Stories (By Zhu Zhu) Poem by Denis Mair

by Zhu Zhu
(translated by Denis Mair)

- for my grandfather

I
Grown old, like a boat upended on the bank
For cargo it holds echoes of stormy waves;
Old like the oldest building on this street
With dark windows no one can peer into.

Mostly he slumbered on a sprung wicker chair
His snores droned like the kitchen fan
Now and then he would lift a heavy arm
To shoo a fly that clung to his nose.

But at evening when the kerosene flame
Burned bright within the sooty glass,
His aged frailty would drain away
Like rusty water from a whetstone.

II
Then he would tell us stories
In a hoarse voice like flood tide in a river
Past shoals of emphysema and ruined docks
Out of a fogbound gorge onto ancient rangeland.

Steadfast plowmen by the way, fated to be heroes,
Eyes glaring even in dreams, hearing a bugle call
In the rising tide, on the spur of the moment
Devoting themselves to eternal strife.

Each clash of swords and neigh of battle steeds
Added height to the waves of dread in my mind,
And within a tent in the autumn wind
The stream in a woman's eyes…wet my cheek

III
Those stories even older than he was
Those stories he heard when very young
From people much older, and stories
Brought back from faraway quests, these were

The coins he laid by in a life of poverty,
Saved up in the vault of his brain
Never misplaced, and each evening
Their jingling made delightful sounds.

IV
Now he is taking his big sleep underground,
The box of walnut wood that held his ashes
Like a radio along with its radio signal
Has vanished deep in the mud. And now

Those stories come in stiff binding
Like specimens, neat and perfect, arranged on shelves.
At times I linger, blow off the settled dust,
In silent perusal I search for something.

But I know full well, never again
Will there be true stories and story-tellers.
The unfillable abyss of night drags on, after the lights
Switch off, but suspense no longer rises like stars in the mind