by Ma Yongbo
Begin with negation, to speak the unspeakable
a negation ascending until "the ignorance of clouds"
listen to the surge and vanish of waves in grooves of sand
the surge of foam and pebbles, or push beyond the edges of control
from the dome-shaped brain of "I see"
to the room opposing history, all against all
from the crimson-purple reflected in evening clouds
to a series of motionless gods who seem almost ashamed
or white astonishment, from the last illusion of roses
to being content to gaze, not exceeding the distilled space of gazing
and the meaningless green and yellow
until the final silence, the fate of all poets
the certain thing, fleeting hoofprints
in the twilight indistinguishable from dawn or dusk, interlaced heartbeats
an osprey’s wings tinged pink with salmon
olive leaves flicker between light and shadow
from the quieter song that is both evening star and morning star
from the gait on Lydian streets, recognizing one’s mother
no, no language can separate dawn dew from mist
or white ankles from hoofprints
the urgency of spells and the cry of prayers evoke
only the mother whose breast is accidentally grazed by her son’s arrow
the unspeakable wrath, infinite pi, absorbing all tides
the divine internalized into being—this highest poem
transcending affirmation and negation, being and non-being
it is identity with the divine, achieved through self-negation
a midnight paying homage to noon
or the tracery of a tribunal’s window transformed by light
insist on lovely errors rather than dry, politically correct locust shells
no, an eraser scrubbing away human speech, leaving a smudged doodle
this is the poet’s final end, beyond joy or sorrow
it was always a cathedral caught in a net of pebbles
in an Asian field you’ve never visited
an old radio’s fragmented lament, incomprehensible
gray ghosts of last year, watching you at the stairwell’s turn
searching for a twisted bronze key—what arm could lift such a burden
since no hand comes to aid us, no hidden mouth urges us onward
and passing is merely replacing a part of the scenery
both people and landscape feigning ignorance
merely snow hesitating to speak a lie before touching ground
we’ve exhausted the dark, slowly lifting black eyelids
the black procession flowing from bridges
from London Bridge, from Florence’s bridges
for every definition is negation—condition, place, time
stripping branches of leaves to make flags
as if to survive, as if still life owed the world
reality’s half-hearted imagination, a stained-glass dome
nets, mirrors, fragile paper—the fragmented state of now
unable to grasp both sides of a thought
or the greatest spring collapsing, corpses without death
until the uprightness held by a burning candle yields to migraine’s wax tears
until “I don’t know” becomes the only right answer
a secluded writer’s classical underworld
certainty within uncertainty, a blood pool one cubit square
drink the blood and recognize oneself, where rivers rest into the sea
no, this is merely waiting, elbows taut
merely a desert dictated by spatial adjacency
and revolutionary time, an unsaved ripple
a silhouette between expanding useless thoughts and actions
meditation creates its own object, not the object first, then meditation
no, this is far from enough—a lurching cabin
a lamp pressing on a chart’s briefly lit area
shadows emerging where lines intersect
and the useless unease of other women
slow burning, the cruelty justice demands
devour us, great father Kronos
since neither market nor theater can stage your full pantomime
since we cannot complete ourselves alone, complete praise and mourning
since we don’t know which gray fold we emerged from
since we can begin anytime, but never end
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