zhang

A solitary, whirling flow of black smoke cartwheels and spins on the sidewalk. 

I come to a stop and so too does the dark, airy flow.

This is Zhang, native of China and an Amherst College dance student, whom I’m to drive to a dance class on the other side of town.

But Zhang does not want to talk about dance. When she hears I used to be a literature professor, she wants to talk about poetry.

She’s started reading Dante in English but finds it slow-going. She wonders do I have any suggestions for her.

I say it depends. 

“What made you start reading Dante?”

She doesn’t think she’s much of a writer but enjoys writing. She’s written a few poems in Chinese. But lately, she’s been wanting to try in English. She thought she should read great poetry in English. 

I’m unsure where to begin to untangle the knot of humility, innocence, wisdom, truth, and error in what she’s said.

I say I think it’s great that she’s writing poetry and that it’s both humble and wise on her part to recognize that her writing could benefit from reading other poets.

 As for Dante, I tell her I’ve never made it through myself, so I can understand that she’d be having difficulty. 

“And anyway,” I say, “Dante wasn’t an English poet. Don’t get me wrong, Dante was hugely influential, and there are lines in Dante that I found resonant and moving. But even though your English is very good, it’s still your second language. And you’re trying to read an English translation of poetry originally written in 700-year-old Italian. So if you wanna try writing poetry in English, there might be other poets whose work will provide you with a better model or inspiration, you know?” She nods. 

“Like who?”

“Hmmm. I guess that depends on what themes move you and what style you like.”

Zhang tells me about Yu Xiuhua, a Chinese poet she admires, who has cerebral palsy and had lived most of her adult life trapped in a loveless marriage in a village in rural China. She writes about love, solitude, disability, and everyday life in her small village. What gets Zhang about her poetry is that it is so direct. She says it will be hard for me to understand because I don’t know Chinese. “But,” she says, “her language blows like a great wind, sending everything flying.”

Now she has my attention, and not because of what she’s said about this poet, though that is interesting. It was that last phrase, which sounded to my ear like poetry in the wild, Zhang’s own poetry. I tell her that. 

She shakes her head. I don’t think it’s false modesty. I believe she thinks it’s ludicrous to call that poetry. It strikes me that perhaps she is an overachiever who values hard work as a redeeming end in itself. I respect that and find it refreshing that she understands—as I did not when I was her age—that writing involves more than merely expressing yourself. I tell her that, but I also tell her why her description of Yu Xiuhua’s language sounded like poetry to me: it used simple and familiar words in an unfamiliar way so that it was itself forceful and direct in conveying the power of Yu’s style.

Now Zhang smiles. She understands and thanks me but adds that it might have come out that way because she doesn’t know English all that well. I say that could well be.

“But then,” I say, “a French writer once said that style is ‘speaking in one’s own language like a foreigner.’ Maybe that’s what you like about that poet you were describing.”

“Yes,” she says. “It is not like the Chinese I know.”

“Exactly.” 

We’re getting close to her destination. “You might just go to a bookstore and browse the poetry section. Pick a book or two off the shelf to see if anything grabs you. Don’t worry about whether the poet is famous or not.”

“But do you recommend someone?” 

“Hmm. Maybe Mary Oliver? Her poems are not as dramatically forceful as what you like in your Chinese poet, but they are quietly forceful. And they are direct. I always feel that she is using everyday English and talking about the world we are all living in everyday but that it looks and feels different, not only while I’m reading, but for a while afterwards. Like she’s given me a new pair of glasses, but for my whole body and soul. She also has a little practical manual about writing poetry that’s very helpful.”

Zhang asks for the name again, so I spell it for her while she types it into her phone. I hesitate but then decide to go with the impulse and offer to look at her poems. She says that would be great. I point to the simple white business card in the pocket in front of her.

“That’s got my name and cell phone number on it. If you’d like me to read something, just text me and I’ll happily text you back an e-mail address.” 

Zhang thanks me, takes a card, and opens the door. I don’t imagine I will hear from her again. Many people ask for my card. Very few have used it. But it’s okay either way.                        

“I’ll text you soon,” she says and drifts lightly out of the car like campfire smoke meandering on an evening breeze.

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