Yu Xinhua, born March 22, 1976, is a Chinese poet.
Lack of oxygen during her delivery left her with permanent brain damage and movement disorders. With the help of her parents, she gradually learned how to stand and walk, and in high school, she found peace and solace in poetry.
“I am not using this walking stick all the time. I think poetry is more like a spiritual crutch. When you are ignorant of the world, when no one could help you, the only thing you could do is to hold on to your poem. Although they can’t really change your life or state of mind, at least, they ease you. Through poems, you will find your position in the world. No matter how emotionally-intense or sorrowful the poetry is, its nature is quiet and tranquil.”
CROSSING HALF OF CHINA TO SLEEP WITH YOU
To spend or to be spent, what’s the difference if there is any?
Two bodies collide
— the force, the flower opened by the force, and the virtual Spring brought by the flower — nothing more than this,
and this we mistake as life restarting.
In half of China, things are happening:
volcanoes erupt, rivers run dry,
political prisoners and displaced workers are abandoned,
elk deer and red-crowned cranes get shot.
I cross the hail of bullets to sleep with you.
I press many nights into one morning to sleep with you.
I run across many of me and many of me run into one to sleep with you.
Of course I can be misguided by butterflies and mistake praise as Spring, and a village similar to Hengdian as home.
But all these are absolute
reasons that I spend a night with you.
YOU DIDN’T SEE THE PART OF ME BEING COVERED
In spring, I lift flower, fire and the canopy of tree on the cliff,
Yet the lonesome call still echoes in the rain,
Thumping as a blunt tool onto the evening clouds.
Too late to love, I’ve already fallen for you.
I bite your name upon my lips until they bleed,
But still, I fail to break the dark seal.
Only the easy parts could make me stay:
Canna, black butterfly, and the reflection in the water.
I say to them, hello,
Please accept my humble love as if I make a bow.
But I have never been perplexed,
Never, just like a river,
Which knows the direction of tomorrow even in the darkest night.
But in the end I can’t forgive myself
For keeping you so intact.
It’s better for you not knowing all those illusions.
How many dusts in this world you will need,
To cover a woman’s love,
That is bloody yet glittering.