Ma Yongbo [China]

 

Talking About the Abstraction of Blue with David Hockney
 
This is neither a paean nor an elegy,
nor do I intend to gaze upon the youthful blue of the Mediterranean
through the vicissitudes of the ancient East. First and foremost,
to discuss the planar nature of blue,
we must sit down together by this lakeshore of blue.
Let the stones beside each of us calm our minds,
and steady this bowl of blue lake water
before either of us speaks a single word.
 
"From all hills no bird is seen in flight;
On every path no human trace is in sight."
See how my forebears could leap into the cosmos
like the Monkey King, beholding every bird under heaven at once—
all flattened into specimens vanishing beneath a thin blue film,
meanwhile, you and I tread every deserted road across the world simultaneously.
 
Then, could those fragmented collages of your mother’s photographs
achieve the same dynamic perspective? Might we glimpse
countless glittering facets of the gemstone reflecting one another all at once,
shattering the fixed-point perspective dictated by mathematical formulas?
 
We all know that fixed perspective is merely an idealized abstraction.
But is the mosaic formed by overlapping projections of one single object
on the retina, truly the thing-in-itself?
The true essence is nothing but nested Russian dolls,
or an onion peeled layer by layer:
it holds no heart, yet draws tears from our eyes.
 
From substance to process, subjectivity to objectivity,
linear narration to polyphonic layers—
perhaps the transformation has already taken place.
Or perhaps you are still crafting an illusion of depth
upon a flat surface. That eternal stretch of blue
remains an impenetrable sheet of glass, devoid of thickness,
yet holding within it the world of Ideas, the One,
Paradise, and the Dao that is no ordinary path.
 
And so once more we steady this bowl of blue lake water,
holding it out toward the horizon, yet never draining its perfect fullness of blue.
 
(Evening, June 14, 2026)
 
 
Thoughts on Strolling Along Shan Creek on My Birthday Morning
 
You are just like this ancient stream,
Long aware of where you came from and where you are bound.
The creek rises from mountains and flows toward the sea—
It merges with the ocean, rather than vanishing away.
You have witnessed countless cosmic shifts and vicissitudes,
Yet you remain true to yourself. The water flows unceasingly,
Carrying countless things forth, sweeping countless things away.
You cling to nothing at all. You came to this mortal world
Not to indulge in joy, but to endure hardship.
Sometimes, for this mortal flesh you bear, you pity yourself.
You watch yourself trudge alone through mist, gorges and wastelands,
Fighting a vast void all by your lonesome.
Weariness comes over you now and then, yet a voice always calls ahead.
To drift blindly with the tide was never your choice.
So each dawn, you piece your broken fragments back together,
Setting out time and again. What a blessing, that you never lose yourself.
The water keeps changing: from silent icebergs at the source,
To shallow puddles, to chattering brooks,
Mixed with silt, mire and human spittle,
Growing into a river where clear and murky waters blur as one.
Still you stay who you are, no need to search for your lost self.
Travelers crossing the bridges fade into shadow on the far bank,
But you may drift freely back and forth upon any stretch of flowing water.
 
(Dawn, July 17, 2026)
(Xikou, Fenghua)
 
 
Reflections on Xi’an’s Ancient City Wall
 
Morning light still spreads everywhere, illuminating grey tiles
and blue bricks, vermilion window frames.
The bricks once carved with masons’ names
have long vanished deep within the wall of masonry and the throng of people.
 
Those walking atop the ramparts, bathed in universal sunlight,
can no longer sense the gloom of restless spirits beneath the wall,
nor hear the wails trapped in its crevices. This city wall
is no longer the wall of the Tang Dynasty. Xi’an today
is no longer the Chang’an of the poets, just as Nanjing today
is no longer the Jinling where dragons coiled and tigers crouched above the great river.
 
What difference is there between the willows by the Terrace Wall, the willows at Baqiao,
and the scarred ancient willows along the Songhua River
that witnessed Japan’s iron hoof of invasion? Sunlight still shines evenly upon all things—
the black, the white, the shades in between. Some say:
what you encounter is not the city wall, but some inner wall within yourself.
Others claim the one you love will climb over the wall to come to you,
yet that is nothing more than a midnight joke of “Buddha jumping over the wall.”
 
What true bond exists
between those wandering the ramparts now
and those who once built them?
Is the nation still the same nation?
Is the sea still the same sea?
 
Every drop of water in the sea has long been replaced;
every single living human being is no longer who they once were.
All these transformed individuals together compose
nothing but a vast, blurred, inscrutable countenance.
 
(Composed at dawn in Xi’an, July 22, 2026)
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Ma Yongbo, was born in 1964 in China (Yichun, Heilongjiang), Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of Difficult writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese, focusing on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, Rosanna Warren. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 including 9 poetry collections. Ma Yongbo’s complete Chinese translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies. In August 2026, he received the American poetry award: New Generation Beat Poet Laureate (2026-lifetime) China, from The National Beat Poetry Foundation (NBPF) in the United States.