Tonight

It must have been too much alcohol,

even your look becomes suddenly 

                                            so tender

and full of the promise 

                             of a summer’s night.

I’m longing to have you, 

                                   here and now

before the harsh daylight steals you away

and I might never see you again.

                                  Anyway that’s the game,

a sweet but ruthless encounter 

 

                                   with no tomorrow

for queers like us in this all-embracing land.

But I like you tonight – 

that’s why this empty bar

does call for something more intimate 

                                     between us.

your face— 

your half-open shirt—

Your creamy chest— 

O the rushing sound 

                           deep inside my veins!

It’s been too good a night to let you flee,

                           just stay a while longer—

If you desire admiration,

                           or compliments 

from all men before and after me,

I have nothing better now

                          than my loneliness 

in a promiscuous life,

and tonight,

                            I’ve given it to you.

 

Published on The New English Review

Whispers Of Nanny, A Translation by A.H

呢喃曲

written by Clock Li

吟吟碎,纤云醉,

南国秋夜迷人睡。

哝哝诲,岚风退,

一年一期,几世前生;

还罪。

呤呤念,水帘倩;

夏雨风卷离人涟。

咿咿羡,檐瓦见,

一世蝉鸣,一日觅欢;

生怨。

Whispers Of Nanny

Translated by Aiden Heung

Your whispers 

                      broken;

Drunk

                     the tender cloud above;

This southern land,

                      This autumn,  for us, 

inebriating, 

                       soporific.

Now the mountain haze retreats

                       and abate 

your whispers. 

Our rendezvous

                                once in a lifetime,

exhaustion of all felicity 

                              of my previous lives.

Or my remission.

 

Broken whispers,

                          from the curtain 

of falling water;

Comes the summer rain, 

                               or the wind

 that ripples the lake— 

Your departing face 

                          and lost!

Under the eaves, 

                         a cicada moans 

a lifelong time

and yearns 

                        for the pleasure of a day.

 

The sorrow of life…
* As required by A Shanghai Poetry Zine to translate one of their received Chinese poems,  written by a local Shanghainese poet Clock Li.

*I do not have the right to the Chinese poem, should any objection arise for publishing in my personal blog, I would delete it accordingly.

*I reserve my right to the translation.

National Business

The architect draws from his file 

a map, on which 

a tiny spot is red-circled.

Here, he says,

six billion investment;

His eyes glisten like coins

and his black tie dangles like a sword 

above the blueprint of a tower,

cadaverous, awe-provoking, 

the color of champagne gold.

 

I know the block of the street, where 

rosy clouds flew over

houses with mortared walls, 

though moss-eaten, 

home to eaves-seeking swifts,

rattled now, 

by excavator tires.

A Notebook From 1967

Leather-bound messages,

              traveled from hands to hands 

and arrived here,

              in an antique store;

a display of a turbulent past,

unclear now

on yellow pages, where

a downpour of thoughts had fallen

and a roar of raging words—

                      silenced,

after almost fifty years, 

by a red price tag.