by Nathan Smith

Identity : is not
the deity : she shudders
to think it : we dance

in search of density —
means our flesh, fresh
conjurations of noon, he sd
is only midnight’s daydream
delight in the nature of the one

true eye sees all
of the stone age
womb where

It is always morning and never weather.

Books not far from the river
meander to remember

your true name.

by Nathan Smith

IS
ONE
STONE
& the only crime is innocence
or ignorance
of the Law

absolvable by Birth.

Child of Wrath,

if you would not die, then,
take a dive, into the notion

heart of matter /mother
matrix /womb or tomb
where all past life
& would-be things
homage from
such untoward sources:

the incarceral conditions
of the brain in the skull
where it is skooled

or a mind that would mull
like a fool alone & long for

no-place, no place, no place . . .

by Nathan Smith

I have conducted no
formal inductive re-

search about

the proclivity of stones to stay
were thrown to sink in water

certain and straightforward:

All roads lead to Quarry.
There stone is squared.

World is where.  No.
Stones, pelts . . .

If we now can coax
the lizard from its stone

dismantle crust &
core disembowel

two -leaved sons
of Adam.  He is
something else.

Fish in water.
Man in war.

Lies upon the earth
like animal, vegetable

mineral.

Men, or all?

by Xue Di

     translated by Hil Anderson and Forrest Gander

Crystals roll across the ocean’s rough cloth
The stars’ little hands clutch at night’s coat
Moon, tiny circle of music
Waves collapse at the end of a day’s rage

In sleep, the fisherman follows a school of fish
A golden anchor catches in his heart
What joy!
When I listen to the ocean’s deep
I hear the salty voices of crabs
Calling to that lone figure on shore gazing out

Memory, life at a distance
When the ocean washes back to reveal its small beauties
When life in the shadow of a clump of grass becomes intimate

The moon floating on the sky
Its bright gong
Opens the scab of my grief

An empty ship sets sail through a white crystalline mist
Toward the backwaters of the ocean where my daughter
Continues to face toward the place I remain
Sweet contentment!

When I listen to my blood I hear sharks
Wagging their tails against the current of the very ocean
I hear its inexhaustible conflict with everything
And I hear a voice boom, “Be reconciled!”

MOONLIGHT

“Moonlight” was written in a small fishing village on the coastline in southern China.  I was invited by the committee of the village to visit the area and write poems about its grotesque, rocky landscape mixing with the ocean scenery.  The committee provided everything including accommodations at a local hotel and a seafood banquet every day.  I had days of happiness with fishermen and their blue salty water.  Finally the writing project was withdrawn by the committee, and I left this poem for the fishermen.