In Xichang, besides friends who write poetry, I have a lot of friends who don’t write poetry, and I enjoy their company. They don’t write poetry, or even read poetry. They say poetry is a good thing then go on with their lives. 

As in many other places in China, people from Xichang try to be practical. And they’re good at expressing themselves; that is to say, they like to express themselves. Splendid tales pour out of them one after another, and all are stories about local events. Most often, they’re not trying to recount something clearly but make it more interesting. This makes them only one step away from becoming poets. But it’s also this one step that makes it so that they never become poets. 

My uncle lived in a place called Malayida, a village next to a small river. Every time New Year came (the New Year as celebrated by the Yi), we would all go there. When I was young I would always hear the adults say that this backwater place was very poor, but the impression that Malayida gave me was that every family had meat and wine the plenty. And there was also Malayida’s music. 

My uncle was a talented moon-guitar player – his name and his playing had spread throughout the whole Yi region. His one of a kind style came to be known as Malayida music. When he played, those sitting next to me would whisper, “Listen carefully, there is speech in his strumming.” Luckily, I didn’t understand; the only things I heard were beautiful melodies. 

Later on, my uncle passed away. It was very hard on me. My sadness wasn’t just for my uncle, but also for my uncle’s music. I wondered if Malayida would also lose its music now that it had lost my uncle. 

In Malayida, from spring to autumn, everyone labors away, and in winter they bring in the New Year. I imagined they could give up speaking but couldn’t give up making music. My cousin still lives in Malayida. People said that he already played the moon-guitar better than my uncle. Was that possible? 

When I saw my cousin holding his moon-guitar, however, that harmony shaped by him and his instrument seemed to make the whole world, or at the very least Malayida, come alive. In comparison to my uncle, he played even more skillfully, and more purely. 

Leaving Malayida, the world is developing; humanity is advancing, including construction and environmental protection, transportation and communication industries. In their quest for prosperity, people have also increased their pace within society. Collisions are impossible to avoid, as is competition and rivalry; and also rashness. Society is like a bed spread with enticements. Can one not be anxious? 

Yet, I believe that poetry has a kind of force, a force that affects each person differently. It can be infinitely big but also infinitely small. I read a good poem and it pleases me, moves me. When my spirit and inner-workings are rattled, it gives me peace and comfort. 

I was drinking with my friends that don’t write poetry and one of them, a new acquaintance (I don’t know if he writes poetry or not), looking intently asked, “What is a poem?” If I had said a poem is just a poem, that’s bullshit. If I had said poetry is inside a poem, that’s the alcohol talking. But if I had said that poetry is of the people, or even in the flower of the people, it doesn’t even sound like conversation at all; it’s already metaphoric, allusive, and symbolic. While people from Xichang are eager to express themselves, Malayida preserves a long held reticence. Only Malayida music, in its natural way, is passed down from one generation to the next.