Cao Bo (China)
Por: Cao Bo
A Little Bird
Winter, hazy, heavy, epidemic
The bird died at nightfall
It took its curtain call
When evening descended
Natural, peaceful, in the elevator on my doorstep, under the window
A little sad
It was no longer lonely. I picked it up, headed downstairs
And buried it in the ground beside the stairs
When it died, it lay on its side, its eyes closed, its posture elegant, deserving
The reputation of Good Bird
Burying it there
I smoothed the soil, covered it with some dead branches, and read a few
words
Then I went upstairs
And continued to drink
That glass of wine
The Zoo
The lark is singing in the branches
The tiger took away the meat
From the keeper
The panda is lying on a rock
Motionless
The hippo shows its old face
From the water
The swan suddenly
Flew away
A Forked Path in the Garden
This is the end of the path
We may say goodbye here
We may
The bath by zinnias and primulina fimbrisepalas
No flowing air
No lip words
The solemn moon’s cursed and complex elapse
I’m panting as I carry the shell of myself or my father
This is when everything becomes
Heavy
In the sweet-smelling thorns of the roses
Goodbye
My love
The garden is still playing its music
They bid me farewell by playing mournful carols with their souls side by side
The cycad stands in the dry and cracked garden
Wet rain is pouring down
Masks, the deep masks
Of pirates, farmers, intellectuals, prisoners and the masses
My father is the flower covered by the branches of the cycad
He’s watching me
Leave
His heart beating in the branches
The path of the withered and luxuriant garden is forked like dragonplum blossoms
At one end, Kaigawa Dazai is half smiling
The way he’s waiting for a joke on the appearance like two flaps of asses means no harm
Goodbye, my
Love
We can't hug anymore. We can't
Confide in each other and I'm leaving
We
Can’t
Go deep into each other’s marrow
My kind will call me to join them
Thinking about the shapes of Dazai's face and eye sockets and the girl Tu’s large chunks of texts
And smiling, I walk toward
The fork, the vertical, parallel, flat and implying path with roses spread in the loose mud
“You can't go there.”
“I'm going there.”
“There’re better things to expect”
“But that’s exactly what I want.”
“You can try more, in that short life of yours.”
Standing at the end of the branch
None of the forks is indistinguishable
No season
I’m stretching naturally and obediently from where I am
Once upon a time
At one of the branches of the road
A hand pushed me
To the end
Chang 'an in winter is tiring
Gray haze. I must be killed here
By time
And then where will I
Go
I keep thinking and slip into a mild coma
The medical van blocks my view. I’m driving out or back
A wad of paper money flies from the front and lands on the windshield
Then another wad
White chrysanthemums and yellow chrysanthemums float over the gray garden
I keep smiling and whimpering
Pray
A scene of peace,
Some calm passing in my heart,
A few seconds after drinking coffee
Those pigeons, flying over the square
Passing through the clockwise gap of the swing
I often dream of Socrates, Aristotle and Lao Tzu
Ladies and gentlemen, serene, in the air
My spirit has been fluctuating recently
Unable to write a few lines, my hand shook
Ah, I pray, keep my posture,
People eat noodles and drink bowls of noodle soup in the alley
The noise floats in the smoke, the bell rings, floats,
Thus They stand up and look up at the square
The huge invisible plane is smiling at me,
Then dive down to me
When I wake up
A few seconds ago
Dream (No.13)
It's too foggy
No one can see the others
One can't see from one building to another
Except a few bright spots
You needn’t draw the curtains
You can enjoy your fucking
Just do it
Right now
It's too foggy
No one can see the others
One can't see from one building to another
Except a few bright spots
It’s convenient for me
I needn’t draw the curtains
I enjoy my jerking off
And then, shed a few
Salty tears
Cao Bo is a Chinese poet, born in November 1979. Classified as a postmodern poet, he resides in the city of Xi'an, China. He started writing at the age of 20. He has published his works in Poetry Journal, Star Journal and Yanhe Journal, etc. His works have been collected in various anthologies. Some of his published books of poems are: Yesterday, 2017; You Are a Cat, 2019; Man in the Sea, 2020; and Pink Finch, 2023. He has won the Chinese Young Poet Award, Poetry Tide Magazine's Top Ten Poetry Books Award, the Golden Camel Award of the Silk Road International Poetry Art Festival, the Boao International Poetry Prize, the Top Ten Poets of China Poetry Spring Festival Gala, etc.
