Belgrade’s Pain
Trs. by Xiaoyuan
Yugoslavia, gone,
Old Chinese Embassy site,
pulled down.
At the corner of the
construction site, a marble
slab
Is indulged in black humor
An epitaph with the names of
two young men
Stands more desolately than
lives.
Rain falling from the sky
Withered wildflowers covered
with tears
The bleak yellow, blatantly
glaring.
Shelterless marble slab is
silent
No one stopped by. No one
cast another look.
Belgrade with a dull
expression
Has a memory shorter than
a fish’s
I knelt down, listened to the
bombings from then
The accuracy of targeting the
basement from across the
ocean.
I came all the way from my
motherland
And caught no sight of the
Danube blue
I can only remove, gingerly
The mud and leaves on the
epitaph
Afraid that my sea of sorrow
Would approach the wound.
August 3, 2018
—Excerpt from Liang Ping,
The Cafe Review, Fall,
(USA: XPress), 2021, p. (12).
Special guest editor of this
edition of Chinese poetry:
Sophia Kidd.
Su Zhengxun,
Grass and Trees Knowing Spring,
Ink-wash on Paper, 70 cm x 70 cm,
2021. Image provided by the artist
and Xi Yongjun.
Over distance
Trs. by Xiaoyuan
The deep south
And the southwest make a
dead corner
I am not fond of the north. Its
rain and snow, fog and
haze
Alleys and courtyard houses,
Chinese candied fruits
Have nothing to do with me.
Never linger in my mind
Pearl River Delta in contrast,
angles of which are dead
corners
Where man is reserved as
braving death
In solitude, a dormant sea
turtle stays in a crevice on
the reef
A recluse
Over distance, I could see the
dead corner
Responds to the vicissitudes
of my life
Where the river brims, and
flora prospers.
January 13, 2018
—Excerpt from Liang Ping,
The Cafe Review, Fall,
(USA: XPress), 2021, p. (13).
Special guest editor of this
edition of Chinese poetry:
Sophia Kidd.
Zeng Yang,
The Broadcasted Statue of Deity,
Acrylic on canvas, 150 cm x 120 cm,
2019. Image provided by the artist
and Tian Meng.
Beijing is a distant place
Trs. by Xiaoyuan
Beijing is a distant place
When I laid awake in Chengdu
I wondered how far it is
Like having insomnia, I started
counting
Till I lost the thread and
drowsiness crept over
I counted from the 1st Ring
Road
Remained conscious till 250th
Ring Road
Hazily I saw, Tiananmen
Square, Monument to
People’s Heroes
Eeunuchs and maids walking
from Forbidden City
I’m sure I’d recognise them
But they don’t know me
I kept walking forward,
exhausted
Beijing is a distant place
indeed.
October 20, 2017
—Excerpt from Liang Ping,
The Cafe Review, Fall,
(USA: XPress), 2021, p. (14).
Special guest editor of this
edition of Chinese poetry:
Sophia Kidd.
To read more poems, please check out
Liang Ping
Born in Chongqing and currently liveing in Chengdu, Liang Ping is the editor-in-chief of The Thatched Cottage and Young Writers, and former editor-in-chief of Hongyan and Stars. Liang has published 12 poetry collections, including Genealogy, Winged Ears, Blossom on the Lips, Notes of Time, a prose collection entitled He Says in Sichuan, a collection of poetry criticism The Reading Posture, and a novel Chao Tian Men.
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