Lost in Translation: A Tanka Prose

a mouth stumbles
over anguished English --
words
clumsily tip
never to take flight 

Every time I hear myself speak in English, I just hate it. It is not my human voice but rather a mechanically translated one. It is not simply that my ears hate my mouth, or that my mouth tries to irritate my ears. It is because, in the strain of translating a Chinese word into its English equivalent or vice versa, the spontaneity and natural quality of my speech are lost. In the throes of translating, I feel that I'm falling out of the tightly knit fabric of emotional vocabulary into the hole-filled net of linguistic signifiers. Stuck in this dark and chaotic situation, I have become a stranger to myself, a person who lives on the edge between the world of his own and that of the foreigners he has just joined.

May 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

Alone by a Garden Pond

The moon meditates in the stillness
of waters. Insects and frogs hold

their breath, listening to silence.
A row of willows sways gently

in serenity. Captivated,
I find my words lost in ether.

December 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

The Tale of Two Eric Lius (Poem Sequence)

I

Where to?
Toronto.
What’s you name?
My name is Chen-ou Liu,
but you can call me Eric,
because it's easier for you to say.
Are you Chinese?
Well… kind of.
Huh?
I was born in Taiwan,
so I guess that makes me a non-Chinese Chinese.
(A blank look! Momentary silence)
I see you’re holding a Canadian passport.
So are you Chinese or Canadian?
Well, you see my skin color,
but I would rather say
I'm neither Chinese nor Canadian
because of the homes I’ve had,
the ways I’ve become.
I am Chinese-Canadian.


II

Canadian yet hyphenated,
effortlessly slipping
from “How are you?”
to “ Ma Ma Fu Fu,”
sitting in a cubicled office,
arguing with my Anglo colleagues,
after work haggling over prices
with vendors in bustling Chinatown,
watching Hockey Night in Canada
and Jackie Chan kick some ass.

Sometimes, I feel
I am a Chinese
born in Canada,
but I often proclaim
to be a Canadian
and don’t mention the Chinese part.
In a land of opportunity, I live
the double life of Eric Liu
by masking the discomfort
of being prejudged bilaterally.

Note:

1. According to classical Chinese poetics, a poem sequence is a group of poems by one poet or perhaps even by two or more poets intended to be read together in a specific order. The integrity of a poem sequence is dependent on this prescribed order of presentation. A poem sequence by a single author is sustained throughout by a single voice and point of view, and it shows consistency in style and purpose from one poem to the next. The defining characteristic of a poem sequence is that each poem must have its own value and integrity yet contribute to the artistic wholeness of the sequence while keeping the logical progression of events.

2 "Ma Ma Fu Fu” is a Chinese idiom, which literally means I'm doing OK.

December 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

The Cogito

I think,
therefore I am
free to be
a co-owner
of my mother tongue,
the fighter
for my opinions,
the judge
of my conscience,
the planner
of my destiny,
and yet locked up
in the iron cage
of the zeitgeist,
I think.

December 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

After Epiphany

I used to be the black cloud,
now I'm turning grey.
Hands age, veins emerge,
wrinkles gradually set in
around the mouth and brows.
The back begins to ache,
the voice gets hoarse,
a charming quality to some,
the roughness of the age to others.

Today, as I strolled down Yonge,
I was suddenly pushed
by a careless teen
who rushed by me.
While regaining my footing,
I saw an elderly man
trying in vain to retrieve
his rolling oranges.
As he crawled after them,
I realized he is helplessly old
and I am helplessly young.

September 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

As You Like It

For Samuel Beckett

All the world’s a stage. My play has no actors, just a stage full of rubbish. It begins with a brief, faint cry, then the amplified sound of a human breath accompanied by an increase and decrease in the intensity of the light, followed by another faint cry as the lights fade and the curtain falls.

a falling star
flares up for a moment...
John Doe

August 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

An Immigrant in the Promised Land

I confess my sins. There are things I can never do away with: my accented English, my yellow skin, and my graying hair. But I vow to do the following things today: slice time into moments, chop off hometown memories, and swallow Oxford Practice Grammar page by page.

alone
I hang on the cross
dead
to each passing day --
be born again… as usual

November 2009 Issue of Word Catalyst

Sleepless Night

Night without end. My heart clings
to the lower tip of the crescent moon.

In bleeding calculation
I evaluate the price.

Vast -- in its passion ratio
to that of my withering body!

November 2009 Issue of Word Catalyst

Sinner’s Mind and Saint’s Heart

the heavenly realm
of the believers
is holy and pure
yet not beyond
the mind of a sinner

the nether world
of the nonbelievers
is cold and gloomy
yet still in
the heart of a saint

beyond the sky
beneath the ground
is there an attentive ear
attuned
to silenced souls

November 2009 Issue of Word Catalyst

Footprints in the Snow

After almost an hour of aimlessly walking on the snow-covered streets of Toronto while thinking of giving up my life here, I suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge to cry out. I stop walking and raise my head, screaming at the top of my lungs about all the frustrations pent up since I immigrated to Canada six years ago: “I’m really tired of starting over. No matter what I do, it gets wiped out. I want to leave something meaningful behind.”

passing by each other
then disappearing...
footprints in new snow

August, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

The NeverEnding Story

I come to Him, carrying memories embedded in my splintered flesh. I pray to Him to help me take the sting out of my wounds, and push away the shards of solitude. I cry out to Him for hours, but no reply is forthcoming.

alone
in the dark
I hang
on the cross within me
finished …

July, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

An Immigrant’s Progress

My tongue
twists for English;
yet I never lose
the movements
of my mother tongue.

My feet
stand on newly bought property,
a piece of the Promised Land --
it fulfills an obligation
to Citizenship Canada.

My garden
is carpeted with moist green;
morning dewdrops cling
to blades of grass
just as I do.

My mind
is torn between two worlds,
an ocean apart --
I often sleep in Taipei
but wake up in Ajax

July, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

The Stab of a Memory

This afternoon, I was sitting
alone by the window,
looking out at the maple's branches
gracefully swaying in the breeze.
Out of nowhere, I felt
the stab of a memory:
you waving me goodbye.

I balanced
on that memory,
the universe hanging
on the branches.

May, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

The Seventh Seal (Haibun)

My father doesn't talk about death because he cares more about leaving behind a good reputation. My mother is skilled at evading death-talk because she is afraid and doesn’t want to sever all ties with her loved ones. My older brother doesn’t speak about death because he thinks he is courageous enough to face all kinds of situations. My younger brother doesn’t mention death because he is so busy enjoying life, here and now. I often think of death.

sunrays drift
in and out of the window
autumn dusk

June, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

A slip of the moon

hangs over my house.
I stand alone
beneath the bright moonshine.

Raising my cup,
I entice the moon;
her reflection of you and me
makes us three.

The moon knows
you are far away
yet near to me.

June, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

You, My Calliope

Every night
I sleep beside you
but wake up alone

It is futile
to chase you
from my waking mind
for you invade my dreams

Day slips by
when I forget your name
Time stands still
when I pine for you

Every day
I wake up alone
but sleep beside you

February, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

My Foreign Anguish

English, a foreign mistress,
gives me misty eyes
as I write in anguish.

I, a word apprentice,
thwarted by time's passing,
pine to be a poet.

Words, lost in translation,
are empty spaces in between,
as I compose my poem.

February, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

After Epiphany

I used to be the black cloud,
now I'm turning gray.
Hands age, veins emerge,
wrinkles gradually set in
around the mouth and brows.
The back begins to ache,
the voice gets hoarse,
a charming quality to some,
the roughness of the age to others.

Today, as I strolled down Yonge,
I was suddenly pushed
by a careless teen
who rushed by me.
While regaining my footing,
I saw an elderly man
trying in vain to retrieve
his rolling oranges.
As he crawled after them,
I realized he is helplessly old
and I am helplessly young.

September, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

Flies and I (Sijo)

After a cascade of showers
slanting sunlight slips into my room

Followed by a swarm of flies
buzzing around like aimless tourists

Alone, I have nothing to do but
become their tour guide

September, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst

This Is Daily Life (Sevenling)

This is daily life:
hours passing by, day after trivial day,
blank years in and out.

And then the sudden moments of being:
the stab of memories, the sting of longings,
the slaughter of Time.

There is no screaming tragedy in ordinary life.

September, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst