Nostalgia For Snow Poem by Shaojun Li

Nostalgia for Snow
Translated by Peter Jingcheng Xu


I
Sheltered in the Trumpet Gutter at Night


The dewy and starry sky looked more crystal,
studded over the hilltop behind the tall birch trees.

Down the hill, the springs-converged brook was winding and running amid the floral plants.
Whenever dawn broke, sika deer were passing through the forest to sip water here
which was sweeter than any elsewhere.

As the horse started to hoof, loneliness drew near, darting from a dark and deep serenity.




II
An Old Western Road


The easterners came galloping at top speed from motorways,
unable to accustom themselves to this barren and slow-paced place.

The sun setting westwards, humans hardly seen,
on the road ahead ambled herds of cattle,
which would never heed your horns and shouts,
nor would give way, disregarding your greatest tries and cries to chase them away.

Only in this attitude were these herds declaring:
They are the real master of this place!



III
Twilight at the Western Hill


Long living at the western hill brewed a storm deep down in my heart.
At dusk, we were about to walk down the hill, but he would like to stay, wishing to keep this hillful of gloaming.

He sat up in front of the temple like a keeper.
His swarthy and earthy face fitted him into this role.
He gazed after us, and also gazed away an era of serenity.

I walked a short distance, and looked back,
finding his solemn look blending into that hillful of unfading twilight,
as if his silhouette in the dusk
were fading into ten thousand things…


IV
The Rite of Spring


Returning to the col and the ancestral home,
I know that the ancestors are still there, co-being with green hills.

Standing under a tree, I sense the caress of fresh breeze,
and hear the ancestors whisper in my ear.
Walking to the fields, I find them silent amid the chirping, and the countryside unusually tranquil.

Peach trees, plum trees, aspens, and osmanthus
orderly girdle the ancestral abode.
They attend in our stead to the ancestors and the courtyard.
Still dwelling around are sparrows, swallows, and frogs.

Grandchildren hold in both hands the memorial tablets and stelae to the accompaniment of gongs and drums, aligning themselves in worship:
setting off firecrackers, burning paper money, and kowtowing at the same time.
Paper-made high-rise buildings are burnt to ashes instantly.
All these are gazed at by the ancestors afar.

The rite is bustling and busy, —all the rustic weddings and funerals are solemn occasions.
However, the green hills remain still, and the ancestors are silent.
The earth sees the same spring, and annually new willows.
Descendants grow generation after generation
while the ancestors are at the hummocks guarding this land.


V
My Father didn't Turn Up


"You father is unwell, and he won't come down for dinner."
In my dream, we three brothers sat at the table;
Cooking done, our mother took off the apron, cleaned her hands, and signaled us to start dining.

This is the first time that my father didn't turn up.
Two weeks ago, my father passed away.
This is the first time that he appeared in my dream after death.
My mother said he had eaten almost nothing two days before demise.

This time, my father didn't show up.
In my dream, he was merely mentioned in passing…



VI
Autumn Reminiscences


In the shady woods, a few graveyards can be seen along the way.
Autumn wind rustling, recalling spirits is also vital:
some of the dead unwaveringly reappear;
small scattered red and white flowers haunt
like sighs.

The mist at the distant mountains echoes my creeping melancholia.
Only the chirping in my ears stirs some clear conscience and vigor within me.



VII
Dawn


In the endless open fields where a long river runs a hundred li,
I woke up with the dizzy and sleepy earth.
In a trance, I hear a carriage afar
come rushing from the horizon, laden with diamonds, necklaces, and jewelries.
It idles like breeze in the beginning, and later hastens, rushes, and gallops.
Golden and silver needles together with pine needles sprinkle over the fields.

Morning glory slowly draws the curtain of the obscure world.
In a trice, I realize: this is daybreak.
Whoever realizes the dawn will be poetic!



VIII
A Psychic Special Envoy


This cat is well raised in a literary family.
Her manic mood has long been tamed to be soft and quiet.
The aroma of eaglewood incenses, the merits and demerits of poetry and paintings,
which she can tell when sniffing them, but she often ends up keeping silent.

She can also smell and tell vulgarians, but usually ends up hiding herself far away from them.
If she sees any admirable person who arrives, she will be active to move close,
docilely crouching beside the table and chairs, her eyes half close and half open,
and lend her ears to the host-guest talks, as if she savvied the secret of the world and the universe very well.



IX
Nostalgia for Snow


Snow has been the nostalgia of citizens.
It has visibly been exiled by our age:
we're used to traffic jams and epidemics,
snow hidden somewhere, and pollutions worsening.

Snow used to be the symbol of clean air.
It's the prerequisite of the normal change of seasons.
There are an eyeful of goods in supermarkets, — You name it!
No one, however, can produce or purchase snow.

Snow Kingdom is to me a homeland,
enriched by lanterns, hearthfire, and firecrackers.
My collars held up, I tread on the squeaky slush
all the way towards somewhere under the sparkling icicle-adorned window of your house.

When the violin sounds, small snowflakes start to fly in the sky.
Then, a heap of snow splashes.
Later, large fluffy snowflakes whirl.
Finally, swirling snowflakes blow in the sky, leaving me in shuddering excitement.



X
Paris Impressions


More charming than the wide river Seine
are those rills hidden in dark and deep places.

More mystical than the straight boulevards
are those winding and turning paths.

More congenial to love than the cafes with flickering neon lights
are those benches in parks.

More story-ridden than the open and flat squares
are those street corners.



XI
Penang Sketches


Coconut trees held up broad umbrellas.
Penang River washed through fish schools offshore.
A man under clouds stood lonely at the riverside,
awaiting oceangoing sailboats to return.

Penang flowers shed spellbinding fragrance,
rain washing away wind-blown dust and woe.
He finally returned to Penang he had missed day and night.
Behind banana leaves, there were his elderly parents and homeland.



XII
Mountain Trip


A grass-wrapped single-plank bridge
was built over a limpid brook.
Under it, white gravels rose from the shallow water.

The brook running further ahead, the reeds flickered,
where there were some flatly fallen snags
rendering water whirly to form a deep pool.

Along a path, I came here where
I would take a short repose, before I quested for another path.



XIII
Tropical Forest


The rain curtain pulled down, the tropical forest smells sweet.
Sprouts and green leaves also unfolding, it looks flourishing.
Unending rain dripping and dropping, a path leads to a dark forest.
Also enshrouded by cloudy weather, it's hazy abysmally.

Without rain, how can it be called tropical forest?
In rainless seasons, the whole forest seems bleak and barren:
Birds' chirping also sounds fragmented, unable to awaken inner memories.
Rain drops are the profoundest way of tranquil nostalgia.



XIV
Personal Statement


In ancient times, I should be an eagle
dawdling over the He Xi Corridor.

Later, I sat cross-legged and passed away as a Buddha at the Mount Maiji,
under the dense shades, guarding the Li-Du poetic land and the forefathers' yard.

At present, I morph into a seagull,
treading on green waves and blue billows, and rising and setting between the ocean and the heaven of the same hue.

Within my free soul, however,
always resounds a wild storm from western lands.



XV
A Needful Response to Spring



Those who've heard spring thunders are always willful in memory,
insisting that spring should have already arrived from outer space.

Secretly I make up my mind not to indulge in the heating-hypnotized lethargy any longer:
It's time to curb it on the brink of crisis, and respond heedfully to spring.

Even though everything is still in contest, wintery coldness is reluctant to retreat,
even if a bright moon is still needed to split up the thick blanket of nighty fog.

It's time to shoot swallow-like arrows to the earth,
and to blow into a flute a loud and deep resonance for the sky.

In this way, breakthroughs will be achieved, and the bright spring sun will come out,
leaving wisps of cloud to spread around the world.