Beijing is not a beautiful city

a visiting author once told an audience at The Bookworm

Sorry for being a bit awol, I had a big book launch in Beijing last week, with a few more events coming up. There’s a Royal Asiatic Society-sponsored reading on June 5, and then I’m hitting the road, with readings in Shanghai, Hangzhou, Suzhou, and Nanjing — June 11-14. Come say hi if you’re around.

And for those who are in Hong Kong, you can now find We Met in Beijing on the shelves of the beloved bookstore Hong Kong Reader.

~

Beijing is not a beautiful city,

a visiting author once said,
and the truth of his remark
couldn’t stop us from resenting it,
for thinking he should have attempted
to redefine beauty, call it a product
of culture, liberate us from its oppression.
We were in The Bookworm,
chosen by Lonely Planet as one of
the most beautiful bookstores in the world,
and some nodded while others thought,
Who the hell does this guy think he is?
Later that night, at a Russian nightclub,
he made a pass on a Bookworm volunteer,
slipping his hand above her knee,
weakened by beauty, maybe by
the possibility of possessing it.
Beijing is grimy, especially in March
when western winds carry the heavy
breath of industry mixed with aroused heat,
and who couldn’t argue it’d be prettier
with cobblestones, ancient walls
to block the invasive sands, reflective sculptures,
French phoenix trees, a riviera, riverbank?
I looked for beauty that week, scanned
the spines of books in The Bookworm’s
lending library, scoured the squares
where grannies boogied beautifully, logged
the flight path of pigeons, the lengthening
radius, and in the corner stores, greasy diners,
noted the sounds of bustle, revival, tasted
the scent of barbecued cumin and spice.
Singe with beauty, sing that picaroon argot.
Poplars and willows were shedding, warmth
was shoving itself in, getting handsy;
you could almost hear old grievances
being forgotten, new lingo forming, as if
the city wanted to feel desirable.
I passed late-middle-aged men on the curb
rubbing their bellies — not quite exposed,
it was not yet full summer — grunting noises, testing
the plasticity of their forked accents,
loitering during a time of possibility and a place
in the last phase of its contentment. Is Beijing
beautiful? I could have gone up to them
and asked. And been blessed with the reply,
Fuck no! It’s ugly as new architecture,
uglier than Old Ma here’s sister. And chuckling,
Old Ma’s retort: But he’s got no eye
for it. Old Yang here wouldn’t know beauty
if it kissed him in his filthy mouth!