by Ma Yongbo
Anne Sexton, October 4, 1974
She and Maxine Kumin had a silly, cheerful lunch,
they kept interrupting their conversation to watch chickadees eating at the feeder by the window,
they went over the proofs of The Awful Rowing Toward God,
she didn't smoke, though usually she couldn't think without a cigarette,
at 1:30, Kumin walked her to the car, she rolled down the window
and called out something, but Kumin couldn't hear clearly—
it seemed like the most deliberate farewell.
She drove home through beautiful Indian summer weather,
the trees had taken on the colors of sour fruit hard candies,
the spacious, airy kitchen was serene, she poured herself a glass of vodka
and made phone calls to set up an evening appointment and change the meeting time—
other than that, she didn't speak to anyone, nor did she leave any note.
She took off her rings and dropped them into her big purse,
she reached into the closet for her mother's old fur coat,
layer upon layer of waves poured into her hands—the mother-sea inside the wardrobe,
though it was a sunny afternoon, there was still a chill in the air,
the worn silk lining soon warmed her body—
death would be sinking into the arms of an unnamed lady she had never known.
Every time she put on this coat, she felt like she became her mother,
except her mother was small, and she was tall,
with the vodka in her hand, she went into the garage and closed the door behind her,
she climbed into the driver's seat of the old red Cougar—
the car bought in 1967, the year she started teaching at the university.
She started the engine and turned on the radio—
Village Church
A red cross, like a weather vane, draws you down a narrow alley,
by evening, the light has already left this typical farmhouse courtyard,
the red tin roof is also the most common style in rural Northeast China,
the yard, paved with red bricks, is neatly swept to the point of desolation, no clutter at all,
white bricks spelled out the huge words "Path to Eternal Life" across the red ground,
leading all the way from the black iron gate to the church door.
Three single-story rooms, with a row of side chambers to the west, their doors locked,
you can imagine the space inside, barely large enough for twenty or thirty people,
printed icons on the walls, red devotional candles, plastic stools—
usually stacked in groups of a few, lined along the walls and windows,
the neighboring fields are still lush and green,
behind the house, the empty sky is without a sound,
this place leads nowhere, not even to the labor of the afterlife.
You can imagine a pastor who is neither young nor old,
his appearance is similar to a schoolteacher, simple yet sly,
he knows everyone here, even those not yet born,
he feels a certain weariness from knowing them too well and from having nowhere else to go.
At this moment, in this village so quiet it seems uninhabited,
he is the one who has just driven past on a three-wheeled cart, his features blurred,
pulling a large red drum, suddenly appearing behind you,
he parks the cart under the wall of a yellow house deep in the alley,
in the blink of an eye, he's gone—his disappearance as sudden as his appearance.
He must be in love with someone, a little helpless yet bored,
he doesn't know that he himself is loved by a stranger, right here and right now,
and this village is like a dead knot of the road, one that can never be untied.
Hesitation Before the Journey Begins
—written before embarking on the translation William Carlos Williams’ Paterson
Your body still hesitates on the cliff
all afternoon, your soul drifts on dark waters
the body is gloomy, gazing down, lost in thought
at this soul-apprentice’s euphoria
There is no craft more difficult than this
each time it feels like leaving the world entirely behind
bare hands, an unruly mind
are all the provisions—no companions, no maps
That unvisited land, whether miracle or desolation
you must reach it; you must share a single body with these words
another language, another rhythm
the nine Muses have left their father's throne one by one
you don’t know to which you should humbly offer your prayer
Your fifty-seven-year-old knees tremble
yet your young soul already longs for adventure
it is simple and pure, it knows nothing
transcending our shared complexity
Then let me send this whisper to you, Williams:
all journeys must come to an end
since you resolved to start from details and reach abstraction
then let me, start from these words
and reach the various details you lived through
and at the steep places beyond my reach
stretch out your equally bare, brotherly hand
From chaos, like an unknowing sun
rising from those unfired clay tablets
renewing us both simultaneously, from front and back
from addition and subtraction, from gathering and circulation
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