Steering Clear of That Summer’s Noon 

That summer was truly beautiful—a song once sung, 

its voice faded, yet trembling still at the heart’s edge. 

I wander now outside that summer, 

passing through rows of rising and falling black-and-white corridors. 

I am mature enough to face winds from every direction. 

Steering clear of that summer, this noon, 

I guard alone a small window steeped in philosophy,

dust still quivers among the broom flowers, 

panels of light lie collapsed on the ground, 

butterflies cling to pollen’s bright lexicon, flying through shadows. 

I adorn the window lattice with branches purified by white foam, 

fold a 1919 newspaper into a pale stallion, 

let it be encircled by wary, scattered seeds. 

Let geckos ignite golden lanterns; the clam king, post-climax, 

clenches the spider plant’s slender fingers. 

I am arranging a simple rite, a nostalgic atmosphere, 

hand beneath the pillow, caressing the roar of waves. 

I remember us walking hand in hand through white seaside alleys, 

the profound dreams we shared and deepened, 

shadows panting over blossoms, 

the dense illusions and voices around us. 

I remember that summer, a many-eared stalk of wheat falling into water, 

the secret pricked by your finger, the bathtub’s hue, 

the color of your eyes when you loved me, 

how you always closed my eyes with a hint of worry. 

That summer when everything slipped away

I kept hearing water’s escape: 

from our hands, our eyes, 

between junipers and cattails, 

from my big black comb and noon’s thirsty slumber. 

That summer left us behind, our love 

like two white stones risen from water, radiant, pure. 

Still, it is the same tranquil noon, you lie awake in dreams, 

a leaf adrift on time’s waves. 

I tiptoe through extinguished constellations; a small window 

unfolds like a butterfly’s blood-filled wings. 

In your distance, I become your beautiful and solitary bride, 

poised in May’s silent candlelit stillness, waiting for you to wake. 

Late Autumn on Paper

Between hands, paper and brush, between soul and flying birds

lie shadows drifting in silent transition

White crags, white winds, and figures in the water

splash foam against the boat sides, keeping a sober distance

from the drinkers aboard

Heartbeats beneath the waves ring clear and plain

late autumn, mountains loom high, the moon dwindles faint

Beneath damp heavy curtains, sleepers lost to day and night

bend their knees slightly, bracing against the core of dreams

In woods bathed in crescent moonlight, wanderers returning from revelry

hasten home with hats pressed tight, clinging to lingering warmth

Lost travellers shout across the stream

echoes mimic one another, like a man and his own inner self

Thick mist drips down bamboo leaves

leaning a staff by the water’s edge

weeping eases the ache of the soul, yet silence stretches boundlessly vast

No one may cross its realm, nor add to nor take from its essence

from beneath the hat spill endless lingering doubts

Doves spread wings and fly away

while crows plunge headlong to the ground, upsetting water flasks and gauges

Still some will climb higher peaks through pouring rain

drink deep the darkness of a whole year, and meet pure solitude

When trains rumble past the valley, verses flow unbidden from their lips

heedless of unseen listeners

or swarms of stars swirling before their eyes

Where history lies laid flat

place lamps, letters, and a few worn old garments

Such days are few, the fragrance of roses still lingers amid dust

while heavy frost and shadows settle upon dark treetops

Things in May

Things in May come all too sudden,

as if they have not yet learned to keep balance,

surrounded by country folk, they are questioned again and again.

A red-breasted bird flies from weeds to treetops;

all things far away keep it warm.

Trains cut across the damp countryside,

passengers sitting with their backs to the way ahead.

Once past a certain age,

to go forward is to retreat — this truth he knows well.

After farewells, the station sinks into instant gloom,

empty and clean, as if just washed by water.

Two friends head home side by side, chatting softly, 

will someone call them back suddenly?

All overlooked scenes mirror on the window pane,

noon has not come, nor the despair of midnight.

How long must we watch for something to emerge —

things stir, then fade away: trees, people, drifting dust,

tiny fragments yet always tinged with warmth.

Before long, all books will be read through,

before long, even drinking wine bears its cost,

before long, rain drifts like wispy white steam,

hovering above treetops shrouded in deepening dusk.

Those most casual trifles lean close,

like ears pressed softly against your door.

Things of May, near and far, gather at once

on the moving glass. A rain dissolves them all,

as if someone has just wept silently,

only the breath of fish lingers still in flooded fields,

it feels as if we still sit in late-night taverns,

drinking wine and reciting poems,

while your fair wives lie fast asleep upstairs.

Passing Through a Real Summer

Passing through a real summer, the clouds lingering in the mountains

are dyed with the colours of forests and wildflowers

before flood arrives, a glimmer of light

has already pierced through the darkness of that marsh land

Between the marsh and the cliffs

on that dazzling desolate beach

when the sunlight deepens the mole on your face

I’m willing to let you come closer, I’m willing to be acquainted with you

When rocks fill the empty evenings by the seaside

the sea water is limitless, thunder rumbles in the eagle’s nest

our floors are filled with the white marks of snails

those who pass through the marsh before the wind rises will become our first guests

A summer passes in an instant, the murmuring of gentle water on the left side of night

is the continuous offering of the earth to the ocean

the south wind, carrying soil, transforms hidden happiness

the losses of a summer will gradually be settled

The red flag hangs low, in the reflection of salt on the marsh

damp newspapers are curling, hiding summer’s insect eggs

the oysters trodden underfoot turn into lamps on our heads in the blink of an eye

we are the only humans in front of another world

Herding rocks into the sea, the ears underground

hear the impending silence, on evenings when no bottled messages arrive

we will collect brown driftwood, put away blurry diaries

and when cold rain brightens the lamps, termites will swarm in our home

Autumn will leave us with vast vistas and contemplation, clutching a handful of seeds of death

at high noon, the shimmering waves will reflect on the wooden fence

I will lean against the door, drinking water, too tired to speak

a child will be granted to me, sleeping peacefully behind the shimmering waves

Living Through an Imaginary Summer

To live through an imaginary summer, trees begin to take

the bearing of rocks. Those cherished shrubs of yours

are lit time and again by car lamps, draped with tassels

up where sunlight rolls down, toward the close of September

bees and butterflies wage scattered skirmishes beneath a monotonous clear sky

the last cicada chirps are chased away, then turn into rain

glimmering mist and ripe fruits amid the drizzle

Hands stained with grass sap, you stand in an old courtyard

a soft drizzle takes you by surprise

making you cease plucking poisonous berries with your lips

you watch birds flying low, bereft of their bounty in rain

and learn that weariness is never an excuse

ere long you shall compose poems of flawless grace

as if placing humanity’s finest children among thickets

leaving supper behind, then walking far away

Time scatters your fancies, hesitation settles in your hands

wrinkles cover all your garments

red buoys dot the summer river

half-filled wine bottles slant on the water like resting trout

all along, we have taken our own heads as paths

treading toward heaven’s journey, yet all we reach

is merely the backyard of the age, an idle factory cold and still

we scatter petals in the name of love, believing the lanterns 

dragged underwater by fish at the source of dreams shall light up the future

Yet the future is nothing but a soft drizzle. Gnarled old trees

cast down billowing waves; sallow flesh lies prone

upon trays of fallen leaves

in the empty courtyard, only silence settles accounts

as a fading soul extinguishes the last lamp

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of Difficult writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese, focusing on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, Rosanna Warren.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 including 9 poetry collections. Ma Yongbo’s complete Chinese translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies.

The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.

In August 2026 he received the American poetry award: New Generation Beat Poet Laureate (2026-lifetime) China, from The National Beat Poetry Foundation (NBPF) in the United States.