by Jimu Langge
     trs. by Sophia Kidd

when i’m not in culture
where am i
there’s no answer to this question
i am in myself   what is this
the soul goes out of the body
and rises from the top of the head
or it drops from the ass
face things in front of you
the city, a young girl and the road
what would it be worth to look and not see

when i am most responsible
and least responsible
i blame culture
and get quite excited
i don’t feel noble
after calming down
nor do i think i’m
under the radar

opposed to culture
i appear in the mirror
smash the mirror and
turn into a shard}
it’s impossible
and i’m convinced its culture’s fault
so culture is like the sun and i
blame the sun
which shines down on me
i blame myself

if you’re gentle to subordinates
then open up to others too
you see, there’s not much
in this world
worth opposing

by Hu Liang
     trs. by Sophia kidd

long finger-nailed fairies here   not yet spied upon   red tailed
water robins in droves   turtle doves and black tails
so many waxfinches   picked from the pile of agate
yellow, black, and grey-brown seedlings

by Hei Feng
     trs. by Wang Ping

Your steps wake up the stairs
You shake up my room of depression
You
I know it’s you, Son

You’re a shaft of light
A chirping sparrow
You’re a shy bud
A cloud dropping out of the blue sky

You turn a small gold key
And unlock your daddy’s security door
Oh, it’s you   I turn my head
Gazing
— from head to toe
Everyday I look at you, in surprise
As if I’ve never met you
I gaze at you
From section to section
Look at you as a whole

What?  You got hurt today?  And tears?
They didn’t let you play with them?
Unless you pay them?

— Son   it’s not your fault
That you can’t get along
They’re strong and arrogant, right?
They’re always like that   in the adult world too
It’s the same   come here son
Daddy will play with you   let’s play
A triangle game, a jumping game, chess,
A marine warfare game . . .

What?  No?  Still want to play with them?

All right, wipe your eyes
Go and try again
Daddy will wait at home

by Han Qing
     trs. by Wang Ping

The hand, covered with scars, strokes
The keys and the city.  Its skeleton
Feels smooth, wherever the hand touches
The signals in taxi are overwhelming
The night is a screaming tomcat

Everything about the Six Dynasties are here
Mixing things from last year and a thousand years ago
Hard to tell the difference.  Sometimes
It’s better to be cut off from the world

The darkness in the drawer also belongs to us
The celibate boxer howls like a she-beast
What’s the difference between throwing away
A teddy bear and a baby?  Cheap happiness
Like sand, grinds us into tools
The spring hand is tearing me into willow leaves
The phone’s screen becomes my lake

When I was young
I almost drowned in a pond
Unfortunately, my neighbor pulled me out
To some, the most fun thing to do
Is to take down the ladder into the pool

Yet I love the midnight ringing in my ears
It reminds me I’m still alive:
I also love silence
Only in silence can I hear
The tinnitus of spring