[pursuing]l
Here is the persistent pursuit of a bone chip
Hung right above the nose of the ravenous
Dog as it runs amuck, as well as another
Pursuit of an exotic seed by the west wind
That keeps blowing to catch, to throw it
Into the voiceless reality, and another pursuit
Of an innocent deer trying to gain an inch
Of freedom from the claws of an African lion
Or the pursuit of the sun by the legendary Kuafu
Who ran all the way along the Yellow River
To the very edge of the world, for a reason
No one has ever been able to tell, even today
And here’s another pursuit of a thin whim
shuttling around like a crazy owl in the jungle
A pursuit of a shapeless cloud in a forgotten sky
And another pursuit of quasi happiness you yearn to
Embed into the frame of a painting like Munch’s Scream
The pursuit that can be transmitted onto a colored screen
Like yin always trying to join yang, or vice versa
In a parallel universe, the pursuit of metaphors
Behind the thought, now more persistent than ever
[y!]
You are really haunted by this letter
Yes, since it contains all the secrets of
Your selfhood: your name begins with it
You carry y-chromosome; you wear
Y-pants; both your skin and heart are
Yellowish; your best poem is titled
Y; you seldom seek the balance between
Yin and yang; you never want to be a
Yankee, but you yearn to remain as
Young as your poet son; in particular
You love the way it is pronounced, so
Youthfully, as a word rather than a letter to
Yell out the human reasons; above all
Your soul is a seed blown from afar, always
Y-shaped when breaking the earth to greet spring
[white]
from among thick clouds
like mountains of inflated cotton
high above spring fog, much
lighter than the snow of last year
a biblical dove flies, soaring around
as if unable to find a place
to perch on land, where reed flowers
grow tall in the fields of salt, where
ivories float around
in rivers of milk
while no pale surface is taking in any light
all colors gather into a blank filled with flour
slaked lime, or aging hair just to reflect
the entire human civilization
[viewpoint]
no, no, no
no more do i want to be
a chinaman, brown-visioned
with all my yellowish
outlooks, yellowish sentiments
nor do I intend to be
a red-skinned big-foot
with my ancestors' vast land
all occupied by foreign devils
nor a rising black star
with evil pale-faced memories
nor a big white boss
with all his politically correct dollars
rather, I prefer to be a tiny rock
sitting still at a hilltop, on the roadside
watching, observing, or even
whistling when there is a wind blowing hard
Seasonal Stanzas
Summer:in her beehive-like room
so small that a yawning stretch
would readily awaken
the whole apartment building
she draws a picture on the wall
of a tremendous tree
that keeps growing
until it shoots up
from the cemented roof
Autumn: not unlike a giddy goat
wandering among the ruins
of a long lost civilization
you keep searching
in the central park
a way out of the tall weeds
as nature makes new york
into a mummy blue
Winter: after the storm
all dust hung up
in the crowded air
with his human face
frozen into a dot of dust
and a rising speckle of dust
melted into his face
to avoid this cold climate
of his antarctic dream
he relocated his naked soul
at the dawn of summer
Spring:like a raindrop
on a small lotus leaf
unable to find the spot
to settle itself down
in an early autumn shower
my little canoe drifts around
near the horizon
beyond the bare bay
Changming Yuan, 4-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (Leaf Garden Press, 2009) and Landscaping (Flutter Press, 2013), teaches independently in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan (Poetry submissions welcome at editors.pp@gmail.com). Recently interviewed by PANK, Yuan has poetry appear in 709 journals/anthologies across 27 countries, including Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine and Threepenny Review.
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