Translator’s note:
All the poems are translated from Chinese into English with Mu Cao’s permission. I have chosen to use small case to translate all of Mu Cao’s poems because Chinese characters do not make distinctions between big and small cases, and the nondescript small case would be truer to the spirit of Mu Cao’s poems. I have also preserved Mu Cao’s frequent use of words such as ohs and ahs, and punctuations such as dashes and ellipses.
Translator’s bio:
Hongwei Bao 包宏伟 is a queer Chinese writer, translator and academic based in Nottingham, UK. He is the author of The Passion of the Rabbit God (Valley Press, 2024) and Dream of the Orchid Pavillion (Big White Shed, 2024) and Self-Portrait as a Banana (Poetic Edge, forthcoming in 2025). His poetry translation has appeared in & Change, Chinese Literature and Thoughht Today, Litter Magazine, Made in China, Modern Chinese Literature and Culture, Positions Politics, Samovar, Words Without Borders, and Writing Chinese.
the despair you’ve never felt
across time and space
i’ve come to dad’s bed
to jerk my old man off
leaving cucumbers to the woman he has no feelings for
mum spends all her life with green vegies
sheds no tears for this secular world
i can travel no further
i shrink in the speed of language
i turn into a tadpole
wag my tail, and escape
from the dark shadows of the city
into the rising dust following a flock of sheep
oh, spring
you tilted your head and smiled
at me, my mind goes in all directions
two men in love, one unmarried, the other divorced
we plunged into people’s laughers
the street painted white with the word ‘demolition’
the giant characters still visible in my dreams
hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder we moved
to another location
the spring air was full of smog
together we put up with other people
roam freely like wild animals in the spring smog
we kept each other
from wandering, from yearning …
we escaped from the fairy tale
of marriage, a world painted with morals …
oh, how I miss that spring, where smog filled the air
shangcheng street
every morning a young, migrant woman sweeps the street
all the passers-by give her an empathetic sigh
how young she is, what a shame she’s doing this
in late afternoons she sweeps the same street
even the idle ones give her an empathetic sigh
then a middle-aged local woman loses her job
with the old and the young to provide for
what a misery her life would be
quickly the local woman bribes the local official
the young woman must go
quickly the local woman takes over the job
while she sweeps the street
she gives herself an empathetic sigh
then a young man is released from prison
back to the old street he’s from
rumour spreads in the neighbourhood
—he’s got to have a job
with no income, everyone else would be in trouble
what speedy actions the neighbours must take
from then on
the buff, young guy sweeps the street every day
all passers-by spit at him in contempt
then a police car drives past
in alert the young man moves aside
—at a quick glance
two women seated inside
the younger one who’s now a sex worker
the middle-aged one who’s now a pimp
work
working a job
is like travelling to a remote place
a place far, far away
time slows down
every second
my ears filled with the angry screams
of welding machined clamp grinders cutting machined air pumped air nail guns
I work like a gear, constantly accelerating
with no chance to rust …
in this remote place
time is stagnant
i forget about poetry
about the nation
every second
i see glue boards glue tapes glue guns glue sticks silicones and curing agents
fast pasting fast solidifying fast packaging …
light
now, there’s no need to lift the heavy electrical box
with five other men, now
the second floor isn’t really the second floor
but the metal frame between the ceiling and the floor
… now, there’s no need to assign an extra person
to pick up dropped screws
… I’ve lost count of how many electrical cables
need welding …
how many screws need tightening
… dinner
… dinner
… dinner
food will be there after all this extra work
condemned building
ten workers live on the second floor
the rain is leaking through the floorboards …
first floor is used for cooking and eating
there’s no table, a cable reel will do
there’s no chair …
rainwater drips into the buckets
no one lives on the third floor, not even a ghost can
the third floor isn’t fit for living
it’s still raining …
luckily there’s no landslide yet
the place is close to the seaside construction site
luckily there’s no typhoon today
luckily i’ve got some medicine from a pharmacy
to stop my pain …
that’s why i’m not getting paid today
luckily there’s still tomorrow
I remain hopeful as long as there’s work to do and a place to live
perhaps i won’t die today
… even if i die, i’ll die with a smile
sleep under cctv cameras
the pandemic will not end
as long as tens of thousands
of covid test centres continue
to make money …
the summer heat is blistering
the rented coffin room is musty
to save a few pennies for food
the low-wage workers have to lie
on a bamboo sheet, sleep on the street
do not fear the mosquitoes
but please do sleep under the surveillance
of cctv cameras
to keep your kidneys safe
tomb-sweeping festival
if living
feels no different from death
i admit
i’m a corpse no one wants to claim
… all trains
from whichever direction
head to the crematorium
… all places I visited
lose their traces in the dream
patches of blackness, one after another
all lights are off, houses and cars
turn into coffins
all utensils become ash urns
patches of blackness, one by one
the fire lights up, leaving behind
more … ashes
Read Hongwei Bao’s appreciation of Mu Cao’s work here:
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