Poem
Ming Di
Open renshi 1: Mountains
1This summer a bird flies from Mt. Pamir to Qaidam,
a curving line that changes my sense of height constantly.
And Qinghai Lake, my view of what rhetoric can do,
an open mind that holds the bird, then lets it fly further.
(Ming Di)
2
Distance is formed by the pixels, its tail properly aligned
with the direction of wind and the soft harsh dimensions.
The bird, out of fish scales and into feathers, defines the chronicles:
the young mankind, a brush of faint ink, no roots yet, climbs in the snow.
(Yin Xiaoyuan)
3
This structure brings out a rock, symbolic or imagined.
In the cold storm one can only hear how are you, but how you are
is lost. The rock has conceived the stubborn sound of words: a will
will not be replaced in the whistling wind or cloud of collaged mountains.
(Yang Muzi)
4
Actually what I fear is not the pilgrimage, ‘her Mona Lisa tears.’
Sleeping mountains fade away, dreams and mysterious land circulate.
And he’s in love! His body hums and roars. The metaphysical adventures.
So many night engines expect a labyrinth of solitude to fall again. Hooray!
(Chu Yu)
5
The bird, dazzled, decides not to fly but to walk instead.
And to fall with cloudy rain. But in straight or curved lines?
In what gender and race? Half walking half flying, she (yes, it’s she)
takes a beauty that puzzles and baffles and loves it to death –
(Ming Di)
6
My Heaven, a creator of beauty simply takes beauty. She touches,
and that’s her way of breathing. She sings, away from sunlight. Flies float
in the stall. Mangos, plums, and even durians – the stinking kind.
In the buzzing sound they see our faces, and a phrase, vivid and fresh.
(Yang Muzi)
7
The cloud (or the sheep) winds down your jade green waist, pulled
from the submarine, and pushes you to the towering Qinghai (the green ocean).
Small hills of the prairie will be in despair forever.
Passersby admire you without knowing your state of I-lessness.
(Bei Du)
8
You possess a proud dessert and unpopulated Gobi.
The childlike desert is a yellow horse running alone.
And the Gobi is perhaps you reading the barren. You climb
into the void, disappearing in the path of wild antelopes.
(Zhang Jie)
9
Night is burning (!) and swirling in the air, frozen as dark jelly.
The pianist picks up an ax and splits the instrument. Ruins.
Wet moonlight dims in the slowly rotating gear – but how can you,
the unredeemable human race, extinguish the dark fire?
(Yu Xiaoman)
10
At 4 o’clock p.m., something sheds light on the Nokia screen.
A crusade of words marches like mountains casting shadows.
Outside the window, the clouds are mountains, with shadows too…
I stretch out – my arms project two trees entangled.
(Ming Di)
11
A man of failure walks, encountering many more failures.
At a young age: poverty, disease, bird feces and watermelon rinds.
To stay or not is a question. Color, language and marriage are other questions.
Who to raise and who to expel? Questions multiply in the tree branches.
(Sui Sui)
12
They are extraordinary, the legendary eternal goddess, leading the landscape
toward an abstract crater, a womb-shaped jar. In the wilderness that's not wild any more,
flowers are blooming. Mountains range continuously like grapes in brotherhood:
they pull down the walls of resentment and climb forward, with their jar, forward.
(Feng Fang)
13
Roots incline to the triple door of humanity and echo internally,
deeper and deeper. Can inscriptions travel beyond the boundary
of the flowering gravestones? Each year, intertwined branches
correspond to the cliff engraved with foggy histories.
(Chen Yida)
14
In the light, we’ve seen a not so bad morning – sun rises, an umbrella,
birds chirp like sprinklers. It’s not always a dusty world, nor always
a peaceful nap disturbed by cold firearms. If ever we have a place
we‘d name it with our birth purity and sickening pain! If ever we have peace.
(Yu Xiaoman)
15
The young boys stand in the queue of human mountains
at the airport cafe, not knowing what’s Wok what’s War.
They twitter squeeze twitter blink twitter push.
Are you going to fly out or not, a fly asks. But how?
(Ming Di)
16
The fire bursts from the purple hole on the east side and burns
my earthly wings, tut tut. The black rain floods the ridges of Asia.
The crying spiritual feathers shake awake the mountainous nightmare,
and on the dying bones, memory sketches slowly its internal lava.
(Bei Du)
17
The new ‘Ghost Story’ is what’s going on in the village. Bulldozers push
for demolition, never repent. Self-immolation, pillars of faith, incompatible
with temples uncompleted. Mountains shape in an unanimous ‘No’, rejecting a
strange country ever born. In the North, citizens and sheriffs each encounter wild beasts.
(Zhang Jie)
18
River of Night murmurs a ghost song. Snow country: cherries, Mount Fuji,
and Ginza, in flashes. A memory in the hot gun may be carried away
by the ruthless final plane. In the textbook, the new history floor
with artificial marbles look strange as if newly renovated.
(Ouyang Guanxue)
19
Something purely from the mind is more like a desperate struggle.
Politicians’ scepters collapse: they go crazy left and right, falling apart.
And the truth – sometimes it’s too quiet, like a mountain in repose. Above
the body, white wings come like bosom buddies but where should love-hate go?
(Chen Yida)
20
Blood weaves the night into a long chain – the squeezed-out silt paints
for the day peace. Morning star is falling. Orphans weep by the pit.
The long winding soul hangs the gold rotten ring of the ‘waste oil quality.’
The underground rockery reveals half ghost prison, half howling of rouge.
(Bei Du)
21
Okamura’s camp-style swords and ‘89 tanks roll in the imperial dreams of Yamamoto.
The python tumbles to the Pacific Fleet ‘Kamikaze’. ‘War God’ Xue Yue and Dohihara
on the gallows, Hitler and Mao, never guessed Rommel or Lin Biao would change sides.
The silent Gaoligong stones speak, and sun opens its canyon eye through the Canon lens.
(Zhang Jie)
22
In smoothing out between shadows and dangers, religions and politics, it exposes
a cold weapon. Hats off to the ‘Brief History of Time’, artists bend to pick up
the fragments. History and reality bring out a new Book of Revelation.
Hello, butterflies that rise from ruins. They line in long queues. They move far in circles.
(Chu Yu)
23
1937. Wang Xiaochuan killed a large ox before joining the mountain guerrillas.
Hands on hips, he spit at the wife of Liu Ba in West village, fucking her in dreams.
That year he aimed his gun to the left, his sickle to the right. Today nobody dies
for loving someone to death. Only in 1942 a German rifle beat a US carbine.
(Watching Sea)
24
Cold metallic luster, searchlight at sleepless night, semi-transparent gloves
and signature albums – all meet in a ritual of awakening or not: ancient peace contract. For a bigger love the birds fly in a V shape, carefully avoiding uneasiness.
Overlooking the mountains in the East, their bodies swing and sway: olive trees.
(Chen Yida)
30 July – 10 August 2015
© Translation: 2015, Ming Di
开放式中国连诗 1：《山》
开放式中国连诗 1：《山》
1
这个夏天，一只鸟，从帕米尔高原，飞到柴达木河
它飞翔的弧线，不断修正我对高度的认知
而青海，改变我对胸怀宽阔的修辞延伸
我伸出手，拉住鸟的视线，然后松开，看它飞远
(明迪）
2
距离由逐渐离散的像素汇成，贴切的燕尾线，顺应风脉，
更兼容各种粗粝或和润的向度。那鸟，自鳞中蜕出，又在羽中遁去，
精确相切的画面——日月纪年，山川前传，
人类作为尚需长出须根的一笔淡墨，那时正在雪中攀缘。
(殷晓媛）
3
这个结构，从象征的、冥想的，引出一块岩石，在暴风雨中
寒冷只听见你好，而你好，再一次远去无所踪；而岩石
构思了词语倔强的声音：从来不是一个意志存在，另一个意志就远去
这个结构，不借助形而上的风_呼呼啦，只在于云杉把群山拼贴了起来
(杨沐子）
4
其实我所惧怕的不是朝圣之旅，“她的蒙娜丽莎的眼泪。”
沉睡的群山隐去，梦与秘境的循环系统，他爱！
体内呜呜与咆哮声起。玄学与宇宙的冒险经历，那么多
夜的引擎发动，期待迷宫般的孤独再次降临。呼呼！
(楚雨）
5
这么多树，这么多云，这么多快要落下的雨
天旋地转，Ta 决定不飞，改为行走
Ta 和雨水一起落下，垂直还是弯曲？性别？种族？
她，边飞边走，接过一个莫名其妙的美，爱死~~
(明迪）
6
我的天，一个接过美的创造者，她触摸的样子
替代了另一种呼吸，远离了日光哼唱，苍蝇浮在地摊上
芒果、李子、以及榴莲，臭烘烘的，一个臭哄哄的存在
在那嗡嗡中，看见我们的脸，一个短句，生动而新鲜
(杨沐子）
7
云，已是绵羊，盘走在你翠玉腰间，拔出海底时分，
注定你将高耸青海云端。让平原小山在幼年嘲笑中,
永恒于失意。眺望中，仰慕你面容的匆匆过客,
怎能体味你——无我，超我的不凡秘密。
(北渡）
8
出境水，移动着白雪封顶的果红。你拥有骄傲的戈壁与无人区。
沙漠，这热闹的孩子，奔跑着孤独的黄马。这片戈壁也许就是你，
人生中慢读着荒芜。你向空中攀登，隐没在野羚羊道路中。
这片荒凉土地，混杂着牛马的笔体，投票了群岛的人头自由——
(张杰）
9
黑夜已灼烧！漩涡在凝固如黑果冻的空气中嘶吼
钢琴师抡起斧子在昨夜，将钢琴劈成废墟
在缓慢转动的齿轮下湿地的月光渐次熄灭了——
所以你们这些无法救赎的人类，如何让这些暗火熄灭
(余小蛮）
10
下午四点钟的光线，照在阅读器上，
讨伐的文字像山脉一样排开，并投下阴影，
窗外的云也是一座座山，也投下阴影……
我伸个懒腰，一举手，投影是两棵纠结的树
(明迪）
11
一个糟糕的人，一生行走，总会遇见无数糟糕的地
从年轻开始，路过贫穷、疾病、鸟屎、西瓜皮等大小事
能否住下是一个问题，肤色、语言、婚嫁等，则是另一个
问题。山泉养育过谁？山泉驱逐过谁？问题的枝桠繁衍中
(穗穗)
12
她们出色，像传说中的永恒女神，引领诸风景
涌向，一座抽象的环形山，子宫状的坛子
荒野，不再荒莽，山花烂漫，千座连绵的山匍匐
像阋墙的兄弟，推倒怨纷，牵手，随着她们和坛子，向前
(风方)
13
根脉，趋向人性的三重门，从消磨意志的劫难
拍击心声：在越陷越深的内部回荡，铭文能否超越葬花的碑界？
每一年，相互纠结的树枝（密林的条形乱码）对应，山崖
刻满对历史回声的聆听，看着模糊的影子。
(陈依达）
14
借助光，我们看到并不糟糕的清晨——朝霞如伞盖
鸟鸣如花洒喷涌，这世间并不总是尘埃遍布，也并不总是
冰冷的枪械驱逐安宁的午睡。我们但凡有一席之地
以出生的纯洁和疾病的痛楚为名！我们但凡有——安宁的生活！
(余小蛮）
15
机场人山人海的小小少年
Wok中餐War 战争不分地排队排排队
叽叽喳喳唧唧咋咋挤挤眨眨
鸟说你们飞呀还是不飞呀如何
(明迪）
16
这火，从东边的紫洞暴出，渲燃我土色的翅膀，啧啧。
黑雨，在历史的肩头涌出，淹没了亚洲的脊翼。
呐呼的灵羽，撞醒山的梦魇，引向红星长鸣的沉钟。
记忆伸出漫笔，在荒原尽头，枯骨上，划出它内里的岩浆。
(北渡）
17
乡村般的新《聊斋》。拆迁推土机般的永不忏悔。信仰的自焚石柱，
与无法竣工的神庙，纠合。山体自然一致的“不”，否决了
一个妖精的怪邦。北方，滚动着黄金的轴承。市民和
市长，山地部落和游击队员，遭遇了各自的疯狂魔兽。
(张杰）
18
夜的河流，低吟着鬼的歌喉。雪国，樱花，富士山，
闪光的银座，持有枪管滚烫的记忆，或许会被无情的
未来航班带走。教科书人造大理石塑造的历史新地板，
有装修后的陌生。主义的背景墙，驾驶着首都的夜空。
(欧阳关雪）
19
纯粹的精神产物，更像一种绝望的挣扎
政客权杖塌陷：左右狂舞，分崩离析。
而真相有时过于安静，如群山静卧，任迷雾缭绕。
肉身之上，知音般赶来的白色羽翼，爱恨将往何方？
(陈依达）
20
呜，血，将夜编成长链——甩出的淤泥，绘作白日的祥和。
辰星已陨灭，坠落，生出镜影迷散的阴坑旁，有孤儿在哀涕。
曲长的灵魂，由"地沟油烟质”挂上金持腐臭的圆环。
而地下的假山，一半透出鬼狱的门，一半流着胭脂的嚎叫。
(北渡）
21
集中营式的冈村宁次战刀，帝国梦境中八九式坦克翻滚，如同山本五十六，
这条巨蟒，向太平洋舰队“神风特攻”的翻滚。”战神“薛岳与绞架上的土肥原，
希特勒与毛，孰料名将之花隆美尔、林彪，倒戈的凋落。高黎贡山从不说话的石头，
在东方苦难中开口，太阳，在浪漫佳能镜头前，闪烁荒原的超能之眼。
(张杰）
22
抚平阴影与危险的存在，宗教与政治之间狭窄的空间，它露出
一截冰冷的器械。从《时间简史》脱落下来的礼帽，艺术家弯腰
拾起被无端割裂的残片。历史与现实诞生新的启示录，你好
蝴蝶从废墟升起，它们（他们）排着长队逶迤走向远处。
(楚雨)
23
37年王小川山上打游击前，顺手杀死手边的一头大牯牛，双手叉腰，
对着西村刘八的地主老婆，吐出一口唾沫，总有一天老子要把你扛回家睡了你的梦。
这年他的枪口准星多少会有些向左靠，镰刀向右来。今天爱死谁都可以不抵命，
唯有42年德国造的毛瑟枪，那时，一定会好过美国的卡宾枪。
(看海)
24
金属的寒光，无眠之夜的探照，半透明的手套与签名册
世界将交汇于一场苏醒而失落的仪式：平和而古老的契约。
为更宽广的爱，队列与布局，小心翼翼地避开局促，眺望中央山脉
那些滚烫的履历依然牵挂东方，鸟的身段让叶形胸针摇曳橄榄枝。
(陈依达）
30 July – 10 August 2015
© 2015, Ming Di, et al
Poems
Poems of Ming Di
Close
Open renshi 1: Mountains
1This summer a bird flies from Mt. Pamir to Qaidam,
a curving line that changes my sense of height constantly.
And Qinghai Lake, my view of what rhetoric can do,
an open mind that holds the bird, then lets it fly further.
(Ming Di)
2
Distance is formed by the pixels, its tail properly aligned
with the direction of wind and the soft harsh dimensions.
The bird, out of fish scales and into feathers, defines the chronicles:
the young mankind, a brush of faint ink, no roots yet, climbs in the snow.
(Yin Xiaoyuan)
3
This structure brings out a rock, symbolic or imagined.
In the cold storm one can only hear how are you, but how you are
is lost. The rock has conceived the stubborn sound of words: a will
will not be replaced in the whistling wind or cloud of collaged mountains.
(Yang Muzi)
4
Actually what I fear is not the pilgrimage, ‘her Mona Lisa tears.’
Sleeping mountains fade away, dreams and mysterious land circulate.
And he’s in love! His body hums and roars. The metaphysical adventures.
So many night engines expect a labyrinth of solitude to fall again. Hooray!
(Chu Yu)
5
The bird, dazzled, decides not to fly but to walk instead.
And to fall with cloudy rain. But in straight or curved lines?
In what gender and race? Half walking half flying, she (yes, it’s she)
takes a beauty that puzzles and baffles and loves it to death –
(Ming Di)
6
My Heaven, a creator of beauty simply takes beauty. She touches,
and that’s her way of breathing. She sings, away from sunlight. Flies float
in the stall. Mangos, plums, and even durians – the stinking kind.
In the buzzing sound they see our faces, and a phrase, vivid and fresh.
(Yang Muzi)
7
The cloud (or the sheep) winds down your jade green waist, pulled
from the submarine, and pushes you to the towering Qinghai (the green ocean).
Small hills of the prairie will be in despair forever.
Passersby admire you without knowing your state of I-lessness.
(Bei Du)
8
You possess a proud dessert and unpopulated Gobi.
The childlike desert is a yellow horse running alone.
And the Gobi is perhaps you reading the barren. You climb
into the void, disappearing in the path of wild antelopes.
(Zhang Jie)
9
Night is burning (!) and swirling in the air, frozen as dark jelly.
The pianist picks up an ax and splits the instrument. Ruins.
Wet moonlight dims in the slowly rotating gear – but how can you,
the unredeemable human race, extinguish the dark fire?
(Yu Xiaoman)
10
At 4 o’clock p.m., something sheds light on the Nokia screen.
A crusade of words marches like mountains casting shadows.
Outside the window, the clouds are mountains, with shadows too…
I stretch out – my arms project two trees entangled.
(Ming Di)
11
A man of failure walks, encountering many more failures.
At a young age: poverty, disease, bird feces and watermelon rinds.
To stay or not is a question. Color, language and marriage are other questions.
Who to raise and who to expel? Questions multiply in the tree branches.
(Sui Sui)
12
They are extraordinary, the legendary eternal goddess, leading the landscape
toward an abstract crater, a womb-shaped jar. In the wilderness that's not wild any more,
flowers are blooming. Mountains range continuously like grapes in brotherhood:
they pull down the walls of resentment and climb forward, with their jar, forward.
(Feng Fang)
13
Roots incline to the triple door of humanity and echo internally,
deeper and deeper. Can inscriptions travel beyond the boundary
of the flowering gravestones? Each year, intertwined branches
correspond to the cliff engraved with foggy histories.
(Chen Yida)
14
In the light, we’ve seen a not so bad morning – sun rises, an umbrella,
birds chirp like sprinklers. It’s not always a dusty world, nor always
a peaceful nap disturbed by cold firearms. If ever we have a place
we‘d name it with our birth purity and sickening pain! If ever we have peace.
(Yu Xiaoman)
15
The young boys stand in the queue of human mountains
at the airport cafe, not knowing what’s Wok what’s War.
They twitter squeeze twitter blink twitter push.
Are you going to fly out or not, a fly asks. But how?
(Ming Di)
16
The fire bursts from the purple hole on the east side and burns
my earthly wings, tut tut. The black rain floods the ridges of Asia.
The crying spiritual feathers shake awake the mountainous nightmare,
and on the dying bones, memory sketches slowly its internal lava.
(Bei Du)
17
The new ‘Ghost Story’ is what’s going on in the village. Bulldozers push
for demolition, never repent. Self-immolation, pillars of faith, incompatible
with temples uncompleted. Mountains shape in an unanimous ‘No’, rejecting a
strange country ever born. In the North, citizens and sheriffs each encounter wild beasts.
(Zhang Jie)
18
River of Night murmurs a ghost song. Snow country: cherries, Mount Fuji,
and Ginza, in flashes. A memory in the hot gun may be carried away
by the ruthless final plane. In the textbook, the new history floor
with artificial marbles look strange as if newly renovated.
(Ouyang Guanxue)
19
Something purely from the mind is more like a desperate struggle.
Politicians’ scepters collapse: they go crazy left and right, falling apart.
And the truth – sometimes it’s too quiet, like a mountain in repose. Above
the body, white wings come like bosom buddies but where should love-hate go?
(Chen Yida)
20
Blood weaves the night into a long chain – the squeezed-out silt paints
for the day peace. Morning star is falling. Orphans weep by the pit.
The long winding soul hangs the gold rotten ring of the ‘waste oil quality.’
The underground rockery reveals half ghost prison, half howling of rouge.
(Bei Du)
21
Okamura’s camp-style swords and ‘89 tanks roll in the imperial dreams of Yamamoto.
The python tumbles to the Pacific Fleet ‘Kamikaze’. ‘War God’ Xue Yue and Dohihara
on the gallows, Hitler and Mao, never guessed Rommel or Lin Biao would change sides.
The silent Gaoligong stones speak, and sun opens its canyon eye through the Canon lens.
(Zhang Jie)
22
In smoothing out between shadows and dangers, religions and politics, it exposes
a cold weapon. Hats off to the ‘Brief History of Time’, artists bend to pick up
the fragments. History and reality bring out a new Book of Revelation.
Hello, butterflies that rise from ruins. They line in long queues. They move far in circles.
(Chu Yu)
23
1937. Wang Xiaochuan killed a large ox before joining the mountain guerrillas.
Hands on hips, he spit at the wife of Liu Ba in West village, fucking her in dreams.
That year he aimed his gun to the left, his sickle to the right. Today nobody dies
for loving someone to death. Only in 1942 a German rifle beat a US carbine.
(Watching Sea)
24
Cold metallic luster, searchlight at sleepless night, semi-transparent gloves
and signature albums – all meet in a ritual of awakening or not: ancient peace contract. For a bigger love the birds fly in a V shape, carefully avoiding uneasiness.
Overlooking the mountains in the East, their bodies swing and sway: olive trees.
(Chen Yida)
30 July – 10 August 2015
© 2015, Ming Di
Open renshi 1: Mountains
1This summer a bird flies from Mt. Pamir to Qaidam,
a curving line that changes my sense of height constantly.
And Qinghai Lake, my view of what rhetoric can do,
an open mind that holds the bird, then lets it fly further.
(Ming Di)
2
Distance is formed by the pixels, its tail properly aligned
with the direction of wind and the soft harsh dimensions.
The bird, out of fish scales and into feathers, defines the chronicles:
the young mankind, a brush of faint ink, no roots yet, climbs in the snow.
(Yin Xiaoyuan)
3
This structure brings out a rock, symbolic or imagined.
In the cold storm one can only hear how are you, but how you are
is lost. The rock has conceived the stubborn sound of words: a will
will not be replaced in the whistling wind or cloud of collaged mountains.
(Yang Muzi)
4
Actually what I fear is not the pilgrimage, ‘her Mona Lisa tears.’
Sleeping mountains fade away, dreams and mysterious land circulate.
And he’s in love! His body hums and roars. The metaphysical adventures.
So many night engines expect a labyrinth of solitude to fall again. Hooray!
(Chu Yu)
5
The bird, dazzled, decides not to fly but to walk instead.
And to fall with cloudy rain. But in straight or curved lines?
In what gender and race? Half walking half flying, she (yes, it’s she)
takes a beauty that puzzles and baffles and loves it to death –
(Ming Di)
6
My Heaven, a creator of beauty simply takes beauty. She touches,
and that’s her way of breathing. She sings, away from sunlight. Flies float
in the stall. Mangos, plums, and even durians – the stinking kind.
In the buzzing sound they see our faces, and a phrase, vivid and fresh.
(Yang Muzi)
7
The cloud (or the sheep) winds down your jade green waist, pulled
from the submarine, and pushes you to the towering Qinghai (the green ocean).
Small hills of the prairie will be in despair forever.
Passersby admire you without knowing your state of I-lessness.
(Bei Du)
8
You possess a proud dessert and unpopulated Gobi.
The childlike desert is a yellow horse running alone.
And the Gobi is perhaps you reading the barren. You climb
into the void, disappearing in the path of wild antelopes.
(Zhang Jie)
9
Night is burning (!) and swirling in the air, frozen as dark jelly.
The pianist picks up an ax and splits the instrument. Ruins.
Wet moonlight dims in the slowly rotating gear – but how can you,
the unredeemable human race, extinguish the dark fire?
(Yu Xiaoman)
10
At 4 o’clock p.m., something sheds light on the Nokia screen.
A crusade of words marches like mountains casting shadows.
Outside the window, the clouds are mountains, with shadows too…
I stretch out – my arms project two trees entangled.
(Ming Di)
11
A man of failure walks, encountering many more failures.
At a young age: poverty, disease, bird feces and watermelon rinds.
To stay or not is a question. Color, language and marriage are other questions.
Who to raise and who to expel? Questions multiply in the tree branches.
(Sui Sui)
12
They are extraordinary, the legendary eternal goddess, leading the landscape
toward an abstract crater, a womb-shaped jar. In the wilderness that's not wild any more,
flowers are blooming. Mountains range continuously like grapes in brotherhood:
they pull down the walls of resentment and climb forward, with their jar, forward.
(Feng Fang)
13
Roots incline to the triple door of humanity and echo internally,
deeper and deeper. Can inscriptions travel beyond the boundary
of the flowering gravestones? Each year, intertwined branches
correspond to the cliff engraved with foggy histories.
(Chen Yida)
14
In the light, we’ve seen a not so bad morning – sun rises, an umbrella,
birds chirp like sprinklers. It’s not always a dusty world, nor always
a peaceful nap disturbed by cold firearms. If ever we have a place
we‘d name it with our birth purity and sickening pain! If ever we have peace.
(Yu Xiaoman)
15
The young boys stand in the queue of human mountains
at the airport cafe, not knowing what’s Wok what’s War.
They twitter squeeze twitter blink twitter push.
Are you going to fly out or not, a fly asks. But how?
(Ming Di)
16
The fire bursts from the purple hole on the east side and burns
my earthly wings, tut tut. The black rain floods the ridges of Asia.
The crying spiritual feathers shake awake the mountainous nightmare,
and on the dying bones, memory sketches slowly its internal lava.
(Bei Du)
17
The new ‘Ghost Story’ is what’s going on in the village. Bulldozers push
for demolition, never repent. Self-immolation, pillars of faith, incompatible
with temples uncompleted. Mountains shape in an unanimous ‘No’, rejecting a
strange country ever born. In the North, citizens and sheriffs each encounter wild beasts.
(Zhang Jie)
18
River of Night murmurs a ghost song. Snow country: cherries, Mount Fuji,
and Ginza, in flashes. A memory in the hot gun may be carried away
by the ruthless final plane. In the textbook, the new history floor
with artificial marbles look strange as if newly renovated.
(Ouyang Guanxue)
19
Something purely from the mind is more like a desperate struggle.
Politicians’ scepters collapse: they go crazy left and right, falling apart.
And the truth – sometimes it’s too quiet, like a mountain in repose. Above
the body, white wings come like bosom buddies but where should love-hate go?
(Chen Yida)
20
Blood weaves the night into a long chain – the squeezed-out silt paints
for the day peace. Morning star is falling. Orphans weep by the pit.
The long winding soul hangs the gold rotten ring of the ‘waste oil quality.’
The underground rockery reveals half ghost prison, half howling of rouge.
(Bei Du)
21
Okamura’s camp-style swords and ‘89 tanks roll in the imperial dreams of Yamamoto.
The python tumbles to the Pacific Fleet ‘Kamikaze’. ‘War God’ Xue Yue and Dohihara
on the gallows, Hitler and Mao, never guessed Rommel or Lin Biao would change sides.
The silent Gaoligong stones speak, and sun opens its canyon eye through the Canon lens.
(Zhang Jie)
22
In smoothing out between shadows and dangers, religions and politics, it exposes
a cold weapon. Hats off to the ‘Brief History of Time’, artists bend to pick up
the fragments. History and reality bring out a new Book of Revelation.
Hello, butterflies that rise from ruins. They line in long queues. They move far in circles.
(Chu Yu)
23
1937. Wang Xiaochuan killed a large ox before joining the mountain guerrillas.
Hands on hips, he spit at the wife of Liu Ba in West village, fucking her in dreams.
That year he aimed his gun to the left, his sickle to the right. Today nobody dies
for loving someone to death. Only in 1942 a German rifle beat a US carbine.
(Watching Sea)
24
Cold metallic luster, searchlight at sleepless night, semi-transparent gloves
and signature albums – all meet in a ritual of awakening or not: ancient peace contract. For a bigger love the birds fly in a V shape, carefully avoiding uneasiness.
Overlooking the mountains in the East, their bodies swing and sway: olive trees.
(Chen Yida)
30 July – 10 August 2015
© 2015, Ming Di
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