The Origin Of Poetry (By Jidi Majia) Poem by Denis Mair

by Jidi Majia
Translated by Denis Mair

Poetry itself has no origin, like a spell of fog
It has no color, because it underlies colors
It is language in free-fall, a staircase of shadow
Not climbing to the perfect lines of a dome.
Its noiseless chronometer does not record
Distinctions of life and death; it stands against antipathy
But also against unification. It does not like to stroll
Where logic makes a home, for that is a place
That refuses the buzz of bees, the trumpet of a shepherd
Poetry is a twining wreath of smoke, shadowed on a paper window
Instead of the body of a bird
It is a gray memory of flight.
It embarks for a goal, but has no definite harbor.
It is an alternative exploit of discourse, a plummeting.
How wonderfully odd, that mid-way in its course
It cannot summon up scenes from its bay of arrival
Stars and dew, breeze and daybreak are refracted
With trembling brilliance through a soul, and that is poetry.
It is an enduring disappearance, possibility of an ongoing instant
It is existence that cannot exist
Like ripples that flash across nothingness
Poetry is the dimmed fire of embers, it is the transparent vault of sky
Poetry searches for those it owns, to follow its incarnations
Poetry is the beginning of silence, it denies that 1+1=2
Poetry does not approve of masks, lets us sense the sighs behind them
Poetry is an offering of three to the universe, or even more
It is the rending of autumn air by crickets, it is a golden droplet
Shaken from a turtledove's wing. It is flowers and murmurs of lovers.
It is blankness from human language that was lost or forgotten.
Poetry stands with wide eyes, in the middle of a plaza
Watching each and every passer-by,
Forever waiting and choosing, which one is suitable?
People say that the one who is chosen
That unlucky or Oh-so-lucky fellow…is a poet!