XIE JUEXIAO

THREE POEMS

translated by Ben Thompson

small town factory

1

only those who move into distance after dark
can take such solemn steps
those who stay locked in the light
with their easy or dissolute walks
like a floodlit street
fenced from the desolation outside

those who sit in their doorways thirsting for sex
have food, clothes, wood for the fire
plenty to talk about
jars full of salt
and tea enough to get through the winter

only those
going on into the distance
achieve the solemnity
of a crow taking the whole of the dark
of an ant sinking deeper and deeper beneath its tiny body

as the dew falls you pass by the window
as I watch the factory alone reading in the lamplight
your footfall makes my hair stand on end
looks like
it’s father
suddenly back
from the Great Wall

2

rain falls on
the factory yard soaking father’s goods
mother skulks under a 30 watt bulb
hiding from the rust
in the dusk a street corner billboard
stupidly watches little brother
as he slinks home dropped out of school

three years later
little brother gets the dusty workshop machines
with a batch of expired licenses and garbled contracts
he cobbles together engagement gifts
plus
a threadbare wedding feast
with a pockmarked bride
and sets up a cramped warehouse
with his bride’s brother

tear off the demolition seals
open the iron door
check out the beautifully carpentered racks

these two old friends are family now
brooding on their troubles, after a few drinks
they’re interrupting each other
to rake up recollections of twenty years back
when they brought a boatload of timber from Qingyuan
in the old days when they knocked themselves out

3

from the train window you see a place called West Village
my brother’s first love lived there but she married in Guangdong
little sister once had a home here too
in the winter the water made her fingers swell like carrots
her dry cleaning business did hardly any trade

so why mention this village
it's like a tadpole’s tail on the town
the lights from the town shine west
one by one through the dusk
of winter's abruptly cold night
a dog's bark doesn't reach the east but lingers orphaned
in the pitch black
riding the rail to the roar of the train's curse
you linger in your dream of travel

so you really don't need to get off at this little stop
and you don't need a pirate tuktuk
just sigh with relief and come to this lonely factory
that tree you touch was planted by my hand
maybe the stone we pissed on together is still there
but developers have tarmacked the wall and the path
so this summer
you won't wake up to the song of insects in the mud

the letter you sent
never arrived
the 20th century left no decent souvenirs
but only this letter
I asked my friends in West Village time and again
but they sent me doggerel from the new century
plus a badly printed
local gazette

equation solved

those women who showed up on all the right occasions
are worn out now, like
old houses sulking through long rainy days

push open the door and go in
they're
cleaning ladies they
get their pay then
sweep up the chatter of past summer days like fallen leaves

in stylish hats
trooping into another tea house
remembering that breakfast place by the town hall twenty years ago
wearing bright sports shirts eating exotic fish
holding chopsticks rolling up their sleeves postures always the same

this was a snooker hall
then suddenly a trendy badmington court
now it's an arts complex
that cool atelier you mentioned is room 202, by the coffee bar in building 3

when the guests sit the trinkets are cleared off the table
they chatter carelessly about guqin music and stuff
they try three types of tea but no carriage comes
the way time drags makes them fret within

just this cigarette
“we need salt, and a golden bucket, a skull, a horn, an eagle to hold salt”.
but right now we just need a light
someone opposite strikes a match
like a passing headlamp sweeping the wall
no time to get a clear view of your face

it has to be this way
vast declarations light the turbulent sea
raise immense islands
in the wind from the beating wings of migrant birds
build increasingly grand arenas
in the circles and cliques of those loquacious weekday lunches

to those who once passed down the road
head in the clouds or feet on the ground
I want to pay my respects
on the particular path of each curving function
there always seem to be irregular factors
corresponding symmetries or overlaps
but always the same output

a horse goes out

one wet night a horse gets lost and turns up at dawn in another village
it whinnies and looks down the long long road
on the far bank of the river
another horse looks up from its grazing
like a peasant woman startled by a weeping stranger

surely you've seen that troubled traveler
the thing he’s lost is worth far more than a horse
that old man under a tree dodging the rain
handing the passer-by a ball of rice
then balancing his pole of water-cans and heading for town

him and his loyal dog
stagger precariously down the road
the dog hunts for a bite in the markets they pass
making sure to keep clear of other dogs

with the Buddha's protection
however bad the weather
or overpriced the boat
there’s no room for bargaining no matter how polite
first they'll all make for a stop outside town
and get home even more senile and frail
or maybe one will die first in some other place

and this could include
the worried traveler, taking his secrets
or some woman who left home
and the son and daughter she took
but I can never accept
a horse getting lost in the rainy night
and never turning up in the village it started from