Tang Chengmao(唐成茂), National First-class Writer, member of the Chinese Writers Association, vice president of International Chinese Poetry Association, trustee of The Poetry Institute of China, chief editor of literary magazines, visiting professor at Sichuan University of Media and Communication. Tang was also the executive director of the fourth Chinese Haizi Poetry Award committee, general producer of the second Chinese Poetry Spring Festival Gala, vice director of the third Chinese Poetry Spring Festival Gala committee, executive director of the first Ten Best Contemporary Chinese Poets assessment committee. Tang has published literary works of several million words in domestic and foreign newspapers and periodicals such as October, Chinese Writers, Literature, Shi Kan. Several of his works have been serialized in newspapers and periodicals. Tang also received Spain’s International Poet Laureate Award and the Chinese New Poetry Centenary Hundred Best Poets Award.
THE FLOWERS IN THE POND GROW UP AGAINST THE WIND
The humid body, in the manner of a snake, forces happiness
To make a detour.
The spring can hardly wait.
The flowers in the pond flutter their wings
And grow up against the wind.
The divine bird in your dream, rests at heart, in the most secret place,
While you neglect it.
Youth shakes and sways. Dream’s ink is not yet dry.
Yesterday’s great snow, which covered all the mountains and
fields, soothed the many worldly disputes.
The spring wind is again stepped by spring, around the heart,
And makes squeaky sounds.
Wisteria and some philosophies have built comradery, and no longer get entangled
With earthly affairs. The sparrow’s conversation with azaleas
Is pregnant with meanings.
In the ancient well before the entrance door, there is a volume of Tess of the d’Urbervilles.
There’s no mud in the well. Only when there’s no living water in politics,
Can the hundred-year-old well
Preserve her chastity.
The grown-up plantains, and kindness
Are slowly chewed by the naked yellow cow.
The sycamore tree makes its way through the storms, and when it’s twilight,
Every drop is spring fever.
The passing years inside the pipe glitter and glitter.
All the village paths are relocated for the first snow of 2002.
The folk customs are washed again and again.
The old man with white beard wearing bamboo hat and morality, stands at the heart of the village,
Stands at the critical part of nation and family, Just like a veteran at the front guarding his trench.
My townsmen soaked in bitter water, and my celestial nostalgia Have preserved the rustic spring time,
And the simplicity upon the thousand-year-old stone path.
RESISTING THE ENEMY’S ATTACK PERSONALLY, SILENCE IS BATTLE
Facing vows of eternal love, the stones in the storm Remain speechless.
The stones are not merciless.
But rather they want the rains to clean
Facing fame and fortune,
Some people take off their dresses in surprise,
Some people extinguish friendships with torrential water.
Only the stones
Wanting neither favor nor despite, smile in silence.
Does love need the fidelity and persistence of the stones?
Does man need the sobriety and purity of the stones?
Love and sorrows, do they both taste like fine wine, intoxicating
the drinker on a sip?
When the hearts are opened, do they all sound like stones,
speaking in silence?
Resisting the enemy’s attack personally, forbearance is destiny and silence is battle.
No matter whether life is like dripping water wearing through the stone,
The stones must have their own opinions,
The stones must have their joys and sorrows.
The heartbeats of the stones-the spring must know.
The love and hate of the stones-the old stonemason must be clear.
Every stone is a passer-by and meteor in the sky.
Every stone carries the mission of a nation.
Even if the stone is smashed into pieces, or its head sliced from its body,
Its love of mankind is still
As firm as a rock, and sometimes even
THE RIVER WATER IS A SHARP SOFT KNIF
The bloody twilight has dampened a dynasty
I grab the river and grab the tears,
And the knife glistening amid the tears.
Like an errant knight of previous dynasty
I fly over the air and run on the walls in black cloaks.
In the sunset I am sharpening the knife with my feet on the giant waves.
I am sharpening the knife draped in frontier poems and Liu Yong’s lyrics.
I am polishing the moon amid the sharpening sounds, and with
The soft white water and long lingering fate, Together
We quietly sing.