Wuhan Poems by Zhang Zhihao

Translator's Note

Poetry is news. These poems by the Chinese contemporary poet Zhihao Zhang, capture the overwhelming power the virus wielded over human life. All these poetic responses to the eruption of the virus prompt us to contemplate how to cope with the lingering pandemic as it still shows little sign of abating in severity. The solution seems nothing but what the poet suggests in his most recent end-of-the-year poem:

When it [the camera] finally directed towards me
I saw the one who died in my stead
Standing behind me whispering:
“Go forth, to love and hate for me.”

We shall go forth against the virus and love life. That is the news Zhang’s poetry retains.

Due to the differences between the Chinese and English languages, and the Chinese and American cultures, translators often struggle to stay faithful to the original sentence pattern, order, or cultural references (such as the Hanyang Gate reference discussed below). Zhang’s poetry has been celebrated for its simple yet solemn and powerful language use. But that simplicity of language dictates the poet to place the words in such as a manner that they amount to the targeted poetic poignancy. I take great pride in being able to stay very closely—due to similar poetic disposition and early life experiences—to his original lines, whether it is a poem brief as “The Spring Equinox” or more complex as “Spring at Hanyang Gate.”

“Spring at Hanyang Gate” was written as the poet was experiencing the pandemic (during the spring of 2020). It seems a simple verse, but is in fact heavily loaded with historical, poetical, and political references. The landmark place is not only a tourist scenery hotspot, but also the converging point where past and present compete, merge, and shape the future. For instance, though the line “I also lean against the railing” depicts a common posture of casual tourists, it is meditative and solemn, harking back to the poetic works of Chinese Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo as well as the modern political leader Mao Zedong. The lines weave in such a way that it’s ambiguous whether it’s the past tourists, those who are not the “few that hear,” or even the speaking “I” that cannot hear what the river speaks of. To cope with this ambiguity, I translate it as a simple present verb tense to bring the past, the now (the young woman’s chin) and the seasonal blooms together.

—Yuemin He