What do you think?
Rate this book
Low Key
Drawn from Hong Kong International Poetry Nights 2011, "Low Key" is a chapbook of poetry by Yu Xiang presented in both English and Chinese. "Low Key" is also available along with the works of other internationally renowned poets in "Words and the World (Twenty-volume Set)." Selected poems from this volume are featured in the anthology "Words and the World: International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong."
45 pages, Paperback
First published April 10, 2012
2 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
January 21, 2022
It Goes Without Saying
when I'm old some
will still travel miles
to love me but others
will once again jilt me
*
A Painting Life
One
I must make up my mind to paint some outdoor scenes
like going to work every day
must pass by those puffy strawberries and chickens
pass by illegal books, sex diseases, legends
a beggar couple singing "Visit Home"
a distorted history, a dusty or tail gas-like
fugitive, those dug and re-dug
filled but never finally leveled
Cultural Street, Peace Street, improvised quotes
and undefined anger...
Two
I want to paint expression and posture
not even stopping when menstruating
lest sirens interfere with the brush's angle and direction
However law and justice may oppose
a beauty is still a living miracle
she spends away life like colours
My good comrade
as long as I can draw you in memory
I'll always have something to do
Three
I want to paint some still lifes
sell them cheap to get by
I take down my forefathers' awards and medals
stained with glorious corrosion
dig out a pile of red leather diplomas from the bottom of a box
then unscrew the beacon lights, in the living room
For a lyrical feel, I arrange them again and again
these still lifes, like the last nobles
Four
No light, no light
colours like a sleep dialogue
At night, I squeeze black and white right onto the canvas
white smudges blood
black explodes
the gray in-between like an abstract government
Five
Sometimes I paint nude voices
When a news broadcast brings the voice of wind
I can still hear a vendor from a double bed
and in River Amsterdam
instantly recognize "the vast lingering of sea"
Someone says, Drawing degenerates man
I'll keep degenerating
Six
If I still have the strength, still have the strength
I'll send you a painting, with
no title or signature
like one exile after another
*
Low Key
a leaf falls
only one leaf falls in one night
a leaf falls every night every season
leaves fall
fall, soundless
like a man who lives alone a long time, and dies
*
Sunlight Shines Where It's Needed
sunlight shines where it's needed
shines on sunflowers and roads
shines on more sunflower-like plants
shines on more road-like places
between happy and unhappy couples
in streets with rain from last night
sunlight shines almost vertically
shines on panties and bras on the balcony
on a foot massage parlor's newly renovated door sign
shines in the cold and on falling beads of sweat
shines in an August sky, upon glass that has almost no glass
children who've almost no tears
shines upon weeping children but not on a childhood
shine on my eye not on my hand
neither on the back of the door nor upon secret lovers
sunlight isn't where it isn't needed
sunlight never shines where it isn't needed
sunlight shines on my body
sometimes it doesn't shine on my body
*
My Poem
I want to tell you something
it's my poem, you're reading it now
I'll never fly, or leave, for I stand on firm feet and look far, gathering shadows enough for a poem
I have a chair that makes no sound
I have another chair, with a butt print. A chair no one has sat in, dust has already buried the butt print
There's a scar on my body, beaten by my mother when I was little,
beaten by "Dear "Mother" from our grown-up years. No one has seen
it, but I can touch it anytime. At night, it's my poem
I'm virtually built of scars. So my body glitters at a turn, while the sun pierces my eyes
I'm in love with a Tibetan, his tangled long hair glued with nits and
scripture when the jeep broke down in Yajiang. I think of this when
sitting at a wonton stall, a spoon licked by reality in my mouth
If you revisit Hable con ella, please rewind to 29:07, my poem is there
My life need a disaster, a disaster to appease disasters. It need my poem
Reinaldo Arenas already wrote my verses, I am that angry and lonely child of always, / that throws you the insult of that angry child of always and warns you: / if hypocritically you pat me on the head, / I would take the opportunity to steal your wallet // I am that child of always / before the panorama of imminent terror, / imminent leprosy, imminent fleas / of offenses and the imminent crime // I am that repulsive child...
I'm that child, a round face, clearly not adorable, I like my dog, but it's dead
My dogs died one by one, each and every drop of my coldness
Christ died for man, man dies for things he loves. Who should I mourn
I'm mourning. Don't disturb me
This is my poem, please don't disturb it.
when I'm old some
will still travel miles
to love me but others
will once again jilt me
*
A Painting Life
One
I must make up my mind to paint some outdoor scenes
like going to work every day
must pass by those puffy strawberries and chickens
pass by illegal books, sex diseases, legends
a beggar couple singing "Visit Home"
a distorted history, a dusty or tail gas-like
fugitive, those dug and re-dug
filled but never finally leveled
Cultural Street, Peace Street, improvised quotes
and undefined anger...
Two
I want to paint expression and posture
not even stopping when menstruating
lest sirens interfere with the brush's angle and direction
However law and justice may oppose
a beauty is still a living miracle
she spends away life like colours
My good comrade
as long as I can draw you in memory
I'll always have something to do
Three
I want to paint some still lifes
sell them cheap to get by
I take down my forefathers' awards and medals
stained with glorious corrosion
dig out a pile of red leather diplomas from the bottom of a box
then unscrew the beacon lights, in the living room
For a lyrical feel, I arrange them again and again
these still lifes, like the last nobles
Four
No light, no light
colours like a sleep dialogue
At night, I squeeze black and white right onto the canvas
white smudges blood
black explodes
the gray in-between like an abstract government
Five
Sometimes I paint nude voices
When a news broadcast brings the voice of wind
I can still hear a vendor from a double bed
and in River Amsterdam
instantly recognize "the vast lingering of sea"
Someone says, Drawing degenerates man
I'll keep degenerating
Six
If I still have the strength, still have the strength
I'll send you a painting, with
no title or signature
like one exile after another
*
Low Key
a leaf falls
only one leaf falls in one night
a leaf falls every night every season
leaves fall
fall, soundless
like a man who lives alone a long time, and dies
*
Sunlight Shines Where It's Needed
sunlight shines where it's needed
shines on sunflowers and roads
shines on more sunflower-like plants
shines on more road-like places
between happy and unhappy couples
in streets with rain from last night
sunlight shines almost vertically
shines on panties and bras on the balcony
on a foot massage parlor's newly renovated door sign
shines in the cold and on falling beads of sweat
shines in an August sky, upon glass that has almost no glass
children who've almost no tears
shines upon weeping children but not on a childhood
shine on my eye not on my hand
neither on the back of the door nor upon secret lovers
sunlight isn't where it isn't needed
sunlight never shines where it isn't needed
sunlight shines on my body
sometimes it doesn't shine on my body
*
My Poem
I want to tell you something
it's my poem, you're reading it now
I'll never fly, or leave, for I stand on firm feet and look far, gathering shadows enough for a poem
I have a chair that makes no sound
I have another chair, with a butt print. A chair no one has sat in, dust has already buried the butt print
There's a scar on my body, beaten by my mother when I was little,
beaten by "Dear "Mother" from our grown-up years. No one has seen
it, but I can touch it anytime. At night, it's my poem
I'm virtually built of scars. So my body glitters at a turn, while the sun pierces my eyes
I'm in love with a Tibetan, his tangled long hair glued with nits and
scripture when the jeep broke down in Yajiang. I think of this when
sitting at a wonton stall, a spoon licked by reality in my mouth
If you revisit Hable con ella, please rewind to 29:07, my poem is there
My life need a disaster, a disaster to appease disasters. It need my poem
Reinaldo Arenas already wrote my verses, I am that angry and lonely child of always, / that throws you the insult of that angry child of always and warns you: / if hypocritically you pat me on the head, / I would take the opportunity to steal your wallet // I am that child of always / before the panorama of imminent terror, / imminent leprosy, imminent fleas / of offenses and the imminent crime // I am that repulsive child...
I'm that child, a round face, clearly not adorable, I like my dog, but it's dead
My dogs died one by one, each and every drop of my coldness
Christ died for man, man dies for things he loves. Who should I mourn
I'm mourning. Don't disturb me
This is my poem, please don't disturb it.
December 27, 2023
"Nobody talks like this, it's not normal."
June 4, 2014
Another offering of Yu Xiang as translated by Fiona Sze-Lorrain, in addition to the very good "I Can Almost See the Clouds of Dust," published by Zephyr Press. Part of of 20-volume chapbook series, International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews