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

 

El Nido ( Poem II of Versos Del Nido)

And the wind 

                    in the woods, 

No burgeoning red 

of a late autumn.

but green like the fern, 

                   almost eternal.

The sun

                   showering sparks;

A white egret 

on a low-hanging sky.

 

In the embracing waves

of the sea, 

Blue El Nido,

A hundred boats adrift,

A hundred swarthy faces, 

A hundred commercial boards 

exotic

on a street speaking little English. 

A hundred coconut trees,

A hundred shapes of seashells,

A hundred still blooming flowers

quiet

on the sand soft as milk.

 

I’m one of many

                  unworthy tourists 

walking

into a tropical bliss, 

           lotophagi, 

黃泉,

no time and space

saved

when a boy comes running, 

his voice 

               grey 

in a land of many colors;

his words in Tagalog, 

               meaning home. 

 

*published on Anak Sastra, where you can read the full poem about El Nido

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