***
Leung Ping-kwan föddes i Guangdong men växte upp i Hong Kong. Han började skriva på 1960-talet och blev snabbt känd som översättare av främmande språk och för sitt redaktionella arbete på ett antal litterära publikationer som riktade sig till unga kinesiska läsare i både Hong Kong och Taiwan.
Genom att skriva på kinesiska om livet i Hong Kong förblev hans fokus alltid lokalt. När hans berömmelse växte blev han allt mer identifierad som Hong Kongs litterära röst. Källa: Cha - an asian literary journal
*
Distinguished leaves, by Leung Ping-kwan
(From City at the end of time : poems by Leung Ping-kwan. Edited and introduced by Esther M.K. Cheung ; translated by Gordon T. Osing. Hong Kong University Press, 2012.)
Noting the variety and richness of the lotus leaves
I paused at a pond to chat, and you pointed
across the flattened sheen of their surfaces
to exalted velvet presenting a pearly bloom,
royalty disdaining all the surrounding green.
You affected surprise to find anything here worth seeing.
You favored London on a grey evening; you recalled
strong red tea, a cold hearth, and an atmosphere
of talk of shadowy old bookshops and the precious
musty presence of antique tomes. I nodded, knowing
for several moments, past and present, words failed to explain;
then breezes stirred the leaves to sound, like schoolboys
reciting in a foreign language, mumbling, garbling, indistinct.
The superior leaves swayed, sustained by all that lived beneath.
***
Följande rader, liksom mitt ovanstående översatta citat, förekommer i den minnestext som publicerades i tidskriften Cha. Texten är skriven av Elaine Yee Lin Ho.
"Nothing was too small or insignificant for poetry—his first medium and in many ways, his most accomplished. Whatever he took from life for art, he also gave back: inanimate objects took on his personality, streets and scenes came alive with his hospitality, Hong Kong became once more intriguing and ever more different because he invited us to look at it in the myriad ways he did."
Det blir väldigt tydligt när man läser dikterna att hans texter är mer Frank O'Hara än traditionell östasiatisk bildspråkspoesi. Även om mina avslutande exempel inte riktigt följer den beskrivningen, så bär de ändå en sorts livsfrukt.
Papaya, by Leung Ping-kwan
(From City at the end of time : poems by Leung Ping-kwan. Edited and introduced by Esther M.K. Cheung ; translated by Gordon T. Osing. Hong Kong University Press, 2012.)
I have your words, that you put down on paper,
but nothing at hand to return, so I write down
papaya. I cut one open: so many
dark points, so many undefined things.
You said you love papaya, but how do I know
you haven't changed since you said it?
Every time I bring one home to the refrigerator
you are not around. Is language the problem
or papaya? I can only choose
among the greenish-yellow skins;
I have to respond to that greenish-yellow skin
before knowing what you expect inside.
Can't we trust inside is sweet melon flesh?
It's only common sense. Then we cut it
and see only seeds that you hate.
You say it's better to find nothing,
better to avoid complications you can't get rid of.
They are hard to get hold of, slippery. They shoot everywhere.
Better not to get entangled. Better just don't say
so many words. Let's have our papaya without words.
Sure, but there's still this stuff in the mouth
that we chew and spit out: papaya.
Immediately you protest that's one word too many;
its skin is motley and its pulp thick with suggestions.
Forget it, then; I only wanted to make time,
to dine on papaya with you. I can't help it,
all the past papayas we've had are, of course, in this one too.
Slice it and here we are again, in a world of fresh seeds.
***
Efter att ha läst dikten "A pair of pears" vet jag inte om jag någonsin kommer att kunna äta päron igen utan att tänka på äktenskapsrådgivning. Jag nöjer mig med att recitera de två avslutande stroferna.
A pair of pears (extract), by Leung Ping-kwan
(From City at the end of time : poems by Leung Ping-kwan. Edited and introduced by Esther M.K. Cheung ; translated by Gordon T. Osing. Hong Kong University Press, 2012.)
(...)
"A chilly draft from the world outside enters in;
the dry autumn of the world enters in.
Only days after our life in the branches I turn to you,
your head pillowed on the rim of the bowl.
You won't hear me, but I call: we were picked
from the same tree. Your breath is my own.
It's only our hearts' singular juice
that saves us in the dry season."
"Everything around me drifts slowly away;
everything passes and leaves me shadows;
still I must resist being drawn outward, with all my might.
The world's noises must be my layers of silence;
my skin is soft and blackening where I'm bruised
and skin is all I have to keep from being ruined.
I don't want to spill helplessly. Rather,let me be one
in myself, our selves grown perfect by a certain negligence."
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