The book by my bedside is The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, edited by J.D. McClatchy. This book has been an integral member of our literary collection. On the inside of the front cover is my husband's name, written some time in the late 1990's when we were both English majors at Hunter College. There are a few colored post-its. The pages are browned, the cover torn and held together by clear packing tape. This anthology has been a part of our life journey ever since we met, traveling with us to Venezuela, Mexico, the Philippines, and many other places we have visited.
Each time I read and reread this book, I travel to various countries and time periods and am able to receive the sensations of each poet's words, witnessing and experiencing the dimensions of certain moments in their lives. The pages are filled with offerings by poets from all over the world, poets not usually taught or included in Norton anthologies. The poems reflect sublime truth and hope in the faces of exile, revolution, and conflict. These poems are about survival and strength of spirit despite the oppressive forces that cannot be controlled. They instill a sense of global worth and connectedness and offer refuge during times of suffering and uncertainty.
In a previous post, I shared a poem from this anthology titled "Reality Demands" by Wislawa Szymborska. This next one is "Gifts" by Shu Ting, a Chinese poet who was forced to leave high school and work in a cement worker during the Cultural Revolution. She started reading and writing poetry at that time, and years later, went on to win several writing awards. This poem is truly a gift.
Gifts
by Shu Ting; translate by Carolyn Kizer
My dream is the dream of a pond
Not just to mirror the sky
But to let the willows and ferns
Suck me dry.
I'll climb from the roots to the veins,
And when leaves wither and fade
I will refuse to mourn
Because I was dying to live.
My joy is the joy of sunlight
In a moment of creation
I will leave shining words
In the pupils of children's eyes
Igniting golden flames.
Whenever seedlings sprout
I shall sing a song of green.
I'm so simple I'm profound!
My grief is the grief of birds.
The Spring will understand:
Flying from hardship and failure
To a future of warmth and light.
There my blood-stained pinions
Will scratch hieroglyphics
On every human heart
For every year to come.
Because all that I am
Has been a gift from earth.
Each time I read and reread this book, I travel to various countries and time periods and am able to receive the sensations of each poet's words, witnessing and experiencing the dimensions of certain moments in their lives. The pages are filled with offerings by poets from all over the world, poets not usually taught or included in Norton anthologies. The poems reflect sublime truth and hope in the faces of exile, revolution, and conflict. These poems are about survival and strength of spirit despite the oppressive forces that cannot be controlled. They instill a sense of global worth and connectedness and offer refuge during times of suffering and uncertainty.
In a previous post, I shared a poem from this anthology titled "Reality Demands" by Wislawa Szymborska. This next one is "Gifts" by Shu Ting, a Chinese poet who was forced to leave high school and work in a cement worker during the Cultural Revolution. She started reading and writing poetry at that time, and years later, went on to win several writing awards. This poem is truly a gift.
Gifts
by Shu Ting; translate by Carolyn Kizer
My dream is the dream of a pond
Not just to mirror the sky
But to let the willows and ferns
Suck me dry.
I'll climb from the roots to the veins,
And when leaves wither and fade
I will refuse to mourn
Because I was dying to live.
My joy is the joy of sunlight
In a moment of creation
I will leave shining words
In the pupils of children's eyes
Igniting golden flames.
Whenever seedlings sprout
I shall sing a song of green.
I'm so simple I'm profound!
My grief is the grief of birds.
The Spring will understand:
Flying from hardship and failure
To a future of warmth and light.
There my blood-stained pinions
Will scratch hieroglyphics
On every human heart
For every year to come.
Because all that I am
Has been a gift from earth.
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