Four Poems by Jiang Tao

opera info

the way someone used to solitude is uncomfortable at parties
the rose in the loudspeaker innocently seeks a lush garden of flowers
while applause streams up from the last row of reefs
even the ocean may have no such refinements: between ear and
storm stands a sympathetic screen
josephine the singer or someone else, we don’t care who’s
whose cousin, just like your tenderness
may still regard the opposite sex as a graceful shopping bag
it all matters very little, trading plums for peaches
in any case each soul should be as sentimental as
an orchard after the pesticide spray
look! the weepy post-curtain-fall posture has
already been printed in the program (having
undergone the relevant checks and gotten the birds’ endorsement)
relax, in the dead air of the receiver
the protagonist’s drab youth will not persist
singing she keeps rubbing her armpits with a rag
that sweat, suffusing the salt of eros
one may watch like a gecko from dangerous corners of the opera’s ceiling
the misfortune we chatted about just now backstage
which, when compared to the phone hanging from the patroness’ waist,
is as alike as can be, yet daintier and more delicate.

winter solstice

for even longer than a game of chess, white approaches
the tree-shaded road that’s culled all of the ankles
no one nears rashly where the sun walks
but they still seem to have the energy to take this step
changing into summer short-sleeve shirts in november
swallowing a scarlet throat—it mustn’t grow feverish
or more urgent overnight, on account of
the unseen waterfall, always rushing down upon us and
the other group of people sitting across from the world
who have finished their beer, and will always rise
or sit and watch, from the dark foundation, from the sky
as they clear the rubble from over their heads

to the ends of the earth

who can take me from october
maintaining my composure, the way a filthy
red is excised. the sun is a speckle
labor softens people
please turn the music down, even when the flesh
has been gnawed clean, there’s teeth marks on the leftovers
who will take away what’s left of form
like removing a used match
charred, though not fully burnt
on the outskirt’s streets, looking at birds
constantly replenishing fuel
constantly taking aspirin
some luck, medical treatment
is ineffective, singing is strenuous
and who will lead “to the ends of the earth”
like a white horse, neighing,
away from me

things that travel by night

some people claim that if you rub dust from a leaf
you’ll find out the leaf was a dressing mirror
this mirror does not shine, it rejects reflection
dark green veins, like seal after engraved seal
secretly etching a family background

that’s why they fly here from all around
along the railroad tracks, bridge arches, great unfinished beams
that rise and fall, along the
rank stench of wild things,
once on the reservoir’s surface they dipped their faces to wash
or maybe wore hard hats

split into several small groups, their bodies mired
in conversation, face stuck to face
their sweet nothings mostly real
and saved on their cell phones
delivered to the starry sky or ethnic essence
overnight the brain downloads them
painfully swollen

but outside the five ring roads, it’s like europe in collapse
darkness after sheet of darkness
all those castles, towns, fortresses
as they soar past I hear
the faint engine’s roar
hear the lowering of the crane’s boom

and smell the atmosphere
like it’s been sprayed with cheap air freshener
you say that’s smog lifting?
no,
it’s magma surging
not so far away, warming the jinyu gardens

grass in the brick cracks, the lights about to blaze
someone rubbing their legs together
about to speak in a lovely beijing twang.