A Free Life (74 page)

to tell my family in the kitchen

that we have a little visitor,

a portly guy in a brown coat.

If he hears any sound in here

he'll run away, rocking his ample rump.

He stands up on his hind feet,

clasps his hands below his ursine face,

and looks right then left as if to make sure

his shadow hasn't followed him.

Soon he roams the grass casually,

sampling our clover and alfalfa,

catching an insect or snail.

He never jumps like his cousin the squirrel.

How can I tell him he's always welcome?

A humble guest, he has no idea

we celebrate a day in his name.

I keep my face back from the window

so he can enjoy a quiet meal,

or even a sunbath as

he often does back home.

Whenever he's here

my winter shrinks, green-faced.

The Drake

Oh, what human bastard threw the lines and hooks into the lake? Instead of a fish they caught me, slashed my tongue, mangled my wings. All my ducks thought I was finished and left me to die on this shore. I know they're fighting over my post, their voices shrilling in the woods- ka, keck, quack.

Oh, even a god dies alone.

I won't complain or sob,

although my heart is sore,

gripped by numbing sleep.

I must remain mute like an earthworm

and dense like a tree.

If only I could rise and swim again,

again commanding my clan-

ka, keck, quack.

Oh, how can I thank the Wus enough?

They cut the lines and dislodged the hooks.

They cleaned the maggots off my wounds

and even gave me a pill before

they put me back into the lake.

Now I'm going to rejoin my tribe

and tackle their new chief.

First they should know I'm still alive-

ka, keck, quack.

Nan, a Fantasizing Husband

I dream of becoming an idle Nan, in whose calendar all days are blank. Don't blame me if I am such a man

who goes to ball games as a major fan

and whose job is to draw cash from the bank.

I dream of becoming an idle Nan.

Scientists, artists, statesmen do what they can, but I would have my good fortune to thank. Don't scold me if I am such a man.

Trouble will always come if you have a plan

to attack front and flank.

I dream of becoming an idle Nan –

in the morning I'll eat omelet with ham; if it's fine, I will roam the riverbank. Don't pinch me if I am such a man!

Time will crush everything into one span. Why strive for money, power, fame, and rank? I dream of becoming an idle Nan. Don't kill me if I am such a man!

A Father's Blues

Again I'm back at square one, where every street says "Dead End." I thought my daughter, unborn yet, would show me an outlet.

Again I'm back at square one

to face an empty yard where a house once stood.

My child was a vision I lost myself in.

If only I had unlearned selfish parenthood.

Again I'm back at square one, holding a little casket I cannot inter. My child died before she grew a lung. If only I knew where they dumped her.

Again I'm back at square one,

where a man has to restart alone.

Let me unsee my daughter's twinkling pulse

so I can search my soul for a milestone.

A Mother's Blues

I had my baby with me again last night.

She curled up at my side,

saying, "Mommy, your bed is so nice.

It's cold out there,

I'm so scared."

"Don't be, my child." I patted her silky hair.

She told me,

"I won't wet your bed, Mommy." I said, "Don't be silly- you're not big enough to pee."

I woke to find her tiny coffin against my cheek, still stuffed with her little quilt and mattress. Oh if only I could hold her again inside me.

Again I saw my baby this morning. She was on the deck, toddling. Now and then she peeked in through the glass door, prattling.

Homework

Under his pencil a land is emerging. He says, "I'm making a country."

In no time it blooms into colors.

A blue bay opens like a horseshoe on

the shoulder of a glacier.

Below, a chain of mountains zigzags,

greened with rain forests.

Farther down he places mines:

aluminum, silver, copper, titanium,

iron, gold, uranium, tungsten, zinc.

Two oil fields beside branching rivers

are kept apart by a sierra called Mount Funfun.

In the south a plain stretches

into vast fertile land, where

he crayons farms that yield oranges,

potatoes, apples, strawberries,

wheat, broccoli, cherries, zucchini,

poultry, beef, mutton, cheese.

(There's no fishery

because he hates seafood.)

On the same map he draws a chart-

railroads crisscross the landscape;

highways, pipelines, canals

entwine; sea lanes curve

into the ocean, airports

raise a web of skyways.

He imposes five time zones.

For a child a country is a place unmarked by missiles

and fleets. He doesn't know

how to run it with the power

to issue visas and secret orders

and to rattle nuclear bombs like slingshots.

Her Dream

was to be free of responsibility,

to be born the youngest in her family,

pampered by her parents and humored

by big brothers and sisters,

and later to marry a man of mild temper

who would worry alone about money,

business, household duties, the authorities.

But born the oldest child,

she had to tend her siblings,

cut grass for ducks and geese,

gather firewood in the valley,

and walk miles to shop in the villages.

She'd cook supper

if patients delayed her mother.

Like many women of her generation

she cannot recall a happy episode

in her childhood. Yet she's resolved

to give her children a loving home

so that they won't be bowled over

if someone whispers to them "I love you."

Status

They are referring to the photo I mailed them last May. In it I wear a cell phone on my belt and lean against my rusty Chevrolet parked before the medical building. Their letter says my brothers both have well-paid jobs in Shanghai now- one is a consultant at a foreign bank and the other manages a soccer team. "They each carry a phone like you but they haven't bought a car yet."

My parents have forgotten that I wear a phone

as a custodian at the hospital…

to get the call when a toilet needs cleaning.

An Admonition

All your sufferings are imaginary,

all your losses not worth mentioning

if you keep in mind what you used to see-

peasants eating husks and tree leaves in the spring,

workers feasting their bosses to get a raise,

police rounding up the villagers who refuse to relocate,

women getting sterilized after their firstborn,

newlyweds setting up house in cattle sheds,

worshippers arrested and forced to live

on rotted food if they do not repent-

by comparison, all your misfortunes are imaginary.

Here in America you can speak and shout,

though you have to find your voice and the right ears.

You can sell your time for honest bread,

you can eat leftovers while dreaming

of getting rich and strong,

you can lament your losses with abandon,

if not to an audience, to your children,

you can learn to borrow and get used

to living in the shadow of debt…

Still, whatever grieves you has happened

to others, to those from Ireland,

Africa, Italy, Scandinavia, the Caribbean.

Your hardship is just commonplace,

a fortune many are dying to seize.

Immigrant Dreams

She too sells her hours in America.

Her dream has evolved into a house

on two acres of land with a pool.

She once dreamed of becoming a diva

or movie star or a painter

who specialized in fish and bamboo.

But she gave up art school

and came here to expand her selfhood.

At least that's what she planned to do.

He didn't know that at heart

she was a mother and wife,

a woman who would love burgers and fries.

Indeed, dollars can equalize most lives.

If only he were twenty again

or could stop patching his dream

with diffident feet and rhymes.

Heaven

for Dick

Every religion promises a unique heaven

where there's no sickness, old age, pain, or death.

In Pure Land Buddhism, heaven is said

to lie somewhere in the west,

and you can get there if you do good,

recite Amida's name every day, and never kill.

You'll be reborn into that vaulted domain,

not from the spasms of a womb

but from a lotus flower-such a birth saves you from

falling back into a lesser incarnation on earth.

Once you settle in the Pure Land

you'll suffer no extremes of cold and heat;

you'll be provided with beautiful clothing

and gourmet food, always ready and warm.

There will be no anger, greed,

jealousy, ignorance, laziness, or strife.

The place is resplendent with precious stones,

towers built of agate, palaces of diamonds.

Huge trees of various gems bear

blossoms and fruits, always fresh.

Giant lotus flowers diffuse fragrance everywhere.

Pools inlaid with seven jewels

hold the purest water, which adjusts itself

to the depth and temperature each bather needs.

Under your feet spreads the ground paved with jade.

Day and night flowers fall from the sky shaded

by nets of gold, silver, and pearls.

In the air waft celestial music and aromas.

Not to mention living with Buddha and bodhisattvas.

Born of flesh and consumed by care,

how can I not marvel at those wonderful things?

How can I not think of mending my ways to earn entrance to that splendid place?

Yet tired of travel and tangled in the web of dust,

I will pray to the almighty power:

let me be a tree on earth after I die,

a tree that blossoms into fruit every summer.

A Eulogy

Yes, praise-let me think of someone,

who, in suffering, still holds

happiness as his birthright;

who, searching in vain for his misplaced gloves,

remembers those who have no hands;

who, while keeping an eye on his god,

does not frown on the gods of others;

who, having lost a contest, is ready to salute

the one who has just outperformed him;

who, in a bustling street, still hears

birds in distant hills;

who, though able to mix with crowds,

is not rattled by their clamor;

who, loving a country, never lets this love

outweigh his love for a woman and children;

who accepts disaster and triumph equally,

making friends with neither;

who treats a limousine just as a vehicle,

a palace as no more than a dwelling;

who, while having coffee with a dignitary,

doesn't hesitate to step out the door

for a breath of fresh air.

An Exchange

You have been misled by your folly,

determined to follow the footsteps of Conrad

and Nabokov. You have forgotten

they were white Europeans.

Remember your yellow face

and your puny talent-unlikely

to make you a late bloomer.

Why believe you can write verse in English,

whose music is not natural to you?

You have betrayed our people,

scribbling with the alphabet out of

contempt for our ancient words,

which stand like rocks in time's river,

against the tides of gibberish.

Carried away by hatred,

you have mistaken diversion for devotion.

Even if you're lucky and earn a seat someday

in the temple housing those high-nosed ghosts,

do you really think they will accept you

just on the merits of your poems?

Be warned-some of them, who were once SOBs,

will call you a clever Chinaman.

For God's sake, relax a little.

Stop raving about race and loyalty.

Loyalty is a two-way street.

Why not talk about how a nation betrays a person?

Why not condemn those who have hammered

our mother tongue into a chain

to bind all the different dialects

to the governing machine?

Our words, yes, once like a river,

have shrunk into a man-made pond

in which you are kept, half alive,

as a pet to obey and entertain.

So, I prefer to crawl around at my own pace

in the salt water of English.

As for the great ghosts in the temple,

why should I bother about their acceptance?

The light of dawn does not discriminate.

A tree, or butterfly, or stream

(unlike the dog corrupted by humans)

does not notice the color of your skin.

To write in this language is to be alone, to live on the margin where loneliness ripens into solitude.

Another Country