Poem

A soft touch breaks through
The vacuum of indifference
With a surge of warmth. - Haiku #12

When we strolled down the road
just before the silent welcoming doors of your house
while casually observing
the lone wild flower, yellow and tall,
growing in between the cracks
of the unpaved sidewalk,
I said "look how brave it stands
when all that surround it is dead!"
You silently took my arm
with your little palm
and pulled me closer to your side,
your hair brushing slightly by my shoulder,
your slight sigh weighing heavily on my shoulder,
I said "I wonder how long it will stand
before some mean kid kicks it dead!"
You grabbed onto my arm tighter
and leaned onto my side.
From that point I understand
that my words have no meaning without you.

When you closed the door of your room,
you have just opened an entirely different realm,
an extra dimension of space
containing nothing but everything,
a lighted room but without shadows.
Hence I cannot play that game with you,
where you take out your hand,
hold it beneath a lamp and
try to make different animal shapes.
A philosopher once said,
"shapes are illusions; we should never
believe in illusions."
And so I chose to do what I do best:
I told you stories from my life -
Childish love stories in particular:
my first beauty, my first crush,
my first betrayal, my first obssession.
Intoxicated by my own story,
I looked to your eyes to find approval,
but instead you put your arms
around my waist, and rested your head
above my flabby tummy;
"I should write down my stories",
I said to you, knowing full well that
you have just told the real story.

When we spread ourselves on your bed,
I chattered on and on,
performing my personality
(and what a spectular performance it was!),
until the tension of pain and joy
tore apart my throat
and there was blood painting over
my desert lips;
desperately I searched in your eyes
signs of understanding:
have I spoken in vain, or was it just vanity that I speak?
I found no answer in your eyes,
for as you leaned forward towards me
you closed your eyes
and silenced all skeptical thoughts
when you sucked my lips dry with your own:
you had answered all my doubts
and all questions that I have not even thought of.
And what else can I say except,
"Was this your first time?"
But it does not even make a difference -
Kiss me again, and I will forget the answer.

In between words
are silent universes
that are impregnated
with many meanings,
both literal and symbolic
of unspeakable things.

Third Nocturne

Febuary 2004

If Night can be distilled into a cup of coffee
On a chipped, stained plate,
Then let it sit undisturbed –
A universe with a closed gate.
A cube of sugar slowly liquefies
Into fragments of crystal moments,
Feeding Memory of the night
And then, all forgotten…
But the moon remains in the sea of dimmed light,
Bathing in delight.

A silver spoon sits impatiently beside the cup,
Being carelessly picked up.
The calm night sky whirs in circles,
And the moon disperses into
Pieces of a shattered jar
Of Memory, of thoughts from afar.
The aroma of the coffee
Disturbs the Divine drinker,
Confuses the instincts of the thinker
And disrupts the sequence of time.
Memory of the sublime
Past becomes the present.
The aroma seems to recall
The fervent touch
Of the intoxicated lips
It once had with the night,
And the gentle burn,
As memory is stirred,
That is marked on the flesh of your palm
And engraved in the bottom of your mind.

The night is yet too sweet
For lips to meet.
Put down the silver spoon,
Recollect the silver moon,
But add a bit of milk
And clouds move through the night sky
Clouding the Divine eye.
Stir again…
Do you recall the first cup of coffee I made you?
If you shall thirst for coffee,
Then let your lips touch my memory,
And drink another cup.

A Song of the War Chariots: An Imitation of Du Fu

兵車行 - 杜甫

車轔轔,
馬蕭蕭,
行人弓箭各在腰.
耶孃妻子走相送,
塵埃不見咸陽橋.
牽衣頓足攔道哭,
哭聲直上干雲霄.
道旁過者問行人,
行人但云點行頻.
或從十五北防河,
便至四十西營田.
去時里正與裹頭,
歸來頭白還戍邊.
邊亭流血成海水,
武皇開邊意未已.
君不聞漢家山東二百州,
千村萬落生荊杞.
縱有健婦把鋤犁,
禾生隴畝無東西.
況復秦兵耐苦戰,
被驅不異犬與雞.
長者雖有問,
役夫敢申恨?
且如今年冬,
未休關西卒.
縣官急索租,
租稅從何出?
信知生男惡.
反是生女好;
生女猶得嫁比鄰,
生男埋沒隨百草!
君不見青海頭,
古來白骨無人收.
新鬼煩冤舊鬼哭,
天陰雨濕聲啾啾!

*Literal Translation*

The chariots thudded
The war horses neighed,
The men carried bows and arrows by their sides.
Father, mother and wife came for the farewell,
The dust storm covered the bridge to Han Yang.
Hanging onto the uniforms, stopping the march with cries,
The family cries shot straight through the heavens.
Pedestrians asked the marching soldiers,
But the soldiers only mentioned their frequent orders.
Some soldiers were conscribed at the age of fifteen to mend the river dikes,
And at the age of forty they were ordered back to the farming fields.
When they left the master wrapped their black haired heads,
But when they came back their hair was white, as they returned to the ruins.
By a far off pavilion is blood that formed into a sea,
Yet the emperor, eager to extend his boundary, was not satisfied.
Have you heard that in two hundred counties in the East,
Thousands of villages were ruined?
Even if there were strong women to take up the plough,
There was nothing that can be grown.
In other lands, the enemy was resilient in battle,
If one was captured, he would be treated worse than chickens or dogs.
The commander might have asked the soldiers,
But no one was willing to grumble.
Just like this past winter,
The soldiers at the border had no rest.
The governors urgently needed taxes,
But where could the revenue come from?
If people had known that to have sons was ruinous,
Then they would much rather have daughters;
At least when daughters married they would be next door,
But sons were to be buried in the wild meadows.
Can you not see that far away near the Green Sea
Since the ancient times no one buries the white bones?
New ghosts complained in anguish while old ghosts cried,
The heavens were soaked with heavy wailing of the ghosts.

*The Imitation*

The cartwheels creak, the horses neigh,
And men with bows display
Before the sobbing fathers, mothers, wives;
Their shades dissolve into the dusty gray.
A toddler clings onto his brother’s cloak;
His tears cannot disturb the gods’ buffet.
A few has heard the droning possessions
Or the commanders’ tedious instructions.
Men at fifteen are sent to river dikes,
At forty back to the burnt and ruined town.
Black is the hair upon their first command,
And white when glory becomes a mere noun.
Fountains of blood explode out of the earth,
Yet not enough to quench the emperor’s thirst.
Have you heard, that in a trifle distance on a map
Thousands of lives had their fortunes reversed?
If mothers bear the burden of the plough,
Still Nature, raped, will not produce her fruits.
The enemy resists our every blow;
Captives are forced fill their guts with roots.
Commanders condescend to ask
For grievances that soldiers mask:
Who dares to moan the winter snow
While marching far away from home?
And home: there taxations aglow,
Can you even find the sheep roam?
If people knew their sons were ruined,
Then daughters they might have wished for:
When daughters married, they would neighbors be,
But sons are buried in the echoes of war.
Can you not see that far away
The white bones rot to clay?
New ghosts complain in rage; old ghosts in tears:
The drizzles all of these complaints betray.

International Night Performance

Oh my goodness...that has got to be the worst I-night performance EVER! I cannot believe I played so poorly in front of all those international students. Or perhaps the students will never remember this; but on the other hand, the CAs (cultural assistances - my co-workers) are going to, and I'm going to be the butt of the joke for the longest time. Well, I'm often the butt of any jokes anyway. But wow...I don't think I'm ever going to play piano in public again, ever.

The feeling on stage when you play the piano and make mistakes is quite awful. When the piece starts, you are so happy that you got the first couple of bars correct; then the cheering comes because the audience recognizes the song and cheer for you; then you think "Oh man I can't screw this up!"; and then before you know it, your heart pounds and your fingers run, and uh-oh, mistakes fall like waterfall. Then you heard laughter, and you think it's probably the people laughing at you, and you feel worse, taking your confidence away. And then the next 3 minutes are the longest minutes in your life. Finally you have completed the piece. The audience cheers - pity cheers, of course, and you take your pity bow and go offstage. *Sigh* But one's got to move on; life is like a hockey game, and I am a hockey player: if I played a bad game, I've got to forget about it and move on. Yes people will pick on you for your mistakes, but you can just take it with a smile and laugh a little at yourself. Just don't do it again. You probably don't want to be the butt of the joke all the time and be known as the "loser".

Sonnet: The World Before Your Eyes

牽起我的手，
我會指給你看這個世界。

(Cling onto my hand,
I will point out the world for you.)

When threads of dawn entwine across the lands
And sew on all the sparkling morning tears,
While vision pierces through the new leaf's strands
And vegatation's poems bring vibrant cheers;

When buds of grass lift up their trampled heads,
Resilient to, and forgetful of, pain,
While, unconscious, the bird its feathers spreads
And animation's rhythms beat again;

Behold the world which lies before your eyes!
Here are the ancient footsteps of the past,
There fragrance of the heavy present rise,
And all are miracles of the future vast...

But transcending this welcoming rainbow
Is Sincerity that a friend's eyes show.

On Ancient Wisdom Part

Whenever I did something wrong, my father would always say, "listen to ancient wisdom and you will never be wrong. Let your ancestors be your guide and follow their advice." I have always thought that something is not quite right with that statement. After all, how can those in the past know about the problems of the future? That only assumes that the world does not change. And perhaps this is where we should tackle this question on "ancient wisdom": to what extent should we follow ancient wisdom? I believe that ancient wisdom must not be blindly trusted on; on the other hand, it must be re-situated according to the modern context. If not, what we will end up getting is an old idea forcefully shaping a new world, like a baby's shirt forcefully wore by a teenager.

People like to see "ancient wisdom" as guidance to their lives. Rules of filial respect, family structure, respect for authority, moralily or ethics can indeed be useful in helping a person to live a meaningful and happy life, since these rules allow a person to create healthy bonds both as an individual (with their own souls) and as a member of a society (with other people). On the other hand, we have to understand that they are use-full in its most basic sense: they function to situate people of a particular society into that society. These rules are wisdom at the time because they work: they help people become friends, give society certain structures so that people can live in harmony.

These wisdom are in fact part of a system that organizes a society in a certain way. The problem is that that certain way is not perfect. In a society where there are basic differences between people (age, sex, social class, even race), these differences are given different values and stacked into different hierarchies so that a society can function. Certain groups of people (being to a specific sex, social class and race) are privileged because of these hierarchies. The best example would be the upper-class men in ancient China: patriarchy is sanctioned by many philosophers (certainly no one rejects it), and men had authority based on their social class. Women or poor men were always subordinate to these men, yet they believe that either they should accept their lot, or they should follow wisdom and obey authority, or they try to climb up the ladder within the bounds of the system. The hierarchies, however, are arficial and arbitrary; yet often times these values are naturalized, as if they are either divinely-sanctioned or naturally-given. By naturalizing these wisdom, they can function to their very best: people would not question them, which makes that society run much more smoothly.

As time progresses, these rules become wisdom, and wisdom now acquires a historical support to further naturalize itself: it had been like that for a thousand years, so it must have been like that since the beginning of time. If it had been like that since the beginning of time, then it must also be like that until the end of time. If it is always like that for eternity, then it must be true. Ancient wisdom must be obeyed.

Normally a system would be able to sustain itself without changing much; this is of course the case in pre-modern China, as well as Europe in the Dark Ages. There isn't anything to alter the structures of hierarchies; ancient wisdom remains in the education of each new generation. Students of new generations either blindly accepts received ancient wisdom, or they reinterpret the wisdom into their own terms, which is possible because society hasn't changed all that much. But very few systems can sustain itself without huge changes; this is evident in world history: the West (back in the days) invaded everyone else, which forces all other nations of the world to entirely change their systems of social organization. We, of course, live in the aftermath of this reorganization. The systems we have now are in fact entirely different from the systems in ancient times. If this is the case, then how can ancient wisdom serve the same function as it did back in the "good old days"? If one still insists on saying that ancient wisdom is the guidance to life, I ask, how can one justify that? Certainly I'm not saying we should throw away all ancient wisdom, but one at least ought to ask the question: why should those ancient rules still apply to the modern world?

A teenager may have nothing to do with a baby's shirt, but the shirt may be re-made into something useful (like a handkerchef), or it could be kept as a symbol of one's history and memory, without a need to use it in one's real world. I think this is what we should do as modern citizens of this new, globalized world - to reconsider our "ancient wisdom" not necessary just as practical knowledge, but also part of our individual identity and cultural memory.

At Glen's Party

Glen, who is my co-worker at the English Language Institute, had a farewell party today. Actually, it is probably still going on at his place right now. Anyway, I had a bit of time before tutoring Winnie, so, with a bunch of ELI students, I bumbled to his place.

The apartment was spacious, but barely enough to contain more than 30 people. There were lots of chatter, food and laughter, just as what you would expect from a party. Glen has a piano, so I took the liberty to play a couple of pieces (Schubert's "Christmas" A-flat Impromptu and Chopin's Raindrop Prelude). That opened up a group of pianists who also toyed with the keyboard. Then into the backdrop I faded; afterall, this is Glen's party. I am part of the festive scene. When it was time to go, I quietly said good bye to Glen, and left.

At these parties I always feel a certain kind of absurdity. I don't quite understand my purpose of being there: is it to add an extra shadow to the scene? An extra voice to the noise? An extra breath of air? I probably should have just opened myself up more and engage into other people's conversations: I do see myself as witty and capable of small-talk, so it will never be the case that I have nothing interesting to say. On the other hand, what is the point of such small talk? It is all words, bouncing back and forth, sometimes heard, sometimes misheard, often unheard. One has to be unconscious about the entire situation to be able to participate fully into this merry party world; and these days, maybe I'm just tired and cynical, but I tend to become more conscious about the absurdity. Not just in this party, but in life in general, I often ask myself: what am I doing here? If the world is coming to an end, then what is the point of me? A heavy paralysis holds me sometimes, and I do not know where to go. And so I just sat there, watching the merry crowd merry along their merry ways; within my mind there was only a terrifying silence...

But when I see that you too are equally numb, but I hear music in my mind. We share the same cup of juice because we see poetry beyond this merry world. But I find my juice sweet, and you may find yours rather sour.