TRANSFORMATIVE BEAUTY OF POETRY

Introduction of a young poetess Cybelle Chen

Kombinat proudly presents Cybelle Chen, a young poetess and a student at Maple Leaf International School, Henan.

Hello, my name is Cybelle Chen, and I am currently studying in Grade 12 at the Henan Campus of Maple Leaf International School. The time to submit these poems coincided with my attempt to write poems in English class last year. I always thought of poetry as an inclusively flexible and playful form of literature, and when I really tried to play with words, I felt a meditative serenity and inner vitality flowing out of my heart. Only poetry enables me to conceive and delicately express my raw thoughts.

I watched many classical Chinese tragedies at the time for the two poems related to Greek mythology. Then I also compared many classical Greek tragedies with Chinese tragedies, including the story of Narcissus and an adaptation of Antigone at the National Theatre. In my opinion, the most significant difference between ancient Greek tragedy and ancient Chinese tragedy is that the former emphasizes the structural tragedy carried by individuals or personal misery. At the same time, the latter is the product of structural tragedy, especially for female characters. This is why the old Greek stories have explosive poetical power, whether in the inward melancholy or the solemn and stirring declamation of a heroine. They make it tempting to write short and powerful poems.

For the rest of the poems, the themes come from the connections derived from things I saw and experienced or a moment of feeling, and I call these “genuine inspirations.” Most of the time, I feel that poetry is more intensely and subtly personal than any other form of literature, so sometimes I do not want to force a specific expression of what is meant, just to follow the rhythm and feeling to record an inward sensation and mood. This is also the most enjoyable part of the poetry creation process as a creator.

Collection of Original Poems

Cybelle Chen (17)

Narcissus

I look at you, a diffuse image of mine

Reflecting. Regather a concrete flesh.

I sink my fingers. My tips will melt, fine.

Gazing. My soul will levitate, deflesh.

I try to touch you as we are floating,

Then transparent, you drag me to topple.

I see water swaying as I melt,

Softened me return as part of ripple.

I exhaled you from a vaporish dream,

Exiled you from my poetical brain.

Now doom you to rise and I dive in a stream.

I utter I love you, cannot refrain.

May, for long, we have been as one as blind.

No stitches between two of the same kind.

Ode to Antigone

Two desperate men with divergent faiths,

Laid on distinct fates of divided graves,

Died in the same piece of dirt but not for the same state.

With sympathy as a God, a desperado walked through the path.

The wailing of chimes besides echoed her flames,

With God and Nature on the side of her claims.

Her indignation against inhumane laws rhymed with human rage,

Though the endless road has alleged you were going to marry your own death.

The worst can befall was just to embrace an honorable death and grief.

There is only one choice that belongs to a dauntless brave.

That is to watch our Eden burning, or to get ready for a reformed frame.

Her tragedy called out the everlasting democracy derived from a mortal’s oath.

Menstruation

Use

The menstrual pain

In the whole life

Of mine

Exchange

A lifelong pain

Of a new one

As a whole

Cleavage

I have

A truncated sea eel

An unfinished murmur

And a printer’s error

I swallow

A glass of seawater

An insane imagination

And a waste paper

I taste

A bitterness in my stomach

An unreasonable ricochet

And a cleavage between echoes from letter to letter

I absorb

A dripping drifts drop by drop

An imperceptible fragrance rising from ground to top

And a comforting sensation from a sob

I awake

From Ariadne’s labyrinth

From a cleavage

From a lingering of a yesterday to a morrow

Vanishing Point

“You're under arrest! Clean up your slogan!”

I was walking down the street when I was held by two policemen.

“Take off your clothes!”

I had to take my mother’s shirt off and look at the white logo behind the black shirt.

“No excuse!”

They puzzled me.

“Hands up, or I will shoot you!”

I lowered my hands, palms forward, slowly lifting them up.

I couldn't see the police's eyes, just like the police couldn’t see my fears ricochet.