The narrative poems focused on recording real-life experiences
Ma Yongbo is representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D., representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.
A Small Narrative: Making Soybean Paste
A Small Narrative: Making Soybean Paste In the bright spring of April, Mother boiled soybeans in a large iron pot
then she kneaded them into firm, rectangular blocks—solid as bricks
wrapped in newspaper and placed on the heated kang, until white fuzz grew on them
at night, the house was filled with that warm, pungent smell of fermentation
the outer layer of these blocks would harden and darken like chocolate
though back then, I had no idea such a thing as chocolate even existed in the world
When the time came, I would volunteer to help clean the big earthen jar
I was only a head taller than it, leaning over the jar’s round mouth
my calves, perched on a stool, tensed and trembled like a terrier’s
I stretched my upper body inside, the brush swishing and rustling
in truth, I loved burying my head in the jar
listening to the echo of my own shouts—“Ah! Ah! Ah!”
that rough, hoarse sound seemed to come from a version of myself in the future
On that day, the yard would be bathed in the soft sunlight of morning all day long
the wind would blow in from the fields, then carry on toward the darker, distant fields beyond
finally, the soybean blocks were brought out, the kitchen knife tapped rapidly
the finer the chop, the better, then they were tossed into the jar
and coarse salt was sprinkled in, followed by cool boiled water
those brown and yellow crumbs floated in the liquid
with my meager imagination, I could only associate them
with a certain unspeakable creation that humans produce every day
We covered the jar with a clean white cloth and set it under the eaves
every evening, Mother would have me take a clean wooden pestle
to stir the contents, breaking through the thin crust that formed on top
I was told to guard against rain seeping in
though the grownups didn’t seem to care much
they always said, “Toads in the well, maggots in the paste;
every well’s bottom is covered with dry horse dung.”
yet I still can’t forget that somewhat filthy
children’s unique and unspeakable associations
***
小记叙: 下大酱
阳春四月，母亲用大铁锅煮好豆子
再揉成一块块长方形砖头，结结实实
用报纸包好放在炕头上，直到长出白毛
晚上，屋子里都是那热烘烘刺鼻的发酵气味
这些砖头的外壳会变硬，颜色变深
像巧克力一样，当然，那时我还根本不知道
世界上有巧克力这种东西存在
日子到了，我会主动帮大人刷洗大缸
我只比它高出一头，趴在圆圆的缸口
踩在板凳上的小腿，像梗犬一样绷紧，颤抖
我把上半身探进去，刷子沙沙响
实际上我是喜欢把脑袋闷在缸里
听自己啊啊啊喊叫的回声
那粗噶的声音仿佛来自一个未来的自己
那一天，院子里一定始终是上午的阳光
风一定是从田野上吹来，又吹向更远的变黑的田野
酱块子终于搬了出来，菜刀得得响，切得越碎越好
投入缸中，撒上大粒盐，兑上凉白开
那些褐色黄色的碎块漂浮着
我贫瘠的想象力只能把它和某种
不便言说的人类每日的创造物联系在一起
蒙上干净的白布，把大缸摆在屋檐下
每天傍晚，母亲都让我用干净的木捣子
去缸里搅拌，捅开上面一层薄壳
谨防雨水渗进缸里，尽管大人们满不在乎
他们常说——井里的蛤蟆，酱里的蛆
所有井底都是一层干马粪
可我依然无法忘记我那有点污秽的
儿童特有的不便言说的联想
2025年9月28日
***
A Small Narrative: Making Adobe Bricks
A Small Narrative: Making Adobe Bricks The loess just dug out of the river ditch still carried the dampness of the earth
mixed with sun-dried, brittle rice straw, thoroughly blended with well water
neither too sticky nor too loose, just right
The old wooden mold, its edges worn smooth and shiny from years of use
was filled with the mud mixture. You pressed the corners firmly with the heel of your palm
then dipped a hand in water to smooth and level the surface until it was sleek
Lifting the mold carefully, the adobe brick that fell out must not be chipped at any corner
you worked backwards, and rows of your adobe “phalanx” grew on the red brick floor
gradually, they hardened, turned grayish-white, and cracked into fine lines
When your elder brother came home from school, he would teach you to kick them lightly
if the sound was dull and muffled, they needed two more days of sunning
then you turned each brick over, standing them on their sides
Sometimes, centipedes crawled out from underneath; some bricks broke
turning back into soil and straw, left to lie at the base of the southern wall
only a small portion found their use to build the western wall or the storage shed
Through the only tall window, light beams of golden dust streamed down
you could still tell which bricks were made by your small hands
still feel the unknown residual warmth hidden within them
you took satisfaction in having stepped early into the cycle of the adult world
even though the first part to crumble was always the hidden dampness in your very own bricks
***
小记叙: 脱坯
刚从河沟里刨出来的黄土，带着潮气
混上晒得发脆的稻草，用井水拌透，黏度适中
很旧的木模子，边角磨得发亮
填满泥巴，用掌跟把边角压瓷实
再蘸点水，把表面抹得平整光滑
小心地提起模子，倒出来的土坯不能缺少边角
你倒退着工作，红砖地上你的方阵成排增长
慢慢变硬，颜色变得灰白，裂出细纹
大哥放学回来，会教你用脚踢一踢
听着声音闷闷的，就还得再晒两天
然后一块块翻起来，侧立着
有的下面爬出了蚰蜒，有的折断了
重新恢复成土和稻草，留在南墙根
只有一小部分派上了用场，垒了西墙或仓房
唯一一扇高窗透下金色灰尘的光束
你依然能辨认出哪些出自自己的小手
你依然能感受到它们内部不为人知的余热
满意于提前进入了成人世界的循环
尽管最先坍塌的总是你的那部分同样不为人知的潮湿
2025年9月29日
***
A Small Narrative: Drawing Circles
A Small Narrative: Drawing Circles When my father joined the army, the assembly point was Keshan County
he marched south all the way—passing through Shanhaiguan Pass, Tianjin, Nanjing—
until he reached Hainan Island. As a scout,
he fought in the Three Major Campaigns and later suppressed bandits in Sichuan,
yet miraculously, he never suffered a single injury.
A crack shot who could wield two guns, whether he had ever killed an enemy
remained a mystery to us brothers, even a kind of obsession.
Every time the whole family went to a photo studio for a group portrait,
he always wore his military uniform crisp and neat,
his chest covered with medals. The fading arc of the circle he drew
passed through Hengyang, Shijiazhuang, Harbin, Yichun,
and finally returned to where he started—Keshan County.
When I was a child, I would sometimes see my father standing alone at the alley entrance,
staring into the distance, not knowing what he was looking at.
According to my mother, when my father was 18,
he climbed up the high horizontal bar of the gate,
stared into the distance in a daze, and soon after, joined the revolution.
My mother’s circle began in Suihua. The largest arc she drew
stretched all the way to Hengyang, where my father’s army was stationed.
An illiterate young wife, without even the army’s address,
set out alone to find my father. She thought
that as long as there were soldiers, she could find my father, who was an officer.
She followed my father’s army everywhere,
every time they moved, she had to leave their pots and pans with neighbors;
all she carried with her were the two red-painted wooden chests from their wedding,
and maybe two more double-eared sacks, as large rats,
my mother said the family had nothing because they were always on the move.
An orphan by birth, her circle at first contained only my father and my eldest siste,
later, it included us three brothers. The circumference of her circle
closed in Suihua, and in the end, only she and my father were left inside it.
My eldest sister Xiuqin, after performing “The White-Haired Girl” in Keshan County—
spinning gracefully yet sorrowfully a few times amid the crowd,
then she went to our hometown Suihua to work as an educated youth.
Later, after graduating from a teachers’ college,
she was transferred back to Keshan by my father.
The circle she drew was the smallest:
it only covered the three-li radius of Keshan County, spanning east, west, south, and north.
The line of her circle finally closed at the windowsill
where she watched the withered reeds on the frozen lake.
In her last days, she sat leaning against the wall, unable to sleep all night from the pain,
she has no tomb; I will never know where she rests.
My eldest brother Yongping also set out from Keshan.
The circumference of his circle passed through Changchun, Dalian, Harbin, Yinchuan, Nanjing,
and finally curved back to that small county—
dark and windy, which he disliked as much as my mother did.
One winter day at two o’clock, he fell off his bed, and his circle was completed,
like my eldest sister, he has no tomb. No one knows
under which tree on which small hill his daughter buried his meager ashes.
My second brother Yonggang also started from Keshan,
the places his circle passed through were even more than my eldest brother’s—
they were the range of his wandering to make a living, yet they never belonged to him.
Sometimes when I ask him which cities he has been to,
he can’t even remember which year he was in which place:
Changchun, Dalian, Yinchuan, Dongying, Nanjing, and maybe more.
In the end, he also drew his circle back to Keshan,
but there were no relatives left there—not even our parents’ tombs,
I rarely contact him, I am afraid to hear the fierce wind sweeping across that plain.
And what about me? My circle began in Yichun, then went to Keshan,
I studied at university in Xi’an, worked as an engineer in Harbin for 18 years,
and taught in Nanjing for 17 years.
Finally, I returned to Sanhe Road in Harbin—the place where I first set out,
it’s just that in those days, there weren’t as many cars as there are now,
and the houses weren’t as old as they are today,
the water pipes often gurgled mournfully at night.
The beginning is the end—as if some kind of magnetic force
always bends the line back to itself, enclosing you within,
you’ve always been going in circles on a lonely island with no harbor.
You hope your circumference can be a little larger,
enough to enclose the circles of your parents, brothers, and sister,
so that they will always belong only to you—
or rather, to keep them safe and sound,
together with that invisible bonfire called fate.
***
小记叙：画圈
我的父亲参军时，集结地就是在克山县
他一路向南，出山海关，经天津，过南京
一直打到了海南岛，作为侦察兵
他参加过三大战役，又在四川剿过匪
却居然奇迹般地没有受过一次伤
作为能使双枪的神枪手，他是否击毙过敌人
始终是我们兄弟的一个谜，甚至迷信
每当全家人去照相馆合影，他总是军服笔挺
胸前挂满勋章。他画的圈的渐弱部
经过衡阳、石家庄、哈尔滨、伊春
最后又回到了他出发的地方——克山县城
小时候，我有时会看见父亲寂寞地站在巷口
也不知道在望着什么，据母亲说
父亲十八岁时攀上高高的大门横杠
望着远方发呆，不久之后就参加了革命
母亲的圈从绥化开始，她画得最大的圈
一直画到了衡阳，父亲军队驻扎的地方
一个不识字的小媳妇，连军队的地址都没有
就孤身一人去找父亲，她以为
只要有士兵的地方，就能找到当官儿的父亲
她一路跟着父亲的军队到处跑
每次出发，都不得不把锅碗瓢盆留给邻居
随身只有他们结婚时两个红油漆的木头箱子
或许再多两个大老鼠一样的双耳麻袋
母亲说，家里什么都没有，就是因为总是到处跑
作为孤儿，她的圆圈里起初只有父亲和大姐
后来又有了我们三兄弟。她的圆周
闭合于绥化，最后，那圈里只有她和父亲两个人
大姐秀琴在克山县演完了白毛女
在人群中优美而凄凉地旋转了几圈，然后去了
我们的故乡绥化做插队知青，后来师专毕业
被父亲调回了克山，她画的圈最小
就是克山县城那东西南北三里三的地界
她的线条最后闭合在她观望冰湖上枯黄芦苇的窗台
她最后靠墙坐着，疼得整夜整夜无法入睡
她没有坟墓，我永远无法知道她在哪里
大哥永平也是从克山出发，他的圆周
经过长春、大连、哈尔滨、银川、南京
最后又画回了他和母亲同样不喜欢的
那个黑暗多风的小县城。冬天两点
他一头从床上栽下来，画完了他的圆圈
和大姐一样没有坟墓，谁也不知道他的女儿
把他少得可怜的骨灰埋在了哪个小丘的哪棵树下
二哥永刚也是从克山出发
他的圆周经过的地方比大哥还多
那是他谋生的范围，但并不属于他
有时我问他都去过哪些城市
他居然记不清楚自己哪一年在哪个地方——
长春、大连、银川、东营、南京，或许更多
最后他也画回了克山，那里却已没有一个亲人
甚至父母的坟墓也不在那里
我很少和他联系，我害怕听到那片平原猛烈的风声
我自己呢，我的圈从伊春开始，然后也是克山
西安读大学，哈尔滨做工程师18年，南京教书17年
最后又回到了当初出发的哈尔滨三合路
只是那时的车没有现在这么多
房子也没有现在这么老，水管时常在夜里哽咽
你的开始就是你的结束——仿佛有某种磁力
总是将线条折向自身，把你自己圈起来
仿佛你始终在一个没有港口的孤岛上转圈
你希望自己的圆周能再大一些
让它把父母哥姐的圈囊括在内
让他们永远只属于你一个人
又像是把他们安全地保护起来
连同那堆叫做命运的看不见的篝火
2025年10月3日
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