Dong Li’s first book of poems, The Orange Tree, starts off with a series of newly coined terms:
The longdead
The griefwall
The springautumn
Li, an adept in multiple languages and a translator of Chinese, French, English, and German literature, presents these compound words in what appears to be translations. Yet, as we delve into “Aviary of Water and Fire,” the initial section of the collection, Li challenges our assumptions by recontextualizing these words:
When spring and autumn collided in the Middle Kingdom.
The first emperor, Qin Shi Huang, unified before the era of Christ.
The word “Longdead” reappears shortly after:
My Maternal Great-Grandparents have been deceased for quite some time.
Also, my Paternal Great-Grandparents.
Maternal Grandparents are long gone.
These invented compound terms, introduced at the start of each section, linger in our minds as we progress through the collection. As the narrative shifts from matter-of-fact historical references to reflections on personal loss with the passing of “Ma” and “Fa,” and ultimately approaching the self:
Am I already gone or in the process.
Is death the only kin.
The inclusion of the narrator’s “I” in this poem is a rare occurrence. Throughout the collection, the absence of typical punctuation and strategic line breaks, new word formations, and unconventional sentence structures compel readers to pause and rethink their connection to language. In the section “The Orange Tree,” where a fresh set of created terms like “The yellowedphoto,” “The hangingwindow,” and “The burningwhite” emerges, Li sets the scene with these words: “In a faded family picture, there stands an orange tree, its leaves charred.” The titular orange tree, its falling fruits, leaves turning red then white, and the “orange parties” under its shade become central motifs—not as peripheral symbols, but as indicators of sorrow and joy, symbols of new beginnings and rejuvenation, both on a personal and societal level. The history of China unfolds as a lens through which Li’s narrator witnesses family history and vice versa. The past of the family gradually intertwines with the tapestry of contemporary Chinese history:
The Cultural Revolution began, subsequent to Three Years of Natural Calamities.
Mother was merely four.
She endured hunger, sustained by orange rinds.
Thirty-eight million souls succumbed to starvation.
Who is this childlike storyteller? The simplicity with which Li narrates these events, like “Soon he hanged himself by the window” (the “hangingwindow”), initially unsettles. Nevertheless, the captivating innocence of the childlike voice in “The Orange Tree” eventually wins us over. Li encourages us to contemplate these historical and personal calamities, and decipher the narrator’s recollections secondhand. The culmination of familial, cultural, and national history in The Orange Tree prompts a deeper insight into language and sorrow. Li’s English embodies the translator’s sensitivity to language complexities alongside the poet’s multinational vocabulary. In an interview, Li discusses his connection with the English language:
[In America] I longed for my family, their visages… I assimilated words and tones embodying them, as I endeavored to improve my English and participate more in class. Simple words were my constant companions. I greeted them daily, clinging to them during moments of unease.
The last part of The Orange Tree, titled “Glossary: in search of words,” presents a catalog of all the newly formed compound terms in the collection, devoid of explanations. By this point, though, no elucidation is necessary. “Words are pondered in solitude, but no one can claim ownership. We share them,” Li states in the same interview, “as I compose, I am collaborating with this vast presence of words and voices that infuse them with essence and subtlety.” As we conclude our reading of Li’s collection, absorbing these constructed terms, his voice has brought essence, subtlety, and significance to them. Ultimately, we, too, partake in these words.
