I’ve a good memory of some things that I cannot name in advance, and can only wait until they come out in their natural ways. Anyway I’ve been given this chance of reading his poetry again. Last time I read his poetry I was nineteen, the sentences that stroke me until now tastes somehow like this (a bad re-presentation by me, translate from Chinese in order to keep a consistent English essay, a silly reason though I still keep it): “the train shoots into the keyhole of the night sky”. This is a standardized youth’s language. The young soul always seeks the physical transformation through various means, within which language is always chosen for its inexpensiveness. Of course keeping the imagination in mind is another good choice, only in that way the monster of youth is chained by one paw, even though the howl is widely spread. Now here is the middle-aged mind: “son, let me tell you/ Home is what we’re pursuing/ what in front of us/ yet is also something we feel always behind us”. Wow, this is definitely what a father would write. And this is something that never “shooting” (like the train did) into our eyes, but a meandering river drips slowly into the soul. Indeed what is a home? In the journal I kept in my teens, there is a sentence said my good memory of childhood serves as the strong props and strength, pushing me ahead. But at the same time, I’m searching the most promising and sweet home, which always is the carrot in front of a donkey by a few inches. Something you’re going to grasp the next moment, baby, try a little bit harder. Only the next moment lies always in the future, and never incarnate into “now”. Materialized homes like those sweet house images in a commercial ad.; spiritualized ones becomes the anxiety haunts me to pursue a higher academic degree. Seems if I get that, the sweet home comes into my hands. If I get the degree, a beautiful house will come and pick me up, with a thoughtful husband a son and a daughter and a house full of laughter, driving me into the future. Easy logic can tell me it’s not true. However, strong and unnamable forces prop me up into a hardworking posture, one that I never dare to loose a piece of muscles up.
(Reading of Steven Chen’s poetry)
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