Monday, 29 April 2013

[archived]: Changming Yuan Interviewed by PANK

The Lightning Room With Changming Yuan

[ / April 29th, 2013 / Interviews / Tags: , , , , , , ]
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 (, which has been developing surprisingly well – by the way, all poetry submissions are welcome at yuans[at] 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::]
[this is cy's 3rd interview in 2013, and 4th since he began to publish poetry in english]

Friday, 26 April 2013

[archived]: Changming Yuan Interviewed by Horrified Press

  • Changming Yuan's author spotlight is below...
  • 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 &

    posted on facebook on 26 april 2013 - link::
  • Tuesday, 23 April 2013

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

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


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

    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
    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

    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.

    Sunday, 21 April 2013

    [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 /

    -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


    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

    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

    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

    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

    -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


    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


    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

    -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


    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

    -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

    it is raining
    raining again
    in vancouver

    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 fathers 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 brides 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 ziqis 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

    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 juicy conceptions

    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 gods permission the eagle soars above the whiteness of clouds
    against mans 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 minds 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. Isnt 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. Isnt this the essence of life and beauty as well?
    3. Isnt 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. Isnt it ironical that hospital offers the most humane lifestyle to a human who cannot really enjoy it?
    7. Doesnt 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?


    [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
    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


    after a whole seasons
    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


    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


    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

    --Ill try to become a grass
    --Ill 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


    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 fathers 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 hearts 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


    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


    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 Gooses 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