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三首诗

三首诗 Y A N G Z I Three Poems giant workplant I thought I was the only one in a back room, on a cliff, writing odd phrases. Looking around, I realized I was in a giant workplant, where so many were buried in work at their writing desks, like tailors buried in work at sewing machines, laboriously, weighing every word, meals forgotten, little strokes felling great oaks. I saw more workplants, more men, each with a sack by his side. Someone took out Kafka, Borges, Calvino. Someone took out the Upanishads, the Pseudepigrapha or the sixty-four hexagrams. Someone took out a lock of green woman's hair or the blue underwear of a peacock. Someone took out dreams wrinkled like rags. Someone took out his father's letter grandfather's photograph great-grandfather's testament. Someone wore a singlet in the dead of winter. Someone put on old cotton shoes on a hot day. Someone stuck a cigarette behind his ear. Someone put condoms in his wallet. Someone kept sending short messages to the little vixen torturing him. Five minutes or a lifetime, they completed so many verses. Rhyming or not, lyrical or not, they called it poetry. Impossible to rely on it http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

三首诗

Yang, Zi.
Manoa , Volume 24 (1) – Aug 4, 2012
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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

Y A N G Z I Three Poems giant workplant I thought I was the only one in a back room, on a cliff, writing odd phrases. Looking around, I realized I was in a giant workplant, where so many were buried in work at their writing desks, like tailors buried in work at sewing machines, laboriously, weighing every word, meals forgotten, little strokes felling great oaks. I saw more workplants, more men, each with a sack by his side. Someone took out Kafka, Borges, Calvino. Someone took out the Upanishads, the Pseudepigrapha or the sixty-four hexagrams. Someone took out a lock of green woman's hair or the blue underwear of a peacock. Someone took out dreams wrinkled like rags. Someone took out his father's letter grandfather's photograph great-grandfather's testament. Someone wore a singlet in the dead of winter. Someone put on old cotton shoes on a hot day. Someone stuck a cigarette behind his ear. Someone put condoms in his wallet. Someone kept sending short messages to the little vixen torturing him. Five minutes or a lifetime, they completed so many verses. Rhyming or not, lyrical or not, they called it poetry. Impossible to rely on it

Journal

Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press

Published: Aug 4, 2012

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