这是主持high peaks pure earth网站的Dechen Pemba ， 应 Cerise Press 文学网站约请，与我做的一次关于诗歌的访谈。
不过我现在保留的诗中，最早的一首是在 1984年写的，当时我已入读西南民族学院汉语文系，是大一生，我的同学中有十多个“少数民族”和汉人，以汉人居多。这首诗的名字是“印——致某些人的偏 见”，依稀记得当时我与几个汉人同学发生了争论，我当场写下这首诗，并用力抄写在教室里的黑板上，把他们都给震住了。
实际上在读大学时，我开始真正地写诗，并与 民院热爱写诗的学生们（来自各个系、若干民族）办诗社，用打字机和油印机出版油印的诗歌报纸和刊物，记得颇有影响的两本诗刊是《西南彩雨》和《山鹰魂》。 我可以说是八十年代中后期成都高校最活跃的校园诗人之一，1988年夏天毕业时与四位诗人同学办了诗展。
从 外部的动荡来看，那时代风雨中高高飘扬的一杆杆猎猎作响的大旗，和大旗下翻涌着的形态各异的潮流，以及东南西北的流浪与体验，通宵达旦的写作或辩论，神经 兮兮的叛逆儿，吓人一跳的小感觉，还有，激情，激情，寻常人那里消声匿迹、如同40度高烧一般的激情，这一切是多么地令人鼓舞啊！几乎是一夜之间，不丹经 年累月不自觉积蓄的某种情怀，那充满小小胸膛的炸药包，终于被诗歌这一根致命的火柴点燃、爆炸，把她炸得四分五裂，粉身碎骨，再也拼不回原来的形状了。
但要说明的是，当时对中国年轻的、叛逆的诗 人们产生巨大影响的，是欧洲的现代诗人们、美国和南美的现代诗人们，以及苏联的现代诗人们。所以我也如此，离经叛道的诗人都是我的偶像，主要接受的是若干 个中国之外的现代诗人们的影响，如爱尔兰的叶芝，英国的艾略特和奥登，奥地利的里尔克，法国的瓦雷里，希腊的埃利蒂斯，美国的金斯伯格（又写成金斯堡）及 嚎叫派诗人，美国的普拉斯及自白派诗人，苏联的曼德尔斯塔姆、阿赫玛托娃、茨维塔耶娃等等，数不胜数。大概从大学毕业后，我基本上主要阅读他们的诗。
我 一直是要做一个诗人的。这是前生往世的愿力，以及，延绵的因缘。所以那年春天，终于回到离别二十年之久的拉萨，我对自己说，不为别的，就是为了听见那个声 音。有一阵，我很迷信，认为有的诗句甚至有的字可能就是密码，就像阿里巴巴的芝麻开门，写着写着，会有一道隐蔽的大门突然打开，另一个真正亲切的世界才是 属于我们的。
我在24岁时回到拉萨，面临的最大问题是发 现已被汉化的我在自己的故乡犹如一个陌生人，这使我深深地纠结于身份认同。一度我自认为解决了这个问题，我的一位诗人朋友说，其实我们什么民族都不是，我 们的身份就是诗人。他的这句话令我如释重负，以至于在拉萨的最初几年，我自闭在诗歌的“象牙塔”里，写的诗越来越个人化，执着于个人的感觉、个人的意象、 个人的语言。而我自认为诗人或者艺术家高于一切，或者说是超越一切，而民族的属性可以忽略不计。但是，写这样的诗并不能解决内心的痛苦。我也不是说我有多 痛苦，也许说空虚更准确。而且，写这样的诗也写不下去了。
从什么时候起，我一步步地走出了“象牙塔 ”？应该是，在广阔的图伯特游历的经验逐渐地改变了我；应该是，在游历的过程中慢慢地亲近佛法，才明显地感觉到内心一天天地充实。安多、卫藏、康的许多地 方我都去过。既是游历，也是朝圣，因为在我心中，我把辽阔的雪域大地视为一座天然的、巨大的寺院！当然这是最初游历时的动机。当我在雪域大地上走得越远、 停留越久，那种文学情怀便逐渐被历史感和使命感所替代。也即是说，从来只是以审美的眼光看待家乡的我，逐渐地开始以历史和现实的眼光来看待这块土地上的人 和事。
4. 《十二月》 、《班禅喇嘛》 以及《西藏的秘密》这三首很明显是关于图伯特的政治诗歌，还有包括您最近写作的《拉萨的恐惧令我心碎，容我写下！》 和《惟有这无用的诗，献给洛桑次巴……》。自从您创作诗歌以来，政治问题对您的诗歌产生了什么样的影响，这种影响发生了什么样的变化？当您考虑写什么的时候，有哪些因素起作用？
良知者是需要正视现实与历史的，现实和历史 却是非常冷酷的。身为诗人，在图伯特时时刻刻感受到的是与现实和历史之间的紧张。最终这种紧张粉碎了将我包裹的“象牙塔”，所以在1995年12月的一 天，当我就职的西藏文联召开大会，传达中国政府确立十一世班禅的文件时，我忍不住当场写下《十二月》（有意思的是，这首诗多次出现在官方出版物上，似乎无 人看懂）：
其实在这之后，我的诗开始触及现实与历史， 并有了一种叙事的风格。我在散文中写过：“我终于明确了今后写作的方向，那就是做一个见证人，看见，发现，揭示，并且传播那秘密，——那惊人的、感人的却 非个人的秘密。”“让我也来讲故事。让我用最多见的一种语言，却是一种重新定义、净化甚至重新发明的语言来讲故事，那是——西藏的故事。”
呵呵，说实话，当《西藏笔记》被查禁时，我 感到有点吃惊。其实我这个人在某些方面是很迟钝的，我以为我写的故事会被人们理解，或者说不至于遭到被查禁的命运，因为我写的是真实的故事。这表明我真的 比较蠢。其实《西藏笔记》写完之后，北京的几个大的出版社都看过这份书稿，很欣赏我的文字，但都表示，希望我删除某些篇章、修改某些文字，这样的话可以出 版。而我当时虽然很愿意在北京出版，但我更不愿意按照他们的意见来删除和修改，所以这份书稿在北京几的个出版社辗转了一年多，直到2002年，送到广州的 一家有名的出版社，而我的编辑，很有趣，她觉得我的文字像诗一样美，可是她连达赖喇嘛都不知道（当然现在不同了，经历了2008年西藏抗暴之后，由于中国 政府的妖魔化宣传，如今大多数中国人都知道达赖喇嘛是“披着袈裟的恶魔”），所以当《西藏笔记》被禁之后，她很震惊，而且她被迫几次做过检讨。
6.我最喜欢的您的两首诗是 《德格》 和《前定的念珠》，这两首诗是献给或是关于您父亲的。他的离世对您的写作产生了什么样的影响？他生前是否也同样喜欢文学？他是否支持你选择作家作为自己的职业？
其实后来，我父亲也许已经预见写诗的结果会 使女儿变成另一个人，变成他担心的那种人，所以他并不愿意我继续写诗，他愿意的是我当一个记者，摄影记者，新闻记者，诸如此类。而成为诗人太危险了。但见 我不听他的话，只能经常叮嘱我要“两条腿走路”。这意思是说，我可以走我自己选择的道路，但也要走社会与环境所规划的道路；一条腿走自己的路，另一条腿走 大多数人的路。我反问过他，两条腿走路的话，会不会有一条腿终究会折断。他没有回答我。
或者，就像诗人德里克•沃尔科特【1】所 写：“我，染了他们双方的血毒，/分裂到血管的我，该向着哪一边？/我诅咒过大英政权喝醉的军官，我该如何/在非洲和我所爱的英语之间抉择？/是背叛这二 者，还是把二者给我的奉还？/我怎能面对屠杀而冷静？/我怎能背向非洲而生活？”
我不知道我是否已经表达清楚，反正我有太多 的梦想，其中最为迫切的一个梦想是写一本书，在书里，我依然是一个女儿，一个与父亲情深似海的女儿。我有很多问题想要问他，最要紧的问题是，我现在走的 路，是不是违背了他？如果他还活着，会不会为我的今天而生气？可我又固执地相信，他说不定会为我终于圆满了他深藏不露的某个愿望而暗喜。
这个问题让我想起在我最初结识我的丈夫王力 雄时，他在Email中写的一段话对我影响极大，足以颠覆我过去的那种为艺术而艺术的写作。他说：“西藏的现状令人悲哀，但对一个记录者而言，却是生逢其 时。你周围存在着那么多传奇、英勇、背叛、堕落、侠骨柔肠、悲欢离合和古老民族的哀伤与希望……诗和小说可以写，但是别忘了把你的眼光多分一些给非虚构类 的作品，那对你的民族可能更有意义。”
是的，身份认同与个人的身世、其他人的身世 乃至整个民族的身世是密切联系的，否则从何谈起有关身份的问题？又有什么要紧呢？而对于个人的以及其他人的身世的重新述说，实际上也就是在恢复作为个人和 群体的记忆。记忆才是最重要的，因为记忆乃是一个人、一个群体的存在之依据。而在不断的竭力的记忆之时，曾经的焦虑真的已经淡化了。可以说，如此对身世的 重新述说反而是一种治疗。至少对我是这样的。
我一直认为自己是诗人。从某种意义上来说， 我一直在写诗。无论我写散文、杂文还是小说，我都认为是诗。从中文来说，诗这个字是由言和寺组成的；这也就是说，诗人是言说者，同时也是有使命的、有美感 的、有宗教情怀的言说者。所以当诗人同时成为见证人、记忆工作者，才会是最高的言说者吧。
An Eye from History and Reality — Woeser and the Story of Tibet
BY Dechen Pemba & Woeser
You studied literature and first worked as a journalist before becoming an editor for a literary journal in Lhasa. When did you discover a love for poetry as well as your own voice as a poet?
Thinking back, I have loved stories since I was a child. My earliest memory is narrating the story of the times before leaving Lhasa to a bunch of children in Tawo County, Sichuan. At that time, I was four or five. When evoking Lhasa I often invented some intrigue to attract friends. After my story-telling, I started to yearn for Lhasa.
Alas, I can now no longer locate the first poem I wrote. I remembered it was written in Tawo County. At that time, I was studying in the first year of middle school. The news broadcast the death of a famous Chinese poet one day. I felt a little sad, so wrote a few lines that resembled the arrangement of a poem. To me, that felt like a poem.
However, among the poems I now preserve, the earliest one was written in 1984. I was then already studying at the faculty of Chinese language at the Southwest University for Nationalities. I was a first-year college student. Among my classmates were students from more than ten “minority” groups and those of the Han Chinese, who were the majority. This poem is entitled “Print — For Certain Prejudices.” I vaguely remember at that time, I argued with a few Han Chinese classmates, and wrote this poem on the spot, then copied it painstakingly on the blackboard. They were shocked.
Now, revisiting this tender poem, I’m surprised that I already had a national consciousness at eighteen. Also, clearly, when I wish to express my voice, my way of expression is through writing poetry.
Print — For Certain Prejudices
Never again let
muddy water of disdain
flow from your young eyes
The print that exudes
the scent of butter tsampa
is engraved on my heart
I do not despair
even refuse your cold
a natural sense of superiority
bloats your life
But I won’t
offer a complying smile
shines on you, shines on me
On a blue planet
we are equal!
In truth, during my college years, I had started writing poetry seriously, and organized a poetry club with classmates (from all majors, and of different ethnic groups) who were passionate about poetry. We used typewriters and letterprint machines to print poetry journals and publications. I remember Southwestern Colorful Rain and Mountain Eagle Soul as two of the more influential journals. I can say I was the most active campus poet in Sichuan during the mid-late eighties. During my graduation in 1988, I organized a poetry exhibition with two poet classmates.
Yes, at that time we had already defined ourselves as poets. I even had my first poetry collection. It contains poems I wrote during my university years, hand-typeset by my father. In reality I’d already become, or rather was very willing to become a poet who lives and writes by her dreams.
Which poets have influenced you the most? Are they Chinese or Tibetan poets or others?
I should say that during the early years of my poetry writing, the Chinese poetry scene was experiencing revolutionary changes. In my short story, “My Twin Sister [Budan],” I described the impact of this huge influence on me:
Considering external unrest, a huge flag soars in that stormy era, while tides surge under the flag, and the experiences and wanderings all over the world, writings or debates day and night, a strangely nervous rebel, a frightening feeling, and passion, passion, the silently vanishing, like 40 degree feverish passion, how promising! Almost overnight, Budan’s sentiments that were unconsciously gathered through years, that bag of explosives in her little chest, is suddenly lit up by poetry’s fatal matchstick, it explodes, exploding her into pieces, shattered, and can no longer be pieced back together.
To clarify, what most influenced the Chinese young, rebellious poets at that time were European, American and South American contemporary poets, as well as the Russian modern poets. This was also the case for me. Rebellious, unorthodox poets were my idols. I accepted mainly a few non-Chinese contemporary poets as influence, for example Yeats from Ireland, Ginsberg and the Beat poets from the States, as well as Plath and the Confessional poets, Mandelstram, Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva from Russia, etc. The list was endless. After my university graduation, I basically read mostly their work.
Also around the same time, I read poems by the 6th Dalai Lama Tsangyang Gyatso and Milarepa. But I read their Chinese translations, the earliest Chinese version, which are classically very elegant in terms of text.
Themes such as travel, Lhasa, memory and loss recur in your poems. Would you say that these subjects inspire you? Where or how do you seek inspiration?
The Whiteness of the Snowland
(Tangshan Publishing House, 2009)
In fact, writing poetry is to me like in search of memory of a past life. In the epilogue for my collection of poetry, The Whiteness of the Snowland (Tangshan Publishing House, 2009), I wrote:
I have always wanted to be a poet. This is the karmic force from a previous life, as well as a continuation of cause and effect. That spring, I finally returned to the Lhasa I left twenty years ago. I told myself, it was not for any reason other than to listen to that voice. For a while, I was very superstitious, thinking that some verses might contain words that are secret codes, like Ali Baba’s “Open Sesame,” and if I’d keep on writing, a hidden door would suddenly open, and another truly kind world would belong to us.
I returned to Lhasa when I was twenty-four. The biggest problem I faced was discovering the “Sinicized” me being a stranger in her own hometown. This led me into a profound identity crisis. At one point, I thought I had resolved this problem; a poet friend of mine said, “Actually we are of no nationality. Our identity is poet.” His words relieved me, to the extent that during the first few years of my stay in Lhasa, I shut myself up in the “ivory tower” of poetry. The poems I wrote became more individualized, with a highly individualized feel, imagination and language. And I thought that poets or artists tower above all, or surpass all, and that the attribute of nationality could be overlooked. But writing such poetry couldn’t alleviate inner turmoil. I can’t say that I was suffering terribly. To be more precise, it was probably a feeling of emptiness. Thus, I couldn’t even go on writing this kind of poetry.
Tibet's True Heart
TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE
BY A.E. Clark
(Ragged Banner Press, 2008)
When did I start walking out of this “ivory tower”? Travel experiences in vast Tibet changed me gradually. During these travels, I slowly became intimate with Buddhism, and realized clearly how my inner world enriched itself day by day. Amdo, Ü-Tsang, Kham… I visited many places. Both as a voyager, and as a pilgrim — because in my heart, I saw the vast snowy land as a gigantic monastery of nature! Of course this was my earliest motivation for the journey. As I walked further in the vast snowy land, and paused longer, those literary sentiments were gradually replaced by a sense of history and a vocation. In other words, I, who used to only see my hometown from an aesthetics point of view, gradually began to see people and events on this land with an eye from history and reality.
In “My Poetry Aesthetics” published in The Whiteness of the Snowland, I once wrote:
Living in a Tibet that has lived through many changes, basking in her sunlight that is especially brilliant in the midst of unfathomable transformations, I slowly feel and realize the benevolence and wisdom of Tibetan Buddhism, slowly see and hear the glory and suffering in Tibetan history and reality… all these profer me a mission: to tell the world about the secret of Tibet.
Clearly, “December,” “Panchen Lama” and “Secret Tibet” are three political poems about Tibet. More recently, you also wrote “The Fear in Lhasa” and “Only This Useless Poem, Dedicated to Lobsang Tsepak.”How much does the political inform your poetry and has this changed since you first started writing? Is it something you are even aware of when you think about what to write?
I believe “December” is a turning point to me. Before this poem, my poetry was creation from the Ivory Tower. As I said, at that time I was evolving.
In my book of prose, Notes on Tibet, I wrote, “… but being part of the Tibetans, my spine feels the oppression of a rock-like silhouette of the vast yet suffering Tibet. Between ‘glory’ and ‘helpless,’ I can only choose one of them, it’s an ‘either-or’ case! And what I view as glory, is not merely the ‘glory’ of a poet, but the glory of conscience.”
A man of conscience needs to face reality and history. Yet reality and history are very harsh. As a poet, I could feel at every instant in Tibet the tension between reality and history. In the end this tension shattered the ivory tower that sheltered me. Thus, on that day in December 1995, I couldn’t help but wriote “December” on the spot. (It is interesting that this poem was subsequently featured in several official publications, as if no one had understood):
DecemberActually, after writing this poem, my poetry started to touch on reality and history, and began to engage in a narrative style. In my essay, I wrote: “I finally see clear the direction of my writing thereafter, which is to be a witness, to see, to discover, to reveal, and to spread the secret — the shocking, touching yet impersonal secret. Let me also tell stories. Let me use the most commonly seen language — a language that can yet renew definitions, purify and even make new discoveries — to tell stories: the story of Tibet.”
“Hear ye!” The big lie shall blot the sky,
Two sparrows in the wood shall fall.
“Tibet,” he says, “Tibet is fine and flourishing!”
The furious girl will not bite her tongue.
Everywhere the monastic robe has lost its color.
They say: It’s to save our skin.
But that one, oh,
The steaming blood poured out, the hot blood!
In the next life, who will grieve for him?
Storm clouds! Doom!
In my mind’s eye I see.
I know if I don’t speak now
I’ll be silent forever.
Lift up your hearts.
He was sacrificed once,
That man of deep red hue.
But as the tree of life is evergreen,
A soul is always a soul.
A worse defeat!
Thouands of trees, blighted as never before.
The little folk are quiet as a cricket in the cold.
The pair of praying hands
Was chopped off
To cram the bellies of kites and curs.
Oh, that rosary unseen,
Who is worthy with a firm hand
To pick it up from the slime of this world?
December 1995, Lhasa
— FROM Tibet’s True Heart (Ragged Banner Press, 2008)
What were your feelings when Notes on Tibet was banned by the Chinese government? Did it come as a surprise or were you expecting it? Did that particular experience affect your approach to poetry?
Map of Maroon Red
(China Travel & Tourism Press, 2004)
Ah, to be honest, when Notes on Tibet was banned, I was a little shocked. I’m actually very slow in certain aspects, thinking that others would understand the stories I wrote, and in other words, they would not be banned since they are true stories. This shows that I’m really rather foolish. In fact, after Notes on Tibet was completed, a few major publishing houses in Beijing had all read the manuscript, and greatly appreciated my writing. However, they all expressed their wish that I delete certain passages, edit certain words in order to publish the work. Although at that time I was very willing to be published in Beijing, I was not willing to adopt their editorial suggestions. This was why the manuscript was held up for more than a year in some publishing houses in Beijing, before it was sent to a famous publishing house in Guangzhou in 2002. My editor thought my writing was as beautiful as poetry, but interestingly, she did not even know who the Dalai Lama was. (Of course things are different today. After the 2008 unrest in Tibet, due to the Chinese government’s demonising propaganda, most of the Chinese today know the Dalai Lama as the “devil in a monk’s robe.”) This was why after the ban of Notes on Tibet, she was very shocked, and was forced to undergo self-criticism a few times.
The ban on Notes on Tibet, and the subsequent ban on Map of Maroon Red published in Beijing the year after, are important turning points in my writing and my life. This also means that I turn from the unconscious realist writing from the past to conscious realist writing. But what remains unchanged is the beauty of language as my pursuit in writing.
Two of my favourite poems of yours are “Derge” and “A Mala That Was Meant to Be,” which are dedicated to or about your father. How did his death impact your writings? Did he share your love of literature and was he supportive of your chosen career as a writer?
Although my father did not quite understand my poetry at the beginning, he was very encouraging.
(Qinghai People's Publishing Press, 1999)
In 1999, my first book of poetry, Tibet Above, was published by Qinghai People’s Publishing Press. I burnt every page of the book before my father’s tomb. Flames rapidly swept away each and every black character, as if each poem composed by these words were carried off to another world. I knew he’d be relieved, comforted by the fact that I’ve become an acknowledged poet, even if he couldn’t understand the poeticism.
But the poems I now write, especially “Tibet’s Secret,” my father would understand them right away. What would he say? Would he still let me continue writing poems? After all, I took a different road.
In fact, later on, perhaps my father had already foreseen that writing poetry would change his daughter into someone else, into the kind of person he worried about, so he did not quite wish to let me continue writing poetry. He’d rather I become a journalist, a photojournalist, a news journalist… To be a poet is too dangerous. But I didn’t heed his words. He’d often warn me to “walk with two legs,” meaning I could walk the path I’ve chosen, but must also walk the path designated by society and environment. One leg to walk one’s road, the other to walk the road that most take. I asked in return, “If we walk with two legs, will one of them break eventually?” He didn’t answer.
Perhaps, it could be as what poet Derek Walcott, Nobel Prize Laureate in 1992, who grew up during the British colonial years, had written:
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?
I wasn’t sure if I could already express myself lucidly. Anyway, I had too many dreams. The most compelling dream was to write a book. In the book, I’d always be a daughter, a daughter who loves deeply her father. I would have many questions to ask him. The most urgent question: Has the road I’m now taking betrayed him? Should he be alive, would he be angry with me today? On the other hand, I stubbornly believe who knows, he might be secretly happy that I’d fulfilled a secret and unrevealed wish of his.
How do you think your poetry style has changed over the years?
This question brings into my mind an email my husband Wang Lixong wrote me when we first met. His words had a huge impact on me, enough to upheave my “art-for-art-sake” writing. He said, “Tibet’s present plight is sorrowful, but to a writer who documents, it is the perfect timing. So many legends, bravery, betrayals, falls, longing, separation as well as the mournings and hopes of an ancient people survive around you… you can write poetry and novels, but don’t forget to turn more of your attention to non-fictional work. That would be even more meaningful for your people.”
Also, for me, in terms of my present-day form and writing style, I’m slowly actualizing the self-expression of a “Tibetan identity.” This identity is closely interlinked with Tibetan geography, history and culture, as well as countless Tibetans’ life stories and fate.
Yes, identity and autobiography, biography as well as the biography of an entire nationality is closely connected, otherwise where should we begin as far as the question of identity? In terms of individual narration or re-narration of others’ life experiences, it is in fact also a way of regaining individual and collective memories. Memory is most important — because memory is the survival basis for an individual or a collective. When we insist in continuously remembering with all our efforts, our old anxieties will truly falter. You can say that re-narrating life experiences is also a form of therapy. At least this is the case for me.
It looks as though you write less poetry these days and more articles and essays for your blog and books. Why? Do you miss writing poetry?
Mémoire interdite : Témoignages sur la Révolution culturelle au Tibet
TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE
BY Li AND Bernard Bourrit
(Gallimard / Bleu de Chine, 2010)
I’ve always believed I’m a poet. To a certain extent, I’ve always been writing poems. Regardless of whether prose, hybrid essay or novel, I always believe it to be poetry. In Chinese language, the character “poetry” (诗) is composed of “speech” (言) and “temple” (寺). This also means that a poet is an orator, an orator who, at the same time, has a mission, upholds an aesthetic, and shares religious sentiments. Thus, to be a poet also means to be a witness, a memorist, so as to become an orator of authority.
In writing, inspiration or talent is the same thing, whereas a professionalized working method is a way of normalizing one’s working situation. Today, I don’t rely merely on the occasional flashes of inspiration. Of course, poets have different aesthesis in response to beauty, and through writing, they weave it into words. So I believe I’m always writing poetry, and have never missed out on writing poetry.
Deep down in my heart, I also have a personal reason. As I wrote in an epilogue for my collection, The Whiteness of The Snowland:
A poem comes to my mind, not one of mine but one written by Tibet’s greatest poet, the Sixth Dalai Lama Tsangyang Gyatso. I really love this poem:
Small black letters, written,
Vanish with water drop.
Mind pictures, unwritten,
Though effaced, will not fade.
—FROM Songs of Love, Poems of Sadness: The Erotic Verse of the Sixth Dalai Lama
BY Dalai Lama VI, TRANSLATED BY Paul Williams
Dear father Tsering Dorje, the poem I want to dedicate to you is still being written. Because the voice I am longing to hear is in the air, about to land. In the end you will be relieved to know – when that voice finally lands in the heart, only then is the true poet formed like the dousing of the fire phoenix!
— ORIGINALLY CONDUCTED IN CHINESE, THIS INTERVIEW IS TRANSLATED BY GRETA AART AND DECHEN PEMBA