Self-Portrait
He stands in an afternoon of dappled sunlight
weary of drifting in the wind
the small wicker basket lies far across the meadow
no crickets glint with glassy sheen
he feels the sun soft and mild
casting round and rounded shadows
it is autumn; somewhere not far away
the blood of ripe fruits splatters the sky
layer upon layer of green leaves stay still, unbound
the harbour is but iron stakes around a fountain’s rim
Perhaps somewhere in this world
someone strides across beast-hide grasslands
bearing a small basket toward his receding figure
his windcoat fails to spread wing-like folds
he clenches his fingers, not letting them sprout
the gunpowder hidden in the sky remains unlit
rows of palm trees stand in strict alignment
raising green rifles, aiming straight at him
He pictures how a hero meets his end:
pines stand too low, lacking vivid green
fountains cease their dance;
the clock at the meadow’s centre keeps perfect time
he presses a hand to his heart
and his face fades into sallow yellow
Grass creeps close behind his back
the moment he turns to leave, autumn draws to an end;
that small scarlet basket holding his black gloves
Man
You must endure,
endure what hides behind doors
you must view this innate world from an angle
and woman’s innate frailty
you must carry women home
crawl under the bed to search for tools.
You are a man,
you must drive to distant provinces to haul back salted fish,
or you must die on the road
bringing joy to those who miss you.
You must leave someone who resembles you
to suffer alone somewhere in the world,
enduring the loneliness women bring you
endure the humiliation dealt by other men; you must
In this world
you can never return as promised,
seeing only the night’s side.
You are a man
you must haul stones into the city
letting beauty torment you
letting distance torment you,
retreating behind your own face,
where damp gloomy lanes lie
strewing fallen leaves all over your boots
Another Cloud
Sitting by the window, a cloud drifts near
last year I wrote it soft and clear
like a lamb asleep upon the page
now it hangs close within my range
Gently brushing against the pane
an old acquaintance come again
it gazes on me, wordless, mild
well knowing what I pen each day and wild
it begs to rest within my verse awhile
Before my eyes stretches golden wheat land
woodlands lean at the fiery golden end
cloud after cloud drifts slow and low
dusted with awns and pollen glow
Tall scarecrows hide their faces in cloud haze
my pen bends gently on the paper ways
a maiden turns aside in my rhyme
fading like yellow blooms amid the clime
When I step broken from poetic tide
I find the cloud lonely all morning wide
has drifted far beyond my sight
soon it shall vanish into light
To hold it ere it fades away
I haste to write the wind and ray
yet it has gone without a trace
leaving no weight on paper space
Just like those things that walk with us all days
they leave no mark within our inner ways
The Chaotic Summer
Last year, I wrote of summer as something soft,
lingering not far from love, diligently performing its duty.
This year’s summer arrived suddenly, like an unexpected visitor,
I let her into the house,
and she turned around and shut me outside.
Women joyfully burst into flames,
in the white alleys, babies’ cries rose and fell like waves.
Hands took root in the soil’s fire,
the shadows of trees cut into my legs,
at last, the tree recognised me,
and with its broad wings caressed me,
leaving my hair sticky with dew.
This summer, dreams suddenly fell silent,
when a woman sleeps deeply,
another woman rises from the depths of her body,
you peel the woman layer by layer, like peeling off the blurred waves,
seeking the woman hidden within.
But when you close the woman in disappointment,
she slowly emerges once more, like a corpse rising from dark waters,
smiling eternally, watching you with closed eyelids,
filling you with unease.
Fruits strike the ox forehead of time,
birdcalls pick at the city’s trembling nerves,
blood flies along the river,
unfolding a stretch of sunny flame,
time becomes sweat seeping from pores,
rain chooses the sensitive parts of passersby to fall upon,
all the world’s tiny changes vanish in your sleep,
like noise absorbed by warm, damp walls,
the setting sun is forgotten in the valley’s campfire,
a red puppet descends alone into the dark, empty orange grove.
The restored woman lies facing the wall,
dreams are silent as the hidden sea within breath,
which has sunk many fleets yet left no wounds,
her face is deeply hidden in dreams,
light and shadow drift uncertainly, illusory, unreal.
It subtly changes shape, becoming unfamiliar,
surprising you.
A single sleep lasts a thousand years,
upon waking, autumn has arrived,
shadows have knocked over the wine cup,
the planet still carries ruins upon its body
turning through vast cosmic spaces, gleaming with false light.
All is silent, only a butterfly flies and pauses,
traveling alone with a jolting truck
on a bumpy mountain road.
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 Objectifying poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.
He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell,Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.
In August 2026, he was awarded the title of New Generation Beat Poet Laureate Lifetime by the National Beat Poetry Foundation (NBPF) of the United States. In October 2026, he received the Translator Prize of the 7th Golden Evy International Poetry Prize established by the World Federation of Poetry and Art and World Friends Day.