Lin Mang was born in November 1949. He went to primary and high school in Beijing. In 1969 he went to Bai Yang Dian, beginning to write poetry and became one of the key members of Bai Yang Dian Poetry Group. He taught in high school and college in Beijing until he worked for China Writers' Association in 1992. He also writes non-fiction and poetry critical articles. His publications include I flow over the land, Lin Mang's Poetry, Eternal Instants, Short Poems by Lin Mang, The Light Penetrating Years. He has edited a number of poetry anthologies. He is one of the key editors of Poetry Exploration.
Mario Li is an American Chinese, with interests in poetry, photography, arts, gaming, history and the future, residing in Nevada, USA.
14 Lines: The End Of Summer ? Roses
The sudden unexpected flash of roses made everything dim.
Time has taken away the skeleton of sunlight.
For this most brilliant moment,
We have waited a whole summer.
Rain pounds on ancient homes.
Flying across the evening sky, birds break
Aging tranquility. Their calls
Make people returning home under their umbrellas sense some kind of message.
At the edge of this city,
Giant trucks drive out of a misty construction site, Like bulls tearing through muddy streets.
Connecting the present to the past and the future,
When we have broken the radiant chain of time,
At that fracture, I behold so many beautiful, rose-like pictures.
Hometown, Canola Fields, Trees And The First Thing I Want To Say
It's spring, there is a patch of yellow, next to the green fields of winter wheat by the water.
The trees are still bare at the village entrance.
Spring has written hopes, together with a trace of sadness from the past, into February.
A patch of yellow, the flowers of the canola field, with a look of transparency, are briskly
swaying and swaying, in the breezes from the south,
Just like the heart of my little daughter.
And the path by the fields, left behind by the older generation,
So worn, so low, like a river bed
( How does one pass through in the rainy season?)
It still remains in the sunshine and the smells of soil.
The migrating birds made their choice in the nesting season,
They flew over the water and through the yellow canola field,
Finally settling in those brown trees.
Getting behind those trees, what's on your mind?
In the hometown you left a long time ago,
Behind the mist of lost feelings,
Again I heard dogs barking and the noisy morning of the village.
That patch of yellow, the flowers of the canola field have been in bloom for many years.
There are times the fire of life burns serene...
An Autumn Afternoon Sun
It's so good!
Time, please don't move.
I'm reading in the sunshine of the afternoon,
As happy as a cliff,
As a tree, as a pasture,
As the sheeps freely grazing on the mountains
The happiness in the book is my happiness.
No, I am not a cliff,
Not a tree, not the sheep.
We are driven by time,
We are manipulated by the cares of the world.
It is us, ourselves who have chosen this life.
Yes, such a helpless entry.
Belongs to the autumn sun.
In early autumn,
On an afternoon, this happiness under the sun
Is so quiet!