Sichuan New Year Poem by Roy Lee

It was the new year celebrations as the rumours went around
That seats to Sichuan were selling fast.
Queues at stations were pushed to the brim and spaces had to be found.
All workers had gathered to the task.

They left from Shenzhen and factory towns far and wide
While locals watched them go with distain
They were leaving smoke fill skies and areas devastated of pride
As they jostled for their train.

These ‘up-country’ people never called Guangdong a home
(Anyway, they weren’t allowed)
They had the cold crisp cover of the Sichuan sky as a dome
Their fiery food made them proud.

There was Chang from Neijiang who was at a workshop making keys
And old Li from Zigong where dinosaurs roam
And the couple Miao looked forward to seeing their babies
On leave from filling fridges full of foam.

Emptied hill and valley villages where only the old tilled the soil
Made preparations as they returned.
Mud walls were repaired and clothes and linen put to boil
Ancestral graves cleared and offerings burned.

The ranges run east to Chongqing and then the three gorges dam
And in the west is sacred Emei Shan
Where now ‘pilgrims’ snowboard down, captured on web-cam
Eight hours from the town Quan’an

As residents returned, this market town prepared for festive fun.
Amidst the screech from a three wheel van,
Mr. Cao greeted his family and saw his long neglected son
His small one was now a young man.

A tall girl with LV bag and Gucci heels worked in Shanghai
Her service sold for quality brands
So happy to be back home she stopped to greet a passer-by
Omega flashed as she moved her hands.

The farmers brought produce in from surrounding miles
Selling greens, and fish and pigs well fed
Cacophony of the crowd and click-clacking of mah-jong tiles
To the ducks din while into the buckets they bled.

In a sunny spot, a seated woman was making century old eggs
The megaphones were blaring
A nearby table they were plucking feathers from legs
And proud mothers were comparing.

The choicest carcasses were hung in stalls along the street
Haggling with a sharp Sichuan sound
There was a cut of beef sold for ten yuan a jin of meat
As black wedding cars cruised around.

There was dust from the road and dryness in many wells,
For months there had been no rain
The paddy fields were dry and from putrid piles were smells
As there was no flushing of the drain.

Explosions of combusting colours bombarded the night ablaze
As expected for this time of year
Polluted by cars the winter day hanged as glutinous grey haze
An acrid assault on eye and ear.

The rain will come and green grain will make the brown fields fade
Rubbish will wash from sight
Frogs re-appear, the skies will clear and all will seem to be re-made
But the land is losing the fight.


(Chinese New Year 2010
Rural Sichuan, China)