Poems by Yang Biwei
Biwei Yang, Doctor of Literature, Postdoctoral Fellow in Art. He has published poems such as "Love Sitting opposite" and "Lower Nanyang", the prose collection "Huafu", and the academic criticism collection "Biyi or Nanhong: Mutual Interpretation of Poetry and Art".
Seaside old man
We walked towards the Huilan Pavilion.
Under the trestle, the laborer pulls out the daughter of the sea from the gray glass;
The artist tamed the stones and built them together
Buddha with a scepter.
Facing the winding path of the crowd, you speak of the weeping Lu Yin;
There is no way further, only seagulls can reach
A situation where human beings cannot cross.
About daydreams, hammocks and wine glasses, those that make us wild and cold,
Trembling and embarrassed,
Never betrayed the gift of time.
Maybe we lived once a hundred years ago.
And once burned with a winter-resistant mangle for a lifetime.
And today, the waves are being driven by the wind to the territory of the reef,
The ripples are reversed, like a dark ridge,
Keep retreating at unstoppable speed.
Earth Theater Act XX: Vientiane
In the street garden of Vientiane, the head is wrapped in silver wire
The old white woman stopped me, "Hello, girl.
Why did you come to Vientiane? ”
In the midday sun, her eyes were behind the lenses of the snow
Bright as a star. I stopped and leaned back against a plant
A large banyan tree dripping with green wax. The wind blew and I said:
"Yongzhen is in the box of my mind, and outside the city wall I imagined."
TaLuan solemn, Danta quaint,
The strange Xiangkun Temple, sandwiched with a bright cunning.
The city is not going to sort out the wrong antenna,
As well as the unpurchased alleys, these wrinkles deepen it
As a scale of a fallen royal city.
It was always moored on the shore of daydreams, gasping for twilight tiredness.
I love this vertigo,
Vientiane is the number one substitute for love. ”
The old woman swung her fat body:
"At Vientiane, I can never tell the difference
Which are the roads, which are the temples,
Which in turn is a private courtyard.
I'm in the Rubik's Cube that has disrupted time and space,
Rotate with the color block.
Jade green, gold, cinnabar red, sky blue, egg yolk white...
Every wisp of color seems to have just been plucked out of the morning light. ”
I nodded, "Actually, Vientiane is a large human theater."
It doesn't matter if you are an old dragon or an old listener, a Chinese Khmer or a Chinese
Whoever comes here is the participant in the play;
The role of playing, not, experiencing is yourself.
This theater won't be for you
Providing what you want to see, it is only responsible for presenting the origin of the world.
There are no auditoriums and no stages;
You breathe and your character lives
- Live for yourself. ”
"Yes, where are you from?" She pointed to her side
The older man said, "This is my brother." We
Departing from Brisbane and passing through Star Island, it was a bit of a struggle.
When we were ten we said we were coming, and at twenty we were talking.
Now I'm seventy, he's seventy-five,
Finally came, no plans to go back.
On earth, there must always be a theater to give us a ticket,
As soon as we arrived at Vientiane, we knew it was here..."
At the end of the scene, the multi-order Rubik's Cube began to rotate again,
Australian brothers and sisters sit on stone benches in the garden in the middle of the street,
Watching me ride an elephant with flowers,
Go to the Kingdom of Nanzhao and awaken the sleeping stage in the depths of the rainforest.
Letter to Tonya
It's not too late to think of you.
Although my lost youth,
Has been dedicated to a transparent burning.
I had firmly believed that the meaning of the world was hidden in the birch forest,
Whenever a fox with a red tail runs by,
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger with his cracked hand.
At that time, in the house full of lace bouquets,
The fire illuminates your snowy face.
At the window of dusk you read useless poems,
Just like babies visited a few years later:
Because of innocence, only original sin remains.
Where love withers, reality is willing to sprout;
You feast on the known narrative and lock the sea into the cupboard.
Out of the dual feeding of instinct and education,
You never live with doubt;
Obeying the present moment is your simple destiny.
And I'm going through a silent disaster to get close to you,
It's so big that it swallows up all language,
Cunning is so cunning that everyone loses a specific enemy.
It's not a war, but people are wounded.
Accepting failure becomes the common destiny of mankind.
Tonya, only then did I look back at the flame in your chest,
Be considerate of colorful and selfish tenderness.
How light you are, never even know, that only dreams can save
Feeling of weightlessness.
I want to rush to your side while the pear blossoms are blowing,
Give you hugs, snuggle with you.
Dear Miss, my goose yellow sister,
The spring breeze is shaking the fragrance of the trees, and the sky is still full of light.
You didn't say eternity and I
Almost falling into uncompromising beauty,
Between fiction and nothingness,
We are tied up in dances...
The one who grabs the crystal
——To Chen Ziang
Also only in the ephemeral yarn wings
Refracting the whiskers of the golden diamond, I will think of you.
It's you, the white crystal that's almost transparent,
Manifest from the ephemeral carnival of words.
Bitter melon white crystal, crane shadow white crystal,
You caught it like a meteor sweeping across the galaxy's tail speed.
This speed is a micro-toxic metric multiple for our lives,
Zoomed in on the other end of the home and stirred up this side
Endless sorrow.
But you let go of your hand again, so natural, so light,
As if I never had it
Ruins of beautiful white crystal——
It is its own master; it watches you cross the mirror and the edges of ice,
Covered in burning frost leaves, he walked away.
For it, you have long understood:
The second time the tears flowed was superfluous,
Flowing once is a song.
And the scenery of the rest of your life is just to get along with a foreign country,
Fulfill the responsibility for the short in silence.
Heroic beauty
In the nineteenth century, beauties moved from the home to the factory.
In the twentieth century, the swimsuit revolution liberated the body.
In the twenty-first century, OL drank herbal tea and put on the SK-II ex-boyfriend mask.
In the twenty-second century, the Egg Freezing Legislative Council reached an agreement with Sagittarius;
Establish a gene cooperative library.
In the twenty-third century, there were no more men on earth.
Beauty people use a new language DIY artificial intelligence boyfriend.
One of the beauties combined with ancient data,
Edit an AI lover for yourself:
"Category: AI Touchable Lover; number XXX;
Name: Hero; Gender: Male ("male" is in Old Chinese);
Attributes: Once a rare species, it has been extinct in the 21st century.
P.S. This extinction marks the end of the two sexes
The opening of the Galactic World. ”
Kang Jun's poems
Kang Jun, born in 1998, a native of Zhangjiajie, Hunan Province, is currently studying for a master's degree at Capital Normal University. Write poems, occasionally published. He has won the first prize of the 4th Hunan Provincial College Students Writing Competition and the 11th "Guanghua" Poetry Award of Fudan University.
Rose Chronicle
It was a whole new life for me: weekly
Order a bouquet of roses picked from the flower fields and stab them with your own hands.
Remove leaves, prune and pour them in buckets filled with deep water
Wake up, then insert the bottle and arrange it neatly.
Every week, sometimes champagne, sometimes red sleeves, corolla,
Diana, or Austin, I remember each of them
Name, it's more interesting than any book I've read.
Every day, they have new variations, in calm water
Each of them opens warmly until it withers and creases.
The life of a bouquet of flowers is a natural unit of time,
More free and regulated than our prayers and weeks.
I began to abandon the digital chronology and adopted it
Flowering period, so that every moment has its vitality and connotation.
Every time they are fluffy, swaying, or hanging,
All hinted to me the inevitable death and the possibility
Survival, and full of expectations for the substitute.
In this little reincarnation, I acted for the time being
The role of the Creator is responsible for arranging their fate.
But in the face of the end, yearning, but also Xiang Rong,
The brilliance and purity inside them made me feel
mortified. I trade time for time, and they
Become yourself with yourself.
afterward
Later, leaving the offerings of words, they
Soon withered. In the dry and cold
In season, this is almost irreversible.
Once that poem was written by me, they came to life
It moved from the physical world to another.
I don't pay any more attention to their growth status, theirs
The flesh began to rot, and it was crawling with flower worms,
I quickly threw it in the trash.
But my vase was empty. That moment
I even felt like time had stopped.
What I like is that things that haven't been given shape yet
And once it is spoken, it cannot live?
Perhaps, they will be replaced by green baskets, rich bamboo,
Pocket coconut, seven incense, or perhaps, still
Roses, but at least for now, the vase was empty
Such as also, nothing, simply
Like a desert. When I realized my words
Unable to bear their living lives, I felt
panicky. In what name do I look after them?
And in what name are they written?
I felt uneasy.
grandmother
I stepped out of the air-conditioned room and sat down
On a wooden chair in the yard, in front of me
It was a bunch of scattered buds, in the distance
Rows of cowpea vines, written ancient
Bamboo branch words. Farther away, mountains on all sides—
I seemed to be sitting in some kind of change, and the sky was close
Nothingness, the mountain burned with freshly hoeed weeds.
And the weeder, wearing a straw hat and carrying his back, is exactly
My grandmother. She was old, but she cut herself wood and made a fire,
Raise two pigs, a cage of chickens and two geese, recently
Dyed black hair. Her fingers, all the way to the upper arm,
There is a white mark of molting, the skin of the hands
Loose and wrinkled, like a withered plantain.
She's old, but her boyfriend often comes to see her.
Help repair the lights, farm, bring snacks, together
Pass the time. I sat in the courtyard
Looking at her, time was at the end of my line of sight
disappear. I was also old and completely dark that day
The night lamp next to it was held high and shone at the same time
Today, tomorrow and yesterday, I felt like I was sitting in
In their twilight years, one was abandoned by death
place. Here, they have a hard time getting back
Youth, and I have a hard time getting back to life.
revelation
That day, I woke up to a bird's cry
My bed was facing the balcony, and the curtains were half hidden
When I woke up, the sun was falling on my head.
When I listened intently, they immediately went
Flew elsewhere, with an aftersound in the air
Throw a timeline for me.
That's when I woke up completely.
That's when I found out it was a magpie, not a magpie
The crow woke me up in the low air of Beijing.
I got out of bed and took the medicine I had just prescribed from the drawer.
Lianhua qing plague, compound licorice, montelukast sodium,
Take them one by one. After the drug inevitably, there is a little
Vertigo, like seasickness, when I started to think back
The birds chirped, as if they had just returned from the distant sea.
They touched me with sound waves and inspired me.
But I'm still confused, even if I don't take medicine
Not much better, they flew away, as if they had never come
The same. I even suspected it was an illusion.
I opened the book, read, and thought about something metaphysical
Fake question, in fact, I was thinking about the bird call.
Where did they come from and where did they go?
In other words, where did I wake up?
What's next?
Multidimensional portraits
—Double portrait of a young girl (Mademoiselle Lafuite)
Lafayette, the name of an angel
The flesh is sinking
Her eyes were open to the sides, clothes
Split into red and black, like scales.
Short reddish-brown shoulder-length hair with hoops on her ears
Pure black head rope. From the perspective of body shape,
Like an innocent child.
But that's just what we see, she
Chest cavity with breathing and above. maybe
Hidden waist, uterus and below,
Drowned out of the picture frame due to darkness.
We guess, those invisible mysteries
The force, eroding her from the periphery, made her
The eyes release aging at a limited age
Like a ghost. The gaze gradually restored her
Undisturbed. There, her tattered cloth clothes became
Crown tomb, a mausoleum; her flesh
Then he sat down in the grave and headed out of the painting.
Strangeness and purity appeared on her face at the same time.
At least two faces are separating from each other, in
In the wide-angle threshold facing the outside world, there are
Fat and ugly, shaping a mediocre platitude;
Some are thin and tactile, sending god's mercy.
Lafayette, her different flesh grows between them
Death, we are also involved in it, like being involved
A dark river. We can't figure out where it is
The end point, can't even figure out where we are.
But Lafayette, you, and us
Exactly who is alive and well
Feeling pain and not saying a word?
Our eyes meet in a transitional zone,
Rambling and meaningless.
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