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among the mighty massive roars
full of wild wonders and deep awe
i come to worship this bridge-like rock
carved with icy chisels of glacier water
powerfully pounding
constantly cutting
a masterpiece out of the primitive
with no sense of design or purpose
nor intended expression of any feelings
nor embodiment of scientific principles
totally ignorant of my humble presence
under my feet is a wooden bridge
simple, but solid as a superb set
of symmetries, a perfect human artifact
where i stop and then step down
to overhear God's whispers
From Under the Small Rotten Bridge
For the past half century, I have never seen
A single frog in this city, not even in the whole country
But there are four big-mouthed frogs, four frogs
Squatting under the rotten bridge on the way leading
To my junior high school, the same four frogs leaping
Around afar in a ricefield of my native village, the same
Ones playing on a big Lotus leaf in my heart
Yes, the same old four frogs calling constantly
From the dark pages of history invisible at midnight
the ones meditating under a puti tree transplanted
In a nature park, the ones swimming into a fish net
Like bloated tadpoles, the same old four frogs whose
Monotoned songs resonating aloud in different tongues
With different pitches, yes, the four frogs still there
At the End of the Bridge: a Personality Search
From east to west
Among worst & best
In the world real &/or virtual
I have been trying all my life
Trying hard to find a fellow being
As high-minded as high-mannered
But alas, at neither end
Of the bridge does any one
Live a gentleren’s life
As I so strongly wish to see
As we all might hope to be
The River and the Bridge
over that little meandering river
flowing anonymously from my boyhood
there used to be no bridge
so, we rode a ferry boat in spring
and nake-swam across it in summer
when it became as dry as reeds and straw
we trudged a trail like a small stream
and when it was frozen with sand and gravel
we walked on the thickest ice we could find
although not knowing how to ski
nor did we fear losing our balance
between boyish dreams and the cold winter
since I left my native village long ago
a bridge has been built
and thus has become the only place
and the only way
to get to the other side of the river
Birds at Risk
your songs and calls all recorded
your body well stuffed
your genes being cloned
your species digitalized
now we are living a posthumous life
we have become shadows of ourselves
among so much bustling and hustling
we are dying, birds, dying
Beyond the Bridge
Truth is so cold and hard
As a big chunk of floating ice
That each human eye can see
Only one surface
From a boat or the bank
While it keeps flowing towards the sea, where
It will evaporate up to the tropical sky
Of history
full of wild wonders and deep awe
i come to worship this bridge-like rock
carved with icy chisels of glacier water
powerfully pounding
constantly cutting
a masterpiece out of the primitive
with no sense of design or purpose
nor intended expression of any feelings
nor embodiment of scientific principles
totally ignorant of my humble presence
under my feet is a wooden bridge
simple, but solid as a superb set
of symmetries, a perfect human artifact
where i stop and then step down
to overhear God's whispers
From Under the Small Rotten Bridge
For the past half century, I have never seen
A single frog in this city, not even in the whole country
But there are four big-mouthed frogs, four frogs
Squatting under the rotten bridge on the way leading
To my junior high school, the same four frogs leaping
Around afar in a ricefield of my native village, the same
Ones playing on a big Lotus leaf in my heart
Yes, the same old four frogs calling constantly
From the dark pages of history invisible at midnight
the ones meditating under a puti tree transplanted
In a nature park, the ones swimming into a fish net
Like bloated tadpoles, the same old four frogs whose
Monotoned songs resonating aloud in different tongues
With different pitches, yes, the four frogs still there
At the End of the Bridge: a Personality Search
From east to west
Among worst & best
In the world real &/or virtual
I have been trying all my life
Trying hard to find a fellow being
As high-minded as high-mannered
But alas, at neither end
Of the bridge does any one
Live a gentleren’s life
As I so strongly wish to see
As we all might hope to be
The River and the Bridge
over that little meandering river
flowing anonymously from my boyhood
there used to be no bridge
so, we rode a ferry boat in spring
and nake-swam across it in summer
when it became as dry as reeds and straw
we trudged a trail like a small stream
and when it was frozen with sand and gravel
we walked on the thickest ice we could find
although not knowing how to ski
nor did we fear losing our balance
between boyish dreams and the cold winter
since I left my native village long ago
a bridge has been built
and thus has become the only place
and the only way
to get to the other side of the river
Birds at Risk
your songs and calls all recorded
your body well stuffed
your genes being cloned
your species digitalized
now we are living a posthumous life
we have become shadows of ourselves
among so much bustling and hustling
we are dying, birds, dying
Beyond the Bridge
Truth is so cold and hard
As a big chunk of floating ice
That each human eye can see
Only one surface
From a boat or the bank
While it keeps flowing towards the sea, where
It will evaporate up to the tropical sky
Of history
Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include ten Pushcart nominations, the Naji Naaman's Literary Prize 2018, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1,449 others worldwide.
yuan changming @ Poetry Pacific
https://poetrypacific.blogspot.ca
https://happyyangsheng.blogspot.ca
Lotus Image & License: Depositphotos_32738103_s-2015
