changming: lit endeavours-dec18

1. got 13 acceptances in october, and 8 in november, about half a dozen from the outlets where my work has previously appeared, as i often submit poetry to an 'old' acquaintance without knowing it - as of today, my publication credits has reached 1,496 literary outlets across 42 countries;

2. for the first time, my poetry appeared in a taiwan-based print magazine called the Epoch Poetry Quarterly(《创世纪》 ), actually the most influential or the leading chinese poetry magazine in the island; this has been quite a relief because i used to believe that no taiwanese is interested in publishing my (chinese) poetry;

3. more comforting and encouraging is the fact that introduced by friendly dr Zhuo Tongnian (卓同年), an internationally renowned traditional chinese medical doctor often referred to as 'the Missionary of the Traditional Chinese Medicine'  (中医传教士‘), i met prof. Liu Weijian (刘伟见) in dr Zhuo's 'Life Nurturing Club' on the eve of 12 november.

Though in the English-speaking world I may prove to be the most widely published contemporary poetry author from China thus far, almost no editor in my country of origin has showed any interest in my poems either written in, or self-translated into, Chinese since my teenage years. However, Dr Liu Weijian, a nationally leading scholar (of Chinese classics) and highly renowned poet and novelist from Beijing University found my poetry (in Chinese) 'deep, outstanding, brief and serene'. From his comments, I discovered, much to my comfort, that my poetry is 'acceptable' to an experienced mainland Chinese reader after all. 

the above paragraph was my response to a question raised recently by Vallum, which is: What was your best poetry discovery this year? indeed, ever since i began to feel interested in poetry at age 14,  my literary experience has made me keenly aware that my poetry, whether written in chinese while i was in my teenage years, or self-translated from my published poetry composed originally in english, no reader among my fellow chinese likes my work.

interestingly, here is my 'literary karma' with my own people: my chinese poetry (self-translated from english into chinese) was first published by north america-based online magazines (in 2013), then in a print journal based in singapore, later in those based in hongkong, macao, and shenzhen, until this year in taiwan. so far, i have exchanged a few he poems (和诗） with dr Liu. in fact, yesterday, he sent me a first rate poem titled 'Missing my friend Changming at midnight' (夜怀昌明兄），and i sent a chinese poem back to him in response, which is also quite satisfactory to me. we both know that by so doing, we are following an ancient chinese literary tradition promoted by Li Bai and Du Fu during the Tang (Poetry) Dynasty.

my literary karma in and with chinese seems to show that my poetry is least 'acceptable' to my own people in my own country. this is no surprising: anyway, since a child, i have grown up and been living all the time against insults, injuries, discouragements and adversities.

i know there is still a long way to go before i sleep, or before my chinese poetry is accepted by more chinese readers. i hope to live long enough to 'conquer' a few mainland chinese literary magazines.

4. i have been thinking about writing a couple of truly 'worthy' (prose) poems, of course in english...

changming: literary endeavours-oct18

1. got 12 acceptances in august, and 13 in september, but about one third from those where my work appeared once sometime in the past, as i realised later. having been published in so many magazines, i often forgot which publications i had already 'conquered'.

given my submission habit that i always prefer to send work only to those which have never published my work, i sometimes find myself in highly embarrassing and quite hateful situations, where i have been rejected so many times that i may well have been marked out in their blacklists. anyway, i have stopped making subs to certain magazines, knowing the editors are not interested in my writing itself or my writing identity.

2. recently, i have written some pieces which i myself consider quite strong and satisfactory, though not so often in my endeavours. as i continue poetrying, i cannot help keeping trying experimenting with forms (of such as line, stanza, spacing, punctuation, etc), use of language and play with 'ideas.'

3. i often feel tempted to try something else or new to enrich my retired life, besides writing poetry, playing e.keyboard (like an accordion), practising chinese calligraphy and reading mostly chinese stuffs, but have thus far failed to find it. maybe i should adhere just to what i enjoy the most and feel really good at, like poetry? i known spending too much time watching lousy chinese video products every day as i have been doing is simply unhealthy to both the body and the mind, but what else can/should i do?
it is no less easy to live an unproductive or leisurely/retired life after all.

changming: literary endeavours-august18

1. got only 4 acceptances in june (the fewest since july 2011), but 17 in july - so tired of making subs, i often thought of stopping doing so altogether. but as i still keep writing from time to time, i find the pleasant feeling brought about by the few acceptances is 'worth' much more than the lousy feeling i received from the disproportionately large number of rejections.

2. quite interestingly, i found a chinese  e.zine called '诗在线‘published on weixin (WeChat); i sent five self-translated pieces last month and they were were all published a few days later. i have made no subs to chinese publications in almost five years, believing that few chinese readers like my poetry.

3. after much hesitancy, i have temporarily put my health site 'happy yangsheng' on hiatus. i meant to resume it right after return from my china trip, but found my effort had received far less attention than the minimal. i had thought it as a 'charitable' course; in fact, it turns out an unappreciated project though it puts a huge health burden on me (especially my eyes). i've no idea when to continue it.

4. the ageing process is one full of unlimited health nuisances. given the way almost all my health problems have to do with my congenital deformities rather than with my living habits or lifestyle, i have since childhood never felt how a perfectly normal person feels. as i suffer 'periodically' from my poor relational life, i am periodically in low spirits...

archived poems by yuan 2016-1©

2016, 8, 20 [sat]

Putzteufel

A unique German word

Untranslatable, but

The room

[Of a human soul

Has to be] cleaned

By a devil

Moving Forward

Walking or running

Progressing is but

A con-sequence of

Stumbles or downfalls

Followed

One by another

The Art of Balancing

Losing balance is

The only, and

The best way of                                                                 

Keeping balance

Like walking

Or running

Forward or otherwise

Expectancy

You see a scene or vision

Looming and zooming

Far beyond the mountain

Or so you imagined, though

You never know what

It is, or could be, so you

Look forward with

Ever-growing eagerness

The rain drops beating each eardrum

Like a myriad of crystalized wires

Angling fishes that are swimming deep

In the heart agitating amidst

Ripples spreading afar

Yes, as long as you keep looking

You will find, as you are ready

To believe, a rainbow breaking

Into colored confetti falling

Everywhere as if from heaven

Tree Thought

What do trees

Think of?

All their lives they have been

Contemplating, so attentively

Realized: mindful for certain

Yet without a feeling

Down from the earthly depth

Up against the ethereal boundary

A loose thought travelling swiftly

From bough to bough. Meditating

On what to think of

Love

Is not the most magnificent stalk

Of wheat you’ve failed to pick in the field

As Socrates suggested; rather

It is the best and strongest tree

Sheltering his shadow when Plato

Found himself lost in a forest

Elders

At twilight, the fishes are retreating

To the distant depth, like an ocean

They are sure of disappearance with all

The effort being made. There is no more

Jumping out of the surface; every little corner

Feeling like a void.

They are full of day dreams.

They complain with broken bubbles.

They hear the ghosts ranting

Beneath the currents, no matter

How far away they try to keep.

The shore is too many calls.

They are certain about the warm

Sunlight that can reflect and

Refract from their bodies as they become

Lighter, and lighter at dawn

Practice

After the plants restore greenness in their

Slightly bloated shape, again, you look forward

To the fictions, wondering if you have

Long forgotten your unwanted pasts

She returned to Tianjin that summer, but you

Were not really separated. You needed

Some privacy to sleep alone over

Her betrayal, in heart if not in body

This world cherishes no more loyalty; each

Matrimony has reduced to a sex play 

With money, or a state of inertia

For mutual convenience. In reality

The heart wears out with ischemia, just like

Trees becoming skeletons in winter

Rockwork

As if to emulate God

Recording all His creations

By arranging mountains and rivers

Our first ancestors piled up

Little rocks to remember what they had

Seen and done, most significantly, long

Before glyphs and other symbols

Were invented, even longer

Before we can interpret such rockwork

Into our mother tongues

History Making

They piled up rocks or

Carved wood

To harden their memories

We draw pictures and write

Words; - what will you do?

Transplant chips, or

Rearrange stars?

You know, to record is

To make history

Creation of Language

With an extra pair of eyes

Able to see ever father beyond imagination

And straight through the clouds of time

Cangjie invented all the characters

On a single Chinese day, ensued by

A downpour of millet during the day

And a storm of ghost cries at night

Just as extraordinary phenomena

Would concur with the birth of

Every Yellow Emperor

That’s actually twenty six centuries long

Before Jesus was created

Ring vs Rock

As the wind keeps

Blowing, a lost

Wedding ring, so exquisite

Gets rustier and rustier  

Beneath a rock

Until

The artifact becomes part

Of the ventifact  

2016, 7, 13 [Wednesday]

Literature

Footprints

 Of migratory birds

On the beach

To be erased

By the tides, except a few

Broken seagull wings that could

Become fossils

If buried deep enough in the sand

Languacolonization  

Is a British word meaning to modernize

To globalize, or to Americanize

All the colonies with an imperial syntax

Yes, it refers to the English Empire, where

The moon never sets, nor even the Babel Tower

Has a chance to rise, it was established to

Anglicize not only the local dialect

Spoken on each of those barren islands

But also the way all native minds

Living in the central parts of continents

Spell their own names, paint their road signs

In this wild world newly digitalized

You came, you see, you’re conquering

With a whole set of rules to grammaticize…

Mindsetting

            Powerful are spoken words; much more so are those working silently in the mind.

Every word is a particle for the prison house

Of the mother tongue, from which the mind

Can never escape

Even for a single moment of yard time

The only window is barred with the net

Of imagination, from which a loose thought

May fly out into the gloam

From time to time

That Is the Room

That is exactly the room where your wife moves

Beyond her bee-like moment for the first time

Wechatting at Huawei in thickening spring warmth

After dawn falls from heaven

After the wondering if never again heaven

Can send out the warmth, the little streamlet

Of the warmth, can attract your wife to the warmth

Beyond her bee-like moment wechatting at Huawei

The Irony of a Snag

1/

You have long since died

But you will never fall

Standing deadly among leafy growths

Your body embodies a rebirth

Greening close to your rotten cycles

2/

No one cares how you got

Into the waterway

But you keep trying to return

To the ocean, where all life

Originates, where your skeleton

Poses a navigation hazard

To any boat heading towards a port

Tarn

Brew out of the purest dews of

Mountains like white elephants, it is a pool

Of wine overflown from Mabakoola

Whereas all other lakes are filled

With nothing but human tears and sweat

Or simply polluted raindrops

Ventifact

A fact of fiction

A fiction of fact

Carved with the invisible

Chisels of the tropical wind

You will never undertake a finishing touch

Nor do you really need one

To bloom your inner being

Into a solid shape of beauty

Weathering against all civilization

Moonbow

Few humans look up

At you, but you reflect

And refract just as many colors

As much beauty as a sunbow

With little warmth of the day

But countless secrets about darkness

Copse

Standing straight against the frozen sky

Your skeletons are the exquisite calligraphy

Of the season

Your name is writ

Not in water

But with wind

Gloam

Roaming in this gloam

Are a few shadows of winds

That are trying to find a location

    To perch, like your loose thoughts

Career Objective

Yeah, I wanna be

I wanna be

A software engineer; my job

Is to use the language of

Freedom, peace, beauty

Or love to design

To write

A serial code

A master program

For each operation system, or

The very working nexus

Between heart and mind

Portrait of a Baby Wife

Thirty three years after a quick marriage

You know more than enough about the nasty

Teenager girl inside her graceful shape, who

Has hardly grown up, incapable of exercising

Self-criticism, or taking any criticism, finishing

Any task on her own (except giving births

To your two sons), a homemaker whose cooking

Skills have never improved, a unique static character

Who seldom puts back her towel, tooth paste, utensils

Or drawers after use, who always has something

To complain about, who believes it’s none of her business

To keep the family together, who treats her husband

Like a money-making machine, takes her childish

Assumption as an adult fact, who looks without seeing, listens

Without hearing, who is good at spoiling a nice

Evening talk, a morning walk, uses her body to

Reward to penalize her partner, who is ready to leave

You and your little son when you become a true underdog

Who is confident enough of her physical features to divorce

You each time you try to teach her something, who keeps

Cooking dishes that even she herself never touches while forgetful

Of what you or your sons like to have in the fridge, who can only

Perform the simplest blue task, eternally remaining as girlish as

A thirteen-year-old indulgent in her little rosy romantic fantasies

Though she is a now a grandmother with every human right

Happy Mistake

The greatest mistake I have made is

My success in winning the heart

And then the body of a pretty woman

But since our quick marriage, I have been

Suffering from an emotional bully who

Makes me cry tearlessly in the depth

Of nightly loneliness while I know

She is the only, the best woman

I am fated to share my life with forever. Indeed

Like Xanchippe who supposedly turned a

Depressed man into a philosopher, she

Is a god-sent to make me a poetry author

Property of Matter-Like Life

Sometimes how you long

To stop, even to change

Your direction, but you

Cannot help keeping

Moving forward

In the same straight line

Though there is many

An external force working on

You, like a stone rolling down

From a hill to a dingle, where you

Hope to join a streamlet or a still lake

2016, 6, 8 [Wednesday]

Examining Life

How I hate jogging every morning

As mechanically as a robot, eating

Vegetables only like a damned pig

Taking more pills than a patient, avoiding

Fat, salt and sugar as if they were real poisons  

Brushing my teeth twice a day, and doing

All kinds of stupidities right against my will

Just to live a few days longer or, to be more

Exactly, to turn a bit more food into waste

Like a stinking shit-making machine! Indeed

How I am tired of living such a life that is never

Enjoyable! Is this daily examined life

Of mine really worth living at all?

Butterflies and Flowers

In the absence of fragrance

Do the flowers

With their tender wings

Attract the butterflies

Or the butterflies

With their flapping petals

Do the flowers

In the fragrance of absence?

The Bee and the Flower

Both with little visual beauty

Are the bees more in love

With the flowers

As they use their songs

To slowly penetrate

The latter’s blooming dreams

Or the other way around perhaps?

Soon After Emma Passed Her Fetus Screening Test

Still a nameless fetus, you are just

Beginning to take a human form

Like a y-shaped sprout breaking soil

In George’s little private garden, but

Your spiritual being has already fully

Bloomed into my poetry, where your

Feminine beauty is to balance all the yin and

Yang in the world of the yuans, where

You will be the first sister and daughter

To nurture my future, extending my lifeline

From my late father to my great great grandchild

A line of words that are heavily stained

With the blood deep from my inner voice

Who made thee, my dear little lamb?

Cycling Trinity

Nature created man,

Man created God, while

God created nature

As they argue who was the first creator

(Man speaks in language

Nature talks through season, but  

God always remains speechless)

Embracing Death Sentence

The moment I receive my death sentence

(from a doctor?), I will feel more than happy

Indeed, I could then refuse to say whatever I

Don’t want to say, or stop doing anything

I prefer not to do; for instance, I would

Not jog like a stupid robot, brush my teeth

At least twice a day, or avoid fat, sugar and

Salt as if they were deadly poisonous

In particular, I would care no more about

Making money, fame or expect good news

From my children. Or perhaps I should

Start to live like this as if to die tomorrow?

Desperate Urge

There is a never a single human being, much less

A beautiful woman, on the sundeck of my heart, where

I can turn to her when I feel excruciatingly lonely, where

My soul yearns to share with her my suffering, my

Joy, my regrets or secrets when my inner fingers

Feel like caressing the soft skin of a lover, when I

Long to hold her hands and watch the summer stars

Falling down to our common horizon. No, but how

I wish someone waiting there for me, day or night

Where I can retire for a hug after another long day

My Crow Again

No human eye can

Distinguish you

From numerous others

Before you vanish into darkness

Once and forever

But you have left two fledglings

Behind, which are flying

Form bough to bough

In the jungle of night

Towards the morning glow

Separating

Yang

From yin

Is nothing

But a semi-transparent film

Multi-dimensional, and

Full of infinitesimal black holes

This film absorbs not only

Light, sound, smell and feeling

But also reason and hope

As it clear-cuts every moment

Just On the Other Side

Living in a world

Strictly parallel to yours

I can hear your spiritual being

Sing aloud in the early hours

Of the day, see your ethereal

Presence loll and wallow like

A grizzly in an artic stream

Alas, our worlds can never

Meet, no matter how we travel

Ahead in time, or how close

We may come to each other’s

Heart. Yes, you see, I can now

Feel your breathing right against

My face, just on the other side

Overtaking

An anchored lamborghini first

Then a line of taxis

And finally several big buses

In this one way road

Have I been driving all the way

Only to find a dead end

Here and now?

A Soulless Kite Flies High

Once this is removed

From your heart, your boat

Of life will drift around

Like a leaf along a swirl

A Single Spark Starting a Prairie Fire

At the foot

Of this mountain range 

Is a tiny green fire

Ready to sweep-burn

The whole season

Positioning

Far away stands a whole range

Of hills, and farther away is

An unseen cloud

Close falls a thin curtain

Of raindrops, splashing against

Summer, and closer is a baby snail

At the center lies my inner being

Like a pendulum

Swinging against yin and yang

2016,4,14 [Thursday]

Loose Thought

Like a tiny fish

Swimming along a summer streamlet

Elusive

To the nimblest human hand

Even after rushing into a pond or lake

It can never be caught

Within the largest net

Of language

Vociferous

You hope to make a loud last call that

Reaches

Far beyond itself, on itself, itself reachable; an

Agitated

Whale in the Pacific, cruising under night currents

Yell

As if for an echo, louder than the human ear un-whale

Like

The Meditating Mind

Imagine, how it bubbles

Bubbling like a swamp

With broken bubbles  

How it calms down

All ripples vanishing

Under the still starlight

An ocean of lotus

That blooms

Towards wisdom

In the Peach Flower Garden

You see no point

In dreaming the only dream that contains

Only fragments as unreal

As a collage in a mirage

The only fragments that make up history. You see

A point in the unlikelihood of a world

Where other creatures have long stropped

Dreaming

Swirling

Among the mixtures of

Seven primary colors, the painting

Gives rise to a swirl

Turning fast enough

To send you up to a little cloud

Like the Zhuangzian Peng gliding through

The serenity of autumn sky

Neither the bird nor you cast

Any shadow down as the earth

Keeps rotating as leisurely

As any other day beyond the black hole

When you return and stand on a

Hilltop, the painting is still

Unfolding itself, but the bird has

Vanished high up into another universe

Like a Compass

Keep your mind steady

At the needle point

And your life will achieve

A perfect desired shape

No matter how you move around

With your whole body

Generative Genesis

Day 1: Let there be language, God says

                        Then there was language

            And all otherness became loose thoughts

Day 2: God created all nouns

                        Giving names to everything

            And letting them be all kinds of subjects

Day 3: He created verbs

                        Made everything alive

            And let them marry subjects

Day 4: To describe anything

                        An body, or any act

            He created myriads of modifiers

Day 5: God created all function words

                        To help humans make senses

            Out of His and their own utterances

Day 6: He created grammar

                        Like a tall ladder

            Standing against the Babel Tower

Day 7: God took a break

                        While watching how words

            Parade on the paper or the screen

Great Love

I once loved a lass, and I was ready to die for her

But she married her boyfriend much taller than me

I used to love my country, and I was ready to die for her

But she was apathetic enough to deport me into a self-exile

I learned to love God, and I was ready to die for Him

But He kept ignoring me, and never told me why

I always love me son, and I am ready to die for him

But he treats me like a machine as his mom does

I was born to love, and I will die for love’s sake

Although you never bother to smile back at me

Grape

Pearls sun-tanned

Bubbles filled with Jesus’s blood

A soft ellipsoid reminder:

One teat bloated with milk for the baby

Another aroused against a lover’s tongue

Just a minute

If I were to have one last extra minute

Let me stop trying to rhyme with the season

With the vowels of my unheard song

Wrap my soul with the morning glow

Breathe in the fresh air from the Pacific forest, or

Smell the fragrance from my private garden (where

Seeds never cease), so I could shake off

All my thoughts and feelings, opening my mind

To embrace the entire universe

Yes, I am ready

Time vs Space

All the living live

Concurrently

In time and space

While most dead might remain

In space, only a few

Could survive in time

Even beyond history

The Eye in the Sun

When the eye in the sun 

Radiates nothing but darkness

Even light would be frozen

Into shadows of skulls and skeletons

2016, 3, 21 [monday]

Spring Stream  

With all the transparent secrets

            Of last ice age

(Or beyond the atmosphere)

You keep flowing

Towards the sea

            Leaving all wildness behind

Along your two vast banks

The Genetic Map of English Languaculture

            IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

                IIIIIIII

            IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Missing

Your presence will fall upon me

Like the first rain

Of spring, and

Everywhere I go

Is mushroomed

With its song

The Apple

The only magic fruit from Mabakoola:

Your hardness is so soft

On Eva’s tongue; your weight

So light to Newton’s thought, and

Your roundness so flawed

In Job’s hand. Ah, blood-

Skinned, juicy-hearted

You sweet temptation

Who hang thee there?

Growing Skeleton

When all my blood is shed

And my heart fades, my skeleton

Will remain to glisten

In clear darkness

As new flesh and blood grow

And fill in every space in my body

Will you still remember I used to

Have a quite yellowish skin?

Upon His Arrival Then

You’ll arrive

And thrive

As found

Renowned:

You write

With might

In class

Like grass

That greens

With winds

Seasonal Entertainment

i-padding, smartphoning

internetting, key-pressing

listening to heavy metal sounds

rock-n-rolling, taijiing

yogaing, yelling or meditating

mostly living in virtual reality

people have long since stopped

reading poetry or even any books

what kind of poem

could you make out of that?

People now prefer living in virtual reality, for

They are tired of poetry and the printed word

Delivering Guy

You got work to do

Always on the run

To deliver packages

(Ordered online) instead

Of pizzas or documents

Let alone money

            Packages are just boxes

            Full of empty tomorrows

            Maybe some chance today

            But surely garbage in the end

A monstrous new mansion

Two ghostly fingers for signature

            No stopping, no place to rest

            Except boxes, big and small

            Moving on my shoulder, like

            A piece of luggage on the belt

You have been delivering all this

Together with your own life too long

You wanna quit now

Were I Still to Be I

Were I still to be I

In my next life

As they guarantee

I would have, let’s

Be friends rather

Than husband and wife

Strangers rather

Than father and son

For I have had enough

Of such relationships

Under this roof; or

Should we meet

Again, let’s be strangers

So I don’t have to love you

So much without liking you

At all; yes, it would be better

To treat each other

As friendly strangers

In our next lives

Were I still to be I

Linguistic Paradox

As a comparative linguist, I

Never understand this paradox:

Chinese tends to use more verbs

In its syntax than in English

How come the Chinese are less

Interested in taking action in reality

While the English are just opposite?

A Major Languaculatural Difference

There are much more verbs in English

Than in Chinese; is that why

Americans are more aggressive

In manner, more dynamic

In thinking, and

More verbal in speech act?

Cheese, Vancouver in April

Don’t even think of

Trying to pretend, but

Just show your most natural

Charm and grace; stand straight

Amidst the greening maple trees

Hold all the blooming cherry flowers

Closer to your heart; face towards

The bluest sky above the pacific

Move a bit more forward

Before the grouse mountain

Shake off the rain drops of last long winter

On your hair, and

Say cheese, you vancouver in april

Natural Choice of a Baby

Enshrined tightly

Within a car seat

This little Buddha

Agitates furiously:

I would rather crawl

On the dirt ground

Than be driven around

Like a caged frog

Sound and Fury

Bloated with wrath

The baby is ready to burst 

Into myriads

Of unlearned words

The Angel

Baby, baby, what made you angry?

Can you tell what made you angry?

Was it the bad toy, or the big old Roy

That has caused you to lose your joy?

Suppressed your voice, polluted your sight

Or blatantly violated your human right?

Given you such an unbearable time

Making you suffer in a frenzy mime?

            Baby, baby, what made you angry?

            Can you tell what made you angry?

Baby, baby, He will soothe you,

Baby, baby, He will soothe you:

It’s neither anything nor anybody

That’s making you feel so angry,

But a little Satan dancing in your heart

That you know not how to tame with art;

Once you pick up a speech from Babel Tower,

You can play with Him in its fullest power.

            Baby, baby, calm down now

            Baby, baby, calm down now

Silent Thunders  

Still too young

To perform a human speech act

It cannot but wave

Its chubby fists, stare

With all its innocent strengths

And scream as silently 

As Munch in his painting

Or Yue Fei in his ci

(Whose anger makes his hair

Stand up and tip off his helmet)

Is this child father of the man?

2016.1. 15 [friday]

Chinglish vs Americhina

Under our great gunvernment

Which now hates z-turning most

Our society is a true socialist democrazy

Full of shitizens (and stupigs)

While many a department and its head

Are trying to pursue propoorpty

As well as a fine sexretary

Most other chinsumers love to

Demonstrate their amimale

In front of circumseers

Like those who enjoy living togayther

In smilence

Height

How I used to wish to grow a bit taller

So I could see a little farther

But shorter than most of my fellow villagers

I had my vision constantly blocked in the crowd

Now, with a fully grown inner being

I can not only see farther into the future

But also hear the noise of high clouds

Smell the fresh air of outer space, and

Even touch the very milk way in heaven

Whenever I feel lost down here in hell

December 28, 2015

--A dream like this one is worthy a whole lifetime.

I don’t know whether it’s my other self

Or my inner being, but I did climb high

Up to the top of a castle on a mountain

Where I envisioned a whole valley full

                

Of blue mists, covering bold buildings

Of a lost civilization; in the towering

Background stands a stark mountain

Chain, where a wide deep river of stilllife

Flows through a Yggdrasil-like forest, and

Beside the open balcony sits a small pond

Surrounded by rice fields. I went to the

Waterside, and caught a feathered butterfly

As big as the kite I used to fly; its wings are

Brownish, like the color of my eyes; its feathers

Are as fine as light and as soft as the dust

Falling from the sky in Zhuangzi’s dream

Temptation

Some often say it takes a million

Years to convert an animal

Into a human, but I say

What few say is seldom what

You say: it takes only a fraction

Of a second to change a man

Back into an animal, or even

Less than a wild chimpanzee

When a young guy hits an old woman

For a piece of bread, chops

His seatmate’s head and bites

It in a greyhound, or guns down

A host of humans with an AK-47

Indeed, as some say what you

Never say: it takes only a whim

Or no more than an ism to throw

The whole civilization back into a

Barbarian age if some would only do

What you say that is never said

To Be The Good Time

Wikipedia statistics show

The most frequently used

Words in English today are

Respectively for each class:

The preposition ‘to,’ the verb

‘Be,’ the adjective ‘good,’ the

Noun ‘time’ and ‘the’ among

All other words. So, as long as we

Keep using English as a system of symbols

For human communication, we would

Sooner or later learn the truth, and the only

Truth about ourselves: we all expect it

To Be The Good Time…

I Think; Therefore, I Am

But of course being what I am

Does not always require thinking

Being what I am is actually sufficient

Or requires nothing but eating, drinking

Fucking, farting, pissing, pooing and sleeping

Often, being what I am doesn’t even require

Feeling, besides making money by selling

All that I have and/or I am. Indeed

Being what I am requires neither thinking

Nor feeling, now except perhaps writing

I write; therefore, I am

Though I am not what I think

Y

Among    almost two thousand    poems  

I’ve written    and published,     the best

The most profit  able and best    accepted

Are all titled ‘y’ as they are  nominated for

The Pushcart prize, included in best Canadian

Poetry and featured over and again online

Or in print; nevertheless this one is my very

personal favorite, not because it has an empty

Title embedded with the text, but because it

has been impressed deep into the slate of my heart

Some Day

The gunfire will finally stop, and this

Evil war will come to an end

When the bloody scenes are all

Replaced by parties of laughters

Some day the sun will fight its way

Out again and disperse every

Dark cloud and shadow, driving

This rainy season beyond our wet dreams

Some day this heavy smog will be

Torn away by numerous angry hands as

Fresh air comes to fill in all the lungs

And blue shades inflate the whole sky

Some day they will discover or invent

The right recipes for these diseases

Plaguing young and old, restoring wellbeing

To both humans and animals; yes, some day

Slowly

Let us take all the long time we need

To wake up from our overdue dreams

Get out of the bed, and stretch our

Limbs as far as possible for a new morning

Let us take all the long time we need

To listen to the first song of the birds

Watch the rise of this summer sun, feel

The breeze combing each tree with tenderness

Let us take all the long time we need

To enjoy being together with our beloved

Exchange a smile so that they can stay with

Us just a few seconds or even minutes longer

Yes, let’s take all the long time we need

To drink this tea, to chat about this weather

To look back at the road we have travelled along

To think, to cry, and to die in lingering twilight

Brighter Stars

On a clear Saturday night, there are

Always more stars twinkling in the sky

Why so many of them? Asked my child

Probably because it is warmer in summer

And

The space is larger

Just as there are also more stars in a man’s heart

When his inner climate is better

Early Bird Catches the Worm

This is just a figure of speech

In fact, most early birds can

Never catch any worms; for

Example, the first guy who

Tried to eat a crab, the original

Inventor of the net, the true discoverer

Of the natural law; in particular

My younger son who managed

To be the earliest to wake in our house

Yesterday, but still failed to

Get what he had been wanting  

Just for another boxing day

Immortality

Haunted by the idea of immortality

I hope to fly

Into a piece of resin

And die there instantly

To become the content of a future amber

Like a prehistorical bee

But neither do I have the right conditions

To become a fossil, nor can I hope to turn

My selfhood into a holy being

The only thing I can do is to hide myself

Behind some words, like Hamlet’s monologue

Between Two Trees

Despite your deep love

You always keep each other

At an arm’s distance

That never shortens over time

But in between this empty space you  

Embrace all the winds and rains

Including anything, anybody

That tries to cross the boundary

Crows

You’re neither the mystic

Prophet

Nor the common

Fortune teller

As you are believed to be

In the east or the west

Rather, you are the soul of a fellow

Human, perching on the treetop

Speechless, as if meditating over

Life, as if recalling your prayers

Allen and the Fir Tree

While in grade nine, Allen planted

A baby fir tree in our backyard, which we have

Relocated several times as we moved

From one rented house to another

Now Allen has grown to a full adult

But the tree is still a small child

Growing quietly in our garden

We all know some day it will grow tall

Towering against the sky when his grandson

Needs some shade back at home

My Best Time

I used to stand high on my toes

Looking ahead for my best time

Which might be only a few blocks

Away from where I lived

Recently, I often turned back

And tried to find it

With an magnifier

Near my prolonged shadow

Now, tired of looking for it

I felt it just right under my feet

Loneliness

Held simply too long

In my eyes, the tear drop

Fell inwardly, and

Rooted deep in my heart

Never able to see the budding

Let alone the fruit

I keep the root in close

Company with the season

February 14

Today, half of the world

Is stained with drops

Of blood coughed

Out of love’s heart

While the other half

Is covered with withered

Leaves of roses

Thrown aside last year

Quartet of Rain

First in the shape of

West wind, you sweep

Over the whole landscape

                

Then like invisible birds

You perch on every tree and roof

Chirruping above the season

Later, filling in every hole

And crevice on the ground

You deliver justice to all surfaces

Finally with your sliver lines

You throw hooks deep into human hearts

To catch the fish swimming in darkness

Meeting

The other day I ran into an old friend

Of mine, who looked into my eyes

Without saying a single word, or

Even moving his tiny pupils. In this

Uneasy silence, I felt his vision

As sharp as needles from an untrained

Acupuncturist. Several minutes later

He uttered a caw and fled into twilight

His shadow as dark as a bad omen

His call as harsh as Munch’s scream  

On the Freeway

Driving through a forest

I saw a deer

Standing alone still

Like what I wish to watch

From his godly position:

Every human is so busy

Passing by

Cap

Decorated with diamonds

The high crown can be put

On the head of an emperor

Or a beggar

While every pheasant is

A true king or queen

With its fleshy crest

Mother’s Call: For Liu Yu

I love the way you address me, Mom

Ming er (or son ming), the only name

You have used since I was a toddler

In fact, you have never called me

By my school name when I was

A student, or even when I became

A renowned teacher; nor did you

Do so by my pen name after I won

Nine nominations as a writer. No matter

Whether it is before my family, my friends

My fans or foes, you just call me

Ming er, even though I am now almost

A perfect grandpa in my own right

Yes, I love the way you address me, Mom

And please continue to address me exactly

Like this, in the same way as any god or goddess

Would call me, the one and the same name

That reminds me of my selfhood

My true being inside out

Tree Scars

With your fingers, hands

And even arms cut off

You have scars all over

Your body, which first

You used to protest against all human pain

And injury in deafening silence, then

Your mouths became eyes staring still

At each evil knife, each inhuman act

Now you are looking forward, and beyond

Without a wink, without a tear drop

The Crow in the Snow

A baby crow

Just beginning to look for

Food on its own

Pecking around

As quietly

As the snowfall itself

Perhaps to pin its hope for spring

Or to measure the depth

Of winter

The only living creature

Hatched out of winter

Bold, palpable as in a Chinese painting

Crows against the Snowfall

Beyond the church

Close to the skyline

Several crows

Flapping together

With myriads of snowflakes

Then flying, from bough to bough

As their blackness was

Engulfed by the wintry spirits

And the snowy purity

Becomes crystalized  

On the painting

The Moth

A moth flying against the window

Inside is the reality

Outside the vision

One try, another, a third

And indefinitely

Like Lao Tse’s dao

The moth keeps trying

To fly into the vision, the virtual

Reality, while all the pain

And confusion are left close

Behind its death

In the Quietude  

I know how it sounds when

A seed breaks out of soil

The cherry tree flowers

In my backyard, the shade

Engulfing the road, the snowflakes

Kissing the land, the leaves

Returning to the root, and the hope

Impressing deeply

Onto the slate of heart. Yes, I know

How it all sounds when you

Fail to hear the music of nature

Or the cries of man, the sounds

That you can never imitate, but I can

Paint with my inner fingers

On a blank sheet of rice paper

The Leaf from the Olympus

One day in my previous life

I picked a leaf from a laurel tree

On the peak of Mt Olympus, and

Put it in between two pages

Of an unread poetry collection  

Now, opening the long-forgotten book

I spot a bird flying from behind

The leaf. Though it has been

Prisoned there for almost half a century

It chooses to fly into the sky of history

The instant it sees the light

I Have Three Keys

One is for my jalopy corolla

Another for my rented room

And the third

For the narrow closet

In the corner of my heart

I dare never open it

In case I should lock myself in

The Tree and the Bird

The bird has told the tree

Many stories about the sky

And the freedom of flight

While the bird has to return

To the tree for the night, the tree

Keeps flying against the winds

With its green feathers

High above its skeleton

Fishing

With the bait of fresh leaves

And the hook of the whole season

The trees have been standing in a line

For almost half a century

Trying just to get a single salmon

Out of the stream

Looking Forward

Zip open the horizon, and

Light will gush out

With the dreams

Of tomorrow

Hope

Is my shadow

Following me around

Everywhere

The higher

The longer

When night approaches

And engulfs all shadows

I close it like a pair of wings

And keep it deep in my heart

The Survival of the Fittest

Low on the ground, you

Fill in every hole and crack

Or any container for water

High above in the sky, you

Drift as freely as clouds, feeling

Comfortable in every space

In between heaven and hell, you

Are with or against any

Direction a wind may take

Now in the depth of winter, you

Hung from the roof of every house

Accommodating every dream we have

Just Another Fallen Leaf

Caught in a twig

You hung on there

Not only to welcome new leaves

But to embrace life like the tree

Time

[As the most frequently used noun in English today, is the word ‘time’ the right name for languange to go right in the Confucian way?]

Which that begins all ends and ends all beginnings while progressing indefinitely within or without space.

Yes, that is time, time after time, time of the essence, time for celebration, time to pray, time to amend the constitution, time to talk about the future, time to lose, time for a change, time on her hands, time on your side, crunch time for dark matter hunt, long time no see, high time to go to bed, big time for a practical joker crossword, no time like the present, or good time to know Amondawa people living deep in the Amazonian rainforests of Brazil have no concept of time…

 

Lianhua nao

Before we get up after celebrating

The spring festival with dumplings and

Firecrackers, we come upon a convergence

Of folk rituals: there is a lianhua performer

Visiting our cottage

One man from a neighboring village began

To sing about the good harvest

For the year of the monkey

Then another from a farther village chanted

About more sons grafted onto the family tree

Then a third from an unknown village

Yelled about all the peace and prosperity

We may hope to deserve

As we handed over a red envelop of gift money to him

A voice from my heart rhymes with their costly wishes

A Whitewashed Wish

Rather than a popular singer

To win applause and money

As his or her song is absorbed by walls

And clothes among audiences

You would be a Munch screamer

Standing high on a hill top

Shouting above the very

Top of your voice

Simply for a tiny echo

From the depth of the valley