World Poetry Day Reading

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Hi All

if you are around Shanghai, please come to this world poetry day reading organized by Literary Shanghai, I’ll be reading three of my new poems, namely

1. Reading Transtroemer

2.Death In The Factory

3.Something About Yongjia Road

Thursday, March 21, 7pm
Venue: Ocean Grounds Coffee Roasters, Hong Kong Plaza Mall, 283 Huaihai Zhong Lu (Jinling Road entrance, ground floor).  淮海中路283号香港广场北座1-09A, 近黄陂南路 Metro: Huangpi Road

Cheers

A,H

Scranton Lace Factory

Just a few falling houses,

               A deserted driveway,

A bell tower se-

                        vered 

                                     from time

and melting snow 

              where the script 

of a grey cloud is written, zen-like 

by the hands

                    of an oriental calligrapher.

A lot of broken symbols, 

                         language with no words

 

*published on the amazing magazine ink in thirds where you can read the full volume of amazing poems and prose

I was recently rejected by the creative writing program at Cornell University, and I don’t think I can make it to Brown, NYU or Boston. It’s my second effort to try to become a candidate in writing. I know it’s a reach for someone like me whose mother tongue is not English to get admitted to an English writing program, it does not mean I’m a failure ( maybe I am, who knows, maybe I love to play the role of  Don Quixote), it means it will take me longer to get there, longer than most English speakers to write some god-damn good poems and it’s definitely a very lonely journey. But I’m on my way. I keep on failing; I fail better each time. This is enough for me.

Many Thanks for Ink in Thirds for publishing my poem, this is exactly what I need for now right before my 30th birthday.

A.H

Two Monochrome Photos from Summer

1.

The morning heat 

                           breaks through the window

and warps 

                           the dream 

into a hot reality.

8 o’clock, 

                           the fateful hour of awakening,

reminded 

by a ticking watch,

with almost the same rhythm 

                                 of the heart.

A moaning summer, 

                            dying in the yards.

Some arranged flowers 

                            yellow

                            from a sad florist.

2

The scorching south wind,

                               breath 

of Feilian, coming to all

in cities or villages.

                            A wash of tolling bells.

thick shadows 

                             hidden

behind a mottled wall

and a murmuring crowd of people 

                            squatting at the gate

of a silent neighborhood.

 

Published at Thirty West Publishing House 

Tonight

It must have been too much alcohol,

even your look becomes suddenly 

                                            so tender

and full of the promise 

                             of a summer’s night.

I’m longing to have you, 

                                   here and now

before the harsh daylight steals you away

and I might never see you again.

                                  Anyway that’s the game,

a sweet but ruthless encounter 

 

                                   with no tomorrow

for queers like us in this all-embracing land.

But I like you tonight – 

that’s why this empty bar

does call for something more intimate 

                                     between us.

your face— 

your half-open shirt—

Your creamy chest— 

O the rushing sound 

                           deep inside my veins!

It’s been too good a night to let you flee,

                           just stay a while longer—

If you desire admiration,

                           or compliments 

from all men before and after me,

I have nothing better now

                          than my loneliness 

in a promiscuous life,

and tonight,

                            I’ve given it to you.

 

Published on The New English Review

National Business

The architect draws from his file 

a map, on which 

a tiny spot is red-circled.

Here, he says,

six billion investment;

His eyes glisten like coins

and his black tie dangles like a sword 

above the blueprint of a tower,

cadaverous, awe-provoking, 

the color of champagne gold.

 

I know the block of the street, where 

rosy clouds flew over

houses with mortared walls, 

though moss-eaten, 

home to eaves-seeking swifts,

rattled now, 

by excavator tires.