A Distant Center Read online

  Now we have our house, our lawn and woods,

  the moonlight on our driveway white like frost.

  Turkeys and deer frequent our backyard.

  But none of these could make a home

  without your nurturing.

  A VISITOR

  Again snow covers New England.

  There will be no school tomorrow

  and we won’t go to work.

  At night trucks drone

  on the distant roads,

  spraying sand and salt.

  More snow brings more business

  to the plowing workers —

  it’s their season of harvest.

  This morning I open my curtains

  and find footprints scattered in my yard.

  They were left behind by a deer,

  who must have lingered here for a long time.

  Again I think of you.

  You often said you’d go to Florida

  where there is a lot of sunlight

  and no snow. Now you have gone

  to another place where

  there is no winter or storm,

  though I’m not sure whether you are lonesome.

  THE ONE FOLLOWING YOU

  Because of you, that coastal city

  has appeared on my map.

  In my mind it’s no longer

  a fishing village far away.

  Every morning I wake

  to follow you on the bus to work,

  past the bay enclosed in mist

  and through a long tunnel into town.

  We then walk along the street shaded by maples,

  enter a gate to a schoolhouse,

  and finally stand before a room of children.

  You open a textbook and read to them

  legends of triumph and updated fables.

  You also draw on the chalkboard

  a tomorrow that might be more colorful.

  Whether you know it or not,

  whether you like it or not,

  you always bring along

  an invisible guard.

  SURPRISE

  Don’t strain your mind

  to produce another surprise for her.

  Love, won that way, is hard to sustain

  and soon you’ll find yourself exhausted.

  More terrible, someday

  you might be disgusted with yourself,

  feeling you have wasted your life

  without achieving anything.

  Above all, you mustn’t lose your bearings.

  Don’t follow others to seek

  excitement or a so-called quality life.

  What’s invaluable in love is to help

  each other reach the end of a long road.

  Although every day seems the same,

  love resides in the ordinary.

  AN IDEAL LIFE

  How I long for an unoccupied life.

  I can sleep in on weekdays,

  then go to Starbucks to read newspapers

  and chat with friends, cracking jokes.

  There’s no need to hurry to work

  or analyze the smiles

  of my boss and clients,

  though people say I’m too lazy,

  staying home all the time and kept by my wife.

  I often ask myself:

  why must I be the mainstay

  of my household? I struggle

  outside in the world. I try to serve

  my children, satisfy my wife.

  You don’t have to live so hard.

  You don’t need to carry on your bloodline.

  You can live with ease and die

  alone, at your own pace.

  But at night I often hear a voice

  whisper, tickling my ear:

  “There’s no meaning in an effortless life —

  you came into this world

  just to strive into another self.”

  TWO IMAGES

  In my dreams you wear the army

  uniform, a belt, and knee-high boots.

  Your pair of short braids jumps a little

  as you stride around fearlessly.

  In a husky voice you give orders

  while shells burst like blossoms far away.

  People say you are a born general.

  In reality you look like an elegant lady.

  Your lilac skirt floats across

  the quiet plaza before a church.

  Your heels knock the stone slabs

  washed glossy by a spring shower.

  Your voice is the wings of doves

  waving in the sunshine.

  Your figure draws so many admiring eyes.

  Which one of them are you —

  a fierce officer or a refined lady?

  I hope you are neither.

  APRIL

  Again it’s the season when

  the new and the old are both

  trembling. From the lake in the woods

  come fits of frogs’ cries

  together with scattered birdcalls

  and the shedding of rotted branches and bark.

  You used to say that before

  the spring you would send me

  a garden of blossoms. Now

  winter is gone, but for you,

  spring is still an ocean away.

  Home on the Road

  A SNOWSTORM

  Three feet of snow covers the north,

  bringing five states to a standstill:

  stores, schools, airports, all are closed.

  Only plow trucks fill the streets.

  At last we can stay home for a day.

  Yesterday before leaving work

  we wished each other a peaceful break:

  Be careful when you dig out —

  don’t hurt your back or arms.

  We’re grateful to the bad weather

  that allows us a day’s rest.

  But it’s not yet eight in the morning

  and my phone begins to ring.

  So many calls keep coming in,

  fundraising or telemarketing:

  a foundation for children’s education,

  a breast cancer research institute,

  a veterans’ service center,

  a wireless company, an insurance agency,

  even the fire station and town police who are

  doing a survey of the residents.

  Heavens, so many people busy themselves

  unwilling to take a break.

  A NEW HOPE

  Yesterday at noon we stopped

  at the square to bother

  the fat snowman, twisting his nose,

  a big carrot, and poking his eyes,

  a pair of batteries. Each of us slapped him

  a couple of times, to break his heart

  so he wouldn’t dare come to Boston again,

  would take away the snowbanks

  that were almost 6 feet high.

  But this morning the TV announced

  that it has snowed 102 inches to date —

  with 5 more inches, it will break the record.

  All of a sudden we got excited again,

  chatting about the imminent snowstorm

  and hoping it will be heavy enough.

  IN THE SPRINGTIME

  Still you should praise the spring,

  although it’s a miserable season

  for you. It revives the memories

  that never die —

  all the fields to be sown,

  the endless sweating with painful limbs,

  sleeping with clothes on at night,

  rising before daybreak

  to follow others to welcome a dry spring

  with a hoe or a shoulder pole.

  Here spring is another sight.

  On the town green

  toddlers wave their plump arms,

  the white soles of their feet following

  pigeons and geese on the grass.

  But whenever you go out

  you can�
��t stop sneezing,

  your eyes itchy with tears,

  your nose red and swollen.

  Only through a window can you watch

  the kids and their mothers at play.

  In the kitchen the radio is loud.

  The show host has been talking happily

  with callers, so many of them phoning in

  to praise such a gorgeous day.

  True, your body rejects this spring,

  but still you must learn to praise.

  Praise everything burgeoning with life,

  the worms that come out for sunlight,

  the pollen that gives you hay fever,

  the snails drunk with rainwater,

  the houses that begin to take shape.

  TOADS

  You ought to admire the toads’ vitality.

  In a stream or a sewer

  they can live, often wild with joy.

  In the early spring they croak with gusto,

  giving you the illusion that large flocks

  of ducks and geese are paddling nearby.

  Look, they leap around

  like little birds attempting flight,

  though they have no wings.

  Neither do they have a waist,

  but they all swagger when they walk.

  If they sit, they look like ministatues

  of Buddha, too dignified to rise.

  In fact, they can never stand up.

  A TUG OF WAR

  Little wren, I know you love

  the eaves above my door,

  but you can’t build here.

  You trash the place

  and even shit on the door handle,

  soiling my hand again.

  Again I sweep away your embryo

  of a nest. You’ll return

  to restart your project.

  Little rascal, I won’t let you

  pile mud and grass here.

  Even friends cannot share everything.

  There are eaves everywhere.

  Why are you so determined

  to settle above my door?

  COPYING CHARACTERS

  See, here’re your brush and copybook.

  From now on you must practice calligraphy —

  copy four or five pages every day.

  You must be able not just to speak Chinese

  but also to inscribe it.

  Handsome handwriting

  ensures a bright future.

  Every weekend you make me

  go to the Chinese school.

  I need more time for my homework in

  science and history and also

  have to read novels and plays in English.

  I have no time for copying characters.

  If you go on distracting me like this,

  I might have to repeat seventh grade.

  Don’t give us such an excuse.

  You must inscribe characters more often.

  Once you start something

  you must see it through.

  If you cannot write Chinese,

  you will be like a disabled person

  when we go back to live in Tianjin.

  Now I can see why Chinese

  are so good at making knockoffs.

  A couple of guys at my school

  always copy characters at home.

  In every class they can’t stop

  copying each other’s homework.

  I don’t want to be like those copycats

  who have practiced duplication since childhood.

  I want to create, create, and create.

  A SMALL BOAT

  I left a boat on the Neuse,

  in the middle of the broad river.

  Now fish no longer swim freely;

  the river divides here, up and down,

  while the distant hills no longer look wild.

  It is a boat made of fiberglass,

  moored in the waves

  so birds passing by can rest on it,

  knowing it’s not an island

  or a floating secret.

  The forests and grassland on the banks

  shift, as if to form

  a new rhythm with the boat,

  though it’s not something

  that will stay long on the Neuse.

  CHOICE OF HOMETOWN

  It’s so easy for you

  to choose your hometown,

  a city where I am a refugee.

  You want to take root here

  and stop wandering with me.

  You are already grown

  and probably know I’m close to

  my journey’s end — from now on

  I might move only in place.

  I once thought you would be like me

  sailing out for another sea,

  but now you have your own coast,

  unwilling to depart anymore.

  I never imagined that I, rootless,

  could give you root.

  Perhaps it’s unavoidable that

  this generation scrambles through hardships

  just to provide the next generation

  with choices and hopes.

  Indeed, every hometown

  was once foreign to one’s ancestors.

  I remember a wise man saying,

  “Blessed are those who have never left home

  to open space for their children

  and who can live and die in the same place

  without needing a story

  or exposing themselves to injury.”

  WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT

  There are many things,

  whether you like them

  or not, that you must do.

  Even your birth proved

  a kind of reluctance.

  Your parents were having great fun

  but got carried away,

  and soon your mother found

  herself pregnant. Then they argued

  for a long time about whether to keep

  the baby. They changed

  their minds back and forth,

  but finally decided

  to allow you into this world.

  Don’t work yourself up.

  What I said is absolutely true.

  If you don’t believe me

  you can go ask your mother.

  Actually, you shouldn’t be too concerned.

  There’s no need to find out

  whether you were an accident

  who threw your parents into a crisis.

  What’s essential is that they chose

  the effort to raise you and let their love

  for you enfold themselves

  body and soul, and let your existence

  define the boundary

  of their happiness and stress.

  Don’t talk again about having your own way.

  You must do what you should do,

  whether you like it or not.

  THE LOST MOON

  Like you, I too lost my moon.

  Wide-eyed, I took a smiling face

  to be the source of all light and hope

  which led me into a gloomy forest.

  Since then, I can no longer see

  the wonders in the sky.

  However hard I trudge and search,

  I cannot find the hills I have climbed.

  Now, there’s no difference between day and night

  — I spend them on my computer and cell phone.

  In fact, I knew long ago that

  the smiling face was a mere mirage,

  yet I can no longer gaze up at the moon

  as my ancestors did

  from horseback by the roadside

  to relay a word home or to a friend.

  I have landed in a place

  my ancestors never heard of —

  I need to grow a new backbone.

  Echoes from Far Away

  THE CAGE

  I used to have a beautiful cage

  that flew around day and night.

  Its d
oor opened and closed

  showing how comfortable

  and safe it was inside —

  I should ride it through the clouds,

  accepting the space within the cage

  and working hard with others

  to carry out a common dream.

  That way, I could live an easy life

  and leave behind many types of praise,

  although I would have no other story.

  Like a colored cloud, the cage

  has wheeled around for decades.

  It still looks gorgeous, like new,

  but I am fully grown, too big

  to get into it anymore.

  I can board it only in my dreams.

  ALL YOU HAVE IS A COUNTRY

  You are so poor that all you have is a country.

  Whenever you open your mouth

  you talk about the country

  to which you can no longer return.

  China is a giant shield that you use

  to conceal your cowardice and to preempt