i
smooth river leads to quiet
winter dust on my fingers
frozen, with stars in water,
lantern fish in the wind.
I’ve longed for herons in my sleep,
jade water in trembling eyes,
for mountains to retire on,
cranes crooning a monsoon song.
In the garden, across generations,
stones weigh us to the earth, as the living
hums with the remembered, still slumbering
ii.
Leaning on the white wall a few steps from Moon-Gate,
river flowing like thrumming glass,
an echo-chamber reaching into golden souls
and verdant depths deep beneath rocks
yīn tiān, yīn for melancholic, hopeful—
the borrowed view of the park, cornered by hum-drums of cars.
A crow perched on the drip-tiles
wavers and soars beneath helicopters,
its partners driving gnats and insects underneath waves
of garden homes. They told me at the entrance
to walk slowly, enjoy yīn and yáng, to harmonize
with the spirit still lingering here 36 years since its conception
fighting against the thrall of capitalism
the pond beats on in stolen land,
the Georgia Viaduct trembling as she
remembers who she could’ve been.
I glance down, witnessing Tàihú Rocks rising
from the knuckles of my interlaced fingers—
the canyons and rivers, the hills of the college,
the inclines I skipped up with my grandmother
to purchase bird-feeders and sweet mochi. The alpine winds above,
my feet itching to run into the verdant field
sparkling with coins. Is it too early to retire
to the mountains like Zhūgě Liàng and wait for scholars
to knock on my thatched cottage when my return is imminent?
iii.
past the look-out point:
red fences, fields,
Boys of the Old Testament playing soccer.
Cars flying by hum
with the whispers of bamboo.
Fuchsia, plums, bamboo, chrysanthemums—
as magnolias bloom, pink,
each a curled sweet center unfurling,
……….toes as curled as gumdrops.
White orchid lips open over the water,
heads adorned with Nature’s warmth,
leaning to catch their eyes in the reflection.
……….The tour guide said they were either
……….seeking validation,
……….or bowing to the garden in respect.
Stepping over Moon-Gate, we watch underneath
……….to relinquish the shadows we’ve pulled inside.
The pond pillows out her dress,
smooths over the ripples in her body.
A mallard duck and his partner squabble
as they swim over, preening,
spirits reaching into the water,
into the Tīng’s reflection of heaven.
Witness light spilling as drops of Spring
sparkle onto my head.
iv.
Ink-flowers peach and shy,
……….tulip-bulbs,
……….flame candles. Within broken rocks and sparrow wormholes,
the woman in red plays the gǔ qín—
underneath the pavilioartn head,
the young spruce-wood chair echoing
her mezzo-soprano voice beneath cherry blossoms.
Lingering alone:
……….to long for the scent of a song.
v.
……….water spills through the head of heaven,
……….sky and pond interlacing fingers and foam—
……….Western winds blowing to China, to the graves of my grandfather and grandmother.
……….Memorial,
……….……….the yellow-shirted me who spun, responding to
……….“beauty” at fourteen. When we bowed before the tablets with faces
……….foreign to us. The ground chilling on my palm—
……….when these stone tiles reveal faces we remember,
……….how long will our memories last?
vi.
In this garden built
……….to bridge between West and East, chillier on this south pavilion,
……….bamboo, cherry blossom. The ink of a general has not yet dried.
……….Go, the black-and-white pieces sing. Find prosperity, propel mind to action.
……….Brushes hang, vertical behind the jade statue of Guān yīn, merciful
……….to us who stumble by.
……….Rocks, smooth-edged and rising,
……….tiny mountains. Perhaps Chén Xiāo broke them in his youth,
……….testing the strength of his love for his entombed mother.
……….The two-plank bridge to the Tīng
……….closed off with bamboo sticks.
……….Beyond, a waterfall cascades over stones.
……….My fingers freeze from excess yīn,
……….fog haloing my fingers.
vii.
Intangible Threads
……….in tessellated moments,
……….a spiral;
straight edges. Gold pins leading to the edge of a quilt
……….or dark hole.
Spreading in straight formations, a building
……….swallowed by pride. Above,
……….remains of pinwheels thread
……….dangle silver beside to white.
Echoing………. threads of factory,
……….woven quilt, her maternal line’s lineage. Her father, represented
by factories, thick paints on canvas. Her mother, thread and textiles,
……….the woven fabric of Sūzhōu’s creators. Herself, caught between
West and East.
viii.
Mountains emerge through rhombi and trapezoids,
……….dancing along the edge of what remains;
white space in black and silver; divide, sparkle.
……….A shirt unfolded,
……….a pomegranate blooming open,
……….stairs in parallel falling to earth,
……….opening sky and 天堂 to us.
……….And in the hallway connecting canvases to passersby,
……….the sound of an artist resounds: 苏向
ix.
like paintings, the shadows on walls
……….are the shadows of the world
……….they are recording the stone, trees, everyone, and everything,
breathing, ever-changing, momentary—
transient homes for the passers-by—
Vivian (Xiao Wen) Li is a queer and neurodivergent 1.5 generation Chinese-Canadian immigrant writer, director, and interdisciplinary artist, with works published in The Fiddlehead, The Massachusetts Review, and The New Quarterly, among others. The author of Someday I Promise, I’ll Love You (845 Press), and a Banff Centre alumnus in poetry, she was Longlisted for the 2024 CBC Short Story Prize. She is a recent MFA graduate from the UBC School of Creative Writing, and will be looking for a home for her debut experimental novel.
Author’s note: This longer poem is based on my first drafts, written while observing my surroundings in each mapped section of the garden. I separated the poem into parts because each piece of the garden evoked different sensations and associations. These poems are also part of a longer creative non-fiction piece about the garden’s history, the idea of a sanctuary, growing Anti-Asian racism, as well as connections to a home that may no longer exist.