Poems of Ma Yongbo

Return

Autumn always brings that voice

outside the door

fading and drawing near

Shadows of horses drift across the sky

The earth still holds lingering heat

The land has endured so much

A swarm of ground wasps hangs close to the sun

I went there to see

Grass withers far away

veiling the water cellar

When the wind rises

I come back from afar

and the voice drifts in too

like a withered hand

Then snow falls

blanketing the wasp nest

I know it is time to return

Behind a distant door

I shall sit in warmth

let that soft voice

brush gently against my cheek

Father Grows Old

Father grows old

The lamp lit at dawn still glows

No one knows how he suddenly faded into age

Back then I sat in the corner

Munching a cake

Picking out plum pulp with my fingers

I did not glance at him

Knowing nothing at all

Father grows old

He always turns the radio up full blast

Chopsticks clink and tap over meals

Trees buffeted by wild winds

Drip with lingering dew

Glimmering bright along every bough

Clouds over the hill sweep away a whole wood

I never pondered days ahead

Father comes home from outdoors

His chrysanthemum-like hands brush aside scarred twigs

I never wonder what the future holds

Still rooted in the corner

Finishing that endless cake

That day seemed endless, dragging on

The fence he wove outside still looks brand-new

Self-Portrait

He stands in an afternoon of fluffy sunlight

Weary of drifting amid winds

The small wicker basket lies far across the meadow

No crickets glint with glassy sheen here

He feels the sun soft and mild

Casting round and rounded shadows

It is autumn; somewhere not far away

Juice of ripe fruits splatters all over the sky

Layer upon layer of green leaves stay still, unbound

The harbour is but iron stakes around a fountain’s rim

Perhaps somewhere in this world

Someone strides across beast-hide-like grasslands

Bearing a small basket toward his receding figure

His windcoat fails to spread wing-like folds

He clenches his fingers, halting them from sprouting forth

The gunpowder hidden in the sky remains unlit

Rows of palm trees stand in strict alignment

Raising green rifles, aiming straight at him

He pictures how a hero meets his end:

Pines stand too low, lacking vivid green

Fountains cease their dance;

the clock at the meadow center keeps perfect time

He presses a hand to his heart

And his face fades into sallow yellow

Grass creeps close behind his back

The moment he turns to leave, autumn draws to an end

That scarlet little basket holds his black gloves within

©®Ma Yongbo

About the Poet:

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.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. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.