The Same Rain

How many more rains must I listen to

before I hear the one and only rain,

before I hear the self that is fading away?

Rain only casts a temporary sheen

on the stones of the Ming Palace Ruins.

It drifts far and near; its feet tread upon the water,

countless fine stitches mend a tattered grey cloth.

Rain can always begin anew,

as if all rains are the same rain.

Yet you cannot make the same mistake twice,

not even beneath this very same rain.

This morning, I hear the same rain falling again and again:

on singing towers with lowered red curtains, on open-roofed boats;

on the dimming eaves of monk’s quarters.

But you, listening to the rain, are forever in another rain.

Passing Shaojia Mountain in Spring, Thinking of My Elder Brother Yongping

The mountain is still the same mountain, shaped like a saddle

the valley in between is now filled with tangled green

no one lingers in the hills, nor does water flow

where one might pause for a moment, to see the self of old

Only stones, only trees, only branching paths

leading to memory or oblivion, to where we came from and where we go

which is truer? even light rises late

even the dust we breathe

carries an unspeakable breath of the afterlife

This morning I crossed through the mountain, not to seek you

you dwell in farther hills, on higher ground

entangled with mist and clouds

my cry is but a pale grey stone, falling into the valley

no echo returns, that somber green

still nurtures invisible particles

All earthly toil is but a feast of flowing water

the mountains we climbed together still lie ahead

even between you and me

perhaps I ought to rise like slow sap

up black treetops, blooming into words in the air

The Tapestry of Words

He wove a tapestry from words,

yet only saw its front—

a riot of blooms and colour,

never the tangled threads behind,

the knotted, messy stitches,

a puzzle of hues where no one

could trace where each line began or bent.

Inside the story he wove, he spoke to someone,

using that man’s hands and speech, till there was nothing left to say.

It felt like a real place,

yet nothing existed there, no space at all—

the emptiness between the outstretched arms of a sleepwalker.

A universe without substance, where rain watered the galaxy,

and a frying pan cooled slowly, leaning against a wall.

There would be no certain ending, no protagonist

rising again in each act. He grew tired of repetition,

yet could not bring it to a full close. Only

by falling into the grass could he breathe

the sharp scent of real earth, and see inside the roots

a busy republic. His abstract life

lifted the roof higher, and the flocks of birds that divined upon it.

And this bright, blazed tapestry, its edges blurred,

hung on a nail of stars, high above the road,

replacing every visible landscape.

He always longed to circle to its back,

as he once did in childhood, behind the screen of an open-air movie,

since he could not understand the story woven on its front.

Impressions of Visiting Zhou Libo’s Former Residence

I must have read your works in childhood,

The Tempestuous Storm and Great Changes in a Mountain Village,

along with the School of Potato Fiction and Bitter Chrysanthemum.

Yet not a single line comes back to me now.

Those vicissitudes of life repeat themselves time and again;

layer upon layer of historical shale

has long pressed childhood curiosity deep into the folds of time.

I may reread you, or I may not.

Yet your slim translated works,

the palm-sized dictionary you used to teach yourself foreign languages,

have deepened my admiration for you.

I said to Bu Cundan who toured here with me:

Compared with your generation, contemporary poetry

lacks the concern for and ability to tackle grand themes,

mostly trivial trivialities, petty self-absorbed trivialities no bigger than dirt under a fingernail.

You said your writings will fade away soon,

and your name will be quickly forgotten by the world.

Yet the truth, goodness and beauty your words have touched,

the courage and revolutionary spirit within, shall endure forever.

I fully agree with this view, just as

striving for the people’s yearning for happiness

and striving for the people’s happiness itself

are two entirely opposite things.

Then I think of other souls:

Ovid, the playful bard of tender love, undone by his own genius;

Yeats, knight of the golden rose, casting a cold glance

at life and death, yet walking ever onward;

Keats, the twenty-six-year-old youth who wrote his name on water;

Dickinson, the final enigma left to the world—”Return”.

Nero’s Golden Palace has long fallen into ruin,

and eternal Rome itself has long fallen.

But those who, in their lifetime, fretted over love and fame

that would sink into nothingness in the end

have outlived

all of us, including you and me.

Silver River as Your Witness

Warm the summer days, the Silver River lies in quiet grace;

Fortuned the chosen date, blessed the auspicious hour and place.

Upon this nuptial rite, may peace and health attend all years;

Heaven-made perfect pair, in lute and harp harmonious cheers.

May your predestined bond forever stand secure,

Walk hand in hand till hoary hair endure.

Through wind and moon you side by side shall roam,

Journey together down the rest of life’s long home.

Benevolent the mother, filial the daughter bright;

Amber glows with pure and radiant light.

Poetry and painting blend in one refined delight,

Spanning the East and West, across the world’s broad height.

Rise early, rest late; begin with end in thoughtful mind,

In flourishing prosperity all joys you ever find.