Poems by Bei Ta

Translated by Zheng Ying

·The Mediterranean Sea

The Seagull over the High Sea

Back and forth between isolated islands

like a shuttle, you unceasingly fly

to weave the rope of fate

which also entangles your own flesh at times

you snip the heavy dark clouds and sky

with your blade-like body, breaking out of the black-hole jail

while being chased by the sun. No way will you

surrender to any of the air routes

but always subject to your own routine route

beneath your eyes are countless rolling

turquoises, emeralds, and jades  

which you always disdain to watch  

you haven’t even begged for a single grain of rice

from the thousand-seat grand restaurant  

beg a grain of rice

you only unceasingly flap wings over my waves

as if wave after wave of righteous troops unceasingly rise in rebellion

you beat on this colossal iron lump, our makeshift dwelling

in the hope that the flying shadow can occupy my chimney

and capture the just-escaped wisps of smoke

Do you see this ten-thousand-ton iron lump as one of your race？ 

Do you expect to lift it from the lure of the bitter sea

and soar upwards？

what a miser whose hands bestowed upon you the wings

this is a world with a plethora of things

that can never get a feather

something as minor as me

something as colossal as this castle floating on the sea

back and forth between isolated islands

you tirelessly shuttle

but belong to none of them

you seem to prefer finding yourself only halfway there

seduced by a small fish into the sea

with whom you witness waves’ ups and downs

until your song is buried in moonlight

as if a weight sinks directly to the bottom of a well

Beside Ruse’s Danube River in Bulgaria

With wounds laden with too many fishes,

My Danube is flowing more rapidly.

With riverbeds lifted by thousands-year-old silt,

My wave-feet are always staggering.

Two huge hands suddenly from under the ship’s armpits stretching out

Are pounding pauselessly against the banks,

Against shaky grasses and plants,

Against swirling dust motes,

Against white clouds which don’t dare descend.

Surely an ordered fish would be forced out of water

Until it falls into the boiling oil before me.

Surely a light boat would be overturned by winds from the banks,

Whether or not helpless cries from water-wrapped heads could be heard above dark, soaring waves.

To write a name on sand rather than on water  

Would it be safer? How far does sand have to step back

To stop such tagalongs as winds and waves from chasing and arresting it?

·Poland

An Unsuccessful Visit to Miłosz’ Former House in Poland

Epigraph: On September 25, 2018, I led a delegation of Chinese poets to the ancient Polish city Kraków, where we visited the grand bronze statue of Adam Mickiewicz (1798—1855) standing in its central square, before making our way to Miłosz’s House. Close to the city center, the House was, however, found in a rather quiet neighborhood; it was said to be just part of an ordinary building with only several stories. Since it was not open yet, we were deprived of a chance to enter and had to leave, regretfully, after lingering there long enough to video and take photos.

Off the big tree a needle-shaped leaf was forced to fall,

Presumably out of reluctance.

Upon a sweet wind, and from afar,

It came flying into your tightly shut doorway,

Like my clenched hand

Being raised, but the wind from above pressed so hard

That it could hardly attempt to knock.

I, well aware of your absence,

Insisted on coming.

I could only go back to the small path beneath the big tree,

Where you millions of times walked but mentioned none of it,

Where millions of people walked but left no footprints.

I could only hesitate, linger and loiter,

Until my footsteps

Were stopped by the old city wall.

I, well aware of your absence,

Insisted on coming.

God gave me no presents,

So I came with nothing

But dust motes that shadowed me for 5, 000 kilometers,

And nothing but the seas rolling across your words.

·Italy

A Visit to Dante’s House in Florence

Epigraph: Florence then drove you away and lets you now settle in there, where you have been relegated to a secondary status in order to show her excellent greatness.

In between majestic palaces and churches

How few there were who knew rightly where you’d gone.

Rain dampened one alley after another which led to you  

And also confused my sense of direction.

Though clearly close enough, I went farther and farther.

This visit to Florence

Was driven by a desire to see you,

Which recalls a journey home

That drives me to see the grandfather whom I never met.

So I most feared to pass by like a ship in the night.

For an exile,

Hometown has been split into two:

One half is left in hell,

And the other half in heaven.

Your bust is akin both to a badge

Worn on the breast of the old wall

And to what, from the Divine Comedy,

Has been rescued – a rib.

Bio of the Author 

Bei Ta, born in Suzhou, now lives in Beijing. He has published around 30 books such as Serpents Clasping Streets---Le Spleen de Pékin, Lightening One’s Own Abyss---Essays on Poetics by Bei Ta and Eight Lessons: Elizabeth Costello (translation) , etc. He has been invited to attend poetry festivals and academic conferences by more than 30 countries. His poems have been translated into nearly 20 languages. He has won many prizes home and abroad. He has the reputation of “stone poet”.

Click to read the Chinese version