This piece is part of a special portfolio featuring new and queer voices from China. Read more from the portfolio here.
By WU WENYING, SU SHI, SHANGYANG FANG, YUN QIN WANG, and CAO COLLECTIVE.
Translated poems appear in both the original Chinese and in English.
Table of Contents:
- Wu Wenying, translated by Shangyang Fang, “Departure” & “Visiting Lingyan Mountain”
- Su Shi, translated by Shangyang Fang, “Return to Lin Gao at Night”
- Yun Qin Wang, “The First Rain”
- CAO Collective, “qiào bā”
Translator’s note:
While Tang Dynasty Poetry has seen extensive translation into English, Song Dynasty Poetry, specifically Ci (Lyrics or Long and Short Irregular Lines), remains relatively unexplored by English readers. Departing from traditional scholarly translations, these renditions represent a poet’s endeavor to breathe contemporary life into ancient poems, involving revisions of the original text, experimentations, even rewrites. This transcreation strives to convey the authentic voices of the poets and their era while maintaining a lasting, relevant, and modern sensibility.
Departure
To the Tune “Tang Duo Ling: A Little Song”
By Wu Wenying (1205-1260)
What composes sorrow: autumn weighs on the heart:
each departing lover: an autumn
on their heart: the plantain leaves mimic the pattering
of rain: without rain: the weather pleasant at evening:
lambent moon: fear of ascending
the high pavilion: years recede in dreams: the emptiness
of the blossoms replaces all the blossoms: all is water
behind the mist: composed of water:
swallows gone: the traveling guest remains: narrow
branches of a willow tree: failed to tether
her silken sash: tethers unyieldingly my returning boat:
唐多令·惜别
吴文英〔宋代〕
何处合成愁。离人心上秋。纵芭蕉不雨也飕飕。
都道晚凉天气好，有明月、怕登楼。
年事梦中休。花空烟水流。燕辞归、客尚淹留。
垂柳不萦裙带住。漫长是、系行舟。
Visiting Lingyan Mountain
To the Tune “Ba Sheng Ganzhou: Eight Rhymes of Ganzhou”
By Wu Wenying (1205-1260)
mist unfolds to all sides: what year: since a comet fell
from the sky: darkening cerulean: so that conceived: this
escarpment that impends: trees knotted with clouds:
so that upon which: this ruins: once the magnificent palace
of the King of Wu: where the deadly beauty of Xi Shi
was concealed: so that in this arrow-shaped passageway:
whetted wind darting my eyes: and rivers coated
with grease from the rouge: made of pomegranate, camellia,
safflower, and sappanwood: infected blossoms
ravishing on the riverbanks: reek like day-old blood:
years passed: pine leaves in the corridor: echo the footsteps in clogs:
for this square-sized luxury: the King of Wu: surrenders rivers
and mountains of the nation: leaving
the literati to their uninhabited lakeside: their mind still vigilant
as the fishing rod above water: speechless
water: explains the rising and falling: of an empire it witnessed
by showing me: my white hair against the black
mountain ridge: immovable water: where the sky lives a second
time: crows descend on the slant ladder of sun:
bring more wine: it is still not too late to go on the Zither Terrace:
the last autumn light leveled with the clouds:
八声甘州·灵岩陪庾幕诸公游
吴文英〔宋代〕
渺空烟四远，是何年、青天坠长星？
幻苍崖云树，名娃金屋，残霸宫城。
箭径酸风射眼，腻水染花腥。时靸双鸳响，廊叶秋声。
宫里吴王沉醉，倩五湖倦客，独钓醒醒。
问苍波无语，华发奈山青。水涵空、阑干高处，送乱鸦斜日落渔汀。
连呼酒、上琴台去，秋与云平。
Return to Lin Gao at Night
By Su Shi (1037—1101)
To the Tune “Lin Jiang Xian: Riverside Immortals”
Drunk at Eastern Slope, sober up, get drunk again.
When I get back, it’s past midnight.
I hear the servant boy snoring behind the locked doors,
thinking there’s a thunderstorm in my house.
No-one answers my knocking.
Leaning on my bamboo cane,
all night I listen to the river repeating itself to itself.
I hate that this body is not my body
and my life not mine. When can I forget about
chasing after fortune and fame like a frenetic donkey?
Darkness deepens. The wind straightens
the water it has made crooked.
An empty boat vanishing into the night.
To the rivers and the sea I shall tether the rest of my life.
临江仙·夜归临皋
苏轼〔宋代〕
夜饮东坡醒复醉，归来仿佛三更。
家童鼻息已雷鸣。敲门都不应，倚杖听江声。
长恨此身非我有，何时忘却营营。
夜阑风静縠纹平。小舟从此逝，江海寄余生。
the first rain
By YUN QIN WANG
(for Yongyu, Jun. 22, 2022)
June rain draws a cross on the glass.
Alcohol evaporates.
If I come back to you,
I can write. My time in China
is an unending funeral.
Nobody cried. The notebook is wet.
I read an interview
with a Taiwanese porn actress
who dreams of becoming an object.
Now, by offering the whole of her body
and being assigned to different roles,
she thinks she is closer to it.
Lately, I started to believe
the essential things about the self
lie in the exterior. That would explain
this feeling of searching.
Thin fabrics wrapping around my skin.
In many dreams I had in May,
I was looking for a classroom.
Something great was going to be born
in an English lecture hall.
I was in haste, at last ending up in a canteen
with seesaws and ice-cream.
I share the actress’s belief.
I have told you before
that I hate my job as translator.
I think all things should be passed on
in their original form.
Only with this poet
who caught fire in a burning nightgown,
I wish to speak her language.
qiào bā: Community Poetry in Translation
By 离离草 Chinese Artists and Organizers (CAO) Collective
Translators’ Note:
Since its founding in 2022, 离离草 Chinese Artists and Organizers (CAO) Collective has regularly facilitated collective poetry writing workshops centering queer feminist care and collective play. Using a process similar to Exquisite Corpse, workshop participants are invited to continue after each other’s lines under a tight time limit. The poem selected here, “qiào bā”, was written in a workshop that engaged with topics of language, home, kinship, and belonging in Brooklyn, NYC. Together, we processed the (dis)connections of our diasporic experiences during the summer of 2023, when many of our community members traveled back to China for the first time in several years.
The poem was translated into English by two members of CAO Collective who also facilitated the workshop. We are both native speakers of Chinese based in the U.S. and very familiar with the cultural and community context of the poem. We are also long-time friends who read and edit each other’s works.
This poem, along with many other poems in our workshop series, engages with the affective experiences of Chinese queer feminists in the diaspora. These are words from regional dialects that we can no longer utter with our tongues, the words that are considered “ugly” by the elders, that we only started to appreciate after we had lost them. These are memories that come back to us when we are disoriented on foreign but familiar lands, as well as a conversation with our childhood selves musing on the impossibility of return.
As translators, we put in a lot of work finding forms, rhythm, voice, and diction for our community’s multilingual poems written in English, Chinese, Cantonese, and a few dialects of Chinese. Because each poem is collectively written by six to eight people in workshops, there are many different voices within each poem and conversations between writers. Sometimes, we have to make creative decisions, while other times we take a step back to leave space for multiple interpretations. These collaborative processes, whether in a group or duo, rebuild our own lifeworlds and languages that traverse national, geographic, and generational borders.
We urge readers to approach our community poetry as intricate acts of negotiation. Look for instances of call and response, improvisation and play. You might even gather a few friends and write pieces of your own.
qiào bā
By 离离草 Chinese Artists and Organizers (CAO) Collective
Do you know what qiào bā means？
Here in Xinyang, qiào bā means the same as good-looking.
The aunties smiled and said, the town dialect is “ugly.”
But I find it endearing. I miss home.
Mama who can speak four accents, is she missing me too?
On this fresh but strange, hopeful and dreadful otherland,
in the crowds
I suddenly remember mama’s voice saying qiào bā.
Aaah——Aaah——
Qiào——bā——
I open my mouth and use my dry tongue to imitate the tone from my memory
as if learning this language
for the first time in my life
I’ve never learned the dialect from my birthplace
Ji’nan’s “dirt language”
Nor did I learn the language of my mother’s generation
Hokkien from the south.
But on the other side of the ocean, I’m speaking
English.
On the other side of băo zi yīn, grandma asked me
have you been guò dó happy ?
I said, I’m happy,
and I said for the first time, I want to pull the lóng mén zhèn.
Grandma smiled.
“That’s called laying out the lóng mén zhèn-er!”
Only out of Beijing do I have to practice my sub-standard Beijing-ese
jīng piàn-er. But as I speak I still have to add a few foreigners’
wo-erds.
Hypocritic!
But I can’t speak Cantonese, or plastic Putonghua, or xiàng sheng.
I’m always inside the crevices between languages,
no homeland, nor a beginning of landing.
Maybe if I say the word happy in another language
I will finally feel it.
qiào bā
你知不知道“qiào bā”的意思？
在信阳这里，qiào bā是好看的同义词。
阿姨们笑着说，土话好“丑”。
我却觉得好亲切。想家。
会四个口音的妈妈，也在想我吗？
在新鲜却陌生，充满希望又令人畏惧的异乡，
在人群中
我突然想起妈妈说“qiào bā”的声音
啊——啊——
Qiào——bā——
我张开嘴，用干涩的舌头模仿记忆中的音调
像有生以来
第一次学习这种语言
我从未学会过出生地的方言
济南的“土话”；
也没能学会母辈的语言，
南方的闽南语；
却在大洋彼岸说着
英语。
饱子音另一头的外婆问我
过dó开不开心啊？
我说开心，
还第一次说，我想扯会儿龙门阵。
外婆笑了。
“那叫摆龙门阵儿！”
出了北京才非得操着一口不标准的北京话
“京片儿”。可是边说还边非得加上几个洋人
词儿
虚伪！
而我不会粤语，不会塑普，不会讲相声
我永远在语言的裂缝里
没有家乡，没有落地之初
也许，如果我用另一种语言说“快乐”
我终于会感觉快乐。
吴文英 Wu Wenying (1200–1260), a poet in the Southern Song Dynasty, is often regarded as the avant-garde of Ci Poets. His poems are celebrated for dense imageries, idiosyncratic euphemisms, non-linearity, and dream-like logic, earning him the title “Li Shangyin of Ci Poets.”
Shangyang Fang (方商羊 ) grew up in Chengdu, China. He is the author of the poetry collection, Burying the Mountain.
苏轼 Su Shi (1037-1101) also known as Su Dongpo, was a multifaceted figure in ancient China during the Northern Song dynasty. He excelled in poetry, essays, calligraphy, painting, gastronomy, and travel writing. He had a lengthy career in bureaucracy, including briefly serving as a senior official at the imperial court. Despite facing political challenges due to his outspoken criticism and involvement in rivalries, Su’s creative career flourished during periods of political exile. Widely regarded, he is considered one of the most accomplished figures in classical Chinese literature.
Yun Qin Wang is a Shanghai-born poet living in Iowa City, where she is an MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She also hosts a monthly music radio show called “Reading Room.”
Founded in 2022, Chinese Artists and Organizers (CAO) Collective 离离草 creates art to empower relational community healing. They make space for nuanced narratives rooted in China, the Sinophone diaspora, and other experiences from the margins. As cultural organizers, their interdisciplinary praxis interweaves collective poetry, performance, food art, clay, sound, video, children’s games, meditation, and installation. They challenge systems of discipline, control, censorship, and capitalist extraction and reimagine memory/memorials, rituals, intimacy, and queer/feminist kinship to (re)build sustainable community infrastructures. CAO’s community poetry and translations have been published by Apogee, Irrelevant Press, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and The Massachusetts Review. caocollective.com / Instagram: @caocollective
