by Gao Jiangang
     trs. by Wang Ping

Downstairs the fig tree
Blossoms over night with red flowers
That’s a red limo waiting for the bride under the tree
A white cloud covers the sky, which turns out to be a wall
Separating families; on the wall sits a white cat
Which appears to be a rusty AC, causing headaches and coughs
Someone is smoking a pipe, but that’s the attic’s
Two round windows and smoke vent, making a face
At a distance people are fighting at the top of their lungs
Oh but that’s just dogs barking
Then two thunders, shaking the house
Dark clouds rolling in, about to rain
Then my phone rings
An ambulance sirens
I open my WeChat, realize
I was wrong, all wrong
The pipes underground just exploded
The living and dead are all mixed up

A street light appears among buildings
But that is the rising moon, the night is upon us

by Gao Jiangang
     trs. by Wang Ping

Winter scrawls crazy choreography on the window
A blue color on the plate
It’s ocean on the red-tiled roof
Oil barges take so long to sail by
Someone has been standing there, it’s a street light
Keeping the garden path quiet
A stone falls, that’s a sparrow
Then a school of cries drop
They’re the last leaves on trees
One of them stops on the window, but it’s just a lock
Keeping winter out
There’s a white shirt, oh, it’s a radiator
Pretending it’s another spring
There’s a face, oh a crystal clock
Running on imagined time
There’s a cloud, it’s steam from coffee
Reminding me of the fragrance in rain forests
There’s a glass of red wine, but it’s just burgundy floor
Brewing dawn between screen and table top
There’s a statue, that’s me in the vine chair
Trying to wake myself up

by Hou Ma
     trs. by Wang Ping

During the Wanli period of Ming Dynasty
Shepherds from Shanxi
Herded thousands of sheep
Downstream
Along the Yellow River
Past the Huai River
Till they reached the Yangtze
The sheep roamed and grazed
Until winter arrived at the Dongting Lake
Until summer came and
The shepherds herded the sheep
Back to Shanxi
Years went by
Shanxi is now naked with yellow soil
Its Lowess plateau riddled with deep gorges
Impossible to herd sheep any more
But the sheep head soup stays on
Still tasty with the flavor of the Empire

by Hou Ma
     trs. by Wang Ping

At a bar in Beijing
I asked the poet Mang Ke if he was still writing
He replied: is our situation changed?
Years went by
I was older, like Mang Ke
I felt more at ease for not writing
Even a bit proud of myself
Then I bumped into Yi Sha, another poet
Who just got his job back
As poetry editor
I knew I must now march with all I had
For the new poetry destiny
Ten years went by
I’ve been writing daily
It has been my own Noah’s ark
To stay alive