by Chuanghu (Window) tr. Fan Jinghua
It is me who killed him. Really. Like killing my dreams.
The killing proved easy and smooth, and I left no tails.
Unbelievably immaculate! Even I myself could no longer
Remember the when and how of the killing.
Maybe by the sea, where he took the blue waves
For his notes, the white crests his dream lovers.
Maybe under an apple tree, where he unwittingly
Swallowed down a petal of the fragrant flower
Dripping potion of evils and taboos. Or maybe
In my dreams when I killed him with the mundanely trivial reality,
With cowardly cold heart. He was so young, his eyes
So melancholically bright. Like flowers in rain. My youth!
About the Poet诗人简介:
Chuanghu is the pronunciation of the name but it means “Window.” I read his poems and like them much. We occasionally exchange a few words through the “comments” button in our blogs. His real name, I don’t know; his age, I don’t know; his profession, I don’t know. He constantly brands his poetry writing as “taking notes,” which I’d frequently refer to my own writing. The playing down something serious may be taken as his reverence toward poetry, and the quality is also found in his poetry. For a youth about 30 (as I guess), he has a voice of maturity, not indulging in the anguish of a quarter-life crisis, not exaggerating the increasingly heavier responsibilities befalling him. He has a language of agility, not densely decorated, not laconically dry. He makes his inner world felt, but he chooses not to be overly expressive or impressive. By the way, he lives in Hangzhou, one of the most characteristic cities of the Southern Yangtze River culture, which, although I usually do not buy the environment-determinant claims of Madame de Staël, does suggest some qualities of his poetry.