Do numbers count? Exactly how much is the anniversary of a mystery? When I finished school with a diploma in you, we took up all our time, meaning those myriad minor-finer details of How? Why? Where? What? Who? hardly ever made even half a lip-print on memory. Those first few Eden leaves grew up largely unnoticed — seamless and quite ruly — there where loving makes a living out of dearth, in all its forms . . . In the three spheres, in the nine heavens, in the eighteen unspeakably shameless hells it is you-you-you whom I with my triple hammered stutter call SOLE and SINGLE WONDER of the WORLD.
To write in sickly pink ink HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! on a plain lethal war-drone and to decorate your message with clumsy, childish sketches of a wrapped beribboned gift, of sky-high starburst fireworks, of a bulbous, cartoon bomb (BOOM) and to fire it in the direction of ice-cold-blooded civilian manslaughter, before pulling in your mind’s eye’s mirror that all-too-humanly inhuman face.
The rain has no space in it for hopelessness or hope — its tactile aural braille spells away everestless longing for elsewhere’s president drift. Drop to drop, it is the one identical tranquil outpour, gentle beyond the creep of thought, idea’s nadir. An empty bedroom heard through rain is what sleep’s marvellous nervous system must sound like from within, if we could sleep and wake — both listening and lucid — in exactly the same time.
I had my hair cut last week right here on the stone veranda. Now, a diligent wattlebird strand by strand extracts the scattered silver filaments off moss. I find it heartening to think that this soft most dispensable part of myself could help Spring’s best, next brood hatch a fraction less harshly out into this world.
One day you will wash your hands of their grip — no more grasping, clenching, holding on and on and on for dear life. Smooth out your palms in that otherworldly water and wonder: “And so, where did they go to, my fists?” In Winter, rinse them under the bathroom’s warm tap, while in Summer dip them if you can in some cool pool or in the salt marine green of a sea. A brand-nude world will meet you at your fingertips — feel your hands heal; feel them hale, whole; and remember the colossal agile whale, she whose heart is neither here nor there and who hoards to the end not one drop in her giant fins.
I’m enamoured of a contour made by the mind when it comes to an understanding. A woman with query in her voice is gratefully enlightened by an answer from her friend. O, she says, and her O riddles its way through extravagant intonation, rising steeply — in imitation of strong doubts — then falling buoyant with relief back to clarity’s sand floor. I thought: She might have been standing in ocean up to her armpits, first elevated by a transit wave against gravity, before allowing herself to be dropped — thrilled and informed — back in a fresh calm’s certified wake.
In six sweet minutes, the Hong Kong poet 廖偉棠 Liu Wai-tong talks poetry, giving you the many benefits of his long years as a writer. One of my favourite moments comes when he asks
我哋（嘅）語言點樣從一個美麗嘅事物 | 慢慢變成咗我哋日常中我哋只係將佢作為種工具嚟使用呢？
which means, roughly, “Why has our language gone from being such a beautiful thing to a mere tool we make use of in our daily lives?” Perhaps that sentence alone will be enough to start you thinking along poetic lines . . .
From the Cantonese perspective, there is plenty of vocabulary to take away from Liu’s video. Items include 覺悟 gok3 ngh6 = ① come to realize ② consciousness; 歸結 gwāi1 git3 = to sum up; to put in a nutshell; 獨一無二 duhk6 yāt1 mòuh4 yih6 = unique; unparalleled; unmatched; 瘋狂 fūng1 kòhng4 = ① insane ② frenzied; unbridled; 打磨 dáa2 mòh4 = to polish; to burnish; to shine; 素材 sou3 chòih4 = source material (of literature & art); 外星人 ngoih6 sīng1 yàhn4 = a person from outer space; an extra-terrestrial being; an alien; and 習以為常 jaahp6 yíh5 wàih4 sèuhng4 = be used to sth.; be accustomed to sth.
You can watch the video here (the subtitles are, for a nice change, in Cantonese!). For my transcription, notes and very unpoetical English translation, please see below.
● 覺悟 gok3 ngh6 = ① come to realize ② consciousness | ● 解答 gáai2 daap3 = to answer | ● 要素 yiu3 sou3 = essential factor; key element | ● 歸結 gwāi1 git3 = to sum up; to put in a nutshell | ● 先驗 sīn1 yihm6 = a priori | ● 超驗 chīu1 yihm6 = transcendental | ● 指向 jí2 heung3 = (?) to point at; to refer to | ● 交織 gāau1 jīk1 = to intertwine; to interweave; to mingle | ● 挖掘 waat3 gwaht6 = to excavate; to unearth
Caption: Liu Wai-tong | Poets on Poetry
Hello, everyone. I am Liu Wai-tong. I am very happy to be able to share with you here today some of the things I have come to realize [覺悟] about poetry. Actually, what I mainly wish to give you answers to are three common questions about poetry.
Caption: What are the elements of a good poem?
The first question is about what the key elements of a poem are. Actually, there are many answers to this question. As far as I am concerned, it can be summed up by three key elements: that which is prior to experience, experience [itself] and that which transcends experience. This makes it sound like a philosophical issue, but actually, for a poet, that which precedes experience refers to feelings. Because the feelings of a poet are interwoven with the many different feelings of the whole of humanity in its development through history, when we write poetry, we are valuing, treasuring and excavating the sources of our own feeling.
By means of this excavation, we can attain to a kind of collective emotion [共情] with our readers, with other poets [同行] and with artists [working in different media]. With regard to experience, this is extremely important. Living here in this world, we might have spent a dozen or so years — or several decades — meeting with both many, many unique [experiences of our own] as well as feelings common to other people in [this] city as a whole, or in this period of time. What we have to do is — from the perspective of reason — to salvage something belonging to our collective wisdom from [all this]. This wisdom can be something extremely minor, or it can be something extremely major, but it has to be able to make our readers — including ourselves — discover when reading the poem something of the “imagination” in it, about how to conduct our future [lives] [or] how to face our destinies.
● 瘋狂 fūng1 kòhng4 = ① insane ② frenzied; unbridled | ● 理喻 léih5 yuh6 = to reason with cf. 不可理喻 bāt1 hó2 léih5 yuh6 = be impervious to reason; won’t listen to reason | ● 打造 dáa2 jouh6 = to make | ● 功利 gūng1 leih6 = utility; material gin | ● 打磨 dáa2 mòh4 = to polish; to burnish; to shine | ● 變形 bin3 yìhng4 = be out of shape; become deformed | ● 組合 jóu2 hahp6 = to make up; to compose; to constitute | ● 構造 kau3 jouh6 = a structure; a construction | ● 嘗試 sèuhng4 si3 = to attempt; to try
[My] third point about that which transcends experience refers to the language of the poem. We all tend to think that the language of poetry is a bit like madness [瘋狂] or something that doesn’t listen to reason. Actually, the language of poetry is just like the making of a work of visual art. By polishing, deforming, reconstituting and structuring everyday language — a language that has become numb, utilitarian, instrumental — [we can let] it lead us to a discovery of the secret of language. Why has our language gone from being such a beautiful thing to a mere tool we make use of in our daily lives? When we have discovered this secret, we can try to create a unique poetic language belonging to us [alone], one that leads our readers — or we ourselves — to come to know the world in a new way. A poem that achieves this third element is an extremely good poem.
● 困惑 kwan3 waahk6 = perplexed; puzzled | ● 素材 sou3 chòih4 = source material (of literature & art) | ● 慨嘆 koi3 taan3 = to sigh with regret | ● 無所不在 mòuh4 só2 bāt1 joih6 = omnipresent; ubiquitous | ● 外星人 ngoih6 sīng1 yàhn4 = a person from outer space; an extra-terrestrial being; an alien | ● 考古學家 háau2 gú2 hohk6 gāa1 = archaeologist | ● 習以為常 jaahp6 yíh5 wàih4 sèuhng4 = be used to sth.; be accustomed to sth.
Caption: Where can we find the material for writing poetry?
About this second point, we feel constantly feel perplexed. How do we go about gathering the material with which to write our poems? We live in this extremely busy and seemingly unpoetic metropolis and we spend our days sighing with regret and wondering whether we should (as the poet 辛棄疾 Xin Qiji once wrote) “for to compose new verses”, feign our “sorrow and woe”. It is not really like this at all. Poetic meaning is everywhere to be found. All we need do is to find material in this city or in this contemporary life equivalent to what was called “poetic meaning” in bygone times. How do we find such material? We must forever maintain our curiosity. And we must be always imagining ourselves to be . . . for instance “I am a person from another planet who has just arrived on Earth” or “I am an archaeologist from the future”. In this way, in the life that we have already grown accustomed to, we will think: “Hey, this . . .
● 共鳴 guhng6 mìhng4 = ① to resonate ② to respond sympathetically | ● 化學反應 faa3 hohk6 fáan2 ying3 = a chemical reaction | ● 調度 diuh6 douh6 = to dispatch | ● 磨練 mòh4 lihn6 = to practise hard; self-discipline | 手藝 sáu2 ngaih6 = craftmanship | ● 工藝人 gūng1 ngaih6 yàhn4 = craftsman
. . . is something special, and that is something special, too. At the same time, we will be extremely open-minded. We will allow many of the elements of this world to enter inside us, including elements of reality and emotional elements. Now these things can strike a chord with us or [create] what we could call a chemical reaction. Because I am extremely sensitive, I maintain this sensitivity of mine and dispatch [調度] this kind of reaction by means of language. This actually is poetry.
Caption: What can we do to improve our writing?
My final point is about something we would all like to know: how to go about improving our writing. The most fundamental thing of all is to read and write widely as well as to read and write attentively, constantly polishing our craft, just like any craftsperson, who constantly works hard at their discipline [手藝]. What things that our fellow poets are doing could we try to do better? What things can we do that others aren’t doing [yet]?
Note: Pound actually said: “Don’t imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the art of music, or that you can please the expert before you have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.”
In the things people do, what other options do I think there might be? All these things are ways to give our poetry the chance to find a break-through. Of course, throughout this process of searching, we must constantly work on our own poetic art. Ezra Pound once said something that was very interesting: “If your knowledge of poetry and your practice of the poetic art are inferior to a high-school music teacher’s knowledge of music, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” How should we go about this? We should be bear in mind that, when we are writing poetry, we are exercising a profession, even if — in our real lives — we have other professions and other [forms of] living. We should view our creativity with a professional regard. Only then we can make progress, making demands on ourselves with the help of poems that [fly] higher than our own.
【6:00】「我幾時可以追得上佢？」| 咁樣就係一個不斷進步嘅過程 | 多謝大家！
● 追得上 jēui1 dāk1 seuhng6 = to catch up to
“When can we reach the same level as [such poems]?” Such is the process of a constant improvement. Thank you!
Loving so close to dying, she cannot help but look everywhere at us doubly, distinctly in two ways — as creatures who must come to their own mode of life actively just as best as they can; and with something else indescribably ultraviolet to language, drenched in the torrent of so much unbearably poignant — finite — human being. Not for a second could she make light of death, ever and yet what is it we sense in her gaze, in her voice in the tones of her lucid grace if not some fundamental GRAVITY bedazzling the mind’s eye?
Chinaman Creek 