- Mountain Crag | 山岩
- Prisoners of War | 战俘
- To Melville | 致梅尔维尔
From 21st Century Chinese Poetry, No. 8
- Oh, which lacquer-tree cutter would not want you?
- Until young men call, and elders urge them on,
- and nursing mothers with sweet warm bosoms join in,
- and dry-eyed foot-binding grandmothers chime in:
- Blushing Red, maiden in red,
- around the bend and over the hills,
- Oh, Blushing Red. Yo!
— Chen Min, Blushing Red, Tender Red
- Ow, Mama!
- I really don’t like you combing my hair so much.
- I can’t sit still. Outside, grasses are all sprouting, Mama.
- You still want to give me red hair ties and green hair ties.
- While calling me a little spoiled brat,
- you braided my hair like twisted dough.
- My comrades in the field are shouting battle cries;
— Song Yu, Ow, Mama!
- It is almost like a daze, déjà vu,
- to feel this cool wind, this cold moonlight.
- Are stones cold too?
- Oh, this one is a monster,
- but, of course, it could have been a hoax.
— Li Yun, At Shizu Stone Ruin
- My genius and my bones,
- the dialects I know,
- the rivers, islands, island chains and galaxies I saw,
- the cattle and sheep I fed in the barn,
- the illnesses I contracted,
- all of them are items I leave to my estate.
— Zhai Wenxi, Items in My Estate
- We giggle, the more our happiness and sadness
- depend on physical activities, the more we need to flush
- onto the glossy beach our unwanted wine bottles,
- syringes, tissues, and condoms.
- But the ocean really doesn't need these things,
- not even the high points of our humanity.
— Yao Feng, Ocean Really Doesn't Need These Things
- A wind came by and blew my scarf into the monastery,
- it was then when we passed each other, rubbing shoulders.
- Ah, Lama, you were huffing and puffing, going down the mountain. But why?
— Na Ye, Song of Labrang Monastery
- It's tempting but too dangerous to look back.
- The wind is picking up, bending the sunlight,
- but it cannot move an old iron bloc of days
- that rubbed against the skin of my tempestuous youth.
— Wuding, The Lotus Pond Jam Session
- Three feet of moonlight away,
- a little critter zigzags through the grass,
- the green waves soon drown its tail.
- They say it was a goddess
- that rolled out a soft field on earth--
- soft because it's a mat of dreams.
— Huang Lihai, A Little Critter
- if only I can endure through this finite stretch of night,
- surely I will catch up with the light again.
- Whoever follows me, they can again see the light,
- because, the sun is my football.
— Song Huiyuan, Kua Fu
- If there is still a convulsion
- or any sign of life in the bullet hole,
- follow up with another shot.
- The barrel of the rifle,
- black tempered steel,
- knows no hesitation.
- Oh, almond tree,
- suddenly I miss you,
- doubly I love you,
- your black iron hooks.
— Meifu Wang, Prisoners of War