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| Ma Yongbo |
While still alive they no longer by Ma Yongbo
While still alive they no longer exchanged words,
just like changing smoothed whole notes into change,
they had become coins with shining, or dimming patterns,
lying in their own small boxes; not saying a word
not knowing whether the other was alive.
The scenery, or storm, that they had once faced together
becoming a picture on their wall; getting smaller and smaller.
Even with a magnifying glass, it was no longer clearly visible,
one walking fast on the muddy path, hat pressed on.
Is it his own past, or someone else's future?
How rapidly enthusiasm distills; like a ship arriving at the port
unloading only clouds. The ship has no mast.
Without sails, it rises from the nameless seabed,
holds the painted wave-breaking figurehead to the sky.
9 January 2020,
Translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
On seeing Yongping again by Ma Yongbo
You lay in a small brick house in the snow and ice
for a whole night, your death is dark and silent
"You’ve changed a little", it’s changed a lot, your face is a little longer
I lean over to look at you, whispering
“eldest brother, How did things come to this ?”
You don’t answer me. Hush, don't let anyone hear,
do you hear the wind behind the wall?
The people next door are getting up and putting on their clothes
they are about to cough, these are the coldest days of winter
"Why are you so heavy, brother?"
I can't say it, the more I say it, the heavier he gets
There are only a few people, only I to carry you at one end
I still have strength, I'm still your likeness
a younger brother as tall as a black oak
I don't want to be called a poplar or a birch anymore
That's too young, I need to be a little seasoned
Let's go smoke in the snowy ground
Since you don't like crowds anyway
We’ll keep the long ash in the air
The snowy ground is fresh, no footprints
"When a person dies, there is nothing left."
You are always indifferent, you never smile,
you occasionally let out the last maniacal laughter of a lone warrior
you rarely speak, never showing any emotion on your sallow face
but I can distinguish all the subtle changes,
a form without form, just like your poems.
Your life was too serious, and your death is much easier,
which is exactly what you would have wanted.
19 August 2021
(on January 10, 2020, my brother died suddenly
of cerebral haemorrhage.This poem records the last time I saw
my brother. Just like sending my mother, I carried my eldest brother
into the fire with my own hands.
The handle of the iron cart was particularly cold.)
Translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
Abstraction of Distance by Ma Yongbo
You stand far away, emerging occasionally
with a "miss you" uttered into the void,
leaning against trees unfamiliar to me,
plucking flowers from beneath leafy armpits;
you are women and fruits,
or magpies measuring land every morning.
Sometimes, I pinch the flattened stem's concave
where softness persists, carrying dampness and depth,
I sniff the scent, then wipe away fingerprints
on the rough bark.
Yet the vivid fruits, once operated on,
can’t even fill Cézanne's pockets anymore.
"Miss you," a battery worn to its core,
forgives me with death, but this time,
I'll walk by, hands tucked deeper into my pockets.
22 February 2009
Translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
Stomach Ache by Ma Yongbo
You're not adept at talking yet,
unaware of what's happening inside you
you just cry, cry, cry.
We’re all clueless about what's happening inside us
we, are beyond reach, even to ourselves;
unlike sweaters worn inside out, we can't be turned.
You cry all night, you cry incessantly,
occasionally dozing off from exhaustion,
only to be wrenched awake by pain again.
We're exhausted, like newlyweds returning home;
a narrow bed rocking like a canoe.
Were you a foot long back then?
Your whole body flushed red, eyes dark, like horror movies
the pain in places we can't see or reach.
Even Mum cries, unable to find her way to you,
as if you were a butterfly, drifting alone in the dark abyss;
the ropes we cast down, no matter how thick, can't reach you.
Placing you on Mum’s belly,
you lie there, wanting to return inside.
It's warm and safe there, with faintly glowing water.
You lie there, one hand can cover you completely,
listening to Mum’s breath, finally falling asleep.
The pain takes root in my stomach, evil crimson roots
twisting downward. I, no longer have a Mum.
28 June 2009
Translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
On Sea Bound Road by Ma Yongbo
On sea bound road, a group of people dance and frolic,
bright coloured like the ripe fruits of June,
multicoloured like bird feathers in the south breeze,
they are heading to the sea for weddings, some old, some new.
On the sea bound road, you and I walk,
far away from the crowd, elbowing apart the dense sunlight,
the roadside beehives hum with golden honey,
in the woods, angels fed by radishes reside.
We sing ode to love, merrily striding on the main road.
Our ship is in the bottle,
our drinks are in our bones,
As we pass the ridge, we see flashes,
the sea ahead, calling us.
A train of emerald like mountains, an express in summer,
gradually turns yellow, then white, dragging dark clouds of woods,
offering another possibility,
grains fallen after the climax lie scattered over the wild,
the cotton bracelet sinks into a small pool.
We go forward, singing, dancing, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes,
the gleam of the sea lights up the sky,
a red farmer's family guards the pottery workshop.
Lobsters who know the secrets of the seabed, prickly strawberries and unripe fruits,
beeches and Caucasian walnuts form the sky of lovers,
red drops of water hang high above the seaside market,
in the fishing village, our scattered names are passed down.
Scenery shifts within scenery, stone within stone,
we are on the road, never turning our backs.
We've been walking for many years, pondering for many years,
but never reached the golden coast,
some have turned into singing green shade,
their backpacks thrown on the roof, standing in the fields gazing,
they are calm at heart, free crops growing towards the seaside.
The song gradually fades, another person leaves the main road,
his stare deepening the pond,
believing his blurry image won't disappear,
we release our hands, the stones in the sky are glaring,
on the sea bound road, two lively trails of smoke walk.
2 February 1991
Translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
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| Helen Pletts |
the parachutes of thistle down by Helen Pletts
before I split, separate, drift,
I hear the blackbird’s
black notes,
ending the daylight;
a night-sound warning
breaking me apart.
Each part of me recedes
in a flimsy skirt of white
upturned, unstable
on a chilled breeze.
The borrowed diagonals
of frost into softness,
white-fraying,
dispersing, twisting
into the earth’s grey particles.
3 July 2024
dolls eyes by Helen Pletts
black and beady
I think of Myfanwy
the smallest of arms
hang off metal rings
legs devoured by moths
her layered human hair
flipped back in the drawer
under my mothers purple jumper
did she just sigh as I moved her
the eyes stir, rocked ajar
with a slight cradle movement
her plaster-doll-death
drew two pools of dark
to sink the earth
and every living thing
besides it
