Mosquito, a Poem

The poem on autumn, translated…

How Can the Words Manage to Carry

The Sudden Temperature Drop of Autumn?

The Papers Slowly Changed Colors

Just Like Those Standstill Yellowed Leaves

查看來源圖片like this???  Not my animation…

The Water Fowls Left that Final Reflection on the Lake This Year

The Rifles Sounded

We’re on the Race, on the Tracks of Time Now

Imagining How We Can Still, Test the Waters Before the Cold Fronts Get Here

Riding on the Moisture

So You Get to See the Light and Shadows

Made by the Sunset as Well as the Dawn on My Forehead

I Used My Trembling Hands

with the leaves fallen, into this red carpet…not my photo…

Wrote the Words on Your Skins

Hearing Carefully, and Walked Along

To See if I’d Lost the Tempos

Imagining the Differences of Time, It’s a Delusion

Words Became the Matchmakers of Time

We in the Crevasses


查看來源圖片looks beautiful, doesn’t it??? Not my picture…

the Sunlight & the Dusts

You’d Told Me

that After the Typhoon

The Drapes Wouldn’t Stop Rustling

查看來源圖片the seaonal changes, not my collage…

That You’d Often Felt that Itch Inside, Because of the Gossips in the Wind

You’d Not Known

that After the Seasons Changed

Those Words I’d Written Down on You in Secret

Already Turned

Into Mosquitoes

So, there’s that scent of how the seasons are changing, how everything is slowed down quite a bit, from the heats of the summer, slowly, entering into autumn, and soon, it will be, winter, where everything is frozen…


The Lake Inside

Reflections, translated…

Autumn is a colorful promise.  Walking in the Forest of Dean, alongside the large lake, the beauties of autumn emphasized even more by the lake.  The cold air was the prelude to winter, the wind started blowing, the leaves fall one by one off the trees, warning of how time is passing quick.  Winter, well on its way.

At this time, I’d, bumped into three swans, they swam leisurely along the perimeter of the river, orderly, gracefully, enjoying this autumn day.  In half a day, I saw them, circling around the lake repeatedly, very slow, and leisurely.  The swans relied on the sustenance of the lake, feeling safe and secure.

張玉芸photo from the papers…

I watched them, felt that sense of familiarity, like seeing a microcosm of people.  Everybody has that lake inside, that they’re, circling too.

So, this is quite philosophical, isn’t it?  How we’re all, circling around a lake inside of us, at various speeds, and, we are the only ones being aware of what surrounds this lake inside of us…

Getting Myself Through the Cramps of My Creativity

On working hard, to keep that inspiration coming to you, translated… I went to a lecture of the writer, Ke-Hsiang Liu a short while ago, he’d described the lows in his creativity nature as “As you’d lost your soul, there’s, nothing you can do”, it’d impacted me, YES!  It’s exactly like that, the emptiness, the helplessness, and draining of the energies.

My very first “creativity trial, was how I’d needed to, reply back to the complaints of the customers’ in the customer call center.  As the manager of the customer service center, faced with those angry customers, it was, naturally quite difficult, for me, to remain calm and reason with them, and so, in the shortest time, I’d called them back, and apologized, and as the customers’ feelings smoothed back down, then, I’d written them back, on how I believe the matters should be, handled.

See the source imageinspirations come when you’re alone…not my silhouette…

At first, I’d only did this as a part of my work responsibilities, that I’d needed to do it, then, I’d changed a thought, in this era where people are farther and farther away, and more detached than ever with one another, they’d still taken the time from their days, to tell you what you needed to improve, if that’s not having the heart, then, what would be?  And so, I’d treated every complaint as a sort of a kind reminder, and started writing my customers back with my heart, and slowly, the complaints were, reduced, and, the reputation of my company stayed good, and, what was out of my expectations was, writing the customers back became, what I drew from as I’d started writing.

After I retired, I’d gone back to school, and involved myself in a life writing course, and in the encouragement of the instructor, I’d, started writing.  Sometimes, the words would overflow out of me endlessly, I didn’t need any help, putting pen to paper; but most times, my thoughts drained dry, and, I’d watched that cursor on my computer, blinking on and off, and yet, still had difficulties, writing out three lines, and yet, as the deadline pressed on, I’d sighed about how my muse was so hard to control.

Once I’d gone to the lecture of the illustrated books, Cups Lin, she’d showed a photo of the American director, actor, Woody Allen, with a dog leash in his hand, full of facial expressions said, “I have ants as pets.”

Being influenced by Woody Allen, Cups Lin wrote a cute poem, “Rope”: “If I can have a Long Long Rope/Can I Walk the Moon?  If There’s a Really, Really Thick Rope/Can I Walk an Elephant?” as well as in “Secret Games”: “There’s a Floor Full of Sesame Underneath the Chairs, I’d Bent Over, Picked Them Up, the Sesames Started Moving Around.  Oh, They Were, Ants, Pretending to Be, Sesames………”, I’d finally understood, that creativity is nothing more than “changing a thought, and expressing that thought differently”, a game of imagination?

something like this, maybe???  Not my artwork…

As I’d become too anxious, having a hard time coming up with the words, the things I’d endured through my over fifty years of life flashed inside my mind, and at the same time, it’d, set up the multiple clues of writing I can take from; the findings on my trips, financial planning and me, the funny and stupid things I’d done as a child, all you need to know about customer service, the crazy volunteer, etc., etc., etc., almost all my stories had great beginnings, and yet, there’s not much I can go from then.  I’d understood, that writing is like sewing, but why did I always, come up, empty?

Nobody can compel you, unless it’s you.  Ke-Hsiang Liu said he’d taken the challenges of being on the board of trustees of the Central Agencies, that it was, “at the lowest of my writing career, I’d gone and do something I wouldn’t want to do the most”.  And naturally, that’s not what would happen to me; but the experiences of the writer, Dzi Fang started from “the smaller story writing, writing being a process of accumulations”, I can borrow from her.  I’d told myself, that I shouldn’t get discouraged at the low times of my own writing, so long as I continued reading and writing, I will eventually, have good materials to write about one day.

This, is on the ability to find inspiration in every day life, and it’s really hard, because, this, is all your days are made of, going to work in the morning, take your lunch breaks, return back to work, clocking out, and getting in that AWFUL afternoon rush to get back home again, but, there must be something worth noting in this grueling grind of the day to day, it’s just, whether or not, you’d taken that observant nature of yours and notice it or not!

Poetry & Alcohol

Poetry on a beer bottle, that’s something odd, isn’t it???  Translated…

There are a lot of poets who owned bookstores, but, they’d all sold the general books or the literary works that are in.  I’d heard, that there was, a female poet from Hong Kong who’d opened up a shop that sold only books on poetry, and hosted discussions on poetry, I was shocked.  Currently, there is only, a reduced number of folks who still read poetry, making it even harder, to sell the volumes of poetry, and how can her small shop survive?

王岫/攝影from the papers online…

I’d found the address, and paid the shop a visit.  Mmmmmmmmmmm, poetry DOES sell here, there were line of poems plastered on the walls of the store, there’s also verses by Neruda in the restrooms as well.  But, the shop had also sold notebooks with poems as the cover, the handmade books, the decorations, the stationeries, the postcards, along with the small satchels and what not, it’s, I suppose, a grocery place for poetry fanatics.  The shop also helps place orders for poetry in Taiwan for the Macau and Hong Kong regions as well, and, it’d sold coffees, teas, and all of these, are ways so the small shop can keep on surviving.

See the source imagelike this, except it’s a real beer bottle, made of glass, photo from onilne…

After my wife and I bought two volumes of poetry, the shopowner asked us if we’d wanted some drinks, because we’d just had coffee at lunch, we’d wanted no more caffeine, we were both stressing, and the woman said, “Come, there’s also beers served here, and, with the stanzas on them too!”

She’d handed me a bottle of beer, and a book called, “Fanatic about Love”, and told us, “look, the labels of this bottle had the passages from the poem in this volume.”

It was hot and we’re both, thirsty, and that was the very first time we’d encountered poems printed on the beer bottles, we were both quite impressed, and so, I’d ordered a bottle.  I’d looked closely at the lines on the bottle, and, it was a poem by a homosexual American poet, Richard Siken, and surely, I’d found the corresponding lines.

I don’t really know poetry, and, even after I drank down this beer, I’d still felt that I’d lacked the poeticism.  But, after I had the bottle, I’d, washed the bottle, took it home, and my wife placed a stem of yellow orchid into it, and, it’d, made our supper table looked, a bit poetic.

And so, this, is how unexpected literature can come into our lives, even when we’re not looking for it, when we least expected it, it’d, found its ways to us, it everywhere in our lives, we just need to, pay attention to our surrounding environments to see and to notice it.

The Two People Underneath a Tree, by: Kotaro Katamura

Translated from Chinese by me…

That was Mt. Adatara

That Glowing One is the Abukuma

Like this, They Sat, Almost without the Exchanges of Words

In the Drowsy Minds

There was, only the Wind through the Pines in a Distant World, Blowing Past the Light Greens

In this Wilderness of the Mountains of the Winter Begun

I Quietly, Took Your Hands, that Joy We Shared

No Longer Would We Need to, Hide it from the Passing Clouds!

Your Unimaginable Pills Was Filled with the Souls of Keg

Ahh!  How Amazing, How Enticing, that Deep Sea of Love Truly is?

The Two of Us Walked Through the Decade Long Seasonal Changes

It’d Allowed Me to See the Limitlessness of Women

This Thing that Caused the Smokes in the Midst of Nothingness

How it’d, Rejuvenated Me, with that Fresh Springs of Youth

Like the Magical Beings, So Hard to Get a Hold of

How It’d, Changed, Constantly

That was Adatara

That Glowing River Was the Abukumakawa

Your Place of Birth

The Dots on that Small White Wall were the Wine Storage of Your Household

Then Just, Extend Those Legs,

and, Breathe in the Aromas of the Tree Filled, Northern World then

Why Don’t You, Cleanse Your Skin, in this Soft, Genteel, and Flexible Atmosphere!

I Shall be Gone by Morn of Morrow

Toward that City of Good-for-Nothing, Getting Back, into that Vortex of Love & Hate Again

Toward What I Feared, into, the Dead Center, of the Comedies of the World I’m Already, Too Deep into

This is the Place of Your Birth

It’s Another Totally Different Place Than I’ll Ever Know

The Breeze Still Travels Betwixt the Pines

Do Tell Me Once More, This Geography of the Winter Seasons

That was, Adatara,

That Glowing line was the Abukumakawa

There’s that scent of the drifter, away from her/his hometown, gazing into the distance, toward “home”, and there’s, that scent of nostalgia of missing home here.

Portraits, a Poem

The delusions of grandeur, translated from Chinese by me…

The Memories of My Younger Years Were All in a Courtyard in Sevilla

Inside a Vast Fruit Farm, with a Slowly Ripening Lemon Tree;

My Youth, Twenty Yeas were Spent in the Land of Castilla;

My Histories, Some Things, I’d, Much Rather, Forget

like this cat here on the right???  Not my art…

I’m NOT Like Mañara or Bradomín Distinguished or Admirable

–You All Saw, How I’d Dressed Myself, Unfashionably———

But I’d Still Taken that Arrow of Love that Cupid’s Shot Me with

And How Much I Loved, Relied Solely Off of How Kind the Girls Were to Me

In My Veins, the Jacobine Revolutionary Blood Flowed

But the Poetry Out of Me Were of the Peace and Serenity of Early Mornings

Rather than Saying, that I’m an Example of the Times

It’s Safe to Say, that I’m, Jolly Good Fellow

I’m Intrigued with Aesthetics, in the Aestheticism of Modernity

I’d, Plucked the Roses from Ronsard’s Gardens

But, I’d Not Loved the Craftsmanship of Modern Day

Nor am I One, who is Surprised by the Newer Things

I Look Down on the Tenors that Sung Those Romantic Tunes

like this???  Not my drawing…

Nor Would I Feel Impressed, by the Crickets that Sang to the Moon

I am Stagnant in the Layers of Echoes, Trying to Find the Original Sound Source

And, Focused on, Hearing that Single Note, Among All the Echoes

Am I Classical, or am I Romantic?  This I Know Not.  I Just Want to Leave Behind My Poetry, Like How the General Left His Sword

Because that Sword Came from the Forceful Hand that Held it

The Value of that Sword Wasn’t from the Craftsmanship of its Maker

The Conversations I Have Were with Those Who are Steady by My Side

—— The Soliloquist Expected to Talk to God One Day——

And My One-Way Conversations are, with Him

head got so big you can’t even carry it!  not my photo…

He’d Taught Me the Secrets, to Love the People of the World

And Finally, I’d Still Not Owed Anything to All of You, Writing These Words to You All, You All Owed Me

I’d Worked Hard, Using the Money I Made

to Buy the Clothes on My Back, the Place I Live in

The Breads for My Physical Hunger, along with the Bed I Sleep in at Night

The Final Day of This Journey Came

And Since, that Ship that Never Turned Around, is Gone for Good

You will See Me on It, Traveling Light

Almost, Completely Nude, Like a Child of the Oceans

So, this, is this man’s relations to the world, how he interacted with his surrounding environment, and, he’s, a bit pompous, if you know what I mean, thinking that he’s above everybody else BUT God, or, at least, that, was what I got out of this poem…

The Day & Night Cafe, No. 4

Life, as a fake, translated…

After Sipping Up that Final Sip of Café Vienna, I’d Gotten Up

Decided to Take the Trains Southbound to Vienna in the Night, He, Who’s Japanese-German

Fluent in German, Recalled How His People Were Defeated in World War II

Life was Like an Auction, with the Highest Bidders Winning

like this???  Not my photograph…

And, After the War, Those Who’d Made the Low Bids Dropped out One by One

The Two Still Standing, Fighting to Win;

The Auctions of Love is Full of Dangers

The Auctioneers can Only Laugh & Make Fun of Themselves

And, There May be, Falsified Love Here as Well

We Needed to Wait Until the Show’s Over to Know the Truth

Understanding, How Every Move is Hinting at Something Else

Like a Kiss, that was, a Kiss Goodbye

A Hug, for the Final Last Time

which one is the real me, I’m totally confused here!  Not my photograph…

That Keyring of Happiness, is a Memorabilia

Continuous, the Beginning is the End, the End, Beginning

But, I Couldn’t Get at, that Tear I’d, Wiped Off My Cheeks

From that Bath I’d Taken Before

Pushing the Doors Outward, Feeling the Fourth & Fifth Spinal Column Ache Lightly

Was Virgil, Was Aldermann, Elderly?

Must be, Confused with the Time then?  Everyone Was Once Young & Pretty

The Young Lovers, Flew Away Together, But it Never Lasts, He’d Insisted

the distorted versions of the self, not my artwork…

That Giving Up is Not Giving in, She Does, Love Him, Just Couldn’t, be with Him Forever

Turned Out, that Was, Their Last Time, Especially, Arousing, Especially, Sexual

He’d Walked Toward the Crowd in the Clock Tower, Fully Dressed

The Fakes Looked Good on the Outside, and Only He Knew, His Own, Worthlessness

Afterwards, there Shall be, No Clocks, No Way to Tell Time

Nobody Shall, Ever Know, Nothing Had, Happened Here

So, this, is someone’s realizations, that everything s/he desired, was absolutely, NOTHING of importance, and, instead of changing the ways, changing one’s own behaviors, this character just, keeps on living, in the untrue forms of himself…