Cao Yu (1910-1996) was one of China’s most renowned modern playwrights, achieving literary immortality through 《雷雨》Thunderstorm (1934) and 《日出》Sunrise (1936). He continued to publish throughout the Sino-Japanese War, including a Chinese translation of Romeo and Juliet in 1943. In his later life he was known for writing the historical drama 《王昭君》Wang Zhaojun (1978), but his attempts at promoting various regional operas, and in particular his later poetry, are less discussed. This small poetic oeuvre is collected in Vol. 6 of Cao’s Collected Works. They strike a rare chord of agony and beauty and hope, and have been discussed recently by Cao’s disciple Tian Benxiang (1932-2019) in the context of a “soul ardently hoping for freedom” (渴望自由的灵魂) (Theatre Arts 2010.6; English translation forthcoming) that characterised his teacher. The current year marks the 110th anniversary of Cao Yu’s birth, as well as significant anniversaries for other playwrights and institutional directors of the early modern theatre movement in China, inspiring more wide-ranging re-evaluations of these figures’ comprehensive work, ambitions, and ideas.

The original Chinese is presented here with permission from his daughter and memoirist Wan Fang, with gratitude.

 

A Nightmare When Sick

 

In the midst of sickness, halfway through the night, with nightmares following each-other, I woke with the sound of bells from a distant twilight in my ears. I thought of Millet’s L’angélus and on how simple and how serene is the prayer of the pious husband and wife in the fields. I borrowed those bell-sounds to write down the poem below:

 

The evening bells at the ancient temple pass weakly to my heart.

I pick up my bald brush, but I can’t, I have no strength; I can only pray.

It is the night with the moon shining with the howl of the green-eyed wolf.

It is the rattlesnake stamped beneath wet feet hissing, it is a man with no face licking all over me, it is him saying: “You have no tongue, no hands.”

I’d plead for one breath of air.

Winds from the underworld blow in the sky’s sunk dark clouds.

I cannot pray, how can I pray?

 

16/12/1988, Beijing Hospital

 

病中噩梦

 

病中夜半，噩梦一个连一个，醒来，耳边留着薄暮遥远的钟声。我想起法国画家millet的画《晚钟》，想起在田地里虔诚的农妇的祈祷是多么朴实，多么安详。我借用钟声写下了下面的诗。

古寺的晓钟幽幽传到我的心里。

我拿起我的秃笔，我不能，我没有力气；我只能祈祷。

是月夜闪着绿眼的狼哀嚎。

是脚下湿漉漉踩着响尾蛇咝叫，是没有脸的人把我乱舔，是他说：“你没有舌头，没有手。”

我恳求只要一口空气。

地狱的风吹来天空低沉的乌云。

我不能祈祷，我怎能祈祷。

 

一九八八年十二月十六日下午于北京医院

~

 

Two People

A moment of wind, the meeting in the dream,

A moment of rain, beginning to whisper,

A moment of cool, shying away before cruel frost hits,

A moment of cold, each parts themselves by snowy lanterns.

 

18/12/1988 twilight, Beijing Hospital

 

二人

 

一阵风，相会在梦中，

一阵雨，悄悄话儿起，

一阵凉，严霜未打先胆怯，

一阵冷，雪夜寒灯独自别。

 

一九八八年十二月十八日薄春于北京医院

 

~

Flower

 

Don’t you be afraid, flower,

I’d like to watch you,

Watch at you swerving in gentle wind,

And watch your silent tears in the spring rain.

No way I’ll pluck you like a brat,

I only want to think of you from afar.

I hope one day you’ll bear your fruit –

You started off as my rebirth, another me.

18/12/1988 before my afternoon nap, Beijing Hospital

 

花

 

花，你不要怕，

我想看你一看，

看你在微风里摇颤，

看你在春雨中无言的泪。

我决不像个顽童把你摘下，

我只想远远地把你思念。

希望有一天你结了果，

你原是我的再生，另一个我。

 

一九八八年十二月十八日午睡前于北京医院

 

~

 

Chrysanthemums

The winter chrysanthemums filling my view are this old friendship,

Origins in a silent place with sympathy for the heart of Heaven.

Its bitter taste in ordinary life will always be a companion,

I left new tender green shoots to recompense the sunlight.

I was a long time ill. Dean Chou Chunlin visited me again, and presented me with the winter chrysanthemums he had kept, with red and white and purple and yellow, and a solitary green chrysanthemum refracting among them, startled as a tender shoot, in reality a rare-breed, no common flower. I wrote to thank my friend and make a record of this.

18/12/1988 Afternoon

 

菊花

 

满眼冬菊故旧情，

由来静处体天心。

苦味平生长作伴，

捧来嫩绿报陽春。

久病，仇春霖校长再次探望，赠所藏朔冬之菊，红、白、紫、黄，独有绿菊，掩映其中，恍如嫩叶，实则异种，非常花也。书谢友人作记。

 

一九八八年十二月十八日下午