I have news for you:
I’m back.
Caressing my sore feet,
Bringing dust and dirt from the West of our motherland,
And kind regards from people there:
What do you need?
Their roars are as strong as steel,
Their torches are brightly lit,
And their young warm hearts
Burn brighter than pomegranate flowers.
Their tireless efforts
Will make us see victory banners;
In this severe winter
They have prepared for the moist spring breezes.
Caw of the Crow
i. In Lieu of a Preface
Not the tinkling of a silver bell,
Nor the trilling of a nightingale.
But only some grumbled
Curses and forebodings,
Like the caw of a loathsome crow.
ii. The Spoiled Son of War
Nor the trilling of a nightingale.
But only some grumbled
Curses and forebodings,
Like the caw of a loathsome crow.
ii. The Spoiled Son of War
God is the son of Mankind,
Peter Pan is the son of Cupid.
Who is the spoiled son of war?
Here is the answer:
The honored guest of the mountain city,
Can, after a lavish banquet,
Say proudly to himself:
“I am the one!
Like a god worshipped by robbers.”
iii. A Wounded City
A wounded soldier has honor,
A wounded city has only insults.
Here, bullet holes become like the smiles of vicious dogs,
There, tea houses are suddenly rising up.
Brilliant lights shine on powdered faces,
Paper money piles up underfoot.
Ah! Won’t you say this is strange:
In times like this even the tea house stages
The dignified “Sound of War”?
The singsong girls ply their trade artfully.
vi. A Brightly-lit Street
They say a brightly-lit street
Is the riverbed of the city.
Tens of thousands of oars flash by,
High-heeled,
Flat-soled,
Or pointed like arrows.
Ah! If they were all fish
An army wouldn’t need allowances to pay for food.
But who would catch them?
The war
Has let this city slip through its net.
Inscription on a Sword – Presenting to the Person with a Sword
You know a sword
Or a broadsword
Its radiance and blade
A hard block of iron, a block of ore
You however not only preserve its luster
But also polish with emery cloth
To add to its brilliance
You said a sword must shine
But you already allow yellowish rust
To grow on your face and in your heart
And even in your breathing
You start to self-destruct
Your radiance and your blade
Are like stars at dawn
Disappearing one by one
You said I want to maintain the quality of iron
“The one who cannot temper oneself in an icy spring
Is without its bitter coldness
Wiping self away day in and day out
Sowing seeds of rust
So a sword can be used to slay a dragon
Or to butcher a dog
Or hung on a wall
Letting your brightness rust away
In the middle of the night before sunrise when the cock crows
You can no longer roar
For you are rusting inside
Unable to kill like a real sword
Grieving? at the very beginning
Why not cloak yourself
With a dull coat
That is but a disguise
Chinese (in original)
1. 诗 1942年3月6日 告诉你一个消息
Peter Pan is the son of Cupid.
Who is the spoiled son of war?
Here is the answer:
The honored guest of the mountain city,
Can, after a lavish banquet,
Say proudly to himself:
“I am the one!
Like a god worshipped by robbers.”
iii. A Wounded City
A wounded soldier has honor,
A wounded city has only insults.
Here, bullet holes become like the smiles of vicious dogs,
There, tea houses are suddenly rising up.
Brilliant lights shine on powdered faces,
Paper money piles up underfoot.
Ah! Won’t you say this is strange:
In times like this even the tea house stages
The dignified “Sound of War”?
The singsong girls ply their trade artfully.
vi. A Brightly-lit Street
They say a brightly-lit street
Is the riverbed of the city.
Tens of thousands of oars flash by,
High-heeled,
Flat-soled,
Or pointed like arrows.
Ah! If they were all fish
An army wouldn’t need allowances to pay for food.
But who would catch them?
The war
Has let this city slip through its net.
Inscription on a Sword – Presenting to the Person with a Sword
You know a sword
Or a broadsword
Its radiance and blade
A hard block of iron, a block of ore
You however not only preserve its luster
But also polish with emery cloth
To add to its brilliance
You said a sword must shine
But you already allow yellowish rust
To grow on your face and in your heart
And even in your breathing
You start to self-destruct
Your radiance and your blade
Are like stars at dawn
Disappearing one by one
You said I want to maintain the quality of iron
“The one who cannot temper oneself in an icy spring
Is without its bitter coldness
Wiping self away day in and day out
Sowing seeds of rust
So a sword can be used to slay a dragon
Or to butcher a dog
Or hung on a wall
Letting your brightness rust away
In the middle of the night before sunrise when the cock crows
You can no longer roar
For you are rusting inside
Unable to kill like a real sword
Grieving? at the very beginning
Why not cloak yourself
With a dull coat
That is but a disguise
translated by Shifen
Chinese (in original)
1. 诗 1942年3月6日 告诉你一个消息
告诉你一个消息：
我回来啦！
抚摸着陶醉的行脚，
我带来西方的尘土，
也带来她们亲切的慰问：
你需要着什么咧？
大后方有钢铁的吼声，
有明亮的火炬，
有燃着比榴花还明的，
年青的热烈的心，
她们在不疲倦的努力下
将使我们在这儿看见期待的旌旗？
在严冬的季节里，
已经预备下阳春的风雨。
2. 诗 1942年4月29日 乌鸦诗钞
（一）代序
没有银铃的响
没有夜莺悦耳的歌唱
这儿只向你咕噪些
诅咒和不祥
如同你所厌恶的乌鸦
（二）战争的宠儿
上帝是人类的儿子
潘彼得是爱神的儿子
谁是战争宠幸的儿子呢
告诉你
如果你是山城的贵宾
你尽可以在千元豪饮之后骄傲地自语
“我吗！
与强盗供着一样的神”
（三）受伤的城
受伤的战士是荣誉的
受伤的城却只有侮辱
弹痕上还溢着野犬的笑
对面却耸然建起楼台
明灯映着粉脸
钞票垫起脚跟
哟，你说够奇怪吗：
这时代茶楼上也是堂堂的“战争的声音”？
卖唱的真会摆招牌
（四）有光的街
据说有光的街
是都市的河床
这儿摇起了千万只步桨
高跟的
平底的
尖来像箭头般的
哟！如果是鱼
一师人可不领副食费啦
然而，谁来捕捉呢
战争的网
还漏下这一个城厢
3. 诗 1942年5月5日 剑铭 -- 赠与有剑的人
你知道一柄剑，
或是一把刀，
它的光芒，它的锋，
是一块顽铁，一块矿石。
然而你不自掩其闪烁，
而且借重于砂布，
以助长对人之夺目，
你说剑是应该有光的。
但你已将黄色之锈，
抹上你的脸，你的心，
甚至于你的呼吸里。
你开始了自我的毁灭！
你的光，你的锋，
遂如曙天之星星，
纷纷地流落了。
你说我要保有铁的本质。
“不能自淬于寒泉的
没有寒泉之凛冽
而日日自拭
乃为锈之播种”
故剑可以屠龙，
也可以屠狗，
也可以挂在壁上，
让你的光辉被锈吞食。
中夜或晨鸡初唱时，
你不能啸了，
因为你已成锈之母，
不能作铅刀之一割了！
哀怨吗？当初
何不披一袭
晦色的外衣。
然而这是伪装呢!
Bionote
Shensang Xu (徐燊桑）, a pen name for Shengxian Xu （徐聲先）, was born in Sichuan, China, in 1918, into the rich and powerful Xu clan. Unfortunately, an opium addiction led Shengxian's father to squander the wealth handed down from his ancestors, and the family had fallen deeply into debt when he died. As the full scale of the second Sino-Japanese War broke out in 1937, Shengxian joined tens of thousands of youths in China's Resistance. He graduated from Huangpu Military Academy and became an officer in Chiang Kai-Shek's Nationalist Army. Shengxian's intelligence and abilities brought quick promotions. He rose to battalion commander and was killed by an artillery shell on July 17, 1944 during the Battle of Hengyang (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Hengyang). Shengxian Xu was not only a patriotic military officer, but also a poet, writer, and war correspondent. The three poems translated here were published in the newspaper Southeast Daily in 1942. Shortly before Shengxian's death, his good friend Lu wrote to tell him that he was on the division's list for medals and prizes. Shengxian dashed off a reply in a madly cursive style: "I'm not fighting for medals. In this hail of bullets and bombardment, however, I'd like to 'measure' Japan's setting 'sun'!" In Chinese, "measure sun" is pronounced "heng-yang". Lu could hardly believe that under such conditions his friend could still make such a clever play on words. What a literary genius! Xu was intending to write a book about Hengyang Battle after the war ended.
The poems have been translated into English by his daughter, who was born after his death. To carry on her father's legacy, she is currently writing The Battle of Hengyang, the first book in English to tell the story of "the most savage battle ever fought in the smallest battlefield with the greatest casualties in the military history of the world."
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