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A timeless, visionary collection of poems from one of China’s most acclaimed poets-now available in English for the first time in a generation and featuring a foreword by his son, contemporary artist and activist Ai Weiwei
One of the most influential poets in Chinese history, Ai Qing is mostly unknown to Western readers, but his work has shaped the nature of poetry in China for decades. Born between the fall of imperial Manchurian rule and the establishment of the Communist People’s Republic, Ai Qing was at one time an intimate of Mao Zedong.
He would eventually fall out with the leader and be sentenced to hard labor during the Cultural Revolution, when he was exiled to the remote part of the country known as “Little Siberia” with his family, including his son, Ai Weiwei.
In his work, Ai Qing tells the story of a China convulsing in change, leaving behind a legacy of feudalism and imperialism but uncertain what the future will hold. Breaking with traditional forms of Chinese poetry, Ai Qing innovatively adapted free verse, writing with a simple sincerity in clear lines that could be understood by everyday readers.
Selected Poems of Ai Qing is an extraordinary collection that traces the powerful inner life of this influential poet who crafted poems of protest, who longed for a newer, happier age, and who wrote with a profound lyricism that reaches deep into the heart of the reader.
Selected Poems by Ai Qing (Author),
Ai Weiwei (Introduction), Robert Dorsett (Translator)
Ai Qing is regarded as one of the finest modern Chinese poets, whose free verse was influential in the development of new poetry in China.
Ai Weiwei is one of the world’s most important living artists. Born in 1957, he lives in Cambridge, UK.
Allan H. Barr is the author of a study in Chinese of a literary inquisition in the early Qing dynasty, Jiangnan yijie: Qing ren bixia de Zhuangshi shi’an, and the translator of several books by contemporary Chinese authors, including Yu Hua’s China in Ten Words and Han Han’s This Generation. He teaches Chinese at Pomona College in California.
# new poetry
Selected Poems by Ai Qing (Author),
Ai Weiwei (Introduction),
Robert Dorsett (Translator)
Publisher: Vintage Classics
2 Nov. 2021
Language: English
Hardcover
128 pages
ISBN-10: 1784877662
ISBN-13: 978-1784877668
£12.99
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, #Modern Poetry Archive, - Book News, - Bookstores, Ai Weiwei, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
The Eviction
In early morning twilight, raw and chill,
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Through miles of mire in steady grave array
Threescore well-arm’d police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings:
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride
Talks with the chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu
Pretends his needful duty much to rue.
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common freize,
Walk in the midst, the Sheriff’s staunch allies;
Six crowbar men, from distant county brought, –
Orange, and glorying in their work, ’tis thought,
But wrongly,- churls of Catholics are they,
And merely hired at half a crown a day.
The hamlet clustering on its hill is seen,
A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean;
Poor always, not despairing until now;
Long used, as well as poverty knows how,
With life’s oppressive trifles to contend.
This day will bring its history to an end.
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls
Lean a few silent men: but someone calls
Far off; and then a child ‘without a stitch’
Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech,
And soon from house to house is heard the cry
Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high,
Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o’er fence and watery field beneath,
The little army moves through drizzling rain;
A ‘Crowbar’ leads the Sheriff’s nag; the lane
Is enter’d, and their plashing tramp draws near,
One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear
“Halt!” – at the doors they form in double line,
And ranks of polish’d rifles wetly shine.
The Sheriff’s painful duty must be done;
He begs for quiet-and the work’s begun.
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest,
Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast,
And Rosy’s thin face on a pallet borne;
A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn.
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek,
Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak,
But, in defect of any word for this,
Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss,
Then passes out for ever. Through the crowd
The children run bewilder’d, wailing loud;
Where needed most, the men combine their aid;
And, last of all, is Oona forth convey’d,
Reclined in her accustom’d strawen chair,
Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair
Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill,
Looks round and murmurs, then again is still.
Now bring the remnants of each household fire;
On the wet ground the hissing coals expire;
And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face,
Receives the full possession of the place.
William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
The Eviction
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Dithyrambe
Glücklich, wem der Gott der Reben
Seine süßen Gaben beut,
Hüllend um das ganze Leben
Selige Vergessenheit!
Alle finstern Geister weichen,
Aller Fesseln sind wir los,
Herrscher in des Traumes Reichen,
Fühlt der Geist sich frei und groß.
Fort, mit deinen bleichen Zügen,
Träumende Erinnerung!
Deinen Zauber zu betrügen,
Fühl’ ich mächtig mich und jung!
Heiliger Entzückung Gluten
Fach’ ich in der Seele an;
Möchte frei das All’ umfluten,
Wie der alte Ocean!
Stürmt empor, ihr Jugendgeister!
Tanzt um mich in frohen Reih’n!
Immer frischer, immer dreister,
Stürzt ins Leben euch hinein!
Fluch den fremden, starren Mächten,
Die der Menschen Sinn betört;
Die uns martern, die uns knechten,
Die mein ganzes Sein zerstört!
Mächt’ger Gott der süßen Reben,
Spende mir Vergessenheit!
Schenke mir ein neues Leben,
Voll Genuß und Seligkeit!
Schlagt die Gläser all’ in Scherben:
So vergeh’ die alte Welt!
So mag sterben und verderben,
Was das Herz in Fesseln hält!
Louise Aston
(1814-1871)
Die wilde Rose
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Feminism
Verwunschene
In den Armen der Mühle hängen
die bleichen Verwunschenen
Drehen langsam den Stein des Brotes,
Unendlich geduldig.
Rings im Lande jagen die Prasser,
Aber die bleichen Verwunschenen
Mahlen unendlich geduldig das Korn.
Fängt ein Sturm ihre langen Ärmel
Sinken sie stumm in die heilige Erde.
Schicken von neuem bleiche Gesellen
Den Armen der Mühle
Geduldig, unendlich,
Verwunschen.
Bess Brenck-Kalischer
(Betty Levy, 1878-1933)
Verwunschene
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
Weerwil
Macht kan harde dingen maar is zo zacht
als spek wanneer het er op aankomt. Ogen
in de rug moeten open blijven want achter
de hoek dralen ongeduldige messendragers.
Grof als de krachtige streken van Permeke
zijn hun bedoelingen. Ze zwijgen instemmend,
zwaar als leugens die nooit ontmaskerd werden.
Bert Bevers
Weerwil
(Uit: Andere taal, Litera Este, Borgerhout, 2010)
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver.
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be).
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Maoriland
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your forests of kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Older poets sing their frozen
England in her mists enshrouded;
Newer lands my Muse has chosen,
‘Neath a Southern sky unclouded;
Set, a solitary gem,
In Pacific’s diadem.
Land of rugged white-clad ranges,
Standing proud, impassive, lonely;
Ice and snow, where never change is,
Save the mighty motion only
Where through valleys seared and deep
Slow the serpent glaciers creep.
Land of silent lakes that nestle
Deep as night, girt round with forest;
Water never cut by vessel,
In whose mirror evermore rest
Green-wrapt mountain-side and peak,
Reddened by the sunset’s streak.
Land of forests richly sweeping,
By the rata’s red fire spangled;
Where at noonday night is sleeping,
Where, beneath the creepers tangled,
Come the tui’s liquid calls
And the plash of waterfalls.
Land where fire from Earth’s deep centre
Fights for breath in anguish furied,
Till she from the weight that pent her
Flings her flames out fiercely lurid;
Where the geysers hiss and seethe,
And the rocks groan far beneath.
Land of tussocked plain extending
In the distant blue to mingle,
Where wide rivers sigh unending
Over weary wastes of shingle;
Cold as moonlight is their flow
From the glacier-ice and snow.
Land where torrents pause to dally
‘Neath the toi’s floating feather,
Where the flax-blades in the valley
Whisper stealthily together,
And within the cabbage-trees
Hides the dying evening breeze.
Land where all winds whisper one word,
“Death!” — though skies are fair above her.
Newer nations white press onward:
Her brown warriors’ fight is over —
One by one they yield their place,
Peace-slain chieftains of her race.
Land where faces find no furrow,
With the flush of life elated;
Where no grief is, save the sorrow
Of a pleasure that is sated;
Land of children lithe and slim,
Fresh of face and long of limb.
Land of fair enwreathëd cities,
Wide towns that the green bush merge in;
Land whose history unwrit is —
Memory hath no chaster virgin!
Land that is a starting place
For a newer, nobler race.
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the Earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your rata and kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
Maoriland
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Delight
I’ve been delighting in your face
since the Eureka mess of our embrace,
the cork of fizzing kissing taken place,
the sexual notation of blushing staves,
a lust-compass flashing up radar blips.
Sloppy corners, edges in melted clips
of our manic laughter, on risky ships,
in the city’s darkness and muddy trips,
naked tangles on private sandy strips,
isolated scrub lands and forest bits,
disused canal tunnel with freezing tits,
stopping the car in shadowy lay-bys,
alleyways, echoing blissed-out cries,
she delighted, ripping open my flies.
And through our lustiness a miracle came,
the pneumatic forces created the near-same,
through the acrobatic propagated struggle
in the hospital you pushed out of the bubble
when we saw you delight in your life force.
Now we are celebrating the main course
of us all together, as a loving source,
of the wonderful blended mix,
of our delight, our scented lives transfixed
we have built the home as well as the bricks.
Vincent Berquez
Delight
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet. He has published in Britain, Europe, America and New Zealand. His work is in many anthologies, collections and magazines worldwide (f.i. fleursdumal.nl).
# new book of poetry by Vincent Berquez:
The Sound of Blossom Falling
Author: Vincent Berquez
Paperback
Language: English
86 pages
Publisher: Cyberwit.net
2021
ISBN-10: 9390601096
ISBN-13: 978-9390601097
£10.89
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Berquez, Vincent, Vincent Berquez
Rimpels
We lijken alleen zo oud. Het is de lichtval maar.
Want, gedraaid, kijk: nu zijn we weer gladjong.
Als toen we de simpele hoop uitspraken later
samen te mogen rimpelen. Die speling in en van
rechtmatig verleden. We wachtten brave jaren
op tijdgenoten, maar die bleken er al lang te zijn.
Bert Bevers
Rimpels
(Ongepubliceerd)
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver.
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be).
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Tristesses de la lune
Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu’une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d’une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s’endormir le contour de ses seins,
Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l’azur comme des floraisons.
Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,
Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d’opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
Tristesses de la lune
Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil)
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Vliegers die niet opgaan
Heus niet een ieder lijkt omzeilen van liegen
gegeven. Sommigen verhalen over waarheid
zo vaak dat ze vergeten wat zij wil. Hunkeren
naar klaarheid vergt uitleg, een introductie
op tomeloos mijmeren. Op varianten zonder
schroom. Nergens is begenadiging in zicht.
Bert Bevers
•bij het werk van Ron Scherpenisse
Uit: Varianten zonder schroom, Heren Met Hoeden, Bergen op Zoom, 2021
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More in: Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bevers & Scherpenisse, Bevers, Bert, Illustrators, Illustration
Le Beau Navire
Je veux te raconter, ô molle enchanteresse!
Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;
Je veux te peindre ta beauté,
Où l’enfance s’allie à la maturité.
Quand tu vas balayant l’air de ta jupe large,
Tu fais l’effet d’un beau vaisseau qui prend le large,
Chargé de toile, et va roulant
Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent.
Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses,
Ta tête se pavane avec d’étranges grâces;
D’un air placide et triomphant
Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.
Je veux te raconter, ô molle enchanteresse!
Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;
Je veux te peindre ta beauté,
Où l’enfance s’allie à la maturité.
Ta gorge qui s’avance et qui pousse la moire,
Ta gorge triomphante est une belle armoire
Dont les panneaux bombés et clairs
Comme les boucliers accrochent des éclairs;
Boucliers provoquants, armés de pointes roses!
Armoire à doux secrets, pleine de bonnes choses,
De vins, de parfums, de liqueurs
Qui feraient délirer les cerveaux et les coeurs!
Quand tu vas balayant l’air de ta jupe large
Tu fais l’effet d’un beau vaisseau qui prend le large,
Chargé de toile, et va roulant
Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent.
Tes nobles jambes, sous les volants qu’elles chassent,
Tourmentent les désirs obscurs et les agacent,
Comme deux sorcières qui font
Tourner un philtre noir dans un vase profond.
Tes bras, qui se joueraient des précoces hercules,
Sont des boas luisants les solides émules,
Faits pour serrer obstinément,
Comme pour l’imprimer dans ton coeur, ton amant.
Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses,
Ta tête se pavane avec d’étranges grâces;
D’un air placide et triomphant
Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
Le Beau Navire
Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal
A Dream
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass’d, and on they pass’d;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench’d in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when they play’d
At soldiers once, but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd, where each seem’d lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look’d my way;
She linger’d a moment, she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then,
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That eve morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
A Dream
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