Ward Six
Turn upside down a long scroll depicting territory
Mountain peaks fill valley bottoms
No original sin can be found behind lies
Just a mediocre opening and the next lie
They say hold on until the next rainy day
The dreaming prisoner will present evidence of animism
But I'm unmoved
I'd rather be immersed in oral literature that has endured fire
Rather lock yourself in the backyard of an executed landowner
They're going to announce it soon
Only those who obey are worthy of eating
I will die without thinking
But mother, don't cry for me
This doesn't mean sitting back and waiting for death
Please look forward to my better lines and lyrics
Because I won't die yet
It's not that I precede Ming Shizong or the First Emperor
From pores to cosmic rays
The secret of gaining energy
This way, he got rid of the bad luck of the beluga whale trapped under the ice
To surface for air every twenty minutes
Killed by the mouth of the northern lord Wu Peng
I don't bow my head, nor am I afraid
The blue-grey grimace outlined by the wild clouds
The gentle flick of womanly fingers on the rosewood table
It's just that I caught a glimpse of the answer
Hereditary fatness is unquestionable
And once defeated
The stereotype that people must rely on food to survive
You and I can quit this game
Introduction to the poet
Chen Jianli
The driving force for writing poetry has been suppressed and scrutinized several times, and it becomes unstoppable. It was summoned by the ancient saints and sages, and now it begins to prepare for the summons. It is ignited by drama and ignites drama. It battles with the image over and over again and then rushes to freedom together. It blooms into language and melts its ice in order to awaken it.
Yes, write poetry.
Editor's Note
When hunger no longer becomes a torture of abuse, and when I am no longer driven by my stomach to bend down and beg for food in order to survive, I can escape from the commandments set by the lord for the tamer, and I can escape the fate of being reduced to a knife and a fish.
It's just that I've already seen the answer to the riddle and the absurdity of weaving original sin. It's just that I've already seen the subversion of all things and the true face of lies.
Being fat is just hereditary ugliness. Only the flesh that clings to my ribs can reveal my bravery.
Holding my breath and closing my sense of taste, I don't feel lonely even in the void where all five senses have been lost: just because the words and phrases have already been transformed in my mind and are with me, just because I never long for the panacea that will transform me into an immortal. I accept the limited narrowness given to me in life and abandon all shackles outside of myself.
Staring into the abyss of death only makes me bolder - the more raging the clouds above my head become, the wilder the pen I write becomes more wild.
Mom, please don't cry for me. If I tie my legs and kneel down, I will never sit back and wait for death. I will use my pen as a sword to stab my chest, and use my blood as a sacrifice to the generals of the building.
At the same time, we also provide translated English, German, French and Spanish versions of the poem, and maintain the original style and rhythm of the poem to the greatest extent during the translation process.
When reading, readers can also feel the uniqueness and commonality of the poem in different language contexts.
English Version
In the Sixth Ward
A scroll of borders turned upon its head
Where mountains fill the valleys deep and wide
Behind the lies, no original sin reside
But banal openings and the lies ahead.
They say to hold until the next rain's slide
Dream-prisoners will present the proof they've bred
Yet I remain unmoved by what they've said
I'd rather sink in spoken tales of pride.
Soon they'll declare that only those who heed
Deserve their share of daily bread to feed.
Without a thought, I'd fast and deny the bite
But mother dear, please shed no tear tonight
For I'm not ready to admit defeat
My words and songs, they're yet to reach their peak.
For I'm not destined to meet the end
Not before emperors or ancient men
I've glimpsed the secret of cosmic array
Not doomed like whales beneath ice layer's sway.
I won't bow down, nor will I live in fear
Of clouds that sketch grim faces oh so clear
Nor of the lady fingers' tapping sound
Upon the rosewood desk, where truth is bound.
For once we conquer man's innate need to dine
You and I, from this game, may both resign.
from: Henri Matisse
Deutshce Version
Das sechste Krankenzimmer
Ein umgedrehtes Gemälde der Grenzen zeigt
Wo Berge das Tal ausfüllen
Auf der Rückseite der Lüge findet man keine Erbsünde
Nur eine triviale Eröffnung und die nächste Lüge.
Sie sagen, halte durch bis zum nächsten Regentag
Der traumliebende Gefangene wird Beweise für den Geist in allem präsentieren.
Doch ich bin nicht bewegt, ich ertrinke lieber in mündlicher Literatur, die durch Feuer ging
Bevorzuge mich selbst, im Hinterhof des exekutierten Landbesitzers einzusperren.
Bald werden sie verkünden
Nur die Gehorsamen sollen essen.
Ohne zu überlegen werde ich mich enthalten
Aber Mutter, weine nicht für mich
Das bedeutet nicht, passiv zu sein
Erwarte bessere Verse und Lyrics von mir
Denn ich werde nicht sterben.
Nicht weil ich vor Ming Shizong oder dem ersten Kaiser
Das Geheimnis erkannt habe, Energie aus Poren in kosmische Strahlen zu ziehen.
Damit dem Schicksal des weißen Wals unter dem Eis entfliehend
Nur um alle zwanzig Minuten aufzutauchen, um Luft zu holen
Sterbend im Maul des nördlichen Herrn ohne Freunde.
Ich werde nicht nachgeben, ich werde nicht zittern
Vor dem grau-blauen Gesicht, das durch wilde Wolken gezeichnet wird
Oder dem Frauengleichem Finger, der leicht auf dem Rosenholz-Tisch tippt.
Nur weil ich die Antwort erblickte
Das Erbe der Fülle ist unbestreitbar.
Und wenn man das Vorurteil besiegt, dass Menschen essen müssen, um zu überleben
Können wir beide dieses Spiel verlassen.
from: Henri Matisse
Version française
La sixième infirmerie
Un rouleau dépeignant des territoires inversés
Où les sommets comblent les vallées profondes.
Derrière les mensonges, nul péché original n'est trouvé
Seulement des débuts médiocres et un autre mensonge en seconde.
Ils disent d'attendre le prochain jour de pluie
Le prisonnier rêveur montrera que tout est vivant.
Mais je ne suis pas ému, je préfère m'immerger dans la poésie
Préférant être enfermé dans le jardin d'un propriétaire condamné.
Bientôt, ils proclameront à haute voix
Seuls les soumis méritent leur ration.
Sans hésiter, je refuserai leur loi
Mais mère, ne pleure pas en cette occasion.
Cela ne signifie pas l'abandon
Attends mes meilleures paroles et chansons.
Car je ne mourrai pas si tôt
Pas avant les empereurs d'il y a longtemps, dont j'ai vu le tableau.
Découvrant le secret d'énergies extraites des pores
Échappant au destin de la baleine sous la glace.
Je ne baisserai pas les yeux, j'aurai encore
Face aux nuages furieux, et le tapotement délicat d'une femme sur la table de palissandre.
Hélas, j'ai vu la réponse au bout
L'opulence héréditaire est indiscutable.
Mais une fois que l'idée de manger pour vivre est renversée
Nous pourrions tous quitter ce jeu détestable.
from: Henri Matisse
Versión española
La sexta habitación del hospital
Un pergamino que retrata territorios invertidos
Montañas llenan valles profundos.
Detrás de la mentira, no hallarás pecado original
Sólo aperturas mediocres y otra mentira esencial.
Me dicen que aguante hasta la próxima lluvia que vendrá
El prisionero soñador ofrecerá prueba de un mundo espiritual.
Pero no me conmueve, prefiero sumergirme en literatura oral
Prefiero encerrarme en el jardín del terrateniente que se va a ejecutar.
Pronto dirán que sólo los obedientes merecen cenar
Sin pensarlo dos veces, rechazaría ese manjar.
Pero madre, no derrames lágrimas por mí
No significa que me rendiré tan fácilmente aquí.
Espera mejores líneas y canciones de mí
Porque no moriré, eso ya lo decidí.
No es que haya descifrado antes que Ming o el emperador
El secreto de tomar energía del cosmos con fervor.
Evitando el destino del cachalote atrapado debajo del hielo
Por un respiro, caer en la boca del señor del cielo norteño.
No me inclino, ni temo
A las caras esbozadas por nubes, ni al dedo que resuena lento.
Quizás porque vislumbré la respuesta, lo confieso
La opulencia heredada es un hecho que no cuestiono.
Y una vez que superamos la idea de depender de comida para existir
Podemos dejar este juego, y finalmente desistir.
from: Henri Matisse