Streaking with the Spirits of the Dead of June 4th
by Liao Yiwu (translated by Michael M. Day)
The square in Stockholm
Last year snow, this year rain
Night falls early, and there’s a chill wind off the Arctic Ocean
Abruptly we begin to streak, as if possessed by the spirits of June Fourth
four throats howl as if hit by bullets
I’m coming, Liu Xia – the simple artist, Meng Huang
stripping off, shooting off
Beiling, Yiliang and old Liao also shoot off
like four arrows
As if the naked newborns
repeatedly intoned by that great forefather, Laozi
A newborn is like water
thirsting to return to the mother’s womb
A newborn is like grass
eager to cover the land like a spring day
Under the earth lie other breathtaking ancestors
Zhuangzi, Qu Yuan, Li Bai, Liu Ling, Ruan Ji [1]
and Su Dongpo, an exile on Hainan Island
All streaked on the river bank of long ago, in the morality of the day
their noble flesh like dazzling flashes of lightning
piercing the history toyed with by the powers that be
then passing away like a song, or a sob
This age also lies beneath the earth
the spirits of millions beaten, starved, campaigned [2] to death
to this day not finding rest
If the three thousand dead of June Fourth still lived
they’d be about our age
They were shot by the Liberation Army
bullet holes undulating like waves
slowly rusting in our breasts
Lord above, o Lord above. Their cries
still roll off our tongues today
They shed their shells, as one would strip off bloody clothes
Their spirits whitened
whirling up in succession like snowflakes
Together with the spirits of the dead
we streak in a swirl
The spirits run faster than us
They even outpace
Stockholm’s rain and snow
When last year and this
the Swedish police caught us, pushed us down to the ground
leaving traces of being dragged before the Prize Award Concert Hall
the fleeing spirits instead charged the entrance, circling above
the heads of the judges of the Swedish Academy
Protest, protest, we protest
In the name of the massacre’s survivors the spirits protest
a flunkey of Mao Zedong
a defender of censorship
a freak who’s not heard of political prisoners in China’s jails
Mo Yan taking the prize. Protest, we protest
the quivering spirits raise their unseen middle fingers
On his third release from prison Liu Xiaobo
wrote to Liao Yiwu bidding “dance with the spirits of the dead”
But the Nobel Peace Prize has yet to reach Tian’anmen
The amnesia of humanity
a black hole in the universe
Suffering China
books eaten by worms
surging toward a road on the horizon amid the sighs of Confucius
But [for] a flash of streaking
like lightning, like meteors
we are locked up in a Swedish jail
like lightning and meteors locked into a black hole
For imprisoned memory
For nine-year-old Lǚ Peng, seventeen-year-old Jiang Jielian, nineteen-year-old Wang Nan
twenty-two-year-old Xia Zhilei, who all died on the morning of June Fourth
For Liu Xia and Liu Hui, who suffer nervous breakdowns because of Liu Xiaobo
For Li Bifeng, Gao Zhisheng, Liu Xianbin, Xu Wanping, Guo Feixiong, Xu Zhiyong
Tan Zuoren, Chen Xi, Chen Wei, Wang Gongquan, and Yassin from Xinjiang
innumerable political prisoners
all also a part in imprisoned memory
It’s all too old
like Norway and Sweden
judging ethics and literature
And it’s all too new
like imprisoned memory and running nude
Disclosure, transparency, and the truth
Protest, jogging memory, and streaking
Is there nothing else to be done?
Nothing else!
The spirits of the dead know no borders
They sprout each year with the spring
And we too sprout and streak together with them
in Stockholm. With hope in years to come
in Beijing, Pyongyang, Lhasa, Moscow
we’ll protest without a stitch on
not needing to self-immolate like Tibetans
and not having to run so fast
We protest with a smile
Those too lofty, too old authorities justify themselves with a smile
warily discussing whether to admit fault
And through the mouths of the living the souls of the dead of the past and today
speak of “peace”. Yes
only by apologizing to one another can there be “peace”.
December 21, 2013, in Berlin
[1] Liu Ling and Ruan Ji are members the “Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove”, scholars, writers and musicians renowned for their dissolute ways in the 3rd century CE;
[2] As in the numerous political campaigns that roiled China after 1949.
Last year snow, this year rain
Night falls early, and there’s a chill wind off the Arctic Ocean
Abruptly we begin to streak, as if possessed by the spirits of June Fourth
four throats howl as if hit by bullets
I’m coming, Liu Xia – the simple artist, Meng Huang
stripping off, shooting off
Beiling, Yiliang and old Liao also shoot off
like four arrows
As if the naked newborns
repeatedly intoned by that great forefather, Laozi
A newborn is like water
thirsting to return to the mother’s womb
A newborn is like grass
eager to cover the land like a spring day
Under the earth lie other breathtaking ancestors
Zhuangzi, Qu Yuan, Li Bai, Liu Ling, Ruan Ji [1]
and Su Dongpo, an exile on Hainan Island
All streaked on the river bank of long ago, in the morality of the day
their noble flesh like dazzling flashes of lightning
piercing the history toyed with by the powers that be
then passing away like a song, or a sob
This age also lies beneath the earth
the spirits of millions beaten, starved, campaigned [2] to death
to this day not finding rest
If the three thousand dead of June Fourth still lived
they’d be about our age
They were shot by the Liberation Army
bullet holes undulating like waves
slowly rusting in our breasts
Lord above, o Lord above. Their cries
still roll off our tongues today
They shed their shells, as one would strip off bloody clothes
Their spirits whitened
whirling up in succession like snowflakes
Together with the spirits of the dead
we streak in a swirl
The spirits run faster than us
They even outpace
Stockholm’s rain and snow
When last year and this
the Swedish police caught us, pushed us down to the ground
leaving traces of being dragged before the Prize Award Concert Hall
the fleeing spirits instead charged the entrance, circling above
the heads of the judges of the Swedish Academy
Protest, protest, we protest
In the name of the massacre’s survivors the spirits protest
a flunkey of Mao Zedong
a defender of censorship
a freak who’s not heard of political prisoners in China’s jails
Mo Yan taking the prize. Protest, we protest
the quivering spirits raise their unseen middle fingers
On his third release from prison Liu Xiaobo
wrote to Liao Yiwu bidding “dance with the spirits of the dead”
But the Nobel Peace Prize has yet to reach Tian’anmen
The amnesia of humanity
a black hole in the universe
Suffering China
books eaten by worms
surging toward a road on the horizon amid the sighs of Confucius
But [for] a flash of streaking
like lightning, like meteors
we are locked up in a Swedish jail
like lightning and meteors locked into a black hole
For imprisoned memory
For nine-year-old Lǚ Peng, seventeen-year-old Jiang Jielian, nineteen-year-old Wang Nan
twenty-two-year-old Xia Zhilei, who all died on the morning of June Fourth
For Liu Xia and Liu Hui, who suffer nervous breakdowns because of Liu Xiaobo
For Li Bifeng, Gao Zhisheng, Liu Xianbin, Xu Wanping, Guo Feixiong, Xu Zhiyong
Tan Zuoren, Chen Xi, Chen Wei, Wang Gongquan, and Yassin from Xinjiang
innumerable political prisoners
all also a part in imprisoned memory
It’s all too old
like Norway and Sweden
judging ethics and literature
And it’s all too new
like imprisoned memory and running nude
Disclosure, transparency, and the truth
Protest, jogging memory, and streaking
Is there nothing else to be done?
Nothing else!
The spirits of the dead know no borders
They sprout each year with the spring
And we too sprout and streak together with them
in Stockholm. With hope in years to come
in Beijing, Pyongyang, Lhasa, Moscow
we’ll protest without a stitch on
not needing to self-immolate like Tibetans
and not having to run so fast
We protest with a smile
Those too lofty, too old authorities justify themselves with a smile
warily discussing whether to admit fault
And through the mouths of the living the souls of the dead of the past and today
speak of “peace”. Yes
only by apologizing to one another can there be “peace”.
December 21, 2013, in Berlin
[1] Liu Ling and Ruan Ji are members the “Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove”, scholars, writers and musicians renowned for their dissolute ways in the 3rd century CE;
[2] As in the numerous political campaigns that roiled China after 1949.
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