November 2016 Vol. I No. V
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
If good coffee (or just the concept of coffee), great books, sharp wit, and great authors excite you, we are for you!
with S. Ye Laird
Part A. Translating Mao Jing 茅境
(active 2005 - 2008 on internet)
* The Future is not ours to see
You may never know for sure
After this gust of wind,
There isn't going to be more ...
Of course, the wind blows.
What I meant to ask is this:
What has a gust of wind done to your hair ?
Has it knocked you down on the ground?
Or has it uprooted you in the mid air,
crushed your bones and made
your liver, stomach, intestine and lung
stormed down like bullets
hard hitting on that roof top?
* A crow waits on me
One day, my parents will depart this world,
my siblings may travel afar
my dear wife, sooner or later, shall desert me
as I am hanging on
my irresistable downtrodding.
But if on that day,
there still sits a crow
crowing on top of the television broadcasting tower
it gives out a sound
more piercing and cold than my sneer, then
there is hope that people see
this ugliest crow takes a sip of water
after its long flight, and
waits on me.
* A claymation of immigrant workers
he toils in the field
he sleeps in the field
boundary between human and nature
becomes fuzzy and indiscriminatory
flesh and soil
come together, become your chunk of clay
soul and nature
indiscernable and inseparable.
This clay falls into the jaw of wolves and dogs
it turns into human flesh
This clay placed under an iron bar
it becomes a head over a slumpy shoulder
when this clay was lost and died
it returns to its earthly form.
There are cracks between this clay and that one
people rush in and rush out
the color of their eyes is the gloomiest kind
and I dared to take a closer look
it's made, - again
out of my native chunk of clay!
* Memorial and Thanksgiving Day
a pile of bones
a pound of flesh
stood up, cried out, motherland!
a stab of cracked stone
a chunk of rusty iron
formed an opening -
a fountain-head draining down bloody wine
the concrete pavement that year
it soaked up blood, now
it filled with tears, and voices
lamenting all year then
lamenting all day today
in the city of my forbidden palace
cold rain, cold wind
trivial footsteps in the courtyard
walking aimlessly tonight
breathless voiceless souls
returning home, tonight.
The Emperor, despise
his shadow, 'cause his and commoners'
are the same.
their shadows. 'cause being stepped on
is no fun.
Somebody has no shadow
so he was stoned to death by others
they believe he must be a ghost
only ghost has no shadow.
why not be a ghost?
no more being stoned to death by others.
why not be a ghost?
no more frightened by shadow yourself
on the wall, two shadows
stacking up against one another
is it lover and hater, kissing
that missing shadow of a ghost?