Full Moon Night, and Entering the Hills
- Full Moon Night, and Entering the Hills
Full Moon Night
Currently I cannot say that I understand the valley understand the petal-like, windborne unfolding of her confession full moon night in the underbrush, ladybugs flutter like the grains of stars falling into the valley’s wet creases someone says: the full moon can trigger a kind of savage snow . . . I believe that this is a simple truth: tonight when the biting cold of silence crushes my stone house. And shadows of branches steal in through the window the oak desk that’s so fragile I am forced to love it has exploded just a little bit (from the glossy maroon crook of the elbow off to coarse distance) once I dried it out under the overfilled moon hoping it could become pregnant with deep, whirl-rippled blood just like my flesh, awakened by the vast sky wandering an empty valley listening to the mountain’s secret, copious spill [End Page 18]
Entering the Hills
If you quail before your masterdo not be afraid to seek wisdom in nature!
Please believe that the rays of light at nightfall have damp antennae. Carrying ancient books in both arms like a prize I walked out of the shade of uninterrupted numbers past the distant indifferent voices of the Mass. A tuft of wild grass turned gold in the gradually deepening dusk, durable twinkling with potential that’s hard to quantify. And the light wind caressing the cheek brings the gem clatter of spring water, a shrinking scent of flowers vast amounts of dust from the vault of heaven. It is so good to stay in this empty valley! A curlew alights on a ball-round stone before me silent, secret heat wound around its breast like a thick, curved compass needle. I stop to watch branches stretch freely among the dusky corners of the earth— flame in such detail draws the old, fogged mirror of early night. [End Page 19]
Ya Shi is the author of four collections of poetry and one of prose, including a special issue of the magazine Blade devoted to his work. He is a winner of the Liu Li’an prize and has served as the editor of several influential unofficial poetry journals. A graduate of Beijing University, he is currently a professor of mathematics and lives outside the city of Chengdu.
Nick Admussen is an assistant professor of Chinese literature at Cornell University. He has translated the work of Zang Di and samizdat poet Genzi, as well as the poetry and prose of Liu Xiaobo. His own poetry has recently appeared in Fence and Sou’wester. He blogs on Chinese poetry in American life for the Boston Review.
