Blesok no. 110, October-November, 2016
It is said macaques like to eat it
because its animal-like fuzzy skin.
The name sounds
Like it came from a zoo in China.
Isabelle crossed million oceans,
from China to Oceania.
Alexander took utmost care of it.
Its name changed to Chinese gooseberry,
And again, on the fruit market, took a new name,
not willing to reveal itself.
Dull white stabs through the golden jade fresh,
bone necklace on the Aboriginal necks,
black seeds scattered like graffiti,
is it a totem or a taboo?
Or it still remembers its cold nature,
that regulates the flow of vital energy
and removes blood stasis.
Always fails to see itself clearly
in the midst of contradiction.
Sometimes the street is as dark as the dusky night sky,
With occasional sounds by fish-balls and dumplings
it’s still hiding in the fruit market.
Rain falls on canvas quietly
under the hazy light.
It looks like golden petals opening in the dark.
It dimly resembles the dining table at home
oval is shape.
* Kiwifruit is indigenous to China and it is known as ‘macaque peach' in China.
eyelids resist drowsiness
perhaps the dawn grows into a crow?
Loss of speech plagues you
you are devoted
to Chicago’s mornings
as you are
to Texas’s void of nothingness
you turn them into colors,
the words we call to mind
you reject crows and ditches
with scalpels, you gently cut open the night,
peer into its wound, to see
it blossom from the depths,
a suicide flower,
it’s your paintbrush
that brings me to the roller coaster of colors
running on the railway of words
without safety belts
*"Suicide Flower” by Steven Schroeder 2013 oil on canvas 24x36 inches
People who feed it with respect
have never seen its real face.
In the days when no emperor is there,
they all think they are its heirs.
Inexistence is, perhaps,
far more fascinating in fact.
Like a lonesome passerby,
in a trance, white clouds in mind.
Sometimes it entangles with lightning and thunders,
embracing the black clouds together,
like shoddy cotton that twists over and over.
Sometimes it lets lightning and thunders
strike their lineaments within an instant,
as if to shed the burden of existence.
One muffled thunder on a sunny day
is enough to make a lonesome passerby stay.
As he stops in his steps, in a trance,
the dragon is fed.
My finger draws across the poems
words burn through the lashes
into my empty eyes,
the train with your words passes through,
would it connect your horizon and mine?
a sickle over the pages,
hung never in the air,
reaping all the ripe ink,
in that confined office next door.
Your name is a legend in that chamber,
the invisible pen staggers swiftly,
on the blank sheet —
an empty chessboard.
Your poems drill into the cold keyhole,
searching for a new twig in this bareness —
the absent hand
To Capture a Unicorn
(Reading Umberto Eco)
someone telling me:
to capture a unicorn,
you’ll need to bring
to a tree.
When the unicorn senses
the virgin’s scent,
it’ll come over
I travelled to an orchard,
found a virgin;
led her to a tree
and told her to sit
with her legs slightly opened.
She asked me how.
Here, I showed her,
After that, I felt
she’s no longer pure.
She asked me, so how
are we going
to capture a unicorn now?
someone telling me:
are the unicorn.
And then, I realized
were around my back.
Rein in her hands,
she pulled my septum ring,
jolting all the way,
back to the orchard.
A Poem I Cannot Title
I write about the living.
I use the five senses to write
pomegranate, sound of wind, scent of tea.
Sometimes I ponder on things beyond the senses,
even things subverting the prevailing values.
When bored, I pick up your anthology,
thinking about death.
Like a mouse in the corner at midnight,
chipping away time,
gnawing at your verses,
exploring deeper and deeper
as if tree roots are stretching,
reaching for a title.
A form of freedom is beyond the senses.
The flipside is far beyond the reach of our sight.
Are verses from heaven harder to understand?
I am still alive, but you have long passed away.
than translating your poems.
And I write about the living.