Ho Xin-ting (1971- )
.In the train, a city invisible

Chin Xiang Hai (1976- )
.General's Secret Command
.I forget to change water for a dream one week

Wang Fei-Xian (1977- )
.You Shall
.A Young Man's Noonday
.Showering Shadow

Ruo Huan (1977- )
.A Trolley to □□

Lo Hao-yuan (1977- )

Yang Jia-xian (1978- )
.The Human World
.Violent Waltz
.To Seek

Lin Wan-yu (1978- )
.All Dejections Are the Dejections of Sex—A Short Film Style Life No.1
.I Remembered that Evening—A Short Film Style Life No.2
.Those Who Screened by Shadow

In the train, a city invisible
—by Ho Xin-ting (1971- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Sunshine is a copper ring
Knocking, can not open

To knead my black box
A grape of lands wide and lonely
Horses’ running through my heart
Thousands and thousands of suddenness

Do not know where dose the electric wire lead to
Maybe link to the white cloud’s ancientness

The sky's stirred so soft
Patting the train
The cradle's rocking
Besides me a boy’s speaking Thai
Singing to the phone
Long, long legs' hanged on the indifference
As if there's a low wall for him to squat
I remember the invisible foreign city
What kind of place is Irene

I always take a lamp
And half bow my head as a hermit

Love is ashamed

It will obstruct me to polish the consciousness

Dream is miserable

An aged man is boring to death beneath a veranda
So many people
Known and unknown
So many, so many people

Pushed from their seats to my face
I become an unimaginable monster

Become a spot of reverie spotlights what then transforms itself into what
But so many what and what melt the human feeling

I am just a small ant
A mop beside a corridor
A squeeze of toothpaste
One casual spray
A spot of red allergic measles

Don't ask why 
Just a train

To meet old friends

When I speak
And tell a joke

At the next station
I remember this world where I live

—by Ho Xin-ting (1971- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

You and I are
Talking with each other.

Actually, you and I are
Not doing so.

You and I
Listen to autumn cicadae.

Actually, you and I do
Not listen to them.

You and I
Look at far mountains.

Actually, you and I do
Not look at them.

You and I
Breathe mist.

Actually, you and I do
Not breathe it.

You and I
Move the tea plate.

Actually, you and I do
Not touch it.

You and I are
Only in a discourse.

Actually, you and I wish to be
Beyond the discourse.

You and I
Suddenly feel being in love.

Actually, you and I are
Not lovers.

You and I


Never you-and-I.

—by Ho Xin-ting (1971- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

You said I like best to stick stamp,
To finger saliva with a look of thinking up something.
The window is opened, and a cloud of
Sunny-and-rainy flows in my weather.
Beside the bed, a glass of water accompanies
With writings so lightly.
Letter-writing is a capricious pen,
Sometimes too dark, sometimes too light.
Comma is a questionable fruit,
Sweet maybe, sour maybe.
Period is a ring of fire, keeps out strangers.
Too many ellipsis because...
Because of interruptions, I cannot but kiss.
At last, signature--is a notice.

I love you,
For I often think about you.
This is a kind of love,
Stick stamp in the leisure,
Mail to Ridicule
And Secret Garden.
What address dose not matter.


I love you.
Stick, stick stamp,
Then the tip of tongue is too happy

To remember why.

—by Chin Xiang Hai (1976- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

In the dream, a man bites off a blue apple
From the withered bough.
Morning is spreading out of the wound.
You sit on the edge of the bed, like a mist,
Then leaning foward to the window.
That young man is naked to the waist,
As if a volcano mouth streams lava
To ruin this city.

General's Secret Command
—by Chin Xiang Hai (1976- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Your snow-covered letter was received.
Beside the frostbitten official seal,
A branch of ragged plum bloom was left.
Booming, the whole winter withdrew back
This wooden hut again.
Blazing words and sentences evolved
Coiling smoke,
Giving your Secret Command from the North:
The warmly blossomy spring outside is totally
An enemy's invulnerable

—by Chin Xiang Hai (1976- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Lightening the seal oil lamp,
I'm back to the small igloo again,
Humming to the cold thin wall.
Outside the shivering tourists is looking around.
How could they know,
The loneliness here is actually so warm.

I forget to change water for a dream one week
—by Chin Xiang Hai (1976- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

So many volitions are surged out again.
A Huge-Wing Whale* has been eroded in the ocean.
The corroded titanic skeleton
Still swims forward. Whiz, whiz…

* A kind of whale, Megaptera novaeangliae, is translated into Chinese as "Da-Chih Jin,”which literary meaning is“Huge-Wing Whale.

You Shall
—by Wang Fei-Xian (1977- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

You shall extend your toes.
Let them walk and get lost
Walk and get lost, lost in a new grown
Wet grassland in the courtyard.
You shall thank ferns,
Gnashing gaps of toes, the timid webbed toes.
You shall not walk among the waves,
You might as well go into those overlapping Shadows, breaches of the slant sunshine,
Or settle down in the wet grassland in a trail’s end.

You shall bind your soles of feet
With yellow hollyhock's down and dew,
Pietistically and carefully.
You shall not go to bleak river or crude wilderness.
Even the chapped crevices can vaporize tears soon,
They can not but cuts the silence and sharpens it.
You shall exile your body.
Let them willfully walk and get lost,
Walk and get lost, lost in the wet grassland,
Where a universe is silently concealed.

A Young Man's Noonday
—by Wang Fei-Xian (1977- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

A young man's

Gilded fountain is in the plaza without a man.
Everyplace, shadows loudly

Showering Shadow
—by Wang Fei-Xian (1977- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Shadow is
Not showerproof, running,
And falling in a shallow,
Melting on the asphalt ground,
The dense clouds' crevasses.

At that night, it's showering,

A Trolley to □□
—by Ruo Huan (1977- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

(Isn't it?
It's going to move forward?)
The dark cloud of love affair gently whistles.
A young trolley stop, Star Tree, wakes up.
A line of
Trolley goes to □□.
Durian gets on.
Youth gets on.
Moonshine gets on.
On a trolley to □□.
□□ is our youth era,
The cheering retrospection before sleep.
From the left window continuously comes in
The yawns of a small town,
And from the right one the homeland’s odor.
(It's going to move forward,
Isn't it?)
Passing by the youthful bell-ring of 1997,
Passing by the olden high-school uniform of 1994,
It Goes to □□.
Hurrah, that's a
Tantalizing □□, full of prospects, full of dreams.
(Still moving forward)
Someone upgrades ticket,
Some one performs opera, and
Farts by accident;
Some carriage too philosophical,
And nocturne, which leaves home at night;
All of them wave hands to the mango cataract
And litchi shower in my childhood.
Moving forward
To that □□.
Moving forward,
Going to □□,
Moving forward.
In the carriage,
The elixir-ism,
The movie ticket in the childhood,
And the odor of love affair,
Cherished in the green schoolbag,
Are always vendered.

(Is it going to reach the destination?)
My young trolley, and over-weight passengers.
(Is it going to reach the destination?)
A trolley to □□.
The dark cloud of love affair
Gently whistles, and the young
Star Tree stop wakes up.
Night gets off.
Sigh gets off.
Secret gets off.
It's a line of
Trolley to □□.

—by Lo Hao-yuan (1977- )

Patrolled around by waspish inspirations,
Filled with wax and honey, a poem is
Not easy to touch.

If you finally get it,
You will find it’s nothing but
A pantheon plundered by nomadic thoughts.

—by Lo Hao-yuan (1977- )

A centipede is crawling in the mouth
Of a toothy grotto, eating corrupt
Remnants of words, which were left
When I murmured last night
Beside your left ear.

Hundreds years later,
Bubbling worms will search among
The same rocks for something bitter
Or something sweet.

Maybe an archaeologist
Will collect my skull and brush my teeth
Gently to discover human’s secrets,
Just like you kiss me.

But right now, I stand in front of a mirror,
Looking myself brushing my teeth tediously
With a snaky toothbrush in and out
The beautiful white foams.

—by Lo Hao-yuan (1977- )

There is a scar on her belly,
Like a zipper.
A scar is not only
A scar, but also a scar.
As if I can undress her skin
To see her true body.

Scar is ambiguous,
Like the boundary
Scar is a wire netting,
Roping on the Korea peninsula.
Scar is even not on the body,
But a tube of withered umbilical cord,
A blockaded channel.

Scar is the schism between
Fingers and thumb,
So human can grasp a stone
And hold a bone.

Scar is in the eyes,
The edge between black and white.
Scar is the fingerprint,
Everyone is different.
Scar is the wrinkle,
The informal register of
The facial language.

Scar is the calligraphy
Written by the memory.

Scar is the beginning.

There is a scar on her belly,
Like a crevasse.
A scar is neither
A scar, nor a scar.
As if I can open her shells
To see Venus.

The Human World
—by Yang Jia-xian (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Skipped from the class of phonology,
At that time, I crossed the mini crossroad in a few steps
Toward that scratchy bulletin board, and heard
Those Catappa leaves dully felling down,
Like an irregular metronome of the passing time,
While flickering shadows were so thin,
And the Sunshine on the screen window was swelling,
Then I looked around, so many pedestrians,
Alas, it made me so hesitant!

Much of the time you read in the bed,
Books I couldn't understand; and your pose was so arbitrary,
I were confined to corner to read what you disgusted:
No interference, just sorry for each other.
The Wall was mottled, and ants’ army were in the corner.
We usually leaked each other as cubs, though the battlefield was limited,
And cheap shelves would be crushed anytime.
We were feasted by poetry but still mortal, still wanted recipes and woks.
Furthermore, the scattering scripts, in such a small room,
Seemed bring in so many inhabitants, so many hills.

In the dictionary of rhymes, we are different phonemes,
And we never have been put together closely.
Two abstruse terms? In so many years,
Terminalia Catappa leaves fell and fell ceaselessly.
I always thought I were still that girl,
Who just skipped the phonology class,
And stood beneath the window, plucked up her courage of youth,
In order to shout your name.

Violent Waltz
—by Yang Jia-xian (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

Crack the sun with a rifle butt
Strangle the chattering night with long long hair
I hug the sky and shake it, till all stars give up their masks

In the thick mist, I add lovers' eyes into the campfire
Drink the raw blood of menses on the bedspread
I cross the lousy plain after the storm
Chasing countless fleeing slogans

Dance! obese glacier
Take off the darkness, take off the false wisdom
Salute to sufferings directly with honest bones

To Seek
—by Yang Jia-xian (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

The skyline of the misty city was vague,
As if a dying beast's quivering spinal column.
Silently, we walked out of a city gate.
The Tao of Chou was straight forward, and the latest wheel tracks
Were deeply imprinted by sounds of rain during last night.

It was not that dreadful drought thousand years ago,
But your face was still shivering and you sunk into
The memory: 'Once, there were a fish rolling over
In a wheel track and talked to me in ventriloquy...'
And a gourd ladle of water you owed,
Became the solemn tears in classic canons.

Traveling through each epoch's incandescence and darkness,
The Confusion could not be thoroughly answered,
Just like some tinea on the morality,
Always made us feel sorrow
And itchy.

All Dejections Are the Dejections of Sex—A Short Film Style Life No.1
—by Lin Wan-yu (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

I meet a boy,
Whose discourses
Are full of metaphysical logics.
I am so enchanted by him as I believe in Kant.
When his birthday comes,
I present him a sponge cake;
And in the winter,
I knit shawls.

Someday, his talks in a special way,
Unusually serious (as if he's going to conclude
All the discourses he made):
Dear junior classmate, don't you understand?
All dejections are the dejections of sex.

His eyes are horny,
And flickering like a hurricane lamp.
The whole love song marching band in my heart
Suddenly stops.

I Remembered that Evening—A Short Film Style Life No.2
—by Lin Wan-yu (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

I remembered that Evening. That
Golden villa,
In which a line of Servants
Were ready to serve.
In the cloak room, there were soft fur coats
And high-heeled shoes, No.1 to No.200.
The bath water was in the right temperature.
In silver plates,
All fruits came from tropical zone.

The spiral ladders extended upward and led to
A painted colored glazed skylight.
The penthouse was filled with jewels.
—That' that the so called high class?
I sank on to a sofa depressingly, visioning
The golden age,
My empire,
The nannies and chauffeurs fed by me,
And my cook and unicorn,
I was walking on the peak of happiness.

I remembered that night as far as
The dream went to there,
While the video image got stuck
Then I woke up.
I got up from the sofa,
Crushed and threw the empty box of potato chips,
And shut off the TV without any picture but mess signals.

Those Who Screened by Shadow
—by Lin Wan-yu (1978- ), translated by Lo Hao-yuan

If our virtue would be reported,
Our vice, too.

If our good would be recorded,
Our evil, too.

Back of the immense silence,
Unspeakable secrets
Are injured birds screened by the sky intentionally.

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