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The Survivor Dont tap your chopsticks against your bowl. Dont throw your teacup against the wall in anger. Dont suck on your long black braid and weep. Dont tarry around the big red sign that says " danger! " All the tempests will render still; seas will calm, horses will retreat, voices to surrender.
That you have this way and not that, that your skin is yellow, not white, not black, that you were born not a boy child but a girl, that this world will be forever puce-pink are just as well. Remember, the survivor is not the strongest or most clever; merely, the survivor is almost always the youngest. And you shall have to relinquish that title before long. from The Phoenix Gone, the Terrace Empty. Milkweed Editions, copyright? 1994. online source: web Turtle Soup You go home one evening tired from work, and your mother boils you turtle soup.
Twelve hours hunched over the hearth (who knows what else is in that cauldron). You say, " Ma, youve poached the symbol of long life; that turtle lived four thousand years, swam the Wet, up the Yellow, over the Yangtze. Witnessed the Bronze Age, the High Tang, grazed on splendid sericulture. " (So, she boils the life out of him. ) " All our ancestors have been fools. Remember Uncle Wu who rode ten thousand miles to kill a famous Manchu and ended up with his head on a pole? Eat, child, its liver will make you strong. " " Sometimes youre the life, sometimes the sacrifice. " Her sobbing is inconsolable.
So, you spread that gentle napkin over your lap in decorous Pasadena. Baby, some high priestess has got it wrong. The golden decal on the green underbelly says " Made in Hong Kong. " Is there nothing left but the shell and humanity's strange inscriptions, the songs, the rites, the oracles? FOR BEN HUANG Copyright? 1993 by Marilyn Chin, from The Pheonix Gone, The Terrace Empty Online Source: web MOON AND OATGRASS The moon is not over the water, as you would have it, but one with it, and the house is on the precipice overlooking a green meadow. And you an eye and not an I are walking through it. And whether you live here or are visiting in your long pilgrimage is my prerogative.
Whether she is your acolyte, the Pearl Concubine, or a mere beggar woman is also my invention. Only I know where terrace ends and house begins, whether the country is lost, whether rivers and mountains will continue. And finally, after the instone is dry, we shall be together high in a corner bedroom with a pale view of hills. Without pleasure or transcendence we penetrate this landscape. And what is this landscape?
The moon in oat grass, the oat grass moon. A woman pacing the linoleum floor, contemplating a poem. A man dissolving into the dailiness of rain. and the red eye of morning. Copyright? 1993 by Marilyn Chin, from The Phoenix Gone, The Terrace Empty (Milkweed Editions) Online Source: web THE BARBARIANS ARE COMING War chariots thunder, horses neigh, the barbarians are coming. What are we waiting for, young nubile women pointing at the wall, the barbarians are coming.
They have heard about a weakened link in the wall. So, the barbarians have ears among us. So deceive yourself with illusions: you are only one woman, holding one broken brick in the wall. So deceive yourself with illusions: as if you matter, that brick and that wall.
The barbarians are coming: they have red beards or beardless with a top knot. The barbarians are coming: they are your fathers, brothers, teachers, lovers; and they are clearly an other. The barbarians are coming: If you call me a horse, I must be a horse. If you call me a bison, I am equally as guilty. When a thing is true and is correctly described, one doubles the blame by not admitting it: so, Chuangtzu, himself, was a barbarian king! Horse, horse, bison, bison, the barbarians are coming and how they love to come.
The smells of the great frontier exalt in them! Copyright? Marilyn Chin. Online Source
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