The erotic images of early brave women with their manufactured innocence shining through their naked bodies in various dynamic poses, survive their anonymous makers whose amorous eyes, uncontainable passions or lusts and skills of their profession are forever concealed behind their products of the black and white. Moralists at the time afraid of their own dreams being revealed threw stones at them, but they played with them “catch me if you can.” Their followers have run so wild the stone-throwers are tired out. For those who indulged in pleasure, life is a giant engulfing void they have to escape from. In a jungle so huge, the way out so hopelessly lost, the humid air making your hairs stick to your forehead in your endless trek, can you blame them for staying put and hunting games to enjoy themselves around a fire? Temptation of flesh was in Buddha’s dream before His final awakening. Are you the one to judge? 2015/4/30
By X. Z. Shao Twenty years has elapsed since I first taught English and doodled my first poem. White hairs on old heads now back then were black.
Time, you've killed far more than
the worst lunatics in history, yet, we do not hate. You quarried youth out of a beauty’s face, yet, she bore you no grudge.
With the soft killer by,
acting all around the clock, we are a toad put in the cool water on a live stove, trying to get used to the rising temperature.
The news of suicidal pilot
crashing his plane into the Alp set my weak nerve on fire. The passengers on board knew too well where they were heading for in a few minutes of a hell of despair.
We are all in that plane,
only the remaining minutes are expended to the rest our years. Our hopeless yells may not be so extreme, but we have many rehearsals in our dreams. Arise now, escape from your house on fire, to search for the Garden of Peach Blossoms. Maybe an opening will lead you there, maybe not.
is to have made Eve eat the Apple. The greatest love is to urge Eve put an apple back. But to achieve the later, a threat of the fire of hell, a sword barring an access to the Tree of Life simply don't work. An ocean of compassion, most subtle, tireless persuasions like a breeze’s talks to a tree have been tried, without much guarantee of success.
If my poems had wings of your music, yours and mine would intertwine and echo around the mountains a story that were ours, a longing that would flow a ribbon of a river or clouds.
Scatter me into the air
I don’t want a body and a tongue of words. I want your invisible notes carrying my dusts to the deepest chamber of your heart. Oh, no, dusts are too heavy I want to be light reaching wherever your songs fly. I want to be with you to fill the morning woods with the sorrows and ecstasies from a wanderer’s strings.
dropped off from its towering top, without any sign of warning, a few feet in front of me and tumbled like a giant before it lay silent. The violent rustling of
leaves The violent rustling of leaves in a haunted woods in an impending storm under an overcast sky is enough to make your hairs stand, but the swaying trees, the running away of the timid, the heaving of nature, the seriousness of the lake surface with waterfowls making somersaults on it are a rare scene for a mind calm and settled.
By X. Z. Shao This is a translation from my poem pasted below, written Feb. 21-23, 2009. It may be a type of poems I want to write, romantic and hopeless, with texture and flavour, a sorrow and disappointment that pierce and yet heal.
From an opening
I saw the plants in your garden, mandragoras, mandrakes, henbanes and poppies. A puff of fragrance carried by a breeze lured me to roam in it. You shut me out in time out of compassion to save me from being perplexed, but my soul had condensed into the night dews, dropping lightly on your leaves and petals. They would smile for a moment in the morning sun and then blend themselves into your sweet scents. I had discarded my body to follow your essence which put me into such a frenzy trance.
a middle age woman rummaged a garbage bin by a lake mirroring night lights and the moonshine for discarded plastic bottles she pressed flat to save space and put them into a big black plastic bag she carried on her back.
She then walked down
a neatly-made ring road through a little round square where tourists watched swans and played by day toward next garbage bin in the evening breeze, with only her obscure shadow following her to search for her daily bread.
Crawling on a page of my book, an insect was so tiny, tinier than a pinpoint or a needle hole, I couldn’t make out its eyes, ears, nose or mouth. Its moving body must have been supported by its busy running legs. Why it existed and came here, I wasn’t sure. I guessed it would die soon in hours. Sometimes, I had patience to let one go. Sometimes not, I dusted the page with my hand and a trace of a thin yellow line of its crashed body dashed on the page. I wondered some Force must have been observing me reading in Its wood and being puzzled in the same way as I had been puzzled by the insect.
X. Z. Shao This is a record of my dream early
morning, August 9, 2008. I had been reading The Classic of Poetry believed to be first edited by
Confucius himself in different modern editions for over half a year. I was so
ensnared by them that the ancient world seemed to be blent with the reality in my
mind, so I had a dream which was very long and exhausting. I recorded the
segment I remembered below. The name “Zhang Xian” which I yelled desperately
in the dream has no match in reality 往昔模糊，火光沖天 你的村落化為廢墟 戰亂使你流落成遊女 你和同伴起舞在街市 在大雨滂沱中 在車馬往來的岔道 在火焰歡笑的郊野 後來，聽說你得了病 你尋找失散的親人 在森林中穿行 把最後的歌舞教給孔雀 不知你帶著怎樣的心情 身上有多少傷口 失落在哪個城邑 沒有人記得起這件往事 只有音樂從我心中莫名升起 我倚著平臺上的欄杆欣賞著瀑布 為夥伴哼起了一支歌 歌聲把我帶到一條夜晚的街道 喧鬧的舞廳沖出一群舞女 我隨即認出她們都是當年熱烈的舞娘 她們旋風般舞來又舞去 我得知你早已身患不治之症 你離去時心灰意冷 仿佛這事與我生死攸關 我突然記起你的名字叫張嫻 我曾隱約在心中搜索過她千百次 我猛然撕心裂肺地、哭著喊著、絕望地吼著—— 張嫻——張嫻——
trapped in the net. She had my blood in her belly and droned like a helicopter, or had grace as a pregnant woman. I usually allow her to go, for she may have crucial errands to run just as I have. It is said only female mosquitoes need blood to nourish their eggs. To perform the same function I do far wore than she on a daily basis