Two Poems by Yang Zi, Translated by Ye Chun, Melissa Tuckey and Fiona Sze-Lorrain
PN Review 199, May - June 2011
Pearl River
Who will speak of it in reverent language?
Who will endear it as 'she'?
Every morning, every night,
tired buses carrying half-dead people cross the twelve bridges.
Distracted, dull eyes were cast toward it without slightest bit of love, as if this motionless corpse
has sucked the spirit from their bodies.
Nobody pays attention to the ghostly white yacht
and the foolish 'Waterside Shangri-la'.
Lights on both banks are a spread of gold
like a field of rape flowers,
what an expensive beauty!
In summer, the suddenly risen river
will flood the white air roots of banyans,
and the marble stairs of the Trade Center
will flush the floating filth
to the feet of lovers.
Looking at it, at the half-dead people
swinging in the tired bus
sliding over the twelve bridges.
I want to shovel the shameless pride off those people's faces.
All we drink is this foul water.
The beautiful lyric in our body has long been replaced
by this devilish thing with nausea.
The beautiful dream we cannot realise,
the secret anguish we cannot swallow
will all flow in its arms
to the sea.
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Perfectly Round Moon
The perfectly round moon doesn't wear bras.
Lamp posts are slumberous guards.
Drools on the pillow.
Along Ring Road, I can see the people I love
and don't love, though at the moment they're all
sleeping. Soon I'll sleep too. I'll dream about
the person I love, though she'll ignore me,
pretend she doesn't know me.
Count it, how many people have been blessed today?
How many have harvested contentment?
How many have knocked their heads against the iron door?
Round, round, moon.
Why do our bodies suddenly crack?
These poems by Yang Zi, translated by Ye Chun, Melissa Tuckey and Fiona Sze-Lorrain are taken from PN Review 199, May - June 2011. The rest of the poems in this issue are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.
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