Three Poems
By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri
Translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Another Me From The Heavens
If blue is namely white and black is namely red
and gold is transparent as crystal
and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars
and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years
and back to the prehistoric giant city
and that giant is just like another me from the heavens
by the lotus throne in the golden palace.
天上的另一个自己
如若蓝即是白而黑即是红
而黄金透明若水晶而光芒令灵魂微笑忘了日月星辰
而汝醍醐灌顶一醉千年而回到了史前之巨城
而那金殿之莲花宝座上的巨人宛然天上的另一个自己
The Azure Sea
Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space
Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship
Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms
So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years
Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold
3.4.2017
蔚蔚之海
今夜我想起那遥远太空之上的白金巨城
那儿没有昼夜巨人们乘坐飞船在星际航行
他们的词语拥有上帝的尊严而创造圣洁的王国
亿万年的时光是一幅幅灵魂的画卷在记忆的迷宫
黄金之城橚矗那飘洒蜜甜乐曲的巨人殿宇之蔚蔚之海
2017.3.4
The Bath of The Cool Breeze
Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body
The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast
The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow
There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood
And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth
The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time
To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance
12.23.2016
淸风之沐
史前的诸神之词语正在我体内醒来
那陌生星球上的白金之城在蓝色海岸上恍如梦境
那乘光而行的巨人男女不知道烦恼或忧伤
他们的头颅里有诸神的圣殿光芒如酒在血液里流淌
而星辰的乐曲在身边拂荡犹如地球之上的淸风之沐
他们乘坐的星际巨舰可以抵达时间的彼岸
让你一睹昨日未来之你神性之芬郁之光
2016.12.23
Bio: 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.
Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuanbing Zhang
Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com
Napkin miscellanea
Following a footnote
abridged to engross
Japanese standard
spellings
gravediggers translate
promotional resources
as autumnal studies
useless links condense
their informative
relations.
humbled razor sharp
Zen winter coat symmetric PVC pipe
head a flowerpot
earlobe an extension cord
fleeing flea circus attitude
adjustment cucumber cart
telephone bra strap app
scratching iron shackle papal
smeared lips volcanic ash
pile style smile cesspool
HorroR escape hot RoD
stone cold malfunction sprain
backend that burps & slides
so close to bearing shed
farther than a ski slope swirl
salamander can of shoefly pie
leagues before JULES VERNE
marathon a con a palm
swan that sprays to play
/
/ /
/ / / /
/
and no other than another
bundled cut & razor shaped
well-versed & terse & tenses
a parody of electronic hearse
screwing lightbulbs from exterior
Reside where danger lies
Geysers originate artificial weaponry
on the imaginary look of future
temporarily shares dimension
shamed Greco-German empiricism
mainly a latter gift
aiming inheritance
into the discourse of
irredeemable anthropology
specters pave the epochs
blind emancipation backwards
dwell on media theory legacies
enveloping essential non-endeavors
conflating forbidden w/ jealousy
preserving diffuse critique
the center of the every day
Pragmatic convolutions
hotbed of MONARCHY
the human wart blasted
feathering itinerant quarrels
& unleashed furious press
from their rejected ramparts
came sighed relief
hunted by runaway laity
but one CRITIC presses play
while another MOUTHPIECE repeats
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press, 2021) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Coven, Spontaneous Poetics, Ygdrasil, Expat, Selcouth Station. RASPUTIN, Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, and Scud among others. joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Shards of color
from
Broken Dreams
It's all that's meant
by Time
it seems
Our Love stands
TALL
Above Our
clouds
And drowns
the Lakes
Beneath gray Shrouds
to mend the nights
& heal the Days
Where songs
Reach out
& ARMS swing
High
And Lofted Breath
I'll rise
I'll rise
the Breeze catches the wind
exhales an earthly mist
I'll walk the plains and sweep
the grasses until
I forget to count
the Dawns ♡
They are tired too
The pained crunching
Echoing like voices
Down the stained hall of my old apartment.
Beneath the soles
Of my bare feet,
Those heart-shaped leaves are confined
To a rough powder of broken shapes and pieces,
Those crushed artifacts harshly prodding
At my exposed heel.
The crumbling vines holding
The once vibrant grape leaves,
Grasping at the decomposing trellis that
Continues to be their supporting factor,
The one thing keeping them from dissolving into the rotting wooden slats below,
Cheering them on from the not-so-side lines as they
Cling with all the might contained in their frail limbs,
Once thriving but now,
That ancient, tea-colored beige, like the dust that clings to the windshield of her old Mercedes as the wheels grumble across the trembling metal bridge, like a game of “will it hold me.” the only game those broken pieces of hearts know how to play.
Silky sandpaper, my fingers dragging along in the muddy foliage of the garden, coating my fingertips with the texture of life, only in a childhood background.
Almost feeling drowned, drained, in the lack of moisture, the lack of care the ignorance thrown upon their once-photosynthesising
faces
i stand by,
not interfering with the natural order of the way things always seem to play out,
the branches scrape at my shoulders as I pass, opening new wounds that I'll leave for time to heal.
yet both the leaves and i seem to be defeated by
something. maybe
just the heat of this smoky summer afternoon,
giving false hope at comfort as it smears into
shivering shoulders in the evening light.
exhausted
by that never ending cycle of hoping,
my spine buries itself into the dirt,
liquid seeping down
through my roots,
nurturing the vines,
bringing life into their
pretty faces.
i lay here,
fading,
they
thrive.
organic suns
the frogmouth’s argent
my letter opener
broth froth
the winning egg
mu
mulberry
after anchor
in a chair, cheering
grass / elementary
silo norm
NORAD wolves
awash in crows
us---a
burger, uh,
grapes
o.o.o.o
walk
wall
wauk
waul
bio/graf
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://www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
the money was tempting though
i had a
woman
send me
an email
today
offering
me three
thousand
dollars
a week
to be her
sugar boy
i
congratulated
her on finally
reaching
rock
bottom
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
an empty church parking lot
mothing makes
me happier than
an empty church
parking lot on a
sunday morning
i'm sure if a few
things would have
gone different in
my life
my thoughts on
god would be
totally different
although, i can't
help but think god
played a role in all
of that
so, the least of what
should happen is all
of the sheep going
broke
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
under a tree
i used to write
poems under
a tree
across the street
from where my
girlfriend at the
time used to live
she saw me one
morning and told
me to stop stalking
her
i said just a few
more stanzas
to go
the cops didn't
understand that
either
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
have it both ways
sometimes i feel like
not being afraid to die
hasn't exactly worked
out for me
i somewhere lost the
desire to still live
i should be old enough
to know you can't have
it both ways
but a stubborn asshole
doesn't always get to
choose his own reality
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
new neighbors
the beauty
of living
around old
people is
you will
have new
neighbors
every few
years
of course,
none of
them will
be that
lonely
housewife
you always
heard about
in the suburbs
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Out There
It’s out there
We must drive in it
Walk in it
It’s out there
It’s too much with us
Getting and spending
We get it
Understand what we
Have done
Wasted our powers
Given our hearts away
Lost the tune
Forgot the words
The weather changes
Sealed in the politics
Of now
Of what we did
What we are doing
It’s out there
That’s all
Just out there
The earth of it
The air of it
The water
Collecting the evidence
Details it will use
Against us
It’s all out there.
Climate
This hot breeze holds the afternoon
summarizes it in a brief moment
says so much about what we have
these days – too much sun, heat,
a few clouds that give into the days
spinning by, so little rain. This is
the climate change they promised us
warned us about, while we were too
busy with other things, things that
seem trivial now in the nineties, in
this heat wave, in this drought. We
air-condition what we can, we sit
in any shade we find, fill plastic pools
for the dogs, joke about running
through the sprinkler like we did as
children, a game we no longer can
play. The news we hear and watch
doesn’t bother mentioning this any-
more, as if the scientists have given
up on us, realize playing Cassandra
didn’t help, doesn’t help and like us
feel this hot breeze, that summarizes
what’s left of our afternoon, this brief
moment that says so much about what
we have done.
Rain
We used to say, farmers need the rain
whether We knew they did or not,
but now We all need the rain
like today it rained all day
not just our lawns and lakes
but our spirits too
need the rain
bogged down the way We have been
in a spiritual,
a psychic drought
tired, dry days, one after another
till today
We all needed the rain
and it came down
all morning, all afternoon, this evening
beyond trying to satisfy our lawns and
our lakes, the sound of the rain
the ticking at times at our windows
the whoosh in the wind
and the calming hush of it
bring a peace along with it
a whole day of this peaceful sound
of rain
We should all now say we need the rain.
