Springcome

Back in Illinois after a brief but wonderful stay in the deep South with my blogger friend and pen pal PinkAppleCore. I'm very very broke (but in an okay way), finishing up a choreography project for my dance class, hoping to overnight myself this weekend to DC with a group from my college to join the march for immigration reform.

The snow is completely gone, and I haven't worn my coat since I got back. Days are as stressful as ever, but full of delight. The following poem, from a beautiful anthology of modern Chinese poetry that I'm reading right now, seems fitting. Soak it in.


Let the Wind Recite

1
If I could write you
A poem of summer, when reeds
Spread vigorously, when sunshine
Swirls around your waist and
Surges toward your feet
Standing asunder, when a new drum
Cracks in the heat; if I,

Rocking gently in a skiff
Immersed to the twelfth notch,
Could write you a poem of autumn,
When sorrow crouches on the riverbed
Like a golden dragon, letting torrents and rapids
Rush and splash and swirl upward
From wounded eyes; if I could write you

A poem of winter
To finally bear witness to the ice and snow,
The shrunken lake,
The midnight caller
Who interrupts a hurried dream,
In which you are taken to a distant province,
Given a lantern, and told to
Sit quietly and wait,
No tears allowed;

2
If they would not allow you
To mourn for spring
Or allow you to knit,
If they said,
Sit down quietly
And wait --
A thousand years later,
After spring
Summer would still be
Your name—They would bring you
Back, take away
Your ring
And your clothes,
Cut your hair short,
And abandon you
By the edge of the persevering lake—
Then you would belong to me at last.

You would belong to me at last.
I would bathe you
And give you a little wine,
A few mint candies,
And some new clothes.
Your hair would
Grow again, back to the way it was
Before. Summer would still be your name.

3
Then I would write you
A poem of spring, when everything
Begins anew.
So young and shy,
You would glimpse a reflection of the mature you. I would let you shed tears freely;
I would design new clothe and make a candle for your wedding night.

Then you would let me write
A poem of spring on your bosom
In the rhythm of a heartbeat, the melody of blood,
With the image of the breasts and the metaphor of a birthmark;
I would lay you on the warm surface of the lake
And let the wind recite.


- Yang Mu
trans. Michelle Yeh