From: 129.83.161.10 (H. Chao)
Subject: Re: The songs of the Fall (poems)
Organization: MITRE
Date: Fri, 16 Oct 1992 13:54:22 GMT


Speaking of "fa1 biao3 yu4", it reminds me of a story in WWII.  When
Japanese occupy a Chinese city, these marshals or generals would like to
write some poems. Not Japanese poems, they like to write Chinese (Tang)
poems.  I remember they visited Yue4 Fei1 Tomb in Hang2Zhou and wrote
numerous poems.  I do not know if Japanese can understand their poems or
not.  Unfortunately, as a Chinese and a Tang Poem lover, I do not
understand what they are talking about.  Maybe they just want to satisfy
their "fa1 biao3 yu4."

-------------------------------------

In article <9210151811.AA05188@phloem.uoregon.edu>, Tuya@ccmail.uoregon.edu
writes:
> 
>  Fall is a poetic season.  So please excuse my fa1 biao3 yu4.
> 
>                                               --- Tu Ya  10/8/92
>                
> 
>         SHORT POEMS 
>                     by Tu Ya     
> 
>            The Model
>                              9/18/91
> 
> She is a crane, she wades the lake
> Her hair's long, and dances, like flowers in a current
> 
> She turns, lightning that moment
> She turns into a love poem, read by all eyes, aloud
> 
> 
>             Fall Thoughts
>                                   
> The coldness flirts, maple woods stretch
> Still drunk from last night, 
> a line of footprints walks the white sand, endlessly
> 
> The setting Sun red, memory fresh
> she prints herself onto the sky, on the edge
> 
> When Autumn thoughts wage,
>        the wind whirls the world, 
>              numerous leaves fall, ten thousand mountains flee
> 
>          
>              Autumn Poem (1)
>            
> The night circles, to land but fails
> A wild goose cries
> 
> And tears fly 
>   and become autumn leaves
> 
> When winds come
> say farewell, disperse 
> 
> When the moon rises
> fade the color, become silence
> 
>          The Port
> 
> I roam, along climate, a bird
> Like snow flakes I land
> At night, I moor, by reed
> Insects chirping the Milky Way, moonlight is my port
> 
>             Mirror Of A Face
> 
> Time glides, like shadows of birds, soundless
> A mind grows old, like an aged pond, molded with moss
> Have you tried to scoop, from the lake, for a few fishy days
> but only grabbed some wrinkles
> swimming in hands, like a mirror, of a face?
> 
>            The Death Of A Poet
>   -- in memory of a young Chinese Poet HaiZi who commited suicide
> in 1987.
> 
> The train screams through his figure
> chaining a broken poem together
> 
> This end, or that end
> it's one bridge, one thought
> 
> Passengers, sleep well on track
> A bump of a dream spills a cup of water 
> 
> 
>              Written on M.V.'s Album
>                    6/17/91
> 
> I follow the smell of Arizona wild flowers
>   to go through the album 
> I walk the Grand Canyon by page
>   and see thunderstorms casting an immortal life
> 
> And I see the Rocky Mountain
>   floating in between sunsets and sunrises 
> Indians wade across the Colorado River
>   like a song, of a deep bronze color, slow 
>                              but very distinctive
> 
>     
>                I Come To Fitzgerald, Georgia
> 
>    I haven't met the rattle snake and the allegator
>    I can't interpret stars hung on maple trees 
> 
>    But I am a believer, I come to the South
>    to kiss the cotton fields that grow souls
>    to listen to the river that plays old songs
>    
>    So I come, for a dream
>      for that dream I come
>    So I extend my hands
>      to greet the dark clouds and angry storms 
> 
>                      LIKE THIS
>                               -- for 6.4, 1991
> 
> Quietly, the fall of petals is like this
> Death is being expressed like this
> The world is a colorful tragedy this world
> I read history -- 
> like going through a graveyard in darkness
> 
>                     KEYS
> 
>        I string my life like this
>        A small string suffices
>        The desk, the appartment
>        that one opens car doors
> 
>        I operate my world with a turn
>        A simple turn suffices
>        Lock up, or release
>        Play an inmate or play police
> 
>    When The Moon Is Round
> 
> everything in sight becomes frost
> Therefore my hometown must be cold
> 
> I think of the color of Mom's hair
> and the falling ashes from father's cigarette
> Slowly, they fall, as flakes, without a sound 
> 
>                  RIA
> 
> She takes out a dozen colorful butterflies from her bag
> After opening wings
> they all become little poems, fluttering
> They were written in dreams, she explains, her voice soft
> 
> If wings are linked together 
> there will be a bridge, rainbow-like, 
> that goes from one side to the other
> 
> If the rain keeps falling like this
> Somebody will walk into the verdant dream
> steps knocking at a lonesome door
> 
> 
>                     EYES
>                                
> The sky at night is an Ocean
> Eyes are fish
> Therefore the color of tears is dark-blue
> and the world in irises mysteriously deep 
>                             
>                   BIRTHDAY
> 
> What are you going to do
>          on your birthday?
> 
> Either jumping from a cliff into the Pacific  
>   or --
> walking into the Post Office
> to buy a 29 cent stamp (The price went up again)
> and send my taxes and regards to atomic bombs
> 
>      Oregon -- 
>                                 
> a word I can't clearly pronounce  
> Because I don't know how much of those 
> snow-covered mountains has been dissolved in lakes
> and how many moons have been brushed white by those Douglas Firs
> 
> And Alice, most of your dreams have landed here
> to become mushrooms
> Holding colorful umbrellas
> they are having a party right now, in rain
> 
> But what can you do?
> That's Oregon, every breath is soaked in green 
> Therefore I draw an Oregon map on a chinese parasol leaf 
> and ask a cloud to mail it to Ethiopia, for those dry seasons
> 
>                 Montana
> 
> -- a boundless legend
> and those ponderous buffalos, what are they pondering about?
> 
> The mountains are silent
> and solemn, as the deep wrinkles on old grandpa's forehead
> 
> The grass changes color again
> The cowboy's story is told, told, and told
> 
>         WRITTEN ON THE SKETCH OF A BOBCAT BY A. S.
>                                            4/15/91
> 
> You used to be an unruly forest whistle
> Only the wind could trace your shadow 
> 
> -- until you were captured
> 
> And now you are as quiet as your solitude 
> trying to hide behind the dust
> 
> Except when you arch your back 
> and stalk across the imagination, like a thought 
> 
> 
>                That Flower
> 
> doesn't have yesterday
> or tomorrow
> and today is just an unreliable promise
> 
> Opening like a kiss  
>   and falling like a sigh
> it opens and falls 
>   between existence and non-existence
> 
> 
>              A SPRING NIGHT
>                                   3/25/91
> 
> Over there is a stretch of grass
> passing that is a stretch of grass
> The street light walks down the road
> Such is tonight's state of mind
> 
> The rain happens to record
>     the outline of a person's back
> and it patters patters patters
> tries but fails to describe  
> 
> 
>                   THE HOWL OF A WOLF
> 
> That wolf
> submits itself to the moonlight
> It walks walks walks 
>    just walks, just like that
> Sometimes near, sometimes far, near and far
> Above the mountain hovers the moon
> Blinking and remote dies a star
> 
> The wolf sits down and howls
>    the kind of howl that echoes and is long, long, long
> That kind of howl ...
> It's only a howl a howl no one hears
> Perhaps it doesn't say anything doesn't say anything anything 
> 
> 
>                 A TEAR WITHOUT A NAME
>       
> The wind is always so vague
>    and pink
> Quietly, it peels Spring into petals
> like small, tender, and light kites
>    drifting all over places
> They parachute onto grass
>    only to become dandelion seeds
>             ready to take off again
> 
> The wind is always so vague
>    and pink
> There is no reason for wanting to cry
>      like a turtle gazing into the ocean
>        or a mourning buffalo with its head lowered down
> Maybe it's wise to become a clam then
>    swallowing the darkness underwater
>        and become pregnant with a nameless 
>                                           tear
> 
> 
> 

MSWD
Xref: sparky soc.culture.china:27546 soc.culture.hongkong:12322 soc.culture.taiwan:14273