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Writer's picturePoetryzine

Elaine Yu: “Autumn possession” and other poems

The Poetryzine Magazine presents the selected poems by the Chinese-Canadian poetess Elaine Yu

Elaine Yu


Dance of the egrets


Spread the wings of snow feathers,

flap

on the cold lake of late autumn,

golden light and shadow

flashing on the sea of my heart.


Turn to you,

my feather streaked

a wide

warm arm, as if

a lifetime attachment

without tie.


In the empty

deep forest,

it is neither tight closeness of suffocation

nor distant alienation.


Feel you,

wings flying, and falling into rows,

dancing like snowflakes,

which fills all the notes of nights.


Close eyes and look for you,

with a feeling of air flowing around.

Red lips reach lightly

the mysterious place of my heart,

where the egret is.




Autumn possession


Flatten the body, with the tail

connected in a straight line, lying down

on the fence wall under sunlight. Not moving at all.


I figured he must have completed this year's autumn possession,

who used to run back and forth with a green fruit in his mouth, slipped past me,

turned around a few times, and

moved to the bottom of a hidden birch tree.


Wrapped in a warm wool coat,

and disguised as his kind-

soft, cunning, alert,

while watching him sleep. You tell me


how to get ready for

the food of the whole winter, and deepen into the nest of dreams,

with the whole season,

listen, singing like in a dream.




On the other side


The maple forest cascades,

building mysterious rails that

no one can cross.

It is the realm of jungle creatures.


The noon sunray penetrates the jungle-

nothing can stop it.

Those released pigeons, like warheads


diving forward, ending at

far or near pasture,

however none of them can break out of the known boundaries.


On the other side, is it an orchard or a desert?

The sky has no barrier. Who, from the basket of season,

pick out a green olive, and

place on the tip of the tongue afar.




September's wind


The crescent moon

reaped summer’s long hair.

The wind blows the leaves, and my hair


closing to my cheek,

love the way how intimate they are,

like the muse of verses growing out of my head,

trace by trace, caressing the ear, whispering.


There is no osmanthus blossom here,

but a light scent of flower in the wind,

like the smell from the depth of the plant's soul,

lingering around the fingers.


The wings of a dragonfly dot the lake in the early morning,

without flying far away, and blow you

without softer wind.




Blackberry


Like a swarm of bees locked in a hive,

each one stretches out its small fists,

and hums quietly

from inside.


The hearts soaking sun's flame day and night

flow out lifetime of honey instantly,

release the confrontation-


No grinding teeth nor swallowing desire,

but in a deep purple dream

with you,


until your lips, fingers, hair, guts

over and over,

all dyed in deep love,

until it is evaporated.




One day of fish


Suddenly the faith in fish collapsed,

as if each fish is forced to put on

the Emperor's New Cloth.


Grab the fish by the throat

to test, and then put back into the water of doubt,

almost insane, endless loop.


The truth has been testified that

no matter how the fish is tossed, the presented

data can’t be cleared to zero.


However, such simple and effective logic

doesn't require debate: just take out the fish,

under the scorching sun, and wait


Fire, will be put out by the heroic fish;

Virus, will be faint on its own;

But who, can stop


stop ——fooling the fish

arrogantly




Hydrangea in August


Put in your palm

a four white petals intertwined

sky.


Pieces of

large mountain-shaped cumulonimbus cloud

rise from there.


The pinned, butterfly wings

tremble slightly in the wind, and

the fluorescent gauze skirt


is already flying to the sea,

landing on the mast that sails to the sky-

without return.




The train


Inside a small window,

black coffee, with a few spoons of

dim morning light, no need to shake.


Outside the window,

the fields, lakes, and villages are galloping

backwards, as if they have disappeared

even before arriving.


Whistling, the train boasts its scenery loudly.

I listen with silent eyes, and the flying pen

race with it.


When did the rapeseed flower fields of childhood

that neatly lined up

turn into scattered sod rolls on the grassland,

lying there one by one, waiting to travel.


The rice fields in the south of the Yangtze River

and the slow buffalo, also followed my carriage

to the shepherd's pasture of horses.


Such a fleeting time, and distance-

who can tell which train is slower,

and can carry me farther.




The secret of eyes


The black crystal planet is cruising

in space. Ten thousand light years

is just a moment in the night sky, flickering.


An opening and closing of the light feather

under the eyelid passes

a lifetime, with one-time flying.


A baby opens

his first glimpse of sky, reflected in the dawn

when an angel smiling and holding up the sun.


Rotating rays of two celestial bodies

superimposes across the barrier of time

and space, intersecting at nothingness.


I'm back in the chair now,

piercing the deep well under my eyelashes

to find your treasure buried in time,

which only takes a flash.




Birdsong in summer


Winds, initiating a

heat plan, just wait for the time

to light the fire and start the cosmic bellows.


There are birds continuous chirping

through countless thin pinholes

injecting into my systemic veins.


Like in the turbulent waves, it appears

some little white sails, that after a bump,

sail quietly into my harbor.


The stone of sound over the water surface

jumps and glides, splashing water with

flapping wings of flying and landing,


that pull out the long air route in my eardrum,

like the destination of its soul

forever residing in my body.





*Yanlan Yu, English name as Elaine Yu, born in Shanghai, China, now living in Toronto, Canada. Engaged in AI, IT analysis management. She is a member of the Writers Group of Boya, the Chinese Poetry Association, and the Ontario Poetry Association. She considers the poetry as the seal of soul, the religion of beauty, and the sublimation of love. Recently published personal poetry collection Secret Garden.




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