Leng-Shuang
Two poems translated from the Chinese by Jennifer Wong
Walnut tree
A magnetic head in its spinning cycle.
At dawn, let the rain
cease behind the tree hedges.
A bird lifts its foot and taps at the door,
while another bird sings like a girl
learning how to convey herself precisely
at the corner of the library.
A man practices martial art in the same way
as if he is dealing with a romance:
pushing away the mist with both hands,
his eyes remain transfixed and imprisoned by it
Or, at exactly the same moment when everything is
focused on the shadow, another set of eyes seem to
mislead me, make me believe in other things:
that for instance, some violence can be beautiful,
like ice that wraps around a lightning-protection blade,
like new architecture gnawed by insects over the last two weeks,
and the various birdsongs, quickly colonizing
this walnut tree. In this cold air
countless sturdy flags emerge, their greenness
deepen, as if the wind contains some coloring—
And all morning I have been lamenting about this.
The sketch of a shadow
1.
The constellation bears a glint like a train track—
He sits at the window. Why does he feel as if there is
a thin-necked bottle shaking inside his body, as if
a train is carrying this bottle as it speeds along?
Such quiet, such gliding. A shadow emerges from
another shadow, and endangered witchcraft. He cannot
reveal his obsessions. Dew-laden, the varnished
observatory is being eroded by the wind.
So what can he hold on to? In this wintry festival,
this slippery night, a girl—chubby like a piggy bank—
brushes past him, holding a freshly-sealed letter,
a pale blue negative ion.
Wouldn’t it be great to turn into a mere postbox.
Sadly, he compares himself to a typo.
2.
She dreams of a train thundering through the trees
from which a troop leaps down, digs her pulse.
The green train well-washed by rain
is just bacteria spread from her to her lovers.
Loving a person is to feel confused and fooled
by love, for love is a cut and paste, a matter of
rags, scissors and films, seems like
rules being scattered, for love is a rule.
She hides in the shadow, as if the scenery
must inhabit silence, although she is also ashamed of
her fantasy to read love letters alone in a moving tractor.
And to find that she or her maternal grandmother
is weaving at the doorsteps, a ball of yarn:
plump arms, singing the lotus song, alone.
3.
Before the next story, he is momentarily fazed
as the page fills with dust.
On his forehead his tiger’s fur grows.
More and more protruding faces emerge from his face.
A hidden celebration, some guests came uninvited.
The candles are dancing with their partners.
The wind shakes the houses, making such heavy noises.
The soft tongue of the clock turns brusquely in the tango.
The echoes make the room seem like a warehouse.
Some day, a shadow will open the door for him.
Fate will lead to fate, while books will propagate books.
A small new flame ignited by a dying candle.
This indigo trinity—church, home,
prison—which he gazes at, enraptured.