Classic Poem

This is 1996, but it's like being back in the days when the island
belonged to the Japanese emperor.
On the hundredth anniversary of the survey
this light-brown hard-cover book is offered, your eyes
are silent, the publishers are all strangers.
Strangers, strangers hoping for the Ai of Laolaoshe.
Your phonetics teacher is there; she'll teach you how
to greet strangers — logah da gwara ;
she'll lead you into the world of the indigenous peoples:
cautiously to drink sweet rice wine, eat salted meat, and take
detailed but confusing field notes
You close your book, willfully put on wings,
Quietly fly away from the air-conditioned conference room
To Hungtou Island, at one time a possession of the Japanese emperor.
You arrive at Hongtou Island, discovered by Chou Yuchi
Two hundred years ago; you arrive smiling
with perpetually happy flying fish, looking for that hundred-year-old
notebook, in which is penciled the date Nakajima Fujitaro
had his accident
Nuclear waste is stockpiled nearby. They dance to drive away the demons.
It seems that the spotted colored paper
Was the white flag waved by the grandson of Mr. K, who gave the report;
He wields a pen instead of a sword and studies your taped dictation.
Strangers, strangers, only the likenesses of the old people
breathe to the pulse of the Pacific Ocean.
In the dark night of a dream they take a dugout canoe south
to trade with their relatives far away, to exchange greetings,
to exchange news as before.
The news is a bright song: on the shore
A banner waves above the Taidong Hall that says " drink and song "
On your lips is the smile of the native peoples
Encouraging you to go barefoot the way you like; the fifteen tribes
Of Malanshe you like are scattered like stars over the Peinan Plain.
On this day, following the voices, you find your lost dance steps,
Following the voices, your clansmen arrive at the ruined
Ceremonial grounds
Loudly singing " Return to Nature, " so popular in Atlanta
The old vocal cords of Mr. and Mrs. Kuo Yingnan, born less than
A hundred years ago,
Struggle to be heard across the Pacific,
Like sonar insistently seeking dignity in the sea bottom of history.
The dignity of history follows the route of the survey around the mountains;
Out of sadness your wings grow tired and you land on the northern coast;
A gravel truck passes through Santiaochiao, leaving a cloud of dust,
And in the haze
The leaning stone walls of the church don't hear the pious chanting
of Shijiushe in Tamsui; strange names are written on the bus route sign:
Nankan, Tingsheh, Fulung, Hoping Island, Shihmen, Hsiulang, Tachih, Tienmu
(Oh, I feel you still like the old romanized
Pingpu names, thousands of traces preserved); you thought
you had returned to the wild forests, just as I thought
I could by following your diary full of pity for Formosa
As you sleep peacefully in your book, I silently read
The names of the tribal communities shining like stars:
Maoshaowengshe, Tatakanshe, Litsushe, Paijieshe,
Kuilunshe, Wulaishe, Takekanshe, Zhutoujiaoshe,
Shiba'ershe, Shitoushe, Bagualishe, Mabilahaoshe,
Wusonglunshe, Meishe, Dehuashe, Bushe, Heshe,
Xiaolongzhuang, Zhulaodongshe ...