends or family. They clearly hadn’t been expecting the cane or the hand tremors or the clumsiness. Oh, they were nice enough guys, just not prepared for a woman with disabilities. She sighed, shook her head at the disappointing memories.
This time, however, she had covered all the bases: she used a computer dating service that catered to clients with “special circumstances,” such as age or, in her own case, a disability. She had listed Parkinson’s on her app and been contacted by a man about her age, who also had the disease. The man–Roger–had had the condition, he said, for about nine years. Not as long as she, but then, Parkinson’s progressed at different rates in different people; at any rate, he could at least relate to her situation, surely. They’d settled on dinner, at a moderately-priced restaurant and they would go “Dutch.” That suited her right down to the ground; this last year, particularly, had been difficult. The lonleiness was often discomfiting, sometimes simply overwhelming. Oh, Hayley had girl friends, but they couldn’t really relate to her situation; they were all married or dating in serious relationships. They were always trying to set her up, but the few resultant dates had been unmitigated disasters. She resolved to just hope for the best. Roger had sounded nice on the telephone.
Two Hours Later
Hayley arrived at the restaurant a little early, so she wouldn’t make a spectacle of herself walking in and stumbling into a chair. In spite of Roger’s similar affliction, she felt almost helplessly self-conscious around other people. She shooed the waitress away, telling her she was waiting for someone. Her date! She felt curiously giddy. Hayley watched the other patrons, all dressed fairly casually: sports jackets and blazars and off-the-rack outfits. The men all looked handsome and the women were pretty as well. It was a young crowd. They stood at the bar talking and sipping drinks, lurid concoctions with umbrellas for the women and shots of some amber liquid–whiskey?–for most of the men. She noticed pointedly that as they all drew their drinks to their lips, not a hand shook. Hayley placed her own hands in her lap, out of sight.
At length, Roger walked in, not self-conscious at all, thought Hayley. He was standing straight, walking smoothly and as he got nearer she noticed that his hands didn’t shake at all. What was his secret, she wondered. He looked just as handsome as his computer image had been. Blond hair, tall, around six one, nothing extra around his middle. He was rather nattily attired, keeping with the unofficial dress code. She met his eyes and smiled. She really was very pretty, she told herself, and Roger seemed to pick up on that right away. “Hi, Hayley, how are you?” He offered his hand. She reluctantly pulled her own hand from her lap and clasped his hand in a firm grip. “I’m fine, Roger, how are you?” He seated himself opposite her. “I’m good; it’s nice to finally meet you–in person, I mean,” he returned, then fixing his eyes on her glass, asked, “What are you drinking?” “Just water,” she answered, taking a sip.
“Well,” he said in a jolly voice “we’ll have to change that.” He signaled for the waitress. When she turned up, he said, “Scotch and water; Hayley?” he turned to her. “I’m fine,” she said. “Oh, c’mon, don’t make me drink alone,” he said persuasively. “Well, Seven-Up,” she said. “Make it a Seagram’s Seven,” he added.
“No, Roger, I don’t want any alcohol.” Turning to the bewildered waitress, she corrected, “Just a plain Seven-Up.” The waitress hurried off. Hayley looked up; Roger was staring at her blankly. “My medication,” she explained. “I can’t have any alcohol with my medicine.” “Oh,” he said, genuinely surprised. “None at all?” he asked her, incredulous. Silently she shook her head no. The waitress returned with their drinks.
“Don’t you take any medication?” It was her turn to be surprised. Roger took a heavy slug of his scotch before shaking his head and saying, “Nope. Nothing.” “How do you manage that?” Hayley wanted to know. “You seem so…normal. Look at that,” she indicated the hand holding his drink, which he was fast polishing off. “You don’t have a tremor at all!” Roger raised a finger at the waitress, pointed at his now empty glass. He waited until the waitress returned with his new drink before replying,
“Well, the truth, Hayley, is that I don’t have Parkinson’s Disease at all.” He took another big gulp of his scotch. Hayley blinked, utterly surprised. “You mean…you mean you’re not sick at all?” Roger frowned. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” he complained.
But…why did you say you did? What was the point of that?” While Hayley had been speaking, Roger had silently ordered yet another drink and was half-way through it already. Hayley observed that Roger wasn’t nearly as attractive as he’d been when he first arrived. Perhaps the alcohol was revealing his true self. And he was thoroughly in his cups now, obviously something of a lightweight. “Answer me,” she said sharply, surprising even herself.
“Well,” he replied, slurring his words a little, “I figured I take one of them disabled chicks, I might get lucky, you know,” he grinned lecherously. Hayley’s stomach roiled. “I mean,” he said more expansively, his voice rising, you get a girl who’s got something wrong with her, that don’t get around much, maybe doesn’t get much action.” He winked grotesquely, ordered still another drink. How many drinks could he hold? wondered Hayley. Already he seemed drunk. Hayley was feeling a little ill herself now.
Their waitress appeared again, asked if they were ready to order. “I…I’m not hungry,” said Hayley, waving her hand at the girl. “Well, I am,” insisted Roger, pushing away the menu. “I want a big steak, rare, baked potato, sour cream, and asparagus!” he demanded. The waitress turned back to Hayley. “Nothing for me,” she murmured. The waitress withdrew.
“One other thing, Hayley,” said Roger, slurring his words anew. “Can you…you know,” he pointed at the table, made a circling motion with his finger. “Take care of this?” She stared at him blankly. “I’m a little short,” he explained. She regarded him coolly, then said, “I’m not interested in your sexual inadequacies. But pay for your own meal; you drank it, you pay for it!” And with that, she was on her feet, headed for the door. Roger, chagrinned, called after her, “I would have made it worth your while!” Hayley turned back only long enough to reply, “I doubt that; I really, really do.” She continued toward the exit, her cane accidentally knocking against a diner’s chair. “If I knew how bad you were, I never would have taken you out!” Roger shouted at her back. She made her way through the exit, out to an available taxi, where a man was just getting in. He halted, looked her way.
“Hayley?” he said. She stopped, surprised. It was Mr. Beasley, a man who lived in her building. “Hi, Mr. Beasley,” she managed, clearly upset. “Do you want to share a taxi?” he asked. “Uh…sure. Thanks.” They both climbed in. Mr. Beasley gave the driver the address and they sped away. She sat slumped in her seat. Beasley looked over and said, “Are you alright, Hayley?” She shook her head no. “You want to talk about it?” She took a shuddering breath. “I just had the most awful date I’ve had…in years,” she exclaimed. He nodded encouragingly. “I met him online, at a dating service. It was a site where if you have a disability, they hook you up with someone similar…you know, my Parkinson’s. I have Parkinson’s.” “Yes,” he said. “I thought you did.” They hadn’t talked much, he’d lived for years on the floor above her. He was at least fifteen years older than Hayley and she hadn’t given much thought to him before. She glanced at him, noticed that his hand shook a little and his head darted to the left, then to the right. It wasn’t pronounced, but noticeable.
“You…you don’t have it too, do you, Mr. Beasley?” she asked hesitantly. “Oh, you don’t have to answer me if you’d rather not,” she hurried on. “No, it’s alright. No, my own cross to bear is Tourette’s Syndrome; you’ve heard of it?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t know you had it, though.” “Usually it’s controlled by medication; this is one of my ‘unfortunate days,’ however.” Hayley nodded.
“What happened inside?” Beasley asked. She rolled her eyes. “My ‘date’ was some predator who pretended he was disabled, just to prey on women he thought would be easy.” She went on to describe the scene inside the restaurant. “How about you?” she asked him. “Just on my way home from work,” he replied. They rode in companionable silence for a few moments. He’s not at all unattractive, she thought. And she knew he lived alone. Maybe he’s gay, she thought. Not that that would make him a bad person, but as far as boyfriend material, it would be a little limiting. Still, he had always seemed very nice. “Well, did you at least get a decent meal out of it?” Beasley asked. She frowned.
“No. I was so mad that I walked out without even eating.” “Well, you know, I’m pretty hungry right now myself.” She looked across the seat at him. “And I’m a pretty good cook,” he continued with a smile. She smiled back at him. “And call me Ron, won’t you Hayley?”
