Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.
He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell,Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies.
Archaeology of the Morning
Suppose a poem was left forgotten in a dream
in the morning, you stroll through the woods
and add the quacking of ducks
to the list of things that gladden your heart
Everything could just go on like this forever
behind the door you’ve closed, the dust no longer shimmers
no matter how hard you try
those words are like fish slipping back into the deep water
all that you write is but the shadow of that only poem
So you keep walking, keep encountering
faces half-familiar, smiling, nodding, exchanging greetings
as if you could wake up, as if you’ve been sitting all along in the morning sun
a little dazed
A Hometown with No One Left
It will never be better again
it exists nowhere on this earth
how can I possibly fabricate
a painted paradise?
behind the open door lies a stretch of dimness
when the sunlight of memory surges forth
when even the dust carries a faint yellowish warmth
I have long forgotten the sound of your voice
it lingers beyond life, beyond death
whispering of us who are no more
when marble seals my lips
when I have no time to bid you farewell
What to Do, How to Proceed
Let’s just sit on this jutting rock
the afternoon sun still keeps it warm
it is firm and solid, leaning out over the abyss
let’s sit right here, we can talk about this rock
besides the sunlight, it bears traces of weather, traces of moss
time and wind have not loosened it
instead, they have fused it more tightly with the cliff
Autumn has come, gazing at the increasingly high blue sky
I feel old age, like a stone inside my body, growing bigger day by day
one day we will lift it up
and tap the moon that rose, somehow, at an unknown time
look—It is nothing more than a stone that is consistent inside and out
The others have all gone down the mountain one after another
or vanished into the rock crevices around the bend
lights have lit up inside the stones
we still wait for a sudden gust of wind
to snatch us up, like two small stones
and hurl us at a forehead, glowing bright with the rage of innocence
The Abyss and the Stone
I discovered it at five years old, inside me
a place I could never reach
vast, wreathed in smoke, yet sometimes seeming not to exist at all
as if a single leaf could cover it whole
in the middle of play, it would suddenly emerge from the leaves across the way
rooting me to the spot in terror, back then, I’d turn deathly pale
grab a pebble, and slip away from my friends without a word
Words cannot hide it either, it defies all depiction
so, carrying this abyss—now swelling, now shrinking,
now fading, now flaring—I walk in the earthy world
gradually wearing an expression of solemnity ill-suited to my years
like the faint, ominous shadow of an iron ring
stealing over the brightness of summer
I buried my face in books through entire nights, wandered far and wide
at times, I would suddenly fail to recognize my own kin
Now, I often take it out
as pull a stone from my pocket, it is harder than a fist
blazing hot, it glimmers for a moment, then its surface turns black
I will not hurl it at dogs, nor cast it down into the valley
nor boil meat with it in a spring, as primitive men might do
I set it on the mountain, I think
perhaps it will slowly cool
slowly fade away into the variegated rocks and stones
Early Summer on Purple Mountain
In the small puddles left by wheel ruts beside the wild path
float clumps of frog spawn, like swollen, sticky clusters of tiny white grapes
the tadpoles that have already hatched refuse to leave
tadpoles, tadpoles, hurry and grow your legs
the woods are growing denser, and the puddles are drying up
At the end of every desolate trail, there are couples parking to make love
the path merely cuts through the sweltering thicket, curving toward another
springy slope that could shield against cannon fire
where obscure signals flicker at the crest
I have no choice but to live and die inside every frog spawn
On quiet afternoons, the mugwort pulled up exudes a stronger scent
I still find myself thinking about those clumps of frog spawn
it would be better if it rained a few more times
climbing the mountain with butterflies in the rain
the mountains are filled with frogs joyfully carting landmines
croaking loudly, their trousers rolled up just like mine
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