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Complex, enigmatic, but undeniably compelling in its ephemeral images and bold creative choices, Dong Li’s poetry collection “The Orange Tree” showcases the expansiveness of the lyric voice and its capacity to cross borders, generations, and cultures. Dong Li, a recipient of the inaugural Phoenix Emerging Poet Book Prize for 2023, is unafraid to probe the recesses of familial sacrifice, national trauma, and cultural belonging to create a collection rife with images of immense suffering and extraordinary beauty.

The collection’s close attention to visual detail stands out immediately. Li presents images through lush descriptions that create intricate patterns of association. He transforms ordinary objects into multifaceted conduits that thread together narratives across generations and gather emotional momentum as the poems progress. In the poem “The Orange Tree,” the titular tree in “Grandfather’s house” becomes a symbol of generational movement as “each generation planted their own orange tree.” Li takes this central image of the orange tree in creative and unexpected directions, slowly turning it into a symbol of remembrance as the poem progresses to the present day. Through Li’s evocative writing, a simple item becomes charged with memory and emotional weight.

These patterns of association become even more complex as they broaden beyond personal histories, expanding to accommodate both national and cultural memories. In the poem “The Orange Tree,” the simple image of oranges falling ominously parallels the rhythmic footsteps of marching invaders during the Nanjing Massacre as “the Oranges fell at night, one after another, soft on the ground./ The Japanese Army invaded the old capital.”

Moving deftly through historical events — from the Cultural Revolution where the speaker’s mother “survived famine on orange peels” to the Tiananmen Square Massacre with the “orange-red faces of the young guards” — this intricate braiding of visual and lyrical associations unifies these major events in a narrative that feels fluid while still remaining cohesive.

It is in these representations of trauma that the delicacy and complexity of Li’s lyrical voice shines through. In the poem “Live, By Lightning,” the discomfitingly surgical image of “bayonets drawn in and out” is amplified by the imperative “listen” and the transition to the second-person “they would find you” later in the poem. The perspective switches constantly from the third-person — “he would never stand up again” — to the impersonal — “a strange / face flies through fine silhouette.” Rather than being confusing, these numerous points of view make the events more immersive, as the reader is simultaneously internal and external to the narrative. It is through this middle ground that everything feels more strangely lush; the suffering feels engrossing and inescapable.

The poetry’s lyrical quality reaches its peak in the juxtapositions between natural imagery and human activity in “The Army Dreamer”:

“the crossing never again
day slides against the anguish of night
time shredding the mind
fog and rain in the mountains
army dreamer on a white horse
a sleeve of twilight pierced the waters”

Numerous contrasts illuminate the images which shift back and forth — from the macroscopic “night” to the microscopic “mind,” the dark “night” and the luminous “white horse,” or even the blur of “fog and rain” in opposition to the sharp clarity of “twilight pieced the waters.” These rich images are more atmospheric than semantic, creating a reading experience that activates the imagination. Li’s poetry resists any straightforward interpretation. Instead, it encourages the reader to explore its numerous possibilities and the emotive force that drives its images. The poetry moves beyond a recounting of history and charges its scenes with an ethereal quality, giving Li’s words a transcendental effect.

These vivid images are reinforced by the collection’s inventive typography and visual features. The poems are marked with traditional Chinese calligraphy placed alongside English words, prompting readers to consider the English words in the same pictorial context, especially if they cannot read Chinese themselves. This use of Chinese calligraphy is also complemented by Li’s inclusion of empty space. Some pages feature single lines, while on other pages, the words are scattered across the page in a manner symbolic of the mood the words invoke. For example, in “Live, By Lightning”, the stanza “Time sinks in the river / he could be dead / was he already memory” is placed at the bottom of a page that is empty for all but one other line, viscerally recreating an image of sinking.

Because of its lyrical intensity and free-flowing associations, the poems can at times feel enigmatic and esoteric. However, Li’s use of patterns and carefully arranged typography ensures that readers never feel lost amidst the stunning images of this haunting collection.

—Staff writer Sean Wang Zi-Ming can be reached at sean.wangzi-ming@thecrimson.com.