- The Spectacles | 被看见
- A Train Comes through the Sorghum Field | 火车开进高粱地
- Letter to My Son | 与子书
- The Wintry Mix | 雨夹雪
- The Dream of Siberian Cockleburs | 苍耳之梦
- I See Myself in the Chrysanthemum | 从菊上看见自己
- Aboard the Ship | 上了船
- I Can't Dawdle on Like This | 我不再这样耗下去
- At the Cafe of California Sunshine | 在加州阳光咖啡馆里
- Conversation with a Stranger | 其实我们从未相逢
- Untitled | 无题
- Five Glasses | 五只玻璃杯
From 21st Century Chinese Poetry, No. 4
- It stands there like a loose tooth
- peeking through a mountain gap.
- The broken glass has been patched up with a newspaper
- and I wonder if it‘s the Capital City Newspaper,
- and could my name be in it.
— Niu Qingguo, A Glimpse of Puxing Grade School
- Some hubbub is going on
- in the redwood forest by the cornfield.
- People file into the woods
- for the forester’s funeral.
— Zhang Fanxiu, The Spectacles
- Below the antiquated city wall,
- a Chrysanthemum is still open, all by itself,
- as if autumn has left us with an unspoken word.
— Ren Xianqing, I See Myself in the Chrysanthemum
- You are a romantic lady, sitting in California Sunshine
- and talking to me about birds, otters, giraffes,
- African zebra,
- their behaviors and habitats;
- it reminds me of Mr. Zhao’s TV show “Man and Nature”.
— Sha Ma, At the Café of California Sunshine
- The kungfu of being invisible was lost
- before the Song Dynasty, a modern scholar claims.
- The truth is that in our beautiful country
- there are still many who practice this art.
— Yan Meijiu, Seeing and Being Seen
- Today's sunshine is prettier than yesterday's,
- but there is something horrific about it.
- Yesterday, I lay down nude in the sun
- pondering how to compose a murder story,
- but today’s sunlight seems murderous
- for its own sake.
- It’s too bad
- if things continue this way
- without a drop of rain or a wisp of wind
- to stir my hair.
— Yi Hu, The Horror of Perpetual Sunshine
- The wind blows, sending the crickets up the rice stalks,
- flowering and ripening;
- in no time, the rice will be golden.
- Starting with a few stems,
- next, a few paddies, then, almost infectiously
- every single stalk in the valley will look shy,
- bending its head.
— Yang Kang, Golden Rice
- When I close my eyes, I hear footsteps—
- in groups of threes or fives, light and lively,
- a chorus of footsteps, like a song with wings
- that lifts me out of despair.
- I would listen to it in the morning.
- I would listen to it in the afternoon.
— Meifu Wang, Dirt Road