Zhang Zao, a native of Changsha, Hunan, was born in 1962. He is a famous contemporary poet and one of the representatives of Chinese avant-garde poetry. After graduating from the English Department of Hunan Normal University, he was admitted to Sichuan University of Foreign Languages for a master's degree, and since 1986, he has lived in Germany since 1986, and received a doctorate from the University of Trier. Zhang Zao's poems inherit the tradition of "wind and commotion" from the source, and also integrate Chinese and Western contexts in contemporary times, and "Spring and Autumn Letters" is the only collection of poems published during his lifetime. On March 8, 2010, he died of lung cancer in Tübingen, Germany, at the age of 48.
February** Dynamic Incentive Program Late Autumn Story.
A few more days into late autumn.
I'll get close to her terrifying back.
She opened her mouth and said that Jiangnan is like a tree.
The scenery in front of me began to bear fruit.
Begin to deliver; Oh, the kind of season she was talking about.
It's like you're facing someone who is swimming upstream.
Blossom and cross the arch bridge of the oath.
A leaf falls.
I knew that it was the year of Jiazi.
The old people around me.
Chrysanthemum-like rise and fall to the ground.
The place of lovers cannibalizes other places.
She said that Jiangnan was like her hairstyle.
There is no rainy day, and the pieces of paper have become milk swallows.
And I gradually climbed the clear ladder.
There are railings in the lines of poetry, the map in front of me.
Begin to drift to zero, converge.
I used my fingers to clean up the fallen flowers.
Repeating his name over and over again, as if.
There are many small stone bridges in Gangnam.
I'll pass by someday, just as I do.
Passing by her silent ears.
Her cuffs hide the beautiful climate.
And the whole place.
will also look in her face.
Maybe we won't alarm the old people.
They rose and fell to the ground like chrysanthemums.
Clear and fragrant.
Chairs sit into the winter ......
The chair sits into the winter, altogether
There are three, and the cold is the muscles
They're lined up
Fear Logic Angels,
There are no three who will
Sit on them and wait
Glide across the glacier of hairdressers, though
Ahead is still a large mirror
The magpie packs up the pennies.
The loom of the wind, weaving all around.
The master, is a void, far away
Standing in the suburbs, snorting the heat,
Thick eyebrows and wide eyes counted the chairs:
You can remove it without touching it
That middle,
If you put the one on the left
Transplanted to the far right, non-stop-
So assassins, in the universe
Heart. Suddenly
The one of the three chairs that is unwarranted
The fourth, the only one
I also sat in the winter. Like that winter......
I love you. Grandfather
The back of the cicada's bicycle clamped a few secret recipes, and the door was open, one afternoon when I was writing.
Grandfather's teardrop's fist was released for the last time-
The note fell short: tomorrow will be particularly painful;
Because the dislocated person is powerless to return to heaven, and the deceased does not need the earth, the ghost was invented with heating wires.
Boiling, swishing welcome, to this.
Raw, cold human realm sings sorry;
The bicycle of the south wind smells the breath of distant people, the shadow of the tong is colorful, and the green phoenix pecks at the beads of incense;
The moment the bell rang, the square that followed.
Suddenly lifted into the air, and all living beings exclaimed, they.
For the first time, I saw myself in the upper right.
fell off the spot, and spat out a few paradoxes in his mouth.
Kite. Across the eyes, my grandfather was wearing a tunic suit.
Landing, the clarity of the handwriting infinitely magnified, he returned to a notched bowl outside him, with.
The taste of salt blames me: to write, not to read;
On the occasion of farewell, it is better to go to the peach blossom pool.
stepping on the shore and singing, like Wang Lun, his new confidant.
Reading, far from doing, but reading and understanding you will also do.
You really did, and the four sides were mad.
Beat-to-beat and warm and open, you write;
Then there is the wind and lookout, like Wang Lun. Write, for the goodbyes that linger in people.
Juan Juan
It's as if the past overlaps and overlaps, and only that's left.
Yesterday, the moon was always so round.
The old outfits never had a place in the city.
Clean it out and wear it on your warm body.
Then it changed, and it was a wet rainy morning.
There is no umbrella in our place, no number and **.
Nor do we inhabit a forgotten camphor.
Lying on the ground, I can't help myself, sniffing.
Himself, sniffing the air that he had laid out earlier.
We seem to be divided into many.
Let the air give us silhouettes and good and evil.
Give us the disaster and the actions that come with it.
But one day Camphor turned white with excitement.
Like boiling water, I have a premonition of inexplicable news.
The camellia in the room stood up abruptly, Juanjuan.
Your hand is in mine.
Our palm prints are changing dramatically.
If we become a pair now.
Butterflies, we'll talk about the night.
Continue this endless debate.
Tell the butterfly's experience of God.
Then God must be a different story, like.
Under the light of the lamp, everything is like the afterlife.
Oh, blue-eyed girl, think of you as you are.
The butterfly, drunk in pain, was in my chest.
I can't think of your last look.
I don't know how detailed I should be.
How to eat, feed the gentle five organs and wings.
But I remember what we went through.
We used to grit our teeth and play with blood.
Or maybe it's really just a game.
With God's silent permission, the Walking Dead of Gold.
In the face of picturesque snow and rain.
Colorful rainbows, specimens that never hurt.
Now everything is under the light of the lamp.
Loaded, we're intoxicated with the pollen of our limbs.
We share the language of happiness in the afterlife.
As far as the eye can see, under your gentle breathing.
All the mirrors screamed in unison when they met us.
We also touched the knife, but no more sashimi.
The body that knocked over itself turned back and stood like the end of the century.
Corners and trees, you are gracious plackets.
Are we still alive? A ruined mouth and index finger?
Still living next to the stars of chicken and dog wine?
Oh God, this is already the afterlife.
We can't dissect the head of a butterfly.
Make a note of the night, the people, the moon and the house, and what has never been seen before.
A couple whispering.
The Water of October
Ninety-five: Hong gradually in the tomb, the woman was infertile at the age of three. Victory in the end, Ji.
You can't possibly know what that means.
The circles on the opposite side died only during the day.
You've put on the pages of a book.
Walk among the respectful bottle-shaped corpses.
Endless copper coins and moons, lips too.
Gradually flowing away, the cold green sleeves stopped on the way.
The secret breeze retreated from the side.
Wisps of eyebrow to wake up the eyelashes in the frost.
And so the pearls flocked together.
Along the waters of October, you and she walk on a string.
You've been speculating about the meaning since that day.
By the water in October, the leaves are heard for the first time in early autumn.
The prey we hunt is precisely ourselves.
Birds are the neighbors of the air and come from Gangnam.
A single gunshot can interrupt us.
May cut off the spring tide, the river merchant's wife.
Her gaze may include you, too.
Your daughters may be her sobbing belt.
Hills are also included, and white rabbits tend to get lost.
Ten years ago you chased them, ten years later you were chased.
Because the moon is a mirror that hangs high to the south.
The flowers flee with their prey, regardless of what they hunt.
You lose a country with your palm, and you can't get rid of the falling flowers.
A quiet kiss can cast a net to catch a lake of goldfish.
And that includes you, the caressed flesh cannot escape.
The words are revealed by the expression of the water waves before they dry up.
You also appeared by the window, and the waterfowl flew up the mountain.
and my offspring have not yet appeared in you.
The waterfowl went up to the cave and was stopped by my parents.
I was so locked up until after the horoscope again.
The large house is covered by sparse thatch.
During the day, you can see the stars like tiny fingers.
The yellow dog looked through the crack, and I was no longer there.
I didn't dare to stay in someone else's hotel on such a journey.
Banqiao frost traces, I am polite like a jade pendant.
Thus I bear the sigh and smile of someone from the past.
So I reflect my offspring in you.
You don't know what the point of that is.
You can't start again when you start it, and the circles spread again and again.
If there is a scenery like fish swimming, you may be another you.
One by one, the butterflies are metal-like**, burning, and dying.
And everywhere you see, you are left with only traces.
At this moment you realize that the Big Dipper has already appeared.
The plants sang in unison, and the day slowly ended.
You smell yourself again as you stop.
And her tears welled up and told us emotionally.
This was the tenth month of her love.
The sunset melts gold, and the water of October gradually disappears into your limbs.
At this moment, on the other side, someone must have dreamed of you.
My name is Kafka, if you remember.
We are in m. b, the home meets.
As you were browsing the photo album under the lamp, a strange fragrance hit the bottom of my heart.
My strange lungs are facing your hand, like a peacock opening the screen, begging for praise.
Your shadow trembles on the piano stand, towards your night, my strange lungs.
Like a saint who can't leave God for a moment, I always worry about my peacock lungs.
I opened the bloody cage for it.
Go, I say, go and hold on to that heart
May I compare you to a red rose? ”
The room was full of foliage, watching with bated breath.
Snowy nights in Prague from the crossed alleys.
Run past thieves, underground parties, and insomniacs.
The earth up its ears, the willows turn in the wind, and the fire is bleak? No, it's an angel of God.
They insisted that it was an angel, dressed in gray snow, and cold with a nosebleed.
They said he wasn't that scary, he didn't stop.
Next to the ** pavilion, squinting at the wires in the sky, sad look, people want to approach him and touch him. But whoever thinks so, loses.
him. Vigorous dog barking opened the bushes.
A road flashes. His back is really tall.
I heard him open the wine cabinet in the basement, and I wanted to cry, my hands were numb from cold.
The fatal is still the breakout. That is the highest.
Bird. Below means raising the head.
Oh, birds! We've just called out your name, you've become something else, and the song fills the road.
Like a sugar cube in a child's mouth turned into a future.
of a certain day. Oh, what a day, out.
How many things. I saw a train coming.
Carry your image. Phyllis, my bird.
I'll never get you, the flowers are scorched.
Because what we greet is always unreal
In the morning, the back is in front, and in the afternoon it hangs upside down again.
Behind. However, what is Unreal? I pray.
The little rain knocked things on the head:
Our breakthrough is endless transformation.
Night, you can't always reach the night, lonely, you're always not lonely enough!
In the basement I listened to the gloom.
The oak tree (which sucks the thunder and lightning to pieces).
And I'm always hard to keep up with myself, time, where will there be enough.
Sika deer, more while running-
It's as if all that's consumed is the wind and moon.
On the left side of the office building, the cuckoo said
To be alive is nothing more than slow blood loss.
I wish something would carry me away, to a place without me;
The typewriters, the records, and the planets, are all whirling under the tongue of the devil.
When people see it most clearly.
Myself? It is a moonlit night, a moonlit night in the heart of the stone.
All the activities are from the years of **.
Towards a tryst. Oh, it's all a mirror!
I write. Spiders sniff the moon.
The words woke up, skirts in their wakes, towards each other, and danced apprehensively on the floor.
I don't know if they are God's children, or.
Subordinate to the forces of the devil. I want to cry.
Something suddenly shatters, and they disappear.
Hidden back into things, now only in the shadows.
Confronted the silence that still rang loud.
Phyllis, I don't hear from you today.
In the loneliness, I groaned about my wonderful self.
Reading is **: I don't like it.
Lonely people read me, that burning.
Breathing annoys me; They pull it up.
Books are like picking up one's own organs.
This hot night is full of pain.
They used me to scold the erection flowers, to make the gods and dogs speechless, to make the hateful face shameless, but they themselves walked in brothels and pharmacies, mingling with people who were neither men nor women, satirizing tyrants, and talking about the murderous year;
The stars in the sky shouted, "Burn me!" ”
The water in Prague shouted: "Give me the wise." ”
Tombstone Silence: To read me is to kill me.
Sudden walk: the blood that drives me is a little darker than the night: the blood, put on the top hat and the fishy coat, and face the little creatures that wander outside. The lamp is like an evil owl;
Don't be afraid, it's night, strange things enter.
We, cast us. The withered moth clung to the light and prayed one last prayer. Life and death suddenly collided, and I heard the intoxicated tongues of the moths.
Something infinite open. Suddenly, they shouted, "To this side, to this side, not to the left."
Not right, not front or back, but this side, afraid not? ”
As long as you are not afraid, you are an angel. Loosen it quickly.
Yourself, thrown on the side of the road, more purely forward.
Don't be afraid, it's the wind. Remember the immense sounds.
Soon it will be autumn, and soon I will be.
dreaming in another language; Open the palm, open the box of the tree, open the waist of sawdust, and the world suddenly appears. This is her fallen leaves, like chess pieces, illuminated by the mind of the chess player.
They waited on the side of the bridgehead road, sometimes moving forward.
A little, sometimes retreating, sometimes spinning, always.
Arrange yourself in a pattern. Don't touch them, they will always live at home;
Children of coal ballast from the frost knotted door.
Walked out, looking at the light, his face was confused.
The train trembled on the ground with warmth, and the child was thrown out of the tail of the car, and his barrel seemed to burst out of the pattern. Humans don't have chess players...
Man looks at it for a long time. Well, it.
What is it? It is God, then, God.
Is that what it is? If it is God, then God is far from it;
Like the light diluted by the light itself, that it, manifested as God, is already too weak, too bitter, too limited.
It's God: What a process!
The world appears in a Bodhi tree, and only the tree itself knows itself.
It's too far, it's too deep, it's too special;
Looking at the castle through the dense leaves, we are mortal and contradictory.
Surveyors, it is better to run away.