from Sidetracks
from Sidetracks
Issue 245, Fall 2023
1.Gone is the sea the seafoam returnsGone is the river of springtime the empty riverbed returnsGone is the clear sky the whistling arrow returnsGone is the seed the running tally returnsGone is the tree the firewood returnsGone is the great fire the hoarfrost returnsGone is the old legend the rumors returnGone is the bird the lines of the poem returnGone is the feast of stars the tyranny of night returnsGone is the common folk the emperor returnsGone is the dream the song returnsGone is the song the road returnsGone is the road the foreign land returnsGone gone is the endless questioningand what returns has no sound
I am an old fisherman who has come from the other shoredrawing in the story of the storm with a net of silenceI am a blacksmith who forges intangible desiresstrengthening the steel with quenched sufferingI am a woman worker on a sewing machine assembly lineusing each double stitch to seek a hometown in the cloudsI am an organizer for a coal miners’ strikereleasing decibels of gas from black wordsI am the jailer who guards over my whole lifeletting the key’s fleet steed pass through the keyhole of lightI am an old librarian with poor eyeslistening to the meditation of dust and breeze in the leavesI am a king who lives in an inner cageand when the loom’s silk weave restores the afterglow of cloudsI watch the exile of the setting sun in a bronze mirrorIt is time for dawn’s bell to ring outIt is time for dead souls to rise out of the abyssIt is time for the seasons to blinkIt is time for flowers to bloom flowers to fall and spit out the pits of fruitIt is time for the spiderwebs to reconstruct logicIt is time to shoot down the old memoriesIt is time for the executioner to crave an empty bedIt is time for starlight to connect the living and the deadIt is time for women to smile sweetly in advertisementsIt is time for the banks’ tigers to come out of their cagesIt is time for stone statues to walk forthIt is time for the steam whistle to shriek and upend the skyIt is time for the Age of AnonymityIt is time for poetry to disclose the will of heavenIt is time
2.wild revelry is the privilege of slaves and the common folkthey use their feet to vote their hair to resist and make wavessongs boil the five stars in the public squarenight and day chase each other in the cloudsstudents boycott classes clocks stop at midnightalong the vertical axis of power a meteor soarsan accordion opens the deep folds of timethe clamorous waves of the singer roll stones roll sun
fear and courage are the same seedmaking our stomachs ache and achethe moment is defined by a bird turning in midflight the bird is an image that lasts an instantsoldiers at the city gates must be courting dangerlofty mountains flowing waters end in the palm of a handthe sky leans against the glass of utopiathe grip of the god of death tightens around youthful hearts
midnight hear the dogs howl in the thick foghow can the broken line of death reach the endForbidden City and traffic lightsthe season of change cannot be stoppedopen a history book or a newspaperambushed by tiger leopard jackal wolfbreak out of the snare of Chinese charactersoutside the grate of the underground another prison awaits
the revolution needs a bigger spaceso that the same tragedy cannot repeat itselfprotest banners lice empty plastic bottlesguitar players leaflets the hour hand’s luster of bloodthe flocks of geese with tents bound to the earthhunger strikers squandering their last provisionsnegotiations and farmers markets haggling over pricesbrakes fail while flooring the gas
ambulances wail through the citytrees thirst in silence along the shaded avenuesthe public square absorbs the heat late into the nightmoonlight oscillates insomniacs swim the storm whirls away the details of the dreamswhispers and martial law warnings rage against the night skya wedding ceremony unfolds beside the monumentthe blue beam of a searchlight escorts the bride
freshly brushed paint is already fadingand you have become unrecognizable in the mirrorhistory eats weeds stones are displacedthe seven stars of the Dipper point to no exitsharp claws cannot reach your own backanonymous diaries dispersenarratives replace different charactersuntil the opening blooms come to an end—
all the long nights are doomed expectationsall revolutions are ideals betrayedtears run down the face of a young girlsecret little paths outside historyshow us the way to learn how to grieve in revelryand in grief to learn how to sing silently silently on the way out of the square looking backthe tide laps the night into a giant wave
3.no exceptions to the particulars
from river-willow strips to cicada songroll up the long scroll of the dynastystrangers and guests brush shoulders as they passcount the crows on the city-gate towersthe noise makes people agitated
my childhood my cityall the lights are blinking
green signal flares rise uptanks crush historical idealismunderground bass cuts in and outa knife slices through glasstree roots rupture flowers groan
a command becomes a row of soldiers guns are the only truth
bullet holes decorate the monumentembellishments since the year 1840—carved reliefs of modern history“no one was killed on the square”stone lions deaf-mute witnesses
from West Berlin to Beijingline busy cutting in and out
this is the Beijing of nursery rhymesunfortified defenseless citythe only fate of resistancemakes the heart clench into a fistthat salutes the defeated
phantoms screech through the telephone lineswho is it wiretaps or jammed signals
all the clocks have stoppedall the chimneys hold their breathall the mirrors turn the other wayall the mules are blindfoldedall the water faucets choke in the throat
CNN breaking newsscanned photos transmitted
the sky above the city smoke and flamesarmored vehicles steel helmets gun muzzlesblood flatbed tricycles the woundeddead faces figures shakeno screaming or gunfire
early one Sunday morningat the Forbidden Cityby the shore of the Tongzi River
someone still voice-trainingechoes bouncing off the red wallshis singing so sonorous and clearrippling the corner turret aslant in the watera drumbeat leads history across the stage
pushes toward the silent hospitalwhere the surgical blade hovers in place
youth shatters like ancient porcelainfreedom tears off the old bandagethe heart is the engine of madnessroars turn into hushed murmursmilitary marches without borders
4.West Berlin and Beijing divided by a wallbullets whistle by frightening the birdslooking down on those fire-spitting roses
Güntzelstrasse 50 fourth floor12-inch television in the living roomBeijing news CNN still livewhiskey drink up the water of lifewhite stubble blooms and bloomsstreams on a ridge sharpen the crescent moon
a broadcast news van leads the waySunday afternoon funeral processionBerliners join the symphony Pathétiquea silent tribute divides the avenuethe first-chair violinist breaks a string
while summer isn’t far offraindrops irregular end rhymeslife and death run parallel through poetrywriting—nocturnal birdsflying out of the frame
Kubin smiles wearilyputs on a melancholy maskwe read together in Kreuzbergspace composed of echoescandles midnight in German
early spring 1982 Summer Palacehe pointed a camera at methe plainclothes were like our shadowswhile the lakelight distractedBerlin Wall Horizon Arts FestivalCold War exists just beyond the imaginationhe came alone to pick me up from the airportcooked some good spicy tofu soupwheels of light spinning on the walls
how tragedy can switch rolesKubin brings me into a different summerwe cross a grove of marching treescemetery there are the Brothers Grimm
standstill folded page corner of a bookflying en route from West Berlin through West Germanythe wind unfurls the cuffs from the shadows of cloudswrath prophets sowing seedsmore names added to the blacklist
state television Channel 2news hour I’m being interviewedred light skips to green hand signalsbroken whispers of the woman translatinglistening to the echoes on an empty mountain
lost in the telephone lines to BeijingShao Fei said police broke into our houseconfiscated passport and visascent of cigarette smoke like a police dog sniffingashes in a glass ashtray—the open letter signed by the thirty-three
three months later Copenhagenin a room at a hotel in the city centerI dial long-distance to Beijingmy four-year-old daughter’s voice:Baba why don’t you come home
Home page illustration by Na Kim.
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