“Cricket Song” – Yu Guangzhong’s Memories of His Childhood
Thread Content
“Ode to the Cricket” by Yu GuangzhongA week before the Mid-Autumn Festival, a new guest appeared in my kitchen—timid and alone. No one knew how it got there or when it would leave; all that could be heard was a faint, intermittent melody coming from the corner of the refrigerator—a pastoral tune that sounded both mysterious and delightful. It was a delicate, thin melody, clear and soothing, with those trembling syllables that evoked memories of childhood. Threads of autumnal thoughts kept emerging, endless, as if delicate antennae gently touching the dewy grasslands. At night, the kitchen was bathed in moonlight; the silhouettes of pots and pans against the light, along with the rows of bottles of various heights—all of these inspired awe. Was it the same cricket that escaped during my childhood? After forty years, has it returned to call me? At night, when everything is quiet and the stove is turned off, there’s another kind of activity, like that on the Thai border—smugglers moving about, cockroaches scurrying around. But it doesn’t matter; the flute continues to play its gentle tunes. At the window where dreams meet the moonlight, it creates a beautifully serene sound
It’s that very cricket. Taiwanese poet Mr. Y said, “When I hear crickets chirping at night while abroad, I think it’s the same ones I heard in the countryside of Sichuan.” ” It’s that very cricket—its steel-like wings making a sound as it flies through the golden breeze; it leaps across the strait and silently lands above Taipei, in your yard. Night after night, it sings. It’s the same cricket that was mentioned in “Bing Feng · Qi Yue,” in “Tang Feng · Xi Qu,” in “Nineteen Ancient Poems.” It sang by Mulan’s loom, and it was also mentioned in Jiang Kui’s poems. Workers have heard it, and so have women longing for their loved ones. It’s the same cricket that sang by the roads in the mountains, on the watchtowers of the Great Wall, in the courtyards of inns, and among the weeds in battlefields. Lonely travelers have heard it, as have wounded soldiers. It’s the same cricket that sings in your memories, and in my memories too—it sings of the joys of childhood, and of the loneliness of middle age. It reminds us of bamboo cages, of lanterns by the fences, of mooncakes, of osmanthus flowers, of pomegranates full of pearls, of fallen leaves from our hometowns, of remaining lotus flowers in the ponds, of geese flying south, of piles of straw in the fields, of mothers calling us to put on more clothes. It reminds us of how time slips away quietly, little by little. It’s the same cricket that sings on this side of the strait, and on the other side as well. It sings in the alleys of Taipei, in the villages of Sichuan. It sings wherever Chinese people go. Its song is more monotonous than even the simplest melodies, and its sound is more harmonious than any other sound. When it turns into water, it becomes dewdrops; when it turns into light, it becomes fireflies. When it turns into a bird, it becomes a partridge, singing in the hearts of those who long for home. It’s the same cricket that sings outside your window, and outside my window. You are listening, you are thinking. I am listening, I am chanting. You must be able to guess what I’m chanting. I can guess what you’re thinking about. Chinese people have their own way of thinking, and they have their own ears
This poem really suits this season; the sound of crickets accompanies the act of weaving clothes to keep warm
Express one's thoughts through the details of everyday life.