12 feb2-14
Prelude:
A Gateway
Towards the Light
Changming Yuan
Spirit’s 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 day’s thick ink rather than the night’s 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 mother’s 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]
Awakening
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
Outset
today, let me
suspend
all my senses
in the warm and cozy
glow of the morning
huddling up my whole being
just as I used to
in my mother’s womb
Searching
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
Soulmating
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
That’s 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
Thanksgiving
(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
Power/Fame/Wealth
Does exist like
water:
It has a solid
form
It certainly can
flow
And it also
evaporates
Karma-Converted
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
Landscaping
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
fragile
never full
this jug of life
its taste could
change completely
with only one
droplet of dreamwater
staring at it
square
holding it tight
against light
not a single drop
spilt
except the colors
missed
along my long way
here
rich and brilliant
the colored
balloon
full of youthful
air
brilliantly
beautiful
flying elegantly
high
but ready to burst
open
when suddenly
stung
by the needle of
reality
always sharply pointed
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 don’t 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
Bonsai
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
Untitled
fresh, fertile,
fateful
full of
unpolluting power
the mind of a
newborn
is the bible of life
like that of
aristotle
it may reprocess
all earthly knowledge
similar to li
bai's
it could translate a frail raindrop
into an empowered poem
as miraculous as
shakespeare's
it would put the whole human world
onto a single small stage
different from
marx's
capable of turning the half of the earth
upside down
even sharper than
einstein's
likely to penetrate
the deepest depth
of the universe
or written in
water
the words might dry up under the sun
before the child becomes
the father of man
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
endless
entwined and
encircled
Sharpen my pen,
Muse
with wit and will
so that
i can
clear-cut
this non-tangible
tangle
of sad and
stubborn
cycles
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
Labyrinth
While my mind
tries
To find a way
Out of the
labyrinth
Walled with thick
wishes
My body is left
Wandering around
Like a headless
fly
In a vast desert
Another labyrinth
unwalled
On a Rainy Sunday
While the whole
world runs amuck
in its thin and
pale dreams
I keep watching in
dark stillness
Afraid to awake
and shock the dreamers
To a shameful
death
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
Spring
Summer
Autumn
And winter
But I cannot
Is it because
I am also a leaf?
Umbrella
seldom have you failed
to offer me
a ready shelter
against a sudden shower
the pressing hands of clocks
all ticking above
the horizons
whose every beating
i spread like a spray
as if flirting with you
in a private oasis
yet with the west
wind rising
you become a saggy
sail
exposing me to the annoying tongues
trying to bite afar from the winter
or blown upside down
dragging my off my course
as i strive to
hold you
tightly
in hand
