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 Thirty years ago a young man stood in defiance of Chinese tanks at Tiananmen Squair. The photo of this single person in street clothing and clutching two shopping bags, standing face to face with a tank, is widely recognized and associated with the student freedom movement. The man and the massive machines of war catapulted itself to become an icon seen around the world. It was June 5th, 1989 when "Tank Man"was photographed in the aftermath of a deadly government crackdown to clear Tiananmen of young protesters. At home, however, China was attempted to scrub this image from the public minds. They once used it to demonstrate their need to use force, but the picture hardly served that purpose well. Generations of Chinese youth have been largely sheltered from this picture and the deadly government actions 30 years ago. In 2005 I wrote a poem the poem that follows - Tiananmen Mother - dedicating it to a Communist Party official that broke with the government and tried to warn the protesters of the coming violence. As has been the case with others, he was ostracized. Beyond that, I believe the poem speaks for itself. Tiananmen Mother for Zhao Ziyang The Beijing breeze whispers mournful strophes. Tears like the mountain rains follow slopes to tributaries until they become one with the rippling waters of the Yangtze. I am a Tiananmen mother. My eyes have swelled with this sadness before. The wetness follows a path well rehearsed. My nights are immense. I am but a lone bare branch in a cold, dark world. They replicate that June night etched in my soul over and over. My son stood in the Square armed only with a vision and they came- The People's Army. My son stood in Tiananmen Square, amid a sea of other sons and daughters and they came- armored tanks clanking along the streets into Tiananmen driven by fear, ordered by paranoia. Our sons and daughters toppled to the earth at their hands. Crimson crawling into every crevice Of these ancient Chinese streets A stain still upon us today. I cannot count the nights I've wept for my son since. Today, I weep for another. There is no official news but the Beijing breeze whispers again. This time for the death of the old man. There are guards of fear stationed outside my door. The lump in my throat is big, I cannot begin to swallow, that is how I know the truth. Guilt always gnawing at my heart. I could not help my son that June night. Again as I am helpless. I want to pay my respects to the old man who stood up for my son and others massacred in Tiananmen, but the thugs watch my every move. I am a Tiananmen mother. It is my duty to weep for the lost ones. © 2005 Michael A. Wells
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“We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me!”
― Avijeet Das  Presently I'm reading several books - these two are my focus right now.
Since I brought back a ton of books from AWP, I am in the middle of reading several at once. Isn't that how all poets and writers read? I have just finished Tasty Other by Katie Manning. I really liked this book and will be writing a review of it but for the moment - just know that I gave it a 5 start rating on Goodreads and I highly recommend it.
I have so much to do since I've been back and I came home feeling a new cold coming on within 24 hours of getting back and I think I'm over it now and finally got my taxes out of the way. Perhaps for the next few weeks I need to post here just as a matter of self accountability. Portland is weird. That's what they kept telling us. On signs, On bumper stickers, and there actually is something weird about about being told over and over without asking. It's kind of like Donald Trump saying one of the many things her repeats emphatically without any foundation and no one asked. It makes you a little specious.
I believe I brought home a cold from Portland. I have suffered through an upper respiratory thing that kept reoccurring in January and February. This feels just like it did and I am going to blame it on being among some 13,000 to 14,000 writers, or other miscellaneous people I came in contact with. It's the runny nose, drainage, cough crap that hates me and I hate it. I will not consider this among the SWAG that I brought home. I have chiropractor tonight and I am going to stop there on the way home before urgent care. I feel like I have a lot more to say about Portland, but I will save it for later. I'm back, I'm alive, I'm sick. What good is it to write words that do not feel.
Words must reach out and touch you. Touch your flesh, your nape, your lips. Ruffle through your hair. Fingers across a cheek, a nipple, around an areola over bumps. Slither down the middle of the back, touch the wrinkles of foreskin, brush the goosebumps on an arm. If you don't feel the words, what good are they anyway? M.A.W. |
AuthorMichael Allyn Wells - notes & musings Archives
November 2019
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(c) Michael Allyn Wells - 2017