Poem
Ali Alizadeh
The Next Superpower
The Next Superpower
The Next Superpower
On the much-publicised full moonfestive youths and families gorge
on overpriced moon-cakes
to celebrate mid-autumn. How
very poetic. Not all that far away
the plants’ wastes flow
to choke the Yangtze. I can’t
appreciate the taste of the cakes,
their severe sweetness. The Chinese
cherish the stuff. This, they say,
is a beloved tradition. I can’t
remember ever loving anything
resembling one. You can’t finish
yours, and stroll onto the balcony
to view the fireworks. I’m worried
about the colossal dam cracking
and the River devouring this stuffy,
miasmic city. Will nature
ever know what to do with
humans? Will humans surpass words
like “nature”, “river” and “moon”?
The cake, I’ve been told, grows
every year in price. China swells
every year in wealth and power. I’m
frankly terrified of an ecological
armageddon. You seem bored with
the festivities and utterly finished
with the West. We left Australia
for an ancient culture. How
perturbed we are to discern
this country’s gargantuan
industrialisation. I leer at the remnants
of the pungent cake. The West
has traded its soul for a few dollars. Will
China remember the Opium War or
keep eating the impossibly rich
sweets? Am I being simply
disrespectful? What
of it? Glaciers melt and, yes,
this autumn is hotter than summer. So
Capitalism won; the cadres swapped
their gray Mao-esque suits
for the latest Armani. Indeed
your ennui and my disenchantment
match. We’re in love, two ex-pats
struggling to finish our moon-cakes
in the furnace of “the next Shanghai”.
© 2006, Ali Alizadeh
From: Eyes in Times of War
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge, UK
From: Eyes in Times of War
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge, UK
Poems
Poems of Ali Alizadeh
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The Next Superpower
On the much-publicised full moonfestive youths and families gorge
on overpriced moon-cakes
to celebrate mid-autumn. How
very poetic. Not all that far away
the plants’ wastes flow
to choke the Yangtze. I can’t
appreciate the taste of the cakes,
their severe sweetness. The Chinese
cherish the stuff. This, they say,
is a beloved tradition. I can’t
remember ever loving anything
resembling one. You can’t finish
yours, and stroll onto the balcony
to view the fireworks. I’m worried
about the colossal dam cracking
and the River devouring this stuffy,
miasmic city. Will nature
ever know what to do with
humans? Will humans surpass words
like “nature”, “river” and “moon”?
The cake, I’ve been told, grows
every year in price. China swells
every year in wealth and power. I’m
frankly terrified of an ecological
armageddon. You seem bored with
the festivities and utterly finished
with the West. We left Australia
for an ancient culture. How
perturbed we are to discern
this country’s gargantuan
industrialisation. I leer at the remnants
of the pungent cake. The West
has traded its soul for a few dollars. Will
China remember the Opium War or
keep eating the impossibly rich
sweets? Am I being simply
disrespectful? What
of it? Glaciers melt and, yes,
this autumn is hotter than summer. So
Capitalism won; the cadres swapped
their gray Mao-esque suits
for the latest Armani. Indeed
your ennui and my disenchantment
match. We’re in love, two ex-pats
struggling to finish our moon-cakes
in the furnace of “the next Shanghai”.
From: Eyes in Times of War
The Next Superpower
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