Memo to Yuan Hongqi Another thing I forgot to mention, Dad Was I always believed you to be an Extra-ordinary father, but in a highly Embarrassing way: each time you saw Me hanging around with my buddies You kept saying this like a big broken Gramophone: “Follow Chairman Mao’s Teachings; Follow the Party’s great Lead,” just as you drove me crazy By trying to convert me into a true Communist like yourself, even When we happened to be eating At the same table. Still remember? You once forced me to kneel down On the hard ground until I finished Reciting Mao Zedong’s “Three Old Essays.” It was then I began to defy You blindly, to follow no other than My own heart, in a boyish rebellion Against your fatherly dictatorship Against any other form of tyranny How I Miss You, Dad It is true, Dad, I never even liked you When you were still alive last century But ever since your last departure Once and forever, how often Have I missed you, how often Have I been choked With fitful sadness Like this Like this moment That keeps surging against my inner beach Then, another summer storm is arising Another autumn mist is permeating around January 2 That was the day when my father died Before finishing the longevity noodles Mom’s trying to feed him below our feet On the other face of the planet, where He had persisted long enough to allow Us to celebrate another new year’s day In Jingzhou as well as in Vancouver When my brother’s only son managed to Travel all the way to Grandpa’s dying bed To report how he was doing in New York This was also the time when I and Hengxiang Felt like making love again after another Cold war, when Iran successfully testfired Two long-range missiles in the Persian Gulf To deter the invasion to be led by Uncle Sam And his running dogs, when the very first Plymouth Neon was made in 2000, when JFK Became a senator in 1960, when a stamped Took 66 human lives after a soccer game At the Ibrox Park Stadium in Scotland Even earlier, and when God was taking A long overdue nap, since he knew All was well with this wild wild world On that day, I became the oldest male In my entire family, ready to take my turn To deal with death in a masculine manner Paper Plane I can never afford a spaceship Nor do I even have a toy rocket But I have many a sheet of paper I have folded it, kept folding each Into a plane, and launching it From my humble homesite One after another High into the night sky To fly close, closer, and the closest To where his Buddhahood is sitting Above a lotus flower, where his smile Shines like the sunlight upon his sons And grandsons down here, where he will catch A plane gliding to him like a blue bird Can you see its wings drafted with the poems I have written for you, Dad Inviting My Father’s Spirit Never did we get along, Dad, before You gave us all up, and seldom did We even talk, so you had no idea of How your son really felt about you As a father, in particular, about your Grooming habits: each time you Returned from your office or trips You skinned us off and washed all Our clothes, sheets, towels, mops Cleaning furniture (including Every foot’s bottom), polishing Lamp covers and cooking utensils Though you often forgot to put them Back in good and tidy order; true I learned to love your cleanness But never the way you were so busy Doing all this like an old woman Now you are taking a long break Up there, (where I supposed all Is perfectly clean); do you, do You enjoy watching me cleaning Everything down here to keep My home and heart dust-free? Don’t Miss Me, Son, Ever After I Die Don’t miss me, Son, ever after I die For I know how much you will sigh With mixed feelings when you recall The spot where I showed you the first sugar cane The moment when I took you to David Lloyds Elementary The first time we hiked in Cypress Mt Park The first sightseeing tour we had (to Zhangjiajie) The cozy restaurant where we ate in Beijing The short poem I bribed you to write in grade ten The lectures I gave you about the dynamic Rebalancing of yin and yang… No, don’t Don’t miss me, Son, not ever after I die For I know how you will be getting high With sadness that can engulf and suffocate Your entire inner being when you recollect The broken pieces of my image, but think More about your son, about how you two Can enjoy being together at each supper time Eating dumplings, talking aloud, joking And laughing while you are still well and alive Don’t, just don’t miss me after I die, Son But keep thinking about your own son’s son While all of you are so very much well alive Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include ten Pushcart nominations, the Naji Naaman's Literary Prize 2018, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1,449 others worldwide. yuan changming @ Poetry Pacific https://poetrypacific.blogspot.ca https://happyyangsheng.blogspot.ca Lotus Image & License: Depositphotos_32738103_s-2015 |
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