Four Poems
Written by Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri
Translated by Yuanbing Zhang
God is Ourselves after Waking up
You can’t catch every worldly thing like you can’t retain the days.
You can’t see the truth of all things on earth like you can’t see your own soul.
Happiness and tribulation may not exist as if there is no night
and daylight in the Kingdom of Heaven,
And the universe is merely the phantom of the light of our soul,
and God is ourselves after waking up.
上帝是梦醒之后的自己
你抓不住世间的一切犹如留不住时光
你看不见万物的真相犹如看不见自己的灵魂
幸福和苦难也许并不存在犹如在天国没有黑夜与白昼
而宇宙只是自己的灵魂之光的幻影而上帝是梦醒之后的自己
City of Dreamland
You walk in the city of dreamland but forget that you are the unique creator.
For your soul is the unique God that lives in the Kingdom of Heaven;
And you believe the riot of colours in a dream–
the pulsating of life and the blight of death;
And the muse of love makes you look like butterfly that hovered lightly in the garden
and forgot that your name is Zhuangzi.
梦境之城
你走在梦境之城却忘了自己是唯一的创造者
而灵魂是唯一的上帝而且居住于不可回忆之天国
而你相信了梦中的赤橙兰绿那生之绚烂与死之枯萎
而爱情之蜜酒让你如同花园里翩跹飞舞的蝴蝶而忘了自己名曰庄子
Universe is the Heavenly Garden of The Stars
Emptiness-nothingness will save you and wipe away all of the worldly scars,
Until you are fresh as the beginning and as fragrant – beauty as another spring.
The world will never fade because the universe is the heavenly garden of the stars.
The other you is that giant who is arriving in a huge spaceship
from another city of the sun.
宇宙是天国的星辰花园
空无会拯救你且抹去世上的一切伤痕
直到你鲜艳如初芳美若又一个春日甘醇之大明烝烝
世界永不会凋谢因为宇宙是天国的星辰花园
明天的你那乘坐星际巨舰的巨人正在另一个太阳之城驶来
King of the Universe
Seek thyself and seek your soul which is a lifetime mission.
The soul is both in your body and the Kingdom of Heaven,
Because the eyes always deceive you, thus you are lost in the illusion of the world.
You will be the king of the universe when you find yourself or else you have nothing.
宇宙之王
寻找自己寻找自己的灵魂这是终生的使命
灵魂在你的体内也在遥远的天国
因为眼晴总在把你欺骗而让你迷失于世界的幻象
当你找到了自己甚至一无所有也将成为宇宙之王
Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.
Email:3112362909@qq.com Hongri Yuan Phone:+86 15263747339
Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China
It is the autumn of my 7th grade at school. The first year at Frick Junior High.
The school is large and dirty and very impersonal. Perhaps it is the first year of my life that feelings seem to have any importance. I think I am lost, lost in a large world of uncaring people. It is as if I turned around and found myself in something I couldn’t understand and most of all didn’t want to understand.
I wonder what am I doing here and why? Why am I sentenced to this setting. Last year I didn’t seem to feel much of anything. I was a child that was taken care of and I want to go back, but I know I can’t. Now I’m something that is not a child, but what am I?
We’re told to go to period 1, that is P.E., so I go. The teacher always looks so strange. Her legs are thick and bulky and she wears short socks and heavy white shoes. Her face is like stone, no emotion, she acts like something of a man and woman combined. I am scared. We dress in a cold room, it is always cold in that room. We dress in queer looking blue shorts with elastic in the legs and snaps on the side. The shirt is blue all blue with snaps in the front. Everybody looks alike, we are now going to play tetherball, and we do. Then the loud whistle brows, it blows in my ear and I can hear the ringing for the next ten minutes. The game is finally over, nobody seems to know who won or lost and nobody cares.
Next we shower in dirty stalls and hear laughing, giggling and yelling. My hair is a mess and the day has just began. I wonder will I get through Period 2.
Lily and Reed
My mossy pad touching your mighty waist
melancholizes my petals. You play
the flute as if it were a lissom sword.
I love your Creole voice, twigs of raucous
French marinated and casseroled with
African leaves. A rich spinster reading
the soul of the perfect, poor man makes her
richer. I will give my horizontal
to your vertical. Give me not curved moons
that belongs to primitive people; give
me a rusty sickle that I may reap
you for myself. I cannot wait for you
to call yourself mine. Time, our breath, is but
a flower jealously jailed by its bud.
You are egoless; I want to live and
end on your reedbed, not in this soggy
palace. I want to call you, your voice mine.
Fatherly Forms
When I feel down, like a small bulb dying
among a crowd of condescending moons,
my guilty eyes see only one martyr.
He is a devoted, withering trunk
holding countless boughs, twigs, leaves, flowers, fruits.
Unmoved by his perpetual pain, like
greedy worms we feasted on his glory.
We picked up huge stones to stone him, sometimes.
Each dewy morning, the massive mountain
is losing his soil to the angry waves.
He walks around leaning against the walls
of the house he built but can no more own.
Like a scarecrow he kept us safe and fed
our fields, but since the avalanche of white
hair, he is toothless and frightens no birds.
And, when I spend the afternoon over
the bridge watching the fragile fish carry
their blissful bodies down the river, I
feel his youth in the rhythmic ripples and
know he would lie about his evening grief.
Self-Isolation & Shakespeare
A nameless day, I see myself leaning
on a Malboro backstage, my green tongue
in love with borrowed smoke. I talk of
dreams; I am the musical Mercutio.
Stickmen on fire queue up for my concerts.
A blank night, I find myself in seiza
at a shrine, gargling with sweet, warm water.
An Asian Orsino, I chew music;
I am the scarecrow stuffed with red hay,
whose harmonium goes wild and mild.
A dateless noon I see myself digging
into an oyster; I am Bassanio,
the gambler. I rejoice in the absence
of the sun, trying to lure a mermaid into
the spirited marrow of my drained skeleton.
I have no regret as my beard falls on
the cracked window sill. On the old table,
fresh newspaper. Covid count. Coldest rain.
To be Romeo, or not to be Romeo?
Back to my boulder, I am the snowman
cheating invisible death, in his blindness.
Amit Parmessur, 38, a private tutor, is a two-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Web nominee. His poems have appeared in over 165 magazines, namely WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius, where he spent his adolescence hating poetry.
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J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
CIVIL WAR: ACT 2
Three hundred years ago,
Europe wasn’t white.
Men were French, Polish, Italian, Greek,
Swiss, Danish, Ukranian, Turk,
Finns, Spanish, Austrian, Swedes,
Dutch, Irish, German, Serbs.
Not white.
Three hundred years ago,
Africa had no blacks.
They were Maasai, Himba, Zulu, San,
Dogon, Yoruba, Berber, Bantu,
Kikuyu, Ndebele, Ashanti, Hausa,
Fulani, Samburu, Hadzabe, Igbo.
Not black.
Then slave traders came with guns and ropes,
buying and selling.
Captured Africans filled boats
stacked like cordwood.
Now they were black.
Auctioned off to customers
who matched every shade on the gray scale,
but had the power to be white.
Opposites. Duality.
Authority vs. slavery.
Slavery endorsed by church-going whites.
After all, black property wasn’t Christian.
Nor truly human.
When the world is black and white,
individuality is erased.
Only poles remain,
like goalposts in a football game.
Immigrants jockey for a place on the yard line.
But the poles are not equal.
The balance is off,
and imaginary goalposts
flash like ghosts.
Tremors of change shake the field,
and those who own nothing but whiteness
lash out,
afraid they will lose their grip.
Those whose blackness is matched
by talent and ambition
see a new day on the horizon.
But many hang on to the old days,
days when Jim Crow kept order,
kept the lowest white
a degree above the highest black.
Along comes a TV name with a slogan:
Make America great (white) again.
The second Civil War begins.
Shots ring out.
Hate crimes multiply—
against Muslims, Asians, Jews, Hispanics, Blacks…
The first skirmishes in a war we thought was over.
Democracy dies first.
A foot on the neck, until life is snuffed out.
We should have seen this coming.
nerve damage
i can feel the nerve
damage in my middle
finger
i guess the knife
went deep enough
part of me knows
that many people
are chuckling
knowing they wanted
the knife to go deeper
all i can preach
is patience
your day will be here
before you know it
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fogs up my glasses
another morning in
some medical center
scribbling poems in
the waiting room as
my mask fogs up
my glasses
i doubt the pandemic
ever ends and i'm sure
this will be my life
until my mother dies
not much of a life
by the usual standards
but i do what i can
with what i have
i can't say the same
for everyone else
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a little less gentle
soft black skin
connecting the
tubes
explaining this is
going to hurt a little
i chuckle and explain
my high pain tolerance,
hoping she knows to be
a little less gentle
she starts the procedure
and i imagine her naked
i believe she noticed
or that was my imagination
having her lick her lips and
start to open her sweater up
for a better view
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
laughing at the hard times
i learned a long time ago
that laughing at the hard
times will take you much
farther than the endless
misery of complaining
now, my laughter has
turned more to sarcasm
as i have grown older
the joys of becoming
an old cynical fuck
it does have some perks
no one tends to fuck
with you
or bother to talk to you
or most days, if you can
get so lucky, they will
forget you exist
talk about a good day
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
make me find the joy
contemplating
suicide again
it always comes
up around the
holidays
there's an angel
out there that
hopes to cure
me
make me find
the joy
i applaud and
admire her effort
but she's old
enough to know
there is no escaping
certain tragedies
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
THE POET AND LIFE
Authoress: HONG NGOC CHAU
Leaving the school podium, I process my dream
Literary career desire still lingers me, I write poems
About life, my feelings spread everywhere
I take the standard of human love as the ruler
The true, the good, the beautiful are my desires
Living for people, I respect this value as ever
Originally literature helps me sublimate my soul
And music, painting with glittering feature halo
I reflect on human life from the reality
Getting humanities to lead the journey
I always look towards the spiritual world
Teaching offsprings as the basic words
With virtuous behavior, I keep morality
To know mutuality, love, I live sincerely
Subjectively wrong or right as my own mind
Not many words, cunning I don’t mesmerize
For my career, I keep my words indeed
In my heart, the enthusiasm of the poet
I love life, days by days increasing vitality
Love my country, my people, and humanity
Her true name is NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her Pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU, her Facebook name is NGUYEN CHINH.
She was graduated Master degree in Education Management. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam), the Honorary Foreign Advisor, Ambassador of the Suryodaya Literature Foundation (SLF) From- Vietnam; the member Admin of W.U. P (World Union of Poets), the level of GENERAL COUNCILOR of the World Union of Poets with COORDINATORS SILVER MEDAL ( 14th medal of the World Union of Poets), Contributor of VISHWA BHARATI – India (The Vishwabharati Research Center), Administrator, moderator, group expert of many literary forums around the world…
She got a lot of rewards and diplomas such as World Literary Prize World poetic Star 2019; Diploma of II ND Level “Temirqazyq – the Best Poet – Writer of the World,2019”; Certificate of honor is a Gold categorized member in Motivational Strip showing outstanding qualities in global literary excellence and contributions 2019. Premio Mundial A La Excelencia Literaria 2019-2020; COPPER CROSS of The World Union Of Poets for promotion of art 2020; Honorary Diploma 2020/2021: Literary Luminaries Award of The School of Art and Poetry; S.L.F Literary EXCELLENCE AWARD 2020, Certificate of appreciation of TOP TEN WRITER 2020; HAVEN FOR THE WORLD WRITERS, Certificate of honor 2020 of WORLD AWARDS “CÈSAR VALLEJO 2020”, for education, culture, academy, art, reporting, communication, TV, business, civic, human rights…; “THE ODER OF SHAKESPEARE” MEDAL (23/4/2021) of MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS; Certificate of author recognition presented to NGUYEN CHINH – 2021, Poetic warriors Award of excellence 2021; CASA POETICA Magia y Plumas, Primio De Arte Y Literatura Universal 2021, RHYTHM OF THE HEART, Certificate of appreciation is awarded as TOP CONTRIBUTOR (2021), GENESIS WORLD WRITER COMMUNITY Global Certificate of Excellence (World Wide Platform to Elevate Outstanding Global Writers) 2021, Queen Zenobia Award for Global Culture 2021, Perfect Attendee Award GOLD A 2021-2022 of POETRY CENTER;
CULTURAL AND ARTISTIC ACTIVITIES Books of poems published: Vietnamese Contemporary Poetry (Volume 1); The road to the true heart, Pitiable or Blamable… and many works have been published on world literary forums, newspapers, magazines of English Literature, USA, India, Poland, China, etc., global publications; honored to receive the Excellence Award of the European Poetry Championship 2021, honored to participate in the 2nd World Literature Festival 2021, honored works selected by Indian Educators to be published in a multilateral anthology Global convenience, honor to attend the World Poetry Championship 2021, Inner Child Press International-‘building bridges of cultural understanding’ 2019, 2020, 2021. v.v…
