Editor's Note
Mian Mian’s poems initially appear to draw inspiration from Imagism, but then take a trajectory described by Robert Bly. They enact “a long floating leap from the conscious to the unconscious and back again, a leap from the known part of the mind to the unknown part and back to the known.”
These cinematic movements, although surprising, make intuitive sense. In Liang Yujing’s lucid translation, her poetry effortlessly convinces with brevity and completeness. It can be eaten raw. Mian Mian’s youthful and piquant voice seems to say.
— Mandakini Pachauri
The Bombay Literary Magazine
Translator's Note
The power of Mian Mian’s narrative lies not in the complex vocabulary or syntax, but rather in the nuances of her tone and the subtlety of the emotions her words convey. Her language is generally simple and straightforward, yet it takes a translator’s efforts to grasp her real intention and rebuild an expression with the equivalent effect in English, particularly of tone.
— Liang Yujing
The Bombay Literary Magazine
A Kind of Equanimity
The Buddha’s body stands in the flames of war.
The Buddha’s head sleeps in the soil,
revealing half of his face.
The trace of faded gold lacquer
extends like mildew to his cheek.
There’s a cleft across his lips,
another across his left eye and brow ridge.
It’s fascinating.
What force on earth
is trying its best to destroy him?
A battlefield, rather than a temple,
seems the better home for a Buddha statue.
His head lies in the soil just that way
with an eye wide open.
Oyster
A woman sat there, facing the sea.
With a slim knife, she tried once and again
to find a seam to insert the blade.
He said in my ear,
The harder the shell of an animal is,
the better it tastes.
As the woman slightly raised her hand,
a small piece of warm, moist meat
leaped into her basin in the sunlight.
He drew close and gently said,
Just like your heart.
My heart,
together with many other hearts,
was soaked in water, still throbbing,
having lost even the most hidden grit.
Then he added,
It can be eaten raw.
Wrinkle
The roofs outside are covered in snow.
Close to me, you are sleeping soundly.
Between your brows lies a deep, vertical wrinkle,
as sharp as a knife cut.
Not the result of anxiety,
such a wrinkle
is the longtime waterfall
running from your invisible interior skull.
After twists and turns, it arrives, and retreats.
A sudden judgment
leads to its sudden fall.
All that is lost and won,
it’s everything about you.
Resting in my arms,
it, now, doesn’t make any sound.
Persian Chrysanthemum
Together, we have enjoyed various flowers
What attracts me most is the Gesang flower.
You told me
it is called the Gesang flower in Tibet
but the Persian chrysanthemum in Xinjiang.
In summer,
they ardently bloom
and fervently wither.
The sun makes them curl.
I love the way they bloom
and wither at once,
but often I’m confused as to
whether this curled shape is a sign of blooming
or withering away.
What I want to tell you is:
whether they are blooming
or withering,
they are all
little,
little kisses.
Acknowledgments
Image credits: unknown copyright owner. Download source: creativepilgrimage.com.
The flower shown here isn’t a Persian Chrysanthemum. But flowers have an independent secret taxonomy in which their private names are written in an alphabet of fragrances, colours and urgencies.
Author | MIAN MIAN
Mian Mian 面面, born in 1994, holds a BA from Beijing Film Academy and an MA from Goldsmiths, University of London. Currently based in Beijing, she works as a literary editor at Xiron Books, China’s largest private-owned publishing company.
Translator | LIANG YUJING
Liang Yujing holds a PhD in Chinese from Victoria University of Wellington and is currently a lecturer at Hunan University of Technology and Business, China. His books of translation include Zero Distance: New Poetry from China (Tinfish Press, 2017) and Dai Weina’s Loving You at the Speed of a Snail Travelling Around the World (Cold Hub Press, 2019). He is also the Chinese translator of Kim Addonizio’s What Is This Thing Called Love (Xiron Books, 2020).