Having a Relationship with a Chinese Man
    -for a young blonde lady 

He walks up to you. You hold his extended hand
When conversing do not look into his eyes
There is night there, and violence
There is a wall, corpses in a heap 
You share a meal. Watch out! Don’t pour soy sauce
Over your rice. He will see blood spattered in snow
Don’t ask what meat you are chewing
A smile will be his only answer  
When his umbrella shields you, don’t say “I love you…”
He will stare at the exhaust pipes of cars
Save the “love” for in bed
You will hear drums from an ancient battleground 
Don’t undress first. His limbs will lose composure
Well, strip then! If you insist on revealing
Your unbearable wound to him—love’s face
A cry will escape his lips: Ah, ocean! 
Don’t talk of the future, talk of now: the waves
Or ways of cooking fish. He will liven up
Close his eyes, sing like a hero in Beijing opera
“Streams flow, flowers fall, spring has run its course!” 
Don’t say your name. Anna, Marie
In his ears, these names become
Aww—Aarh—Whaah--Eeehh
Opaque syllables, like Chinese to you 
Sounds of your name will get jumbled
Emma will become āi-mà [1]; Angel will become àn-jì [2]
But memory—the arm you showered with kisses
Will keep on embracing you, like the Great Wall you climbed  

      [1] Āi-mà means “suffer a tongue lashing” in Chinese.
      [2] Àn-jì means “prostitute in disguise” in Chinese. 



Traveling 

Awake before dawn—yes I, a train rumbles
In the mist. Smeared faces slide past me
By street lights and last night’s lovemaking
My blood-suffused gaze fathoms the empty station   
Birdcalls in the native tongue of condemned prisoners
Scrawl their sounds at the window: “I want to go home!”
On the clock’s snowy face, wolf of memory crawling
Gnaws on the flesh of a child who lost his way  
 
 

Li Bai on New Year’s Night, 1997 

My Yellow River sunset has died out in Scandinavian woods
In Stockholm suburbs, I place wine on the snow
Moonlight goes adrift
I drink, the bark of malicious dogs becomes a whisper
I drink, my forsaken palace shows through heartless markets
Ah, home—it seems so close: half of myself a crazily dancing shadow!          

 

Resume

Name 
A symbol. Has been interrogated
Interrogation will continue. From birth! 
Translation? Rain has no conception
Of the chill that snow experienced 
Fated to suffer interrogation
Like a pushed-over gravestone 
Address 
In Chopin’s nocturnes
Or in the starry heavens that come with drinking 
Nationality 
Hate myself, the language
In this skin—justification for enduring war? 
Faraway place, in another time
I would surely be you 
Birthplace 
Seaside. Heaven for masks
Neon on a manhunt for the moon  
Man sitting in sunlight
Watches a cloudburst of coins from the sky 
Birthdate 
Night below freezing
“You should really have been born in May” 
Marital Status 
Caressed three flowers
Got a feel of three thousand winters

      

Level of Education 

A certain tree. I stood
Beneath it. Spring! 
Birds are singing. When I left
Birds were still singing 
Birds, leaves
Disappear when I return 
Ah, such beauty!
I see every tiny branch and scar 

 

Chinese Calligraphy 

Morning and evening
Swirl around an inkbrush, become black characters
With mother’s instruction: “All is contained in this.
Diligent practice is the route to enduring art!”
Rain lashes all the closed windows
And mistakes made behind them
I go journeying with the same kind of ink
Heaven and sky, why the same meaning?
Clouds laugh without giving answer
Sift down flakes as large as goose down
Putting giant inksticks on exhibit
All is contained in this
An inkbrush reincarnated for a thousand years—I keep writing
The land exhibits characters written by the dead
The sky gazes down upon them
Quickly it lays out a vast sheet of rice paper.
Continue this diligent practice! 
 
 

Paris in an Instant

The oceanic Louvre—let us put down anchor in coffee
But dusk would have us set forth
The Seine! A seventeenth century bridge. A young woman
Leans at the railing. Palaces, spires, afterglow
Inky green plane trees—she is the centerpiece
Of this monumental city—a rose in your eyes
Holy mother in your heart—suddenly
Down
She plunges, like a parcel. Bells of Notre Dame
Toll down the darkness of heaven 

 

Kafka in January 1989

Walled city streaming with people. He stands
At the station exit, a pair of bashful eyes 
“My name is Kafka” He steps up to help with my bag:
“I am willing to be your guide!” 
We look into each others eyes.
I follow him. This kind of following is reading 
Coal no one wants is strewn about---snow in drifts
A trolley crawls along dragging dejection 
Leftward, rightward, straight ahead
I follow him. I am his shadow 
“That metal-domed building is the opera house,”
Says Kafka with a smile, “But it is closed.” 
The old city. An imposing bronze stature
“That is Jan Hus…..500 years ago…” 
A Nikon is slung at my chest,
Kafka narrows his eyes to look 
“This thing…what does it cost?”
“Umm…not quite 900 dollars” 
Kafka’s eyes shoot stars
Scenery spins a roulette wheel around him. Where am I? 
“Sir, would you care for some coffee?”
Kafka sees the giddiness of his counterpart----the reader 
At the mention of coffee, before us appears
A coffee shop, baroque in style. We walk in 
“Check your coat, this place is heated
And your camera…is too heavy to carry!” 
We sit down. The Prague-style coffee
Initiates an East-West dialogue 
“May I ask, have you been to Beijing?”
“No, but I think Beijing must be an even bigger fortress…” 
Silence. Stimulating coffee
Savors the chance encounter of two strangers 
“Please wait a moment!”
Kafka’s tone is severe. “My father 
Awaits me across the street”
With that, Kafka walks away. With that, Kafka is gone for good! 
From the Charles Bridge, a scene like in a painting
I gaze at eddies under the bridge 
A seagull circles over my head
“I am Kafka. I took away the camera 
That turned you into a beetle. Due to me
You will break away from lingering in this fortress”