Thursday, 13 December 2012

[archived]: Poems by Changming Yuan - © 2006

Seven Haiku

1/ the spider
let my net be set
to catch all the innocent
with my printed curse

2/ the silkworm
a small white walled cell
your cocoon jails your own soul
lined with brocade

3/ fallen leaves
still, blown by no breeze
tree spirits fall like scorched snowflakes
stopping fright for life

4/ distances
tender shines the night
the moon looks foul and foolish
when dreams come too close

5/ nostalgia
at the vague foreground
you try to find fine figures
in a vast landscape

6/ on the stage
one single actor
can never put on a play
or a tragedy

7/ recollections
all pasts swept in winds
withered and fallen from trees
once green and shiny

between the morning glow
of tomorrow
and the sunset clouds
of yesterday
is all my present life
full of shining dreams
weaved with hard darkness

the internet

with the debris
of babel
they have now built
an unseen network
of bridges and highways
between and beyond themselves
to reach each other
through the one
and same e-tongue

the mountain of language

in your shiny shadow
the hi-fi recorder
of lined time
I can never discern
your true face
miraculously morphosis
as if in a colossal kaleidoscope
but when your shout
in a yellowish voice
in can clearly see
your echoes roll
form soul to soul

Siamese stanzas: three sunbeams

the first
beam  the 3rd
penetra beam
ting the  another  resonates
hymen beam with the
of dawn has kept crystal
emitted welding timeline
photons colored purity
seeking minds of one
the egg  together single
of earth with the musical
machine tone

eight untitled haiku

this drop of red wine
tries hard to return as grapes
to that rambling vine

each one of us strives
to own a patch of blue sky
though barely breakable

  sea waves surge forwards
leaving hopes and dreams behind
but can’t come ashore

lotus roots long cut
but still connected through thoughts
invisible flower smell
 that snowman we piled
has melted into sunlight
before summer comes

       like monkeys in zoos
they humans enjoy picking
lice in each other’s hearts

     in the wild wife world
men burn forest fires
before they shrink thin

         in husband cosmos
women spins black holes sucking
both lights and colours

the message in the bottle

beside the backyard
of his heart’s home
runs a river never roars
into which he keeps
throwing bottles with messages
one after another
like someone whose hobby
is to compose poems
and submit them with sases
to magazines or magazettes
although he receives few letters
that happen to be handwritten
he enjoys looking constantly
beyond the waters of sea
in his hope to get some replies
long after his dwelling disappears


seemingly fresh
seemingly full
this cup of coffee
slightly sweetened
with a tasty lump of time

drink it too eagerly
your might get your lips burned
sip it too slowly
you could completely lose its flavor
watch it too closely
you would find only a dark reflection
deformed strangely


never can you hope
to become a comet
streaking across the starry sky
as it burns its super spirits
to enlighten millions
of thunderstruck minds

but you can try
to be an epiphyllum
with broad leaves
adding all your beauty
just to one tender night

you know it is the life in moments
rather than the moments in life
that really count

amateur chef

for the feast of life
each of us
is trying to prepare
with our hands and hearts
a special course
although without a ready recipe
true love

fed with magnetic foods
sensational even to its soul
our love has grown lightwinged
like a little lovely lark
that will return at sunset
to our house of heart
where it can settle softly
with the door of its cage
always remaining open

the man in the poem

every time the man in the poem suffers
from an intense attach of loneliness
in his own cozily unloving home
his soul feels doubly tempted
to flap its invisible wings
into grey and silver beating
out of his mortgaged heart

yet every time the man in the poem awakens
from his stupor to reassume his daily obligations
he swallows down his urge to reach out
for his soulmate crouching afar
under a big shady tree without a name

every time the man in the poem
takes up his pen, phone or mouse
all his nerve endings become galvanized
not because he does not have the right address
but because he wants to keep his hope alive


in this thick forest
of green growth
every tree trunk
is being sawed
with a long and burning blade
full of sharp-toothed sawyer
call obligation
the rock vs the diamond

under the forked footsteps
of numerous mountain climbers
the rock is shining with smile

deep in an undiscovered mine
the diamond feels sad and sullen
about its light being buried

Acid-based Reaction

Beyond the beaker
You are acid
I am alkali
      We have makings
  Of wildest difference
This is always
      The case and
Wherever we are
      We are our own
      When mixed
With each other
We become the same
      Crystal of salt
To be dissolved
      Into water pure

Senses Subscribed

we seldom see what we look at
when we look at what we see

do you always hear what you listen to
as you try to listen to what you hear?

were I to live under water again
i would only smell of fish forever

most tasty would be worthy words
even more so are human hearts

master god is snapping a rest
his apprentices are busy today

The Key and The Knife 
(Two Haiku)

when a tenant loses the key
to his room in your house of heart
you make him one more copy

each short but rich poem
is a tiny slice casually cut
from the juicy apple of life

Once in a While

in her overly farmed field
      of thinking and feeling
she chose to grow
      two fallow crops:
      one trying to survive
     in its constant strife
against the foul weather
and ferocious weeds
      the other just fallen asleep
    in its leisurely dream
    about the golden dawn
of the following day

To My First Love

beyond this bold and cold beach
i desire to design a sunshine island
where we will no longer be sandwiched
by yesterday’s fashionable dream
and tomorrow’s virtual reality
rather, we can walk freely around
with all our leisure and pleasure
gathering our fragmented childhoods
raising a dozen geese or ducklings
growing several rows of cabbage
and watching the little fluffy cloud
drifting close to the distant borderline
between the sea and sky both bluish

The Savage Spot of Light

long after turning off
      your monster tv set
you still seem to see
      at the screen center
a bright dot of light
a stubborn full stop
forgotten to put at the end
      of a rambling run-on sentence
made all in a maze
about love and/or hatred

      with a wet mop of history
you try hard to wipe it off
yet it refuses to vanish
      like a primordial black hole
sucking its own surface inside
      as it grew larger, rounder
and blurred instead

trying harder to stop it up
you squeeze in your coins
      books, plantpots, photoframes
      sofas, shoes, finally clothes
and everything in hand
but only to be thrown out
right on the spot

      frustrated and desperate
you jump your entire naked self in
      with your heart and names alike
until you became one dimensional
      losing both your mind and freedom


seldom have you failed
to offer me
    a ready shelter
        against a sudden shower
the pressing hands of clocks
all ticking above the horizons
    whose every beating
        i spread like a spray
as if flirting with you
    in a private oasis
yet with the west wind rising
you become a saggy sail
    exposing me to the annoying tongues
        trying to bite afar from the winter
    or blown upside down
        dragging my off my course
as i strive to hold you
tightly in hand

At the Kitslano Beach

i spot and pick up
      a curious clam
whose flimsy lips fairly open
      and her tongue keeps reaching out
as if to reveal
    the saltiness of seawater
    the sad face of sand
    and anecdotes about certain fishes
whose narration i really do not understand
      although my younger son assures me
he can


too often above the summer night
      our eyes are like tiny stars burning bright
whose light shines deep
into each other's heart
but seperated by light years
      with neither a skybridge to cross
      nor a cosmic sting to connect
in between

My Ink

is a blue cement
      holding the bricks of my days
tightly together
or the whole house
i call home would
      become loose
      ready to collapse
even without
a pull or push


in the overly exploited mine of vocabulary
      he digs deep his ores hard and shiny

at the heavily guarded garden of syntax
      he keeps pruning his trees dripping with green

among the wildly running crowds of sounds
      he skillfully cowboys his colts cute and lively


each time i pare my nail
i feel deeply grateful
    for its unselfish readiness
        to die in my stead
sparing me the keen sense
    of the unbearable pain of growth
        out of those parts of me
always younger
more romantic
and much more memorable
    spread randomly
like unnoticeable seeds
sown in the spring soil


soon after his fifth birthday
my little allen solemnly promised
to purchase someday
a huge house for mom
a big benz for dad
a mighty motorcycle for bro
and a big pail of paint for grandpa

two birthday cakes before
he often imitated
      playing "wild wild west"
with a broken broom
    as his electric guitar
      and when he was a second grader
he asked me many times
      whether he could make big bucks
by becoming a street musician

now he has just blown out his ten candles
      finally begun to learn playing guitar
whose sounds he finds really fascinating
although he still cannot keep the right beats
with neither his simple music
nor his feeling about future
nor his past pledges
he is trying hard to play
      his the song of his own choice

Submersed Volcano

deep beneath the vast east sea
      close to the mighty midocean ridge
lies a lonesome volcano
whose fire and roar are not
      for parties of excited sightseers
standing afar on the leisurely land
as it vomits its heart and soul

yet it keeps burning its entire being
      until all its lava falls and cools
as stanzas sitting still
at the bottom of the sky-colored sea
The Colored Balloon

full of youthful air
      brilliantly beautiful
flying elegantly high
but ready to burst open
      when suddenly stung
by the needle of reality
always sharply pointed

Unsent Message

for five million minutes
    that is almost ten long years
i have never seen your silhouette
    nor heard or heard of your voice
but in the closet of my heart
i have been dusting your name
my most pleasant pain
and my most painful pleasure

for myriads of moments to come
    be that as long as ten thousand solid days
i will never seduce my hand to reach you
    nor even to search your silent site (if any)
yes, it is enough to simply assume
        we are still in the same world
although a whole universe apart
your home remains in my soaked soul
and my soul remains you humble home

Since That Summer

We jumped naked
Into the fond pond
Of our boyhoods
Where we loved to
Loll and wallow
Like playing dogs
Chasing frogs madly around
From one lotus leaf to another
Our pants beside the muddy path
Blown far away
In a hot and humid dream
Picking Cherries

on a summer afternoon
i take my little allen
far to a field near the forest
of some cheerful cherry trees
where he could jump wildly
on ever-naked soil
finger the freshness of fruit
and smell the scarlet of nature
letting the wanton wind
blow hard and straight
through his limbs and senses
long numbed in the city pen
by the heavy grey of cement
it is really fun, dad
and the cherries are so delicious
yes, but the trees are hard to grow, son


today, let me suspend
all my senses
      in the warm and cozy
glow of the morning
      huddling up my whole being
just as I used to
      in my mother’s womb


between two tall skeletons of birches
i walk right into the heart of mid-autumn
with the city gate as my starting point
but without any predetermined destination

along a less frequently trodden trail
i keep traveling behind my own soul
each time I climb onto a little ridge
i see another higher up just ahead

it is not a question of uphill or downhill
nor a choice between two different roads
once standing on the peak to look back
i find all mountains so surprisingly small

The Wild Goose’s Will

Those who know me not
Find me a kite tied to the skyline
Those who know me well
See in me a true sunshine chaser

I have never traveled high
As the reputed American bald eagle
Nor am I attached to the ground
Like the pigeons on Tiananmen Square

Plumed with the feathers of disappointment
My wings of hope may melt like Pegasus
Yet following my heart along the horizon
I have never lagged behind my shadow

Let me keep flying all the way to my death
Despite the cold clouds watching in silence

The Tree and the Marble

My father planted a little Chinese poplar
Close to the bank of the Yangtze River
Where I buried deep under that tree
A glass marble treasured by my childhood

Long long afterward, I find the tree dying
Though its seeds all blown away somewhere
While my marble has really grown
Into a magic tree in the heart of a friend

Hasty Come, Hasty Go

in haste
    you came
        on one of those
    dull and desperate days
    like a summer shower
        catching me in the open
        without an umbrella:
my heart swept afar
my soul rain-drenched
and my bored body
    left standing alone
    among isolating pools
as you leave
in a hurry too


all along
all alone
i have searched
    seeking and searching
        although never sure
    what i have been
        exactly looking for
    like my little son
my ever truer self
        trying to piece together
his jigsaw puzzle
    into a boat of boyhood
sailing forward
without a map

    in my mind
i have assembled
    all the edges and clusters
but i just could not
    find the right pieces
        for the blank centre
in this world wild

long and rugged is my road ahead
crisscrossing i will keep searching

Migration of the Mind

some squatting among thorny bushes
some scrawling along a burying tunnel
some suffocating below the rusty waterline
some trudging on a simmering desert
    much running in a dark rainforest
    much struggling in a stormy sea
    much prisoning in a sealed moving cage
    much threatening from fists
cudgels, knives, bullets and
more gnawing of my inwards
by insults in addition to injuries
but with no need for passports or visas
i have kept fleeing
flying up towards the golden sun
        like a wish-winged migrant bird
leaving my heavy shadow
far behind                  

Ready for Retirement

no, no, a yard sale though
i have been putting up here
since the sun started to sing
but really i am no salesperson
by practice or profession
not even for a single day
yes,  just a loonie for that

neither because it is beginning
right to rain or light to refrain
nor because i have sold out
all my priceable stuff
   no, this one is almost brand new

but before the curtain falls
i need indeed to retreat
to the backstage of my life
where i can finally take off
all my clothes, masks, and socks
to continue my boyish dreams
to be a poet, painter
or trumpet player
before i go to bed in my home
sure, take it for free
if you truly like it


since i eloped with my little dream
from a straw-roofed farmhouse
reed fenced in a chinese village
i have traveled far and wide
moving from city to city
sheltering my yellowish soul
in an asphyxiating basement
or a dramatically drab apartment
or a democratic duplex
always in a rented room
until i am now privileged
with more words than worth
to jump this hot and huge market
trying to find a home of my own
where my soul can settle down
without commitment to any mortgagor

Triangle of Primary Colors

Blue:  deeper than the sea
more compact than the sky
and bigger than a woman’s eye

Yellow: lighter than the earth
more enduring than the human skin
and calmer than the huang river

Red: thicker than the blood
warmer than the fire
and brighter than roses

5 duiju

beyond the backyard blue bells ring brilliant
round the ramp red roses blossom radiant

bright clouds drifting tamely in the sky
dark waves galloping wildly on the sea
in the absence of an inspired wind
all fallen leaves report to their roots

between the sliced silences of white pages
a whole forest struck down as if in a tunguska

every infant smiles when recalling
all the pleasures in its former life

West Wind

you deep breath
of last spring
        long held in summer
now letting out against light
        your most hidden fears
        of fall
as if to raise
        a silent name call
or blowing away
    all the withered words
(including mine)
        from every tree
    to a distant wasteland
frozen forever
with winter together

In the Open Autumn

you maple leaves
keep spreading
a huge reddish carpet
        with surrealist designs
to give our highly respected
      multi mosaic canadian winter
a stately welcome

A Biography

a stubborn seaman
        his grandfather is
who sailed during a sunset
to the foamy open sea
    and has not returned home
ever since

his father likes biting his time
        along a silent stream
waiting for a willing fish
to bite his bait
    strung on a straightened
hook of hope

a treasured trawler
        he was born with
he often rides
on stampeding waves
    with gulls leading his bow
or following his trail


some cars broke down
    some lost control
        others tumbled and burned
still others hardly visible
    only the lucky few
        reached the destination
safe and sound
we saw no faces
    behind the wheel
        except the one
greeted warnly
by kisses and flowers
----who won the prize?

The Dark Room

in this little cradle of light
      the photographer
gently rocks
      his newly born child
until he finds a magazine editor
willing to adopt her `
encouraging her
      to tell her unsolicited story
about darkness


come, sunlight
let us sit tight
    side by side
let us have
    a chat or tete-a-tete
        beside silences sliced
you know quite a few
    idiomatic phrases
        of my night-coded dialect
and i understand some
    basic syntax
        of your seven coloured speech

we do not have
    a common language
we do not need
    a common language
on a quiet corner
        of private afternoon
we can set up a dialogue
    without the god
        as our interpreter

Heavenly Hunting

behind bushy clouds
   the sun squatting still
        ready to jump out
at his game long tailed
while i try to fly
    a dreamless kiss
        to patch up
with my upper lip
    the missing part
        of the crescent moon
no longer lonely                                  


scraps of confetti
like poems unread
now dyed with silences
wet and white
falling softly
on frozen facets
trying to find places
in the noisy cyberspace
to perch in the jungle
of mtv, soaps
or rock 'n' roll

but you are wiped aside
as people drive nonstop
forward or backward

If Only He Turned His Head

Far beyond a wild ice field
A wounded wolf was
      Trying to catch up with his shadow
            Running forever ahead
      Like his surly soul
Never melting under the Arctic sun

On the tip of a great glacier
A frozen voice was attempted to shout:
The wrong direction

Symphony in Colors

High above in the summer sky
Hangs a thick rainbow to each eye
Whose brilliant colors resemble
The seven notes of a music scale
Or as many wonders in the world

Out of peace-dotted scraps of confetti
A newly married couple walks hand in hand
One with black hair, brown eyes and yellow skin
The other has white skin, blue eyes and golden hair
Their blood running both red through their hearts

The Allegory of Lichens

On barren rocks
In sun-baked desert soils
At the depth of Antarctic
Anywhere but a civilized centre
Of population and pollution
These pioneer plants grow robust
In the most unassuming manner
Like a tide of faded gossamer
Conquering and colonizing
All earthly surfaces
While living peacefully
In a loving relationship
Between fungi and algae
Never discernable
To the naked human eye


While my mind tries
To find a way
Out of the labyrinth
Walled with thick wishes
My body is seen
Wandering around
Like a headless fly
In a vast desert
Another labyrinth

Rain and Poetry

It is raining
      Raining again
At Vancouver

I am trying
      Trying again
To write poetry

Raining / writing
Writing / raining
Until somehow
They are related
      Within a rented room

On a Rainy Sunday

While the whole world wanders
Wildly in their white dreams
I keep watching in dark stillness
Afraid to awake and shock them
To a shameful death
Bus Ticket

With the yellowish ticket
My parents happened to put
In my statistically wrapped hand
I have been trying hard to catch the right bus
Running fast somewhere in the busy traffic
Before it expires shortly

Modern Behavior

when a crow chats
with another crow intimately
ad a dog writes poetry
on my frosted lawn
can I still see myself
as a human capable
of modern behavior?

In the Woods

she is a tree
gorgeous and graceful
his whispers are the breeze
gentle and generous
      blowing through her branches
slim and summer-painted
      and making her tremble
like a laughing tree

My World

Or is not
That is all
There is
To all the world
That is there

Stranger Neighbor

Separated by a thin hand-shake
My window almost as large
As my unknown neighbor’s
Through which I see him every day
Walking wobbly between the walls
As if in an endless shadow show

after a whole season’s hesitation
that last leaf finally jumps off
from the autumn-dyed twig
as the winter wind begins to wave

A Brief Bio of Water

Deep from the heart of the mountain
You flow up in the sky
Down falling from the cloud
As a raindrop into the river
Becoming part of the soup
Running along a blood pipe
Sweating or tears
Dried into the humid air
Becoming a morning dew in the autumn
Frozen on an icy night
Melting and running off
Along the stream
All the way to the ocean
You keep changing your expression
But never disappear
In you pursuit of the connection
Between life, sky and sea

The Man with Keys

With too many keys
Heavy and glaring
He can hardly move
      Forwards or backwards
As the thief uses
A simple waste wire
      And opens one door
After another
To the treasure house
      Hidden in loud darkness

The Calls of the Cuckold

every sound of your song
is a rung of the ladder
standing straight
      against the wall of my heart
along which I climb
to see more and farther
until I could touch the rainbow
the morning glow
or the summer thunder
even though I might fall down
      like a broken raindrop

Noon Jogging

i am tired
so terribly tired
of running
running alone
along this less traveled path
quite rugged
rough and
seeming endless
but i have to
keep moving
past heavy shades
wild flowers
and some strangers
or i would never
be able to
catch up with
my own soul
rolling echolessly

Poetic Impulses

a loveless life smells
sour as acid
a lifeless love tastes
bitter as soda
when they are put
into the same pen
they yield poetry

The Crying of the Heart

a big broken drop of tear
like boiled or frozen blood
held too long
in your left eye
ready to fall right
onto the tenderest spot
of my soul

Dream and Poetry

what fails to find its way
      to the front door of dreams
sneaks into the backyard
      of poetry, where
it awaits to be collected
for home exhibit or yardsale

Prism of Life

on the other colored side
of this world full of sound and fury
stands a lonely being, being alone
at the bushy and muddy bank
of a long but unknown river
looking beyond the blue universe
dying speechless without a will
left at the horizon

When Am I

maybe i am really too old fashioned
but please help me, dear reader
i just could not understand
traditional trends
or trendy traditions
such as
why some people are so keenly interested in
seeking a handshake
taking a co-picture with
or securing an autograph from
      another fellow human being
why some souls enjoy staring at a ball
rolling or bouncing around
kicked from one side to another
      on a fenced ground
why some hands are so stuck
with a mechanical mouse
and eyes deeply nailed
into a piece of cold glass
why some bipedal animals
try so desperately hard
to be different from others
      while forcing all others to be
the same as they are
in particular
      why the mind is so ready to see to say
why all this is not a lie?

Beauty Is Not Truth

born with two problematic eyes
for which i have been searching in vain
a suitable pair of corrective lens
one is too near-sighted
the other without a focus
given a vision thus deformed
how can i see the truth
of keatsian beauty
At the Lost and Found

i seem to remember
still belonging to someone
yet somehow long lost
lying now in this ignored corner
before my owner comes back
to claim me honestly
like the umbrella, the old bag
or the keys beside my bare body
i am nothing more or less
but a forlorn personal object
without my own identification
The Shelter for the Night

the rented room for my soul
can be either large or small
so long as there is a bed in it
where I can think about nothing
and look through the window
Just to see a shower passing by

post modern behavior

When a crow chats with another crow intimately
And a dog writes poetry on my frosted lawn
Can I still see myself as a human
capable of modern behavior?

Some Poems

with too many thorns
some poems can only
be picked and put
in a flower pot on the table

with their juice too bitter
some poems can only
be brewed with grapes
and drunk from a small glass

The Harpist and His Audience

more than two thousand earthly revolutions ago
somewhere on the other side of this new world
a horizontal harpist named bo ziya
burned his bare but beloved instrument
and never sang to any more human ear
upon hearing the news of zhong ziqi’s death
the only one who understands and loves his music
even until now

The Seven Wonders of the Human World

1. the birth of a child
2. the feeling of a nerve ending
3. the forming of an idea
4. the ageing of a cell
5. the separation of mind from matter
6. the establishment of language
7. the interaction between yin and yang

Five Life Equations 

Desires = Living years X (physical needs + spiritual needs)
Happiness = love X (freedom + peace)
Wisdom = application X (knowledge + experience)
Success = wisdom X happiness/desires
Life = 13 + achievements / number of living years

Newer Testament Left on an Elevator

The maximum capacity is a dozen humans plus some luggage of faith and hope
Overcrowded now with thirteen lifetimes how can we all go up into the same top?

3 duiju

1. Spring Spreading
beyond the backyard blue bells ring brilliant
round the ramp red roses blossom radiant

2 Along the Horizon
bright clouds drifting tamely in the sky
dark waves galloping wildly on the sea
3 between the Eye and the Ear
the eye seldom sees what it looks at as it looks at what it sees
the ear often hears what it listens to as it listens to what it hears

another 3 duiju 

bright clouds drifting tamely in the sky
dark waves galloping wildly on the sea
beyond the backyard blue bells ring brilliant
round the ramp red roses blossom radiant

with god’s permission the eagle soars above the whiteness of clouds
against man’s will the shark swims beneath the darkness of waves

Decisive Discoveries

the moment i squeezed into this world, i discovered that there was a quite big difference between light and darkness;
the day my mom stopped breastfeeding me, i discovered that i could use my own toothless mouth to intake food and satisfy my hunger;
at age 5, i discovered that the colorful marbles i had buried deep in the backyard of my house would never grow to be a magic tree as i had expected;
when i was 7, i discovered that the gas emitted by a running truck had a peculiarly pleasant smell;
at 11, i discovered that during drowning my body felt much lighter and more resilient than my spirit;
at 14, i discovered that poetry looked very beautiful when i saw it with my mind’s eye;
at 17, i discovered that i could say "down with chairman mao" in my heart without running any risk of being discovered and thus put into jail as a counter-revolutionary, as in the case of one of my classmates who had happened to misspell mao's name during a spelling quiz;
 at 22, i discovered that just as a political commissar could change my outer life permanantely, a charming girl could alter my inner being once and for all;
at 28, i discovered that fathering a child was a joy forever;
at 35, i discovered that many of my childhood dreams had actually come true without my knowing it;
at 39, i discovered that a rented room was never a home, while a house of my own was nothing less than a whole climate of heart;
at 47, i discovered that poetry was the religion i had been trying to convert myself to;
at 49, i discovered that it was much easier to change or reform myself than anyone else, even my wife's little habit to leave her toothbrush and toothpaste around after use;
since my last birthday, i have discovered that there are numerous new and interesting discoveries waiting for me to make...

3 Cursory Couplets

in the absence of an inspired wind
all fallen leaves report to their roots

between the sliced silences of white pages
a whole forest struck down as if in a tunguska

every infant smiles when recalling
all the pleasures in its former life

Questions Not Really Rhetorical 

1. Wards always have more beautiful views. Isn’t this because we have never looked at life out there from such a detached point of view?
2. Both lives created and creations of life have patterns or identical parts. Isn’t this the essence of life and beauty as well?
3. Isn’t the hospital really the most luxurious but most unwanted hotel on our journey of life?
4. Without my personal involvement, the world supposedly mine has been running just as smoothly. Given this, why not try to live in a different world after being discharged from the hospital?
5. Why did they have to make such devilish inventions like the IVAC pump to drive a suffering patient to more nightmares?
6. Isn’t it ironical that hospital offers the most humane lifestyle to a human who cannot really enjoy it?
7. Doesn’t it take much more effort and courage for us to learn for the second time how to eat, drink, piss, pooh, crawl, sit, stand, walk and speak?

Statistics Studies

According to the latest report
For the past three decades
One hundred percent of US presidents
Like to doodle since childhood

So many a boy decides to give up
All his pursuits and begins to doodle
In a remote village somewhere
On the other side of the globe

Like prints on an invisible film
These lines and shapes of
Apples and bananas
All so deep
In the developing mind

These Few Words

In hundreds of languages
Over thousands of years
Under millions of circumstances
By billions of human beings
And for trillions of times
These few simple words
Have been repeated
Still on the mouth
At finger tips
Or with heart beats
Even though they have become meaningless
Pale and feeble
More tasteless than thin water

The Story of a Sycamore 

out of countless rains, winds, frogs and frosts
you finally managed to grow up, tall and straight
until on a dull day you were desperately recruited

hiding you head and limbs, you continue standing
your naked shoulders always supporting something
with all your breadths but without any hope
of lying down even for a single private moment

now they need you no more: go back home
as you are tired of standing alone: totally exhausted

but after you leave your long standing post
you have no life left to grow the tiniest bud
nor do you feel any less tired when lying down

Last Lines

the day he lost his voice a wicked specter
came to challenge him to sing a real song
an elegy without any metaphoric reference
to anything as fancy as dream, sun, moon
light, flower, rain, frog, cloud, wind, snow
river, tree, bird, sea, beach, land, mountain
morning glow, starry night, or loneliness
he said he could and would but he should
not do so as all ears have become deafened

Song of Salmons

deep in ever deafening waters
of the pacific never really pacific
you speak a highly salty dialogue
too unique to be readily translatable

painted with shiny eloquence
your language has no tattooed taboos
under every spot of your silver skin
is hidden a richly pink secret

within your little body half of a meter
spurts out a strength of three thousand kilo
you keep swimming in bluish solitudes
against the waves of an entire ocean

your heroic journey back to your birth stream
is nothing less than a pilgrim to immortality
along your single long line writ in water
you have striven, for a tiny egg of after-life

The Conscientious Moon

to make sure
every little corner
of this darkening world
is lightened up
the moon rises
and sets
and rises again
even when the sun
is still shining

If I lend my dull-colored mind
To the other me in the mirror
Then I would become a human
Reflection of my authentic being

Long and abstract is this process
To relocate my lukewarm soul
In a world of engulfing glass
Its cold surface is all its bold depth

Let me be as careful as I can
Not to break this magic mirror
Or I would be cut to blood
By the sharp shreds of selfhood

Temporarily Floating

I am the little creature
He has put on his hook
To be kissed or swallowed
By certain unknown fish

Many trout are swimming around
I have no idea which one of them
He intends to take out of the stream
The only thing I hear is his laughter
Echoing along the tightened line
 The Man and the Fish

There are fewer and narrower streams
But much more and wider highways
Where are you heading? Asks the man
How can you survive? Asks the trout

--I’ll try to become a grass
--I’ll try to become a seagull

The Memory of suffering

Like a thorn
Deeply stung
Into the flesh
Not far from the heart
Hurting much more
When pulled out
Even with
Great care


Between the spring breeze
      Brushing its green signature
On my forehead
And the winter frost
      Putting its fluffy seal
On my naked chest
Is thus painted my whole life
      On a single rough page
No thicker than a maple leaf

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