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2019-02-03 22:09:44  巢圣  所属诗集  阅读536 】


Self Portrait

Onto the wall I poured
basin after basin
my own shadow
I could not
wash off

A chicken
standing in the rain
on its own



The moment I was born
I smelt blood
so did not cry
The silence
startled my exhausted Mama
who thought
I must have been born
mute or dead

The silence is still here
well preserved
I never dare tell Mama
the moment I was born
I thought
she was dead


In my childhood
I used to feel
water suffer
fish weep
and dolls grieve
even a watch

Now as a grown up
I am finally led
to believe
everything is material
for man to enjoy
even including
man himself


We stood on the stage in a row
They asked us to squeal
and we did one by one

They thought mine very real
so I was chosen
and ever since
entered a career
always as a role


When he thought of her
he smashed into the door
When he thought of her
he smashed up the floor

Whenever he thought of her that day
he smashed her or something
until the next morning he woke up
the house was found ruined
without her


wornout she letgo her head
downfromthepillow asif
herhea--drollingdown Necktwisted
likeachicken Blooddrained

glintsoflight slidingdownfromherhair

I hangmyarmsand head
myshadow foldedintoa brokenwingedeagle
stumbling downstair
THAtblackriver down onthe ground

herBLACKhair spreads Allover the pillow
andAlloverthe world

that milky road light
frosty morninghued
formsafog congealed
beforethetree anddownover
theSHADOW of a couple


At night
a path in the woods
can rise and walk
like a person pale

At night
approaching the woods
I always hope
and always fear
to see a person



an angel in white
haloed with light
through the corridor
throwing the odor of dark
over the patients
queuing there
by patience


by a ghost
I shot though
with horror
in the dark
until I fell over
awakened on the soil
that man lives
always pursued
by death



Death is two inches from the ground

her two fingers
u-shaped squeezing before my eyes
looked so forceful
as likely to narrow
a little bit more

whenever your walking two feet
fail to touch the ground
(she trod hers with a thud
Accordingly her hand flopped palm down
onto the table
a muffled slap)

Then you became a shadow
darkened windy hollow
amplified there in the window
(her thumb pointing beyond my shoulder
white foams flapped
at the corners of her mouth)

I was amazed by her vividness
and subconsciously looked back
saw a raven black
standing there on the sill

Death is only a hair thin and away
She stressed painfully
(Her hand abruptly shook into my sight
a hair magically appeared
between her two fingers


movethis handaway I hate seeing
waves and whirlpools
driedup inwinter
andcarved onthefingers
aretheringsof Years

therebumpsout afishfromthe basin
impulsively I turnover mypalm

voiceless istheanxiety ofthefish
which doesnothing but toss
itsmouth opencloses
cravingforwater life

withthathand I pickitup onimpulse
behold howitisfanningitstail
andkissing thebasinflower

andimpulsively I feelmyhands
andMy anxiety forgotten


A bang of the door
I turned back
nobody was there

My shadow started up
then with a flop fell
face down
onto the floor


I locked the clock
in the drawer
then tried to listen

like overhearing
the gossip
of a neighbor

I could hear nothing
except silence

it was so overwhelming
I was suffocating
as under the water

I waited
quieting my heart

a tick was heard
bursting into my ear
a sudden crack
of an egg

peeled off
time began to shuffle

a dragging sound
became a march
on my heart

I saw a coffin
moving out of a tomb
by ants

I opened the drawer
finding the face
of the clock



Alas! We are like bonsai
born to be bound on the cross
before being transplanted into a pot

We are those trees
born to be dwarfed and crooked
to shape and glorify
the living wisdom of art


I came downstairs remembering
that school of models clothless
had died of graceful pose
their genitals left undone
barren as modern art

I recollected
I had been born naked
and for sale
they were stripped
but me a poet a bachelor
could only earn a living
by selling my blood
from my parents
from my grandparents
and my great great
great grandparents

I got that raw profit
my blood ran out
my head flower-wilted
with joyous noise of children
and all concerning me
and all concerning my family
came to a full stop

my final prayer voiceless
was imaged
twigs of willows
swinging budded
veins drawn out
swaying with death


In the sun
a wound opened my thought
I strayed
into the dazzling shadow of trees
my footsteps paddling
against the flow of the unknown

The wound
into a dried-up well
I turned off into a lane
where I met a stranger
who raised a hand to hi
a familiar face
and a smile
was sent back

The wound
was two thousand years old
yet always looked
newly pricked open
blood still dripping
along the spear

I walked up home
and saw somebody there
resembling the stranger
or the acquaintance
lift up the wound like a jar
and drink

drenched with a shout


The bolt of lightning
whipped before me
I was not scared

In fact
I knew very little
that I could be killed
if ever struck

Running by a grove
I heard a deafening crack
it turned me back
a tree snapped

On a rainy day
a few years later
a man was hit in the head
reported by the paper

And the tree stood up
from my memory
with a shiver

Last year
I was stunned
when I saw a corpse
split in two

The tree
which died for me
was again recalled

Not until now
back to my homeland
on this stormy morning
am I aware
with a thankful heart
that I was once spared

1987, 1992, 1996


My twin brother is gone
who used to sing aloud
ancient Chinese poems
his sonorous voice
striking plucking
the strings of moonbeams

My twin brother is gone
who used to stand alone
in the stubby wheat field
envisioning all humans?
emerging from the peak?
of flesh and desires

My twin brother is gone
who used to remember our father
sitting on the handle of his hoe
in the shadow of a willow
his bamboo pipe extending
from his thick lips
to the edge of a ditch
muffled memories channeling
through puffs of smoke

My twin is gone
who used to recall our mother
seated in the warm kitchen
telling tales with her chapped
wrinkled hands
webbing weaving hardships
sufferings into jumpers
for us to huddle in

My twin brother is gone
who committed suicide
leaving a note in his coat
saying his death has nothing?
to do with anyone or anything
in this country
or in this history

My brother is gone
now I am still alive
like a pair of chopsticks
with one missing
like a pair of glasses
with one cracked
like a pair of compasses
with one broken

My twin brother is gone
and I have to live on
like my grandmother
when her sister was raped
then cut open
by a Japanese soldier

My twin brother is gone
and I have to live on
like my grandfather
when his brother was shot
while both uniformed
were lying in an ambush
against the Japanese army

My twin brother is gone
I must survive like my mother
when her brother?
was flogged to death
in the Cultural Revolution

My twin brother is gone
I must survive like my father
when his sister
was starved to death
in the Great Leap Forward

My twin brother is gone
and I am to live on
as a single trouser leg
or a single sleeve
to exhibit to my children
what has been
what was and what is
in this quasi-world


Father and Son


My child in my arms
I watch the water
overflowing the stone bridge

My childhood
gradually visualized
carried on the back
of my-one-year-and-a-half-older
was stopped by a sudden flood

Peals of thunder
broke the sky's skull
and one of my sandals
slipped into the torrent
and was washed away

The day darkened into night
and the fitful lightning
was our fear
and our only light

I could not cry
nor can I now
for my son is sitting in my arms
deeply drawn
to the turbulent din

Holding my son tightly in my arms
I leap over the bridge
as over history
His chubby hands
toss up
dancing with victory


You don't know, boy?
your voice now as elf
no, as a blind bat
is wildly hovering
now has knocked into a tree
listen, the echo of bumping

Now, look
your voice has dropped down
its face must have been
badly wounded
black and blue even
like an almost eaten leaf
Oh what pitiful eyes
hidden in a wry face

So, stop shouting, boy
or your voice will get shot
by the bullets of the rain

And its soul will become a wolf
breaking into your dream
biting tight your coat
pulling you backward

Oh child
stop crying and confine your voice
within your own body


my son was fascinated
by the rings in the window
so I told him a joke
when adults
get married
they send each other a ring
so that husband and wife
don't have to hang together
all the time

my son looked up puzzled
asking does that mean
they are married twice
when they wear two

I did not know what to say
because some remarried people
do put their ex-ring
or ex-rings on their fingers
as a kind of memory
or historical record

like youngsters
of some tribes
preserving the skulls
of people they have killed
to mark their manhood

it sounded too cruel
particularly the metaphor
so I did not tell my son

and actually some men
are simply successful
with their business
they send a ring
like a piece of a cake

or as sort of compensation
to prove their substantial love
since they are too busy
to husband their wives

while some others
their finger bones?
would feel weak
without the support
of certain rings
which serve as slings
or plaster

I tried to work out
some other possibilities
none seemed positive
so I did not say anything

like most Chinese parents
I was doing my best
to keep my son?
in a green house
from all cold stuff

seeing I was hesitant
my son went up to a lady
who happened to be passing by
her hand swinging
with three rings

at first
the lady was shocked
but soon recovered
and softly she said to my son
I want to keep off men

my son came back
and repeated to me
obviously he was confused
another metaphor
bumped into my mind
it was suitable
so I spoke to my son

the lady's rings
are like the aussies
leaving their radios or tvs on
when nobody is in
to keep burglars away

to my surprise
my son nodded?
with understanding
I sighed with a relief
indeed he is the son
of a metaphorical Chinese poet

1990, 1993, 1996

Dream Poems


No, I won't get up
I'm waiting for the dream
to again play me the poem
It appeared line by line
on the screen

No voice was heard
It moved mute this time
as in mourning
from down to above
like the souls of the poets
who had committed suicide

I was waiting
repressing my legs stiffening
I knew it was a long poem
I knew it was a great poem

But they kept moving up
deaf to my pounding heart
I could not stop
like those brother poets in grief
one by one had vanished
from this world

Oh, don't disturb me any more
I need nothing
but a dream and a poem
the spirit of my dead friends
at this helpless time
in this awaking morning


he opened his mouth like a drawer
took out a revolver
and through the peep-hole
fired at the back
of his minister's head

and soundlessly
the bullet vanished
as into rubber
all subjects flew away
and crows

the dynasty
plunging into the dead of hell

he with a leopard face
his wrinkles striping
a modern throne


where I was
spread an immediate pool
of light

not a singer
nor a film star
I was put on the stage
a hermit
clinging only
to clarity

at my turning
I saw numerous faces
a ghostly tree

I sped up

a splitting crashed down

I found
the bloody pool of light
was shed
from overhead-
a butchering



hands flitting
I was flying
nothing in mind

a stone dropped down
perching on a branch
and trees on the stretch
stepped out
guns pricking up

I took off again
bounding for my human home

there I was on the roof
I was about to land
when spears and swords
thrust up

a piece of paper
looped down
by a window

bald heads
were bleeding
beneath a shaver

run run run
there by a street bin
my urgent shout
my human form

yet pedestrians
turned back

a rainbow
whistled across the sky
my blood vessel
pulled up


the dead serpent
when I trod on it
came to life

the bank began to slip
a sharp pain
in my arch

I opened my palm
it was blistering

I started to run
shouting for help
in sight
only trees

when at last
appeared a house
there two dogs barked

looking at my palms
I could not move
any longer

my hand was forced
to pluck off
the decaying flesh

the finger bones
revealed themselves

I did not howl
nor did I know
I was playing
with a chicken's


God compared Himself to an eagle
stirring up His nest

I was falling down like a stone
In my extreme fright
I made my first flight
Once in a fall I screamed

About to bang the land
when He bore me lightly    
I was robed by His huge wings
In my first adventure
I saw myself filthy all over

He flew towards me

I was placed on the height
and a whisper told me
His legs were beryl


Summer Vacation: New Wandering Images

On the globe of high temperatures
frequently arise obituaries-
man disappearing like midges

Into the holes over Himalayas
the Antartic and the Arctic
scatters the sky like smoke

Outside a chain hotel window in Hangzhou
a lone sparrow was rusting

Overlooking the city
I saw life's worries riches and pleasures
like nocturnal cockroaches

Waiting for high-speed rail in Zhenjiang
while disaster struck Wenzhou and Hongqiao

My life was mercifully replaced
and the West Lake was cast behind

The flesh is a handful of dust
its realness proceeds from Adam's mouth

The first Adam became a living being
and the last Adam a living spirit

Staring at the road after a few sleeps-
such a long way with so many changes

There is a way walked by few-
it is the voice of speaking
the breath of the word
the life

Finally anchored in Luo Lake, Shenzhen

Mark from the States is a Chinese folk artist
dressed with Chairman Mao all over

I read a poem but he forgot to play the flute
I played the harp but he forgot the ancient riddle

We wandered through Shenzhen, Hongkong and New York

Wall Street was a wall
begun by the Dutch and finished by the British
embanked today by the Americans from the world

The voices from within and without
they cast into fire and a bronze bull came out
the god which was made in the desert
to lead them out of their nations
and hail mammon

Dalian's cruise was a dream
like lying in an Egyptian tomb
the hard hearts rejecting the oracle
Pharaoh a noise speaking on their own

And the sleepless body became a dried vanity

The roar of many countries and peoples
the rumbling of carriots
Syria Yemen and Libya, USA and Europe

Standing on the sea of glass-
another state of mind
the whole body full of eyes

As the wheels move forward
so do the the living creatures

History is but a robot
thrust down to the ground


Poems on Man

A breath in the nostrils
a remnant of the spirit
confined in bones and flesh
coming out of a womb-

like flowers
blooming in the morning
to wither in the evening-

a colorful life
for a day

1. Stephen Crane

A life spent
eating of his heart
with the red badge of courage
like the hunter in the wilderness

Interpreted by students
who become lecturers and professors-
fruits of the one who sold his birthright

Sneaking out of the hairy voices
I climbed onto the roof
missing the one in a trance
taken by the heavenly cloth

2. Emily Dickinson

A lonely woman
in a beautiful prison

The letter that kills
stilled a window of imagery-
poetry which was scenic philosophy
and the elements of the world

Alas! No essence! No oil! No lamp!

Born in a wrong time
you had no bridegroom
A life wrung, screwed up by hyphens
like bones lined up as fences

Poesies slanting the American balance

3. T.S. Eliot

Eliot, you announced the death of many an age
the death of memory and the death of any sage
the death of poetry with the sea and its foams
the death of images with their ruins

Eliot, if the two empires have declined
you are to blame as a person enshrined
you have uprooted their civilization
without sowing the good seed for solution

Those who understand you sigh and suffer
those who don't marvel at you as a winner
Eliot, I just want to say by taking a risk
you have thrown away the earth like a disk

And then disappeared

4. Thomas Transtromer

Dreams were caged on white page
free of criminal psychology

Outside the window is a fox
who destroyed the vineyard
his hungry footsteps
marring the white snow-

the language from above

5. Bertrand Russel

The night woke up with a moon
eyeing me with calm

The mouth of the moon can be your best wine

A voice burst out, saying to Bertrand
Philosophy takes captive even if
cloaked in philanthropic love

Wisdom is the truth
the breath of life

Now it cries aloud at the gate of a century

But ears have been lent
to an illogical reality
unfurling any irrational


The Kinship

From one blood has man flown
multiplied by the same breath of life
nostrils to nostrils vessels to vessels
though sprinkled over the earth
with predestined boundaries
and lengths of years


Destined to be selfish is he
of the residue of the spirit
The road his life zigzags
like the cunny snake
repeats that story ancient

With the selfish eyes opened
he tends to shift his sins
resulting in conflicts and wars-

between peoples, husband and wife
father and son mother and daughter-


In the cool of day the shadows fled away
His self put on the tree of good and evil
birds perching on its boughs
beasts sheltered under it

When the selfish heart was brightened
nakedness was and is everywhere
hard for civilizations to cover

Selfishness mixed up with language literature
fill a handful of dust
fully grown with thorns and thistles-

the field our ancestors ploughed with sweat
the body of earth their descendants tilled

They labored
though tearfully
failed to wash their selfishness

And man was and is being devoured
by his self and serpent


A lonely stroll through the woods of words-
the world comes down and down
filled with the covenants of the eyes
the lust of the flesh
and the boasting of riches

A lonely stroll through the world of words-
the wood comes down and down
weighted with the worries of life
dissipation and drunkenness
choked by thorns and briers

A lonely stroll through the words of the wood-
birds of every kind assemble with animals
to gather for the feast
the sacrificial banquet of the end


Both the rich and the poor
are being coined by money
turning the millstones
of their hard hearts

These people are also poor
can never use up their money
with their belly as their god


Making covenant with eyes is a sin
Thus warns my father

The eyes of the head are really bad
keep rolling without cease

A glance is followed and swallowed
by stopless whims from within

All eyes are murmuring all time


Loneliness lept up
whirling its body around
in the air in an aesthetic way

Two dead carps were put in the jar
and became alive one by one
as water was poured there

A sea was there in their stare

Then appeared two faces
a male and a female
with a voice saying to them
your lives have been prize of war

Suddenly the jar was a pond
and my carps were gone


The Writing Class


They dug with their pens
and dug out a mirror on white papers

The reflection was glittering waters
their body and mind like shaking waves

From time to time I looked up
they seem to be a special troop
lurking in ambush
outside the city


I wrote in English yesterday morning
drunk, murmuring to myself
Who has put wine in the language?

This morning as I thought of English
nerves began to energize themselves
brains charged like swollen

Why is the language like this?
Who has cast a spell
that it has colonized the heads
and set up a common speech
to ascend into the sky


Bumping into the sounds of the language
you may experience a lot of fun
for it takes you where you've never trodden
and undresses you like you are old

Here I sit, a professor of writing in China
typing tripping over fingertips to a mirage
with time ticking tricking in its parade

Shall I go back to the ancient confusion?
Do I want to rebuild the tower for my fame?
Or recall the River of language literature?
A question or two is often my challenge


Some academic authorities
seated by a high speed tilt
a starting station or a destination
the common road for their chairs
the high speed their assessment table

Some subjects were not calm enough
jumped up and became a toll station
Some authorities like Sherlock
took the balance to weigh blood


Two red mouths
flowering in the painting
bleeded the wall

made both men and women
within and without
all dressed in scarlet
The food

served was bloody
blood is life-
two lives
one born to die

the poet was not
on the agenda
he ate and left


Please buy me! Please sell me!
She shouts to the earth with her hands up

And a great city begins to fall
with its images shattered on the ground
language and literature laid in waste
a desolation of wisdom and art
a golden cup
making drunk
all nations


Chao's Poetics

A poem begins with an excellent mind
The poet sees things pass through himself
and land on the palm of the sun
He should be silent to hold his breath
and let any captive fall
into the trap of words

In short there must be some control
in case the locusts
that swarm out of the bottomless pit
sting like scorpions
leaving your whole back of the head
caught in the paws of sleeplessness

A poem must begin from an excellent state-
like a surfer standing
on the crest of the waves
preying on the earth
to arrest its theme

Writing poetry makes a poet light-
it is another way of bungee jump
like a tongue tasting voice
and the breath of a language
looking for a vessel

Writing poetry you die to yourself
in order to have another life
a greater one-
which walks on the high
to skip the world

You are gone-
an incarnation of a breath
the poetry in flesh

I saw a crow fly into the poetry of Chao
who opened the wings of the morning-
the crow flying out of the ark
whose hoarse voice broke
a jar full of night

The crow alights in front of me
like the deep and transparent pupil of Chao
knows everything
through the woods
And the bread he carried to Elijah
now fills
my belly

I saw Chao's poems come out of the cave
standing on the hill dancing in the wind
And in the collapses of rocks
a tiny voice was heard-
the voice
which is the kernel of the crow
the pledge of the universe

I never dreamt of the playful actor
choose to read Chao's poetry
in his time of extreme exhaustion

He said: Chao's poems are refreshing
tend to catch a lock of his hair
make him like a kite
fly into imagination

He said: Chao's poetry is not realistic
can call the realistic to be surrealistic
and the human plight today is so realistic
as to lose their reality
so their hairs are blown away
by the four winds
ahead of their fate

Sloppily they are weighted
with a body of flesh and bones
bogged in the muddy pit

Too late to say goodbye
before another generation was delivered-
a mixture of sperm and egg

I asked God to drift with me
from heart to heart by writing poems

My recent work becomes obscure
more obscure than twenty years ago
more symbolic than symbolism

After all many things
can't be spoken in any other way
than to deploy a series of images
so that those comfortably well-off
can enter the aesthetics of language
to meditate and ponder

I asked God to be with me on the tramp
because writing is an exile of the soul
And I was afraid to be worse in its end
than a cattle that knows its owner
or an ass its stable

The real writer is invisible
He often abides within
in conception

His whisper is my inspiration

The real writer is invincible
His heart can be felt
like a mountain


The City


The dark was crunching on bones
with the mouth of a dog
a crackling noise, and the filthy air
on the stiff ground

An overpass, over an overpass
an underground, under an underground

Those digging after their own ways
sank deeply and helplessly
into a wandering life
while up in the height they ran
at a full speed of nothingness


Those homebound commuters in long queues
groaning yawning-
a facial distort out of control-
a roaring lion ready to swallow
the whole world

For the sake of survival buses begin to move
slowly, a pace in funeral farewell

Taxis, trucks, cars, tricycles and bicycles
and modified motors, with a whirlpool
of milling people wrapped up in memory-
searching for their mother's hand
in an old age of the city


The prostitute took a seat in the high places
her shouts stretching out her flesh
hooking his soul

Like an arrow shooting through his liver
the desires of his eyes
a pig in the slaughterhouse

As he was in a lustful situation
she vanished-a quick action!
His suits were tossed up
by four winds into the deep pit


the darkest psyche of the country
in the howl and prowl of ghosts

the horrible hollow of human hearts
the halloween harrowing homo sapiens

condemning them to the dead
and the beautiful land to Hades


Those confined on earth
performed various flights
like swinging up in the air
or falling down from the roof

The most gripping of that circus
was the madness of three motors
hunting after one another
in a cage-like globe

Their gyration
was a friction of internal death

And the saddest of the night
was those women
suspended within a snare in the air
were slowly carried above our heads
to the stage

They were struggling up there all time
as if violence was being done to them

In danger these acrobats burst
into a rendition of human sufferings
With stunts they monkeyed
with the nothingness of the world

Alas! All the city stuff
seems no more than a circus


On the upslope of the city university
I first encountered my retired dean
who said, you have got a tummy
and looked me in the face
like an old fortune teller by the road
murmuring mysteriously
a stomach of social status

then met my retired director
who looked straight at my belly with a smile
it is the belly full of the scroll, I explained
ready to be taken up to space

later came across my classmates thirty years ago
We shook hands
tried to make out one another
but failed
some faces were stamped
with the postmarks of years

I walked and thought, thought and murmured
if only they could be marked
with the seal of the sky

During the lunch
they put up hands to vote for a Thailand tour
for the thirtieth graduation
and they were excited about a male
turning into a female
acting as a prostitute

I refused to go
but the official's wife to right of me
and the female official to left of me
both pushed my hands upward
for democratic sake

And the ceremony was closed
by five heavy smokers
breathing out rings after rings
smelling like the sulphur of the earth


The Moon Festival


A promised planet
is a longing land tonight
in the possession of light

Diasporas of the world
gaze upward and wonder
when we'll settle up there


Flourishing with her hands
the child was crazy about the stars
awarded by her teachers

The man is keen on the morning star
arising in his heart
which is his teacher and light


Sitting alone
I plead in my heart
feeling its weight of power
muscular like a boulder-
the spiritual rock
the everlasting rock


Night. I've decided to run away
to pursue the open scroll
and the light in the heart of the Moon
To elude the wrath of the future

Golden idols and silver idols
I made with my understanding
I throw to the field mice and the bats

I say I have to go. If you like
we can make an appointment
under the secret place
of the Big Rock


Read aloud
to disturb the deep night
Make it split in fission
to be the day's child
Let those in the dark
come out of their grave
to hear the thunder

We must stand with the cloud
to witness the breath of the wind
which blows onto the bones of the wilderness
till they grow out flesh ribs and skins
and become a great army
to slug it out with the evil
that human enemy

I tell you
the louder our voices the mightier
the might to create the worlds
and make the universe
rumble in its expansion
cheering like the Galaxy


Standing in the noise which beats the world
to enter the depths of the language
and become the pillar of the temple

The rain from heaven tells the story above
hard to be comprehended by hard hearts

Those who chew are born from the rain


The east wind was wrestling with the forest
overnight, and the tribe of Jacob limped
at dawn. The wounding was a blessing
and the healing was the earnest


Night. The stone rejected by builders
shines fully in the heavens
bringing a nation into unity
in the form of a family



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