[archived]: Changming Yuan Interviewed by PANK

The Lightning Room With Changming Yuan

[DeWitt Brinson / April 29th, 2013 / Interviews / Tags: Changming, chinese, corpse, Li Bai, poem, poetry, Yuan]

Changming Yuan like a leaf, like water, like a building seven hundred children tall.  (see Changming’s Skyline in our Jan issue)

1) I thought I recognized your name and then I realized you’re one of the first people I published when I worked with the Exquisite Corpse. Reading your bio, I see you’ve been published in almost 600 publications. So I guess it’s not that much of a coincidence. How has your poetry evolved since your first publication?

Thanks so much, dear Ed. DeWitt, for this opportunity to talk about my poetic work, and I feel truly honored! To begin with, poetry seems to run in the blood of my family. When my father died in January of 2012, my mother revealed that he had always wished to be a poet, though he never got anything published during his lifetime. Growing up in an impoverished Chinese village, I fell in love with poetry and dreamed about living like Li Bai at the age of 14 when I had my first exposure to poetry of any kind. Although I did make dozens of poetry submissions in China, I never got even a rejection slip. Luckily, many years after moving to Canada as an international student, I had one of my first English poems published in the summer of 2005 and, ever since then, I have been writing and publishing much more poetry than I myself imagined – thus far, my poetry has appeared in nearly 700 literary journals/anthologies across 26 countries. Also interesting is perhaps that at the age of 15, my teenager younger son Allen Qing Yuan began to publish poetry worldwide, apparently under my influence: Every time I receive a contributor’s copy, I ‘force’ him to take a look at my work and, after much reading, he has turned out an actively publishing poet in his own right. Now we have formed a ‘father-son comraderie in poetry,’ as some editors like to call us, to publish our own newly-started literary magazine called Poetry Pacific (poetrypacific.blogspot.ca), which has been developing surprisingly well – by the way, all poetry submissions are welcome at yuans[at]shaw.ca. While my elder son George Lai Yuan, a busy senior engineer in Silicon Valley, had his first poem published. Early this year, my poetic work has finally begun to appear in Chinese media since last winter, but ironically only after I became an internationally widely published practitioner of the art.

2) How is your Skyline different when someone else reads it?

For me, every reading (of the same work) is a new poem. Each time my Skyline is read, it may look more like a monster’s mouth, a dream vision, a meeting line between sea and coast, or a limbo between hell and heaven, depending upon the reader’s frame of mind.


3) What are three bad habits of your poetry?

I love this question, as I have many very bad habits! For one thing, I often make blanket-submissions: desperate to get my work published, I fitfully make several hundreds of submissions to magazines without reading their guidelines beforehand – I have neither the time nor the patience. Since I have been writing a lot of poetry on a regular basis on the one hand and cannot find a publisher to present my poetic work in the book form on the other, I hope to get to as many readers as i can in this only way. Worse still, I love to play with what I call ‘module’ poetry or do poetic collaging; that is, I enjoy grouping and arranging my short individual poems into a larger structured piece in different ways to bring out more poetic possibilities. This habit may sound like a tendency towards ‘self-plagerism’; and a good example is my ‘N.E.W.S.’(‘W.E.N.S.,’ ‘S.W.E.N’ or ‘Directory of Directions’). Worst of all, I often write a group of poems with exactly the same title: once I become haunted by a particular intriguing conceit, I could not help making repeated efforts until I feel exhausted, as in the cases of “Snowflakes’ and ‘My Crow.’ Resulting from this, I constantly get both my editor and myself confused about which one has been submitted to, accepted, or even already published by which magazine. Such lousy idiosycracies lead to nasty errors from time to time, but more important than anything else for me is to write and publish as much poetry as I can before death, which seems no longer far from me now.

4) When I read Skyline, I feel like I’m drinking a glass of water after having sex. Why do I feel that way?

I am not sure. Perhaps it has to do with the way the poem offers the reader the kind of feeling I hope to capture and convey, a clear and cool vision my mind’s eye sees whenever I recall the dawn or dusk view of a coastal city like Vancouver.

5) What politician would be most improved by reading Skyline?

I have no idea, but it would do no harm to politicians like G. W. Bush whose political vision appears to contain a bit too much frenzy.

6) You wake-up in a field of wheat beside Skyline. You can hear a dog barking somewhere far away. You’re lost. What does Skyline say to comfort you?

Between day and night, there is always plenty of cool time, when we can stop to think, about everything or nothing at all, isn’t there?

[the link:: http://www.pankmagazine.com/pankblog/interviews/the-lightning-room-with-changming-yuan/]
[this is cy's 3rd interview in 2013, and 4th since he began to publish poetry in english]

[archived]: Changming Yuan Interviewed by Horrified Press

Horrified Press

4 hours ago

Changming Yuan's author spotlight is below...

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Hey, thanks for dropping by, Changming.

Q.) Why don't you start by telling us a little bit about yourself and which experiences in your life helped you decide to become a writer...

A.) This is how I wrote my first poem: on the evening of 6 August 2004, during our first family trip to Banff as tourists, I was climbing the mountain behind our hotel all by myself, since my wife and two sons all had refused to go together with me. Reflecting on my totally marginalized existence, and recalling all kinds of hardships I had been suffering, I became choked with sadness and could not help bursting into tears. To release this emotional tension, I tried to sing at the top of my voice those old songs I used to sing when I was forced to labor on a forest farm during the Chinese Cultural Revolution after graduation from high school in the mid-1970s. At the same time, I felt the urge to write something. At 8:35 pm, I finished scribbling my seed poem ‘The Lonely Climber’ in English on a piece of paper found on the mountain. Since that rainy moment, I have written more than 1,000 poems, and luckily had almost 900 of them published in literary journals/anthologies across 26 countries.

Q.) Changming, that's incredible. I'm speechless and in awe of such a personal journey. And in regards to your contributions to ' Tales of the Undead – Suffer Eternal' ('Morning Mists', 'Rioting' and 'City Nightscape'), give us a spoiler free insight to the concepts of your tales and what inspired you to write them...

A.) The three poems included in the anthology – 'City Nightscape,' 'Rioting' and 'Morning Mists' are a group of poems I have written in response partly to the 'occupy movement' of 2011-22, and partly to Lawrence Ferlinghett's 'Dragon's Teeth', published in LEFT CURVE (#34) where my poetry also happened to appear. In these three poems, I was trying to explore my own dark fantasies.

Q.) And you succeeded. Where do you see your writing career going in... for example, let's say ten years time? Is this the medium you want to write for? Where would you like to be?

A.) Hopefully, my health would allow me to live and keep writing for another ten years. By 2023, I would have had at least 20 collections ready and wish to have had at least 5 accepted by book publishers. More significantly, I would like to be duly recognized not only abroad but also within Canada, my own chosen country, without having to participate in (and win) major or 'numerous' poetry contests.

Q.) Who were your literary influences, Changming?

A.) No, I never had any, not really, although I do have some favorite poems by different authors. The poets I more or less like are Li Bai, Li Ho, Su Dongpo, John Keats, Lorna Crozier and Ye Chuan.

Keats is a personal favorite of mine from that list. Do you feel up to giving us some top 5's?

Q.) Top 5 Novels?

A.) When I was a teenager, I liked Ethel Lilian Voynich's GADLYFLY. While attedning Shanghai Jiaotong University, I enjoyed reading Howard Fast's SPARTACUS. Later, I found it interesting to read Luo Guanzhong's THREE KINGDOMS, Margaret Mitchell'S GONE WITH THE WIND, James Joyce's DUBLINERS. By the way, I most hated reading Herman Melville, Faulkner, Henry James, Katherine Mansfield and Virginia Woolf.

Q.) Top 5 Inspirational horror movies that affected your own working style?

A) None; I have never watched any horror movies.

Q.) Your Top 5 horror icons?

A) None, either.

Thanks for taking part in our little Q & A, Changming. This was a truly inspiring interview. And don't forget, fans of the gruesome and grotesque, our latest horror anthology, 'Tales of the Undead – Suffer Eternal', is available now from Amazon.com & Lulu.com

posted on facebook on 26 april 2013 - link:: https://www.facebook.com/horrified.press

[archived] Allen Qing Yuan & Changming Yuan Interviewed by Nostrovia! Poetry

Interview with Allen Qing Yuan & Changming Yuan, managers of Poetry Pacific

LINK:  http://nostroviawriting.wordpress.com/2013/04/23/interview-with-allen-qing-yuan-changming-yuan-managers-of-poetry-pacific/

Interviewer: Jeremiah Walton, Editor of Nostrovia! Poetry
Date posted: 23 April 2013, Tuesday

Bios:
Allen Qing Yuan, born in Canada and aged 17, currently attends high school and co-edits Poetry Pacific in Vancouver. Mentored by his poet father, Allen has, since grade 10, had poetry appear in more than 50 literary publications across 12 countries, which include Blue Fifth Review, Contemporary American Voices, Cordite Poetry Review, Istanbul Literary Review, Literary Review of Canada, Mobius, Ottawa Arts Review, Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Scotland, Spillway, Taj Mahal Review and Two Thirds North. Poetry submissions welcome at yuans@shaw.ca.
Changming Yuan, 4-time Pushcart nominee and author of Allen Qing Yuan, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to Canada. With a PhD in English, Changming works as a private tutor in Vancouver, where he edits and publishes Poetry Pacific. Changming’s poetry appears in 669 literary journals/anthologies across 25 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse, Istanbul Literary Review, LiNQ, London Magazine, Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Kanto, Salzburg Review, SAND, Taj Mahal Review, Threepenny Review and Two Thirds North.Poetry submissions welcome at yuans@shaw.ca.

Interview:
1) What first inspired you to write poetry?
Allen: I think the art of poetry itself inspired me to start writing poetry. I love expressing myself with diverse language and form; poetry is very accepting and has no limitations. Whenever I walk home from school, I would notice little things here and there; for example, I always seemed to miss the traffic light. Based on this observation, I wrote my first poem “Traffic Light” which surprisingly was well-received. From then on, I would write poems in my spare time about my personal struggles and everyday life. I like being able to connect with other people through my words and ideas.
Changming: On the evening of 6 August 2004, during our first family trip to Banff as tourists, I was climbing the mountain behind our hotel all by myself, since my wife and two sons all had refused to go together with me. Reflecting on my totally marginalized existence, and recalling all kinds of hardships I had been suffering, I became choked with sadness and could not help bursting into tears. To release this emotional tension, I tried to sing at the top of my voice those old songs I used to sing when I was forced to labor on a forest farm during the Chinese Cultural Revolution in the mid-1970s. At the same time, I felt the urge to write something. At 8:35 pm, I finished scribbling my seed poem ‘The Lonely Climber’ in English on a piece of paper found on the mountain. Since that rainy moment, I have written more than 1,000 poems, and luckily had almost 800 of them published worldwide.

2) What made you step up to begin working on Poetry Pacific?

Allen: After much discussion with my partner, we decided to start up Poetry Pacific because we believed we had editorial insight and the experience to run a magazine that published good content.
Changming: I meant to establish a literary outlet at a later time when I could not write much poetry any more, but to enrich and deepen Allen’s poetry experience before going to university, we discussed the feasibility and almost impulsively started the publishing enterprise on the Remembrance Day last year.

3) What style of poetry do you prefer receiving for Poetry Pacific?

Allen: I’m very open-minded content-wise, but I like to keep things appropriate for all ages; I do have a preference for short but sweet poems though.
Changming: As Allen has just said, we are open to all kinds of poetry in terms of content, form or style, though personally I prefer free verse or, to be more exact, short and truly lyric poetry.

4) What can a submitter do to get on your good side (besides submitting awesome poetry)?

Allen: Promotion is always helpful for our e.zine, but I wouldn’t judge someone’s poetry any differently, even if the submitter is disrespectful. Talent and skill should be recognized. I don’t like suck-ups and I’m sure people go through enough hassle perfecting their work.
Changming: We would greatly appreciate it if the submitter tries to help spread the word about Poetry Pacific within his or her social network.

5) What are your goals for Poetry Pacific?

Allen: I don’t really have a detailed plan for Poetry Pacific, but I certainly hope it will become an elite magazine that is recognized for both refined taste and excellent quality. I love the idea of one day seeing a well-read person at the coffee shop reading our poetry online or in print. Hopefully PP is still around a century from now as a part of our heritage.
Changming: Some of our goals for Poetry Pacific include turning it into a major poetry platform to promote poetic exchanges between English and Chinese, since these are the world’s two most widely used languages. For instance, we can divide our magazine into two language parts, or set up a separate Chinese counterpart to introduce first-rate English poetry or poets to Chinese readers and vice versa. Also, we hope to build Poetry Pacific into a highly influential poetry forum, dealing with every important topic about the writing, editing, publishing and reading of poetry.

6) Will Poetry Pacific ever enter chapbook publishing in the future?

Allen: I’m sure we would love to do anything that we can be successful in. There is no better thrill than being adventurous.
Changming: The same here; we certainly would like to do that and even book publishing, but we have no specific plans for the moment.

7) Do you intend to enter print publishing at any times?

Allen: Of course. Although print magazines may seem to be dying, there is no other way to scream ‘quality’ in literature. Like website content, printed material can be designed in so many ways; it will really add flavour to the reading experience.
Changming: Yes, we will embark on print publishing as soon as we are technically ready.

8) Do you have any rituals that you do when starting/writing/finishing a poem?

Allen: For writing poems, I don’t really have a specific ritual, but I usually scribble on paper first instead of directly typing it. You feel more connected to the piece in front of you, unlike the way when you are working on the computer. After I type it up, I edit it a few days later just to refresh my editorial judgement. I refine it and change parts until I feel satisfied. Listening to a variety of songs before I edit helps too for some reason. That might just be like a placebo or something.
Changming: Not really ‘rituals’ in my case either, but rather I would call them habits. I draw all my inspirations from my reading, observing and meditating experiences, often conceiving poems while trying to sleep at night – as a result, I have been suffering badly from insomnia. It usually takes me about 3 to 15 minutes to finish scribbling a piece on a pad. For the past 5 years or so, I have been writing about 20 poems on a monthly basis; typically, i would refine or polish them at least 3 times on the computer before adding them up to my ‘workbook’ for future submissions. Every month, I would make a couple of hundred submissions, and get about 20 acceptances. For me, writing is the most enjoyable part, while submitting the most hateful and boring thing to do, an evil necessity, to use a cliche.

9) Among thousands of literary outlets, Poetry Pacific is a unique two-man two-generation operation, and certainly shows good teamwork. How do you collaborate, and what are the challenges you are facing at this stage?
Allen: I am not really that good with computers, but Changming is even lousier with them, so one of my main duties is to provide the basic technical support. Also, I screen poetry submissions and select what I find publishable before discussing my choices with Changming. Whenever we have a dispute, we would negotiate and try to find a solution for the real long-term benefit of our ezine. For instance, I proposed to follow the blind policy to ensure the high quality of the work accepted.
Changming: You are right; we are a unique team in at least two ways. For one thing, we are, to my best knowledge, probably the only actively publishing father-son poetry team across the contemporary English speaking world.  More notable perhaps, both of us work with English as our second language: while Allen had to see a language therapist because he had difficulty learning English when he was little, I did not begin to learn the English alphabet until I was almost 20 year of age in China. Because my teachers and classmates often made fun of my village accent, I have never felt comfortable when speaking English, though I prefer to write in this foreign language.
As for our teamwork, Allen is extremely busy with his studies and various extracurricular pursuits, so it is my main responsibility to communicate with submitters, trying to promote our magazine and enlarge our literary network. The two biggest challenges we have now are technical deficiency and lack of submissions. Because my health condition prevents me from working long with computers, nor do I have enough online know-hows, we cannot operate or  develop our site in the way we would like to; naturally, as a fledgling magazine,  we have had relatively very limited submissions to select work from, but once we find a good volunteer web-developer, we can improve the situation fast and substantially.


10) Last but not least, you two are an interesting father-son team; what can you share with us about this, which you two must feel very proud of?
Allen: I never expected to write or publish poetry, let alone begin to do so at the  age of 15, but ever since 2005, every time my father receives a contributor’s copy, he would show or ask me to read his work, no matter whether I like it or not. In 2010, I became interested in poetry and, under his strong encouragement, tried to write some of my own. During the Christmas time of that year, he gave me a list of literary magazines and suggested me making submissions to them. On January 10, I got my very first acceptance while visiting my grandparents in Jingzhou, China.
Changming: Thanks for the nice term, which Editor Jayne Jaudon Ferrer of Your Daily Poem used once as well. There are two things I want to mention. One is that I believe poetry runs in the blood of the Yuans. When he was young, my father Yuan Hongqi wanted to be a poet and even had a secret pen name for himself, but sadly he was never able to publish any poems in his lifetime. Before going to  Shanghai Jiaotong University, I dreamed about becoming a poet; however, I never even had the honor of getting a rejection slip after making dozens of poetry submissions. Now I feel more than delighted that not only have Allen and I  become both widely published worldwide, but my elder son George Lai Yuan is also beginning to write and publish poetry. This comforting fact reminds me of the famous Yuan Brothers, the three literary giants of the Ming Dynasty from Gong-an, the same small county I happened to grew up in. I am not sure how close or how far we three petty Yuans are related to those three great Yuans in terms of family trees, but needless to say, this is a happy coincidence. Also, I am glad to say that Allen and I often appear in the same issue of the same magazine. Sometimes I even get work accepted because of him; for instance, after Editor Susan Terris of Spillway accepted Allen for issue 18, she asked me to make a submission and eventually chose one piece from it. Quite ironically, Allen never gets anything accepted because of me, but such is exactly what we prefer; the reason is simple: as his father/mentor, it is highly important for me to help develop Allen’s self-confidence by exploring his natural poetic talent.

[archived]: Poems by Changming Yuan © -2004/5/6

-First From Behind the Bamboo Curtain

Look at this foreign moon above thee

Fuller or rounder it does seem to be

Than what thou used to have and see

Back in thy home and far beyond the sea

But can thou note even in her true glee

This moon is less bright and less free

Not that she is strongly attached to her he

But that she finds no love in thee and me

-A Sonnet of Solitude

All along my rough, rough path

I am tired of running, running alone

Without either a break or a hearth

To nowhere but just my gravestone

Which only I know here and now

Is still lying afloat on the vast see

Of nothingness of oblivion of how

My travel has long been and will be

But ready to be devoured by a wave

When finally I drag myself to the beach

And have my first and last sight of a grave

Being the only meaningful I am to reach

Oh already tired I am very much so

How much farther could I farther go?

Changming Yuan / yuans@shaw.ca

-The Lonely Climber: A Seed Poem

you are tired, terribly tired

tired of climbing alone

upon an unknown mt quazilla

your sons refused to join you

feeling uncomfortable in your presence

your wife laughed at your childish idea

preferring not to share your eccentricity

your fellow travelers are relaxing in cozy cabins

enjoying a moment of borrowed privacy

indifferent to your intent or interest

you threw your clothes and sweat

onto the dusk dyed trailside

ready to present your naked soul to nature

happening to see a multicolored stone

you wonder if it was dropped by the philosopher

or left over by nu wa while mending the sky

encountering a curious and cautious deer

you sing above the top of your voice

your favorite songs of the past with tears

as if to blast your whole being against clouds

but the echo scares her away

reminding you of your lonely tiredness

hoping to get my own vision of the valley

i keep climbing, climbing and climbing

each time i manage to come upon a little slope

i found another edge higher ahead

i stopped, hesitated and looked back

more times than i can remember

i know there is nothing for me on the peak

except a few nameless wild flowers

or some new branches of an ancient tree

but i keep climbing, climbing and climbing

pushed by the inertia of life

it is not a problem of climbing or not climbing

nor a choice between two different roads

he will eventually lose sight of human footprint

but there will be a trail once he is there

all he wants to do is to forget the human fact

he cannot really escape but leave it behind

down at the foot of the mountain

for now

under Yoho’s natural bridge (in bc)

among the mighty massive roars

full of wild wonders and deep awe

i come to worship this bridge-like rock

carved with icy chisels of glacier water

powerfully pounding

constantly cutting

a masterpiece out of the primitive

with no sense of design or purpose

nor intended expression of any feelings

nor embodiment of scientific principles

totally ignorant of my humble presence

under my feet is a wooden bridge

simple, but solid as a superb set

of symmetries, a perfect human artifact

where i stop and then step down

to overhear a god talking to himself

-I Love You, Dear Death

ever since pangu

separating the sky from the earth

all my poor fellow humans

have been hating

hiding from, or

fighting face to face with you

although in vain

but i love you, dear death

not because you are the more fair, and sincere

than any lover willing to declare

nor because you are the ultimate home

to any wandering soul seeking a dome

nor because you could even give one's name

a guaranteed immortal fame

i do not know how to count

the countless ways i love you

yet i have flirted with your shadow

hundreds of times in private

when i found it unbearable

every cutting pain in my body

when i was simply sick of the fact

life is full of the foul, or

when i lost the meaning and direction

of my dull and humble life

i love you, dear death

because only you can liberate my soul

from the stuffy prisonhouse and give me

the fresh air in the outside world

-The Hero Is Dead Also

it took more than eighteen centuries

and a great philosopher to declare

god was dead

now even a sophomore in the street

can casually claim

hero is dead as well

does this mean man has reduced

to an antihero, a commoner

who will live of, by, and for his sole self?

-A Fable

once there stood still

a tremendous oak tree

trying to enjoy dreaming her own dream

in her humble but hilarious way

suddenly a wild west wind

starting to blow her back bent

like a madly mating moose

never letting his sexual desire rest

unable to stand straight up

she shrugs off her broken branches

Mid-Autumn Moon

a rounded rainbow trout

shining bright and lively

until it is cast afar

onto the bank of my dream

-A Domestic Dialogue

how can i have myself unfettered?

----who has fettered you?

no one really except an unseen hand

----then you are free

-Matrimony

on a sunny rainy afternoon

walking alone along a wornout path

i overheard a newly old couple

trying to talk into another honeymoon

yes, marriage is a closed castle

those outside long to get in

while those inside eager to get out

no, marriage is the tip of a fried chicken wing

you get little meat from between the bones

but you do not just want to throw it away yet

-The Angler

your hooked-heart thrown into the lake

your nerves becoming tight and straight

splashing from above the water

you get a sunpainted serenity

or a lively moonlit mist

for your soul to bathe

in a juicy hour

-Freedom vs Power

each time i come to stand on the beach

my mind eager to break from my body

flapping its wishful wings

chasing the silver seagull

gliding high above in the beaming blue sky

like a pair of ice dancers

as i enjoy this truly rare moment

of total freedom borrowed from a bird

i overhear the wind whispering at my ears:

being able to do what you prefer to

is a persistently pursued privilege on earth

but being able not to do what you would rather not

is the ultimate savings deposited in heaven

-Being a Balloon

i could be high up in the smiling sky

sailing with all the blue leisure i like

until the sun blows me onto the other shore

although i can never fly like a powered eagle

but tightly tied to a twisted spring twig

budding with a whole cluster of green dreams

i can only hope to burst not too soon

unless the rope is cut or the twig broken

-the jug of life

fragile

never full

this jug of life

its taste could change completely

with only one droplet of dreamwater

staring at it square

holding it tight against light

not a single drop spilt

except the colors missed

along my long way here

rich and brilliant

-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

-Personal Salvation

my sister lives on round rice

my brother prefers brown bread

my friend fond of fast food

i often wonder and even envy

how they can live on ready-made

ive tried to adapt to the local staple

but my stomach is simply too fastidious

probably belonging to the unlucky few

i have to constantly change my lifefood

or i might have died of hunger long ago

in my little field of famine resistant crops

ive grown green grasses of my own choices

they offer no fancy smell or taste

but they are organic sustenance to my soul

and so i have survived so far

-Canadian Winter

unlike the proud Prometheus

you stole from an unknown paradise

the white seeds of pure peace

sowing them tender and graceful

with softly solid stillness

in a dry and dreamless land

are you blessings bountiful from high above

or just muted wishes deep in our hearts?

-Noon Jogging

already
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

-Untitled

fresh, fertile, fateful

full of unpolluting power

the mind of a newborn

is the bible of life

like that of aristotle

it may reprocess

all earthly knowledge

similar to li bai's

it could translate a frail raindrop

into an empowered poem

as miraculous as shakespeare's

it would put the whole human world

onto a single small stage

different from marx's

capable of turning the half of the earth

upside down

even sharper than einstein's

likely to penetrate

the deepest depth of the universe

or written in water

the words might dry up under the sun

before the child becomes

the father of man

-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

tearless

-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

traditonal 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 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

-Umbrella

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

-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

-Nailing

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

-Growth

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

-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

-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

-Labyrinth

While my mind tries

To find a way

Out of the labyrinth

Walled with thick wishes

My body is left

Wandering around

Like a headless fly

In a vast desert

Another labyrinth

unwalled

-On a Rainy Sunday

While the whole world runs amuck

in its thin and pale dreams

I keep watching in dark stillness

Afraid to awake and shock the dreamers

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

-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

Near the hearth of my heart

Hides a Venus-designed website

Visited and revisited only

When the night is thickly dyed

With the stillness of privacy

-----------------------

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

-Rain and Poetry

outside

it is raining

raining again

in vancouver

inside

i am trying

trying again

to write poetry

raining / writing

writing / raining

until somehow

they are related

within my room

just rented

-Sowing after “Digging”

Above an empty sheet of paper

With lines like the thin ridges

In an open fallow field

My snug pen squats

As if waiting in ambush

Below my window, my father’s shaking shadow

Is shrinking slowly but surely

Into a focus constantly adjusted

By the noon sun of spring

As he scatters some strange seeds

Over the soil like salted brown rice

He has been preparing since last winter

By god, the old man enjoys sowing

Even more than his old man

My grandfather died at the age of 29

In a hilly village in central china

He had cast every drop of his soiled sweat

Onto a field not belonging to himself

It is said that he reaped little in autumn

Nor did he really care about reaping

Like a bridegroom planting his plump sperm deep

In his bride’s virgin field on a mid-summer night

I am now sowing, with my pen

-Life Is Full of Paradoxes

this is a bewildered

and bashful bat

seeing with its ears

flying without feathers

biting, chewing, and sucking

instead of beaking or pecking

dreaming on its back

more than on its belly

although a perfectly normal mammal

he has been trying hard

to make a bird's living

never intending to deceive

or human attention to receive

are you a comic error of nature

or rather a tragic wonder of life?

-he 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

-Dangling Modifiers

to write your dead past

into a living essay

this chapter should be read

with your eyes and mind

both widely open

by perusing or pursuing

such perfectly bound books

all the essential rules

can easily be learned

about their sophisticated syntaxes

taking notes with all her attention

the idiomatic usages

of her adopting language

will be mastered well

over a small spot of time

heavily loaded with grammar

his whole being is

an isolated adverbial

often meant to modify

the wrong logical subject

-Senses Subscribed

Eyes

we seldom see what we look at

when we look at what we see

Ears

do you always hear what you listen to

as you try to listen to what you hear?

Nose

were I to live under water again

i would only smell of fish forever

Mouth

most tasty would be worthy words

even more so are juicy conceptions

Hands

master god is snapping a rest

his apprentices are busy today

-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

-Your World

is or is not

that is all

there is

to all the world

that is there

-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

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 permanentely, 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?

-At-VGH-Emergency:-A-BC-Story

[Pale with persistent pain]…Excuse me?

[No response from three chatting nurses]

[A bit louder] …Excuse me?

[No response from two chatting nurses]

[Timidly] …Knock, knock?

[One remaining male nurse yells with a ferocious face] Are you dying?!

[Terribly embarrassed] No, sorry, but I…

[In a much louder voice] Nobody, n-o-b-o-d-y knock here!

[More embarrassed with greater pain] I am so sorry, but…

[With a bit more professionalism] Since you are obviously not dying, wait over there!

-An Other Inspiration

Like every animal face

Every leaf

Has two sides:

Left and right

Strictly symmetrical

And two facets

Obverse and reverse

Starkly contrastive

I try to find

A green page

Without any pattern

An other law of beauty

With one single

And whole design in

Spring

Summer

Autumn

And winter

But I cannot

Is it because

I am also a leaf?

-What Am I

in a digitalized world

i have lost all my fashionable clothes

except as a 100% naked number

dull, dumb but beautifully deformed

often wondering among piles of statistics

which set of numbers is my true self

my dl, my sin, my pin, or #?

-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

-The American Dream

like a superstitious stream

not too wildly wide

but you cannot simply cross it

without a raft or a canoe

nor too dangerously deep

but you may easily get drowned

if unable to keep floating on the water

nor too radically rapid

but the current is often swift enough

to carry you far away to nowhere

-Persistence

after a whole season’s

yellowish hesitation

that last leaf finally jumps off

from the autumn-twisted twig

as the winter-coded wind

begins to wave

-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 shorter than 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

-Bookmark

between the unpolluted pages

of my little worn-out book

put in the shelf of my heart

lies a scarlet maple leaf

a pretty piece of peace

a native nugget of nature

from my chosen garden

home to crops or plants

of all colors and textures

-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

-Fragments

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

-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

since then

our game has never been over

-Temporarily Floating

I am the little creature

He put on his hook

To be kissed or swallowed

By an 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

Like a thorn

Deeply stung

Into the flesh

Not far from the heart

Hurting much more

When pulled out

Even with

Great care

-Writing a Poem

put your sensitivity

into the jug of life

soak it really deep

under the spring water

of your imagination

let the sunshine

do the whole work

you do not need

to go to the city of phoenix

for a cup of suntea

the most natural and nutritious drink

to a thirsty soul

-Day in Day out

each time the clock agitates

there are tens of thousands

that let out loud cries

about the boiling pain of being borne

just as so many others

who cannot help cold-sweating

with the fever and fret

of a commonly unknown disease

unlike you and me

each time the sun rises

there are tens of thousands

who will never get up

to greet the morning glow

just as so many others

who can no longer go to bed

to continue their rosy dreams

under the moon-painted roof

like you and me

each time the dew drops

there are tens of thousands

whose backs bend a bit more

pushed down by an invisible hand

just as so many others

whose countless troubles and traumas

make them tremble with chagrin

yearning for a sunny spell

you and me

-Lifetime

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

-Deep in the Mountain

hand in hand with a fluffy fog

walking alone along an un-trodden trail

is a rare luxurious thing to do in life

i cannot help hopping, jumping, singing

shouting and wallowing in the grass

with sunbeams peeping through the clouds

as nature turns me into a wanton

full of wild wonder and deep awe

forgetting where is my home at all

i try to find some secrets about the mountain

but it seems never to stop changing

from a bald hump to a shadowy castle

indeed, no one can see its true face

because it may have none to start with

or because i am too deep in its arms

Changming Yuan

-Once in a While

in her overly farmed field

of language 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 autumn

-Then the Maple Tree

Some time then

The maple tree was

Between us

Some time then

The maple tree was

Beside us

Some time then

The maple tree will be

Between us, again

-The White Goose

My grandfather was younger than my son

When he died of an undiagnosed disease

Somewhere in the Mid-South of China

So we have been told since childhood:

He did nothing memorable or forgettable

Left no picture of his or any handwriting

Not even one impression on my father’s senses

Since he was born after he passed away)

But he had bought a big white goose

To protect his infant son in his place

And a single-syllabled family name

Copyrighting every little poem

I have composed

In a foreign tongue

-The Worn Worm

This is a transparent creature

Gnawing at the tiny roots

Of my withering senses

Before it becomes a chrysalis

Buried deep in my heart’s soil

Then it tries to climb out

Sucking all the fresh dews

Held long in my staring eyes

Before it begins to beat

Its blue wings against the frog

Then it will fly away

On a cloudless day

-Simply Because of You

You gave me a smile the other day

It attracts many fish swimming towards me

When I share it with a little lake

You sent me a message the other night

It makes some nameless plants burst into blossom

When I read it aloud in their presence

You told me the foreign town you are in

It becomes tightly connected to my homepage

Boldly marked on the screen of my heart

-Natural Logic

The Nile flows as far as five thousand miles

Because its course never changes its destination

The Everest towers as high as nine thousand meters

Because it enjoys growing in solitude all the time

The Universe is more profound than the human mind

Because it never bothers to make any earthly noise

-Another Snowflake

A tiny kiss of winter

So soft and tender

Lightly falling upon

Your uncovered head

Melting into teardrops

And running into your heart

All in white silences

Metabolism of Selfhood

as millions of my skin cells die every day

my micro-selves become invisible dust

as numerous speckles of dust return to earth

my macro-self grows bigger out of living flesh

-Sitting behind a Hotel Window

With winter-washed walls

In all directions

He sits alone

Under a spectral light

The heart of the night

As the surreal interface

Between his mind and dream

Becomes immensely vague

Yes, this is the nest for his soul

It is neither too large nor too small

The bed is also the right size

Where he can think about nothing

And look through the window

Just to see a shower passing by

All on their journey

-The Operation

So seldom succeeds

In removing the infected tissue

Reeking of pus and blood

More often than not

It makes the wound fester even worse

When it functions in effect

To take out the ruptured

Piece of peace

-The Fence

Like a grandpa's teeth
Cannot bite the softest days
Passing by daily

-Fate Fossilized

Thanks to his hard bones

Quickly buried

Deep in the soil

His sudden death

Has been printed

On a rocky page

Covered thus with eternality

-Heart Transplant

You have died with a living heart

I am still living with a dead heart

So long as we co-exist in peace

What difference does it make

Who lives within whose heart?

-At the Lantern Festival

Before the first lantern is lit and hung up

The darkness of this world represents all the light of the day

After every lantern is lit and hung up

The light of this world stands for all the darkness of the night

It has been like this since long:

During every festival only half of the lanterns are actually lit

-Spring-Sunlight

On the lawns covered with chilly dreams

Like a huge heavenly herbivore creature

It wanders in ever fresh and warm leisure

With its transparent tongue reaching far out

As it licks at the snow left under the tree shade

From under the thick quilt of last winter

Hills wake, and all buildings loom up

Like its bulky body showing its strong figure

While the wind collides with the clouds

As if it were shaking down its fur like feathers

-Vegetarian Will

All he wishes

Is to have this

Hardy heart of his

Transplanted to

A dying Douglas fir

Thus adding a bit of

Ever green to

A wild wild world

Withering

-Bedmates

Some times the bed is simply too big

Other times the bed is way too small

However its size seems to be changing

They never change their shared bed

Sleeping Habit

After he came back from hospital

She began to sleep in a separate bed

Since he left for hospital (forever)

She has returned to their common bed

All because of the pain

-Round Trip

On her way to the city

A total stranger to her

She only knew her own shadow well

As she picked every stone shining bright

On her way back from the city

A fair familiar friend to him now

She forgets her own maiden name

As she casts away all her diamonds darkened

-The Roses

a splendid present

from my former girl friend

this pot of flowers

looking so drippingly fresh

full of dreamy tenderness

even attractive to wild bees

flying against my window glass

watering with my wishes and worship

i fell in love again with her very soul

adding colors, grace and pride

to my dull and drab dwelling

even my wife became jealous

of my care and devotion

until my sharp-eyed little son told me

the flowers were a famous fake

so i threw it into a box marked free

during my neighbor's garage sale

-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

-In the Forest of Life

like an open cage

like a free hotel

my balcony has become a home

to many wild city birds

pigeons philosophizing in private

seagulls stalking with arrogance

crows beaking at unseen seeds

sparrows quarrelling non-stop

on the branched-out railings

behind the dusk dyed wall

sometimes all alone

more often in company

looking out of my wingless window

i find myself to be one of them

coming to perch here by chance

but ready to flee by need

-Masking Up

to my surgeon in charge

my puffed piggy face

is just another common case

of allergic reaction

to sensitive cefazolin

for my wife still with her appendix

intact close to her idle womb

this face has all its wicked wrinkles

ironed out, every caved-in surface

was evenly filled or dressed up

indeed, it looks younger, more attractive

and even sexier, as if it had gone

through a perfect plastic surgery

but nobody except my old self

in this world of fret and frenzy

suffering alone from the pink itchiness

as I long for the return of my own face

not handsome

but authentic enough