LatinosUSA

Drinking Alone on a Rainy Night

In Jinling, I drink alone the wine from my hometown
every drop of rain turns into wine, wine without a shadow
every spate of rain is a discourse, now slow, now hurried
I respond with silence, well aware that such nights
will recur again and again, and one must not drink too much

Each cup of wine contains all wines
each rain is a memory, more memories of rain
from ancient times, from the small buildings by the Qinhuai River
from red paper lanterns, painted boats moored in the dark
and a woman leaning on the railing, waiting

Yet I am, after all, a heartless wanderer
in wine, I forget those nights where candlelight swayed red
in wine, I recall all the wine affairs and flower affairs of past lives
it was also on nights as deep as soil
in dim rural inns, that I recalled
nights on even more distant journeys
distant autumn thunder and sparse stars

~~

Thinking of the rain in Liye, in the rain

Compared with the rain five years ago,
our bodies have grown older still.
We drive through the mountains of western Hunan,
as if only for the deep quiet of the valleys after rain.
And the rushing river leaves the ancient town,
then slows at once, and grows much wider.

We walk along the riverbank.
From the mist-shifting opposite bank come cowbells, one by one.
We speak little, like the river—
only making a sound when it meets an obstacle.

Beneath the bank, the old stone streets
bind together the dim silence of old houses.
You casually speak of last night’s inn:
from the triangular ceiling,
at midnight, an invisible ghost hung upside down,
breathing toward you.
You paid it no mind and kept pretending to sleep.
Sometimes you turn mysterious all at once,
just as a river suddenly bends and falls still.

The rain grows heavy before we know it.
We quicken our steps.
A hen squats quietly in the middle of the street,
letting the rain soak her through.
As we pass, she does not move.
Suddenly, from beneath her short wings, as if exploding,
a brood of chicks bursts out, scattering in all directions—
no sound, no trace, clean and complete.

~~

Rain After Grain Rain

After Grain Rain, the rain falls without cease.
I walk in the countryside, all the flowers are gone
or hidden in the armpits of the plants.
Rain becomes all things, it sows transparent seeds
that will grow green bodies.
The rain that falls back into the pond
beats on the restless roofs of the fish.

I hold my coat over my head.
The man fishing in the light rain,
and the large bird standing alone on the rock,
they wait for things to appear between the breaks of rain,
wait for their past lives and present selves.
I watch my urine vanish quickly into the rain
I wash my hands with tree leaves, as if nothing had happened.
The wet rain makes my clothes heavy.

Green fills the window, my elder brother comes to take an umbrella.
We talk in the dimming room,
now and then listening to the rain outside.
We speak of childhood, the window slanting under the eaves.
I washed my hands with the dripping rain,
peed into the yard through the crack of the door,
sang every song I knew
it always seemed I was home alone when it rained.
Ripples always bloomed in the water jar under the eaves.

Rain beats on the red roof, rising mist.
It longs to join the talk inside the room,
longs to sink deeper and deeper in the silent body like a bullet.
When we fall silent, we suddenly feel the room grow cold,
so we stand up, and put on the warm clothes of old days.

~~

Song in the Rain

Some things lie between the finger and the touch.
Darkness and rain have piled up on the awning all night.

Some things stay awake under the rain-slanted lotus leaves,
eyes wide and stiff, hanging in the void.

Some things are not peace themselves,
yet bring peace—like the water rising in gentle motion.

We lie in dampness, leaving the lamp outside.
Not far away, our dreams of unknown shape glide slowly toward us.

Listen: it is the mouth of a green bottle nibbling the boat’s side.
We feel ourselves slowly turning into white emptiness.

By dawn, some things are nothing but their own shadows.
We cast our hooks of words toward them.

~~

A River Trip in the Drizzle

Things vanish as distance vanishes,
yet we still cannot become part of anything.
Fog parts, the raised bow stretches deep into emptiness.
How to make love to the void and make a sound,
this is a matter of life and death.

The motor at the stern trembles, burns hot,
like an excited, fresh body.
The furrow plowed by the hull spreads slowly toward both banks,
sown with white raindrops
equally fruitless: water dissolves into water,
body dissolves into body.

Green mountains on both sides unfold screen by screen.
The feast of all things soon cools.
The boat turns direction unawares.
We shift our posture too,
though the scenery remains the same scenery

The rain still falls, this river — Xin’an River,
could as well be Lanyin River, Fuchun River,
the Yangtze, or any river, or not exist at all.
We too might not be ourselves,
but mere words unable to string together meaning,
or rain that does not know how to end.