朱虞夫
是时候了，中国人！是时候了
广场是大家的
脚是自己的
是时候用脚去广场作出选择
是时候了，中国人！是时候了
歌曲是大家的
喉是自己的
是时候用喉唱出心底的歌曲
是时候了，中国人！是时候了
中国是大家的
选择是自己的
是时候用自己选择未来的中国
The Time Has Come
Translated by Ehr-kuang
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
The public square is for all
Our feet are our own
The time has come to set our feet toward the square to decide.
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
The song is for all
Our throats are our own
The time has come for our throats to cry out from the bottom of our hearts.
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
China is for all
The choice is our own
The time has come to spend ourselves in choosing the China of our future.
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
The public square is for all
Our feet are our own
The time has come to set our feet toward the square to decide.
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
The song is for all
Our throats are our own
The time has come for our throats to cry out from the bottom of our hearts.
The time has come, people of China! The time has come
China is for all
The choice is our own
The time has come to spend ourselves in choosing the China of our future.
It's Time
Translated by A. E. Clark
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
The Square belongs to everyone.
With your own two feet
It’s time to head to the Square and make your choice.
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
A song belongs to everyone.
From your own throat
It’s time to voice the song in your heart.
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
China belongs to everyone.
Of your own will
It’s time to choose what China shall be.
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
The Square belongs to everyone.
With your own two feet
It’s time to head to the Square and make your choice.
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
A song belongs to everyone.
From your own throat
It’s time to voice the song in your heart.
It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
China belongs to everyone.
Of your own will
It’s time to choose what China shall be.
Zhu Yufu: To Officer Xu (1998)
Translated by A. E. Clark
The local police came to my door twice on the second and third of March, warning me not to go out during the Two Meetings. If I needed to go out, they said I should clear it with them first
.
Naturally, I couldn't accept this.
This didn’t use to be the conclave of a sect
Anxious and scandalized by heretics.
But I really wasn’t even thinking about it
When you hurried to my door.
I’ve committed no crime, incurred no penalty;
I’m not on parole, I have no “tendencies”;
Yet you made it clear my freedom
Needs your management.
You stirred my conscience.
Too long I’ve plodded thoughtlessly the ways of this world.
You’ve roused me to my duty
After years of grubbing through life.
Resigned to a crimping fate,
I’d settled into a hack’s existence, solaced by love;
The drumbeat of two decades past had faded,
Rarely recalled, and then in idle chat.
When you showed up, it was like the archangel’s trumpet
That laid bare my staggering debt.
Stand and deliver:
No shirking now.
For you announced a battle rages at the front,
Good contends with Evil still;
You made my dull ears hear
The distant bugles blowing.
I once spoke out about the Great Catastrophe
That mauled so many lives (including mine);
You people never owned up to that crime:
Didn’t happen on our watch, you said when you took power.
Locked into your own lies,
You never started over.
Moderation? A ploy to keep the sputtering candle burning.
Though it mimic a sheep, the lion stays a lion in its heart.
The world tastes Spring, and you fellows know it;
The ice of ages can't hold back the rising sun.
You’ve too much to answer for, and you know it,
Though you play for time to steady your throne.
I’ll never cringe before the viper’s jaws;
Don’t bother flashing your fangs;
Mine, now, a path of suffering—
How could you shake my faith?
Forgetting my high calling
I frittered my days on trifles
While my worthy brothers
Toiled forward through the thorns.
Thanks for your visit. Thank you for waking me:
A life without purpose is dreary and chill.
I long for the storm to break, and expect
Your summons at any time. My bag is packed.
The local police came to my door twice on the second and third of March, warning me not to go out during the Two Meetings. If I needed to go out, they said I should clear it with them first
.
Naturally, I couldn't accept this.
This didn’t use to be the conclave of a sect
Anxious and scandalized by heretics.
But I really wasn’t even thinking about it
When you hurried to my door.
I’ve committed no crime, incurred no penalty;
I’m not on parole, I have no “tendencies”;
Yet you made it clear my freedom
Needs your management.
You stirred my conscience.
Too long I’ve plodded thoughtlessly the ways of this world.
You’ve roused me to my duty
After years of grubbing through life.
Resigned to a crimping fate,
I’d settled into a hack’s existence, solaced by love;
The drumbeat of two decades past had faded,
Rarely recalled, and then in idle chat.
When you showed up, it was like the archangel’s trumpet
That laid bare my staggering debt.
Stand and deliver:
No shirking now.
For you announced a battle rages at the front,
Good contends with Evil still;
You made my dull ears hear
The distant bugles blowing.
I once spoke out about the Great Catastrophe
That mauled so many lives (including mine);
You people never owned up to that crime:
Didn’t happen on our watch, you said when you took power.
Locked into your own lies,
You never started over.
Moderation? A ploy to keep the sputtering candle burning.
Though it mimic a sheep, the lion stays a lion in its heart.
The world tastes Spring, and you fellows know it;
The ice of ages can't hold back the rising sun.
You’ve too much to answer for, and you know it,
Though you play for time to steady your throne.
I’ll never cringe before the viper’s jaws;
Don’t bother flashing your fangs;
Mine, now, a path of suffering—
How could you shake my faith?
Forgetting my high calling
I frittered my days on trifles
While my worthy brothers
Toiled forward through the thorns.
Thanks for your visit. Thank you for waking me:
A life without purpose is dreary and chill.
I long for the storm to break, and expect
Your summons at any time. My bag is packed.
Zhu Yufu:
The Central Government is Correct
(in response to the magnificent oration of someone named Zhu)
(1998)
Translated by A. E. Clark
“Rebellion,” you say—and that’s correct.
“A disturbance,” you call it—and that, too, is correct.
In times of repression, repression is correct.
When rehabilitation comes, then that is correct.
All the political campaigns were carried out correctly.
A number of historical questions were appraised correctly.
It was correct to amputate the remnants of Capitalism.
It was correct to invoke the theory of Socialism's early phase.
“There is no Savior” — The Internationale was correct;
“He is the star of our salvation” — The East is Red was correct;
The ‘campaign without historical precedent’ was correct;
To speak of a Great Catastrophe was correct.
All the newspaper editorials are correct;
Every position paper from the Central Government is correct;
In the Anti-Rightist campaign, it was correct to be Anti-;
When they were rehabilitated, the rehabilitation was correct.
The Eighth Congress, opposing Rightists within the Party, was correct;
The Ninth, eliminating hidden traitors, was correct;
The Tenth, for all its confusion, was correct;
The Eleventh, bringing order out of chaos, was correct.
The “Thought” of one brain was supremely correct;
The “Theory” integrating the profit motive was very correct;
The Communist ideal is the acme of correctness;
The capitalist model is also correct.
Public opinion, duly guided, is correct;
Power unaccountable to public opinion is correct;
The will of the people (coercively kept in line) is correct;
The “election” of appointed candidates is correct.
Under the Dragon Banner, they said the queue was correct;
Under the Five-Color Flag, they said its Republic was correct.
Today neither one is looking very correct;
Our Central Government alone shall be forever correct.
“Rebellion,” you say—and that’s correct.
“A disturbance,” you call it—and that, too, is correct.
In times of repression, repression is correct.
When rehabilitation comes, then that is correct.
All the political campaigns were carried out correctly.
A number of historical questions were appraised correctly.
It was correct to amputate the remnants of Capitalism.
It was correct to invoke the theory of Socialism's early phase.
“There is no Savior” — The Internationale was correct;
“He is the star of our salvation” — The East is Red was correct;
The ‘campaign without historical precedent’ was correct;
To speak of a Great Catastrophe was correct.
All the newspaper editorials are correct;
Every position paper from the Central Government is correct;
In the Anti-Rightist campaign, it was correct to be Anti-;
When they were rehabilitated, the rehabilitation was correct.
The Eighth Congress, opposing Rightists within the Party, was correct;
The Ninth, eliminating hidden traitors, was correct;
The Tenth, for all its confusion, was correct;
The Eleventh, bringing order out of chaos, was correct.
The “Thought” of one brain was supremely correct;
The “Theory” integrating the profit motive was very correct;
The Communist ideal is the acme of correctness;
The capitalist model is also correct.
Public opinion, duly guided, is correct;
Power unaccountable to public opinion is correct;
The will of the people (coercively kept in line) is correct;
The “election” of appointed candidates is correct.
Under the Dragon Banner, they said the queue was correct;
Under the Five-Color Flag, they said its Republic was correct.
Today neither one is looking very correct;
Our Central Government alone shall be forever correct.
When Can We Celebrate Zhu Yufu?
by Richard Hartwell
Come the end of the Year of the Snake,
Enlightenment of the Buddha will be
celebrated with meals of fruits and mixed grains;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his poems proposed the enlightenment of China.
Beginning with the Chinese Year of the Horse,
the Spring Festival will celebrate the new
year with fireworks and happy family visits;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
he is not allowed family visits or sparks of pleasure.
Then Blue Dragon Festival will be observed with
sweet pancakes and the ritual of cleaning house;
after eating his meager meal, straightening his cell,
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
bureaucratic dragons deemed him guilty of incitement.
Chinese Women’s Day is calendared next,
honoring the servile nature of an older gender
being replaced by the new, encouraging equality;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because,
no longer equal to any, he is politically emasculated.
The Festival of Tomb Sweeping zealously praises
ancestors with picnic visits to graves, an atmosphere
of family, and extravagant offerings of food and drink;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his only rest may come with a grave in the future.
Dragon Boat Festival, in honor of the revered poet
Qu Yuan, is celebrated with a meal of boiled dumplings,
and praises are raised to a poet of political acceptance;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his poetry voyaged in a sea and climate of repression.
The Night of Sevens, Magpie Festival recalls the
separation of mixed-star lovers, forbidden to meet
but once a year, kinder than Shakespeare’s lovers;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
there is no place left for love as a prisoner of hate.
Finally, the Festival of Winter Solstice, with family
gatherings and veneration of ancestors, will end the
Year of the Horse for another twelve-year cycle;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his seven-year sentence to hard labor is not yet served.
Seven years is insufficient to still the song of
this angry poet, for the government is only scared,
not hard of hearing, and when we learn of his death,
Zhu Yufu will be free from toil in Zhejiang Prison No. 4
and the people will create a Festival of the Dragon Poet.
So, poet-prisoner Zhu Yufu, you are not forgotten!
Come the end of the Year of the Snake,
Enlightenment of the Buddha will be
celebrated with meals of fruits and mixed grains;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his poems proposed the enlightenment of China.
Beginning with the Chinese Year of the Horse,
the Spring Festival will celebrate the new
year with fireworks and happy family visits;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
he is not allowed family visits or sparks of pleasure.
Then Blue Dragon Festival will be observed with
sweet pancakes and the ritual of cleaning house;
after eating his meager meal, straightening his cell,
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
bureaucratic dragons deemed him guilty of incitement.
Chinese Women’s Day is calendared next,
honoring the servile nature of an older gender
being replaced by the new, encouraging equality;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because,
no longer equal to any, he is politically emasculated.
The Festival of Tomb Sweeping zealously praises
ancestors with picnic visits to graves, an atmosphere
of family, and extravagant offerings of food and drink;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his only rest may come with a grave in the future.
Dragon Boat Festival, in honor of the revered poet
Qu Yuan, is celebrated with a meal of boiled dumplings,
and praises are raised to a poet of political acceptance;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his poetry voyaged in a sea and climate of repression.
The Night of Sevens, Magpie Festival recalls the
separation of mixed-star lovers, forbidden to meet
but once a year, kinder than Shakespeare’s lovers;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
there is no place left for love as a prisoner of hate.
Finally, the Festival of Winter Solstice, with family
gatherings and veneration of ancestors, will end the
Year of the Horse for another twelve-year cycle;
Zhu Yufu will work in the labor camp because
his seven-year sentence to hard labor is not yet served.
Seven years is insufficient to still the song of
this angry poet, for the government is only scared,
not hard of hearing, and when we learn of his death,
Zhu Yufu will be free from toil in Zhejiang Prison No. 4
and the people will create a Festival of the Dragon Poet.
So, poet-prisoner Zhu Yufu, you are not forgotten!
Words are Too Much, Words are Not Enough
dedicated to the freedom of Zhu Wufu
by Tammy T. Stone
Express yourself to me, I’m tired of your words
Give me your pen and don’t take your eyes off me.
Speak your madness in ways I’ll try to understand,
I’ve tried to do the same for you,
And I won’t take it but I’ll hold onto its
Structure like it is a beating heart itself.
I understand that there are words and pictures.
I know that they can bring tears and fill the chest
With the movements of love.
What is there in saying all this? Images remain,
The bearer of the words transmigrates, once
Here and now he is in a place from which no voices
Carry with them the promise of words, and so what is
Not here is what has always been, and forever
Doesn’t mean anything to the dead. And words don’t
Mean anything to those who have once lived.
When the world wakes up it will find a mess in
Incomprehensible words, and will find in them an
Abstract beauty beyond reproach, and will play with
Them and even try to decipher their meaning.
The origin of the words was hope for new
Articulation and a changed world, as though one.
Hear the words now before all words turn to
Fossil turn to litter turn to a new kind of empty gold.
Express yourself to me, I’m tired of your words
Give me your pen and don’t take your eyes off me.
Speak your madness in ways I’ll try to understand,
I’ve tried to do the same for you,
And I won’t take it but I’ll hold onto its
Structure like it is a beating heart itself.
I understand that there are words and pictures.
I know that they can bring tears and fill the chest
With the movements of love.
What is there in saying all this? Images remain,
The bearer of the words transmigrates, once
Here and now he is in a place from which no voices
Carry with them the promise of words, and so what is
Not here is what has always been, and forever
Doesn’t mean anything to the dead. And words don’t
Mean anything to those who have once lived.
When the world wakes up it will find a mess in
Incomprehensible words, and will find in them an
Abstract beauty beyond reproach, and will play with
Them and even try to decipher their meaning.
The origin of the words was hope for new
Articulation and a changed world, as though one.
Hear the words now before all words turn to
Fossil turn to litter turn to a new kind of empty gold.
THE POET AS POLITICAL PRISONER
by Michael H. Brownstein
When the political prisoner of Burma was sent away
the government sentenced him to four years without
pencils, pens, computers, paper or books.
He tattooed his poetry onto his skin—
each blemish a key word, each scar an image,
each evening into darkness a memory carved into
the next day and the day after that. Words are easy
and overtime he learned all of them by heart.
When the political prisoner of Burma was sent away
the government sentenced him to four years without
pencils, pens, computers, paper or books.
He tattooed his poetry onto his skin—
each blemish a key word, each scar an image,
each evening into darkness a memory carved into
the next day and the day after that. Words are easy
and overtime he learned all of them by heart.
A YOUNG MAN FROM HANKOW
by Jerry Fishman
A young man from Hankow
Walked out one night.
The moon as big as heaven
Flowered overhead
And the deep murmur of the river below
Hummed in the young man’s mind.
“Does the moon see me
As I see it?”
The young man mused.
And as he asked the question,
A sweetness filled him.
He locked his eyes on the moon.
And the moon and the young man
Became one.
A young man from Hankow
Walked out one night.
The moon as big as heaven
Flowered overhead
And the deep murmur of the river below
Hummed in the young man’s mind.
“Does the moon see me
As I see it?”
The young man mused.
And as he asked the question,
A sweetness filled him.
He locked his eyes on the moon.
And the moon and the young man
Became one.
THE QUESTION
by Jerry Fishman
The bird in the cage
Fluffed its golden feathers.
The bird wondered,
“Am I really a bird
In a cage
Or is the cage inside me?”
The bird in the cage
Fluffed its golden feathers.
The bird wondered,
“Am I really a bird
In a cage
Or is the cage inside me?”
Tears of the Masses Evaporate to the Sky
by Richard Hartwell
Mists of empathy coalesce to clouds
swirling to an infinite horizon where
coagulating sympathies fall to earth
Like drops of rain seconds accumulate
minutes become rivulets and hours
flow like streams to a river of days
cascading to weeks months and years
emptying into an ocean of others’ tears
As justice denied becomes the feared
hollow knock at the door drumbeating
millions into conformity and passivity
a sheer silence interrupted by a few
voices raised in protest as Zhu Yufu
Languishing in captivity awaiting the
cleansing showers of independence
blood wrung from expectant clouds
Mists of empathy coalesce to clouds
swirling to an infinite horizon where
coagulating sympathies fall to earth
Like drops of rain seconds accumulate
minutes become rivulets and hours
flow like streams to a river of days
cascading to weeks months and years
emptying into an ocean of others’ tears
As justice denied becomes the feared
hollow knock at the door drumbeating
millions into conformity and passivity
a sheer silence interrupted by a few
voices raised in protest as Zhu Yufu
Languishing in captivity awaiting the
cleansing showers of independence
blood wrung from expectant clouds
Zhu Yufu
by Craig Shay
Detergent bottles are empty –
Somewhere gods
are dispelled
A stocky woman at the other end of the Laundromat
has on a T-shirt of a large face
I can’t make out
whose face
either Jim Morrison
or Jennifer Lopez –
I love Hispanic dialects –
So musical – so vibrant
that heavy ‘p’
as in pueblo or puerta –
I am reading something
printed
off the internet
a poem
by Zhu Yufu
“It’s time” he says –
Everyone at this Laundromat
sits more-or-less comfortably,
some in Comtek Vending
relaxation massage chairs
even toddlers,
rest peacefully in their strollers
waiting–
Laundromat waiting,
separates the classes
people with money
do not wait –
I want to start
a manuscript of poems titled:
Songs from the Laundromat
or The Music of the Laundromat
maybe…
La lavandería en el cielo –
But my mind keeps coming back
to this poem –
and the poet Zhu Yufu,
probably being tortured this very second
while we wait for laundry –
Those poetic thoughts
keeping his mind steady
on long nights
when the howls of men
walk casually through cell walls –
Why incarcerate a man over a poem?
His body squeezed through
like a cricket caught in a tiny cage
Bloodied and
bruised–
“Are you and I perchance caught up in a dream
from which we have not yet awoke?”
Chuang Tzu said that.
What would Zhu Yufu say
of plum blossoms
this spring…
opening their delicate hearts
covered in white fur –
His wife said his hair
had turned completely white since she last saw him –
What can we say about The Square?
What does Creon say
to a shackled Antigone?
“And you dare disobey my law?”
“It was not Zeus that made these laws.”
At the Laundromat
happily
folding our warm clothes
in “Pursuit of Happiness,”
happy not to be
trapped in the washing machines
Around me
I hear hushed whisperings –
Husbands lean in close
their lips beside their wives’ ears
the scent of perfumes
and fragrant dollar-store shampoos
trails through their nostrils
Excitement and fear
lodged in throats
as they stutter out
information
a live chupacabra was caught just down the road.
Detergent bottles are empty –
Somewhere gods
are dispelled
A stocky woman at the other end of the Laundromat
has on a T-shirt of a large face
I can’t make out
whose face
either Jim Morrison
or Jennifer Lopez –
I love Hispanic dialects –
So musical – so vibrant
that heavy ‘p’
as in pueblo or puerta –
I am reading something
printed
off the internet
a poem
by Zhu Yufu
“It’s time” he says –
Everyone at this Laundromat
sits more-or-less comfortably,
some in Comtek Vending
relaxation massage chairs
even toddlers,
rest peacefully in their strollers
waiting–
Laundromat waiting,
separates the classes
people with money
do not wait –
I want to start
a manuscript of poems titled:
Songs from the Laundromat
or The Music of the Laundromat
maybe…
La lavandería en el cielo –
But my mind keeps coming back
to this poem –
and the poet Zhu Yufu,
probably being tortured this very second
while we wait for laundry –
Those poetic thoughts
keeping his mind steady
on long nights
when the howls of men
walk casually through cell walls –
Why incarcerate a man over a poem?
His body squeezed through
like a cricket caught in a tiny cage
Bloodied and
bruised–
“Are you and I perchance caught up in a dream
from which we have not yet awoke?”
Chuang Tzu said that.
What would Zhu Yufu say
of plum blossoms
this spring…
opening their delicate hearts
covered in white fur –
His wife said his hair
had turned completely white since she last saw him –
What can we say about The Square?
What does Creon say
to a shackled Antigone?
“And you dare disobey my law?”
“It was not Zeus that made these laws.”
At the Laundromat
happily
folding our warm clothes
in “Pursuit of Happiness,”
happy not to be
trapped in the washing machines
Around me
I hear hushed whisperings –
Husbands lean in close
their lips beside their wives’ ears
the scent of perfumes
and fragrant dollar-store shampoos
trails through their nostrils
Excitement and fear
lodged in throats
as they stutter out
information
a live chupacabra was caught just down the road.
At the Intersection of Red and Green
by David S. Pointer
Chinese white dolphins
swim in polluted waters
as do you, Zhu Yufu,
what must lockdown
be like when medical
teams march in to the
death penalty prisons
selling organ donor
products to the West,
dragon’s blood incense
and ink pens would be
great, but do you have
them, knowing nobody
can exonerate the dead
在红色和绿色的交叉点
-为朱虞夫
中国白色海豚在污水游泳象您，朱虞夫，什么必须扎锁木
是象医疗队什么时候前进到卖器官捐献者产品的死刑监狱对西方，龙血香火，并且墨水笔是伟大的，但是您有他们，知道没人可能免除死者
Chinese white dolphins
swim in polluted waters
as do you, Zhu Yufu,
what must lockdown
be like when medical
teams march in to the
death penalty prisons
selling organ donor
products to the West,
dragon’s blood incense
and ink pens would be
great, but do you have
them, knowing nobody
can exonerate the dead
在红色和绿色的交叉点
-为朱虞夫
中国白色海豚在污水游泳象您，朱虞夫，什么必须扎锁木
是象医疗队什么时候前进到卖器官捐献者产品的死刑监狱对西方，龙血香火，并且墨水笔是伟大的，但是您有他们，知道没人可能免除死者
7 years for us
by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito
7 years for poetry
for pumping in and out
the blood of the heart
for the exuberance
of being one among
many
the state crushes a peony
and the poet writes with that
new red ink. Subversion! to wrap
the bruise inside bolts of silk and
send it unfurling down the palace steps
see what moans there, what broken bird
within. The emperor can’t have it.
Cut out blindfolds and bring your boot
down on the naked cry. The stain upon
many others cannot be discerned.
Lock down the compound. Confiscate
all flares. Stuff the mouths with sweets
and shuffle off the men to their work.
We’ll show the world our synchronization.
It’s the damn Olympic pregame 7 days
a week. It’s time. From now on,
there will be no room for “tendencies.”
7 years for breathing
see the number bend like a crane
for bleeding
may it swoop, then fly
for every molecule
conspiring in vibration
against the restraints
hear the wings? they push the
air past your face
7 years for Zhu Yufu
it is a white bird. An absolute
kind of white. Something of
your dreams
7 years for us.
white, as freedom
Try As You Might
by Peter Franklin
If you shut my eyes,
My imagination
will still run wild.
You cannot control what I think.
If you plug my ears,
I will still hear what
my world has to tell.
Your deafness is self-imposed.
If you tape closed my mouth,
My song’s
Lyrics will still float and soar.
You cannot banish the orchestra of truth.
Try as you might,
You will never be able to silence my pen.
If you shut my eyes,
My imagination
will still run wild.
You cannot control what I think.
If you plug my ears,
I will still hear what
my world has to tell.
Your deafness is self-imposed.
If you tape closed my mouth,
My song’s
Lyrics will still float and soar.
You cannot banish the orchestra of truth.
Try as you might,
You will never be able to silence my pen.
Dragon Claws of Secrecy
by David S. Pointer
Maybe Zhu Yufu now watches
ever ascending prison guards
over-medicating dead shadows,
for insertion into anatomically
correct deep sea body bags as
the steam sterilization tanks
cleanse decomposition hiss,
and his red string of destiny
turns out to be aquatic razor
wire stretching out across vast
blue oceanography underworlds
expanding freedoms presence
秘密龙爪
可能现在朱虞夫手表
上升的监狱看的死的阴影，
对插入到解剖上里
正确深海尸体袋
蒸汽绝育坦克
洗涤分解嘘声，
并且命运他的红色串
结果是水生剃刀延长横跨浩大的导线
蓝色海洋学地狱
扩展自由存在
Maybe Zhu Yufu now watches
ever ascending prison guards
over-medicating dead shadows,
for insertion into anatomically
correct deep sea body bags as
the steam sterilization tanks
cleanse decomposition hiss,
and his red string of destiny
turns out to be aquatic razor
wire stretching out across vast
blue oceanography underworlds
expanding freedoms presence
秘密龙爪
可能现在朱虞夫手表
上升的监狱看的死的阴影，
对插入到解剖上里
正确深海尸体袋
蒸汽绝育坦克
洗涤分解嘘声，
并且命运他的红色串
结果是水生剃刀延长横跨浩大的导线
蓝色海洋学地狱
扩展自由存在
Behind bars(not by Slick Rick)
by Nicholas Alexander
I've heard of great men held
against their wills, behind bars,
in piss-perfumed cells, not big enough
for them and the roaches;
who still, by the power
of some Almighty Muse perhaps,
had the will to write
accounts of their pail-pan experiences:
the apparition-appearing nights
when the wind howling outside
that little rectangular window
sounds like chattering wagtails;
with a faint stream of light
descending on a sheet of tissue
like a moment of revelation-
in places of abject adversity
that spawn great works of resistance.
I think of Mapanje and Ngugi,
black pearls of Africa-
and you, Zhu Yufu,
a Golden Flower from Asia,
incarcerated for beautiful protest.
I've heard of great men held
against their wills, behind bars,
in piss-perfumed cells, not big enough
for them and the roaches;
who still, by the power
of some Almighty Muse perhaps,
had the will to write
accounts of their pail-pan experiences:
the apparition-appearing nights
when the wind howling outside
that little rectangular window
sounds like chattering wagtails;
with a faint stream of light
descending on a sheet of tissue
like a moment of revelation-
in places of abject adversity
that spawn great works of resistance.
I think of Mapanje and Ngugi,
black pearls of Africa-
and you, Zhu Yufu,
a Golden Flower from Asia,
incarcerated for beautiful protest.
No Matter How Base
by Richard Hartwell
Leaders of the new China
seeking esteem and honor
you seem to have forgotten
how base the origin of the lotus.
From out of muck and filth
pads and buds reach for the sun
bursting pure blossoms that belie
how base the origin of the lotus.
However long the Yangtze flows still
it meets the sea eventually though its
floods deposit new soil and despair
how base the origin of the lotus.
Even as elite powers insisted and
forbade the people to meet en masse
still they came and would not resist
how base the origin of the lotus.
So too do the ideals of Zhu Yufu
underscore yearnings of the new
true People's China regardless of
how base the origin of the lotus.
Leaders of the new China
release the emerging bloom
pure longing for personal liberty
how base the origin of the lotus.
Leaders of the new China
seeking esteem and honor
you seem to have forgotten
how base the origin of the lotus.
From out of muck and filth
pads and buds reach for the sun
bursting pure blossoms that belie
how base the origin of the lotus.
However long the Yangtze flows still
it meets the sea eventually though its
floods deposit new soil and despair
how base the origin of the lotus.
Even as elite powers insisted and
forbade the people to meet en masse
still they came and would not resist
how base the origin of the lotus.
So too do the ideals of Zhu Yufu
underscore yearnings of the new
true People's China regardless of
how base the origin of the lotus.
Leaders of the new China
release the emerging bloom
pure longing for personal liberty
how base the origin of the lotus.
The Arrow of Faith
by Michael H. Brownstein
Zhu Yufu, do not let go of the arrow
you hold within your words,
keep it straight and keep it with you—
the bow it comes from comes from good
and its aim is true and its aim
will not miss. There is power in arrows,
words and sound, and they worry
the powers and the want to be powers
and those who continue to corrupt power.
Your arrow made of many fine things
will find its mark in the Square of Hope,
The Square of Poetry, the Square of Peace.
Know we are with you. We hold arrows too.
Zhu Yufu, do not let go of the arrow
you hold within your words,
keep it straight and keep it with you—
the bow it comes from comes from good
and its aim is true and its aim
will not miss. There is power in arrows,
words and sound, and they worry
the powers and the want to be powers
and those who continue to corrupt power.
Your arrow made of many fine things
will find its mark in the Square of Hope,
The Square of Poetry, the Square of Peace.
Know we are with you. We hold arrows too.
The Price of Democracy
by Michael H. Brownstein
The price of freedom has no price
and the poet’s poem can be the solution.
A lynch mob has no authority over words.
Honor thy father and thy mother, treat
your brother the way you wish to be treated,
but no nation right when it is right
or right when it is wrong deserves the same.
God does not bless a country: we do.
Action is the liquid of words in motion,
Zhu Yufu, keep up the words of change,
Know you are a hero thousands of miles away.
Know one man can change a destiny of a nation.
Know one man can lead a people.
Know one man can be enough.
The price of freedom has no price
and the poet’s poem can be the solution.
A lynch mob has no authority over words.
Honor thy father and thy mother, treat
your brother the way you wish to be treated,
but no nation right when it is right
or right when it is wrong deserves the same.
God does not bless a country: we do.
Action is the liquid of words in motion,
Zhu Yufu, keep up the words of change,
Know you are a hero thousands of miles away.
Know one man can change a destiny of a nation.
Know one man can lead a people.
Know one man can be enough.
head job
by Kim Wilson
a mental picture unscrambles
in my head
i’m trying to figure
what’s real and what’s
reality i look and see
past what i’m expected
to see so the things i
believe i have a right
to believe i get a glimpse
of something unrelenting
it looks like a goal a
goal that’s still pending
stop feeding me a
stomach full of
ache it’s too much
to take i see a
stigma of invisible
made clear so i
clinch my teeth
seeing my fear bring
about a single flowing
tear i smell
the funky foul air the
disgusted staleness of
it sleeps in the
thickness of my
sight focus
i’m not a rebel just
one with a cause
i’m not an activist just one
refusing to pause
Through Dark Shrouds
by Mike Berger
Seized by a despot hand,
the beacon falls mute.
Oppression rains down a
veil of silence.
Beijing, Beijing why-
why do you fear a poet's lines?
Imprisonment is futility incarnate.
Atune your deaf ears,
his voice still resonates
through your dark shroud.
Seized by a despot hand,
the beacon falls mute.
Oppression rains down a
veil of silence.
Beijing, Beijing why-
why do you fear a poet's lines?
Imprisonment is futility incarnate.
Atune your deaf ears,
his voice still resonates
through your dark shroud.
COURAGE
Dedicated to Zhu Yufu
by Alan S. Kleiman
What courage can a man have?
Why struggle
Why face prison
Life is short
Prison long
Why find guts to scream
With a jailor sitting in the next pew
Righteousness rightness guiding light
Over family
Over home
Over comfort
Let freedom speak
To change the day
Let freedom speak
I wonder why.
Not as brave or right
I only admire
And thank.
What courage can a man have?
Why struggle
Why face prison
Life is short
Prison long
Why find guts to scream
With a jailor sitting in the next pew
Righteousness rightness guiding light
Over family
Over home
Over comfort
Let freedom speak
To change the day
Let freedom speak
I wonder why.
Not as brave or right
I only admire
And thank.
Seven Years
by Richard Hartwell
Seven years! Seven years for slinging arrows,
not barbed arrows, but straight-shaft, merely to
catch the thought of a people’s freedom, then
release the idea into air fragrant with possibility.
Seven years! Seven years to be re-educated,
to re-consider intransigence and intent, and to
re-invent nationalism rather than allegiance to
those indelible rights written large on the wind.
Seven years! Seven years to memorize and to
internalize the poems that Zhu Yufu will craft
in prison as he labors hard for the state, for the
state of all mankind seeking individual redress.
Seven years! Seven years, leaders of China, to
consider what has been done to excite, worldwide,
an article of conviction that what one man can
start with words, others will finish by judgment.
Seven years! Seven years: to entrap and silence a
man, What a Man; to incarcerate a truth, The Truth;
to attempt to quell the deep rumble of unquenchable
thirst to be free, with an Elixir of Personal Autonomy.
Seven years! Seven years is far too long to wait –
seven months, or days, of even hours, is by far an
excess of time to stay the release of Zhu Yufu, his
truth, and the future of an expectant Chinese people.
Seven years! Seven years for slinging arrows,
not barbed arrows, but straight-shaft, merely to
catch the thought of a people’s freedom, then
release the idea into air fragrant with possibility.
Seven years! Seven years to be re-educated,
to re-consider intransigence and intent, and to
re-invent nationalism rather than allegiance to
those indelible rights written large on the wind.
Seven years! Seven years to memorize and to
internalize the poems that Zhu Yufu will craft
in prison as he labors hard for the state, for the
state of all mankind seeking individual redress.
Seven years! Seven years, leaders of China, to
consider what has been done to excite, worldwide,
an article of conviction that what one man can
start with words, others will finish by judgment.
Seven years! Seven years: to entrap and silence a
man, What a Man; to incarcerate a truth, The Truth;
to attempt to quell the deep rumble of unquenchable
thirst to be free, with an Elixir of Personal Autonomy.
Seven years! Seven years is far too long to wait –
seven months, or days, of even hours, is by far an
excess of time to stay the release of Zhu Yufu, his
truth, and the future of an expectant Chinese people.
Zhu Yufu
by David S. Pointer
As if tagged by a
red pole enforcer
watching the blue
lanterns fly away
like migrating birds—
inciting subversion
while beating police,
running opposition
party magazine and
resting only to pen
another poem for
media management
to tame along with
your shackled
shuffling feet
朱Yufu
由大衛S。 尖
，好像由觀看
藍色的一個
紅色杆實施者
標記光彈去
像指使顛覆的
移居鳥
，當摔打警察，
連續
反對黨雜誌和
休息只寫作
另一首詩為了
媒介管理
能與您的
shackled拖曳的
腳一起時馴服
As if tagged by a
red pole enforcer
watching the blue
lanterns fly away
like migrating birds—
inciting subversion
while beating police,
running opposition
party magazine and
resting only to pen
another poem for
media management
to tame along with
your shackled
shuffling feet
朱Yufu
由大衛S。 尖
，好像由觀看
藍色的一個
紅色杆實施者
標記光彈去
像指使顛覆的
移居鳥
，當摔打警察，
連續
反對黨雜誌和
休息只寫作
另一首詩為了
媒介管理
能與您的
shackled拖曳的
腳一起時馴服
Zhu Yufu
by Mike Berger
Better to join the damned,
better to rot in hell,
than silence a poet's pen.
Better to join the damned,
better to rot in hell,
than silence a poet's pen.
Night Music
by Craig Shay
As night falls,the prisoner hears a song,
sung by a woman outside the tower walls –
Her fingers pluck strings,
tuned to the key of moonlight.
Tonight she appears
in the form of a street performer.
Her music beckons his mind
to venture beyond cage doors.
The drone of her guitar
puts the whole palace to sleep.
With her music,she climbs into his soul
and releases him from the guarded citadel.
She kisses his eyelids,
and gives him the courage
to dive into the abyss of consciousness,
and reach the hidden kingdom.
As night falls,the prisoner hears a song,
sung by a woman outside the tower walls –
Her fingers pluck strings,
tuned to the key of moonlight.
Tonight she appears
in the form of a street performer.
Her music beckons his mind
to venture beyond cage doors.
The drone of her guitar
puts the whole palace to sleep.
With her music,she climbs into his soul
and releases him from the guarded citadel.
She kisses his eyelids,
and gives him the courage
to dive into the abyss of consciousness,
and reach the hidden kingdom.
Don’t Forget
by Richard Hartwell
Easy to forget
Forget those who need
Need our constantremembrance
Remembrance of thatfor which they stand
Stand for the rightof each individual freedom
Freedom to assemble,to protest, to petition, and to write
Write about what iswrong and what each can do
Do what is right inthe face of power
Power to quell voicesand pens
Pens to challengeauthority
Authority to change
Change that’s not
Not easy
Remember!
Enemies of the State
by George Moore
From sleep they fall into full awakening,
not of consciousness, its color blurred by the screen,
only a noise in the headphones like seashells,
but of being anywhere but here. They eat very little
in preparation for their own destruction.
The schools are breeding grounds for the insane.
Survival means being something like a terrorist,
at least a dissident, at least an extremist in dress,
in loose, haphazard sentences, resembling no one.
Like small shavings of wood curled in their heads
just before the postmodern fire, they feed
the flames of their own disinterest.
Our days pass into something unnamed, but they
are hopeful, the drum beats rise across the city,
they prepare to fight the enemies of the state.
From sleep they fall into full awakening,
not of consciousness, its color blurred by the screen,
only a noise in the headphones like seashells,
but of being anywhere but here. They eat very little
in preparation for their own destruction.
The schools are breeding grounds for the insane.
Survival means being something like a terrorist,
at least a dissident, at least an extremist in dress,
in loose, haphazard sentences, resembling no one.
Like small shavings of wood curled in their heads
just before the postmodern fire, they feed
the flames of their own disinterest.
Our days pass into something unnamed, but they
are hopeful, the drum beats rise across the city,
they prepare to fight the enemies of the state.
a time of fury
by Linda M. Crate
It hurt
crumpled wings beneath me,
I never knew the fall would
hurt this badly,
baldly I was scalped of
my grace and eloquence —
thrust into the dust of inequality,
when my rights were threatened
again; I may not be a rocket
scientist, but it seemed more as if
I were robed in the dust
of battles already won;
yet we were spinning backward
in a society supposedly technologically
advanced, I wonder if Rome can
smell us smoldering in our own defeat —
if we’ll crash and burn beyond the
point of repair because of backward
politics and pointless arguments,
I worry for my country;
and I find vehemence and anger
for politicians, perhaps, I
should pray instead but there’s
a time for fury and I think that time
is now —
I want to know why after all
these years we’re slipping into the
quick sand of the past.
It hurt
crumpled wings beneath me,
I never knew the fall would
hurt this badly,
baldly I was scalped of
my grace and eloquence —
thrust into the dust of inequality,
when my rights were threatened
again; I may not be a rocket
scientist, but it seemed more as if
I were robed in the dust
of battles already won;
yet we were spinning backward
in a society supposedly technologically
advanced, I wonder if Rome can
smell us smoldering in our own defeat —
if we’ll crash and burn beyond the
point of repair because of backward
politics and pointless arguments,
I worry for my country;
and I find vehemence and anger
for politicians, perhaps, I
should pray instead but there’s
a time for fury and I think that time
is now —
I want to know why after all
these years we’re slipping into the
quick sand of the past.
Imago
by Perry L. Powell
There is a purity in this―
that you are only you
and I am only who I am
and we walk toward light.
The folding and unfolding flames
the limbs of these lines
like the limit of a series
lead through imperfect night.
As the last hopeful stone rolls on,
the old tend their gardens
and the young take revenge for lives
while we watch our middles.
Leaves walk across the patio.
I see you catch your breath.
When the insect rain begins to fall,
the rest is only riot.
There is a purity in this―
that you are only you
and I am only who I am
and we walk toward light.
The folding and unfolding flames
the limbs of these lines
like the limit of a series
lead through imperfect night.
As the last hopeful stone rolls on,
the old tend their gardens
and the young take revenge for lives
while we watch our middles.
Leaves walk across the patio.
I see you catch your breath.
When the insect rain begins to fall,
the rest is only riot.
Symphony of the Colour Red
by Ali Znaidi
If you don’t like my words,
just throw me with tomatoes,
as simple as that.
Next time my blood will become redder,
and will fuse with my ink.
I will write words in a good way,
till the fragrance of the red apples’ speech
will fill in the air.
Then I think you will throw me with roses,
and put the red carpet under my feet.
Moon’s Cloth Embroidered with Poems
by Ali Znaidi
Tonight
I climbed the full moon
to make a wish—
a nocturnal wish.
I climbed the moon’s protruding lights
that were stitching a mesmerising lunar cloth
embroidered with poems.
“May the moon’s cloth
wipe the tears of the hopeless!”
Light and dream entwined
while climbing the full moon.
Zhu Yufu, Appeal Denied
by Richard Hartwell
Weak Moorings in this laogai, Zhejiang Prison #4
producing light machinery rather than heavy poetry;
buoyant ideas, resolute, regardless of weighted words.
Week Moorings with only work to which to cling,
no family, slaves to Hangzhou Wulin Machinery,
state made, prison labor, labored thoughts, memory.
Weak Mornings made to rise, forced-work again,
captured bodies, trained muscles, stifled intellect,
crucified for daily pennies with only time to compose
Week Mornings numbering over twenty-five-hundred
enough time to think again, write again, try again;
when released, to rise again, cry again, incite again.
900 Days and Counting
by Richard Hartwell
I have not forgotten Zhu Yufu’s
nine-hundred days, August 21st,
my time, not his, and still counting.
Watching the scrolling calendar,
wondering how Zhu counts time;
maybe scratchings on a cell wall.
Seems too prosaic for such a poet,
composing still, if only in his mind,
poems deemed to seem subversive.
Regard what the State wants broken first:
body, mind, soul, or the power of words
that claw at the throat of suppression.
Repression :: Rebellion
Suppression :: Subversion
Incarceration :: Immolation
“Prison diminishes you!” A Western adage
I hope will not apply to Zhu in the East.
It didn’t the first time, possibly not now.
Incineration of his written words
destroys only paper, not his ideas;
those permeate throughout the people.
I have not forgotten Zhu Yufu. Have you forgotten?
Have they forgotten, those he tried to stir to action?
He has served nine-hundred days, and still counting.
The Chinese state believes they have stilled a poet,
but tally marks of converts bode a wind of change.
I have not forgotten Zhu Yufu’s
nine-hundred days, August 21st,
my time, not his, and still counting.
Watching the scrolling calendar,
wondering how Zhu counts time;
maybe scratchings on a cell wall.
Seems too prosaic for such a poet,
composing still, if only in his mind,
poems deemed to seem subversive.
Regard what the State wants broken first:
body, mind, soul, or the power of words
that claw at the throat of suppression.
Repression :: Rebellion
Suppression :: Subversion
Incarceration :: Immolation
“Prison diminishes you!” A Western adage
I hope will not apply to Zhu in the East.
It didn’t the first time, possibly not now.
Incineration of his written words
destroys only paper, not his ideas;
those permeate throughout the people.
I have not forgotten Zhu Yufu. Have you forgotten?
Have they forgotten, those he tried to stir to action?
He has served nine-hundred days, and still counting.
The Chinese state believes they have stilled a poet,
but tally marks of converts bode a wind of change.
The Emperor is Afraid of Zhu Yufu
by Russell Streur
Zhu Yufu is eating green moss
And making stories up.
He is arguing with Confucius
And plotting nights with Robber Chih.
He is gossiping on the Terrace of Yellow Cranes.
He is spreading rumors on three bridges.
Zhu Yufu is making faces at the emperor
In the path to Stone Mirror.
He is setting clocks to unofficial time.
He says the hour’s come.
He is stealing everybody’s feet.
He is headed for the Square.
Zhu Yufu
Must be stopped.
Zhu Yufu is eating green moss
And making stories up.
He is arguing with Confucius
And plotting nights with Robber Chih.
He is gossiping on the Terrace of Yellow Cranes.
He is spreading rumors on three bridges.
Zhu Yufu is making faces at the emperor
In the path to Stone Mirror.
He is setting clocks to unofficial time.
He says the hour’s come.
He is stealing everybody’s feet.
He is headed for the Square.
Zhu Yufu
Must be stopped.
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