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= Fan Ainong =

Poems

Self-Portrait
My spirit has no way to escape the divine arrows; wind and rain, heavy as millstones, darken my homeland.
I entrust my thoughts to the cold stars, but the iris perceives them not; with my blood I consecrate myself to Xuanyuan, the Yellow Emperor.

Three Elegies (Mourning Fan Ainong)
I. In days of storm and rain, I recall Fan Ainong. His grey head withered in solitude; with cold white eyes he watched the chicken and the worm. The taste of the world is bitter as autumn thistles; the straight path of mankind leads to destitution. Why, after only three months, have you lost your singular form!
II. By the sea gate, seaweed grows green; for many years he lived as a stranger. The foxes barely left their burrows when puppets mounted the stage. In the old homeland, cold black clouds; in scorching heat, nights long as frost. Alone he sank into the cool water - could this wash away his sorrow?
III. Debating over wine, the master was a light drinker. The great world stumbles in inebriation; in gentle drunkenness he himself sank away. This parting became eternal; from now on all words cease. Old friends scattered like clouds - I too am but light dust!

For Wu Qishan
Twenty years in Shanghai, seeing China daily. Ill, yet seeking no medicine; bored, only then reading. A little power, and the face changes; severed heads grow more. Suddenly out of office - Namo Amitabha!

Untitled I. Day and night the great river flows east; assembled heroes depart once more. Six dynasties of silk - an old dream; above Stone City the moon hangs like a hook.
Untitled II. At Yuhua Terrace buried halberds lie; in Mochou Lake a faint ripple remains. The beautiful one I seek cannot be seen; returning home I sing a vast song.

Farewell to Masuda Wataru
In Fusang fine autumn reigns; maple leaves red as cinnabar gleam in cool freshness. I break a willow to bid farewell; my heart follows the eastbound boat, remembering youth.

Untitled. Blood waters the Central Plain, nourishing hardy grasses; frost grips the land, yet spring blossoms. Heroes meet misfortune, the counsellor falls ill; tears at the imperial tomb, crows in the dusk.

Occasional Verse. Writings like earth - where shall they lead? Gazing east at the clouds, they stir dreams. What a pity the fragrant grove is desolate; spring orchids and autumn chrysanthemums bloom not together.

For Pengzi. An immortal descends from the azure sky; a cloud-carriage escorts the spirit-child. Poor Pengzi is no Son of Heaven; he flees hither and thither, swallowing the north wind.

After January 28th Battle. War clouds briefly recede, a remnant of spring; artillery and songs - both silent. I have no farewell poem; only from my heart I wish for peace.

Three Satirical Verses on Professors
I. He who makes the law falls not under it; leisurely past forty. Why not wager his fat head against dialectics?
II. Pitiful weaving maiden among the stars, became a horse-groom's wife. The magpies never come; the Milky Way endless.
III. The world has literature, girls have ample hips. Chicken broth for pork - Beixin closed its doors.

What I Heard. Brilliant lights at the banquet; adorned maidens attend the jade goblet. She remembers kin beneath scorched earth; pretends to look at silk stockings, concealing tears.

Untitled I. The old homeland darkly locked beneath black clouds; through distant night, separated from spring. At year's end - one takes the wine cup and eats blowfish.
Untitled II. White-toothed Wu maidens sing the willow song; after wine, all quiet, in late spring. Old dreams chase away the last intoxication; alone before the lamplight I think of the cuckoo.

Reply to a Reproaching Guest. Without feeling does not make a hero; loving one's child makes no lesser man. The one who stirs storms turns to look upon the little tiger cub.

For a Painter. Wind rises, a thousand forests darken; mist blocks the heavens, a hundred blossoms perish. I beseech the artist: with vermilion and ink alone, paint a spring mountain.

Inscription for Call to Arms. Playing with words, one falls into the net of words; defying the world offends its ways. Accumulated slander dissolves bones; only sound on paper remains.

Lament for Yang Quan. Where is the passion of old? Flowers bloom, flowers fall - let both happen. Who would have thought tears would fall in Jiangnan rain, weeping once more for the fallen hero?

Untitled I. In Yu's realm many flying generals; in the snail's dwelling only hermits. At night they invite the shadow at the pool's bottom; with pure water they praise imperial grace.
Untitled II. One branch of noble elegance pacifies the Xiang nymph; nine fields of virtue console the solitary waker. Against mugwort nothing avails; the exile spreads his fragrance.
Untitled III. Smoke and water - everyday things; in the desolate village, a solitary angler. Deep in the night he wakes from drunkenness; nowhere rushes or reeds.

Brain Inflammation - A Jest. My angry brows hardly rob moth-eyebrow charm; yet I offend the ladies. Their curses sound different now; my brain remains cold as ice.

Untitled. Ten thousand households darkened in weeds; who dares sing earth-shaking songs of sorrow? Thoughts connect with the cosmos; in silence one hears the thunder.

Feelings on an Autumn Night. Behind embroidered curtains the light passes; by cypress and chestnut groves a ceremony. The mourning emperor lets fragrant grasses wither; thorns adorn the wasteland. Whence milk-fruits for a thousand Buddhas? At midnight cocks crow; I light a cigarette, feeling the new coolness.

Late Autumn, Year of the Pig. Once I was startled when stern autumn seized the world; how dare I bring spring warmth to the brush? In the sea of dust, a hundred feelings sink; in autumn wind a thousand officials hasten. Old, I return to the marsh, rushes spent; in dream I fall through empty clouds. Tensely I listen for the cock in the wasteland - silence; I look up: stars clear upon the horizon.

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Admin at 09:40, 12 April 2026