Two Poems

Original by A Hua
Translated, from the Chinese, by Xuelan Su

Cattails

Once I was in love with the golden sunsets at Wangjiazao*.
Cattails in the shallows lit by twilight’s glow.
I loved them. The ebb and flow.
The waves undulating adagio. When the wind blew
The marsh breathed a sonorous sigh.

But people living along these shores don’t see it as I do.
Cattails clog wide swathes of waterways,
Block commerce, obstruct fishing,
Attract birds that feed on local crops. Even worse
Waterborne disease is on the rise…not just malaria,
But schistosomiasis too.

What I know about cattails isn’t much…
Just that the tender shoots are good food, the pollen’s a medicinal herb,
The green spiky leaves adorn gardens and pools.
But, I don’t know that the passion they stir
Is healthy. It may be the misasma’s root.

The splendor of the setting sun is like the comfort of kind words.
My eyes brim with
The dance of falling leaves, the rosy shards of evening light.

About cattails, I can’t say anymore.
The brief hour of youth, swimming alone underwater,
The cramped confines of bitter and sweet…all of it is hard to reconcile.

*A tourist site and wetlands in eastern Shandong province on the Yellow Sea

White Egrets

Those white egrets, are they really gone? In the wetlands last summer
I could still see them in the shallows, quietly stabbing the waters for fish.
Beaks incisive, straight and long.

Back then, wetlands were vast. White egrets could be seen almost everywhere.
Along the shore, I called out to them,
And when they’d turn to look at me,
It was as if we’d been sweethearts in another life.

Now an interstate’s built there. Each waterway
Nibbled to nothing. The scarlet seepweeds and reeds of the marsh…
No longer there. Those white egrets are really gone.

They’re really gone. Beings who leapt and played
With nimble grace…
They’re really gone. Beings who loved with joy
In a tender, forever way.

Now a pair of tear-filled eyes is all that’s left.
Bewildered, searching, wondering. Like helpless kids
Waiting around for a summer that will never come again.

香蒲记

我一度爱上了王家皂的黄昏
黄昏中浅滩上的香蒲
我喜欢它，左右起伏
慢慢涌荡，风吹动时
发出的响亮的嘶啦声

沿岸居民却不这么看
香蒲占据了大片水域
阻断交通，妨碍捕鱼
还引来鸟儿糟蹋庄稼，更严重的是
水生疾病不断增多，不仅有疟疾
还有血吸虫病

关于香蒲，我知道得不多
只知它，嫩芽蔬食，花粉人药
叶绿穗奇，可以用来点缀园林和水池
却不知，它饱满的激情
不是福祉，竟是病根

落日的光辉，像安慰的言辞
我的眼睛里，却满是
舞动的落叶和破碎的霞光

关于香蒲，我已无法言语
这一小段的青春，孤独地潜泳着
这小范围的悲观，让人难以处置

白鹭

那些白鹭一定是不在了吧？前年夏天在湿地
我还看它们安静地在浅水中觅食游鱼
长而直的喙，尖端锐利

那时候，水域广阔，白鹭几乎随处可见
我在岸边，唤过它们
它们回头看我的表情
仿佛就是我隔世的爱人

现在那儿修高速公路了，每一条河道
都被啃吃光了，河边的灌木和苇滩
也都没有了，那些白鹭一定是不在了吧

一定是不在了，那些曾经跳跃追逐时的
伶俐和轻巧
一定是不在了，那些曾经相爱时的
娇怯、欢悦与缱绻

现在，只剩下一双双泪眼
惊警、顾盼、沉思，如同一群无助的孩子
等一个不再回来的夏天

(Original Chinese poems from “Cattails” © 2016 Shandong Arts and Literature Publishers, Ltd.)

A Hua, born Wang Xiaohua, is from Weihai, Shandong province, northern China. Her poetry has appeared in such publications as The People’s Literature, Poetry Magazine, Mountain Flowers, Flying Apsaras and October as well as in various anthologies. A Hua has also published several collections of poetry including Cattails (2016), and What Makes My Heart Swell (2021) through Shandong Publishing House. A Hua was an invited participant of Poetry Magazine’s 25th Youth Poetry Conference. She is a student of the 31st Advanced Research Class of the Lu Xun Literary Institute and a contract writer for the Shandong Writers Association. While A Hua is an award-winning, widely published and much loved poet in China, she is almost unknown outside its borders.

Xuelan Su is the pen name of Priscilla Schulz, a retired mental health clinician, writer and trauma treatment expert. She is a lifelong lover of poetry and student of the Chinese language. During the pandemic, reading A Hua in virtual meetings with friends was a source of connection and inspiration. The depth, beauty and relevance of A Hua’s poetry inspired Xuelan to share it, through translation, with the Chinese diaspora and English-speaking poetry world. Xuelan lives with her family in Seattle, Washington.

Translator’s Note A Hua’s poems express the profound tensions that arise when the desire to preserve nature meets the exigencies of urbanization, economic development and technological advances. She explores a multi-layered, evocative issue with simple language and natural images – the grace of egrets foraging for food, the soothing sounds and beauty of cattails in a marsh at sunset – making the ineffable recognizable.

A Hua’s work is infused with the centuries-rich canon of Chinese literature and Buddhist teachings. Her poems give voice to a broader realm of sentient beings, as in “White Egrets,” identifying with them “as if we’d been sweethearts in another life” and in “Cattails,” as if she herself moves and breathes with the marsh, its “undulating adagio” and “sonorous sigh.”

Translating Chinese into English one often faces impressive ambiguity: verb tense and conjugations do not exist in Chinese and this at times renders the grammatical subject unclear. In the final stanzas of “White Egrets” and “Cattails” I sidestep the need for certainty, or words of explanation. Instead, I trust that the ambiguity inherent in the poet’s word choice will help readers feel the complex dialectic in these poems.