“To Sing, To Dance, To Be A Wolf” by Ami Hsu

[阿米]

“To Sing, To Dance, To Be A Wolf”
Written by Ami Hsu, translated by Matt Bryden


“Picking Things Up”

I have a bad habit of picking things up.

Picking up what others don’t want –
tickets with date, destination,
seat and shoeprints.

In winter I pick up gloves:
men’s in black leather,
children’s with flowers knitted into the wool.

I only pick up the right hand.

Lucky me,
I pick up a letter
and write a letter back.

The homeless bend their backs –
there is another world on the floor.
Caps, sweet wrappers, fliers

item by item I fill the sack.

When I re-open it
they become thirty elephants,
wish me happy birthday.


“I Walk On Old Bone Street”

I walk on old bone street,
pick up a black pencil.

There’s a rabbit toy in the trash can;
it smells like milk.
I stuff it into my handbag like a robber.

I like broken, stained
abandoned things.

A bird sings ‘I love you,’
no one can stop it.
The next minute, it weeps.

I know your bone: black and fresh –
I have touched your heart.

Let’s interrupt each other’s lives,
like birds burst into each other
and split up at the next corner

each looking for the perfect partner
(with which to buy a fridge)

our sad smiles revealing we are no longer
writing poems; split up like lightning
with just the pictures to show.
 

“A Colourful Little Parrot”

lands on my elementary yellow hat.
I never thought he would die,
he is winged.
I can’t catch him even though my hands rise high.

He became rigid that winter.
At four o’clock
the pale yellow light
makes people sad.

My first pet.
I felt he loved me deeply;
he listened to my call,
flew to me after school.

I used rolls to make a little coffin,
dug several-soup-spoons deep;
buried him close to the trees
where we talked.

The trees are now parking spaces.
I grow up gradually,
wave my own wings,
though I am past flying.


“A Married Japanese Woman”
--3, 11, 11

I guess you are alive;
but I guess you are gone.

The telephone
gives no response.

All I can do is continue to bake,
though every cake is scorched.


“Paris in May”

May in Paris is most beautiful
You have your bad mood; I have my good moon
I’ll take my luggage, I’ll travel alone

La la la, forget Taipei is raining
La la la, delete your bad message

May in Paris; never mind losing your way
Paris in May; the whole world wants to go
 

“Cure”

Water wet and warm,
wash-days I was a cat;
then all became ill gray.

The world withdrew slowly.
There was a cave near me.

Without hurt I sleep all winter,
no longer falling each second.
No pen, no backsliding hands.

How to be cured? The clock
intercedes. It’s easy:

stay in father’s box;
dress well;
let the days become routine.
 

“A Man Looks Like You”

Today on the street
I see a man looks like you
I am engrossed

The side of his face so similar
I watch intently

It’s rainy
It’s sunny
I don’t know how much time goes past

Only that I see a man on the road
Whose looks
Impel me to accompany him home


“A Picture”

There’s everything
There’s young colour
Golden, light earth
And, crying deeply,
The boy sitting by the lake.