“Note Poem 601” by Yu Jian

Chinese poet 于坚 Yu Jian

• 601

旋转木马停了
雨还在下
几个刚刚长大的少年
抱着头跑进雨中

• 601

The merry-go-round’s stopped
but the rain goes on.
Youths just out of childhood
hood heads in hands
— Run for it!

Translated by Simon Patton

For the World’s Snail Racers

People are also going on about horse racing, but who ever stops to remember the poetry of snail racing? For all the childhood snail racers of the world, this photograph is for you . . . And remember, in snail racing no one ever wins.

What Do Marigolds Mean?

I grew up in a house in Repton Road, a street that ran along Ardrie Park in East Malvern. We loosened a couple of planks in the back fence to make our own private entrance into Escape. Then we’d disappear for hours into acres of parentless green.

In those days, the park had its own dedicated gardener, who lived in a special residence tucked away in a secluded corner. Everything was properly looked after, and the displays of flowers in Spring and Summer were incredible. I think I went to school with the gardener’s daughter, Julie Pora her name was, if I remember correctly. We were in the same class but, strangely, I don’t remember ever seeing her in the park her father remade for us day after day after day.

Drystone Wall, White Gum Road

If every rock were a word, what sort of text would this be? One to stand the test of time in all weathers, it would seem.

Hong Kong Brooms

During my recent trip to Hong Kong in November, I kept taking pictures of brooms. I’m not sure why. Perhaps deep down by nature I happen to be a sweeper.

Here’s an image from Tai Wai, just out of Sha Tin.

A Lubber’s Voyage (Kau Sai Chau 滘西洲)

 

I find my feet in that sharp dip and swell of the sea
a simple, sudden pleasure ― balance
taken for granted on long dry land
is by miracle restored
on a strip of green water, bobbing
casually like a grand cork a trim wood-boat
en route to the island of Kau Sai Chau.
For a change, this liquid element
takes over dictation of my fundamental rhythm
to immerse me physically in contactile music
soles hear first through the tone-deaf thickness of shoes.
Near 象鼻洞 Elephant Trunk Cave
with its shadowy O-mouth maw
I elevator-plunge past the ground floor of myself,
only to bounce back almost instantly taller
than I ever remember leaving my bones.
Here a fishing boat; there the flash ferry
driven with force down a broad ocean fairway
out to that whole-turf haven ―
the unthinkable Public Golf Course ―
while black kites skimming invincible overhead currents
track from on high
exactly what it is I can never make out
as I go on adjusting my muscle-bound frame
to up-down-up-again maritime being.