—Poetry by Ma Yongbo, Nanking, China
—Public Domain Artwork by Paul Klee (1879-1940)
—Public Domain Artwork by Paul Klee (1879-1940)
PURE WORK
It took a whole morning to write the following
verse
“with every step closer, relatives of summer
approaches
on every inch of land, tears are shed”.
I cross it out the next day
I’ve been writing much less these days
Now I decide to do more
“I see relatives of summer
dreaming each other like mirrors”
or “I remember your expression of meditation
in a quarry in Greece, sunset glow and milk……”
energy of summer is distracted—
Grey glow on the clouds, stains of the window-
panes, butterflies
water drops on swallow-tailed wings, high towers,
footprints vanishing in the sea
As things seem to bear no relation with each
other
One can go freely through the gaps between them
Another day, I wrote things
loosely connected with functional words
Behind the castle built with chessmen
Someone is turning a paper cannon
“Relatives of summer approach, every step closer,
exposing smiles and teeth.”
I wonder if things will change when I revise my
writing,
or even postpone time and fate
But I care more about weather (many elderly lost
their lives
to this unbearable heat), or prepare myself some
lunch
So I drift a whole day on the river
Or walk on quicksand, kicking the gravel,
Look up into the “clouds”, “reflections of clouds
on water”
and “white bridge”, but I still feel unreal
As if I’m still passing through words
Still wearing myself down in a poem
It took a whole morning to write the following
verse
“with every step closer, relatives of summer
approaches
on every inch of land, tears are shed”.
I cross it out the next day
I’ve been writing much less these days
Now I decide to do more
“I see relatives of summer
dreaming each other like mirrors”
or “I remember your expression of meditation
in a quarry in Greece, sunset glow and milk……”
energy of summer is distracted—
Grey glow on the clouds, stains of the window-
panes, butterflies
water drops on swallow-tailed wings, high towers,
footprints vanishing in the sea
As things seem to bear no relation with each
other
One can go freely through the gaps between them
Another day, I wrote things
loosely connected with functional words
Behind the castle built with chessmen
Someone is turning a paper cannon
“Relatives of summer approach, every step closer,
exposing smiles and teeth.”
I wonder if things will change when I revise my
writing,
or even postpone time and fate
But I care more about weather (many elderly lost
their lives
to this unbearable heat), or prepare myself some
lunch
So I drift a whole day on the river
Or walk on quicksand, kicking the gravel,
Look up into the “clouds”, “reflections of clouds
on water”
and “white bridge”, but I still feel unreal
As if I’m still passing through words
Still wearing myself down in a poem
Park Near Lu
KILLING THE PIG
It’s already midnight. In the yard, the pot still boils,
the smell of meat mingles with vague human voices.
They are still bustling about. The Spring Festival
[couplets] are red.
In the crabapple trees blanketed by snow, the
lanterns burn red.
The gate is ajar. Down the alley, the firecrackers’
confetti shimmers red.
Our four little black heads in a line on the kang,
we pretend to be asleep, and then I do fall asleep.
I am lifted, dazed, half-awake.
A big bowl of pork with soy sauce.
Twenty years later, it’s still not digested. That pig
we raised—
I used to tickle it all the time, scratching it until
it rolled over, showing its fat belly, its red nipples.
We don’t have pigs anymore, and in the kitchen
no grown-ups bustle about, shrouded in savory
steam,
occasionally peeking in at their children,
those four little black heads, sleeping, at peace.
Fairy Tale
THE MELANCHOLY AND MYSTERY
OF CHIRICO
The little train on the top of the wall runs rapidly
and repeatedly
to the empty square waving the steamed hand-
kerchief
on the temple with the triangulated frieze, the
on the temple with the triangulated frieze, the
round clock
always stops at an hour, the skeleton of the bird
scatters from the air
the irregular shadow lying in the center of the
square to gradually rot
in each arch window there is a statue staring out
“The sunset is sad, and the sunset is always sad.”
the conversation starts time and again from the
beginning
with a pipe to draw waves, for them to worship
the empty chair on the sea waves, beneath the tall
square chimney root
the curly farmer is slumbering on the sarcophagus
the head is Venus of balloon, most of the body
is composed of broken violin, plaster mask, rubber
gloves, rules and wood.
“The difference between man and animals lies in
that man has responsibility, and knows to
accompany.”
Two female cadets walk through the endless
arcades that slant toward the horizon
their faces glowing with heat under the leaves
and the well-dressed civil servant
staring into the eyes of a naked colleague in the
pool
with the horn made of old newspaper behind his
back
Perhaps we should climb the red water tower by
the sea
the flags of unknown countries at an angle
from there the shadows of all things can be seen
without the wall white sails are sailing past, the
knights on black horses turning around the corner
How to see things as they are when we are not
there
when we just show up, they stop talking
and freeze for a moment into an empty posture
as we climb the endless slope of light
with nothing but a book and an iron rose on it
where we are going to be smaller than chalk
hiding up, to wait for the girl rolling the hoop
always stops at an hour, the skeleton of the bird
scatters from the air
the irregular shadow lying in the center of the
square to gradually rot
in each arch window there is a statue staring out
“The sunset is sad, and the sunset is always sad.”
the conversation starts time and again from the
beginning
with a pipe to draw waves, for them to worship
the empty chair on the sea waves, beneath the tall
square chimney root
the curly farmer is slumbering on the sarcophagus
the head is Venus of balloon, most of the body
is composed of broken violin, plaster mask, rubber
gloves, rules and wood.
“The difference between man and animals lies in
that man has responsibility, and knows to
accompany.”
Two female cadets walk through the endless
arcades that slant toward the horizon
their faces glowing with heat under the leaves
and the well-dressed civil servant
staring into the eyes of a naked colleague in the
pool
with the horn made of old newspaper behind his
back
Perhaps we should climb the red water tower by
the sea
the flags of unknown countries at an angle
from there the shadows of all things can be seen
without the wall white sails are sailing past, the
knights on black horses turning around the corner
How to see things as they are when we are not
there
when we just show up, they stop talking
and freeze for a moment into an empty posture
as we climb the endless slope of light
with nothing but a book and an iron rose on it
where we are going to be smaller than chalk
hiding up, to wait for the girl rolling the hoop
View of Saint Germain
KLEE’S WALK
As he walks, he takes apart a bird
that is also strolling like a ball of twine
and draws a portrait with the lines
the lines become more and more closely intertwined
until his future feature is a doodle
and he disappears for a moment, the lines at a loss
not knowing where to begin again, temporarily to be
dotted lines and footprints, wondering how to spend
the life
not be cancelled by an arrow pointing to a dead end
back against the sea, to wipe out the straight lines
on the beach
away from what one is staring at wide-eyed
like a newborn angel, with torn wings
hard to resist the hurricane from heaven
or to place superimposed geometric forms
in any arbitrary place, to make the soil in the box
smell like old cotton thread. Intentionally
translate “still life” into “silent life”
or stop the high-voltage wire that carries
the slope of the rain long enough to form
an empty trap or a pool of water, we are also
likewise
long enough, and dogs will come sniffing at
our broken clues, and travelling circuses will set up
a gold-topped tent
old men replaced with the heads of light bulbs,
machines chirping
witches in their barrels, practicing their flight
from their sleeves they stretch a wire tremblingly
to the sky, here and there no darkness
no thickness, only numbers and bodies drained
of blood.
away from what one is staring at wide-eyed
like a newborn angel, with torn wings
hard to resist the hurricane from heaven
or to place superimposed geometric forms
in any arbitrary place, to make the soil in the box
smell like old cotton thread. Intentionally
translate “still life” into “silent life”
or stop the high-voltage wire that carries
the slope of the rain long enough to form
an empty trap or a pool of water, we are also
likewise
long enough, and dogs will come sniffing at
our broken clues, and travelling circuses will set up
a gold-topped tent
old men replaced with the heads of light bulbs,
machines chirping
witches in their barrels, practicing their flight
from their sleeves they stretch a wire tremblingly
to the sky, here and there no darkness
no thickness, only numbers and bodies drained
of blood.
Wild Bau
THE UNSEEN RUSTLE OF SPRING
When the unseen bustle of spring—
Birdsong, budding branches, rain, and the stirring
in soil
Turns into the drilling of upstairs neighbors reno-
vating,
Thump, thump, thumping nails above your head,
As if sealing your fate, burying you alive.
Within the taut trunks of trees, countless infants
awaken together,
Countless buckets go up and down in the well
shaft,
Countless sparkling little gears gnawing at each
other,
All mobilize for the unseen revolution of spring.
Meandering and splitting paths
transform into a bustling construction site,
A vast laboratory filled with pots and test tubes,
Colors, movement, and stillness, Sudden chemical
reactions.
When I think that after my death, everything I've
loved,
And those I never had time to love—people, books,
landscapes—
will continue to exist in a world without me.
I cannot bear it. If only I could vent all my frus-
tration
on that noisy neighbor with his hammer and drill,
He is determined to change his life,
A courage and enthusiasm I've long lost.
I won't knock on his door, I'll thank him
for juxtaposing wrinkled and sordid ventilation ducts
And bags of garbage next to budding flowers,
And Duchamp's urinal left behind in a hurry.
I'll thank these garbages for exposing
parts of life I want no part of.
Unable to change the world, I'll start a revolution
at home,
Standing at the window, gazing at the still world.
So, when this unseen beauty is yet incomplete,
I'll sit and bless it, awaiting the next roar and
tremble,
to prove that poetry can make the unbearable
Bearable. I'll thank him
For draining the gray pond of my mind
And driving me outside to join spring,
The torrent where all things merge and flow.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.
—Pablo Neruda
__________________
Newcomer Ma Yongbo, Ph.D, was born in 1964, and is a representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published more than eighty original works and translations since 1986, including seven poetry collections. His focus is the translation and teaching of Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half-a-million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprises 1178 poems and celebrates 40 years of writing poetry. He lives with his wife in Nanking, China. Welcome to the Kitchen, Ma Yongbo, and don’t be a stranger!
___________________
—Medusa
Ma Yongbo (2018)
For future poetry happenings in
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
