For My Daughter
“For you, Miao Miao, my daughter,/a sign of the cross.” | by Liao Yiwu
Chinese
Zang Di
After completing his studies and PhD at Beijing University in 1997, ZANG DI started teaching Chinese literature at the same university. He took his first steps as a poet in the 1980s, during his university studies, and has made steady progress since then. He is considered a “leading poet-critic of his generation.” He also works
James Baldwin is Dead
“What death desires most/is the body that it had to endure/James Baldwin’s body/is qualified” | by Zang Di
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Discussing Death with Death Row Inmates
“And we, born from the vagina/understand what pain is./What is pain?/Even the bad guys have mothers.” | by Liao Yiwu
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Hu Xudong
XU HUDONG (胡续冬, Continuing Winter), pen name of HU Xudong (胡旭东, Sunrising East) (30 October 1974 – 22 August 2021), was a Chinese poet, critic, essayist and translator. He received an M.A. in Comparative Literature and Ph.D. in Chinese Contemporary Literature from Peking University, where he worked at the same university both as an associate
Mama Ana Paula Also Writes Poetry
“I looked at her / back, strong like hairy bear that kills / a bull even when she’s drunk, and I understood:” | by Hu Xudong
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The Hypocrisy of Snow
by Pan Xichen: Snow is hypocritical. It’s not even / an independent material.
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The Fallacy of Snow
by Pan Xichen: For a long time people have ignored / the many fallacies of snow.
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Night and Morning of Spring
“Green frog legs, green sockets of the moon / and a green bullet shell / all bloom / on my back” | by Hai Zi
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Openly Worrying Song
by Li Ho: When the autumn wind blows, all the grasses die. / An evening chill arises from the sapphire shadow of Mt. Hua.
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Written For Others
by Hsia Yü: I write a Chinese character in the palm of his hand
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Discussing Death with Death Row Inmates
Each night of stars is a night of stars. No. No? Each night of stars is a skull full of bullet holes. We argue death inside brains. We argue death under a fluorescent light of hours. What are hours? Shall we kneel down or stand in the hours? Will the bullet shoot through our chest
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Snow
Snow, I was surprised. The first snow choked in my throat, I wanted to cough, to run from snow. I didn’t see the street, the poplars, the park-benches the conductor’s whistle. Snow. Faces of idiots abused the air and turned to snow. I didn’t have a chance to read the “Massacre” or “The Dead” by
Pan Xichen
Poetry International 20/21
“The Fallacy of Snow”
Poetry International 20/21
“The Hypocrisy of Snow”
Hsia Yü
Poetry International 4
“Written for Others”
Poetry International Weblog
“Written for Others”