Poem
Jike Bu
Women at age 18
1.They smile—sun rises from their high
cheekbones. High, higher. They blush—
shyness falls, falls into two rosy clouds—
one in blossom, one bearing fruits.
They walk down the hillside
holding their golden dreams over their heads.
They speak, their mother tongue like their breast milk
singing low in streams.
This ancient language like the holy water
from the fresh beginning
drips from their petal-lips, flourishing the black spirits
of the Big Cold Mountains.
2.
They sit in the dark, pine twigs lighting their
nightly life.
What’s their life? Buckwheat.
Bitter and somewhat sweet
as they chew it in their mouths.
They have no doubt that the buckwheat,
although bitter, is what their ancestors planted
according to a divine message.
They stare at the night sky.
What’s out there, vast, are deep eyes
gazing at the moon.
The moon is so blue. Some sorrows run deep in its vessels,
shedding no clues. Not since the ancient times.
3.
They are descendants. Of a tribe.
Offspring of noble blood.
They diligently guard their homes,
carefully sew the bullet-shot-through sheepskins
worn by their fathers, brothers,
throughout the tribal wars.
Brave and fearless, these women bury their faces
into the black soil, so devout,
wishing to bloom into buckwheat flowers themselves.
Take us, the autumn harvest.
Take us, feed the era of hunger.
4.
They are women of the highland, sun-bathed
as always. My grandmother, my mother,
my sisters of the bloodline.
They are 18 years old
holding up their days with full breasts.
They dive into the earthly trivial world,
planting seeds, chopping firewood, feeding horses
and weaving scarves and drapes for the winter.
They even go to battle fields, fighting in wars
on extraordinary occasions.
When they lift their faces, already aged—
looking back at that morning when age 18,
a drop of warm tear condensed into an amber
hanging on the tree still, on their wedding road.
她们十八岁
她们十八岁
（一）她们笑起来，太阳就是她们的
从高高的颧骨升起来
羞涩化成两片红晕
一片开花，一片结果
她们从坡上走来
把金灿灿的梦举过头顶
用乳汁一样的母语
浅唱低吟，古老的语言
这最初的圣水
就从花瓣似的唇上滴落
繁衍大山的黑灵
（二）
她们坐在黑暗里，松枝是她们的
点燃生活
生活像嘴里咀嚼的苦荞
苦是苦点，但又香甜
她们坚信不疑，苦荞
是祖先接受神示
种下的粮食
她们凝望夜空
浩瀚的是深深的眼睛
锁住月亮
月亮是蓝色的
一些忧愁淌在血液里，自古无解
（三）
她们是某个部落的后裔
高贵血统的继承者
她们勤恳地守护家园
小心翼翼地缝补父亲，兄弟
在家支斗争中被子弹
射穿的羊皮毡子
她们勇敢而无畏
把脸埋向黑色的土地，虔诚的
恨不得自己也开成荞花
让秋天收割了去
喂饱时代的饥饿
（四）
她们是永浴高地阳光的女人
我的外祖母，我的母亲
我血缘里的姊妹
她们十八岁
托起乳房饱满的日子
扎进一切琐碎的世俗里
种植粮食，打柴喂马
编织过冬的披毡
或者参与斗争
搅入不寻常的事件里
当她们抬起头，已是暮年
回顾十八岁的黎明
一滴温热的泪水，凝成琥珀
还挂在出嫁的路上
Poems
Poems of Jike Bu
Close
Women at age 18
1.They smile—sun rises from their high
cheekbones. High, higher. They blush—
shyness falls, falls into two rosy clouds—
one in blossom, one bearing fruits.
They walk down the hillside
holding their golden dreams over their heads.
They speak, their mother tongue like their breast milk
singing low in streams.
This ancient language like the holy water
from the fresh beginning
drips from their petal-lips, flourishing the black spirits
of the Big Cold Mountains.
2.
They sit in the dark, pine twigs lighting their
nightly life.
What’s their life? Buckwheat.
Bitter and somewhat sweet
as they chew it in their mouths.
They have no doubt that the buckwheat,
although bitter, is what their ancestors planted
according to a divine message.
They stare at the night sky.
What’s out there, vast, are deep eyes
gazing at the moon.
The moon is so blue. Some sorrows run deep in its vessels,
shedding no clues. Not since the ancient times.
3.
They are descendants. Of a tribe.
Offspring of noble blood.
They diligently guard their homes,
carefully sew the bullet-shot-through sheepskins
worn by their fathers, brothers,
throughout the tribal wars.
Brave and fearless, these women bury their faces
into the black soil, so devout,
wishing to bloom into buckwheat flowers themselves.
Take us, the autumn harvest.
Take us, feed the era of hunger.
4.
They are women of the highland, sun-bathed
as always. My grandmother, my mother,
my sisters of the bloodline.
They are 18 years old
holding up their days with full breasts.
They dive into the earthly trivial world,
planting seeds, chopping firewood, feeding horses
and weaving scarves and drapes for the winter.
They even go to battle fields, fighting in wars
on extraordinary occasions.
When they lift their faces, already aged—
looking back at that morning when age 18,
a drop of warm tear condensed into an amber
hanging on the tree still, on their wedding road.
Women at age 18
1.They smile—sun rises from their high
cheekbones. High, higher. They blush—
shyness falls, falls into two rosy clouds—
one in blossom, one bearing fruits.
They walk down the hillside
holding their golden dreams over their heads.
They speak, their mother tongue like their breast milk
singing low in streams.
This ancient language like the holy water
from the fresh beginning
drips from their petal-lips, flourishing the black spirits
of the Big Cold Mountains.
2.
They sit in the dark, pine twigs lighting their
nightly life.
What’s their life? Buckwheat.
Bitter and somewhat sweet
as they chew it in their mouths.
They have no doubt that the buckwheat,
although bitter, is what their ancestors planted
according to a divine message.
They stare at the night sky.
What’s out there, vast, are deep eyes
gazing at the moon.
The moon is so blue. Some sorrows run deep in its vessels,
shedding no clues. Not since the ancient times.
3.
They are descendants. Of a tribe.
Offspring of noble blood.
They diligently guard their homes,
carefully sew the bullet-shot-through sheepskins
worn by their fathers, brothers,
throughout the tribal wars.
Brave and fearless, these women bury their faces
into the black soil, so devout,
wishing to bloom into buckwheat flowers themselves.
Take us, the autumn harvest.
Take us, feed the era of hunger.
4.
They are women of the highland, sun-bathed
as always. My grandmother, my mother,
my sisters of the bloodline.
They are 18 years old
holding up their days with full breasts.
They dive into the earthly trivial world,
planting seeds, chopping firewood, feeding horses
and weaving scarves and drapes for the winter.
They even go to battle fields, fighting in wars
on extraordinary occasions.
When they lift their faces, already aged—
looking back at that morning when age 18,
a drop of warm tear condensed into an amber
hanging on the tree still, on their wedding road.
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