Wednesday, 6 August 2014

Retreat after 'Retiring': Publication Project Cancelled

the past few days have been full of rumble tumble:1/ i finalized Poetry Pacific (3.2), posted each page and released the summer issue yesterday morning, but got some postings mixed up with dates, as in the cases of previous issues; 2/ i prepared, finalized, and released PP's 3rd solo poetry collection by a bermudian author, but only for the author to notice the upper margin wrong; as a result of this mistake, i have had a terrible time trying to solve this technical problem eventually without success. fortunately, the author proposed to release her from our publishing contract, and i readily 'retired' the published book from my project list with lulu. here is my response to her::

thanks so much for your kind and considerate message, and i fully endorse your proposal to release your from the contract! while i am sorry that you do not like the idea of publishing your book on a print-on-demand basis via lulu, please feel free to do whatever you would prefer to do with your manuscript, since you own all the publishing rights anyway. 

during the production process, i have learned some valuable lessons as a small press publisher about publishing other authors' poetry as a 'business' or rather an 'economy of love'. to tell you the truth, my love of poetry has been causing me to suffer much more than necessary in terms of time, money and health. maybe it's high time for me to back down and just concentrate on my own writing and getting my own poems published. 

at this moment i also feel deeply sorry, exhausted, frustrated, eye-hurtful, regretful and disheartened about the project, but i am grateful to you for your kindness, understanding and tolerance. to set both of us free from this awkward situation, i am certainly ready to say yes to your request to be released from Poetry Pacific Press. 

i have to take a break now as my eyes cannot open any more... 

i did all this while still working with a student at my home classroom. because of this extremely bad experience with lulu/computer technology, i have to take a break now - alas, ironically right after i announced my plan yesterday to take email subs for future poetry book publishing projects - to either consider switching into a different 'self-publishing' agency or improve my own computer skills. sadly, i am not prepared for either of the two options for the time being: my eyes hurt so much that i have to keep my computer time minimum.

i would very much love to pursue my interest in maintaining our e.journal and publishing poetry by other authors, but with my lousy computer skills and deteriorating health, i find it increasingly hard to continue this solo; perhaps i really need to do some rethinking about how to spend my limited resources.

computer technology has been as much an angel as a devil, as far as i am concerned. i fast-read a book today: the design of everyday things by don norman. here are some intriguing points:

- all artificial things are designed by humans;
- innovation may come fast, but slow is its acceptance, and even slower its fading away;
- human error? no, bad design; (i've long been haunted by this as i see stupid designs everywhere)
- 5 whys to find the root cause;
- technology changes fast, but people and culture slowly;

his talking about the confusion of poorly designed doors, and complex kitchens is inspiring: i wrote and published a good poem about doors, and could write more about the idea of door and kitchen.

[lesson learned from lulu experience: archived]
Re: Lulu Support Case 01087637, [ ref:_00D506zQ6._50050UjWqh:ref ] -7aug14
"Lulu Support" <>

hi dear Beatriz, 

thanks so much for your kind message!

i have too much to say, but simply put, it's a terrible experience with lulu for me this time - as a result of the technical difficulty we run into and failed to address in time, the author was so disheartened that we had to release her from our publishing contract and retire/cancel the whole project after so much effort we all have put into it, in terms of preparing, editing, promoting, etc...

thus far i have never gotten any answer to my repeated question:: why did i have to face such technical crisis although i did exactly the same things and following the exactly same procedures as i had done before? - i had successfully published 2 authors before this one. did it mean lulu has changed its software or system? if so, why less convenient and much less user-friendly now? in other words, why the file converting issue this time? if we as a one-man small press had to know all those technical details about how to edit files (esp on a pdf format), change the margins and sizes (of any document in any format), and convert them in anyway we want to fit in any template (lulu provides), then there is no need for us to use lulu's service. the meaning of your very existence is to enable us to 'self-publish' works, but it seems i cannot self-publish through lulu, not this time at least. 

several suggestions to improve your services::
1. your contact phone should not always be an answering machine, as live cross communication is much more efficient and helpful;
2. make your system more compatible with any possible editing, converting software used by a typical author;
3. make your system truly user-friendly: most authors are technically 'poor,' if we had all the necessary computer skills for editing documents (sizes, fonts, margins, page layouts, etc), each of us authors can have our own 'lulu';
4. give the author/publisher more choices when it comes to cover images, templates, layouts etc.

on the whole, you are offering authors/small publishers a great opportunity, but there is a lot more room for improvement.

from this experience, i have learned a big lesson about the need to be more cautious with authors as well as lulu.

thanks for your time and attention!

-mike yuan
publisher of Poetry Pacific

Saturday, 2 August 2014

[archived]: Enlightenment Poems-1 by Changming Yuan ©

12 feb2-14

A Gateway  
Towards the Light 

Changming Yuan

Spirits Secrets

1.      In every temple of meaning resides a spirit that tries to become a god through concentration.
2    All wonders of the human world are decorated hotels for the traveling Soul.
3    Many already stone dead are still very much alive, while many still very much alive are already stone dead.
4    Spirit is immortal according to the law of conservation of matter.
5    It is a strong mind that can gather all the gossamers of selfhood and turn them into a single whole known as Soul.
6    If we put all the shadows of Spirit together, we would have a different kind of night.
7    Dream is the only realm where humans, spirits, ghosts and gods can meet face to face.
8    Every body is a spirit cage.
9    Does a pine tree or wild cat also have a spirit?
10  As an energy form of consciousness, Spirit never dies in the universe although it may go through numerous processes of change. If it is strong enough, it can not only outlive the body, but also transform itself into Soul. Depending on whether it has a categorical superpower, Soul can become a ghost or a god. That is to say, every human being can become a supernatural being.

Buoys: 40 Maxims/Paradoxes/Redefinitions
                                    Forty years of age means no more bewilderment.      -- Confucius

1. There is light in every dream we have in darkness.
2. Pleasant or painful, all experiences are as good as cash saved for a long rainy day.
3. The meaning of life, if any at all, is to create a meaning for life.
4. All human relationships are merely a matter of words: the situation is always determined by how, where, when and what words or nonwords are uttered by whom.
 5. Money is as much a number-play to the rich as a death-dance to the poor.
6. A house for sale is never a home, while a heart unoccupied is a hotel for rent.
7. Freedom is the thin distance between the fleeing mouse and the chasing cat.
8. Love may be 99% honey and 1% money, while marriage is definitely otherwise.
9. True wealth is measured by the number of times you say no or take a shower.
10. Birth throws us out into different times whereas death recalls us back into the same place.
11. One most rewarding self-entertainment is masturbating with the idea of death.
12. Those who carve their love on their chestbones often fall in love with those who throw their love together with their used lipsticks or handkerchiefs.
13. This is not simply a grammatical game of changing the voice: every man loves a woman, but a woman is not loved by every man, and et cetera or vice versa.
14. Many still very much alive are stone dead; many already stone dead are still very much alive.
15. On the stage of life, we may not be able to choose the play, but we can choose the roles to play.
16. Comedy can come without romance or finance, but tragedy has to do with either or both.
17. Growth is painful because it means a series of deaths of our pasts, while death can be pleasant because it may result from a series of births of our presents.
18. Misfortune is a peculiar privilege.
19. In memories, roses always look fresher, while thorns less sharp.
20. What we see or read has always been so edited that the truth remains only in the mind of history unwritten.
21. You may have everything except disease or nothing except money.
22. Besides winds, fish can also create bubbles on the calm surface of the water.
23. Remaining an outsider can give you a sense of superiority, transcendence and peacefulness.
24. Time is the most meticulous makeup master of all.
25. Only those determined to reform others can hope to be reformed.
26. Parting is painful; even more so is having no one to part from.
27. He is happy who is not afraid not to be rich, sexual, famous or powerful.
28. Do some deep thinking about nothing every day, and you will stay healthy, wealthy and wise
29. We all have some questions for heaven, but heaven always remains silent.
30. In this age of information, we are all fish swimming freely before the net is towed onto the boat.
31. With the whole world becoming so crowded with salespersons, it is high time to invent new alien buyers for our hearts and souls.
32. Good writing comes from the proper author from the proper place.
33. Political correctness means to see to say nothing as if it were news.
34. Democracy is a government of, by and for the few most manipulative.
35. You may have as many futures as new beginnings, but you can have only one past and one present.
36. Wisdom and religion are different in form but identical in essence: while religion is a ritualized social practice of wisdom, wisdom is an art of staying happy without having to be successful in a social sense.
37. Many stars have already died long before their light reaches our eyes.
38. Schooling is either an interruption or an intervention of learning.
39. There is no distinguishing between black and white, for the color of life is grey to begin with.
40. Like god who invented man to expel him from heaven, man invented money to drive himself to hell.

[First appeared (completely) in dANDelion and (partly) in the London Magazine (UK)]

20 More 21st Century Maxims

1. This is a greying age, where white is turning black while black white.

2. The old oak wishes to stand still, but the whirlwind keeps swooping on it.
3. What you hear is the success story edited and enlarged to increase its news value; what you do not hear is the failure experience suffered bitterly alone by those who later become known, or never.

4. The problem with art today is that we have more art works than art viewers, and more artists than art works.

5. No rules are created for their creators.

6. As our world is shrinking into a village, our village is swelling into a world.

7. It is a powerful government that spends more on pain killers than on human killers.

8. God died long ago; heroes have all disappeared; and here man is left standing alone.

9. The more high technologies, the more low minds.

10 Live differently among ourselves, but let others live exactly as we do.

11. We are living in a world of hawkers: every one is trying to sell something to the passers-by.

12. Just as knowledge is power, so information is wealth and wisdom beauty.

13. Fame is but paper-deep: will God come to rescue your work alone at the end of the world?

14. Everyone is a book: as long as you are willing to open it, you will find many passages worth reading; everyone has a book, which will be written only when it has a reader ready for it.

15. The most beautiful music is the sound that stirs your heart so violently that you fitfully desire to dry-cry in silence.

16. As the minds become increasingly similar, the bodies try to look more wildly different.

17. What accounts for your life expectancy is your life in years rather than your years in life.

18. Education makes everyone a politician, politics everyone a phoney.

19. Life is never fair: you have given it so many opportunities, but it has given you few in return.

20. Like a silkworm, I have contributed all my silk to the human world. If it does not care, why should I?

[First appeared (completely) in Milk (US) and (partly) in the London Magazine (UK)]

25 Monolines

1. no matter how dark the night is, it can never turn a tiny snowflake black

2. year by year our village is shrinking in size while the cemetery is enlarged

3. upon their departure, one umbrella walks into the rain as the other out of it

4. the sky and eye crush into sunlight in their blue reflections

5. every fallen tree is a home uprooted

6. the most violent storm starts with a tiny breath of still air

7. day dreams sell best for the dream catcher

8. death is a stage curtain weaved with the fabric of lead

9. with so many of his shadows fighting on the ground he becomes a total looker-on

10. in the geared throat of the clock blocks a sharp bone of hope

11. only still waters can mirror the moon and stars

12. my humble job is to find a cure for a little dying word

13. the lonely tree in the wildness is more an artwork than the popular wood statue

14. the kissing lips of seawater are chapped with thirst for land

15. when tightly drawn, a rein of restraint looks more like a lash mark of slavery

16. spring is charming because of the few traces of filth and mire after the snow

17. the ground retains all the sound and fury of the dust

18. the pleasant views in heaven are the same as the painful sights in hell

19. like a squatting grass, a moving earthworm is also watching our world

20. over our heads is the days thick ink rather than the nights bitter juice that the sun sprays

21. every leaf facing the sun is shinier and smoother than its reverse side 

22. my child is a fish swimming out of my vein and trying to join the ocean of a mothers womb

23. which hits the target successfully when two missiles meet head on in the open space?

24. for all the deep wrinkles on its face and body, the walnut cherishes a rich and ripe brain

25. the bird flies as high as heaven, but it has to return to the earth to make a nest

[First appeared in Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey)]

20 More Monolines

1/ time is the most meticulous makeup master of all.
2/ there is no distinguishing between black and white, for the color of life is grey to begin with.
3/ we were made to cry into this world but we can choose to laugh out of it.
4/ life would be much less lenient if it gave us no sorrow or regret at all.
5/ ambition is cheap, while determination is costly.
6/ parting is painful; even more so is having no one to part from.
7/ truly wise people are those capable of making themselves happy about nothing.
8/ on the stage of life, we may not be able to choose the play, but we can choose the roles to play.

9/ the arrow will either hit the target head-on, or break its own head on a rock.

10/ only those with fewer desires can enjoy more freedom.

11/ better to make my life a stuffed eagle than to make it a living pig.

12/ only when you are awake can you find the way you have lost in your dream.

13/ besides winds, fish can also create bubbles on the calm surface of the water.

14/ as you pay attention to their successes, they are examining your failures.

15/ look at others with a telescope, but look at yourself with an amplifying glass.

16/ all is becoming bygones.

17/ in a world of consumerism, we pay for the comfort of our bodies with our souls by installments.

18/ those who succeed in doing everything can seldom become really successful with anything,

19/ every road leads to success.

20/ while others may prefer to live to die, I would rather die to live.

[First appeared in Snow Monkey (US)]

Self Stone

if, as many always believe
there is really an afterlife
if ever you have a choice
you prefer to be reincarnated
into a cold and hard stone\
rather than a human again
busy creating meanings
out of meaninglessness

still, small, silent
you would be more
than an unnoticeable observer
of the whole universe
with your fond memories
of a vigorous and grand birth
as the volcano erupts on the island
more comfortably, you know
rain or wind, heat or cold
can only make you shine more

earthquakes can only take you for a walk
and death can never rise against your body
until one day you are picked up
by an urchin or even an unknown god
to skip you on the water of life

[First published in 580 Split]

as a stony statue
sitting still under a tremendous tree
my inner self fallen into a deep doze
while i travel around all the time
    trying to find the right path
            through the thorny bushes
    leading to the hill top
            a large flock of nameless birds

    held in their unsinging mouths
            a hundred rainbow flowers
    following me in the smiling sky
            as if to escort my journey home
            or ready to celebrate my birthday
            the second i see my naked self
all the birds and flowers are gone
            except the big shadowless tree
            standing against the serenity of skies

(sept.8, 2004)

Thank God, Thank Heavens

      luck as i am, i am deeply grateful
      for letting so many wicked things
      happen to me one after another:
my mother died when i was only nine
i raped my math teacher on a stormy night
my brake broke down when i drove downhill
i stabbed my boss twenty times to death
my wife made love with my best friend
a ferocious lion tore my son into pieces
my uninsured house was rushed away by a flood
i was robbed of all my belongings at a knife point
and nobody heard my deafening call shout
      among many other worse happenings
all took place in the heart of darkness
so falsely real before I was awakened


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


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

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

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


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

Migration of the Mind

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

No More Hanging On

so long have I longed
to give up all my earthy concerns
like an enlightened Buddhist monk
i am ready to climb up to
the peak of an unknown mountain
where I can build a plain hut
with fallen leaves and branches
where I can feel nothing
but the fresh songs of the forest
where I can hear
the budding of wild chrysanthemums
where I can taste the green wind
caressing the bubbling stream
where I can watch the sweetness of bamboos
shooting from the rocky vale
where I can smell the heavy breath
of tall pine trees and unknown bushes

will earth stop rotating round the sun
because of my humble interruptions?
Keeping Hands Full
You are always grasping, my friend
Says my therapist
You must learn to let go:
Whenever your hands are not full
You want to get hold of something
Or indeed anything
Now a bird in your left hand
And a bunch of flowers in your right
Thats why you are unhappy all this time
Because you do not have more hands
To grasp more things
Like green backs, purple ribbons
tall titles, soft sex and charming children
If you empty your left hand to catch the ribbons
You became unhappy about the departure of the bird
If you put down the flowers to take the greenbacks
You feel unlucky about the loss of beauty
But if you let go
Just let go
Whatever you are grasping
You can get happiness whenever you can
Since your hands are free

            (For Jane Kenyon)

You could have been killed
In that accident in 1997
But you did not. You could
Have lost every hard-earned loonie
When the big bubble burst
But you did not. You could
Have failed to realize your boyhood dream
To have your poetry published
But you did not. You could also
Have had to stay in the bed
Unable to eat or piss for three weeks
After the surgery last time
But you did not.

This morning you could have broken
Your newly old legs or arms
On the icy road as you jogged
But you did not. One day
You know, you might become
Much less fortunate somehow

But you will not, because you believe
you have always been lucky

If Only He Turned His Head

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

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

from the front yard of a melodious morning
from the busy road of a sweet saturday
from the moist corner of a heavy march
and from the back lane of a pale winter
      we have come, here and now, all gathering
      in big crowds gathering in big crowds
      gathering in ever-bigger crowds gathering
for the boat to cross the wide wild waters
      before the fairy ferry is fated to fall
under our foul-covered shoes too earthly

Eden Revisited

at a secret moment of space
close to the invisible gate
we take off everything on us
our garments
      our masks
          our skins
  our senses and souls
take all off, until we take off
our very selfhoods
just to have a peep
into the green fields
where adam and eve started
to clothe their private parts

Living a God’s Life

Were you Jesus Christ,
Would you try to gain
A bit more information
Simply to bully all others?

Were you Buddha
Would you prefer to
Become better known
Through cheating alone?

Were you Allah,
Would you want some
More wealth than you have
For the sake of one more woman?

You are neither Christ, nor Buddha nor Allah
But just as you have given them these godly names
You can also name yourself as a god
And live like any one of them


Does exist like water:
It has a solid form
It certainly can flow
And it also evaporates


A few evenings ago, a monk in orange
Came to pat on my left shoulder
Identifying me in a muted group of
Stranger pilgrims journeying to nowhere
As the one having a doomed heart

On that clear moon-cleansed night, my heart
Was beating like a horse wildly running around
As he assured me I could definitely live
For at least another five years
But no more than nine or ten

The next morning, I conveyed this truth
To my wife, who readily shrug it off
As just another quasi dream of mine

But I took it as an oracle or miracle
Because right then I became a Buddha

Noon Epiphany

As the mid-summer sun reaches the vertex 
I open every door, every window
To let as much sunlight as possible
Into this house of my inflated heart
But alas, even when I remove
The entire roof, even all gods come down
To shed their light upon my shoulders
My inner spaces are still as dim and dull

Is it not because my residence is too small
Or, rather, because it has too much furniture inside

The Man with a Plug

From early morning to late night
All day long he has been testing
Every socket he could find
On the wall, the ceiling, the floor
But never able to get his bulb lit

In ever thickening darkness, he begins
To wonder if there is something wrong
With his plug, his bulb, or the socket
Or perhaps there is no electricity running
Along the wire in the first place

Perhaps he has a wrong plug
for the right outlet, perhaps the right plug
but for a wrong plug?

Ready for Retirement

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

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

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


With its whim-bladed diaphanous scissors
The west wind arrives simply too early
Trimming the edges of late summer
Pruning the few overgrown branches
Of frenzy afternoons, like an artful hairstylist
Eager to enhance her patron’s charisma

Next year, when the season returns
It will grow greener, with stronger boughs
More tender buds, like the lilac tree
Trembling with muted laughter
In the front yard of my mind 

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
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

Dearest Discovery

If you have not yet found
The way to immortality
It does not matter, I have
And there is actually a short-cut

You dont have to convert yourself
To avoid hell and go to heaven
Nor do you need to take elixirs
Or even try to accumulate prestige

Fame or creation does not help
All you ought to do is not to lose
Your self-awareness, the energy
That preserves itself after your death

Keep it or let it drift against night
It does not matter, if you really like
Concentration can turn it into
A spirit, a ghost or even a god

So, concentrate


I had a conversation with a potted pine tree
Put precisely at the center of a corner
Among some dwarfed plants
Crowded in an ornamented house
Full of solid walls and railings

Like its twigs and even roots
All its protests were pinched and pruned
With the scissors of human art
It was mad, it was sad
Preferring to be growing in on a wild hilltop

From this pine tree deformed in a pot
I heard the muted cry of every soiled woe
Every suppressed life on earth
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


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
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

Beside the Ball of Limbo

Your themes are plein-air
            entwined and

Sharpen my pen, Muse
with wit and will
so that
            i can
this non-tangible tangle
of sad and stubborn
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?

No One Knows When

Deep in every human heart
Is caged a ferocious tiger
Always ready to spring out
And eat you or me alive

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


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
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

Two Too: 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?

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