Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

This post is late. I should have put it up on the anniversary of Emily Dickinson’s death on May 15. She passed that day in 1886 (55 years old). I wrote the poems while attending an online Tell It Slant Poetry Festival, which is sponsored by the Emily Dickinson Museum every fall. It was during COVID. During the festival, people took turns reciting all her poems. Upon listening to Dickinson’s poems daily, I started to take on her rhythm and style in my poems. I was also reading about Dickinson’s life and empathizing with her solitude because I was dealing with isolation during the pandemic. Finally, the esteemed poet Yongbo Ma translated these poems into Chinese!

As for Death

As for Death, I am unpracticed—
But for a glimpse of God.
Heaven’s promised to every soul,
So entry was my goal.
I begged for entrance—twice—
Once in a coma then in a dream—
So real were they both!
I felt a tinge of grief and loss—
God didn’t keep his Oath!


至于死亡

至于死亡，我没有经验——
但为了看一眼上帝。
天堂应许给每个灵魂，
入场是我的目标。
我两次请求进入
一次昏迷，一次梦中——
它们都是那么真实！
我感到一丝悲伤和失落
上帝没有遵守祂的诺言！

I Wish the Words

I wish the words
Upon my door
To say “Please enter here”—
Not farewell to a life
Not a nod to grief or fear
Just “Come in! Take a seat.
Enjoy some wine or beer.
Let’s converse, have some laughs
And all around— Good Cheer!”

我希望这些话

我希望这些话
写在我的门上
说“请进来”——
不是告别生活
不是对悲伤或恐惧点头示意
仅仅是“进来吧！坐吧。
来点葡萄酒或啤酒。
让我们聊聊，笑一笑
在周围转转——干杯！”

There Was a Knock

There was a knock
Upon the pane—
Twas my mother’s Ghost—
At last, she told me 
where she’d been—
And why—and where it was.
Twas not the sky—
Twas in a slice of dust.
She’d found a home, new friends, new food—
A heavenly retreat.
Should I leave to see her there?
Someday, I must—I must.


有人敲门


有人敲门
在窗格上——
我母亲的鬼魂——
终于，她告诉我
她去了哪里——
为什么——那地方在哪里
它不是在天上——
而是在一片尘土中。
她找到了家，新的朋友，新的食物——
天堂般的度假胜地。
我应该去那里看她吗？
总有一天，我会的——我一定会。

I Fear Me This - is Loneliness –
-Emily Dickinson, “The Loneliness One dare not sound-”

Emily, you sought your solitude
at your desk by a bedroom window,
composing poems and letters to the world
that never wrote to you. 

My room, a solitary sanctuary
with a view to the street.
I compose notes with blessings 
to lift others up during this tender time
of ire and illness. 

Your seclusion, Emily, chosen
from grief and loss.

Mine, too, as I hear of deaths.
Families felled by COVID.
Strain after strain.
Again and again. 

Occasionally you lowered
baked goods in baskets to children 
celebrating innocent sun. 

I watch children in our neighborhood park
attempt a great escape
down small slopes of ice 
to the creek.

Outside your winter sky
hid cold birds in a haze

like the masks we should wear these days
to spare our lives.

You wished to help one fainting robin
unto his nest again.

At my window daily, a solitary robin
smacks his body into his own reflection.
Repeatedly - My fear of death
mutates into chaos.

For you, Emily,
a garden of grief bloomed
a leather-bound herbarium. Sorrow plucked
and pressed between flimsies.

On my notes and poems, I press stickers
of wildflowers and butterflies. My handwriting
meanders in my tiny gardens of verse
that snail mail delivers to loved ones
in pearly shells.
Our windows - glassy protection from what waits 
in the soul’s Caverns and its Corridors
that can Illuminate-or seal-.
As our stars rage their light
into gossamer tears -
our pens open 
many doors.


我害怕自己——那是孤独——
——艾米丽·狄金森，《那种不敢发声的孤独》


艾米丽，你寻求你的孤独
在我是床边的书桌上，  
写下诗歌与信件，给那个  
从未给你写信的世界。  


我的房间，一处孤独的避难所，  
能看到窗外的街景。  
我写下祝福的便条，  
试图抚慰他人
在这愤怒与疾病的温柔时光中。  


你的孤独，艾米丽，  
来自悲伤与失落。  


我也是如此，当我听闻死讯，  
家庭被新冠病毒摧毁，  
一波接一波的焦虑。  
一次又一次。  


偶尔，你会垂下篮子
将烘培食品送给孩子们，  
庆祝无辜的太阳。  


我看见邻近园里的孩子们，  
在尝试大逃亡，  
沿着小小的冰坡滑下，  
滑向小溪。  


在你冬日的天空之外，  
寒冷的鸟儿隐藏在雾霭中
  
如同我们如今戴着的口罩，  
用以保命。  


你曾希望帮助一只昏厥的知更鸟，  
再次回到巢中。  


在我的窗户上，一只孤独的知更鸟  
每天都会撞向自己的投影。  
一遍又一遍——我对死亡的恐惧
变作混乱。  


对你而言，艾米丽，  
一个悲伤的花园怒放成
一本皮面的植物标本册。悲伤被摘取  
压在薄薄的纸页之间。  


在我的便条和诗篇上，我贴上  
野花与蝴蝶的贴纸。我的字迹  
在我小小的诗园中游走，  
寄给所爱之人的蜗牛邮件  
有着珍珠般的外壳。
  
我们的窗户——以玻璃来抵御  
既可以照亮也可以封印的
灵魂洞窟与走廊中等待的东西。  


当我们的星辰把光芒  
倾入轻纱般的泪水——  
我们的笔打开了  
众多的门户。

Forms of these poems appeared on Spillwords and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

© Barbara Leonhard and translations ©Yongbo Ma


I call Yongbo Ma the World’s Poet Laureate because he has reached out to many poets worldwide to translate their poetry.

Yongbo Ma was born in 1964. He has a PhD and is a translator, editor, and leading scholar of postmodern poetry. He has authored or translated more than 80 published books. Ma is a professor in the Faculty of Arts and Literature at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. His translations from English include works by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, W.C.Williams, John Ashbery, Herman Melville and others. You can follow him on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100093276516900.