ZHANG ZAO

(1962-2010)

FOUR POEMS

translated by Zuo Fei and Jennifer Fossenbell

In the Mirror

It only takes the memory of one regret
for the plum blossom to fall
like watching her swim to the other side of the river
or climbing up the pine ladder
Though beauty is a terrible thing
there’s nothing better than to see her return on horseback
cheeks warm and soft
with shame, lowering her head, answering the Emperor
The mirror is always waiting for her
where she sits in her usual spot
gazing out the window. It only takes the memory of one regret
for the plum blossoms to fall over South Mountain

Who Art Thou

Who are you anyway? The noise coming from outside 
could only be outside. Your heart is unknowable, distant,
a sago tree at the moss-rimmed well. When you walk in the door
why do you not come to find me? Instead, you slip over to 
the wooden beam laden with dried fish, where we used to 
tie nets together. You loved the me that spoke to the water.
And what are you chasing after now?
Why are you so cruel to me?

Once we stood back to back, flowing with glorious youth,
I smoothed the wrinkles on your forehead, and my palms
were warmed from weaving; you and I are actually
one thing enjoying another thing: papered-panes, stars, pots—
who was it that blurred our eyes?
One snowflake turning into two.
A fish’s belly ripped open, what bloodiness! When you 
walk through the door, why don’t you come to greet me? 
You move around coldly, silent as the mountain outside.

It’s been ten months since I fell in love, 
my time got married to a shadow.
I bite into a fresh peach I picked, letting you 
bite with your shining teeth, too. The sweetness
will make you swell all over with gratitude.
Why is there only your voice speaking?
I can’t see the leftover skins of the fruit you had at dinner,
only your empty, dusty coat.
I can’t see your face, only cigarette smoke rising—
You can’t show your face to the world, to me?

Who in the world are you? All change 
begins at the fingertips. The sound of chopping timber,
it reminds me of your gestures. A storm fills the pavilion
and an abrupt wind gathers,
not from the north, nor the south.
How bitterly cold it is in our tunnel.

Whether you’re plodding forward
with horses languid and slow, six reins laden with the gloom.
Or whether you’re rushing forward
with horses winding along, whip whistling in the air.

February of white flowers, you can’t escape it even if you try.
Wherever you rest, I’ll be watching. If you tell me
how you lower your arms, I will tell you
how to wave once more; if you tell me
what’s fading out of your sight,
I will tell you who you are.

Dance of Corduroy Joy

1

“It’s light.” I look up, my heart
racing outward. “She should be decorated.” 
My eyes are fixed on the stage
which was built from various vessels.
When I see her, she is only 
dancing for me, but I don’t care.

Most of her is real. On stage
the drums are deafening, the people restless;
behind her is a shadow
bearing no resemblance to her. I’m taking in
the beauty of her in corduroy, and only when
the first leaf falls on a cold day, will I

tell the people around me: “She’s a feast for the eyes.”
I’m on my knees in spite of the dirt
and she is an array of dazzling limbs; exiting or
entering stage, altering her voice and mien. She changes; 
a mutable vessel, indeterminable. In its many uses, 
her corduroy is damaged and worn.

Through the vastness of heaven and earth, my five senses
run wild; the stage is set up and demolished at will.
Clothing comes and goes. “With many sunsets,
objects grow even more beautiful.”
I stand up, without guilt, only to hear—
before the voice fades away—a sigh.

2

I see the beauty and the weakness in myself.
I’m dancing, spinning as I stand still.
His dream dreams of a dream, a spotless moon
illuminating the velvet—which is my form,
but also the world’s.
He and I are dancing together.

It’s not that I’m ambiguous,
it’s just that life is a real thing.
“The gentleman is not a mere vessel.” I’m strict
with myself but always indulging,
I’m the light in the wine and
the scheme for nickels, enchanting.

It’s not that I want to mix the false with the genuine,
it’s just that I was born with such talents,
that’s why I seem so unfamiliar to him.
My clothes haven’t changed,
and my shadow has tears in its eyes— 
that’s why we differ in understanding.

In the end, I’ll blame him,
but he won’t see the reason.
Unless he comes again, puts himself in my position,
he won’t pick me
like picking a ripe fruit.
“Alas, the lost can only be with the one who has lost,”
and with that I let out a long sigh.

The King of Chu Dreams of the Rain Goddess

I want to enter into the dreams of someone from the bygone days
where separate raindrops share the same floating cloud.
My heart wants to race just as maniacally.
The palace grows like spring leaves, the foam of wine leaps like fish,
let the one who drinks with me move my arms up and down.
My hand feeling my own pulse, the deserted courtyard breathing mist.
Alas, my dream is now dreaming of another dream.

Wild reishi on the dead tree, silk at the water’s waist.
The western moths probe the soundness of dusk.
Having left their house of seclusion, they must’ve seen
the one who softly and endlessly calls my name.
She who might fly and sing, ascend and fall,
give me jade to wear, could be a dubious dwelling.
She who for the rendezvous might be dripping.

Strange. On the night before it rained,
I already felt my whole body being drenched.
The verdant bamboo could’ve seeped water.
The wind from the valley blows into their innermost being
yet it was as if my ears were flying through the air,
or stopping to burn, to burn her,
who pretended to sleep deeply in a wet, low place.

And to burn her ears, burn them to dust,
so she wouldn’t overhear the hunger of my heart.
You see, the world inebriating me is full of wine
as is the bamboo with morning rays and time.
Their rustling is full of pain, so much pain, 
the more pain, the more I want to peel it to reveal seven holes,
so my ailment is the world’s.

Inexplicable as you are, pay me no more mind.
I know you’re somewhere, playing with the wind.
The empty dream inside a dream, the false lotus leaves,
the dubious dwelling that causes me to toss and turn.
If the raindrops contain you, shall I not be the fire? They say
deities and men take different paths, but to the same destination,
and I want, I desire, I’m dying for your divine tears.