Birds watch the red rock mountain and a tall, still
palm feathers the sky. A hawk to the left belongs
to the larger painting with a pear, a stone as in nectarine,
a pitcher with reflective gleam, branches, and a smaller,
rounded bird. There is a serenity here, a curtain
to the right. At night, does this still life sleep?
And are their dreams the same as mine that mine
the urgencies in self-splintered pieces not at peace?
Do they collect themselves in one gentle full-fledged day,
each fiber performing what it does? Here I see cerulean sky
might light the eyes. The will to hold still and breathe
from middle distance, a spirit on the lam hiding
hope for mid-day light and a little privacy.
Sonnet for Monsoon
Not a world to anyone please instead Stay unblinkingly astonished here Choose close listening don’t step listlessly away Remember your home once unremarkable Has left me repeatedly the natural Unspoken haven evening out The viola clef in the course of fife drummed in Let’s share a table and table work Those close-by people are so much work Tempting me to adulterate your life history Despite your refusing to wear Your hair in that faucet I recommend You take my course become shocked open To the not yet watched framed world
Jazz Fingerings
15/
Bass is reliable; wind blossoms land. One supper at a time, piano keys crawl
toward a not-yet destination. Something unnamed is golden to the touch
conferred like clothing on the line in a late summer partial breeze. The tone
once wished comes gently true. Hands limber toward clock time, then turn
away. Some cleanse seams a placid otherwise. One fraction at a time,
the thought of light erupts but inside quiet named nothing except froth,
a moth of mood until steep enclosure wrinkles what looked smooth.
A supple colorless blush leans toward an unexpected window brimming
with light brought in with the spirit. Is spirit legible? One chooses shades
of midnight to lie down upon. The texture steals the sound, then dreams
replace the mis-remembered daylight with wrist movements and sheepish
dream. How many consecutives can fit inside the case of the instrument
that parlays ounces of escape within the warm tones? The missing armature
is found beyond a rinse of mild caffeine, of other liquids once unsealed.
And melody holds still amid the gem of color almost heard between
the interstices of a jewel to be considered warm compared to glistening
keyboard’s in-charge motion in the moment fresh cards are played
and fill the tiny room that might become a yard in mind as open
as imagined fullness. Quick with change and quiet then. As optimistic
motion lotions its way into what’s possible while only smiles are held
within the smoke around the silver of the playthings that instruments remain.
Monody for Monday
I sleep through my carb-fed shimmering REM dream
where nothing and everything insidious lets go. A wreck
of metal belonging to someone else whose name has left
its mark minus the syllables. I sing in my sleep less than I laugh
at something that wakes me. And if you must know
the daylights out of this, my vocabulary makes fun of me
and my popping joints that feel fluent (sic) enough to me.
Ready or not, I love a good road trip as much as anybody. Two lanes
won’t quite do, but I’ll take them so long as they’re pointed north.
I used to gather arrowheads and tuck them inside something soft.
Wildflowers showered me with myself. Anymore, I don’t bother
glaring at the scenery. I’m a window facing the aisle through which
you can only perspire perhaps unknowingly on nature
sprinkling ablutions where least expectorated.
Sheila E. Murphy. A Pushcart-nominated poet, recent appearances include Gargoyle, Poetry Bay, Poetry, Lana Turner, Poetose, Volta, and others. Most recent book publications are I Want to Be Your Radio (Unlikely Books, 2025), Escritoire (Lavender Ink, 2025), and Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Recently performed at the New Orleans Poetry Festival. Won the Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and the Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.
RUPA RAO INTERVIEWS WORLD POET AND PHILOSPHER DR JERNAIL SINGH ANAND.
Q — If you had a magic wand to change anything about your present or past—events, situations, people, views, words—what would they be and why?
Practically, it is impossible to retrieve even a moment that has slipped through our fingers. Yet, if we imagine possessing a magic wand capable of editing our past—our ideas, actions, and circumstances—I would change a few situations that proved deeply disturbing in my life. The first was the extreme poverty of my early years. It was dehumanising and filled me with a quiet dislike for the village I came from. I have very few happy memories, and those are tied only to my mother, my sister, and my father, who was helpless to provide for us because circumstances had forced him out of business. I certainly wish this had not been so.
We often believe that life has something in store for us and that we must abide by fate. Yet there was no wisdom in leaving Chandigarh and joining a post 250 km away in Mandi Dabwali. I also wish I had not accepted the Principal’s job at DAV College, Bathinda. I wanted to be a lecturer, and I became one. I wanted to be a poet, and I became that too. The overall drift of my life does not disappoint me. The end result is nearly satisfying. Happiness is an idea; satisfaction is another. I continue my pursuit of self-exploration and feel content with the journey.
Q — What would today’s Dr. Anand advise the child, youth, or adult Jernail Singh?
If you are born in poverty, the only option is struggle—single-minded devotion to your objectives, never looking sideways, always moving forward, and taking misfortunes in your stride. Scarcity taught me to fight for my ideals, and honest labour became my foundation. I would advise young Jernail to confront circumstances and achieve his goals. There is no shortcut to immortality; that lies in God’s hands. We must work within our powers and let God witness our honest efforts—efforts that harm no one, not even the cosmos. That is what I want my younger self to learn: stay focused, grateful, and responsible.
Q — If you were not a writer, what might you have pursued?
Had I not become a writer, I would have continued as a Lecturer in the Department of English and likely ended my career as a Principal, perhaps even a Vice-Chancellor. Writing made me disinterested in administrative roles, which felt like a drag. A VC has no time for himself or his family. Even as Principal, I was pressed for time and could not write much. My literary career gained momentum only after my retirement in 2015. In 2016, I visited Italy and Nigeria, and thereafter my work expanded rapidly, now crossing 200 books.
Q — What do you enjoy pursuing other than writing?
I enjoy walking in nature. I am a regular morning walker and often go to the fields and a small forest near my home. It is a joy to begin the day with the fresh smell of greenery, trees, and sometimes peacocks flying overhead. Occasionally, other wild animals appear, including serpents. Birds of many species accompany my walks. Earlier, before urbanisation overtook both sides of the slender road, there were birds of many feathers. Now, with bus horns, cars, and growing population, many have withdrawn. Still, squirrels, nightingales, and cuckoos remain and enliven my mornings and evenings.
Beyond this, I enjoy Urdu serials and browsing YouTube for news. I have organised around seven world poetry conferences and remain in constant touch with friends across the globe, inspiring young poets toward better work.
Q — What mishaps or mistakes guided you toward your destiny?
I recall one mistake that helped me move forward: forgetfulness—what I call memory leaps. Romantic people often suffer from it. I am reminded of Robert Lynd’s essay Forgetting, where he says players are the most forgetful people, and we are most casual with posting letters.
When I worked at Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, I typed a letter and sent it to the Head for signatures. He rang a long bell meant for me. When I entered, he asked the date. I answered correctly. Then the month—I hesitated but got it right. Then the year—1976. He showed me the letter where all three were wrong. I apologised, but he issued an explanation letter. I replied that I was sorry and added that stenos are allowed ten percent marks during selection. This infuriated him, and he wrote in my Confidential Report that I was “forgetful.”
Looking at the reverse side of this incident, it is clear I was not meant to retire as a stenographer. And indeed, by March 1977, I joined Panjab University, Chandigarh, in the office of the Dean Student Welfare, located in the most vibrant part of the campus—the Students’ Centre.
Q — What are you most proud of—personally or professionally.
Many moments have made me proud, though I believe in humility. The greatest was seeing my name inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. The Charter of Morava, Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association, the Seneca Award (Italy), and the Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky Awards—all were achievements anyone would cherish. The honour grew manifold when I realised Rabindranath Tagore too had been conferred Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association.
Another proud moment was receiving the Honoris Causa Doctoral Degree from the University of Engineering and Management, Jaipur, at its 9th Convocation.
Yet the moment that truly changed my life was learning I had secured 55% in M.A. English, enabling me to join Lectureship—the dream I had pursued with passion.
Q — What would you like people to remember most about you?
Only that I believed in cosmic wisdom and tried to accomplish the tasks assigned to me by the Muse. Poetry is an inborn passion; it cannot be acquired through training. I revived the epic tradition in a postmodern world. I am not a critic of science and technology; I welcome change. Just as we mine the earth for its secrets, we must mine the human mind with the help of science. But science and technology have no mind of their own; they are driven by those who wield them. I wish humanity to cultivate moral clarity and train future generations to remain focused. Science is a tool, not a replacement for human consciousness. The greatest possibilities lie not in machines but in the human mind—and in knowing its limits.
DR JERNAIL S. ANAND
Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit—including 20 epics—is a Chandigarh-based polymath and a leading architect of 21st-century ethical literature. His seminal work Lustus: The Prince of Darkness challenges the moral complacency of our era.
Founding President of the International Academy of Ethics and Laureate of the Charter of Morava (Serbia), Seneca (Italy), Franz Kafka (Germany, Ukraine, Czech Republic), and Maxim Gorky (Russia), his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He is an Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade. Anand’s poetics unite ethics, Vedic spirituality, social critique, and the philosophy of meaning. A moral philosopher, professor, and international speaker, he has devoted his research to the ethical dimension of language, the responsibility of the individual in a globalised society, and the relationship between matter, consciousness, and transcendence. Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com
An army child, Rupa Rao is a biographer, poet, writer, editor, and curator who holds an MBA and a Law degree. She serves as an admin at LWG and is Chief Coordinator for the International Academy of Ethics. Featured in multiple global anthologies, magazines, and literary platforms, she enjoys hosting poetry sessions, author interactions, nature walks, and yoga. She has curated and authored anthologies—poetry, short stories, and interviews—and penned Dr. Anand’s biography. She has also edited a fantasy novella and three poetry collections for fellow writers.
They routinely ask you, what else you have to do with your life?
What’s your other job?
As if working split shifts, doubles, red-eyed with raging hangovers, running on depleted adrenaline levels, days and nights. Seeing The Future in a cracked shot glass, the amber liquid inside all the hours and minutes of those days and nights forming a hard, small viscous puddle in the middle of a cratered bar surface that looks like no man’s land in some nightmare film version of The Waste Land.
So I say, “I’m independently wealthy. Actually, I do this for fun, getting paid is just a bonus.”
And, if I’m in a real foul mood, I tell them something like the truth, “I’m doing in depth field research for a human science experiment.
My thesis is set for review and possible publication like in the next few days, keep asking questions and there might be a whole section devoted to you.”
And they laugh and laugh and laugh as if I were some kind of quick witted, one liner artiste, instead of a small piece in god’s plan for the human comedy that always has a tragic ending no matter what part you play.
Sometimes I even tell them the title of the Work in Progress, although it’s rarely the same one or the real one.
Somehow today sort of feels like, Show Me the Way to the Next Whiskey Bar
Last week it was Quiet Flow the John
Next week?
Who knows?
Face Down on the Barroom Floor Ramada Inn/Silo 1974
She pushes open the swinging kitchen doors,
eyes wide, hands shaking she said,”You’ve got
to do something, they’re tearing the place
apart.”
In the rathskeller, below, it sounds
to the staff as if the dancing has gotten out
of hand as if all of the feet are in the
wrong part of the room and that there is no
music but a new kind of nerve ending
sound of glass meeting brick.
Now, on the floor of the lounge, five brothers
are putting the finishing touches to a twelve-hour
day of solemn marriage rites and shots of 7 Crown
with beer chasers along the bar, holding
the night manager’s head inert, free form kicking
his face in the darkness as a waitress weeps,
they run overturning tables and chairs as they go
spinning table candles spread a thin hot sealing
wax over blood on the wash and wear carpet.
This year on the job training qualifies you for a merit badge in plastic surgery and seven days with a white batman mask, as the stitches heal. It’s a mask you won’t show off in public because Halloween isn’t for another eight months and you’re in no mood to answer questions.
Actually, there are some hidden benefits in a life threatening beating; a week off, no questions asked ,and the scars, later, to prove you’d done Mugging 101 and passed with three scars workman’s comp will fork over cash for.
Upper Management show their gratitude for blood and time loss with a spontaneous, in-depth criticism for all the things you did wrong in a crisis beginning with, “You should have nuked them with the fire extinguisher.”
Or, “call the cops first, ask questions, later.”
As if there was an operating telephone nearby to use.
As if one foam fire extinguisher could quell an indoor, no rules Australian football game involving all the players from several teams, their next of kin And their fans, a congregation of Assholes that gave new meaning to the word, Chaos
Walk On
He was up against
the side bar
and he’d been there
all of his life
touching him was
risking contracting
a fatal disease
but I had to do it,
“The bar is closing
down, you have to leave.”
His eyes focused
on a point no one
else could see.
“Leave?” He said.
“I have weapons
sanctioned by the Lord.”
“I hope they’re
registered in Albany
County or else you’re
in big trouble.”
“I have transmitters
locked into invisible
orbiting satellites.”
“I’ll pass up my best FCC
line, would you like
me to call a cab
back to CDPC or would
you rather walk?”
“I have no money.”
“You’ll have to walk then,
it’s not that far. Besides,
I’ll bet you could use
the fresh air and exercise.”
It was late November
and he didn’t have a coat.
That was his problem.
He should have thought
of that when he left
the Loony Bin with
his spare change.
I was being hard on
lunatics that week, and they
were being hard on me.
After this last assault, you file that claim with Workman’s Compensation despite strict prohibition of any such claims by management no matter what the cause or nature of the injury.
Compensation Board claims raise the Company’s premiums.
But after a complete, comprehensive late-night tour of all the Emergency Rooms in the Greater Capital District Area, for a wide variety of on-the-job related injuries and nothing to show for them but permanent damage and lost wages, you really don’t give a flying fuck about their higher premiums.
And Management says, “You’re developing an attitude.
A Bad Attitude.
But when you tender your resignation a couple of months later, they change their tune.
Offer you a modest raise.
After all they can’t afford to lose you.
Who else will do all the dirty work?
Working Stiff
They like
to work
you day
and night
until your
eyes start
to bleed
they don’t
care about
how you
might feel
unless they
think you
might not
make it
So you show up for work.
For now. They aren’t the only club in a tri-state area no matter what they would like you to believe.
You don’t like the job but it’s the work you do and despite all the heat, the stuff and nonsense, you take a certain pride in being able to do something no else can do as well as you can.
Like walking out on a ledge and staying there, daring what will happen to happen
But you can’t shake the labels or the rap
The Attitude
You’ve got a Bad Attitude
Why bother, it’s true, you do: it comes with the job
It’s what distinguishes you from the rest of the crowd, the amateurs.
Mind Games
“Do you know
Mary Beth?” he asks
“Everyone knows
Mary Beth.” I sd.
“Why she was
here just last
week.
We talked for
over an hour.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Fine. Real
fine.
Still working
in the same
place
Still hates
it too.
She was asking
about Joe.”
“Yeah, she would.
Do you know
Joe?”
“Not really,
I’ve seen him
though.”
“He’s a real
pisser, Joe is.
Did Mary Beth
tell you about
the time
Joe dropped trou?”
“Oh, no really?”
“Yeah, it was at
the New Year’s Eve bash
over at the Son’s Hall
Freaked everyone
right out in a hurry.
You should get to
know Joe, he’s a real
pisser.”
“I can tell.”
“Hey, man, when you
see Mary Beth tell
her I was by.”
“Sure will, dude.”
As if I knew
who any of these
people were.
You’ve cultivated this on the job trained self-image of a night time warrior in the trenches for so long you actually believe it.
Think that there’s a war being fought with liquor bottles, beer steins, insults and drunken tirades instead of hand grenades, horseshoes and atomic bombs.
When asked how you do it, the answer is always the same, “If everyone were doing it would be easy and then what would become of us?”
A line from a movie about a bomb disposal expert.
And what you are doing is a kind of bomb disposal; all those human atomic bombs you always ready and waiting to go off.
And they’re always at your disposal to deal with as you wish
Because you’re the head mad doctor,
The scientist with the rocket fuel
The magic cure
The liquid medicine
Cripples
They looked
as if they’d
copped
their last
dimes out
of a blind
man’s cup
As if they
rolled old
ladies and
infirm old
men for their
meals
There was
nothing wrong
with them
drinking
in my place
that a
couple of
years
behind bars
couldn’t cure
You’re no better than they are
And you probably feel worse
But you can never show it
After all the show must go on
And you have your professional pride
Reference Question
“You see this guy?
when he came to
work for us
he had to look
Bud up in a
book-didn’t know
the difference
between a bottle
of beer and a
bottle of booze
and just look
at him now.”
I didn’t hear that
I guess it’s because
I know the boss man has
to score points with
the money men too
Just ‘cause he hasn’t any
thing better to do than
build himself up by knocking
someone else down has nothing
to do with me, I’m better
than that. I mean I can
take a joke as well as
anyone, I’ve been laughed
at too many times not
to know a joke when I
hear one. So later, when
the Boss Man asks me
for a Dewar’s on
the rocks I have to laugh
What’s he talking about?
He must be kidding me.
I might even have to look
it up in a book.
I don’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out when I leave either
Or turn out any of the lights
I just make sure everything stops working the next day in a timed sequence like some kind of Alfred Hitchcock restaurant horror movie with those who remain as the unwilling characters.
I make sure all of my messages are put on Call waiting indefinitely or are misdirected to the back room of Rummy’s Bat Cave where the derelict who answers the phone has been on a non-stop binge since 1937 and will forget what he is doing with the phone in his hand, mid-conversation and leave the line open forever, phone dangling against the wall like the useless appendage that it is.
What the hell, it was only a job.
There’s always more work once you’ve summitted the plateau.
After all bartending is just something you learn to do with your head while your body is making drink, is watching what’s coming down in your world as it happens and surviving long enough to talk about it.
I guess that’s what writing is all about,as well.
But what would I know about that, man, I’m just the bartender.
A Pro-fessional with an Attitude
Or a character in a story
Or maybe even one who creates characters
Which one is it?
That would be telling and a bartender never tells
That’s against all the unwritten laws,
The Code of Ethics
Everyone Wants to Be a Bartender
It must be a
great life-
I’ll bet
all the girls
proposition you-
You must
overhear some
wild conversations-
I’ll bet all
the waitresses
are really wild
and all of that
free booze-
All that easy
money-
You must make
great tips
here
huh?-
You must be
a gambler-
Who do you
like in the-
You know
where I
can find
some easy-
I’m a little
short-
I know you
guys always
have bread
can I bum-
it’s a great
life
real great
and I’ve
been beat up
in some of
the best
joints
in town
too
Every word of this is true.
Everything I say is true.
Come to the Tavern where I work now and sample one of the cocktails from my bar book of recipes with a personality called Killer Cocktails.
Better be nice; remember who’s making those drinks you’re going to put into your body.
Better yet, just read the book
And see who gets the last laugh.
Or wait for the sequel, The Hair of the Dog That Bit Me.
That’s me on the cover, not Lon Chaney Jr. dressed to kill as the Wolfman.
It happens to all us professionals after a while, The Metamorphosis
Alamgir Hossain Raj: A Bangladeshi Journalist, Musician and Digital Content Creator
Alamgir Hossain Raj is a Bangladeshi journalist, musician, digital content creator, YouTuber, entrepreneur, author, and independent creative professional. With experience across journalism, digital media, music, and online content creation, Alamgir Hossain Raj represents a new generation of Bangladeshi media and creative professionals building their careers across multiple digital platforms.
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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.
