by Danielle Du
A reflection on the impossible-possible things we are, as the walking legacy of our ancestors.
还 、海
《 hai 》
【零】
This is how it feels:
a foot in both doors,
so the saying goes—
but no one never warned you
and never did you imagine
that these doors stand
as shorelines on opposite ends
of the very
earth
you walk
(poles in their own right: north, south
no;
east, west)
—and you, the
ocean
between them:
a paradox inherent,
only ever close enough to
touch either shore,
(a body of water by grace only)
churning with the runoff
tears of both.
What are you then?
impossible
【一】
This is how it feels:
The first time you step
through that east pole door,
this is the world you glimpse:
graveyards, tombstones
filling the spaces between
these arcing highways and skyscraping towers—
death, between every breath life takes
past, between every step present makes
and neither, neither feel like yours
It feels wrong:
the ocean turns.
“Pay your respects,” your parents insist,
“Say hello to your great-grandparents.”
But you do not know them,
never knew them,
never will know them
and these headstones gleam too smooth;
so you refuse, and watch
as your parents bow in front of
this one tomb in a forest of tombs.
(a world of blood and lives and family
you have never, never known)
“Just try it,” they say, standing now,
one final beseeching lifeline:
“there’s nothing to be scared of.
It’s just three bows, then you’re done.”
But there is more than one kind of fear
that scorches this ocean floor—
you turn away,
fix your eyes to the
sky instead;
only half wondering if your great-grandparents
(and their grandparents, and their parents, and theirs,
and theirs and theirs and theirs)
can see
you,
this paradox child of two shores
torn.
【二】
This is how it feels:
How deeply you mourn that now,
enough to quench the heedless flames
that once roared through your own heart.
You know now,
now
you would kowtow a thousand times
to seize this lifeline
that, at least,
means one shore is willing
to claim you as its own.
the ocean, the ocean, ah
how it cries, longing for just one land to call
home
【三】
This is how it feels:
Even the sight of a clothes tag
makes you hear the voices
of your ancestors’ ghosts
whispering at the edges of your jacket,
snagging winter branches for hands
unerringly certain in
their own inquiry,
nonetheless afraid of your answer:
Did you forget us?
Don’t forget to remember us, now
(“made in _________,”
after all)
The cloth flaps in the breeze
of your ancestors’ rearing sorrow—
each crease and fold a sculpture
breathing,
the living image of your own regret.
You can’t help but think:
this is the real tombstone
marking that final death of memory and myth.
and oh,
how the ocean weeps
【四】
But.
This is also how it feels:
The next time you step
through that east pole door,
bearing the rains of years gone by
(years enough for
this ocean
to calm, to settle, to fill)
you watch as the quiltwork fields and glass-sleek towers
roll past, reflected to a watery blur
against the window of
your own wide-eyed longing.
Exist, exist,
you hear your ancestors cry
in this wind that pulls even the
heavens westward
as you stand, stature straightened to bow again,
returned once more:
back to this soil of your grandparents’ parents’ bones.
You wonder if they are proud:
if you have done well
at being this impossible thing—
you,
their paradox child of two shores
both.
The ghosts of your ancestors
whisper at the edges of your jacket,
drifting spring petals for hands
unerringly certain in
their own inquiry,
nonetheless awaiting your answer:
We are not forgotten, because
you still stand strong,
child of ours:
somehow, you do. Somehow, somehow,
despite it all
between it all—
and is that not the most we can ask?
You can’t help but think:
this is the first lifeline,
(and you can’t help but hope:
the first of many more)
pulling you back towards
this neglected eastern shore.
(And somehow then, you realize:
the ocean
is so, so
still.)
【五】
In the end,
this is how it feels:
Two shores,
rising on opposite ends of
the very
earth
you walk
(poles in their own right)
and you, the glittering surging
ocean
between them, somehow
holding shorelines both:
a
bridge
inherent
(between two ends
of this earth you walk,
poles in their own right:
east, west, east, west)
ever turning, yearning, astorm, aflame
ever calming, settling, stilling at last
paradoxical perhaps
impossible perhaps
This is how it feels:
still nonetheless
standing
(still, still)
between it all.
Endnotes:
- What on earth are you doing with the subtitle there? Without the accent marks, hai can refer to multiple Mandarin characters by the Pinyin system (which is used to romanize Mandarin Chinese and as a system for learning/typing the language). In this case, I picked two: 还 (hái) and 海 (hǎi). The first character, 还, is an adverb that translates to “still,” or “yet,” or “also/too.” The second character, 海, refers to the ocean. However, it should be noted that these two characters are not exact homonyms in their pronunciation: Mandarin, being a tonal language, has four distinct tones and these two characters are spoken with very different tones; hence the accent marks.
- What does it mean put together then? Essentially, “still: the ocean.”
- So, just to be sure—are the random divider thingies in Mandarin too? Definitely. They’re just numbers; the very first brackets contain the Mandarin character for “zero,” and the next goes to “one,” then “two,” so on and so forth.
- Fun fact! The major turn in the poem occurs at 四 (four, sì), which traditionally is associated with bad luck due to the fact that it sounds like the character for death, 死 (sǐ). Interpret that as you please!