#ouyang jianghe

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of december

torrin a. greathouse ekphrasis on nude selfie as portrait of saint sebastian

snehal vadher hello flowers and cigarettes

robert pinsky death and the powers: a robot pageant

wendy barker taking a language

cindy juyoung ok terms and conditions

carl phillips this far in

christian wiman hard night: “the ice storm”

cathy linh che split: “the german word for dream is traume”

linda hogan when the body

david trinidad the late show: “a regret”

omotara james my mother’s nerves are shot--

marie howe the good thief: “death, the last visit”

kaveh akbar portrait of the alcoholic floating in space with severed umbilicus

donald britton in the empire of the air: “italy”

snehal vadher figures in a windswept language

jane wong after preparing the alter, the ghosts feast feverishly

ofelia zepeda ocean power: “deer dance exhibition”

lucille clifton good woman: poems and a memoir, 1969-1980: “the lost baby poem”

emily pérez dworzec

ouyang jianghe mother, kitchen (tr. austin woerner)

cathy linh che i walked through the trees, mourning

sam willets tourist

ed bok lee whorled: “if in america”

dan gerber marriage

matthew rohrer poem written with issa [“a friend emails”]

richard siken crush: “litany in which certain things are crossed out”

april bernard anger

claudia rankine citizen: “you are in the dark, in the car...”

barbara hamby letter to a lost friend

joy harjo everybody has a heartache: a blues

cathy linh che go forget your father

kofi

[matthewarcher]

够吃就行了，没有必要丰收。

Give thanks for your meal. Desire no bounty.

From Ouyang Jianghe’s “Notes toward a fiction of the market economy” translated by Austin Woerner

[forsoothsayer]

The Burning Kite by Ouyang Jianghe

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly. But to rise on air does not make you a bird. I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles. It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke. The things we puke: flights of stairs, a skyscraper soaring from the gut, the bills blow by on the April breeze followed by flurries of razor blades in May. It’s true, a free life is made of words. You can crumple it, toss it in the trash, or fold it between the bodies of angels, attaining a permanent address in the sky. The postman hands you your flight of birds persisting in the original shape of wind. Whether they’re winging toward the scissors’ V or printed and plastered on every wall or bound and trussed, bamboo frames wound with wire or sentenced to death by fire you are, first and always, ash. Broken wire, a hurricane at each end. Fire trucks scream across the earth. But this blaze is a thing of the air. Raise your glass higher, toss it up and away. Few know this kind of dizzy glee: an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.

[theamericanbazaar]

Poets Raul Zurita, Ouyang Jianghe star attraction at Kochi Biennale

Poets Raul Zurita, Ouyang Jianghe star attraction at Kochi Biennale

Scheduled to be held in December. (more…)

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[absolute-piano]

Build a bank for words, then authorize overdrafts for the illusory nature of things, till for the sky's sake we have to mortgage flight.

Ouyang Jianghe (trans. Austin Woerner), Phoenix (2015)

[shugui]

(available free via itunes) 

[endless-unfolding]

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly. But to rise on air does not make you a bird.

Ouyang Jianghe, from "The Burning Kite," translated by Austin Woerner, Poetry (June 2011)

[safernarwhals]

teeth

It’s spring, bound and trussed: Crumple it. The things we first scream across the earth got printed and plastered on the April breeze Raise your glass higher or fold it between the hiss of champagne bubbles

The bills blow by:  Toss it in the trash. But this blaze followed by flurries of ash hands you your  bodies of angels: puke dizzy razor blades a skyscraper soaring is a thing of the air up and away. if we all could fly

what a thing it would be, flights of stairs, an empty sky, Few know this kind of permanent glee: You can toss it something to puke. I’m sick of the burning kite winging toward the  flight of birds and the postman attaining everyone’s address in the sky. You are in the original shape

but to rise on air does not make you a bird. It’s true, a hurricane from the gut. Broken wire Death by fire of wind

Fire trucks persisting in May whether they’re sentenced to a pair of burning wings and always, bamboo frames wound with wire on every wall.

A free life is made of words Scissors’ v at each end.

Earthquake poem written a while back. Original poem was translated from Ouyang Jianghe's The Burning Kite