High Above
yet no windows, only a huge
hole
in the high ceiling of the Pantheon
where i see eye to eye with an aged
sun
and feel the movement of wind
through the ribs of this tall, old
man
that stares into my bones with his ancient
eye
howling, yowling, lifting me up
but how much higher will i rise
when my heart is already up to my throat,
my stomach making noises that echo
the names of my home gods—
peppers, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers,
squash, lettuce, asparagus, broccoli,
bok choy, zucchini, carrots, celery,
spinach, green beans, eggplants, bitter melons...
but they don't respond in colors
as they usually do when they are as scared as i
am.
is it the same basilica in Havana where i read
a poem under Jesus (high above the piano)?
but here in Rome i would not dare
as i am too divided in one
body,
my eyeball shaped like the dome
my retina crawling along the ceiling.
i try to reach myself but hear a scolding—
so i force myself to come down
down
down
until i know for sure i am finally down to earth
when i hear a cello from the street.
First Residents of Los Angeles
They shared the land with elephants.
They shared the ocean with sea lions.
They sailed with fish, and soared with birds
with whom they shared the Sun and Moon.
Elephants have died. Sea lions have died.
They have survived, the Chumash people
from the ocean. They have lived with seagulls
for ten thousand waves of years.
They escaped earthquakes while the elephants
walking up downtown Los Angeles
fell into tar pits, emerging only as fossils.
The Chumash people, feathers on their heads,
Sun and Moon pull the wrinkles off their faces.
Waiting for Tigers in India
At five in the morning, we entered the tiger zone.
Sitting in a jeep, we didn't dare to make a sound.
At nine, there was a stir; we held our breath,
imagining a streak of tigers rushing out.
At ten, another movement; we imagined tigers
leaping from treetops, landing in the forest clearing.
At eleven, a gust of wind; we imagined a tiger
shot dead by a hunter, dragged right up to our jeep.
At twelve, we left for the restaurant, disappointed.
The waiter said one must speak Sanskrit
for the tigers to appear.
In the deep mountains of Machu Picchu, I saw
a llama, as ancient as the Bengal tigers of India.
I spoke to it in archaic Chinese, it ignored me.
I spoke the Sanskrit word for "sun," its eyes
widely opened.
The Sanskrit word I said was "Peru"
which I learned from a peasant in Lithuania.
He told me about a kingdom in South America
where gold was falling like rain, like sunlight,
and how his ancestors, seeking gold,
had followed the trail of the sun.
Author’s Bionote:
*Ming Di is a Chinese poet and translator born in Wuhan by the Yangtze River, currently living between China and California. She studied English literature, Linguistics and Law. Her literary publications include nine collections of poetry and seven books that she has translated into Chinese. She co-authored “Trilingual Renshi” with Hyesoon Kim, Shuntaro Tanikawa, Yasuhiro Yotsumoto and Don Mee Choi (Vagabond Press, 2015). Her poems and/or translations have appeared in “World Literature Today”, “New York Review of Books”, “Poetry”, “Poetry International” (SDSU), “MĀNOA - A Pacific Journal of International Writing”, etc. and many journals in other countries. She co-translated several books from Chinese into English including “Empty Chairs - Poems by Liu Xia” (Graywolf Press, 2015) which was a finalist of the Best Translated Book Award and received a translation prize from the Poetry Foundation. She has received several awards in China for her poetry and translation. She has edited and co-translated “New Cathay – Contemporary Chinese Poetry” (Tupelo Press and Poetry Foundation, 2013) and “New Poetry from China 1917-2017” (Black Square Editions, 2019). Ming Di has served as the Chinese coordinator for Lyrikline (Berlin), editor of China domain for Poetry International (Rotterdam), regional curator for Poesia21 (Moscow), co-organizer of the International Translation Workshops (Beijing) and senior translation editor with Tupelo Quarterly (USA).
hole
in the high ceiling of the Pantheon
where i see eye to eye with an aged
sun
and feel the movement of wind
through the ribs of this tall, old
man
that stares into my bones with his ancient
eye
howling, yowling, lifting me up
but how much higher will i rise
when my heart is already up to my throat,
my stomach making noises that echo
the names of my home gods—
peppers, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers,
squash, lettuce, asparagus, broccoli,
bok choy, zucchini, carrots, celery,
spinach, green beans, eggplants, bitter melons...
but they don't respond in colors
as they usually do when they are as scared as i
am.
is it the same basilica in Havana where i read
a poem under Jesus (high above the piano)?
but here in Rome i would not dare
as i am too divided in one
body,
my eyeball shaped like the dome
my retina crawling along the ceiling.
i try to reach myself but hear a scolding—
so i force myself to come down
down
down
until i know for sure i am finally down to earth
when i hear a cello from the street.
First Residents of Los Angeles
They shared the land with elephants.
They shared the ocean with sea lions.
They sailed with fish, and soared with birds
with whom they shared the Sun and Moon.
Elephants have died. Sea lions have died.
They have survived, the Chumash people
from the ocean. They have lived with seagulls
for ten thousand waves of years.
They escaped earthquakes while the elephants
walking up downtown Los Angeles
fell into tar pits, emerging only as fossils.
The Chumash people, feathers on their heads,
Sun and Moon pull the wrinkles off their faces.
Waiting for Tigers in India
At five in the morning, we entered the tiger zone.
Sitting in a jeep, we didn't dare to make a sound.
At nine, there was a stir; we held our breath,
imagining a streak of tigers rushing out.
At ten, another movement; we imagined tigers
leaping from treetops, landing in the forest clearing.
At eleven, a gust of wind; we imagined a tiger
shot dead by a hunter, dragged right up to our jeep.
At twelve, we left for the restaurant, disappointed.
The waiter said one must speak Sanskrit
for the tigers to appear.
In the deep mountains of Machu Picchu, I saw
a llama, as ancient as the Bengal tigers of India.
I spoke to it in archaic Chinese, it ignored me.
I spoke the Sanskrit word for "sun," its eyes
widely opened.
The Sanskrit word I said was "Peru"
which I learned from a peasant in Lithuania.
He told me about a kingdom in South America
where gold was falling like rain, like sunlight,
and how his ancestors, seeking gold,
had followed the trail of the sun.
*Ming Di is a Chinese poet and translator born in Wuhan by the Yangtze River, currently living between China and California. She studied English literature, Linguistics and Law. Her literary publications include nine collections of poetry and seven books that she has translated into Chinese. She co-authored “Trilingual Renshi” with Hyesoon Kim, Shuntaro Tanikawa, Yasuhiro Yotsumoto and Don Mee Choi (Vagabond Press, 2015). Her poems and/or translations have appeared in “World Literature Today”, “New York Review of Books”, “Poetry”, “Poetry International” (SDSU), “MĀNOA - A Pacific Journal of International Writing”, etc. and many journals in other countries. She co-translated several books from Chinese into English including “Empty Chairs - Poems by Liu Xia” (Graywolf Press, 2015) which was a finalist of the Best Translated Book Award and received a translation prize from the Poetry Foundation. She has received several awards in China for her poetry and translation. She has edited and co-translated “New Cathay – Contemporary Chinese Poetry” (Tupelo Press and Poetry Foundation, 2013) and “New Poetry from China 1917-2017” (Black Square Editions, 2019). Ming Di has served as the Chinese coordinator for Lyrikline (Berlin), editor of China domain for Poetry International (Rotterdam), regional curator for Poesia21 (Moscow), co-organizer of the International Translation Workshops (Beijing) and senior translation editor with Tupelo Quarterly (USA).