英译诗24首（2011-2016） | 莫笑愚

诗人莫笑愚

Mo Xiaoyu: 24 Poems

Translated by Mo Xiaoyu

1. Unhidden

It is birdsong, not bird,

that at dawn announces the new day.

It is breath, not I,

that asserts I am alive.

2. The Toilet's Poise

The toilet always bears feces

and stench in silence.

After a short roar,

it returns to stillness,

as if nothing had happened.

3. Poet (2)

At the tavern door, the poet holds forth—

Absolute Spirit, words staggering and tumbling

from his lips onto the vomit at his feet.

He wakes up a philosopher.

4. Utmost Stillness

From darkness to darkness,

through the whole night,

only one drop of water, from the tap,

escapes into my eye socket.

5. The Rope

Whose rope?

Hangs down from the sky—

Some see a rainbow, a ladder, a serpant's tongue.

I say it's God's necktie, and man the knot.

While being tightened, it blossoms along God's collar—

as if the whole earth were bursting with flowers.

6. The Lantern Bearer

Moonless night. Open fields stretch wide.

The lantern has gone out long since,

he still carries it.

7. Family Heirloom

My grandmother's mother left a family heirloom—

her foot-binding cloth.

Her feet were very small,

the cloth outlived her.

8. Autumn Deepening

Fallen leaves are the enemy of memory.

In the drowsiness of day, night awakes—

breath never outruns time.

9. Aphorism

Whatever is spoken is dead.

What lives is never spoken.

10. Cleopatra's Serpent

Like opening a cell of a hyacinth in bloom,

you open the secret of a seed.

Like cutting through head and body,

you slice a gene.

In a wheat field in Autumn,

you harvest Cleopatra's venom.

11. Father

Nineteen years ago, my father passed away.

All these years, my childhood kept him company,

and his rain has kept me.

12. Snow Falls on Peking

Snow has fallen on Peking

from the Qing Dynasty to the Republic to this very day.

Snow piles up on the walls of Forbidden City,

buries my ankles as I walk,

calling the princesses back from the past,

and from the old alleys, the Tianqiao acrobat

with his sugar-coated hawthorns.

Snow falls on the latticed windows of the courtyard homes—

melting in an instant, running on my face.

13. Cry

Summer rain is fire.

A great green fire surrounds me—

making me weep.

14. Suspense

Rain has fallen; rain has not yet fallen.

The rain that falls and has not yet fallen

hovers in midair, watching me.

15. A Fish Dies

A fish dies

on the altar.

A school of fish swims in

between chopping board and knives.

The eternal bell tolls

like a heavy metal chorus

across the King's waters—

lingers only half a second.

16. Reflection

Lying down does not mean death,

just as standing does not mean living.

My shadow never thinks—

never hungry, never tired.

It lives like me,

humble and devout.

It endures death like a wax figure,

waiting to weather like Sisyphus's boulder.

17. Silence

A bird's wings, silently

scrape through the autumn dawn—

the sky at five.

dew hangs upside down from grass.

18. Snow Falls Quietly

Tonight it snows.

We talk of fish and fishing—

the season has long passed,

we are still empty-handed.

The fire burns bright,

snow falls quietly on the fence.

We lie down in our clothes, hair on the pillows—

every strand burnished by snowlight.

19. Unawareness

A bat patrols the night.

Tree branches sway.

A faint snoring sound

passes through the night,

settling on the bat's nose.

20. The Corroded Rail

Rusty, abandoned rails will never

make it to a museum.

Someone saws them into sections,

paperweights on a desk.

21. Reversibility

Pacing on the dial of time,

the dial turns counter‑clockwise.

An old projector clicks and grinds.

You pedal a waterwheel backwards,

counting steps—

step by step, you retreat onto the dial.

22. Cat and Scorpions

A swarm of scorpions, a black cloud—

they bite me, trap me in the cat's corner.

The cat is quiet, docile—

she's had a litter of kittens.

At midnight, whiteness everywhere.

23. Umbrella

That umbrella—I never opened—is dry

On the magnolia leaves, a few scattered gray raindrops

24. Without Cause

From birth to death: a finger's breadth.

From death to birth: a lifetime apart.

Endnote:

These translations prioritize the originals' open textures and multiple resonances over interpretive closure. I have kept ambiguities intact, trusted the silences, and made minimal adjustments for English rhythm and syntax. My aim has been to let each poem read as authentic English poetry while remaining faithful to the original spare, unflinching vision.

Morro Bay Sunset (Original work by Mo Xiaoyu. Copyright©)