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dapt-poems

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Keep the birds singing, sorrows fresh—
The princess braids these into a necklace
As the nights grow steadily into mountains,
Why, even regrets recede unexpectedly.
The princess braids these into a necklace:
Roads and rivers that lead away from the palace.
Why, even regrets recede unexpectedly
In a solitude full of wars and songs.
Roads and rivers that lead away from the palace
Never converge in that vast landscape;
In a solitude full of wars and songs,
The words remain light and fugitive.
Never converge in that vast landscape
In the way that stars keep their distance.
The words remain light and fugitive
In an anticipation crossed with absence.
In the way that stars keep their distance,
Love, uninvited, hangs in the blood
In an anticipation crossed with absence,
Taking on an aspect of the Orient.
We stopped to watch the accident.
Fire! It had finally come to pass.
Just as surely as I was a coward
carrying a wolf. It stepped out from me,
it was paradise leaving me, running towards
the giant idea of that melting house.
So often you don’t think,
“Little nicks of monstrosity, I shall be splendid in it.”
Be large with those small fears. The whole sky
has fallen on you and all you can do about it is
shout, dragging your fear-ettes by their pinked ears.
Don’t be clever, don’t be shy! Participate today.
Yesterday you say everything for their own sake,
and soon enough, tomorrow, you learn a lot from them.
On the morning of the 20th National Day
my uncle came home and told us:
“All our troops have got into position,
for the Russians may throw an atom-bomb on us today.”
During the break I called together my best friends
and told them what would occur on this day.
Benli said, “I must go home
and tell my dad to kill all our chickens.”
Qingping said, “I must tell my aunt
not to buy a sewing machine.
Who would care about clothes if that happens.”
Yimin and I said nothing,
but we knew what we were going to do.
We decided to go to the army,
for we did not want to be roasted at home
like little pigs.
The sound of a guitar drifts through the air.
Cupped in my hand, a snowflake quivers lightly.
Thick patches of fog draw back to reveal
A mountain range, rolling like a melody.
I have gathered the inheritance of the four seasons.
There is no sign of man in the valley.
Picked wild flowers continue to grow,
Their flowering is their time of death.
Along the path in the primordial wood
Green sunlight flows through the slits.
A russet hawk interprets into bird cries
The mountain's tale of terror.
Abruptly I cry out,
"Hello, Bai—hua—Mountain."
"Hello, my—child," comes the echo
From a distant waterfall.
It was a wind within a wind, drawing
A restless response from the land,
I whispered, and the snowflake
Drifted from my hand down the abyss.
for Yu Luoke
Tita knew that overseas workers often had affairs.
He licked me and I pretended it pinged through my body like a swift idea
That I wrote about and considered like a bell of good craftsmanship.
He also knew that their kids ate better
At night the fireflies come out. They flock to my window.
I put my hands up against the screen.
I think how fragile it is to be inside a house.
They say I want permission
Deprived of their father while sustained by his wages.
I thought a lot about walking around at night.