Born 1928, Lo Fu graduated from the English department of Tamkang University, and had been professor of English at Soochow University (Also called Tungwu University) in Taiwan. Together with Chang Mo, and Ya-Xian, he founded the Epoch Poetry Quarterly, and served aschief editor in 1954. The publication has created lasting impact on the development of modern poetry in Taiwan. He writes, edits, translates, and teaches poetry for over forty years, and has been a very productive writer. His thirty eight poetry publication includes Wounds of Time, etc., and he has published seven prose collations, and five essay collections, and eight translated works, including Biography of Hugo. Lou Fu has won many literary awards. He was a surrealistic poet in his early years, and his presentation has an aura of magic, thus earning him the nickname of “magic poet”.
T. C. Lee
T. C. Lee was born in Nanchang, Kiangsi, China 1936. He graduated with B. S. degree from National Taiwan University and from Stanford University with Ph. D in 1964, both in Electrical Engineering. Then he worked in R&D with the high tech industry in US for thirty eight years. After retirement he devoted his long hobby and love in poetry and starting writing poems for several magazines.
A chance event occurred in the middle of the night.
Smitten by a cold tremor like a flood,
an irregular verb was he forever like,
wondering why the flow pattern of his blood
had to be matched by the orbit of the sun's flight.
Outdoors wind and snow were everywhere,
the poor thing, a very skinny bird-kite,
was hanging on the tree, shaky and queer.
Moreover, piercing deeper than that of a knife
was the sharp grating one can hardly endure,
let out from a partridge with all her might.
The bronze statue stood on the broad square.
It was quiet, and its silence ruled.
He could not figure out the rules.
He is such a man,
with a cocoon hidden inside.
Poking fingers into his throat,
he dearly wishes to witness,
as he begins to throw up,
the lively wings flapping
from a gorgeous butterfly.
The hat is left for his father
The clothing is left for his mother
The shoes are left for his children
The pillow for his wife
The necktie for a friend
The umbrella for his neighbor
(He lets out a yawn)
The bed is left for the termites
The books are left for the cockroaches
The photos are left for the wall
The letter for the stove fire
The poems for the rainstorm
The wine jug for the moon
(He squats down slowly)
The hands and feet are for the woods
The skeletons are for the soil
The hair is for the leaves and grass
The body fat for the fire
The blood for the rivers
The eyes for the sky
(He suddenly raises his head)
The joy is left for the swallows
The anger is left for the fists
The pain and sorrow is left for the wounds
The depression for the mirror
The hate for the bombs
The bewilderment for history
(He is ready to charge--)
He starts to meld into the street
He starts to mix into the dust
He starts to dissolve into the snowstorm
He starts to melt into steel
He starts to step into the woods
He starts to roll into the fragrance of the flower.
He has risen, to where he could be
Long or short, stiff or supple,
cloud or mist, hidden or visible,
being or not being, virtual or physical.
Like naked mountains like naked pines
Like naked water like naked fish
Like naked wind like naked smoke
Like naked stars like naked dark
Like naked fog like naked fairies
Like naked face like naked tears
toward the sound of rushing bells……
Note: A slightly different translated version of the poem,
"Streaking" by the same translator was recently published
in Prosopisia, The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary
World Poetry, an India publication.
Beneath the Window
When twilight adorns a window after-the-rain
I probe herewith the depths of the distant mountains.
I breathe a cloud against
the window pane, and draw with my finger
a long, long, slender road
and at its end
Someone has left with the rain.