Moths to the flames II

A sequence of three poems

By Feng Xianming

Banquet and Moths

The banquet lamps quietly sink into stillness,

The light inside the black tent is like the sky—

Dim and swaying; the lamp's dark base is the colour

Of earth, turning up the faint candle-glow.

On painted ceramic plates, a few dates lie;

The fermented pomegranate juice is long drunk; in the fruit bowl,

Two shrivelled grapes hang from a twig.

Ash falls from the canopy; no one sits on the felt.

The tent brightens again, the candles relight,

And the dark canvas ripples anew with water-

Like orange patches—time flowing and spilling.

The moths beneath the stars catch the patches,

Charge into the tent like chariots, hover around the candle,

Enter the light, and turn up a streak of brightness.

Cyprian

On the low open ground at the foot of the Cyprian hills,

Dark and dense, is grassland spread with coal-slag.

Furnace skins and copper grains are a hot broth;

The scorching furnace fire crackles in clay tubes.

In the crackling molten fire flows an amber-

Orange substance—that is watery brass,

And beyond the brass, moths born of the flame

Flutter their brass-coloured sheaths, dancing

In the fire, leaping lightly in the hot turbulence,

Crawling slowly on cool grass, pausing,

Then turning back to the furnace's embrace, to die.

Why do you do this? Perhaps you long for harmony.

You omit the syllogism of your self-immolation,

Leaving only the brass-coloured tongue of flame to bid farewell.

Hall

The empty hall prays for light; the pale-green

Windows deliver sunlight, filling the room,

Lighting the drapes, revealing the floating dust,

Accompanied by the candle-flame on the wooden table.

Suddenly, the trumpet flickers with candlelight,

And in the glittering rays bursts a coloratura

Of melody; the melody plays, the courtiers enter,

The gold, silver, and lead caskets wait to be opened.

The common man, deeming himself wise and noble, opens

The silver casket, believing he receives what he deserves,

Yet discards the lead casket that costs everything,

And gains only a scroll's mockery, plus

A failed exit. If the moth is wounded by the candle-flame,

It seems a choice—but is, in truth, a sale of thought.

---

Feng Xianming, living in Changyu Street No.11, Beijing, China.He is a 19-year-old poet. He studies Sociology and Ethnology at the University of Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Besides, he is a lifelong lover of literature, with a particular devotion to the sonnet. Moreover, he has published poems on the Poetry Network of China for over ten times.