Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a mountain.
You have to exhaust all your power to
reach its peak. Through the cloud, perhaps
you cannot see anything.
Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a river.
As if you were in Wangchuan, you would let the boat go upstream
or lie flat on the boat, looking at the clouds in the sky and
allowing waves to bring you nowhere.
Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a prairie.
Full of weeds, or covered with shards and tiles everywhere.
You are on archaic relics
building your own little house.
Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a rock.
It hits you, just as you used it in the past to
hit others. Now everything turns to stillness.
You carve a human figure into it.
Nabokov loves butterflies. He captured
and killed them. He made them into specimens and
nailed them on cardboard. Is this telling us
love is a cruel thing? After breakfast
I am cleaning the dishes. The sea is shining blue in the distance.
It is in silence. I can't hear the sound of it. Maybe too far away.
All I hear is the huahua sound from the water pipes.
I love the sea. But I can't capture
and kill it. I can't make it into a specimen and
nail it on cardboard. Love has different ways.
The same is true in aesthetics. The sea is in the distance. Blue
and in silence. I know that it is still alive.
It is in silence. But I know how it looks when it is in wrath.