Representative masterpieces of Yu Guangzhong’s poetry

Four Verses of Nostalgia: Give me a ladle of the Yangtze River water, oh Yangtze River water – water like wine. The taste of being drunk is the taste of nostalgia. Give me a ladle of the Yangtze River water, oh Yangtze River water. Give me a color of crabapple red, oh crabapple red – that blood-red color of crabapple red. It’s the pain of burning passion, the pain of longing for home. Give me a color of crabapple red, oh crabapple red. Give me a shade of pure white, that snow-white color, like the color of letters. It’s the wait for letters from home, the wait filled with longing for home. Give me a shade of pure white, that snow-white color. Give me the fragrance of a wintersweet, oh, that fragrance of wintersweet – a fragrance like that of a mother. It’s the scent of home, the fragrance of one’s homeland. Give me the fragrance of a wintersweet, oh, that fragrance.

Or what is called spring, by Yu Guangzhong? Or is what is called spring just beyond that phone booth? Beyond Xiamen Street, where those foolish memories lie? Does the airmail start from there? Do the eyes have to endure from there? Stamps, stamps, stamps? The impact of various words? Or have those many secret mailboxes been forgotten? Scarves covering most of the soul? Is there a cherry blossom flu going around? It’s always like this: when April arrives, it first notifies the nose. Going home, walking through the alleys of Tong’an Street… Or having spent over a dozen springs in this city? Springs that aren’t really springs, spent over and over again? Just thinking about it makes one feel so wronged. Or what is called spring? In the end, it’s just this: some wounded memories, some desires and dust. A refreshing smell of onions coming from the kitchen over there. Then there’s the faint scent of ink from an evening newspaper, reporting on the flowers in the suburbs. Or are those so-called old professors nothing but new lecturers? Were those lecturers once students who had just shaved their faces? What is called a lifetime is just wearing half a dozen ties at most. The first tie used on a date, the one that made her laugh heartily. Or the tie worn at the graduation dance? Then changed to one for a wedding. Or that light pink tie, which later turned into a dark coffee-colored tie, coffee without sugar. Thinking about this is also a kind of gradual strangulation, or maybe not that cruel, just a bit suffocating. Or what is called spring is just a fragile specimen. A bookmark that was once a daffodil or a butterfly. The bookmark is in the Webster’s dictionary, and the dictionary is upstairs in the library. Four floors high, above all the twilight. Buildings fear height, books fear being old; old books fear having bookmarks in them. Such a distant spring, the spring in Qingdao, the spring in Gettysburg, with cuckoos everywhere. Apple blossoms falling all over the ground. April, lower than the soles of shoes. Higher than bees and birds, higher than the grass on the graves from the Civil War. But when recalled, it doesn’t necessarily seem like just a lifetime. What is called childhood? What is called the war of resistance? What is called the second year of high school? What is called the third year of high school? What is called a honeymoon? It’s not exactly a lunar eclipse. What is called poverty? It’s not necessarily unbeautiful. What is called a wife? She was once a bride. What is called a bride? She was once a girlfriend. What is called a girlfriend? She was once very shy. What is called not becoming famous and becoming famous? What is called decay and immortality? Or what is called spring?

Poem of Red Beans / Yu Guangzhong? Let the stamps, those legendary birds, carry that vividly red color straight to your hands. No words are needed; they speak for me. I, who am shy, have said what I wanted to say. The ancients already said it; I’m afraid to express what’s even more explicit

The Jade Cabbage originated as a rough stone from Burma or Yunnan; it was shaped by highly skilled hands using sharp carving tools, with meticulous cuts being made to refine its structure. It was freed from the prison of pyroxene jade, caressed more delicately by the graceful fingers of Princess Jin; it was the object of admiring glances from the audience, under the light’s focus. Generation after generation, it grew more cherished and brighter, with a smooth surface that exuded a subtle inner glow, appearing both green and white. You are no longer just a piece of jade, just a vegetable; for on that day, when the artisan brought you into being, he poured his very soul deep into the core of the jade, preventing time from catching up with you. Isn’t all art the transformation of the fake into the real? The transformation of the fake into the real makes it even more real than the real itself. Otherwise, why does that vivid katydid still remain obstinately unaware to this day, clinging to its fresh green hue and refusing to descend? Perhaps he is the reincarnation of a jade craftsman.

Terracotta Warriors — Terracotta soldier figurines unearthed in Lintong. Their armor remains on, and their hands still tightly grip invisible bows or spears. If drums suddenly start to beat, would you turn around immediately, rushing back to the battlefields of two thousand years ago to join your fellow soldiers? If you suddenly open your eyes, with a majestic glow and a beard that sticks up, showing bravery and unruliness, how should the astonished spectators avoid you? Fortunately, you still have your eyes tightly closed; it seems you’re accustomed to the darkness of the netherworld all year round – how could you be exposed to light so suddenly? If you suddenly start speaking, with that strong Qin opera style and ancient melodies, who can understand you clearly? Across the river of time that has passed, there’s no knowledge of the Han dynasty, let alone what came later. You speak of your Xianyang; I speak of the Xi’an Incident. Who can truly understand the complexities of the situation in Chang’an? No matter how powerful your arrows may be, they can no longer penetrate the Land of Peach Blossoms. Do you ask what era this is? I cannot hide it from you. Under the empire of the First Emperor, standards were unified for chariots and writing. The majestic black banners fluttered from the Great Wall all the way to Jiaozhi. But it only lasted until the Second Emperor’s reign; after that, you remained behind, warriors, along with countless terracotta figurines. There was strict discipline, as well as an army of sixty thousand soldiers on horseback. “Do we lack clothes? I’ll share my cloak with you.” When the king launched his campaigns, we sharpened our spears and swords. Amidst those generous songs, we followed the First Emperor—all of us ended up underground. Unexpectedly, after just three generations, it was no longer an empire ruled by the Ying family. It was no longer under their rule; from then on, we became part of the Qin dynasty. Qin, oh Qin! The foreign nations called us Qin, oh Qin! How many times has the Yellow River cleared itself of debris? Qin na Qin na, how many times did Harley look back? After being locked away in darkness for two thousand years, it was agreed that you would be unearthed in various places and reunified in museums. With vivid features and expressions of solemn silence, you will bear witness to an empire that has disappeared. As for the noisy crowds, we too will soon descend underground. Until what year, what month will we be unearthed? No, we are made of flesh and blood, and we will decay in no time, just like those nobles buried with you. Only you, who are immortal, will remain. Six thousand soldiers… Tongguan has fallen; alas, Xianyang is also lost. Who will put out the fire at Epang Palace? Only those who remain, unable to return ever again, become hostages across generations, eternal prisoners. Is silencing them limited to just those twelve golden statues? Who said the originators had no descendants? You are precisely their most noble descendants. Instead of retreating into the past with the First Emperor, you followed Xu Fu’s group of six thousand men and women on a mission to explore the future in search of immortality

The car passes by Fangliao, and the rain falls on the sugarcane fields in Pingtung – sweet sugarcane and sweet rain; plump sugarcane and fertile fields. The rain falls on the fertile fields of Pingtung. From here to the foot of the mountain, a vast plain stretches out – how much sugarcane, and how many sweet hopes! The bus drove across the lush plains, passing by the majestic procession of the god of shepherding. Think of Pan, hairy and bearded, taking an afternoon nap under that sugarcane plant? Rain falls on the watermelon fields in Pingtung – sweet watermelons and sweet rain, plump watermelons and fertile fields; rain falls on the fertile fields of Pingtung. From here to the coast, a vast riverbed gives birth to so many watermelons, so many round hopes! The coach passed over the winding riverbed, inspecting the abundant treasures of the god of shepherding. Thinking of Pan, full of blood and offspring, on which gourd is he sitting? Rain falls on the banana fields in Pingtung – sweet bananas and sweet rain, plump bananas and fertile fields; rain falls on the fertile fields of Pingtung. Rain is a wet pastoral song; the road is a slender flute, playing across the paths that stretch for miles and miles. Rain falls on the banana fields in Pingtung; the plump bananas are nourished by the rain. Buses cannot leave the realm of Pan’s domain, and the roads are like long flutes. Just as it was said that Pingtung is the sweetest county, that Pingtung is a city built from sugar cubes, suddenly a right turn – and there it is, the saltiest of all, the sea rushing at you head-on.

Waiting for you, in the rain, in the rain that creates rainbows; the sound of cicadas fades while the croaking of frogs rises. The lotus flowers in the pond resemble flames of red, in the rain. It doesn’t matter whether you come or not; it seems as though each lotus flower is like you. Especially through the twilight, through such gentle rain—eternity, an instant, an instant, eternity. Waiting for you, outside of time, within time; waiting for you, in an instant, in eternity. If your hand were in mine, right now; if your delicate fragrance filled my nostrils, I would say, “My dear, this hand should be used to pick lotuses in the Wu palace. This hand should be used to stir a cup of osmanthus wine on a magnolia boat.” A star hangs above the eaves of the science museum, hanging there like an earring. The Swiss watch says it’s already seven o’clock. Suddenly you arrive, like the red lotuses after the rain, swaying gently. You arrive, like a short poem, emerging from some love story; you arrive, with rhythm, from the verses of Jiang Baishi. —— Yu Guangzhong, “Waiting for You in the Rain”

My heart is a wind chime hanging from the basil roof, tinkling, tinkling, back and forth, striking a person’s name ————Do you feel a slight tremor on your tower as well? This is the pulse of silence, ceaseless day and night. Can you hear it? Ding, ding, ding? That annoying tone is unbearable; unless all the winds are redirected, all the bells are removed, and all the towers are torn down. For my heart is like wind chimes that go up and down, ringing continuously, echoing the name of one person — Yu Guangzhong, \"Wind Chimes\"

The moonlight shines; the moon is like arsenic turned to ice. The moon is like arsenic, like frost – where does it fall upon, onto whose wounds? Moon phobia and moon obsession: the season when they flare up; the light of the moon. Ghostly suns, suns that are like ghosts. Reflections on the face of a dead star. Moon obsession and moon phobia… Spirits haunting cats, spirits haunting the sea. Spirits haunting pale beautiful women. Under the moon, night is the border of death. Stealing dreams, stealing clouds. The modern world is far away, while the ancient world is close by. Moon phobia and moon obsession… Coins shaped like the sun, with images on both sides. The sea is pregnant in the distance; tonight, black cats recite prayers on the rooftops. Moon obsession and moon phobia… Pale beautiful women, with large eyes, pressed against the windows. I too have been busy all night, holding the moonlight in my palms, pouring it into bottles. Analyzing its chemical components, analyzing memories, analyzing sorrow. Moon phobia and moon obsession… The light of the moon. — Yu Guangzhong, “The Light of the Moon”

If in the morning I hear you speak, those most beautiful verbs; if I die that very night, what fear can there be? When I love, I must love in sorrow; if I cannot love in splendor, your beauty inadvertently wounds me. This summer, all it takes is to stretch out my arms, and miracles will descend—upon my open palms, you will land there, in the palm of my hand, like a lotus. Just like at the dusk of late summer, faced with a pond filled with fragrance, faced with a soul that burns quietly… Which one, which one will answer me if I call you by your nickname? As long as it remains in the pond, as long as summer still has a touch of bright red, why bother meeting you? Lian is Zhenzhen’s nickname; Lian is Zhenzhen itself. Think of Zhenzhen, and you see her; see Lian, and you see her as well. As long as she remains in our hearts, as long as she exists in our dreams, as long as there’s a trace of her fragrance left, then summer is still here. Even when there are only withered stems everywhere, even when the sky is filled with fading stars, her soul remains undead. Forever, I wait for you to part your lips, to speak, to utter that word. Those who have loved her will never forget her. Those who have suffered abuse will always have trauma. My scars are shockingly red, in the shape of lotus flowers — Yu Guangzhong, “Forever, We Wait”