Issue 04｜Wang Ailing
Wang Ailing is a poet from Rushan, Shandong Province, China, and a member of the Rushan Writers Association. Born into a farming family, she had to leave school because of illness. She has run a fruit and vegetable stall for more than thirty years and has also spent five years growing vegetables in greenhouses. She has been writing poetry for over a decade, fitting it around predawn trips to the market and long days of work. In 2017, she published her poetry collection Gravel. When first contacted for this project, she described herself as "just an ordinary woman from the countryside." For her, selling produce is how she makes a living; writing poetry is something she does for herself.
I. Making a Living·生计
For Wang Ailing, growing vegetables means long hours, unpredictable weather, and constant worry. Her poems speak of the hard work of farming, but also of the care and affection she feels for the plants she grows.
走夜路
楼道里的声控灯坏了
夜里两点出门
我默默地数着台阶，走
轻轻抬脚，轻轻落步
我担心一用力
踩疼了楼梯，它
会不会“哎呀”叫出声
就惊醒了熟睡的邻居
更害怕 一用力
灯，突然就亮了
我黑色的眼睛不适应
乍现的光
Walking in the Dark
The stairwell light
that wakes at a sound
was broken.
At two in the morning
I stepped outside.
Silently
I counted the stairs—
lifting each foot softly,
setting it down softly.
If I stepped too hard,
would I bruise the stairs?
Would they cry out, “Ow!”
and wake the neighbors
from their sleep?
Worse—
if I stepped too hard,
the light might flare.
My dark eyes
could not bear
light breaking all at once.
我是菜农
我是菜农，习惯用汗水盥洗
省下河水，给正开花的黄瓜
习惯用身体为打蔫的西红柿遮阳
跪地只为扶正倒伏的秧苗
持续干旱我焦虑，连续阴雨我烦心
狂风暴起时我那么赢弱
大太阳当空，要如何面对？
今夜有雷阵雨，我困囿于挡风口漏水和棚内闷湿
恨自己无能力
一手贩卖掉雨云
一手拽回清爽
I Grow Vegetables
I grow vegetables.
I wash in sweat,
saving river water
for cucumbers in bloom.
I shade wilting tomatoes
with my body,
drop to my knees
to right a fallen seedling.
Drought wears my nerves thin.
Days of rain
fray me.
When gales rise,
how frail I am.
When the sun beats down,
how am I to face it?
Thunderstorms tonight.
I am trapped between
water seeping past the windbreak
and the greenhouse’s damp, close air.
I curse my helplessness—
if only one hand could sell off
the rain clouds,
and the other haul back
fresh air.
II. Gravel·砂砾
A dandelion has wings but no wind. In these poems, Wang Ailing writes about the limits placed on ordinary lives and the longing to rise above them.
无人区
若，许我无垠
定当披荆斩棘
怯步。身前身后那么多框架
No Man’s Land
If I were granted
a world without bounds,
I would cut a road
through thorn and briar.
Yet I shrink back.
So many frames
before me,
behind me.
身份
一棵蒲公英备下翅膀
却没有备下风
这多无奈啊
长在低洼地带的蒲公英
扬眉结交劲草
低头删除困扰周身的杂芜
努力地拔高身段
向着过往的风，颔首
Identity
A dandelion readies its wings
but cannot summon the wind.
How helpless.
Born in low ground,
it lifts its brow
to befriend the hardy grass;
bows its head
to delete the weeds
crowding it on every side;
strains
to stand taller.
To the wind
already gone,
it nods.
III. Seasons Turn · 更迭
Time changes the body, but not everything within us grows old. Here, she turns from life's hardships toward memory, acceptance, and the warmth that remains.
新与旧
今早的太阳是新的
那缕风是新的
被抚过的事物是旧的
你穿着崭新的衣服
人是旧的
用旧的方言说新潮的事物时
你脸上的皱纹很新
眉眼是旧的
诉一语衷肠，在指认的相遇里
坐下来。点亮篝火
不说青春，也不提风霜
任往事浮沉
只把心底的暖次第打开
New and Old
This morning’s sun is new.
That thread of wind is new.
Everything it brushes
is old.
Your clothes
are brand-new.
You are old.
When your old dialect
names the latest things,
the wrinkles on your face are new,
your gaze
is old.
Say one thing
straight from the heart
in the instant
we recognize each other.
Sit down.
Light the bonfire.
No talk of youth,
none of what has weathered us.
Let the past
surface and sink.
Let the warmth within
open, layer by layer.
