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A Solitary Stroll: A Metaphor in Chao’s Poems [Copy link] 中文

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Post time 2014-7-3 16:46:58 |Display all floors

by Shuting Chen


A lonely stroll, I deem it a metaphor of Chao’s poems but not the poet himself, because he is never thoroughly presented in his works. It seems that he has multiple personalities. Sometimes he is a delicate “wife”, likening marriage to the rosebush. Sometimes, he is a loving father, withholding his tears at his childhood retrospection because he is holding his son sound asleep in his arms. Sometimes, he is just one of those keen observers, watching an ant bore a hole in his book. But above all the dramatic or natural parts he acts, I am exceedingly attracted to his character as a lonely stroller in the woods, a term derived from his Strolling through the Woods:

Two student girls, one in white
the other in orange
I saw in my stroll
through the woods
sitting in a sunny stubbled clearing
bent over their books

Vigilance shown on the two girls as the narrator unintentionally approaches leads to his embarrassment and sadness. It is as if he is the source of disturbance, the “source of nightmare in this seemingly quiet world”. I remember the same uneasiness when I stepped into an elevator and saw a kid in an attempt to hide his snacks at the sight of me, apparently considering me a villain. But my reaction turned out to be keeping a distance from him as a testimony of my innocence, just like the narrator’s – lowering his head. The use of “seemingly quiet” instead of simply “quiet” is indicative of disdain for the hypocritical, desire-driven world, peaceful on the surface, clamorous in effect. In this world, adults are hypocrites. Only kids can be a reliable witnesses and accusers. The narrator blushes either because he is one of those pseudo or because he is helplessly ashamed of his deceptive counterparts.

It seems that from this turbulent world Chao craves for an escape, as can be inferred from his poem dedicated to Emily Dickinson. He addresses this prolific poetess as “a lonely woman in a beautiful prison” and this prison is presumably Dickinson’s house which she dwelled in and seldom left. Yet I am so familiar with her life after a comprehensive research for a presentation this semester that I am confident to say that this house is not a prison but a palace of inspiration, a prairie where imagination can run riot, for it is in this house that Dickinson conceived most of her masterpieces that withdrew themselves from the public along with her before her death. Chao, as a keen observer and thinker, is fully aware of that for he describes this “prison” as “beautiful”. Despite that, he emphasizes its confinement by comparing the “hyphens” that constantly appear in Dickinson’s poems to bones that line up like fences. It seems that, on one hand, he appreciates the delicacy of her mind palace, and on the other hand, he feels sorry about this genius dolefully struck in her own fortress that bars the entire world from her brilliant ideas.

There is too a part of Chao that yearns to be a “hermit”. In Dream of a Hermit, he portrays a hermit on the rack in the limelight:

at my turning
I saw numerous faces
petalling
a ghostly tree
scared
I sped up

Finally, the narrators discovers in utter horror that the spotlight overhead is indeed a butchering knife. By virtue of actually “putting” the figure onto a stage, this thrilling poem dramatizes how the sadistic public attention afflicts the secluded. Analogous to such a play, I visualize a hermit, ready to free the letters from his pen so that they can dance on the paper, terrified by sudden flashlights from outside the window or scoops about him on the newspaper.

Amid crowds of utilitarians, rather than a feeling of suffocation, poets form the loneliest group. Unlike novelists, who are always allowed to state frankly what he intend to get across, poets do that in circuitous ways. Metaphors, imageries and symbols are among the various elements used by poets to convey their sentiments. Therefore, as Chao has pointed out in one of his lectures, poems are open to free interpretation. Yet from my perspective, it would be rather disappointing for a poet to see that, among thousands of readers, none is able to penetrate his true intention of creating such poems. On the other hand, because as to some special matters, it is better not to spell everything out, poems have to be vague. Thus Chao writes:

我求上帝同我流浪
允许我再写诗一年
透过写诗挖掘人类的肺腑
所以,近来的诗开始隐晦
比十年前更隐晦
比象征主义更象征
毕竟有许多事不好明说
怕读者承受不了
只好设计一连串的意象
让衣食无忧的人
进入语言的审美
去反省去冥想

Therefore, Chao’s words are but the tip of an iceberg that defies a single interpretation. It is loaded with lively imageries: a stone that drops down and perches on a tree branch like a bird, a rainbow that can whistle like a whistle and the wrinkles of time in the life of a Chinese immigrant. In Chao’s mind, everything can be anything else, just like himself, frequently straddling personalities. This seamless shift of characters, together with his mastery of short and fragmented lines, enables him to replace a congenial atmosphere with a gloomy one in the blink of an eye. He is a bold experimenter of new poems, not just in the language of Chinese, but also in English, which is extraordinarily difficult and impressive. Glen Phillips, a renowned poet and critic, lavishes praise on such a Chinese poet, “Only a select group of writers has such a powerful poetic impulse that it shines as an unquenchable flame in their poetry no matter in which language they choose to write. Chao is such a poet”. Such a part he chooses to act made him a lonely stroller in this utilitarian world as well as the world of poetry as a Chinese poet writing English poems.

However, currently as an associate professor in Guangdong University of Foreign Studies and formerly writer-in-residence or visiting scholar in various universities including Cambridge and the University of Sydney, Chao is constantly in the academic spotlight and close contact with students. Such a stark contrast makes me wonder which personality presents the real Chao: a lone stroller in the woods of poetry, or an amiable teacher enthusiastically inspiring his students to analyze the “ecology” of human beings via literary works?

Surely Chao is not a hermit in real sense. The lonely stroll in the woods is but a metaphor, a metaphor of his complicated character demonstrated in his poems. The poet himself is a unity of contradictories, delicate in his use of imageries yet powerful in his economic use of words. His loneliness is reflected not just in his indifference towards the materialistic side of the world but also in his successful experiment in literary creation beyond his mother tongue. It is in fact a rosy road, teeming with marvelous tales of letters. Rambling through this path is a lone stroller, whose poems are the spring that nurtures the blossoms.






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Post time 2015-6-9 17:36:22 |Display all floors
                                                   Chao’s Metaphorical World

                                                               by Yizhi Chen


Metaphors are like a skin to the poet, through which he feels the world. In the poems, various eccentric and inspiring metaphors are entangled with strands of thoughts, giving out vibes, leading one into spiritual zones, one after another: some gloomy, disconcerted, others serendipitous, tranquil…However, a metaphor can be very personal, just like a special joke shared between lovers, with a vague and private punchline that other people can hardly understand.

But the metaphors used by Chao, although sometimes perplexing, arouse strong feelings. John Keats once talked about reading a poem. He said, “ the point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore, it is to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought.” There are many possibilities about a metaphor, and the most enjoyable part in poems is the experience of exploring, the feeling that comes naturally, in an overwhelming way.

In Dream of a Metamorphoser, intensive pain and defiance can be felt through the lines.

there I was on the roof
I was about to land
when spears and swords
thrust up

a piece of paper
looped down
by a window

bald heads
were bleeding
beneath a shaver

Bald heads were bleeding beneath a shaver. The scene can be easily visualized and the words are penetrating, depicting extreme pains and sense of cruelty. The“spears and swords” are against the flying “metamorphoser", depriving freedom of him by killing him. The whole poem was surreal, but it awakens readers’ rebellious heart. Whose free will, spiritual tranquility and the pure original self can be intactly preserved in the cruel reality? The painful images remind us of all the similar experience of being attacked and tortured by the reality. The empathy of us are
aroused. When seeing these lines, one can feel the striking vibes of the words,aggressive and heartfelt. The last part of the poem is as follow:

a rainbow
whistled across the sky
and that is my blood vessel
pulled out

My pulled-out blood vessel is a rainbow whistling across the sky. The scene is brutal, savage but also has a strong sense of reverence entailed. The pulled-out vessel means a thorough destruction, but the rainbow is as hopeful as a spiritual rebirth. Among all the possibilities about the meaning of the poem, an image of a fearless martyr stands out, looming large in my mind, who is suppressed but still rebellious and brave, as if he is holding onto a torch, tightly, regardless of the fact that the torch can never sparkle in the dark, windy earth.

Metaphors in the poet’s poems not only give us soaring visions and powerful,pictorial thoughts, but also enable us to go deeper on our road of exploration— the exploration of meanings and imaginations. In Experiment in Australia, the whole poem is a metaphor:

I locked the clock
in the drawer
then tried to listen


The action of locking a clock into a drawer is in itself very symbolic. It’s like trying to be an onlooker of time. The common sense is that we are all swimming or struggling in the torrent flow of time, all involved in the “ tick, tock, tick, tock…”.

However, the poet’s “experiment” gave us a chance to pull ourselves out of the current, spiritually, and to observe the time.

a tick was heard
bursting into my ear
a sudden crack
of an egg

silence
peeled off
time began to shuffle

With the first tick, like a crack of egg, we witnessed the birth of time, silence falling down in pieces and the time begins to move ahead. All the lives begin at the birth of time.

a dragging sound
became a march
treading
on my heart

From a dragging sound to a march, time starts slow but accelerates to a quick speed in a short period of time. At the beginning of our life, days passed slowly.

Time was like honey, flowing too slow to arouse any fear of wasting it. So we always shouted, “ To kill time”. Then it is gradually noticed that time begins to march forward in an unstoppable way. The “ march treading on my heart” reminds us of the fearful sound. Time is running out, and our vulnerability exposes itself in the marching footsteps of time. The simplest combinations of words in the poem are able to create endless connections in one’s mind.

I saw a coffin
moving out of a tomb
carried
by ants
instinctively
I opened the drawer
finding the face
of the clock
deathly
pale

Our existence has come to an end; not even coffin can help preserve any form of
our existence. The coffin is doomed to become empty and light, announcing the meaninglessness of human’s mourning ceremony. Time is still treading, over body after body, claiming victory all the way, laughing the last laughs. The experiment fails, as it should be. We wanted to lock time in a drawer, to stay in a fixed time. But no one has ever succeeded in doing so. By locking time in a drawer, we only found the clock, “deathly pale”, suffocated from lack of air. Time never stays.

In Chao’s poem, one can become captivated with, sometimes even addicted to exploring the possibilities of various metaphors, challenging the depth of one’s imagination. Although metaphors in the poems are seemingly surreal, the exploration helps readers get nearer to what’s real. Just like what Marc Chagall said— “ All our interior world is reality, and that, perhaps, more so than our apparent world.”

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