What wonderful virtue does the moon possess that allows it to rise each evening? Whether in Nairobi or Shenzhen, I see the same moon in the sky, just as I see the same sun rise and set in either city. If they are not the same, how many thousands of suns and moons trace a…… Continue reading The Peony (or How Long Is The Path From Death To Birth?)
We writers are the greatest of narcissists – we make a profession of consuming ourselves and then try to sell what we spit out. Books themselves, the paper kind, give me much pleasure. All my life, I haven’t cared if they were soggy and wet, dry, burnt, or new as long as I could hold…… Continue reading Again to Official Pei Ming’s Abode (or On what did Atlas stand?)
The Qing dynasty scholar Wang Guowei wrote of poems falling into two categories: close by or remaining at a distance. The Chinese character he uses for distance is ge（隔）, whose ancient pictogram consists of three mounds, and a three legged urn. Shangyin’s poems often evoke a distance between the reader and the word, by referring…… Continue reading Song of the Inner Palace
In late March, just as the last cool winds escaped Shenzhen and bonded with the mist over the South China Sea, I soared over the streets. The dry golden leaves of a long Autumn were finally falling – perhaps the only happening in Shenzhen that was behind the times. With every violent gust of wind,…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 20
My poem evokes the madness of love. Words are chisels, and sounds are cudgels. The images of love drift like smoke over distant mountains, fragmentary, suffocating and blinding, a grosse fuge of allusive words justified by passion. 重帷深下莫愁堂， zhòng wéi shēn xià mò chóu táng 卧后清宵细细长。 wò hòu qīng xiāo xì xì cháng 神女生涯原是梦， shén nǚ shēng yá yuán shì mèng 小姑居处本无郎。 xiǎo gū jū chǔ běn wú láng 风波不信菱枝弱， fēng bō bù xìn líng zhī ruò 月露谁教桂叶香？ yuè lòu shuí jiào guì yè xiāng…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 17
“Join us for a drink,” my workmates call out sometimes, when the air rushes in from the Jiang river and the moon looks like a scuffed coin on black silk. Then I thank the darkness for hiding the dirt the daylight reveals. Some evenings I join them and we play hooks and drink warm wine.…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 8
“The best drinkers eat lots of ghee, and that’s a fact.” It was a humid evening in Zhengzhou, Henan’s rowdy capital. The tea house floor was wet with moisture and the air thick with the smell of sweat and lust. The looking glass and goblets were misty with steam from the kitchen. Chicken bones lay…… Continue reading Poem Without a Title 4
A Tang Poet From Nairobi 