holding so many gold dreams
2. you cover your face with cloudy gossamers
not really because you are too shy or timid
3. this world can never go without light
so you come even before the sun exits
4. when darkness rules over the earth
only you remain close to human life
5. you always keep a cold and hard distance
tho your tender fingers caress every soul
6. you give no warmth in winter
but you offer light at midnight
7. unlike flirting stars whose affection is never stable
you are always loyal to those truly in love with you
8. you know all the secrets of the moonless night
yet you never use them to blackmail the sunlight
9. you quietly withdraw from the scene in the morning
only to let the sun receive tribute from all worshippers
Reflections on the Road
the road that has few travelers is not always narrow
2. broad ways lead only to the foot of a tall mountain
it is thin trails that lead travelers to various peaks
3. there had been no roads in this world to begin with
they came into being after people began to travel
4. there are thousands of roads available to all
but you can choose only one to travel along
5. like bars falling down from the heavens
roads have chained the world into history
6. roads have neither starting or ending points
except stops and stations along either sides
7. there are no roads just as straight on earth
as those followed only by the human heart
8. no footprints can be found on broad highways
only on paths are they marked like milestones
9. while the straightest road can disappear
your steps will lead to your destinations
First From Behind the Bamboo Curtain
Look at this foreign moon above thee
Fuller or rounder it does seem to be
Than what thou used to have and see
Back in thy home and far beyond the sea
But can thou note even in her true glee
This moon is less bright and less free
Not that she is strongly attached to her he
But that she finds no love in thee and me
A Sonnet of Solitude
All along my rough, rough path
I am tired of running, running alone
Without either a break or a hearth
To nowhere but just my gravestone
Which only I know here and now
Is still lying afloat on the vast see
Of nothingness of oblivion of how
My travel has long been and will be
But ready to be devoured by a wave
When finally I drag myself to the beach
And have my first and last sight of a grave
Being the only meaningful I am to reach
Oh already tired I am very much so
How much farther could I farther go?
The Lonely Climber: A Seed Poem
you are tired, terribly tired
tired of climbing alone
upon an unknown mt quazilla
your sons refused to join you
feeling uncomfortable in your presence
your wife laughed at your childish idea
preferring not to share your eccentricity
your fellow travelers are relaxing in cozy cabins
enjoying a moment of borrowed privacy
indifferent to your intent or interest
you threw your clothes and sweat
onto the dusk dyed trailside
ready to present your naked soul to nature
happening to see a multicolored stone
you wonder if it was dropped by the philosopher
or left over by nu wa while mending the sky
encountering a curious and cautious deer
you sing above the top of your voice
your favourate songs of the past with tears
as if to blast your whole being against clouds
but the echo scares her away
reminding you of your lonely tiredness
===============================
hoping to get my own vision of the valley
i keep climbing, climbing and climbing
each time i manage to come upon a little slope
i found another edge higher ahead
i stopped, hesitated and looked back
more times than i can remember
i know there is nothing for me on the peak
except a few nameless wild flowers
or some new branches of an ancient tree
but i keep climbing, climbing and climbing
pushed by the inertion of life
=============================
it is not a problem of climbing or not climbing
nor a choice between two different roads
he will eventually lose sight of human footprint
but there will be a trail once he is there
all he wants to do is to forget the human fact
he cannot really escape but leave it behind
down at the foot of the mountain
for now
(aug.6, 2004)
In Stanley Park
tender, timid tulips
drinking the steamy sea smell so loud
even the haughty and moody hemlock firs
becoming muted, lost in their red
brownish memories of the native Rockies
(aug. 10, 2004)
I Love You, Dear Death
ever since pangu
separating the sky from the earth
all my poor fellow humans
have been hating
hiding from, or
fighting face to face with you
although in vain
but i love you, dear death
not because you are the more fair, and sincere
than any lover willing to declare
nor because you are the ultimate home
to any wandering soul seeking a dome
nor because you could even give one's name
a guaranteed immortal fame
i do not know how to count
the countless ways i love you
yet i have flirted with your shadow
hundreds of times in private
when i found it unbearable
every cutting pain in my body
when i was simply sick of the fact
life is full of the foul, or
when i lost the meaning and direction
of my dull and humble life
i love you, dear death
because only you can liberate my soul
from the stuffy prisonhouse and give me
the fresh air in the outside world
(aug.10, 2004)
Dead Is Hero
it took more than eighteen centuries
and a great philosopher to declare
god was dead
now even a sophomore in the street
can casually claim
hero is dead as well
does this mean man has reduced
to an antihero, a commoner
who will live of, by, and for his sole self?
(aug.13, 2004)
At the Station
we are all waiting
although not for the same bus
as shadows getting darker and longer
our faces becoming fuller of fear
yet more familiar to one another
still, there is no bus coming
the route may have been changed
probably an accident has occurred
i will miss my job interview
damn it, dogshit, ...
still, there is no bus coming
someone finally left in a taxi
a couple is walking away
several more are agitating
but i continue to stand still, waiting
still, there is no bus coming
no one likes wasting time on waiting
but i enjoy keeping hope still alive
even when there will be no more bus coming
(aug.15, 2004)
The Roses
a splendid present
from someone special
this pot of flowers
looking so drippingly fresh
full of dreamy tenderness
ever attractive to wild bees
flying against my window glass
watering with my wishes and worship
i fell in love with her vey soul
adding colors, grace and pride
to my dull and drab dwelling
even my wife becoming jealous
of my care and devotion
until my sharp-eyed little son told me
the flowers are a famous fake
so i threw it into a box marked free
during my neighbor's garage sale
(aug.25, 2004)
Bookmark
each time i travel
i bring this little book
like a magic messenger
sending me to the blue dreamland
after a long tiring day
between the sleepy pages
lying a maple leaf
a pretty piece of peace
a native nugget of nature
reminding of my chosen garden
home to lively plants
of all colors and textures
(aug.26, 2004)
Snail and grass
Without this big mountain
On my humble back
I could also travel
With grace and glory
like a crane or giraffe
on a greener lawn
beside the side walk
a little nameless grass
manages to stand up
each time after it is
trodden down under
a dirty and heavy shoe
Deep in the Mountain
hand in hand with a fluffy fog
walking alone upon a wordless mountain
is a rare luxurious thing to do in life
i cannot help hopping, jumping, singing
shouting and wallowing in the grass
with the blue sky surging high above
nature has turned me into a wanton
full of wild wonder and deep awe
forgetting where is my home at all
as i occasionally look up ahead
the mountain seems never to stop changing
from a bald hump to a shadowy castle
surely i can not see its true face
either because it has none to start with
or because i am too deep in its arms
(aug.20, 2004)
Money, for a Decent Human Life without You
a beautiful beam bride
a loyal but spoiled pet
a moody morbid master
a dull and dumb number
you are all this and more
a magic finger playing
upon every nerve ending
an endless thread woven
into the fabric of every feeling
you are all this, but above all
with a green back, a bleeding face
a coffin-like shadow. a totally tattooed body
you are the most vicious monster
man created in his own image
to drive himself to hell
just as god created man
to expel him from heaven
(aug.21, 2004)
A Fable
once there stood still
a tremendous oak tree
trying to enjoy dreaming her own dream
in her humble but hilarious way
suddenly a wild west wind
starting to blow her back bent
like a madly mating moose
never letting his sexual desire rest
unable to stand straight up
she shrugs off her broken branches
(aug.23, 2004)
The Fraser River
unlike the far more famous nile
surging ahead with sweat of old africa
or the much mightier huanghe
bursting with torrential tears of all china
from glamorous glaciers deep in the rockies
you are perfectly pure to breasfeed my vancouver
the super sweetheart of north america
(aug.30, 2004)
Life of Paradoxes
this is a bewildered
and bashful bat
seeing with its ears
flying without feathers
biting, chewing, and sucking
instead of beaking or pecking
dreaming on its back
more than on its belly
although a perfectly normal mammal
he has been trying hard
to make a bird's living
never wanting to deceive
nor attention to receive
forgetting all human associations
i wonder one thing about this bat
are you a little comic error of nature
or rather a tragic wonder of life?
(sept.2, 2004)
The Cup of Life
fragile
never full
this cup of life
its taste changed completely
with only one droplet of dreamwater
staring at it square
holding it tight against light
not a single drop spilt
but all the colors missed
along my way here
rich and brilliant
(sept.2, 2004)
Global Warning
it is not so much
carbon doxide from metal pipes
as more and more
fret, frenzy and friction
that burst out into the sky
making the whole world
dangerously warmer
(sept.19, 2004)
Theory of Relativity
i have been the very center
of the universe so infinite
ts frontier is not farther
than where am i
(sept. 21, 2004)
Happiness
this is an ancient secrete recipe
promethus stole from the olympias
where it is particularly popular:
a whole open mind
a good natured heart
in addition to
a weak wish
for what you do not have
& a strong sense of satisfaction
with what you already have
(sept.16, 2004)
The Dream
like a superstitious stream
not too wildly wide
but you cannot simply cross it
without a raft or a canoe
nor too dangerously deep
but you may easily get drowned
if unable to keep afloating on the water
nor too radically rapid
but the current is often swift enough
to carry you far away to nowhere
(sept.17, 2-004)
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
(sept.17, 2004)
Writing a Poem
put your sensitivity
into the jug of life
soak it really deep
under the spring water
of your imagination
let the sunshine
do the whole work
you do not need
to go to the city of phoenix
for a cup of suntea
the most natural and nutritious drink
to a thirsty soul
(sept.4, 2004)
Freedom vs Power
each time i come to stand on the beach
my mind eager to break from my body
flapping its wishful wings
chasing the silver seagull
gliding high above in the beaming blue sky
like a pair of ice dancers
as i enjoy this truly rare moment
of total freedom borrowed from a bird
i overhear the wind whispering at my ears:
being able to do what you prefer to
is a persistently pursued privilege on earth
but being able not to do what you would rather not
is the ultimate savings deposited in heaven
(aug.31, 2004)
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
(sept.13, 2004)
What Am I
in a degitalized world
i have lost all my fashionable clothes
except as a 100% naked number
dull, dumb but beautifully deformed
often wondering among piles of statistics
which set of numbers is my true self
my dl, my sin, my pin, or #?
(sept.15, 2004)
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
i’ve 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
i’ve 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
(aug.16, 2004)
The Bridge Rock in Mt Columbia
among the mighty massive roars
full of wild wonders and deep awe
i come to worship this bridge-like rock
carved with icy chisels of glacier water
powerfully pounding
constantly cutting
a masterpiece out of the primitive
with no sense of design or purpose
nor intended expression of any feelings
nor embodiment of scientific principles
totally ignorant of my humble presence
under my feet is a wooden bridge
simple, but solid as a superb set
of symmetries, a perfect human artifact
where i stop and then step down
to overhear God's whispers
(aug.17, 2004)
Canadian Winter
unlike the proud Prometheus
you stole from an unknown paradise
the white seeds of pure peace
sowing them tender and graceful
with softly solid stillness
in a dry and dreaming land
are you blessings bountiful from high above
or just muted wishes deep in our hearts?
(aug. 18, 2004)
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
(sept.10, 2004)
In the Forest of Life
like an open cage
like a free hotel
my balcony has become a home
to many wild city birds
pigeons philosophizing in private
seagulls stalking with arrogance
crows beaking at unseen seeds
sparrows quarreling non-stop
on the branched-out railings
behind the dusk dyed wall
sometimes all alone
more often in company
looking out of my wingless window
i find myself to be one of them
coming to perch here by chance
but ready to flee by need
(sept.11, 2004)
Day in Day out
each time the clock agitates
there are tens of thousands
that let out loud cries
about the boiling pain of being borne
just as so many others
who cannot help cold-sweating
with the fever and fret
of a commonly unknown disease
unlike you and me
each time the sun rises
there are tens of thousands
who will never get up
to greet the morning glow
just as so many others
who can no longer go to bed
to continue their rosy dreams
under the moon-painted roof
like you and me
each time the dew drops
there are tens of thousands
whose backs bend a bit more
pushed down by an unspotted hand
just as so many others
whose countless troubles and traumas
make them tremble with despair
yearning for a sunny spell
you and me
(sept.12, 2004)
Siamese Stanzas: Relativism
deep in an undiscovered mine under the forked footsteps
the diamond feels sad of numerous mountain climbers
about its light being buried the rock is shining with smile
as I stand
at the very center
of a whole universe
so infinite
its frontiers are
no farther than
my closest neighbors
if an
collage
several sunsets ago
when I was looking for something
I found a collage
made with foil, crayon and megabites
carefully kept between the pages
of our favoured family book
reminding my little allen
where he an locate
this chip of childhood
when he grows up
and feels like looking back for moment
surely, his collage is very different
from what I used to make
when I was his age
in a nameless village never mapped
surreptitiously, I buried a handful
of soil, seeds and stalks
deep under an unknown tree
hoping someday a big miracle
or a small wonderwork
would somehow be hatched out
I awaited, for many years
before my son was finally begotten
Half Truths about Hotels
1. Earth is the only all-star hotel we can find on our journey to the other world.
2. The most luxurious presidential suite is but another prison house for the privileged.
3. With or without a view, one hotel room is just as shabby a shelter for the soul as another.
4. A heart unoccupied is a hotel for rent, while a house for sale is never a home.
5. Some suites are more desirable simply because they have more doors than walls.
6. Every hotel is a blue cage hung high up in the tree of time.
7. All hotels are God’s rental properties on earth.
8. In the closet of every hotel room hides some luggage packed into the traveler’s heart.
9. The hotel is more attractive than the home to the immigrant because one does not need to worry about mortgage or maintenance.
10. What really accounts for your sojourn in the hotel is the way you check out rather than the way you check in.
The Meditating Mind
Be a bare buoy
Beneath
Beside
Between and
Beyond …
the mortgagor
he has plenty of words
with which to build a huge house
yet he has neither wit nor worth
powerful enough to stir the hardened heart
of his ever friendly account manager
who would readily offer generous loans
only to those who can prove
they actually have enough cash
to buy more than ten houses
with his net assets writ in water yet
where can he find a willing creditor?
China Charms: Tao Yuanming’s Song
In the twilight, amidst a few clusters of wild chrysanthemums, a man in his early thirties is playing a delicate instrument looking like a zither. Chanting, crying and smiling, he is so lost that he seems to have poured all his being into this single song of his. Among his audiences are a couple of humans obviously charmed by his music, for all their spirits appear to be dancing to its rhythm. Amazed by this autumn scene, I approach them and, to my little surprise, I find the singer’s instrument to be nothing more than a solid chunk of wood, with no string at all.
Note: Tao Yuanming (365-427), first and greatest nature poet in the long history of Chinese literature, resigned from his government post and became a peasant simply because he found it unbearable to “bow [to others] for the sake of five dou of rice [for his salary].”
Streamwater
you do not want to stay
at your bursting origin
and become vaporized
within the stagnant pool
you prefer to roll ahead
flowing at will with full freedom
no matter whether it means
you have to exile
or to be exiled
by your dear root source
you often hit rocks
tumble over boulders
or straddle ridges
yet you know it is exactly they
that give you a crystal voice
Pippa’s Lament
a newly liberated butterfly
beating her wings against the freshness of flowers
--no eye sees
a speckled-faced village boy
shouting loud at his dirt-free future in his dream
--no ear hears
a thick summer sunbeam
warming a flat stone in the heart of the forest
--no finger feels
a rich and brilliant dish
lying on the big table in an empty monstrous house
--no tongue tastes
a blood-stained sea breeze
blowing afar from an island beyond the horizon
--no nose smells
no one knows god is not in heaven
nor is all well with this worthy world
The Maozhu Grower
Weeding, watering, fertilizing
Constantly toiling and moiling
That is everything
He has been doing
Ever since he planted his maozhu
An obscure chinese bamboo breed
Though it has repeatedly refused
To show to the staring eye
Any sign of green growth
For up to five long long years
He never expects to sit someday
Under its shade slaked deep in summer
Nor has he ever halted to hope
After a rainy night his only child might
Shoot out of earth ninety feet tall
Within just a few thick weeks of all
To the Homeless
neither the first fallen
from the overcrowded tree
as spring's sole prophet
nor the last against night
hanging on like a soldier
bayoneting with the whole winter
you are nothing more or less
than an introvert leaf
stalking in summer's shadow
face faded, body forlorn
you are a lonely being, being alone
wandering around in a whirlwind
rolling over the bumpy roof
passing by the wet threshold
or sleeping beside the road sign
you never care when to disappear
or where you have come from
except your dreams frosted
in a forged fog
before the unseeing eyes
betwixt the city's pitiful noises
you seem a sad withered soul
dyed with heavy dusk
waiting to witness
the ever hardening of autumn
but right now who knows
deep in you unwalled heart
you are flirting with the freedom
found only in a permanent house?
Rhapsody of Night Sky
A cosmic mirror
Smashed into small
And bright dots of light
Most of them become
So stained with time
Until darkness grows
Thick enough to glue
Earth with heaven
With debris possessed
Still glistening high above
Among hardening silences
Here at the Seashore
All roads and trails
Have come to a hasty end
All hills and mountains
Have sunk into the bottom
And all trees and flowers
Have retreated themselves
Except a solitary seagull
Soaring high above
His blue call resonates
With the foamy song of the sea
Rain and Poetry
outside
it is raining
raining again
in vancouver
inside
i am trying
trying again
to write poetry
raining / writing
writing / raining
until somehow
they are related
within my room
just rented
Grammatical Groundwork
in the overly exploited mine of vocabulary
he digs deep into the ores hard and shiny
at the heavily guarded garden of syntax
he keeps pruning his trees dripping with green
among the wildly running crowds of syllables
he skillfully cowboys his colts cute and lively
The Portrait of a Young Mountain
when I first see you
you are nothing more or less
than a muted mountain
massive, mighty and monumental
a solid thesis statement
made by mother nature
then you seem to grow
slimmer or slenderer
than your true shape
as I try to translate
both your body and spirit
into an antithesis of artwork
with my brushes and palette
to authenticate your whole being
i look at you once again
and find you no darker or brighter
than what you exactly were:
a muted mountain
a simple synthesis
of you and me
The Land Paintings at Nasca
long lost on the barren sandy land
few folks have ever seen you as figures
drawn with bare hands of aliens perhaps
or even forgotten gods from another world
nothing but simple run-on sentences
rambling from somewhere to somewhere else
unedited, unmodified and unfootnoted
just light lines scratched on brown ground
like an ancient labyrinth suddenly flattened
framed with all metaphoric possibilities
too vague and sketchy to make any sense
for the lazy and myopic minds of men
casually walking in your blind spots
unless they can see you from high above
where they might wonder how and why
you have too few viewers privileged
to make you a familiar human scene
During their Dialogues
Behind the words they exchange
Hides a wild snow-covered animal
It seems like a sleek but wounded panther
Squatting under the thick bushes of syllables
Stop and listen with their cagey minds
They can smell its bleeding sighs
But neither of them has seen its true face
As it occasionally appears and disappears
The Jug of Life
fragile
never full
this cup of life
its taste changed completely
with only one droplet of dreamwater
staring at it square
holding it tight against light
not a single drop spilt
but all the colors missed
along my way here
rich and brilliant
In the Library
amidst the stony silences
so dense and heavy
even time seems
to have dozed off
i hold my sneeze
until a stranger neighbor
happens to drop
onto the unfootnoted floor
a thick book of human history (?)
filled with echoless voices
Passing by God’s Residence
beyond the fence with barbed wire
i saw the windows all like portholes
half closed for blind bats or flying moths
while the only door is widely open
for any creature larger than a cat
i smelt a loud light from the kitchen
appealing to both my sense and soul
when a heavenly voice called loudly:
come on in, i will give you
whatever you have desired
yet as i approached the huge house
i could not help wondering:
how can my human body manages
to crawl through the door designed for dogs?
Chimney
as more fireplaces begin to burn
electricity instead of wood
fewer chimneys are left over
as throats to be cleared
allowing us to cough out
all stained stuffs such as
black hatred
foul words
poisonous curses
and evil plans
on a lightless night
weaved with winter winds
our houses becoming tidier
the air seems much clearer
but our climate is getting
warmer and warmer
as we keep installing
more modern conveniences
in the rooms of our minds
Two Street Trees
so very close
you grow together
your green arms
branching almost into
each other’s hearts
both beside the fast lane
among tied silences
but like two stubborn rails
never interlinking
no matter how far
you have traveled along
your mouthless trunks
always remain separate
although in between
there is no wall
no fence for defense
not even a yellow leaf
Double Conquering
just like the unknown birds
whose little flapping wings
stroke into blue beating
our forefathers’ featherless minds
fluttering high and afar
until we have started to conquer
the crystal worlds in the outer space
can we hope to do the same
to our inner space ever forbidden
with the unmeaning manifestation
of nature, such as another creature
or perhaps some nameless plant?
To the Unknown Musician at A Subway Station
at this serene spot of dark time
right at the corner of the eye
of all the pell-mell
the sound and fury
of a busy crazy city
you remain courageously composed
totally lost in the ecstasy
of your own voiceless song
for the compartmentalized drama of life
rolling on the railway of human inertia
no passengers know who you are
few even bother to stop and tell
if you are playing a chopin or yanni
or one of your improvisations
nor do you care who your audiences are
(if there are any at all)
or if anyone has the right ears
or the right mind
for the melody of your whole being
but among the tens of thousands
of nameless and faceless passers-by
I for one feel your fingers
playing with so much power
on the strings of my heart
my soul begins to cry
with deeply felt joy and wonder
as you are turning
(although without intention)
one of my life’s dullest episodes
into a most poetic moment
No comments:
Post a Comment