The brilliant moonlight
pierces my shut lids
like an interrogatory lamp
boring through my subconscious.
In my somnolent state,
Li Po’s poem from my childhood
springs into mind,
recalling family, homeland
the bitter sweet yearning
of all that is dear and familiar
by the exile faraway
in some distant land.
But that would be an untruth
in my present position:
my statelessness,
my schizophrenic mélange
of language,culture and cuisine
leaves me afloat
like a kite
hovering-
the skein that binds me
to my ethnic origins
lies tangled,
fitfully held,
so as not to lose the thread.
Often, deep into the night,
I watch satellite t.v.
Chinese programmes,
acessing a language
grown rusty with disuse.
The luminous moon
beams still mercilessly
into my room
on to my bed
awakening
unplaced guilt.
I pay homage to Li Po
to his homeland
and that of my ancestors, not mine
never even visited
yet still bound
by a desolate sense
of homesickness.
reference:
Quiet night thoughts
Before my bed
there is bright moonlight
so that it seems
like frost on the ground;
Lifting my head
I watch the bright moon
Lowering my head
I dream that I’m home
– Li Po
(translated by Arthur Cooper)