This piece is part of a special portfolio featuring new and queer voices from China. Read more from the portfolio here.
By Li Zhuang, Cynthia Chen, Chen Du, Xisheng Chen, and Jolie Zhilei Zhou.
Table of Contents:
- Li Zhuang, “Fan Fiction”
- Cynthia Chen, “When the TOEFL robot asked us to ‘Describe the city you live in,’ the whole room started repeating that question as if casting an aimless spell”
- Yan An, translated by Chen Du and Xisheng Chen, “Photo of Free Life in the E-Era”
- Jolie Zhilei Zhou, “Der Knall”
Fan Fiction
By Li Zhuang
After Richard Siken
Shangguan Wan’er was a politician and poet who served under China’s only female emperor, Wu Zetian, during the Tang Dynasty. After her grandfather was executed for treason, Shangguan became a servant in Yeting Palace. At the age of 14, she was summoned by Empress Wu, who was impressed by her literary talents. She remained Wu’s most trusted aide until Wu’s death.
In your fantasy, the gilded eaves of Tang poked at the sun.
In their shadow, a phoenix rose.
Amid the smoke of burned pepper and orchids,
the emperor’s favorite consort twirled her long sleeves.
Once, in Luo Yang, the moon and the sun shone together:
In the Celestial Palace, the emperor and his consort shared power.¹
(In reality, you and your girlfriend read the same fanfiction but have different interpretations.)
Your grandfather, the head chancellor, urged the emperor to depose her.
She killed your father and grandfather, and hung their heads
over the gate of the imperial city.
She became the first empress of China; you were her court slave in Yeting Palace.
(In reality, you are the empress; she is the slave. You pretend that it is the reverse.)
In your fantasy, she takes an interest in you because of a poem you wrote:
“When golden leaves start to fall on Lake Dongting
My heart seeks you, thousands of miles, unending.”
Your fingers, swollen from rubbing clothes all day,
tremble from the weight of an ink brush.
You kneel in front of her—You, the granddaughter of a traitor.
She asks what you think of her.
You kowtow three times and call her the greatest emperor.
In your fantasy, she takes you to bed, because of your beauty,
or your ancestry, or your poetry,
you are not sure. You close your eyes and feel the cold
of her gems, the rustle of her brocade. You imagine her first night
(In reality, she is taller than you, but you are a tomboy, so you always top her.)
with the emperor, her body vibrating under him.²
He, old enough to be her father.
She, old enough to be your mother.
(In reality, you are not so far apart in age.)
She starts fingering you gently and you think of suffocating
her with her phoenix robe.
The tips of her glistening with your shame.
(In reality, you are a sadist pretending to be a masochist for your girlfriend.)
She asks whether you want to avenge your grandfather.
In your heart, you prepare three answers, but none are satisfactory.
You climb up and kiss her.
In your fantasy, she takes you to bed again and again.
She tells you she loves you and you love her.
(In reality, you wonder if this relationship is always a roleplay.)
You do not answer.
You know your answers do not matter.
(In reality, you both hold on to fantasy when reality no longer matters.)
In your fantasy, you drew a map of China on her back.
Her worn-out shoulder blades,
wings of an old phoenix.
In your fantasy, you drew a map of the imperial city on her back.
Her shoulder blades,
the East and West wings of Luo.
Every night, you dream of your father and grandfather,
their hollow eyes watching the silent river.
In your fantasy, she lies down next to you with a headache and asks you to read to her.
You recite your favorite poem, written by your grandfather:
“Silently and gently, the River Luo flows wide,
On horseback, I canter along its long causeway.
Magpies soar to the mountain moon at dawn,
Cicadas buzz in the wild wind of late autumn.”
She listens carefully and does not ask you to stop.
(In reality, you are sick of cruel bravery, tender malice, and calculation behind every act of selflessness.)
In your fantasy, you defy her, disobeying an edict to bring down more families.
The nine dragons of her crown loom over and above you.
You kowtow three times and do not plead for mercy.
(In reality, you know when to let your tears roll down—from the right angle, at just the right moment.)
You ask her to not behead you, but rather let you hang yourself with white silk
from high beams of Yeting Palace.
You tell her she has enough blood on her hands.
You will not be another stain on her crown.
In your fantasy, for the first time, her body sways under your power.
She, the heavenly empress. You, her court slave.
(In reality, your relationship is a tug of war, currents pulling both ends of a river.)
She, a murderess in the high palace, who showed no mercy to her sons, spares your life.
She brands your face:
your radiant forehead
disfigured
by pine soot ink.
In your fantasy, she still calls you beautiful.
She lands her kiss over your marred skin.
(In reality, you wonder if two bodies can entangle without the power struggle.)
In your fantasy, you say out loud that you love her, and she gazes in terror.
You bend her down and enter her, enjoying her surrender.
(In reality, you have the secret wish to surrender.)
You imagine her hair growing whiter, and her dying in your arms.
This is your fantasy—you cannot envision its ending,
neither for you nor for her.
Notes
-
- This poem is inspired by the lesbian fanfiction《上官婉儿GL》written by废死(Faith), first posted in Chinese online forum Tian Ya in 2008.
- The historical context about Shangguan Wan’er and Empress Wu is drawn from《新唐书》New Book of Tang and《旧唐书》Old Book of Tang.
- “When golden leaves start to fall on Lake Dongting, /My heart seeks you, thousands of miles, unending” is translated from “叶下洞庭初，思君万里馀” in “彩书怨,” “Bitterness on Colored Letter” by Shangguan Wan’er.
- “Silently and gently, the River Luo flows wide/ On horseback, I canter along its long causeway/ Magpies soar towards the mountain moon at dawn/ Cicadas buzz in the wild wind of late autumn” is translated from “脉脉广川流，驱马历长洲。鹊飞山月曙，蝉噪野风秋。” in “入朝洛堤步月,” “Moonlit Walk along Luo Causeway before Attending the Imperial Court” by Shangguan Yi.
When the TOEFL voice asked us to “Describe the city you live in,” the whole room started repeating the question as if casting an aimless spell
By Cynthia Chen
Lying on the cold bamboo bed I bragged beautifully to the ceiling in an accent mimicking the pines: clean and flourished.
The instruction book bred phrases to be banned for their popularity. When language fell to a trial of weariness, I rested my hand on the gavel as if molding a star out of dry sand.
In a clustered room with slow computers that smelled like a contaminated gerocomium, we had no time to apprehend the hollowness of air, and the glares in our eyes.
We memorized ambiguous contours of letters, extended our voices into edgeless plates, and remembered to always summarize everything we said so we could gain a proof of our capability to speak, to be what we had become.
Sometimes I would fantasize about morphing into a broken motorcycle, an indeprivable metallicity even when stripped apart.
During the season of rain, we spent evenings under fluorescent light tubes, twisting our tongues to wash away the spinules in our breaths.
Some time later, we would learn that there existed prickles not as barricades but portals.
When language tripped over a test of belonging, I wanted to believe “native” could still mean something naturally spilled like raw wills.
Above the TOEFL classroom door there rested a mottled window. The whole summer I would jump up multiple times to see if Dad was already outside. Exhaustion was a relief when we were promised every step would become a feather.
I never asked why I didn’t open the door，
when I could have, at any time, opened the door.
Photo of Free Life in the E-Era
By Yan An
Translated by Chen Du and Xisheng Chen
Poems appear below in English and the original Chinese
Yan An is the author of fifteen full-length poetry collections, including his most famous poetry collection, Rock Arrangement, which won him The Sixth Lu Xun Literary Prize. He is also a Vice President of the Poetry Institute of China, a Vice President of the Shaanxi Writers Association, and the head and Executive Editor-in-Chief of the literary journal Yan River. The English version of his poetry collection, A Naturalist’s Manor, translated by Chen Du and Xisheng Chen and published by Chax Press, was shortlisted (one of four titles) for the 2022 Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize, administered by the American Literary Translators Association.
Yan An’s poems are highly surreal, mythical, unconventional and known for their boundless imagination. The poem published here is from Yan An’s most famous book, Rock Arrangement, which was published by Shaanxi Publishing & Media Group (Taibai Literature and Publishing House) in 2013. 76,000 copies of Rock Arrangement have been sold in China and the book has been printed three times in China.
Photo of Free Life in the E-Era
Young as he is he has a weird personality as of a widower
Living in a shabby shade shack in an urban village
Alone with a computer
Running a few supermarkets on the Internet
And accompanied by a plastic mannequin
He has never taken any woman home
Legend says he occasionally mates with the mannequin
And that in the torridness of last summer or the previous summer
They gave birth to a genetic freak
A patient of obesity with the buttocks of an elephant
A horse’s neck an ox’s horns a bird’s beak
And some other uncertain features
If he hadn’t been driven so madly by the torridity
As to rush out of the shack into a frozen food processing plant in his dream
And knock over the thin door
Exposing all the dirty secrets of the legend
He and the mannequin would still be the sweetest couple
In the diminishing torn-down urban village
Their life hidden with many legendary little secrets
Would still bewilder those peepers unable to have their way
E时代自由生活写真
他年纪轻轻 却有着鳏夫般的古怪性格
住在城中村简陋的凉棚里
一个人和一台电脑住在一起
一个人在电脑里开了几家超市
一个人陪伴着一个塑料女模特
一个从不带女人回家的人
传说他偶尔会和塑料女模特做做爱
传说去年夏天或者前年夏天
炎热中他们生出了一个怪胎
一个长着大象的屁股 马的脖子
牛的犄角 鸟的尖喙
以及另外一些不确定特征的肥胖症患者
要不是炎热中热昏了头 他冲出凉棚
冲进了梦中的一座冷冻加工厂
撞翻了薄门扇露出了传说的全部马脚
在越拆越小的城中村
他和女模特依然是最甜蜜的一对
他们在传说中藏着很多小秘密的日子
依然会使难以得逞的偷窥者晕头转向
Der Knall/巨响
By Jolie Zhilei Zhou
In Canton², what is the loudest noise one can hear?
Is it from air conditioning units outdoors? Gas pipelines? Is it just the neighbors belting out Cantonese opera or singing bel canto?
In Köln³, I had three encounters with incredibly striking sounds, each from different sources.
○
The First Time
When I was at the supermarket about to check out, I heard a loud bang, like a gunshot. It startled me, and even the security guard and the cashier exchanged bewildered glances with me. Yet, none of us moved our bodies, preferring to believe it was just an illusion. Had anything happened, the concrete and steel would have buried us due to our overly sensitive imaginations and numbed physical instincts.
○
The Second Time
On New Year’s Eve, the sparse flow of traffic foretold the city was gearing up for a loud celebration. Returning home, my sick roommate had already fallen asleep. Not yet midnight. As I was about to sleep, fireworks outside the window illuminated my entire room. Those loud noises, like gunshots, rang in my heart, making me nervous. Everyone in Köln has the legal right to set off fireworks on New Year’s Eve, but it is forbidden to do so in the urban areas of China. The fireworks lasted for about an hour, with one following another.
I recalled that every Chinese New Year, when I returned to my hometown in the countryside, watching other families set off fireworks was the greatest pleasure, besides setting off fireworks myself. Sporadic big fireworks would rise from the rooftops, so you could always see flickering lights above the highway built around the village. As for why I always associate loud sounds in Köln with gunfire, maybe it’s because, deep down, I think this country is too liberal. And because of this loneliness that I have to bear by myself.
○
The Third Time
One day, on my way back from the supermarket, there was this constant low rumbling overhead, unlike the sound of the helicopters in Canton. It reminded me of those German WWII movies, putting me on edge. From their appearance, you could not even tell if they were military planes or just regular airbuses. But when two or three of them flew low together, penetrating the cloud, the noise lingered. The sound vibration congealed in the air like a ghost. The images from Wolfgang Tillmans’ Concorde photography project kept floating in my mind. I never delved into the project’s concept, but the images he captured of narrow triangular planes taking off low from residential area imprinted on my memory. What I saw were probably similar supersonic aircraft.
Back home, I dropped my things and quickly searched for unusual news coverage in Köln.
Nothing.
So, I looked up information about the Concorde aircraft. It turned out that, in the 1980s, this French/British supersonic passenger plane landed twice at Köln Bonn Airport. It is retired now. I could not find out the source of the loud noise I heard that day. Nor could I ask somebody else. I only know that at Köln Bonn Airport, there are indeed military aircraft used by the German Air Force.
To me, every striking sound in Köln is like the scene from Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s film Memoria4. The film portrays a woman from Scotland who begins to notice strange sounds while travelling in Colombia.
What’s knocking at my heart
is the fear of the unknown inside me.
巨响 / Der Knall1 is made by our mouths,
our throats,
our bodies,
and our hearts.
Intertwined with the language as well as the ideology we perform unconsciously.
Notes
1. Der Knall is a German word that means a deafening sound, like an exploding bomb or a gunshot. The closest word in English is “bang.”
2. Canton is the English name for my hometown. In an English context it also means a subdivision of a country established for political or administrative purposes. Canton was renamed “Guangzhou” according to the Chinese Phonetic Alphabet after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China. “Canton” is derived from the Portuguese Cidade de Cantão, which is a blend of different dialectal pronunciations of “Guangdong” (Gwong2-dung1, according to the Cantonese Romanization Scheme, which recognizes nine tones represented by numbers.) However, Guangdong is the province where Guangzhou is located. Maybe the ambiguity of calling Guangzhou “Canton,” to some extent, discloses the linguistic power of English. Still, I prefer to call it Canton because it sounds like my mother tongue and brings me back home when I pronounce it.
3. Cologne derives from the German name Köln, which comes from the Latin word Colonia from the Roman name of the city—Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium. Cologne is a name that sounds like ‘Colony’. It gives me the impression that this city is primarily associated with colonial history. It is a fact that the Romans founded Cologne in 50 CE and gave it this name. This fact is reaffirmed when we use this name. It always sounds like a name that an outsider would use. It creates some distance between you and the place when you say it. When I mention Köln as Köln, it sounds like the city I live in.
Li Zhuang is a Chinese international student pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing at Florida State University. In 2019, Li graduated with an MFA in Fiction Writing from Columbia University. Her works have appeared and are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Southeast Review, Madison Review, Worcester Review, The Collapsar, etc. As a bilingual poet, Li is currently working on a poetry collection that, much like the Chinese zodiac’s use of animals to symbolize traits and fate, uses animal metaphors to reflect her journey as a Chinese diasporic poet in the United States.
Cynthia Chen is a writer based in New York City. Originally from Shanghai, she is currently a candidate for New York University’s MFA program in Poetry. Her writings can be found or forthcoming in Asian American Writers Workshop, Sinetheta Magazine, Quirk, Poetry Lab Shanghai, and elsewhere. Her work has also been supported by the Community of Writers, Beijing Poetry Festival, and Push the Boat Poetry Festival. She is the poetry editor at Washington Square Review.
Chen Du has a master’s degree in biophysics from Roswell Park Cancer Institute, SUNY at Buffalo and another in Radio Physics from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. She has published 150+ pieces of English translations, poems, and essays in more than fifty literary journals in the United States and Europe. Her co-translation with Xisheng Chen of Yan An’s full-length poetry collection, A Naturalist’s Manor, was published by Chax Press and was one of four titles shortlisted for the 2022 Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize, administered by the American Literary Translators Association. Contact her at [email protected].
Xisheng Chen, a Chinese American, holds a BA and an MA from Fudan University in Shanghai, and a Mandarin Healthcare Interpreter Certificate from the City College of San Francisco. He has worked as a lecturer at Jiangnan University in Wuxi, China; an adjunct professor in the Departments of English and Social Sciences of Trine University (formerly Tri-State University) in Angola, Indiana; and a contract translator for JTG Inc.’s projects for the Department of Justice. As a translator for over three decades, he has published widely in newspapers and journals in China and abroad. Contact him at [email protected].
Jolie Zhilei Zhou was born in 1994 in Guangzhou, China and currently works and lives in Cologne, Germany. She is an artist who primarily engages with photography, text, and space installation in her practice. Jolie’s works concern the relationship between daily life behaviors and ideology-making processes. She focuses on dialectal writing and sounds in her writings, and she often combines the sonic aspect of languages and the daily urban soundscape in her texts.
