Thursday, April 5, 2012

Cheng Ying: Hand in Hand We Sit on the Roof Beam

  Hand in Hand We Sit on the Roof Beam
          by Cheng Ying tr. Fan Jinghua

The one I’ve been feeding is exhausted
I sit with her on the roof beam
Tears of farewell barely contained in her eyes
She begrudges the way I’ve kept distance from things
But held attachment for her
What a wonder is her head that keeps lowered for me
She even stoops to draw herself near things, striving to plant
Their love for peace into my heart, while I watch her attentively
And observe her consumed face
Her live experience has been solely for me
No soul mates, no sisters
My shameless curiosity wants to find out
How she is humiliated and deceived
By her inner loss and confusion
And how her proud head is battered by fresh eggs

Now we sit hand in hand under the beam
She counts the number of times love flashes at me
Its bewitching colors and broken utensils
Her hands emulate the industry of an old grandma’s
Her eyes perform more than merely gaze or look around, her lips
Become fuller due to the passion for kissing
Things are allowed to permeate her bowels, rising and falling
And also she wants to permeate me. She says
That’s freedom, but I, insatiable, grow
Lighter and lighter on the only warm tree branch over the cloud
Scattering her tears on my skin and taking them for
My own wounds, bleeding
She is fed with my cereals and grains
And I attempt over-indulged carnal pleasure to accelerate her aging
But she gleams like the most delicate flower

Now she is worn out
Her smiles fainter and fainter
She hopped onto the roof beam, sitting by me
“You dodge from our issue
For love is doomed to be a clandestine career
My body is far from ripeness
But its desire has long outgrown the age”
Her legs dangling in sorrow, in exaltation
(They have measured many roads)
Her eyes downcast
She leans inward and bends to another one
An inexplicable film clouds up her eyes
What does she use to feed? To what end is she so carried away?—
No longer does she speak to me
No longer does her bright face turn to me

  我们手拉手坐到房梁          成婴
我不知羞耻的好奇心, 是想看她

巫合的色彩, 破碎的器具
她让事物穿透自己的脏腑, 此起彼伏
愈发轻盈, 在云端这唯一温暖的枝杈上


About the Author:
Cheng Ying, born in 1971 in Guangdong, is a researcher on architectural history and a documentary film director. She received her MA in architecture from Tsinghua University, focusing on the study of Confucian Temples and Schools. She has published a book of poetry Sitting on the Roof Beam. She now resides in Beijing.


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