Christopher Lupke 

Übersetzer:in

One day, in elementary school class,
I learned this name.
That night I saw his black wings
spread against the sky, like a parachute,
a soaring feeling coming down,
covering my little sister and me.
Alas, my sister faltered into her bedroom
from under the garden walnut tree,
entering the mouth of a giant crow.
Afterwards in an alien land, among the ruins of old architecture,
on the wall of my heart, I saw a crow
suddenly take flight like a premonition of death,
like a cloud of crows, and I thought of my sister.
She had married a man,
and lived on a solitary lane in a village,
in a small shop of sundries.

The cluster of buildings in Shanghai’s business district – “Lu’s Mouth”
Was drooping its priceless cranium in the gray mist of evening.
In the main rectangular lobby of the People’s Bank
Guards with pock-marked faces were stationed to keep out people like us.
We are not bankers or the relatives of bankers.
We are not the people the bank is scheming against.
We are the people, men and women.
Totally perplexed and utterly joyous.

The mothers of the bank sit straight and vigilant,
Old but powerful, their tongues mulling numbers.
The numbers are alarming,
Most have the acrid taste of bitterroot in their mouths.
A few are flying high on a cocaine buzz.
A majority come from multiplication,
Piling things in a savage and empty manner
Toward the diarrhea of a one-time freedom.

Those who fear the multitude of the people
Register at the lecturn, and slink out of the meeting area to the bank.
I announce that I am a proletarian poet,
Yet I adore leisurely walking the Bund and Lu’s Mouth.
The enigma is like high voltage electricity coursing through a chair
Vanquishing the network of nerves, The riddle is
            In deep silence.
Fewer than the people but still greater than the people.
 

There are a whole lot of wonders that we’ve seen.
The moon seems like a flash of lightening,
Shining down on the fish and algae in the river.
On the bank, birds alight and take flight,
Toting slender branches and mud.
The fresh air,
Life and death,
Surround us.

I felt I was a multitude.
On the skywalk at Shanghai’s Old North Station, in my body
People began disputing and deliberating, all clamoring at once.
While smoking, I sized up the train station in ruins,
I felt like screaming, but my throat was scorched.

I felt I was a multitude.
Walking among the abandoned rail lines, kicking the tracks, warped with rust,
Ah, my body felt jammed, as if people were boarding,
And disembarking. A train was racing toward me,
Another one came howling out of my body.

I felt I was a multitude.
I entered a cavernous room, jumped the railing,
At the ticket window from days past, my body suddenly
Felt vacant. Ah, the station terminal was devoid of travelers,
All that was standing and sitting were murky shadows.

I felt I was a multitude.
In a nearby alleyway, by the cigarette stand, next to the pay phone
They flowed out like beads of sweat. They were squatting, jumping,
Blocking me from moving forward. They wore watches and flowery shirts,
And they carried heavy suitcases like they were balloons.

I felt I was a multitude.
Eating noodles at the noodle shop they were right in front of me,
They sat down around a table. Some had pointy faces, some
square faces, laughing, They looked like accountants
with feigned solemnity. They were famished. They listened to musical scores
from old movies,
Stepping into my bowl.

I felt I was a multitude.
But they accumulated a heap of fear. I boarded the transit bus,
And the bus shook. Entering a bar, the electricity went out. All I could do was
Walk to Hongkou, to the Bund, to People’s Square, the roundabout way home.
I felt in my feet there was another pair of feet.

This is another China.
            For what does it exist?
Nobody answered, not even an
echo of an answer either.
            This is another China.

It’s the same, three generations to a room,
            living in reduced privacy amounts to
            a performance; the next generation
is fashioned from a certain measured cruelty.
            Dozing is a much-appreciated
            shared time for mother and father
to learn the skill of pleasure, but it’s like a teacher
            reciting from the textbook in a string of bellows;
Alas, it’s the same, people and cattle
            in the field pulling the plow, tilling the land,
            life is like enduring.

This is another China.
            To speak Chinese only to be ashamed,
When we are like beer, with ancient words
            frothing up, it’s just
that there’s no sense of humiliation, and no honor either.
            Toothpaste, meat pie, the text
            of new words and the essence of humanity
are idiotic titles just to swap out the taste
            in the mouth. Who can say for sure
            that this is not just a cheap trick?

The familiar city is changing
            into another city, with the same
            clumps of buildings, keeping
the minute scars (which from makeshift docks
            are oozing with rotted blood)
A soap opera is broadcast on TV in each and every home.
            A few people kill another; it lacks
            a sense of justice but it’s funny.
 (Speaking of “human nature,” the police believe,
            one must sleep for a while, soundly.)
            As for disclaiming the trick,
there’s no hope for what we’ve said and are accustomed to;
            the authorities have prepared the most exquisite reasons
            to allow joy to rule the paperwork.

Alas, the grey swirls around me in Hebei,
            Shanghai, and the Yangtze River -- --
            The electricity goes off, the heat goes off, the water goes off -- --
Identifying the tracks of gods and immortals,
            I’m lost in a trance of disdain and reverence.
            I see another person.
Flames of red on the street are licking and devouring him.
            That sexy kindling safely proves
this is another China.
            If pressed, we could call it the remnants of “China.”
But in the vegetable market, in front of the newspaper stands, in other
            areas of secondary importance -- -- as if a miracle -- --
                        the belief in life
gets two Chinese
            On the side one man does needlework.

Not reading your diaries,
            I condemn your muted anguish,
             (cutting flowers, growing grass, talking nonsense)
That elegance, a survivor’s accusation of being wronged,
            Becomes a seductive verdict,
            “Syntax, style,”
It’s simply muck. I’m disgusted by
            the China you invented, a slow, lurching train,
            A patchwork of a filthy nation,
a shattered countenance in the mirror, all the people
            endangering themselves, rising to the accolades,
             (The train passes by)
The partial magnification of suffering seen
            through binoculars from atop mountains and roofs
makes me fiercer than you ---- on the street
            I whine to the old man:
            Give us what you said you already gave us!
Give? That’s right, give. The old man leads
            the old reality, refusing
            compromise, there’s no other way.
What I am facing is actually what I am lacking,
            country, control, one day,
            and the ability to be free

The twilight reasoning of the sparrows can cease!
            The philosophy of gliding dinosaurs,
            One must make allowances for the Chinese
Of the 1990s.  They can’t worship silence.
            Translation is like a rash.
            It’s appropriate to avert the eyes,
Appropriate and still unnerving.  Eh, the congregants
            Are melancholy and muddled, sitting in the dirt
            In front of the door; the children scream
As they go by; the shrill whistle of destiny
            Stifles their growth.  Before they sleep,
            They read Comédie Humaine.

This is another China.
            It’s only for survival.
It’s not bureaucratic, in fact its anti-bureaucratic.
            In our lives it seems we
            Are hiding, but our
Goal is not to toil, and it’s not
            Therefore bending at the waist, talking to ourselves,
            Murmuring, “You, and how about you?”