[archived]: East Idioms-2 by Changming Yuan ©

Therapeutic Chan-Poems (5): Sky-Reaching Mudra

Like a universal dam broken

Vast bodies of heavenly light

Burst, bursting out

Pouring right onto my body

Splashing into myriads of inspirations

Falling, penetrating my inflated selfhood

Cleansing each cell of my brain

My chest, my belly

every corner of my inner being

filling in my whole body

as it gets thicker and thicker

Until all my cells and senses

Dissolve into nothingness

Under the lightfall

Therapeutic Chan-Poems (6): Round-Reaching Mudra

As her arms keep moving

Around an invisible sun

In front of her belly

From the smallest circle to the biggest

From the biggest circle to the smallest

In alternative directions

She finds her body of celestial light

Breaking into ever thinner and smaller pieces

Like cloud shreds

Flowing, drifting around

Vanishing into the sky

Vanishing into heaven

Therapeutic Chan-Poems (7): Authentic Fire Mudra

Purest energy

Purest spirit

Keeps burning

Inside her womb

Like a bold and brilliant ball

Like an inner sun

Its light evaporating her entire body

Into a thin mist of light

Slowly vanishing into the heavens 

Although its shape still remains

Around her tiny spot of consciousness

With her palms put together against her naval

She witnesses her own soul

Spiraling, dancing

Between the fire and the light

Therapeutic Chan-Poems (8): A-Mi-Te Mudra

Palms against each other

Fingers pointing to your central forehead

Keep yourself upright

And from under your lowest vertebrae

Drive out of a gourd-shaped mouth

These heavily voiced syllables:

A-

Mi-

Te-

As well as all the negativity

Within your body

And every evil spirit

Trying to possess your fate

As a wide curtain of light

Reddish and yellowish

Shoot up high to the sky

From behind your lower back

Universal Compassion: the Chan Prayer

While sitting in meditation

I dispatch all the cells within my body

As many as 100 trillions

(Each containing

A whole set of my genetic codes)

Into all the spaces

Within or without the cosmos

Now I command:

Let each of my cells

Each of my selves

Lead a particular celestial body

To join in a common wish:

Bless my family

Bless my neighborhood

Bless my race

Karma-Converted  

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

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

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

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

Inner Drought*

           

In this lower mainland, rain is the order

Of the day: while the drizzle moisturizes

Dreams and drama alike, storms have filled

Every crack and crevice with seasonal juice

But deep in your body has been a drought

Persisting ever since your birth, no plant

Grows green enough, no bird comes to perch

On a bough, all pipes and rivulets dry

Oh, for a rich rain to moisten and irrigate your

Inner fields, your cells, your nerves, your hopes

I would sacrifice my fatherhood, provided you

Could take a shower in the open, with your spine

Stemming straight like a strong young tree

*My 16- year-old son Allen has had a disc problem since 2008, which has resulted, according to traditional Chinese medicine, from the internal ‘dryness’ he was born with.

East Idioms (1)

a/

All the animals of the jungle

Flee in fright from the little fox

As it carefully stalks behind

In the tiger’s shadow

d/

A dog begins to bark at the sight

Of a shadow that seems shivering

Then all the dogs in the neighborhood

Jumped into a chorus like crazy

m/

It is the magistrate that indulges himself

In random arson in broad daylight

But prohibits local residents from lighting a lamp

Even in the heart of the night

t/

The oak tree longs to stand still

Or sit in deep meditation

Yet the wind would never stop

Trying to uproot or remove it

East Idioms (continued)

d/

the moment a bold pupil is dotted

inside each of its handsome eyes

the painted dragon jumps alive

and flies high above the sky

f/

when the lofty fir begins to dwarf

all other trees in the same forest

it will be knocked down flat

by the first storm at night

l/

deeply buried under the dirty silt

the lotus root is pure and clean inside

you break it into pieces widely apart

yet they still remain connected by the silk

n/

three days after the nightingale flew away

its calls are still circling around every tree

with its songs squatting at each leaf tip

like a dewdrop refusing to fall onto the ground

s/

on the bare ground, with a broken twig

she drew a picture of the serpent

as lively as her own tongue

except for some feet added, though pretty

East Idioms (cont. 3)

In Handan/

In their fondest hope to walk as gracefully as handsomely as the residents of Handan

People swarm in from every part of the country to learn and practice the ‘capital steps’

But many have failed to learn the new steps while others forgot their old ways

So they all have to crawl back on their fours to where they originally came from

Bell Stealing/

To prevent the sound from being heard

As he tries to steal the only bell in the village

The thief stops his own ears with thick cotton

Believing that no one would find him out

Loss of the horse/

On a snowy evening a poor old frontier tribesman 

Lost his horse, the only means of living he had

While everybody still felt sorry for him a week later

The horse returned home with another one wild

East Idioms (4)

Mr Ye/

Instead of God, Money, Computer, Sex or Art, he believes in Dragon only

He loves the legendary animal so much so that he paints it on every surface he can find

Deeply moved by his devoted passion, a real dragon comes down to visit him  

But no sooner has he seen its face than he jumps to flee, with his pants all wet with fright

Ms Dongsi/

Every time she walks in public, she tries hard to press her belly and frown her brows

Exactly in the same way as does Xisi the most beautiful woman in the whole country

For her, this is the trendiest thing to do to win herself some lovers or admirers

For Xisi, this is a gesture she cannot help making while suffering from a physical pain

Mr Fool/

To remove the two big mountains blocking the way to or from his home

The old man uses a spade to dig away the dirt and gravel day by day

Isn’t it much simpler just to relocate you own family house, says Mr Smart

But so long as we persist, the mountains will be gone some day, he replies

East Idioms (5)          

1/ at a waterfront pavilion you can readily

fetch the moon in its clearest reflection

just like the plants facing towards the south

always the first to feel the breath of spring

2/ only by living close to lakes or rivers

can we make friends with fish and shrimps

those living far away from hills or mountains

can never hear the original songs of birds

3/ thanks to the trees our ancestors

planted long time ago, we can now

enjoy all the coolness of their shades

under a scorching summer sun

4/ just before the sun rises

he pulls up every seedling

a little bit higher in his field

so as to have a harvest sooner

East Idioms (6)

The Daoist Alchemist

Instead of turning brass into gold or sand into diamonds, the alchemist refines soil, air and sunlight into an immortality syrup. While gulping down the newly made elixir in a hurry, he accidentally spills a few drops of the holy dew onto the ground, which his dogs, cats and chickens struggle hard to lip at the first sight. As the alchemist launches himself for a higher life in heaven, all the animals in his humble house thus begin to rise, certainly underneath him. 

The Guizhou Donkey

The first of its kind that had ever appeared in the mountains of Guizhou, the donkey gave a deep impression to all local animals at the beginning. Terror-stricken, even the tiger came to pay his respect and offer his kingship to the newcomer, since he had such an imposing statue as well as such a high-pitched voice. Later, the tiger found the donkey capable of doing nothing other than kicking to defend himself or offend his enemy. With this happy realization, the tiger tore the new king into pieces and ate him up the third time he passed by.

East Idioms (7)

1/ Once he gets a full taste of the idea

He forgets the words that contain it

Just as the angler forgets his fishing rod

After he gets the carp off his little hook

2/ He enjoys playing

His harp to the cows

Because only they can

Appreciate his artistry

3/ The moment he hears of Zong’s death

He throws his zither into a big fire

Knowing no one else would ever

Be able to understand his music

4/ Far to the west and long time ago

Did the crane fly away from the wall

Here it was once boldly painted

Here its shadow is still fluttering now

East Idioms (8)

1/ So long as the green mountain is still out there

There is no worrying about want of firewood

2/ The itch is worse when scratched from outside the shoe

The flower would be fairer if looked at from behind the fog

3/ The oak desires to remain still

But the wind must keep blowing

4/ Rather to be a jade broken to pieces

Than to be a tile unharmed as a whole

5/ The Sichuan dog barks at the rising sun

As it seldom appears in this rainy season

6/ The mantis tries to catch the cicada in the front

While a shadowy oriole is stalking it close behind

7/ The couple sleeps closely on one and the same bed

Their dreams are as widely different as day and night

The Clay Tripod

Close to the bank of the Yangtze River

Sits an unearthed tripod

That has embraced

Spring water

Burning incense

Sesame oil

Rice wine

Perfume

And opium

The tripod is none other than you 

But what is the tripod?

Lexical Tourism

            (for Bill Holm)

You do not speak that language

Neither have you been to their country

But within the territory of our English vocabulary

You can easily find who they are:

            They enjoy playing mahjong in a casino

            They are afraid of typhoon

            They kowtow to show their respect

            They fight with kungfu skills

            They believe in fengshui

            And now they have their own taikongnauts

Visiting these lexical spots

You will witness the way they work and play

Mahjong Marching

            When a crow chats with another crow intimately, or a dog writes poetry on my frosted lawn, can we still see ourselves as humans capable of ‘modern behaviour’?

hongzhong (Red Middle)

While my mind tries to find a way

Out of the labyrinth

Walled with thick wishes

My body is left behind, wandering 

Like a headless fly flying around

In a vast desert, another labyrinth, unwalled

facai (Prosperity)

As the whole world keeps running amuck

in its thin and pale dreams drifting like mists

I stand still, watching in dark stillness

Afraid to awake and shock

All the dreamers at midnight

To a shameful death

baiban (Whilte Board) 

Since my parents hurriedly

Put this yellowish ticket into my hand

I have been trying, trying really hard

To catch the right bus

Running fast somewhere

Before it expires shortly

Personal Politics

I

Me

Myself

The present writing subject

The Chinaman with initials ‘CY’

The clone of my entire being inside out

The living creature sin-numbered as 646095889

The biofather of George and Allen

The lifelong bedmate of a woman named Hengxiang Liao

The author of this sensible nonsense

A statistic, waiting to be

Posthumously digitalized

And what else?

Yellow Comedy

Using my yellow tail

I yellow-swam

From the Yellow River

As a yeast of the yellow peril

Against the yellow alert

In yellow journalism

With a yellow hammer

And a yellow sheet

I yielded to the yellow metal

At a yellow spot

Half a million yards away from Yellowknife

People call me Yellow Jack

Some hailed me as a yellow dog

When I yelped on my yellow legs

To flee from the yellow flu

Speaking Yerkish like a yellow warbler

I have composed many yellow pages

For a yeasty yellow book

To be published by the yellow press

Don’t panic, I yell low

Chanson by a Chinaman*

ching chong, chinee

chink, chinky, chonky

so was i called a dragon of barbarity

a born rogue holding the laws of truth in deformity

because i ate rats, dogs, slugs and snakes

i began with anything but genes of true humanity

ching chong, chinee

chink, chinky, chonky

so am i made a dead enemy of civility

growing grotesque against values in white reality

because i hate freedom as much as human rights

although i have the right to be a human entity

ching chong, chinee

chink, chinky, chonky

so will i be seen a species of non-conformity

an inflated satan beyond the borders of christianity

as long as i’m pig-eyed, crow-haired, the farthest other

i must be treated as a real demon only

*A parody on ‘Chanson for Canton’ (London: Punch, 1858), a telling example illustrative of the deeply-rooted and long-held western tradition to demonize China as culturally the most disparate Other.

Another Impasse

Writing from Vancouver West

To my former friends in China

I always feel hesitant

Whether to or not to use

The first person singular pronoun

As in ‘I do not really think so!’

Time and time again, they have

Unnecessarily reminded me of 

The biggest difference in language

Between the east and the west:

“There in English you always

Spell your favourite word ‘I’

In big bold italic upper case, however

Here we have really rarely

Employed the word even in poetry”

In their writing practice (probably too long)

They either drop the pronoun or replace it

With many an impersonal thing like:

The present writer, the writing subject

The unlearned, the uncouth one

The old person/body, the little human/one

The trivial/insignificant/unmentionable

The president/manager/[          ] proper

The person per se, or more precisely:

[Your] inferior, [your] subordinate

[Your] stupid husband/brother/son

[Your] foolish wife/sister/daughter

[Your] humble [          ], or less humbly:

As [your] father/mentor/lord…

Instead of standing up for an unmasked person

‘I’ should try to remain hidden like a taboo

In Chinese

Sell Liberation of Words’ Worth

Although with a broken pen soul

I am not writing tear ably or pointlessly

on the new clear issue for the magazine

run by a non-prophet society

set up on the basis of its members’ lie ability

To me, an operation would not secure but mean

a sentence to the peace in that infected area

As a banana author, I may lack a peel

but it is rarely better to turn left than to be all right

To avoid a rest, I’ve de sided to go fast on a weak day

then I will call my sun to rice in the mourning

after he falls in love at the first site

In deed, if we give the act an inch

it would become a ruler. Just like a life guard

I hope to keep all the buoys in line

With a film-like memory yet to be developed

I try to keep my head above the water

as I swim for word, yet I have no interest in the bank

Unlike a lawyer who may be debarred or a model

to be deposed, I’ll never become a poet to be decomposed

nor do I allow my train of thaw derailed; rather

I will commit sue side by continuing

to write worse or move in verse

The River and the Bridge

over that little meandering river

flowing anonymously from my boyhood

there used to be no bridge

but we could cross it anywhere, any time:

we rode a little ferry boat in spring

and nake-swam to the opposite bank in summer

when it became as dry as reeds and straw

we trudged a trail like a small stream

and when it was frozen with sand and gravel

we walked on the thickest ice we could find

not knowing how to ski

nor did we fear losing our balance

between boyish dreams and the cold winter

since I left Lianhuadang long ago

a bridge has been built

thus becoming the only place

and the only way

to get to the other side of that same river                                  

Well Well, the Well

In the lowest terrain of

My father’s native village

Used to be an old well

As deep as the memories

Of last century, around which

Boys would be running

At noon in summer

And girls dancing under the willow

At midnight, where my father

Often sat, listening to his sick mother

Telling stories about his unknown ancestors

The well finally ran dry

After God knows how long, and

Since electricity came across the hills

And ponds, nobody has returned to it

Except mosses and lichens that have colonized

The whole territory, where only my grandma’s ghost

Shines down from time to time

Trying to guard its walled-in secrets

Now as dry as its mouth

The White Goose

My grandfather was younger than my son

When he died of an undiagnosed disease

    Somewhere in the Mid-South China

So we have been told since childhood

He did nothing memorable or forgettable

    Left no picture of his or any handwriting

Not even one impression on my father’s senses

(since he was born after he passed away)

But he had bought a big white goose

To protect his infant son in his place

And a single-syllabled family name

Copywriting every little poem

I have composed

In a foreign tongue

The Death of a Chinese Widow

            (for Li Juying)

In a remote Chinese village

On a forgotten winter night

A 38-year-old poor woman

Tried hard to sit up noiselessly

Put aside rather than on her padded clothes

Crawled out of her frameless bed

And resolutely drowned herself

In a broken wide-brimmed water jug

Behind herself she left neither worth nor words

Except three teenagers who had been

Bullied and looked at with slanting white eyes

By their fellow villagers

(who bore the same family name)

Ever since their father died

Of an untreated disease

13 years before

Years later, her children understood

Why she killed herself

In a water jug on that night

Many years after she had been suffering

From a painful

But not fatal disease

Years later, her only son told me

Why my grandma

Chose to drown herself almost naked

On that cold night

Making Tea

Without a famous name

These little shy leaves

Coming afar from my father’s farm

Deep among fluffy hills

Like sleeping giant pandas

Sowing a few in my crystal glass

I see them budding

Blooming in boiled water

Taking a slow sip

I fall drunk as if in a stupor

With a tiny taste of

All the freshness of spring

And a whole morning glow Making Tea

Without a famous name

These little shy leaves

Coming afar from my father’s farm

Deep among fluffy hills

Like sleeping giant pandas

Sowing a few in my crystal glass

I see them budding

Blooming in boiled water

Taking a slow sip

I fall drunk as if in a stupor

With a tiny taste of

All the freshness of spring

Sunwashing

Never have I been a handy man

With my hands so too clumsy

Even to hold a hummer right

As my wife often jokes about them

But from my old man I did learn

How to make my home hygienic

By taking all bed clothing outside

On a good sunny Saturday

Opening all the doors and windows

To replace the abused air

Or even to remove the whole roof

                        If removable

So that my sons can dream

A sun-fresh dream at night

Just as I used to be so crazy

About the golden smell of sunlight

Reading behind the Words

Behind the words is there no meaning squatting

Except a bold row of cheerful cherry trees

Standing tall in front of my half-fenced house

That bloom for two weeks in a year only

Between spring and summer

Behind the words is there no emotion hidden

But a pair of little unsung yellow birds

Popping up from nowhere

One has flown far away from home

The other still learning to fly close to the nest

Behind the words is there no metaphor explored

But a black and white photo of my parents

Who are hospitalized alternately in China

For the imbalance between yin and yang

A disease both blood-related  

The Knitted Vest

(for George Lai Yuan)

son, this is not a fancy

or fashionable garment

but a deep rooted gift

for your first departure from home

from your foreign grandma

quite alive beneath your feet

on the other side of earth

who you know neither speaks

your adopting language

nor wants to write you anything

that needs to be translated

but she has hand-knitted

needle after needle

needle after needle

with vegetable-dyed wool

all she means to say to you

(at the aged shiny kitchen table

in the middle of a rice field

on the bank of the yangtse river

or below the yellowish family album)

into this simple and solid clothe

which she tells me to retell

will support your bare back

during your flight in the sky

warm your homesick heart

between cold sights of strangers

against the heavy daily loads

just like the worn-out one

i am still wearing even today

as her little ageing boy

who has traveled thus far

Fatherly Fear 

            (for Allen Qing Yuan)

how much

just how much love should I show you, Son

I do not know, I only know

how I had tried

how I’d persisted in having you as my second child, a lifelong companion to your bro

how I had found the greatest joy in merely seeing you after each long and hard day

but I never meant for you to have been

36 days prematurely born, and to have begun

Suffering so much when you were only 12 years old, suffering

from a terrible inner drought, suffering

from bulged disks that cause you to walk like a cripple, suffering

from sciatic pain when you move around, suffering

from having to withdraw from your school's volleyball team, suffering

from lacking the confidence to emulate your elder brother, suffering

from your limitations to kick, jump, run, bend like your friends, suffering

from your inability to work outside home to earn your own money, oh Son

I do not know, I do not know how much love I should show to you:

if a bit too little, you would feel disappointed of my fatherly love

if a bit too much, I fear heavens would be so jealous as to take you away from me

indeed, how much

just how much love should I show you, Son

I do not know, I only know

after I die, my other self will stand right behind your back

wherever you are, whenever there is or there is no sunshine 

ready to protect you against all evil gods and ghosts

but while still alive, I do not know, Son

how much love I should show you:

if a bit too little, you might feel disappointed of my fatherly love

if a bit too much, I fear heavens might be so jealous as to take you away from me

Last Meet with My First Love

meeting you face to face

you seem to hide yourself

behind a fog in another world

separated by the pacific in between

you often look like the flower

blooming on my window ledge

have a blue dream

and you will see a little cloud

drifting around like me

near that borderline

I have packed you up tightly

into my backpack, the luggage

I cannot consign, or sent by mail

but carry it with me

close to my chest

you are neither light

nor heavy, but you will

occupy a solid space

in the closet of my heart

Class 761, Shanghai

So you are the second one

From the middle in the first standing row

In a world of black and white

Is this the girl squatting in the front

Who you might have pursued hard

But your pride and prejudice prevented you

The tall and handsome guy from a high-class family

Who suspected your poverty had made you a thief

Before he lost and found his fancy watch in the dorm

And your make-do friend is the third one

From the left in the second standing row, the nice guy

Who had a really hard time passing every single test

Wait, there is more to it –

Who is the guy that has become the vice president of Citigroup

And who is the girl that died a miser-multimillionaire in Seattle last year

What’s happened to the character library building behind all of you

Did they really convert it into a brilliantly decorated hotel

To accommodate your travelling alumni, rich or famous?

Dancing with Crane

I show her how to move her steps
But she’s much too timid
Worse still, she cannot coordinate with my movements
And
Although she dances with me, to an unheard melody
It’s her own music she’s dancing to

She likes the way I hold her
And
Even lets me kiss her shoulder from time to time
so richly white and velvety
But she always keeps me at bill’s length
Each time I come closer
She backs off with a glaring scream

What have I done so wrong?
What is in her mind?
Jumping off the stage
She shows her best, which is a scarlet crest
Like plum petals blown onto the wall of west
I beg her to return
And
So she did, but only to depart from me again

Outside the spotlight
She begins to beat her wide wings against my blue wishes
Her eyes sparkling, as if saying to me
I have my neck and legs
Both too thin and too long to be your partner here
In this cage-like hall
And
Worse still, she’s much too timid

Naming a Nation

At birth, we were given pet names

In school, we begin to have formal names

For some fame, we choose our own style names

Among friends and relatives, we are known by our nicknames

In the literate world, we use our hao or pen names

While we try naming ourselves with all glory and dignity

Foreign barbarians give us unnamed names:

Mangis, Chinks, Chinamen, Chinkies

Chinoiseries, Nuocs, Shina, Chinees

Ching Chong, Coolies

Even blue and grey ants

And so they call us names

In open defiance against Confucius

Our master teacher, our saint, our saga, our literary god

(O poor guy!) ever so obsessed with the Chinese idea: 

A proper name for a proper personality   

Worldly Affairs (7): A Chinese Portrait

Freedom or no freedom

Democracy or no democracy

Human rights or no human rights

That’s never the question

But give me face

Big face, full face, thick face

In front of all others

And

I

Will

Give

You

My

Soul

Behind their backs

Pidan Or Century Eggs, China

            According to recent  CNN iReporters, century eggs are one of the most challenging foods they have come across on their travels.

Often served with pickled ginger

As a pungent appetizer

Century eggs have been popular

Among all adult Chinese

For centuries and centuries

Though to their children they taste

More archaic, more rotten

Than they actually sound

Having been preserved in clay

For longer than an old season, these

Devil-cooked black eggs are

Readily welcome

In my native country

Where the older are always better

Mixed black is more attractive than pure white

Where what is ugly

Eerie, stinking

Can be cool, fresh

And damned delicious

The Loss of a Nation’s Identity

Neither Chinese foods

Nor Chinese parents

Nor the Chinese language

Nor our Chinese outlooks

Not even our Chinese names

Make us truer Chinese now

Just as all the Chinese

Born after the Song dynasty

Were no Chinese to Japanese, so

Each Chinese coming of age

After the Ming was no more

Chinese than another to Koreans

While to other westerners

We Chinese were never the Chinese

They had known or known about

Nay, we are indeed no longer

The Chinese our ancestors used to be:

During the Yuan, we became

A nation of slaves, less than animals

In our own land; during the Qing

We learned to dress ourselves up inside out

Like our conquerors with queues 

Since the opium war, we have been

Trying to modify, to remove

All our yellowish Chinese genes

Deeply coded within Chan

Within Confucianism

Within the one hundred flowers

That came to full blossom

Once upon a long time

Yes, we are offspring of ancient Chinese

We still eat and look like our ancestors 

But we are not Chinese any more

No more than Japanese, or Koreans

Who still use some ancient Chinese characters 

Fragile, Archaic China

They listen to you

Surprisingly

Which china are you talking about?

They wondered

Which china are you talking about?

You certainly know

If you please… one accosted you

Which china on the rise? He demanded

You are referring to the ‘sleeping giant’ in the east

The fattening hog to be slaughtered and divided

The country with an elephant’s body

But a chick’s heart

All china out of fashion, he commented

Shrugging his non-colored shoulders

But which china? He persisted

Really antic stuff? China made in Jingde Town?

You really like china?

Blue china? Ming china?

Or perhaps Song china?

You coughed in good will

You realize something

China is interesting to see

Only for its long history

Seeing the Dragon: A Parallel Poem

Did you see

Some creature seeming to loom

Somewhere above the jungle?

You find only part of the picture

Like an eerie-shaped piece

For a huge jigsaw puzzle

Or you never bother to look for the pieces

And put them into a whole

It is neither a boa nor a serpent

Nor a phoenix

Certainly not an eel

But a strange dragon rising up

Beyond the bluish bay

How come it turns out a dragon?

You feel it disgusting to the bone. Monstrousness

Is particularly despicable

At the side door of your mind

A heavy metal voice is knocking

Constantly:

So unthinkable!

So hatefully unthinkable

To see a real damned dragon!

Modern Mandarin-Speaker

The Chinaman you are

Is not what I heard

Though your speech is still single-syllabled

Four-toned

The Chinaman you are

Speaks a different mandarin now

Changed over time

Like pidgin

Making utterances

Bubbling and boisterous

That might hide

Your local accent

The Chinaman you are

Is not what I hear

Speaks with the same old pronunciation

But a new intonation

The Girl Who Danced with Democracy*

It was the same old story

Story of one meets many

Yes the same old story

Story of one meets many

The one is disabled

While the many enjoyed all the powers and freedoms

Like a sampan

Riding on a stormy sea

Against foams of prejudiced justice

Foams of jealous pride

Foams of fearful composure

Foams of hateful fraternity

Foams of selfish altruism

And foams of foams of ignorant knowledge

She was edging forward

Inch by inch

On a little wheelchair

Under breaking waves of quasi-lamas or lama supporters

Waves of frenzy political correctors

Waves of ill-focused professional cameras

And waves of waves of impulsive pinchers and grabbers

You remember how we watched her

Struggling like a strong coral tree

And we knew for that moment

She was more noble-minded than ever we would be

A Chinese girl carried the Olympic flame in Paris

The cradle and capital of our most advanced civilization

Where she danced with democracy

*As the 3^rd torch bearer for the Beijing 2008 Summer Olympics, Jin Jing was physically assaulted during the relay in France on 7 April although escorted heavily by the Police.

Drawing the Dragon

There was a contest
Once
For the most faithful representation
Of yellow loong,

(Or the Chinese dragon)

In England

An inflated Satan
Or was it Sua proper
Came to squat among
words

Then stroke by stroke, again
It rose right
Upon
Each slate of white

Mind

Directory of Directions

North: after the storm

            all dust hung up

            in the crowded air

            with his human face

            frozen into a dot of dust

            and a rising speckle of dust

            melted into his face

            to avoid this cold climate

            of his antarctic dream

            he relocated his naked soul

            at the dawn of summer

South:  like a raindrop

            on a small lotus leaf

            unable to find the spot

            to settle itself down

            in an early autumn shower

            my little canoe drifts around

near the horizon

            beyond the bare bay

Center:            deep from the thick forest

            a bird’s call echoes

            from ring to ring         

            within each tree

hardly perceivable

            before it suddenly

            dies off into the closet

            of a noisy human mind

West:   not unlike a giddy goat

            wandering among the ruins

            of a long lost civilization

            you keep searching

            in the central park

            a way out of the tall weeds

            as nature makes new york

            into a mummy blue

East:    in her beehive-like room

            so small that a yawning stretch

            would readily awaken

the whole apartment building

            she draws a picture on the wall

            of a tremendous tree

            that keeps growing

            until it shoots up

            from the cemented roof