Helen and Yongbo
Fantastic Collection by Ma Yongbo
Everyday I hope to add something to my collection
Coins, crumpled bills, a bottle of air
some words and some broken sentences
things and the names of things
piled together in a haphazard manner
Sometimes they are confused with each other
Some banknotes are missing, you can find them as a record
"Some banknotes were flattened and bought a frozen angel"
That's the name of a type of ice cream
It often goes like this: soap, "throat"
Composed as - "a bar of soap stuck in summer's throat"
And "reason" and "work shed" are automatically formed
"The terrible shed of reason" appears on one page
One day I found myself like a hawker
Silently walking through the low shed
Things keep turning into words then disappearing
The key of the disappearing entity is inserted into the keyhole of the word
opening the drawer of language
Unfinished poems, a letter written and ready to be sent, an inscription behind a photo
They are between words and entities
Because they need a pair of reading eyes
to become a complete word
"There are no snakes in the drawer", that is to say
There is no snake in the drawer, but there is a copy of the snake
Harmless, but enough to give me chills
Let me hear the sound of it breathing
It's similar to not having a woman in the room
But life does not become simpler
If your girlfriend suddenly disappears
You'll find her in my drawer
However, she has been broken into irrelevant parts:
Thighs, face, chest, hair
There is no discernible personality anymore
Such as the flow of eyes and the lightness of waist
There are fewer and fewer things on earth
And my ambition is not very big
Next time I will collect a stockyard
and a gas company that is being demolished
Those toy-like red cars
Advance and retreat in an orderly manner
I have been observing for a long time: they are always
Moving the rusty iron to the innermost place
The workers haven't noticed yet
that they have become verbs
and have been moving the nouns around
They no longer get currency that can be circulated
A bottle filled with fine sand spins on the windowsill
I dream every day that there is one more grain of sand
That will slowly bury me
Waking up from such a dream, I decided
to transform some words into things:
turn poems into lead type and banknotes
Let telegrams chase people who are turning into scenery
Throw the bottle and sand separately into the middle of the river
When everything stops, I find
I am also a word collected by Silence
27 June 1995, translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
You Are Your Own Distance by Ma Yongbo
For many people, you are the distance,
they believe you have already arrived,
in a world with scenery they can’t imagine,
but you are always in your own body.
The green mountains, clear waters, deserts and clouds you’ve seen
all become distant places you can never reach again
even if you return there
they still cannot become real,
like a sailboat, going farther and farther on the vast sea
yet it seems to be slowly sinking
you are the distant place you cannot reach
you live in a place where you are not
you travel motionlessly, like an empty seat,
neither can you reach any external things
they are just tide,not belong to any reef
also, you cannot go deeper inside yourself
or wear the weather inside out like an old sweater.
You don't exist in yourself,
you are everything you experience
the night storms, the clear sky in the distance
you call, and the one who answers you
is always a strange neighbour
you are a door without a door frame or hinges,
opening and closing with a distant slam
you exist between here and there,
like a soft measuring tape,
continuously measuring, folding, and shortening,
but you can never compress the distance into a pinecone,
a withered, dark yellow universe, rolling into the distance,
your own emptiness amidst the fallen leaves.
28 September 2016, translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
I Walk towards a White Horse by Ma Yongbo
I walk towards a white horse
it has been standing beside the city's huge square
next to the carcass of an overturned wooden carriage
I don't have a whip or a saddle
my steps like frost falling on the ground
Surrounded by huge red brick chimneys
soot falls behind
it endures
I walk towards it and it waits for me
still farther away, becoming more and more blurry
I still can't see clearly the yellow expression in its eyes
dirty snowdrifts surrounding its neck like a shaggy mane
I walk towards it
dark night is coming
it endures alone
high above the chimney and falling snow
High above the stone walls of the city, in a starry sky
looking down at the drunken crowd under the pillars
it’s made of wood, black as armour in the firelight
I'm still walking towards it
holding my head which continues to turn white
2005, translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
The beauty of Daylight by Ma Yongbo
The beauty of her day is presentable, cinched at the waist
She meets talkative companions at the door, reserved and silent
In the girls' school, she studies proverbs, contemplates, and walking properly
In the girls’ school, she studies proverbs, contemplates, and walks
Collecting clovers, reciting poems, her laughter
Makes solemn people both sad and foolish
This stern beauty grows day by day
Advancing with the wind, loving things we’ve never seen
Her beauty rejects the world, mocking our passion
Who is she consorting with, immersed in secrecy
In the dim coolness of the inner chamber, how many white dresses does she own?
Those who have touched these lips must not be ordinary mortals
Who can uncover their identity? By dawn
They are dew on the grass, a wisp of dawn on the horizon
Or a wave retreating into the depths of dense fog
How can she, so proud, submit to a mortal body?
This is her, destined to experience fire, miracles, and countless generations
Experiencing countless men, heroes, and demons
Yet pure as if untouched. This is her
Squandering the ocean, the river tinged with ashes in its mouth, cavalry and fleets
Letting us endure hardships on the vast misty sea
When the hometown returning moon raises our bones, she remains youthful
Her slender feet crossing streams and white rocks, seeking hermits
She has forgotten us, forgotten she was an excuse for gods’ mistakes
Her beauty calms the setting sun, makes the river higher than the roof
Time, stars, expeditions, how much blood and land
All become one spring dream of hers.
28 June 1995, translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024
Heavenly Messenger by Ma Yongbo
The effective time is running out
You've been venturing in the mortal realm for fifty-five years
Your mission is yet to be completed.
You continuously observe human society
And ponder what has gone wrong with its culture
Why humanity has suffered deeply for millennia
All ideologies proving futile
exacerbating the situation instead.
You know you've had many lives
By the banks of the Ganges, you've drunk and bathed horses
Letting red mud slip from the folds of your clothes
You've seen golden towers stand tall
Only to crumble into ruins
With spiral staircases leading nowhere
Hanging on walls like mere adornments
In the golden light of temples filled with floating particles
You've deciphered cuneiform inscriptions on clay tablets
You've also gazed upon the wings of clouds in a prince's garden
Standing with a spear in the ranks, silently sorrowful
Time has passed, candles flicker
It seems it's all too late
Your vision is blurred, words wriggle like worms
You struggle to use stiff fingers
To hold down the raised heads of sentences
Prevent them from devouring their own tails
So you can extract the clues within their segments
In truth you’ve had many lives
But this time, it's only once
You will not return to this intriguing yet enigmatic world
Your sorrow feels familiar
It's not just your sorrow
But the collective sorrow of humanity and all beings
It's the nostalgia and ontology of the universe
So you momentarily pause amidst the crowd
Seemingly capture from the chaos
Those faint yet resolute messages
Transmitted through the increasingly sparse treetops
And with childlike curiosity once again
You eagerly observe everything passing by
The chaotic yet ordered activities of humanity
The desire-driven gears beneath those beautiful exteriors
The winding and unwinding sounds only you can hear
Filled with sympathetic understanding and a hint of disdain
18 October 2018, translated by Helen Pletts & Ma Yongbo 2024