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...
Monday, 6 August 2018
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)