THE IMPORTANCE OF WORD ASSOCIATION

Being is the tiger,

an unseen appearance before it swallows you whole.

Seeming is the spider

that builds the mansion where Maya hides the tiger.

And you curl into your spider’s blanket and say,

“Yes, there may be other situations. But this one is mine.”

These are words of the white sheep that graze on your tongue, issuing from the edge of your lips to baffle my art.

Belief conceals recognition. Orthodox clichés are sweeter than exotic heresies.

I need a poet to speak your freedom.

“Poetry!” you say. “That factory of idols! Valueless words strung together like cultured pearls. A compromise between the universe and imagination, windy sounds tangled in winter branches. A sheetless bed in a purple room with no light or exit.”

A poem can come from a prophet or a priest or a professor or a philosopher or a physician or a beautician. But only a true poem can feel the sun on your face as the snow commandos parachute in behind enemy lines. A real poem contains stone syllables standing against a rain-striped horizon.

Let me be your pattern. I’ve pawned my pasts, demolished the wall that blocked truth-bearing winds.

To deny my tongue is to strangle your throat.

Together we can be worlds upon a wider world.

Our bronze countenances can besiege the Maya fortress, storm its magic damsel resident therein.

We won’t eliminate or lift any veil completely. But we can add invisibility.

“Perception, memory – can’t they be real? Who could confuse a long naked body with an artifice of the mind?”

Anyone.

Everyone.

We live in rust on chrome.

“But, that tiger?”

Being is the all-at-once-ness of everything.

The world is not all thieves and wolves. Providers and puppies inhabit too.

Judges and lawyers may be the masters of bar and brothel, and a poem’s sentence may condemn. But also it may acquit.

Death is always the same distance away and life as near as we arrange.

Yes, our voyage ends with a wake, but not just the wake behind the boat.

It’s now call-and-response time. Your fate depends on your answer.

I say Quiver.

Do you say, “Tremble”?

Or, “Arrow”?

MÖBIUS STRIP

Swans echo the clouds

that echo those swans.

Moon recycles faces, recycles face

I am Today years old, as always

but which we am I today?

es, recy

This river remembers its geese,

wanders woods in their search.

cles fa

BRIDE OF COPPER

homonyms that mean the same

or, your gray is not my grey

they have divergent offspring

bronze if copper mates with zinc

brass if copper mates with tin

bird as vulture, bird as dove

a painter’s silver, or smudge

the flat wilderness of dusk

an opaque landscape of mist

the nothingness of a coin

dime-like or silver florin

hides the man within the war

in a Southern uniform

in a museum’s armor

ENLIGHTENMENT

Aging, we mislearn the universe from birth.

But if then all our illusions we lose —

Can we be sure that lives improve?

IN AN ON-ONE (self-portrait, unfinished for now)

Sophiadome aflame,

Halfunplundered yet.

The Moon is trapped in our crimson net

(like a Frisbee in a cage)

(aluminum pan in macrame)

dark iris riveted to bloodshot eye.

No. Wait.

This is altogether too depressing a prospect. Let the picture compose elsewhere.

Bloated fingers like floodwaters upon the plain.

Unberibboned wrists, not tigered yet by failure.

Arms loose and empty, tethered to boney shoulders

and a lonely bed.

Nope. No improvement from that angle either.

Silver is the ego-greed that turns glass into a looking glass; and mercury, that poison, makes us mistake temperament for actual temperature; while the iron lasts us through the large littleness of our long lives.

Such is the brittle wisdom, these are the elements of our same old sad story:

                             “The Naked One in the Vacant Lot”

…

Another Day After 

 “I went to an AA meeting the other night,” said Tom, taking a sip of his drink.  

“A what?” I inquired with little interest. We were nursing bloody Marys the afternoon following another night of debauchery. We were both hung over. In fact, I was still a little drunk. 

“AA,” he repeated. 

“Um?” 

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” he explained., lighting a cigarette. 

The sickeningly-sweet effluvium of the Winston drifted over and nearly turned my stomach. “Ah,” I said. 

“I went with Ross Carter,” said Tom, referencing a heavy-drinking attorney we both knew. “He was ordered by the court to attend AA meetings as a part of the disposition of his DUI, and I tagged along.” 

“Ah,” I said again. “Want another drink?” I asked. 

“Sure.” 

I summoned the bartender, placed the order. It was only fair: Tom had bought me innumerable rounds the night before. “So, what did you learn?” I asked him. 

Tom snorted. “I learned squat! Hey, get this,” he went on, “they sit around in folding chairs in a circle and by turns everyone gets up and gives their name and says, ‘I am an alcoholic.’ ” Tom laughed boisterously. 

“Did you do that?” I asked. 

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Everyone was doing it so I went along, but I’m no alcoholic like those rummies!” 

I only stared at him, amazed by his innocence. 

“I’m not!” he said. “Alcoholics can’t stop drinking. They can’t not drink. I can stop any time I want.” 

“Really?” I asked. We had never discussed Tom’s drinking before, although the topic had arisen amongst others in the house where we both lived. Even though Tom was a drinking buddy, he always seemed clueless. 

“Of course,” he assured me. “Last Saturday, I didn’t drink all day,” he said. “And that was on a weekend.” 

“But, you were sick as a dog,” I said. “You were so sick from the night before when you spent all night at the tavern–this tavern–that you puked all over your bed.” Tom had spent almost his entire paycheck on drinks for the regular bar crowd the evening before, rationalizing the expense as payback for the alcohol they’d provided him on prior occasions. 

“I ain’t no alcoholic,” he said again. “Alcoholics are stumble-bums.” 

When I didn’t say anything, he peered at me questioningly and asked, in earnest, “Why, do you think that you’re an alcoholic just because you hoist a few glasses?” I could tell he was uncertain. 

“Well, how do they define it?” I asked, meaning AA. 

Tom handed over a colorful pamphlet. “They passed these out at the meeting,” he told me. “It’s the guidelines for seeing if you’re a drunk.” 

I opened the pamphlet, titled “A.A., is it Right for You: a Self-Assessment,” and read aloud: 

“Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?” I looked up at my friend. 

Tom was quiet for a moment, and then he grinned and said, “I thought about quitting for a week, but then I thought better of it.” He laughed. “Fahey,” he said, meaning the barkeep, “has to get braces for his kid’s teeth.” 

I shook my head and continued onto question number two. “Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking–stop telling you what to do?” 

“Damn straight,” he thundered, pounding his fist on the surface of the bar. “I’m free, white and twenty-one,” he reminded me.  

“Do you really want to take this quiz if you have no interest?” I asked. “Or, would you prefer that we two alcoholics continue to get wasted?” Tom said nothing. 

I shrugged and proceeded to the next assessment inquiry. “Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?” I asked. 

“What,” he asked, “is it supposed to be a bad thing to switch drinks? I just like a variety, you know, the spice of drink, or life, or something… You know what I mean,” he tittered tipsily. “Go ahead,” he said, “ask the rest.” 

“Have you had to have a drink upon awakening during the past year?” When he didn’t say anything, I prompted him, “Tom?” 

“Go to the next question,” he said gruffly, lighting another cigarette and taking another big swallow from his glass.” 

“Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble?” 

Tom drew a deep breath and expelled a cloud of rank smoke. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “I wish things were…different.” And he said no more. 

I continued. “Have you had problems connected with drinking during the past year?” Tom frowned darkly. 

I knew the answer to this one: Tom had beaten one of our housemates, Jenks, to a bloody pulp several months before over the weighty issue of pilfered orange juice. Tom didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. He looked at me bleakly. 

“Has your drinking caused trouble at home?” 

“Ain’t that the same question?” he asked. 

I shrugged. “Do you ever try to get ‘extra’ drinks at a party because you do not get enough?” Tom paused again. 

I didn’t get a chance to ask him about his estranged wife, who had been hospitalized after trying to keep up with his drinking. We had become close recently and she told me that she and Tom both had to stop or she would leave him for good. She was a sweet girl, and I thought maybe I would have a shot with her. 

By this time, Tom had stopped answering questions and run out of cigarettes, so he ordered up a scotch, neat, and turned to talk with another of the barflies at the tavern–on the afternoon of another day after. 

                                                                        The End

Appears in Dark Winter and Down In TheDirt

蹬车者

我好奇他能拾到什么

面对着蒿草的隐没

他只能伸手去摸索

我后背着手走过

风从跌宕的日子里带来七嘴八舌

将我推近去看他的战果

存留在染泥的三轮车

烂炮纸与旧车链

不如拾一把蒿草点了火

不如拣几块砖头堆住所

不久他挺起身子举起新找的斧戈

生锈的颜色却能斩断绳索

斩断他以住生活里缠上身的绳索

他转身还举起另一件战果

不会关闭的留声机抚耳以音波

我祈愿它永远唱着歌

一方出声万林和

一人欢心万鸟乐

红炮纸和旧车链扬开苦涩

击开七嘴八舌

开阔的前路告诉我

有一颗燃烧的心何需点火

有一辆随性的三轮车何需住所

The Cyclist 蹬车者

What treasures he might unearth

amidst the weeds’ retreat

His hands fumble through the shadows

While I observe with clasped hands

Winds carry whispers from turbulent days

Drawing me closer to witness his discoveries

Displayed upon his mud-spattered tricycle

Faded firecracker remnants and weathered chains

Perhaps better to gather weeds and kindle flame

Perhaps better to collect stones and build refuge

Soon he rises, proudly holding his newfound weapon

Rusty in appearance, yet sharp enough to sever bonds

To cut free from the entangling ropes of existence

He turns, revealing another prize

A broken phonograph, still breathing melodies into the air

I hope its song continues eternally

When one voice rises, 

forests echo in harmony

When one heart finds joy,

 birds join in celebration

Discarded firecracker papers and chains release bitterness

Silencing the chorus of critical voices

The open path before us reveals this truth

A heart already aflame needs no spark

A free-spirited tricycle needs no shelter

Su Yun, 17 years old, is a member of the Chinese Poetry Society and a young poet. His works have been published in more than ten countries. He has published two poetry collections in China, namely Inspiration from All Things and Wisdom and Philosophy, and one in India titled WITH ECSTASY OF MUSINGS IN TRANQUILITY. He has won the Guido Gozzano Orchard Award in Italy, the Special Award for Foreign Writers in the City of Pomezia, and was praised by the organizing committee as the “Craftsman of Chinese Lyric Poetry”. He has also received the “Cuttlefish Bone” Best International Writer Award for those under 25.

我也想庆祝夜的生日

河北省石家庄市藁城区工业路小学 苏墨琰 10岁

夜的生日什么时候开始

小飞蛾趴在玻璃上提醒我

天空已摆好月亮蛋糕

插上星星蜡烛

蟋蟀和纺织娘开始歌唱

树叶哗啦啦鼓掌

风送来花香

灯光献上祝福

就连梦也和夜视频通话

祝他生日快乐

我也想庆祝夜的生日

其实，我趴在窗前

已经悄悄地帮他

关掉太阳

 I Also Want to Celebrate the Night’s Birthday

By Su Moyan, 10 years old, Gongye Road Primary School, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

When does the night’s birthday start?

The little moth on the glass reminds me

The sky has set up a moon cake

With star candles inserted

Crickets and katydids start singing

Leaves applaud rustlingly

The wind sends the fragrance of flowers

Lights offer blessings

Even dreams have a video call with the night

Wishing him a happy birthday

I also want to celebrate the night’s birthday

In fact, I lean by the window

And have quietly helped him

Turn off the sun

窗帘

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛润楠 9岁

风是个捣蛋鬼

把我们教室的窗帘

一会儿变胖

一会儿变瘦

胖窗帘像个孕妇

同学从窗帘后面

探头走出来

胖孕妇秒变瘦妈妈

Curtain

By Xue Runnan, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

The wind is a troublemaker

It makes the curtain of our classroom

Now fat

Now thin

The fat curtain is like a pregnant woman

When classmates peek out from behind the curtain

The fat pregnant woman instantly becomes a thin mother

春天的火车

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 李思锦 9岁

花朵是春天的火车

一开动火车

就听到一阵阵香的震动

Spring’s Train

By Li Sijin, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Flowers are spring’s train

As soon as the train starts moving

We hear bursts of fragrant vibrations

月光走秀

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛嘉一 9岁

月光

穿上雪白的裙子

像一位白雪公主

在人间走秀

忽然

她跌倒了

月光碎了

月光花开了

 Moonlight Fashion Show

By Xue Jiayi, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Moonlight

Puts on a snow-white dress

Like a Snow White

Walking a show on earth

Suddenly

She stumbles

Moonlight shatters

Moonlight flowers bloom

抢龙珠

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛舜兮 9岁

夕阳西下

几缕云围着落日

像极了几条龙

在抢一颗龙珠

Snatching the Dragon Ball

By Xue Shunxi, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

As the sun sets

Several wisps of clouds surround the setting sun

Just like several dragons

Snatched a dragon ball

美丽的雪花

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 马崡旭 9岁

冬天

雪花打扮得

漂漂亮亮的

她们穿上洁白的裙子

跳着洁白的舞蹈

讲着洁白的故事

Beautiful Snowflakes

By Ma Hanxu, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

In winter

Snowflakes dress up

Prettily

They put on white dresses

Dance white dances

Tell white stories

小鸟

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛畅 9岁

窗外的小鸟

学着我们的样子

叽叽喳喳读课文

我们停下来

它们还在读

老师宣布

小鸟读得最快乐

Birds

By Xue Chang, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Birds outside the window

Learn from us

Chirping and reading textbooks

When we stop

They keep reading

The teacher announces

Birds read the happiest

花朵上的雨滴

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 刘怡杉 9岁

乌云开工了

用自己国家的小水晶

给花朵们穿上

自己亲手制作的水晶鞋

Raindrops on Flowers

By Liu Yishan, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Dark clouds start working

With small crystals from their own country

Dress the flowers

In crystal shoes made by themselves

花梦

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛子航 9岁

把我的灯关了

把我的门关了

把我的耳朵关了

把我拉进花的梦中

给我一个清醒的鼻子

Flower Dream

By Xue Zihang, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Turn off my lights

Close my door

Shut my ears

Pull me into a flower dream

Give me a sober nose

热闹的秋雨

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 顼艺安 9岁

小雨滴在天上乱跑

落下的时候

还在叽叽喳喳地叫

来到地面又开始聊天

好热闹的秋雨

Lively Autumn Rain

By Xu Yian, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Little raindrops run wild in the sky

When falling

They still chirp and shout

When they come to the ground, they start chatting again

What a lively autumn rain

小蜜蜂住酒店

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 韩鑫佑 9岁

沙沙沙

下雨了

被雨淋湿的小蜜蜂

急急忙忙钻进一朵小花

甜甜的花酒

美美的花床

小蜜蜂

躺在花朵酒店里

睡着了

Little Bees in the Flower Hotel

By Han Xinyu, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Shasha Sha

It’s raining!

Little bees soaked by the rain

Hurry into a tiny flower—

Sweet flower wine,

A beautiful flower bed…

The little bees

Lie in their flower hotel

And drift off to sleep.

猫与云

河北省石家庄市藁城区贾市庄镇贯庄小学 薛梓阳 9岁

一到阴天

小猫就害怕出门

因为云朵的眼泪

让它担心

自己柔软的皮毛

会被云要回去

Cats and Clouds

By Xue Ziyang, 9 years old, Guanzhuang Primary School, Jiashizhuang Town, Gaocheng District, Shijiazhuang City, Hebei Province

Whenever it’s cloudy

The kitten is afraid to go out

Because of the clouds’ tears

It worries

That its soft fur

Will be taken back by the clouds

The Way Out

1.)

Millions of lonely multi-colored eyes

searching the empty distances of sky,

such a flutter of eyelashes confused in the wind,

smog and fog and smoke of wars,

littering floating dust lands of clouds.

Stars no longer found

and the moon as a burp hole of the sun

for us to look upon and remember when.

2.)

Battle drums playing on every continent,

an endless pounding into a hardening hum.

How can prophets hear

if they’re too deaf to listen,

as missiles spear high and deep

digging into heaps of city graves.

Who can save

but only Him.

3.)

And then there’s the islands within the land,

singing families under tents of trees,

holding onto every Bible Page

showing the Eternal Way.

In the valley of scorched death

the mummified

remains of those

who came before us

are losing their

peeling skin

exposing bones

as hard as

metal rods

no human life

was ever held up by

We watch them

decompose in larval

stages once they

are exposed to light

expecting new life forms

to emerge;

where the old ends

the new begins

in this no man’s

land where nothing

flourishes in the light

By the light of the polished skulls

The way forward

through the rows

of desiccated trees

is lit by

the polished skulls

of pets gleaming

in the night

leading us to

the breeding grounds

where the prehistoric

birds are creating

new versions

of their kind

The shrieks birthing

mothers make are

enough to bring

the dead back

to life

Exploring the edges

of the unknown world

where negative space

meets the black holes

of our dreams

we discover fields

of battle where

the beasts of night

meet birds of prey

heralding the beginning

of what happens

when night refuses

to end

Cave light

is swallowed once

we venture inside

where we can hear

the sound of bats

molting in the dark

hear the high pitched

whine that pierces

the soft bleeding

membranes of our

tormented ears

Even what waits

outside is preferable

to this

THE MOTHER SUPERIOR 

(An Ode to Most Kind Mother Earth) 

When supports of the world fail, 

And I feel lonely 

And helpless, 

I fall upon my Lord

To whom I address my woes

He dresses my wounds 

And I go to sleep contented.

But it is not always so.

Quite often, 

When gods fail to address my issues

When pain keeps dripping like blood 

And when gods are silent 

And his men too 

I know still I have some one to go.

In the world a son who fails 

Rushes into the lap of his mother

And cries his grief out 

Has the mother ever asked him

Wait, let me think a bit?

Never. 

A mother never disappoints.

But a mother is a timed entity

Cannot be with you 

Always to succour your woes 

But pains, hurts and insults 

Are the staple diet 

On which we humans have to survive 

In this desperate situation 

When neither God is around 

Nor mother 

And you feel 

Enough is enough

There is a Mother Superior 

Who opens her unquestioning arms for us.

(*Mother superior is the Earth that receives all back ….without any questions)

….