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A collection of poems from ʫ���(http://www.poetrysky.com). Translated by Henry and Jin Lei.

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Downpour in a Small Town

Dawn breaks to rain outdoors
And indoors it is dark
Drumming rain
Wets the old tree and the grapevine outside my window
Back in the courtyard that has long been my home
And my thoughts turn
To a summer's day spent in a small town in another province
When the noise of the morning market woke me from slumber

I walked through market streets
Whose shop eaves dripped with rain
Packed with people under umbrellas
Under abutting eaves of wooden houses
Amid the accents of another place
A brimming gentle stream
Going gradually
From one street to the next
Through handbaskets laden with greens
And dripping bunches of flowers
Fused by pouring rain into a painted southern screen
And the little town in another province
With its aroma of cut flowers
Warmed me deeply as I walked
Back to my narrow lodgings
With intimacy even of rain

As if after supper in the still courtyard
Of my northern home
My daughter tired with daylong play
Murmured in the somniloquy of first sleep
And sometimes now raindrops on the vine trellis
Infuse cool deep into a summer's night
Like those tuberoses calling


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A Small Forgotten Station on the Plateau

We walked in the solitude of afternoon
To a little hillside station
In Open land under a crag on the plateau
With no one to be seen
And encroaching sand sparkling gold
In the sunlight on the right of the road
Far off two chasing dogs
Swerved down from the roadbed
And plunged into exhausted bushes

The mad lorry 
Threw us off and vanished quickly
In a trail of dust
Round the bend of the hill road
And all sound stopped
In direct sunlight

The lad coming to meet us in railway uniform
Broke off his slow whistling
And we knew from his interrogative gaze
That we were doomed to be abandoned here
The distant little station
Looked almost forgotten by trains
Swaying in the steaming draught
Of the July plateau
Lonelier than a traveller from distant parts


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Instants

Sometimes the neighbour's pigeons land on my windowledge
Cooing softly
Where the great poplar at the window has somehow
    grown beyond the fourth-floor roof
They skim round its crown and back
The sunlight on their fluffy feathers
Alive day by day

I keep coming indoors empty-handed
And throwing book and jacket on the bed
As the days hurry by
I can bring scarcely anything home
Even after days away
Only you remain and the little room
Living day by day

We have grown used
By an unspoken pact to the room's breadth
A pair of pigeons cooing softly on the windowledge
Which at many instants belong to us
Day by day
Dust that falls on book spines gradually yellows
Perhaps it is otherwise
That life, if it does, provides
I know that the unwitting request is not excessive
And that summer turns to autumn
Perhaps fallen leaves will swirl after a night of rain

It does not mean a return to green shade deep in sunlight
A house-cleaning when leisure affords
Feelings may come on latent even as 
Irrelevancies are spoken softly
The instant when a first trembling on the lips teaches you happiness

Lasts till the end of life
A request always voiced unwittingly


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Late Winter Snow

I have come to you
To spend the calmest time of year in peace

The fire need not be very bright
It is warm enough here
To sleep awhile unwittingly
Dreaming of youth

Against the brown wooden partition
I can almost hear
The somewhat distressed humming
The old country house
May no longer be there
With pinks growing slowly on the windowsill

Late winter snows float down twilight by twilight
To be heard in the solitude against the glass
And through the window illuminated by snowflakes
The old tree's crotches seem swarthier
And the sound of melting snow falling from the eaves
Keeps me long from sleep

And in my youth
I did not sleep till Mother
Having slaved daylong
From one room to the next
Tucked in my coverlet
So the snowflakes gradually tuck in memory of the past
And I faintly hear
Twigs fall 
And the kettle singing
On the warm fire


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Flute in Rain

This is the sound of a flute
In waves of twilight rain
Days beyond our sight
The autumn speaks again
To a young man
Distant and strange

The past
Is clearer than any book describes
Yellow leaves blew
Over the campus
In a season clear and high
Drawing that wonderful cool sense of emptiness

Yellow leaves always
But that pure flute fills the way
Like wandering a July plateau 
Boundless grass in rolling hills
Hooves in the midnight clay

Yet I still hear the past
Old autumn's footfalls
Outside this high window
Pigeons flashed at dusk
On whose balcony do they now roost?
The sound of a flute drifts loosely,
  drifts into distant space


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����ѩһֱû��Ʈ����

Still It hasn't Snowed

Not from the meter of water or music
But from unnamed rhythm and gloom
A voice more tempting than mystery
You don't need to know who you are
Fantasy won't find you in a crowded bar

with that possibility, still it hasn't snowed

Nobody knows the love between peach trees
Sparrows fly from the courtyard wall
After the season of untouched flowers
Everyone passing will feel differently
How do people love each other?
Sometimes they're more distant than trees

And still it hasn't snowed
Although immersed in the leaden sky
Fantasy's front holds passion down
Perhaps the low clouds of unfallen snow
Never know
The feeling of letting go
Perhaps you might not say so then

But still it hasn't snowed


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The Sound of Dripping

The steady sound of dripping in the kitchen
And you are struck mercilessly
Outside the midnight dream

The girl who went astray in the grey streets
Pierced the time of street-end greens and vanished
     flowing water
And is no longer young
But one man's inner lustre can illuminate her
Lighting up the years
And others' impartial judgement

You wrap up well and hurry through the mist
Of autumn rain blown down by cold wind
And its ceaseless traffic
And the family in the skyscraper
Stands still behind your back in the murky rain

Life may pinch now
But water still drips ceaselessly through interstices of fate
And the ineffable conclusions
Keep up their torment

Which is perhaps why
People avoided you in the first days
And he understood under the open umbrella
The truth in the line in the old man's poem
That the grace of God flows on to a metal skeleton

People differ
What did the umbrella keep off besides the rain

A dim ray of light
Through all that is familiar produces profound anguish
And you toss and turn as you dream

And then you often hear outside the midnight dream
The steady sound of dripping in the kitchen


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It Is Spring And It Is Not

Spring it is and it is not
She is nice, but cruel as well
Ever far away
Covered in the mist were the fields
Spring reaches as far as it can
To promote the roots growing
I approach you quietly without your awareness
Love goes on concretely but mysteriously
Smoothly you turn around 
Spring flowers to embrace into your breast

Spring it is and it is not
Warm breeze sweeps through the woods
Golden desire flashes in green flames
Sparks and glitters, sparks and glitters
to weave the net of feelings
Spring it is and it is not
The season is such for us
This is what I want to tell you


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