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Zhang Zao (张枣,1962-2010), respected as one of the best Third Generation poets of China, passed away in the University of Tubingen of Germany on March 8th at the age of 48. Mr. Zhang, born in Changsha of Hunan, held a doctorate in literature and philosophy with Tubingen and is also a faculty with China Central Ethnic University. His publications include Letters from Spring and Autumn (春秋来信), and the translated works of  Highest Notes, Fictious (最高虚构笔记).

Zhang Zao’s poems are very sincere, finely structured and often with historical and philosophical connotations gracefully interwoven with emotional nuances and a deep sense of religious awareness. Many of his poems are based on western mythology and international literary allusions. Apart from being very suitable for reading out aloudl, his poems also shorten the distance between “eastern” and “western” imaginations.

Many famous scholars and poets of China sent their condolences to Zhang, including Cui Weiping, Bei Dao, etc. There is also a small online event to commemorate him on douban (http://www.douban.com/online/10360153/), China’s largest website for social networking through books, movies, music and other more intellectual interests.  

With full respect to Zhang Zao’s achievement in poetry SeeChina has attempted to translate one of his poems. If our readers are capable of reading Chinese and are interested in translating some of the others, please click on http://www.douban.com/online/10360153/discussion/22435063/ to access  16 of his poems, including those on Kafka, Lida and Swan, Romeo and Juliet, etc.

The following one is related to the image of Father before Cultural Revolution:

Father

Year 1962, he didn’t know what to do. He,

Still young, idealistic, and quite left-minded, yet carried

the label of “rightist”. He was starved to slight puffiness,

and fled to hometown in Changsha. His grandma cooked for him

a pot of pig tripe and turnip soup, with a few dates floating.

There was incense burning in the house, oozing puzzlement upwards.

For that day, he really couldn’t make up his mind.

He wanted to go out for a walk, but didn’t really want to do so.

 

He stared at something invisible and laughed loudly.

His grandma passed him a cigarette, he smoked it, for the first time.

He said, in that smoke read such words “how strange!”

At noon, he wanted to sit himself by the Orange Islet by the Xiangjiang River,

and practice the flute a little.

While he walked he didn’t feel like it very much,

So he walked back on the same road where he came from, suddenly he felt

There are always two of himself,

One walks forward,

One walks backwards,

One is playing flute on a piece of embroidered brocade,

But this one, walking on the May First Road, is walking in an indellible

reality.

 
He thought, well, now whatever goes.

He stopped. He turned around. He walked towards the Orange Islet again.

Once he turned around, stirred an alarm clock at the end of the sky.

Once he turned around, messed up all tempo of this world.

Once he turned around, all the amazing things on the way, and meanwhile

 

he became my father.

 

　父亲
　　
　　
　　1962年，他不知道该怎么办。他，
　　还年轻，很理想，也蛮左的，却戴着
　　右派的帽子。他在新疆饿得虚胖，
　　逃回到长沙老家。他祖母给他炖了一锅
　　猪肚萝卜汤，里边还漂着几粒红枣儿。
　　室内烧了香，香里有个向上的迷惘。
　　这一天，他真的是一筹莫展。
　　他想出门遛个弯儿，又不大想。
　　
　　他盯着看不见的东西，哈哈大笑起来。
　　他祖母递给他一支烟，他抽了，第一次。
　　他说，烟圈弥散着“咄咄怪事”这几个字。
　　中午，他想去湘江边的橘子洲头坐一坐，
　　去练练笛子。
　　他走着走着又不想去了，
　　他沿着来路往回走，他突然觉得
　　总有两个自己，
　　一个顺着走，
　　一个反着走，
　　一个坐到一匹锦绣上吹歌，
　　而这一个，走在五一路，走在不可泯灭的
　　真实里。
　　
　　他想，现在好了，怎么都行啊。
　　他停下。他转身。他又朝橘子洲头的方向走去。
　　他这一转身，惊动了天边的一只闹钟。
　　他这一转身，搞乱了人间所有的节奏。
　　他这一转身，一路奇妙，也
　　
　　变成了我的父亲。