Poems of the Later Shang
Post-businessman, columnist. His works have appeared in Southern Weekend, Economic Observer, Literature and Art Daily, Poetry Journal, Enclave, etc.
Memory inside and out
Life stands on four feet, in the wet garden,
It is topped with a square circle, a few grains, and the glacier has shrunk into stone,
This god, the circle that invites the white cat, is a shadow of a dry mountain.
The crow brought the air that floated up, and the crane-billed hoe strangled the throat of the rose field,
Soft dirt crawls and fights, covering the sun is the body?
Or trees? Foamed torso; sunken nude.
Or does it rain by chance? Butterflies roll and howl,
In the vortex of sleep passion vortex, the bullet of noon, the bullet that will breathe,
Bullets of tears, linked, of things, of the end.
Withdraw from that daisy, withdraw from the object,
The heart is running in the world of grass, although it has never listened to the "zhi", never revived the color,
So the light of the wall, simple and cruel, I said you don't listen, not; the snowman came, again.
Implant more failures, my breakfast, implant more,
The guest comes from the heat, the guest comes from the (center), the little lover you have long been fat in the cup, the little lover you probe into the flowers in front of the mirror,
The crops we sowed were in a commotion, and the glass was boiling against the volcano of machines.
Rough tea is ready, summer flowers are arranged in Mei Huili, asked shabby, space gone, folds came,
In the beautiful Auschwitz, who looks at this inevitable corpse? Death knocks on the wall inside,
High on the torso, life, on the outside; death, born in, in life.
The chivalrous shoots the messenger, meaning spends all its savings, frozen and scorched,
The riot lies on a wicker chair, reviewing happiness as freedom, wanting to say that the matter of rest has a delicate heart, are you? Which I am?
In vain, I only remember the moment you were the whale of my sea, more than love, who humbly loved.
I wait for you, the absent, as spring breaks the snow.
Jazz (selected poems)
life
Keep quiet and the water will flood your body as usual
The river changed the breath
Swing your tail and drive your sleep to the riverbed
Stand in the middle of the stream and put on you loosely in time
The heart and liver wrinkles shrink into a clump
The thought of the future is spilled out
Maybe the landscape is in another world
The unknown dragon snake will make the wind and thunder
There was no garden, and I opened my eyes
TLOTA (Selected Poems)
A
The world opens up like a bow, its golden and nothing
Pointing to you, you follow the traffic on Chang'an Avenue, still in the back seat,
Say to me:
Before I was fifteen years old, I was a person who grew underwater,
Now I need a straw.
At fifteen, I sniffed like prey
The gold of the world, its betrayal, its storm,
It pricked me wetly, empty of clothes.
I projected my mind on the water, quietly,
The mind is running after me on the water,
Ask me for a word, to silence.
Gold sprang into ice on the surface of the water, like the moon sinking.
Only a lonely child can gather all his enthusiasm. Zweig.
The story goes on, in the huge letters,
It seems that my body has sneaked into this world,
"I saw him see me".
The mind is my hundreds of weapons, but not you.
I'm behind him, below, in front, instantly on the same side,
I looked outward, he petrified, and I talked to the tree,
He became the tree, the world for me.
But it's not always me, the storyteller, the bloody me.
I went back to China and wanted to bloom, you know,
What is blooming, it seduces me, tattoos my scars,
I am fragile transparent, I do not believe and believe.
I looked up at him, defiantly, and entered:
When I kiss your forehead, I'm kissing
Every soul who has not been baptized.
Me, the first light.
mangrove
Oh, is there anyone who can reach this kind of love?
Improvised, looking back, unconsciously warming.
The boiling rain has stains on you without permission.
Your hard scab unfolds my path.
Hidden in the window, hypnotize this mansion.
Oh, this is not a flower that bloomed in the void.
Ploughing the body at high speed.
Did you see the mangrove tree in your dream?
Homecoming Doll Book
5
I packed up the bones from all sides and pieced them together into one me.
Cloud messenger brings my hope to her.
If there is bad luck, throw my blood and bones everywhere.
Let all the tentacles of the earth feel her smile.
11
I don't necessarily write good poetry, I should write poetry that is.
It is no bigger than a conversation between a father and a son.
He diligently handed them away, and wherever he went, there was silence.
I didn't stand still in front of the paralyzed gray hair, and quietly lit a cigarette.
17
This is not the last time poetry has been expelled.
Inside this long, narrow cave, there is always one who is judged to be sinful.
Slowly, he was weak and violent.
He raised his knife countless times and looked at the sky again.
Chilly poems
Yi Han, born in 2002, a native of Sichuan, is the current head of the New Poetry Department of the National People's Congress. I am learning to look for the fire.
Intimacy
A new paper, contributing 20% wishful thinking,
10% imaginary, 10% skeptical, 10% well-intentioned
The remaining half depends on the people who read it
There are too many things to worry about, but what needs to be solved urgently
Open your mouth and eat this dinner that your parents have carefully prepared
In school, I first learned to control the power of the eyes
Expressing understanding and agreement, the difference is actually very subtle
Connect with others like a fish mistakenly puts the net on the writer's wall
I am looking for proof that the world needs me in conservation
It grew too fast, and my time was so short
No matter how much you feel the richness, the sad things will come together
Therefore, it is important to maintain close relationships with animals and plants
They taught me to focus, to yearn for survival with affection, as well
Love a small number of people.
2022.1
Self-portrait zero
Ask for a drop of fat water to wake up the bones
Peach blossoms and oranges piled up on my face
laugh. Year after year, nurturing the mountains and forests in the body.
Whenever aging strikes and shakes the body,
There are birds scurrying.
The moonlight slowly caressed the wandering water and damp soul.
Forge a sun from scratch: orange-red, juicy.
A war that strikes the deep blue under your eyes.
Forge multiple you and overcome each other
There is always a sky that makes people weak, a ghostly wandering nothingness,
Spread over the earth. Time is naked, and the future has suddenly slipped through the cracks.
In the heat of several periods of silence, the New World collapsed, and
Love is as good as ever, death is as good as ever.
stranger
Please discuss blandness with me, discuss the gender of a grain of wheat
Swap hearts with different sadness, sleep and texture
I'm also curious about your food, the sharpness and humor you spill
Ask you about the length of the pain, the proportion of the wild,
Summer afternoon with my mother.
Twilight floods the river, the children are still growing,
We will continue to sing the praises of the Flower of May, the cloud of freedom
It needs to be stretched out to be the map of this language.
2021.9
Rougi-ji Temple
The darkness disappears and we remain dormant in pain
In the vast world, you can only turn to each other
I can't stand the skin-to-skin relationship with this era
The sunlight of the first birth of Langmu Temple pierced the benevolence of the Heavenly Vault
People are looking up. Gathering of eagles
Cover the sky of survival,
The world will cast a momentary shadow of perfection.
This devotion turns into a rising mist
Shrouded in mountains, the four seasons do not change.
Also warm the river and polish the eyes.
The morning chant is slow and long enough to welcome summer,
Life, like a vast expanse of grass, swaying in the wind
Bathing, standing upright, reincarnating between barbarism and exquisiteness.
The elder who stopped halfway told me:
Walking is good, but it needs to be done day by day.
Tourists leave with music that has been sung for thousands of years.
When my father drove everything down,
I saw the light flowing all the way
It was as if we were really witnessing an advent.
2021.11
Way to survive
As I get older, I feel happier to have than to express.
And destined to remain unfamiliar with most of the poems.
Apart from the idle self, it is difficult to have anything to modify
Ability to enter. Also gave up complexity, gave up distant sounds
I like this life more and more.
Low fire slow cooking life, emitting white,
The earthy aroma, the charm is limited to attracting this small part
People who share space.
As soon as the sunset bakes, people get tired and curl up on the couch like a piece
Golden brown cheese bread. In a very beautiful moment,
I'm willing to keep it fresh and let people choose.
Always feel time with a long enough stillness.
And to use it longer, with confidence,
Let time flow and feel us
Poetry exists for the unexpected. Taking responsibility for the youth of the language,
Wait for them to suddenly have a day to complete the jump of destiny.
Accompany the poem, polish its qualities, listen to its voice
To be independent, to be complete – to be able to self-destruct,
Survive on your own if necessary.
White screens with the moon
In the northwest, the air pressure of dreams decreases.
Outside the white veil window, the moon was already old
Its broken brilliance could not cover the whole night,
The wind and sand blow cold as smooth as stone history.
Life is originally flowing water, and day and night evaporate
So it is dry, bitter and salty, and the concentration rises
Finally silent in the dry and cracked old age.
Now, in this giant amphitheater,
The Creator needs to maintain a sense of humor. Heaven and earth are boring,
Stretch the clouds like feathers and press the weight in the direction
earth. To sand, glide close to the ground -
Day and night, the coexistence of snakes and peacocks is staged.
The language recedes until the chest is blazing
Rise like the sun. The light is spinning,
The density of time in the person through which the carving passes.
And you, the floating black dot, break off at the end of the desert
Cast a more distant gaze: the sunset, the sky.
This journey has to bear the surge of blood and nerves,
Be in the center of the edge, tracking echoes, screaming pain.
2021.7
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