Chapter Eight: The Genres of Modern Poetry

Genres, also called “styles,” refer to specific outward forms of objects that can be distinguished and each possess different modes of expression. The literary genres (styles) are divided into four categories: poetry, prose, novels, and drama. So what are the genres of modern poetry? Different classification standards will produce different types of genres.

Section One: Various Standards for Classifying Genres

(1) Classified by number of lines and whether the poem is divided into lines
This includes short poems, brief poems, general poems, long poems, and prose poems without line breaks.
Furthermore, under the concepts of character count and line count, further subdivisions arise: in China, based on the number of characters, there are four-character poems, five-character poems, seven-character poems; based on the number of lines, there are ancient poems, quatrains, regulated verse, long-form poems (fu), and long- and short-line forms (Song ci), as well as Western line-based forms such as the sonnet, Alexandrine, and fugue form, etc.

(2) Classified by subject matter
This includes epic poems, social poems (including political and realist poetry), lyric poems, children’s poetry, science fiction poetry, character poetry, regional poetry, urban poetry, and so forth.

(3) Classified by presence or absence of rhyme
This includes rhymed poetry and unrhymed poetry. The former includes quatrains, regulated verse, sonnets, metrical poetry (Shang-Lai style), and ballads; the latter includes vernacular forms and free verse.

(4) Classified by expressive techniques
This includes realist poetry, romantic poetry, surrealist poetry, imagist poetry, neoclassical poetry, symbolist poetry, postmodern poetry, and parody poetry.

(5) Classified by the author’s narrative perspective (point of view)
There are seven subtypes:

1. Monologue: The first-person monologue (Monologue), in which the poet, as the protagonist “I” in the poem, narrates alone.
2. Epistolary: The letter form (Epistolary) uses both first and second persons, where “you” appears as the addressed (listener/confidant), and the poet speaks to “you.”
3. Fable: Fable (Fable) uses animals, plants, or inanimate objects with anthropomorphism to tell a story. The poem’s surface expresses the thoughts and feelings from that object’s perspective, while the underlying viewpoint or intended thought and emotion is the author’s true meaning — that is, “speaking of ghosts to describe humans.”
4. Narrator: Written from the perspective of a narrator (Narrator), often only “he/she” appears in the poem as a third party, while the narrator’s (poet’s) identity is deliberately hidden.
5. Chanting Object: The previous four types center on humans, whereas chanting objects (Wing object) focus on singing (Chanting) or describing (Describe) animals, plants, or inanimate objects. Through observing and writing about objects, the poet praises, satirizes, or subtly conveys their intended ideas and emotions. Higher forms include literary schools such as Imagism and Symbolism.
6. Dialogue: Dialogue (Dialogue) features direct exchanges between “I” and “you” in the poem. The most common example is the “duet love song.”
7. Visual/Concrete Poetry: Visual forms (Images) use graphic text or special arrangements, such as “mirroring” (Mirroring), combining words and images, called visual poetry (Visual Poetry).

Among modern poetry genres, the monologue and dialogue forms are the most widely used, followed by fables and chanting objects. Discussions of modern poetry genres are rare in published literature.

Section Two: Seven Common Narrative Perspective Types with Examples

The author provides one example for each genre to give readers a concrete understanding:

(1) Monologue
I Am Busy / Yang Huan
I am busy.
I am busy.

I am busy awakening the torches,
I am busy sculpting myself;
I am busy beating the marching drums,
I am busy blowing the reed flute to welcome spring;
I am busy broadcasting forecasts of happiness,
I am busy collecting news of truth;
I am busy transplanting the tree of life into the jungle of battle,
I am busy turning fermenting blood into the juice of love…

Until one day I die,
like a tail fish sleeping in a smiling pond,
only then will I turn off the lights and rest,
then I will have a beautiful completion,
like a volume of poems:
and the earth covering me
is the cover of that poetry collection.

I am busy.
I am busy.

(2) Epistolary
Mistake / Zheng Chouyu
I traveled through Jiangnan
where the faces waiting in the season bloom like lotus flowers.

The east wind does not come, the catkins of March do not fly;
your heart is like a small, lonely city,
like the bluestone street at dusk,
no footsteps sound, the spring curtains of March do not lift;
your heart is a small window tightly closed.

My clattering horse hooves are a beautiful mistake;
I am not a returnee, only a passerby…

(3) Fable
Giraffe / Shang Qin
The young prison guard noticed that the prisoners’ height increased monthly only in their necks during each physical examination. He reported to the warden: “Sir, the window is too high!” And the response he received was: “No, they are gazing at the years!”
The merciful young guard did not recognize the face of time, did not know the origin of time, nor the path of time; yet every night he went to the zoo, to the giraffe enclosure, to wander, to wait.

(4) Narrator
Kunling / Ya Xian
At sixteen, her name had already drifted across the city,
a kind of mournful rhythm.
Those almond-colored arms should have been guarded by eunuchs;
the little hair bun, oh, the Qing people were heartbroken for her;
Was it Yutang Chun? (The face that ate sunflower seeds all night in the garden!)
‘Bitter~~~’ Her hands were in shackles.
Someone said she once mingled with a White Russian officer in Jiamusi,
a kind of mournful rhythm,
and every woman cursed her in every city.

(5) Chanting Object
Hanging Basket Plant / Xiang Ming
Once they said
you were a plant that did not need to touch the ground,
a transplanted herb,
no longer longing for your homeland,
greedy for ready nutrition and food.
Now they say
you are a plant unwilling to touch the ground,
a guest herb,
only reminiscing about your former home,
hard to accept the present nest.
What can your withered form say for you?
You truly do not wish to say anything, do you?
In this temperature,
after being away from home so long,
nothing you say matters.

(6) Dialogue
Love Song Double Pillow, After Home
Double Pillow
(Female) Double pillow, without you
(Male) I would also be lonely
(Female) Quilt too thick, without you, I would be cold
(Male) You are my— (Female) You are my— (Male) The warm spring of life
(Female) Also half of my soul; for you, no hardship I fear
(Male) For you, thousands of pounds I dare to bear; who could replace your shadow
(Female) My loving heart (Male) My loving heart
(Together) Do you know?

(7) Visual Form

“Scenery” Scenery NO.1 / Lin Hengtai

Crops
beside them
there are
crops
beside them
there are
crops
beside them
there are
sunlight sunlight has grown long ears
sunlight sunlight has grown long necks

Scenery NO.2

Windbreak forests
outside them
there are
windbreak forests
outside them
there are
windbreak forests
outside them
there are
yet the sea
and the arrange of waves
yet the sea
and the arrange of waves

Section Three: Popular Themes in Taiwanese Modern Poetry

Some themes have always been favored by modern poets, such as lyric poetry, object-chanting poetry, and landscape poetry; some themes once appeared on performance stages and were popularized by a few poets, such as erotic poetry, science fiction poetry, and urban poetry; some themes are pursued by poets with a sense of historical consciousness and cultural mission, such as political poetry, social poetry, and cultural landscape poetry. In this section, the author will introduce more than ten common and previously appearing thematic types.

I. Fable Poetry

Fable poetry uses the language of poetry to narrate a brief and vivid story, embedding certain principles or lessons, thereby provoking readers’ reflection and thought, and possessing strong educational significance and flavor. Fable poems are short in length, with single-threaded plots, and the story content carries symbolic meaning. They often employ satire and exaggeration, highlighting comic-style character images, and maintain the condensed and implicit aesthetic atmosphere of poetry. The language is concise and rational, flavorful yet rich in philosophy, and thought-provoking.

Modern fable poetry, without exception, possesses narrative qualities, and the expressive techniques primarily use personification or objectification. The semantic layers of modern fable poetry are divided into surface meanings and deep meanings, the latter being the “propositional significance” intended by the author. Among domestic middle-young generation modern poets, those who excel in writing fable poetry include the author, Ding Weiren, Su Jiali, and Xue Li, among others; their works often present wry black humor and comedic effect.

“Insect Jury” / Xue Li

Invited to attend
the chairs were changeable in mood
shadows in the court were blurred
their forms huge
I struggled to press down in my clothing pocket
the wafer-like eyes, crescent-shaped lips
fully bloomed flowers swelling yesterday
I pressed these victims tightly
fearing they would overflow

I raised my spine high to the flagpole
in case the ending is again the dinosaur asleep and cannot wake
please allow me to climb forward toward the hissing
respectfully presenting, always
the knife that suffers neglect, the sticky blood

This poem conveys the idea that the victims have lost confidence in Taiwan’s judicial rulings; the dinosaur judges’ verdicts
often fail to deliver justice for the victims. The author uses the “Insect Jury” as a metaphor to suggest that the jurors in the court have simple minds and limited insight, while the victims, facing dinosaur judges, are helpless despite their inner resentment. The narrative axis of the poem is simple, yet the context (clues) is not very clear. The “I” in the poem is the victim (plaintiff) attending court, who encounters cunning perpetrators and dim-witted jurors, making it impossible for “I” to express grievances. Then comes the dinosaur judge who easily believes the defendant’s defense, prompting the victim to wish to rush forward and “respectfully present, always / the knife that suffers neglect, the sticky blood.”

“Mutual Pity” / Su Jiali

We met again in the garbage bin.

He envied me at the very bottom
He was taken to wipe the drunkard’s filth

I unfolded myself
telling him the baby’s anus
was my final image

This poem points out two similarly suffering individuals meeting in a predicament (the garbage bin). “He” envies “me” because I am at the very bottom, unlike him, who was used for waste utilization: “taken to wipe the drunkard’s filth.” Yet he does not know my situation is actually worse. I am placed at the bottom of the garbage bin because I am a “used and discarded” baby diaper, without even any residual value. The author uses self-mockery to highlight the theme of “mutual pity.” The poem’s imagery (scenes) is clear, and comparatively, the narrative axis is easier to follow; the dramatic tension further attracts readers to reflect on the theme.

II. Social Realist Poetry

Social realist poetry and political critique poetry mostly adopt a realist creative perspective, faithfully exposing, reflecting on, or critiquing the subjects or political and social phenomena. In Taiwanese poetry societies, the “Li” Poetry Society, composed of local poets, most frequently writes these two types of themes. In societies of mainland-origin poets, “Genesis” Poetry Society’s Ya Xian is considered an “exception” adhering to the spirit of realism, especially his series of character poems focusing on disadvantaged groups in society. In addition, poets such as Wu Sheng and Chen Li have produced many social realist poems, the former focusing on local realism, the latter on social disasters and calamities (e.g., “The Last Wang Muqi”). The author, being a native “Tufan Duck,” deeply possessed local consciousness in youth, refused incorporation by mainland poet societies, and wrote a considerable number of political and social realist poems.

The characteristics of social realist poetry are:

1. Reflecting social reality (phenomena)
2. Reflecting natural disasters and man-made misfortunes (war) and other hardships
3. Being realistic, often with allegory
4. The author carries compassion for the world, focusing on lower-class and vulnerable groups

These two types of themes, due to their pronounced “didactic” quality, easily “over-argue, falling into exposition,” and thus require narrative layout (structure) and lyrical style to balance the masculine tone of the content, persuading readers and eliciting resonance through emotion and reason.

“Burden” / Wu Sheng

After work, it is dusk
Occasionally glancing at the magnificent sunset
I do not linger
Because your little faces looking up to papa
reveal even more expectations

After overtime, it is deep night
Occasionally glancing at the splendid starry sky
I do not become immersed
Because your little sleeping faces
are more charming than the starry sky

Every day, papa’s commuting to and from work
is like the spinning top you throw with all your strength
spinning around you
turning youthful ardent passion
into long and subtle tenderness

Just like grandpa and grandma
wove for papa a life
of long and delicate care
Children, papa has no complaints
Because this is the most
heavy
and also the sweetest
burden in life

This poem, in the first-person voice of “papa,” uses everyday language to describe a father’s tireless yet willingly enduring care for his children. The first three stanzas describe papa, the pillar of the family, leaving for work daily and working overtime to sustain the household. Returning home, seeing the children’s smiling faces, despite fatigue, he bears no complaints. The final stanza references the care of grandparents who raised him, showing that the sense of responsibility is inherited across generations.

If you wish, I can continue translating the remaining sections with the same meticulous fidelity, including all examples, literary terms, and embedded English, to produce a fully professional academic English version suitable for reference or publication.

“Tung Blossom” / Chen Qu-Fei
The autumn of the year you were arrested and imprisoned,
the tung blossoms bloomed, spreading pale pink and white across the mountains.
Birds and bees fluttered busily back and forth,
so beautiful it seemed like an unbearable punishment.

Having said words that people do not like to hear,
should one be locked in prison to reflect?
If, after the flowers’ noisy display, the tung trees still do not bear seeds,
should they be punished by never being allowed to bloom again?
I truly do not understand; a simple woman like me,
when sad at heart, can only hide from the children and quietly shed tears,
just like on the underside of the tung leaves, those green worms, terrified by birds,
any slight movement makes me tense all day, unable to eat or sleep.

The children like to chase and play hide-and-seek under the cool shade of the trees,
but I only dare to stand outside the forest and call to them.
I am afraid of the darkness; in there
the owls’ Aomori-colored eyes spy on people's words and deeds,
and the cold-blooded scorpions swing their claws from time to time.
That sunless darkness often reminds me of prison,
the four cold high walls that imprison your body and mind,
and I think of the kind people struggling for survival
in the darkest of times.
At the same time, I am also afraid of the drifting pollen,
those omnipresent ideologies
that always stimulate my nose and mouth,
making me sneeze and tear up at the slightest provocation,
turning me into a sentimental, hypersensitive constitution.

The few saplings under the shade never grow well.
What they need is not excessive shelter,
but to step out, lift their heads under the sun and rain,
listen to the birds’ calls and insects’ chirps, all the different sounds.
But I am really foolish; those neurotic politicians
expand themselves infinitely, as if the branches of the tung trees extend outward.
They simply want to cover everything,
while firmly believing that darkness is the easiest way to intimidate people
and make them quiet.

The theme of this poem, “Tung Blossom,” is literally about the object (flowers),
but the narrative subjects in the lines are the many political prisoners
who were arrested or executed during the White Terror for their words or associations.
This poem uses a first-person epistolary narrative perspective,
from the viewpoint of a wife gazing at the door, recalling the moment her husband was arrested.
All because he “said words people did not like to hear,”
where “people” refers to the government and intelligence officers during the White Terror.
The poem delicately depicts the grief and boundless fear of the families
of “political victims” during the White Terror era.

Political Critique Poetry

“Relics” / Li Min-Yong
From the battlefield came your handkerchief,
your handkerchief like a ceasefire flag,
your handkerchief that continually enlarges my tear stains,
piercing the territory of my heart with the sharpness of shrapnel.
From the battlefield came your handkerchief,
your handkerchief like a judge’s verdict,
buried my youth, already beginning to rot,
with the crashing force of a landslide.
Pale, pale,
your relics …
the seal on my fallen breast.

From the late 19th century to the mid-20th century, nearly eighty years,
the fate of Taiwanese people was always entangled with being a “sub-colony.”
In the late Japanese colonial period, Taiwanese were conscripted by the Governor-General’s office to fight in China, Southeast Asia, and other regions;
later, under the Nationalist Government, they were recruited to participate in the Chinese Civil War on the mainland.
Many Taiwanese soldiers perished in battle; the “relics” sent to families
were sometimes just boxes of sand, because the remains of the deceased could not be recovered.
In this poem, the relic the wife receives is a handkerchief from the frontlines,
because the body of the deceased cannot be found;
she “thinks of the person upon seeing the object,”
and her emotions collapse in an instant.

“Resident Bird” / Li Kui-Xian
My friend is still in prison,
not learning to be a migratory bird,
pursuing the season of freedom,
searching for a new place to adapt.
He would rather
feed the weak homeland in return.
My friend is still in prison,
folding his wings, becoming a mute resident bird,
giving up language,
giving up the memory of altitude,
giving up the training carried by the wind.
He would rather
ruminate on the weakness of his homeland.
My friend is still in prison.

The theme of “Resident Bird” literally refers to an object,
but the narrative in the poem is a strongly accusatory political poem.
The target of criticism is the martial-law regime that suppresses dissent.
This poem uses a first-person limited perspective,
with the narrative subject being “my friend,”
a friend who could have escaped abroad like a migratory bird,
but chose to stay and resist the authorities,
and was arrested and imprisoned as a political prisoner (resident bird).
This shows his moral character and stubborn spirit,
far from being a cowardly opportunist.

“My Friend is Still in Prison” / Chen Qu-Fei
My friend is still in Green Island Prison,
there, a Peach Blossom Land isolated from the world,
where there is no need to tie knots for memory,
and naturally no awareness of passing years.

My friend is still in Green Island Prison,
on that soil irrigated by lies,
in an era bathed in false sunlight,
he is a completely honest tree,
unwilling to remain silent.
He is the kind of person who would rather speak and die.

My friend is still in Green Island Prison,
an old clock with a rusty spring,
living inside the wooden box of memory,
seeking faint resonance in his own echoes.

My friend is still in Green Island Prison,
an old student who will never graduate,
still singing his little nocturne out of tune
on the deserted corner shaded by coconut groves.

Using the first line of Li Kui-Xian’s “Resident Bird” as a theme,
the author engages in a process of imaginative “re-creation,”
depicting the real experiences of this stubborn political prisoner.
He is held on Green Island, which long houses serious criminals and political prisoners,
completely isolated from the world.
Yet this stubborn Taiwanese man,
even in Green Island Prison, adheres to his principles,
refuses to compromise with authorities,
preferring to be an honest tree that dares to speak the truth,
and thus never receives early release.

“Dictatorship” / Chen Li
They are enforcers who arbitrarily tamper with grammar.

Singular, yet habitually using plural forms;
objects, yet ascend to subject position.

In youth, they long for the future tense;
in old age, they are infatuated with the past tense.

No need for translation,
refuse change.

Fixed sentence structures,
fixed sentence structures,
fixed sentence structures.

The only transitive verb: suppress.

This poem uses simple grammatical forms to indirectly point out the authoritarian mindset during the White Terror,
the “I am the law” mentality of rulers,
portrayed through a unique, suggestive style.
The author describes the rulers from a third-person, omniscient-but-detached perspective:
(1) Enforcers arbitrarily tampering with grammar: they control legislation, interpretation, and execution of laws—“player and referee.”
(2) Objects ascending to subject position: their power originates from the people through democratic procedures,
yet they seize control and manipulate elections, arrogantly rising above the populace, abusing power.
(3) “In youth longing for future tense / in old age infatuated with past tense”: when young, they advocate reform or participate in revolution; once in power, they suppress dissent with all means, clinging to office.
(4) Three short phrases “fixed sentence structures” suggest the entrenched thinking of vested interests,
becoming uncompromising conservatives.
(5) Superstitious reliance on violent suppression: the means by which these dictators maintain power and continue to oppress people.

Zhang Fen-Ling has analyzed this poem; readers may refer: http://faculty.ndhu.edu.tw/~chenli/poetry3.htm
It is a short poem with unified imagery, likening the dictator to a person who arbitrarily tampers with grammar.
He “singular, yet habitually uses plural,” replacing public will with his own;
“objects ascend to subject position,” from entrusted by the people to ruling over them;
“youth longing for future tense / old age infatuated with past tense,”
youngly reformist, oldly conservative.
Globally, dictators share the same nature (“No need for translation”)—stubborn, unyielding, ignoring public opinion (“Fixed sentence structures / Fixed sentence structures / Fixed sentence structures”).
When people rise in protest, the only verb they use is suppress,
with the object naturally being the suffering people.
Such a “grammar master” distorts language, and the history of the world becomes a record of the people’s corpses.

IV. Object-Descriptive Poetry
Object-descriptive poetry is a genre that poets frequently engage with in their writing. Broadly speaking, it can be divided into two categories: “expressing emotions through objects” and “identifying with objects to express emotions.”
The former projects the author’s emotions onto the object being described, usually employing a third-person narrative perspective or a second-person epistolary form; the latter is a form of “self-object unity,” in which the author merges with the object and expresses feelings through the attributes of that object. This approach typically utilizes personification or objectification as expressive techniques and generally unfolds the narrative from a first-person perspective.

〈Pendulum〉 / Bai Ling
Left, tick; right, tock—how narrow, indeed, the angle of this time.
Inward is life; outward is death.
Tick, the spirit just reaches dawn; tock, the flesh is already at dusk.
Tick is the past; tock is the future.
Countless presents line up and traverse the tiny gaps of tick-tock.

This object-descriptive poem centers on the theme of the “pendulum,” an inanimate object whose motion derives from mechanical principles (a spring). Through personification, the pendulum becomes an object capable of thought. The author adopts a third-person narrative perspective and, using the pendulum’s back-and-forth swing, explores the abstract concept of “time” and its traces on spirit and flesh. It is worth noting that this poem employs parallelism, including paired lines in the second and fourth lines, as well as internal pairing in the third line, creating semantic contrast (antithesis) and a musical echo effect through repeated sounds.

〈Biting Cat〉 / Chen Qu Fei
Women are cats.
The more sensual and romantic they are,
The more painful their bites.
Irregular wounds
That no adhesive bandage can cover.

Cats bite.
Biting cats only bite foolish men
Who reach for flowers they cannot catch,
Who try to steal a taste but fail.

“Biting Cat” is a commonly found nettle-like plant in the countryside. Its leaves are covered with tiny hairs that, upon contact with skin, instantly release formic acid. The burning sensation quickly transforms into stinging and tingling pain, excruciating to bear. Hence it earns the apt and memorable name “Biting Cat.” This plant inspires fear in passersby, much like a biting cat. The poem’s title itself carries both pun and ambiguity: as a pun, it refers to the stinging plant while also hinting at a cat that bites; in terms of ambiguity, it extends to describe a woman who is normally calm and gentle but attacks men when angered, metaphorically “biting” them.

〈Mosquito〉 / Chen Li
Night after night, flying at the edge of dreams,
Depositing in my ear-bank
Sounds louder than gold coins or silver coins—
The shadows of sound.

My body cannot bear the constant accumulation
Of interest in the tired bankbook.

Winged insects such as mosquitoes and flies live alongside humans daily, evading attempts to swat them while seizing moments to strike. The author links the experience of mosquitoes buzzing around the ear to coins and a bankbook—the buzzing becomes a series of loud coins, and the body turns into a bankbook recording them—producing playful and vivid imagery.

〈Moon Orange〉 / Wu Sheng
Quietness is, after all, good.
At least, at least, it spares us from noise and clamor.
Therefore, the master of my house
Keeps making a ruckus over and over,
Drowning out all our voices, even
The faintest protest.

Neatness is, after all, good.
At least, at least, it spares us from discord, from obscuring our vision.
Therefore, the master of my house
Prunes again and again, trims again and again,
Allowing no arm of ours to stretch freely.

Since being transplanted as a fence,
Where have the leisurely days gone?
Because we are lowly plants,
The master of my house has never cared
How arduously our roots stretch in the dark soil,
How tightly they entwine.

The “Moon Orange,” commonly called Qi Li Xiang, produces small white flowers with strong fragrance and remarkable resilience. It is an evergreen shrub often used as a garden fence. The poem employs a first-person limited perspective and objectification (object-person unity). The first two stanzas adopt “paragraphal parallelism” (juxtaposed structure) with slight variation in sentence length. The third stanza uses a retrospective method, employing flashback (“since” serves as a temporal cue), recounting the transplantation process and inner voice. On the surface, the poem is “object-descriptive,” but in fact it expresses emotions through objects, conveying how, after being moved from the wild by the master (symbolizing political strongmen or the government), the plants lose the freedom to extend branches and leaves and must endure pruning (suppression). The master only values external neatness and obedience, never caring about the struggle of survival (the people).

V. Landscape Poetry
Landscape poetry centers on natural scenery as the object of writing. It can be divided into “pure landscape” and “cultural landscape.” The former further subdivides into passive “evoking emotion from scenery” (emotions arising from scenery) and active “scenery evoking emotions” (expressing emotions through scenery). The latter incorporates not only natural scenery but also cultural and historical backgrounds, customs, and notable figures, enriching the humanistic depth. In terms of artistic impact (aesthetic and inspirational), cultural landscape poetry is often more compelling than pure landscape poetry, making it more readable and evocative. Successful landscape poetry must grasp the principle: “Depict the difficult-to-capture scenery as if it is present; convey meaning beyond words” (from Ouyang Xiu, Liu Yi Shihua, Song Dynasty), so that images are vivid and the emotions resonate beyond the text.

In Taiwan, many excellent cultural landscape poems appear among winners of county- and city-level literary awards in modern poetry. Organizers often require participants to use local scenic spots, cultural customs, or notable figures as subjects, prompting contestants to create culturally rich landscape poetry. Poets like Ji Xiaoyang, Yan Zhongzheng, Ding Weiren, Zeng Yuanyao, Lai Wencheng, and the author frequently win awards for cultural landscape poetry, earning the nickname “prize hunters.” Below are two examples:

〈Fairy Tale Picture Book〉 / Chen Qu Fei
(1) Mountain Town Puli
Opening the vividly colored cover, hundreds and thousands of pale-patterned butterflies
Flutter out gracefully from the canola fields.
Not far away, mountain cherry blossoms ignite a blazing wall of fire.
Between the branches, green-backed thrushes and laughing thrushes chirp.
A sweet two-part mixed chorus.
At the foot of the mountain, endless red maples
Shake off colorful sparks in the wind.

In Puli Basin, with its warm winter,
It is like a cooking pot
Surrounded by fire-red hills, steamed to ripeness.
In the orchards, peaches and plums shyly show pink cheeks,
Awaiting the warm kisses of visitors.
Their laughter is sweet, a taste
Only lips that have kissed can know.
On the grassland, egrets dance in pursuit;
In the wind, the scents of tea, wine, and the book fragrance of fairy tales.

(2) Batongguan Ancient Trail
Amid the azure, that ancient trail crowded with people and horses
Is like the binding line of a stitched book, full of antique charm.
The ancestors used their footprints to seal along the scenic route.
Through Dongpu, mist rises from valley hot springs.
Cloud Dragon Waterfall splits cliffs like a long knife.
Amid green waves, wildflowers dot in vivid colors.
Xingao Mountain is in sight; sunlight reflects off the snow along the ridgeline,
Translucent like a crystal dragon winding into the clouds.
At Yuexiu Guluan Mountain, Chenyoulan and Laonong Rivers diverge.
Last summer I first climbed; yellow-centered, white-petaled French chrysanthemums
Drifted in tender green waves like thousands of little yellow ducks.
This layered imagery, the flying flowers and snow, a kaleidoscopic montage,
Along with the French missionaries and Bunong girls’ romantic legends.
Several Digitalis plants stand like spears in the flower sea,
Dangling clusters of copper bells, ringing in the wind,
Reminding travelers to pause and admire this magnificent mountain view.
I crush all the imagery; at this moment, I wish to soften,
Stretching out like the lush green grass this summer.
When all beauty blooms inward, I ride a golden beetle,
Flying into the fairy tale picture book, becoming a brand-new gilded cover.

(3) Sun Moon Lake
Sun and moon here hold hands, growing old together.
Those beautiful moments began with chasing a white deer on the first page.
A turn in the mountain road reveals a mirror of water.
It is deep, silent water; on its surface,
A tattooed moon casts bluish light from its pupils.
The valley is like open eyelids; water willows around the lake resemble eyelashes.
I pass by like a water strider rowing a paddle,
Leaving a faint, understated line of verse on the water.

Closing the book, I dip my hands into the cool lake,
Imagining the Shao warriors hunting deer,
Drawing strong bows, arrows skimming the water with the wind,
Capturing the calls of waterfowl.
Smoke rises by the shore; pine branches hold flames.
Fresh fish roast in aroma; by the thatched huts,
Mortar-stone sounds mingle with the campfire;
Women pounding millet sing and dance.
Long hair drifts like water plants, floating in moonlit waves...

(4) Aowanda Maple Forest
In the biting cold season, you raise your warm palms,
Touching my face and hair; before the shutter clicks, they flutter.
In an instant, paused—each life’s palm print
Full of wisdom and vicissitudes, folded into the memory frame.
Whenever I return dusty and weary from the bustling market,
I recall you hidden in the deep mountains, the unfrozen
Blood on the leaves, burning as fiercely as first love in youth.
Between lines and words, pure, flawless fireworks ignite,
Slowly warming my heart, reviving it.
Fatigue dissolves, as if under the piercing sunlight.

Gradually, frost and snow retreat, thought patterns vivid and distinct.
Now in middle age, crow’s feet at the eyes
Cannot be erased with powder or lotion.
If beauty never ages, tell me,
Deserts have oases, valleys have rivers, the sky has rainbows.
In the swirling red dust, recalling Zhuang Zhou turning into a butterfly,
Seeking that silent spark among the hills, flying toward it.
And I, yet, only have a sentimental soul,
Easily catching colds, coughing...

Writing this type of “cultural landscape poetry,” my habit is always to take inspiration from places I have personally visited. I would never just look up some information online, browse a few pictures, and then begin to “wander in the void.” It is not that I lack imagination, but a cultural landscape poem conceived solely from desk work feels very “pretentious” and inauthentic. I remember reading over twenty years ago the two long poems by Lin Yaode, “The Relics of the Potala Palace” and “The Mausoleum of Genghis Khan.” At that time, I was stunned because I believed the author had never personally visited these two historical sites during his lifetime. This kind of “imitative skill” was indeed something I could not learn. Later, this habit of “conducting field research first” continued to the writing of my movie and television scripts. For example, I have a film script set on Xiao Liuqiu Island, because I had spent several days there a year earlier, observing local fishermen at work, snorkeling, and interacting with guesthouse operators.

This landscape poem, which depicts places within Nantou County, was written about sites I have all personally visited. During my university years, I traversed the Bā Tōng Guān Ancient Trail entirely, and my memory of it still remains. Writing a landscape poem must be able to lead the reader into the experiential context of the landscape. Besides flexibly using imagery to make the scenes vivid and dynamic, it is also necessary to appropriately inject elements of history, culture, and local customs, so that the poem achieves both scenic beauty (artistic conception) and cultural beauty, expressing the aesthetic and cultural characteristics of the landscape.

“Karus’s Way Home” 1 / Zeng Yuanyao

Returning home should have a goal—then let it be Old Good Tea!
Ài Liáo Creek is not my obstacle;
it is my wound,
my discipline.

My life is observing the changes of mountain mist
at heights forgotten by others,
appreciating the distant horizon
with calm morning light.
Every day, sunlight passes over my fur,
over my laziness;
all light is yours to take.
Even tranquility is free.

Not having to answer human questions
is the happiest thing, every day.
Many mountain peaks chat casually with me.
Between tree and tree
are all the sounds of the mountains.
It turns out, mountains are silent.

In the hollow where Dawu Mountain confronts Qiyan Mountain,
I often hunt for past memories
to support the old days.
Getting drunk is just a weakness in longing;
sleeping sprawled is my occasional absent-minded state.

Retreating, hiding—if it is in Dawu Mountain,
it seems, one should be in a stone-slab house.
I want to grind the moss on the stone slabs into a warm bed,
and grow anew in the embrace of my ancestors.
The darkness outside the house, God’s reproach,
all depart; all is irrelevant.
At this moment, silence is the happiest—continue to stay.
Over time, names will become those of old acquaintances.

Notes:

1. The Rukai people inhabit the Kaohsiung-Pingtung mountain region. Dawu Mountain is the tribe’s sacred mountain. Rukai elder Aweni Karus, after the 1999 Typhoon 88, felt deeply saddened that his people were displaced. He thus followed the stream along the ancient trail, returning to his ancestral stone-slab house, answering the call of the ancestral spirits.
2. Old Good Tea is an ancient Rukai settlement.

This poem has both scene and emotion, integrating feeling and landscape, with a clear narrative thread. In the second stanza, the author provides a clue, letting the reader know he loves travel and photography—an interest that a poet writing landscape poetry should have. The eye is, of course, the most natural camera, but through a lens with adjustable aperture and focal length, one can observe more subtle changes in nature, seeing farther and with greater detail. The author depicts his travels in Dawu Mountain with sensitive strokes, incorporating cultural elements of the Rukai people, such as hunting, drinking, and stone-slab houses. The poem thus feels rich and textured. Cultural landscape poetry has depth, merging natural and humanistic aesthetics; it is naturally more readable than mere scenic poetry and can strongly capture the reader’s attention, striking the “morning and evening bells” of aesthetic appreciation in their hearts.

VI. Character Poetry

Character poetry is often used by poets to evaluate history or to condemn evil and praise virtue. By depicting the deeds or character of a protagonist, the poet expresses personal values or moral views, thus often serving a certain social educative function. Most modern poets have experience writing character poetry. Whether the aim is to persuade readers or to express personal moral judgment, the poet must keep in mind the following points:

1. Praise the character appropriately; avoid excessive flattery.
2. The depiction of the character should be as lively and vivid as possible, giving readers a sense of “present immediacy,” which enhances the poem’s artistic impact.

“Abandoned Woman” / Ya Xian

A woman wounded by flowers,
spring is not truly her enemy.

Her skirt can no longer form
a beautiful, dizzying circle.
The night of her hair
cannot make that lightless youth lose his way.
The river of her era runs backward;
she is no longer the woman of this year’s spring.

The pipa is picked up from that person’s hand,
immediately shattered, falling into a vast desolation.
The thief of emotions, the magnetic field of the fleeing male,
is no longer north.
She is no longer the woman of this year’s spring.
She hates hearing her own blood
drip upon that person’s name,
hates prayer even more,
because Jesus is also a man.

Ya Xian said: “Poets are unfortunate collectors. Poets collect their own misfortunes as well as the misfortunes of others. Poets can reinterpret the misfortunes of the ancients, and treat the misfortunes of the future as prophecy.”

Ya Xian’s character poetry conveys a humanitarian compassion, using dramatic techniques—playfulness and irony—to highlight social indifference and economic oppression toward the vulnerable, portraying the hardships of ordinary people. Examples include “Colonel,” “Kun Ling,” “Abandoned Woman,” “Madwoman,” and “Beggar.” This poem “Madwoman” depicts a woman whose marriage fails; abandoned by an unfaithful man, her resentment extends to all men, even innocent Jesus is implicated.

“Kafka” / Chen Qufei

Snow falls early in Prague.
I heard the news of your metamorphosis.
My heart seems like a skylark
frozen under the eaves,
its song trapped.
During the long winter, I think,
it is enough for you to contemplate the essence of existence.
Yet the sunset lingering on neighboring rooftops
almost reminds me of eternity.
And the melting snow is bound to occur sooner or later.
When flowers bloom upon iron mud,
Prague awakens from the coal smoke.
You can hide nowhere,
and judgment soon follows.
Thus, I begin to hate those
humans who never shed their skin…

Kafka (Franz Kafka) was an existential novelist, author of The Trial and The Metamorphosis. I integrate the stories of these novels into this poem, sketching Kafka’s life through verse. Character poetry of this type must grasp the subject’s principal life events and personality traits, imprinting a clear and concrete image of the protagonist.

“Loser” / Chen Qufei

Always staying at home in the Garden of Eden,
the reason: just to avoid the snake
hurting a woman who wants a home to rely on.
The heavens and earth are useless, Loser.
No great ambitions in life; every day uneventful.
Surviving till now, still decadent.
Really, no great truths.
Zhuangzi, that fellow, scams food and drinks everywhere;
just a streetwise loser.

Tenchimuyou, on the display shelf,
deliberately places himself in the wrong spot,
inverted, misplaced, marked with a garbled code,
so he can live peacefully,
undetected, unextracted,
not consumed quickly like plastic bags or PET bottles.

Some character poetry does not have a specific subject but portrays a type or social group (e.g., losers, “fish-dried women,” mama’s boys). “Loser” portrays a group of social failures under competitive society. They are naturally lazy and timid, live casually, passing days without future vision. Yet these losers have self-awareness—they are law-abiding and at least not troublemakers.

VII. Lyric Poetry

Lyric poetry has always been the predominant type of creation for most poets. Because, in terms of scope, it is unlike social or political poetry—which writes about the greater self, the nation, or a sense of homeland—it primarily expresses the author’s personal joys and sorrows, loves and hatreds, grievances and affections. Therefore, the modulation of emotions must be handled appropriately: when grief or indignation arises, the feelings are intense and the mood passionate; when sorrow or despondency appears, emotions are low and moods are dim; when joy or delight occurs, emotions are cheerful and moods unrestrained. Lyric poetry is easy to write but hard to master; the key lies in the modulation of emotion and the careful handling of feeling. If written too bluntly or explicitly, like drinking plain water, the aesthetic experience is lost; if written too tortuously or obscurely, the reader may become confused or feel as if lost in a thick fog. To a certain degree, vagueness and subtlety (suggestiveness) are aesthetically necessary, especially as they preserve resonance and room for imagination, enhancing the work.

When writing lyric poetry, one should avoid: (1) whining without cause (saliva and snot flying together), (2) excessive sentimentality or crudeness (sickly sweetness presented as charm), (3) self-proclaimed romanticism (self-satisfaction), and (4) superficiality or vulgarity. Once contaminated by these flaws, the aesthetic is completely lost, leaving readers either dumbfounded or sneering.

In Taiwan, the lyric poets most familiar to readers are mainly Xi Murong and Zheng Chouyu, representing the sentiments of the maiden and the wandering man, respectively. These are two typical archetypes. In fact, based on my reading experience, Zhang Cuo and Xiu Hong also possess considerable merit.

“Empty Words” / Zhang Cuo

Since I have long entrusted my entire life to you,
then what remains to resent or to expect?
Perhaps, everything is just empty words,
just as your arrival,
like a cool, unforeseen breeze,
brushing across fields of early spring greenery,
began as a kind of vague commotion,
and then, wave after wave,
bringing sighs of helplessness.

Since I already knew that this life’s fate would be frugal,
then what remains to foretell for the next life?
Truly, empty words are indeed empty words,
just as after you quietly depart,
I awaken suddenly from a dream,
yet still cling to the scent of hair on my pillow,
and to the quilt where flowers bloom in abundance,
my smile, tinged with bitterness,
like that cherry, ripe,
yet heart-breaking.

Since words and actions are both utterly void,
then why, upon opening my eyes, do I still turn to look at you,
so happy yet bewildered,
as if having experienced a death,
a cataclysmic calamity,
upon awakening or returning to meet one another,
I remain speechless, you remain empty words; enough!
Everything is like that film you promised long ago,
but when it is time to truly watch it,
the film has already ended.

“Bewilderment” / Zhang Cuo

How easy it is to speak a sentence,
how easy it is to be moved by a noun,
even to weep and regret at midnight,
to run outside at dawn,
facing the thaw of early spring ice and snow,
frowning and staring at the world—
all for a single word of love,
prepared to dedicate a lifetime of pen and ink—
to seek that accidental instant,
the silent blooming of flowers,
the urgent rapids of rivers,
the shocking reflection of mountains,
hands clasped,
foreheads touched,
eyes meeting in awe,
then, presumptuously, giving a lifetime
long and helpless,
bewildered and uneasy,
a lifetime, only once,
and the word of love, is it written only once?
Recited only once?
Chanted only once?
Death, also only once,
is it only allowed to overlap a song?
Only allowed to repeat a single theme?
The heroism of a lifetime can be freely squandered,
but the love of a lifetime is a single, all-in bet,
so whether happening or remembered,
moved or weeping,
the countless bewilderments of that moment,
the name has only one kind.

Zhang Cuo’s lyric poetry embodies an emotional atmosphere of “beauty and melancholy.” The prose-like syntax, coupled with parallelism and antithetical forms, and the skillful use of interrogative sentences, gives the tone softness and rhythm, like the words of lovers. Reading Zhang Cuo’s lyrics, one intuitively feels he is a deeply passionate man—a type certainly more appealing than the fickle, unfaithful wanderer described in Zheng Chouyu’s “Mistress”:

"So I go, always wearing a blue shirt / I want her to feel, that it is the season, or / the arrival of migratory birds / because I am not the kind of person who often returns home."

“Water Ripples” / Xiu Hong

I suddenly think of you,
but not the you after the calamity, nor the you after all flowers have fallen.

Why, if crowds have direction,
do they always disperse outward?
Why, when all the lights are extinguished, can streaming light not reach you?

The childish, naïve sunrise, like a small blade of grass,
then the green meadow transforms into a wasteland,
all plants burning: you ignite with tens of thousands of fleeting
fires of passion.

Perhaps I should only sculpt you in glass,
not with profound meditation.
Perhaps you should have told me long ago,
that wherever, there is neither temple nor idol.

Suddenly I think of you, but not the present you;
no longer brilliant with starlight, no longer splendid,
not in the most beautiful dream, not in the most beautiful dream.

Suddenly thinking of you,
but the sorrow is only slight,
like a boat drifting away.

“I Am Already Walking Toward You” / Xiu Hong

You stand under the bright lights on the opposite shore,
all strings silent, yet intending to cross this circular pond,
to cross this blue glass inscribed with water lilies.
I am the only high note,
the only one; I am the sculpting hand,
sculpting immortal sorrow,
that sorrow living in a smile.
All strings silent, the globe can only turn east and west.
I plead, on eternally smooth paper leaves,
for a moment where today and tomorrow meet.

And the lamp’s halo does not shift; I walk toward you,
I am already walking toward you.
All strings silent,
I am the only high note,
in dreams, clothing falls over me.

Xiu Hong’s lyric poetry, unlike Xi Murong’s romanticized “eternal maiden,” combines sensibility with intellectual beauty. She understands that love is not a one-sided, wishful investment, but a mutual commitment nurtured by both parties. The lines:

"Suddenly I think of you, but not the present you / no longer brilliant with starlight, no longer splendid / not in the most beautiful dream, not in the most beautiful dream / Suddenly thinking of you / but the sorrow is only slight / like a boat drifting away"

show that the poet realizes love gradually changes and fades with time. Beyond cherishing present happiness, when the beloved departs, what a woman can do is not regret, but face reality honestly.

VIII. Martial Arts Poetry

With the long-standing popularity of martial arts novels among general readers, martial arts poetry has also become a genre for many poets to demonstrate literary talent over the past thirty years. However, many martial arts poems often depict only the flashes of swords and knives, the blood and gore, without showing loyalty and camaraderie, or romantic sentiments, making them overly masculine and aesthetically lacking.

Martial arts poetry occupies a unique position in Chinese literature; it is a genre distinct to Chinese culture. Yet, few poets write it well. From my impression, Luo Qing, Zhang Cuo, and Wen Rui’an have written noteworthy works, and my own martial arts poetry has merit as well.

“Broken Dream Sword” / Zhang Cuo

In the Jianghu, there is an old saying:
Breaking the soul is easy, breaking the heart is hard,
breaking the heart is hard,
breaking a dream is even harder.

Since the time of my downfall, carrying wine,
fencing, reading, and making friends.
After withdrawing from a life of revenge and self-disembowelment,
drinking wine, appreciating chrysanthemums, and holding the pipa in autumn,
I realized that dreams
do not entirely belong to the night,
even startling dreams
do not only occur in wandering gardens.
Since you departed,
the zither strings have snapped,
communication absent,
there is often a kind of jealous concealment,
reading in the wind under the eaves;
there is a lingering regret of the black steed,
amid distant smoky waves.

If the sword could sever dreams,
yet in the remnants of dreams, there is nothing to seek;
what cannot be cut by the sword
is the source of longing,
flickering in and out of sight, thought and dream manifest,
come and go without trace, thought departs, dream vanishes.

The imagery and narrative of this poem remind me of Du Mu’s “Qianghai” from the Tang Dynasty:

"Fallen and wandering in Jianghu with wine in hand, slender waist in the palm so light; ten years a dream of Yangzhou, gaining fame for fleeting love in brothels."

In Zhang Cuo’s poem, the protagonist, after retiring from the Jianghu, spends his days fencing, reading, and socializing, leisurely drinking wine, admiring chrysanthemums, and listening to the zither. Occasionally he dreams of his past life in the martial world, the knife-edge bloodshed, but without enemies chasing him, he can enjoy life at ease—truly a moment to “secretly smile.”

“Broken Dream Sword” / Chen Qufei

In the Jianghu, there has long been a saying:
“Breaking the soul is easy, breaking the heart is hard, breaking the heart is hard, breaking a dream is even harder.”
—Poet Zhang Cuo, same title

Having drunk countless necks of blood, a single sword
wraps its own murderous aura to sleep.
And you, the swordsman,
your sleep-talking is as colorful as snowflakes,
dancing, fluttering, among the tangled reeds by the river.

In the flesh-colored night, I return from buying wine at the brothel,
just taking off my ink-black tight clothes.
From afar come a few cries of crows:
“Could it be that tonight someone comes seeking revenge again?”
You suddenly turn over, sit up, grab your long sword.
In the moonlight, you stroke your beard while drinking,
your sharp silhouette as cold as a blade.

I recall that year, the battle at Blackwood Cliff,
you single-handedly challenged the seven disciples of Wudang, the sword tracing the Seven Stars.
A long sword circling within the sword formation, at the narrowest of margins,
yet still maneuvering freely, like clouds following dragons,
like a near-perfect quatrain, pressed with dangerous rhyme,
lifting from the resonant rhythm of the Tang Dynasty,
a wave crest,
one thunderclap, leaving all heroes and elites holding their breath in astonishment.

In the end, I am merely a humble scholar,
failed in the imperial examination, wandering in the Jianghu.
A few volumes of songs and poems are often treated by singing girls as snacks to accompany wine.
You, unpretentious, share your heart with me.
You said: swords can only kill people,
but songs and poems can entertain oneself and others.
A sword may sever dreams, yet songs and poems can resolve sorrowful hearts.
Thus, I believe this life will not only be about tonal patterns and couplets,
nor merely a series of sentimental duels.

I composed a poem in response to Zhang Cuo’s same-title poem. In it, I wrote the episode from Du Mu’s “Qianghai”: a scholar, failed in the imperial examination, returns from the town after buying wine, sees his swordsman friend embracing his sword, asleep while talking in his dreams. The scholar wakes him; they drink together. From the riverside, the cries of a few crows trigger the swordsman’s alertness, suspecting a pursuer. He sits up, drawing his long sword in caution. Once realizing it is a false alarm, the scholar recalls how the swordsman once told him of his duel with Wudang’s seven disciples at Blackwood Cliff, and then pities his own fate: a poor scholar earning a living by selling writings in the Jianghu. The swordsman comforts him, saying that although his life is humble and scholar exams failed, it is not like his own life in the Jianghu, constantly fighting, tasting blood at the sword’s edge.

In both poems, imagery of flashing swords and clashing blades appears, along with narrative. Zhang Cuo’s poem “hides the author” (I), using an epistolary style addressed to an old friend after a separation, recounting life and emotions since the friend’s departure. My poem, by contrast, employs a dialogue style, depicting friendship between the scholar and the swordsman: two people with completely different life paths becoming intimate companions, drinking together, expressing feelings, the swordsman encouraging the scholar to take life as it comes.

“A Laughter in the Jianghu” (Modern Martial Arts Poem) / Chen Qufei

Traversing the Jianghu for decades,
this long sword in my hand has seen
all major sects and heroes.
In old age I crave wine, disliking reminiscing,
those comical scenes that appear only in anime,
accompanied by songs and wine, a laughter in the Jianghu.
Sipping lightly, singing softly, dispelling loneliness in poetry and wine.
Do not mind my laughter being cold and slightly sinister,
always leaving listeners with three lines on their faces,
their hearts shivering. Otherwise,
how could I, this old man, still have a brain to eat meat and drink freely,
surf the internet chatting and joking with netizens?

Last night, a courier delivered news:
the court has placed a bounty on my head.
What kind of joke is this? I,
with all my skills and unparalleled techniques,
in sword and blade light, performing at risk,
earning only a few taels of silver per year in box office and royalties,
which official dares cross me?
Tonight I will lift my sword to the yamen,
chopping my way through,
disassembling him into eight pieces,
a pile of screws and recyclable parts.

In wandering the Jianghu, past and present, how many heroes?
In youth, full of vigor, looking down upon the major sects,
in the end, do they not all lie dead in the wilderness,
becoming crows and wild dogs, barely passing as midnight snacks?
A laughter in the Jianghu, victory or defeat hard to calculate.
Listen, I will teach, joke, and sing this part,
if you little brat never laugh—
(Whoa! You’re just looking down at your phone!)
you are surely more difficult than I am,
more obstinate, constipated, and picky…

This poem combines classical and modern imagery, depicting a comedic modern-version costume martial arts drama. This type of humorous martial arts poem has gradually been attempted by poets. The protagonist “swordsman,” in contemporary reality, is actually a martial arts performer in film and television. Yet, having played a swordsman for many years, he experiences character identification (“entering the role”), mixing real life with ancient martial arts narratives, leading to some unrealistic delusions and many “anachronistic” blunders that amuse observers.

IX. Symbolic Poetry

Symbolic poetry uses a “symbolic object” (usually a concrete object) as the main performer; the “symbolic subject” generally does not appear, with the concrete object bearing the task of conveying meaning. The characteristic of symbolic poetry is its suggestiveness, manifested in two aspects: (1) Indirect expression: avoiding direct narration of a certain thing, allowing the reader to use association and imagination as a bridge, understanding the unsaid through insight. (2) Interrelation of things: what is directly stated and the unsaid have a certain connection, often hidden, implicit, and internal.

Using symbolism to express a theme is quite difficult. On the island, only a few masters—such as Qin Zihao, Ye Weilian, Bai Qiu, Shang Qin, Zhou Mengdie, Su Shaolian—can skillfully manage it, while few young poets practice this rare art. Symbolic poems often appear as fables or object-ode poems, so analysis must consider the techniques employed in the text. Symbolism emphasizes indirectness and suggestiveness, providing readers with a hazy beauty and rich imagination—a type worth the investment and careful cultivation by young poets.

“Tranquil Dead Water” / Chen Qufei

A pool of water encloses itself,
no longer dreaming, gradually losing momentum.
It becomes calm, with no ripples,
accepting the status quo as a philosophy of life.

The water surface still reflects the stability of large trees,
and passing clouds and flying birds join the scene.
Yet it does not know that once duckweed and red algae proliferate,
they will gradually spread, covering the pool.
The water accelerates in eutrophication, the quality becomes turbid,
emitting waves of putrid odor.

Unless someone digs an outlet for it,
allowing reflection, regaining momentum,
otherwise it will gradually silt up,
completely destroyed by its own ignorance.

This symbolic poem, like an object-ode and fable, has no subtitle, offering readers wide imaginative space. It can refer to a human habit, a social phenomenon, or an attitude toward life. The symbolic object is “dead water,” the symbolic subject embedded in the theme. The outward “tranquility” of the dead water conceals great danger. The attitude of “unchanging in the face of change,” complacent and indifferent, in the fast-changing information era, often leads to suffering due to obsolete thinking and survival skills.

“Solitude” / Yang Mu

Solitude is an aging beast,
lurking in my heart, strewn with jagged stones.
Upon its back is a kind of changeable pattern,
that is, I know, its species’ protective color.
Its gaze is desolate, often fixedly staring
at distant drifting clouds, yearning
for the expanses and flows of the sky.
Bowing its head in contemplation, letting wind and rain whip at will,
its abandoned ferocity,
its weathered love.

Solitude is an aging beast,
lurking in my heart, strewn with jagged stones.
At the instant of thunder, it slowly shifts,
struggling to step into the wine cup I am pondering,
and with eyes filled with longing,
it gloomily glares at the drinker of a dusky evening.
At this moment, I know, it is regretting
that it rashly left its familiar world
to enter this cold wine.
I raise my cup to my lips,
kindly sending it back into my heart.

The poem Solitude depicts the poet’s introspection in his later years, carrying the character of an autobiographical poem. “Solitude” is an abstract concept, which, through personification (turning the abstract into the concrete), becomes a “beast.” Then, the “beast” serves as a symbolic object, enacting the interaction between the poet (I) and the imaginary “beast.” The imagery develops through personification; the “beast” is, in fact, the poet’s subconscious self. From the line “lurking in my heart, strewn with jagged stones,” a clear narrative thread is drawn. Solitude is not an object-ode; although the “beast” in the poem is the main performing image, the theme of solitude is abstract, not a concrete object. The author regards this as a symbolic poem of self-reflection in later life. The personification is merely the expressive method; the spiritual layer—the poet dissecting his own late-life loneliness—is the actual target of this symbolic poem.

X. Surrealist Poetry

Surrealist poetry bases its creation on Surrealism, which emphasizes “the leap (horizontal) associations of the subconscious and automatic (intuitive) writing.” Surrealism was introduced to Taiwan during the Japanese occupation (1932) through the “Windmill Poetry Society” poet Yang Chichang, formally taking root on the island.

Taiwanese surrealist poets, in fact, did not adopt the extreme writing method of “automatic language”; rather, they regulated it, processing the subjects of writing with techniques such as synesthesia, exaggeration, metonymy, metaphor, montage, reality-illusion translation, transformation of imagery, and spatiotemporal distortion. Among them, the works and achievements of Lo Fu stand out most prominently. Younger poets of note include Chen Li, Luo Zhicheng, Meng Fan, Xu Huizhi, Ding Weiren, Zeng Yuanyao, Tang Juan, Li Jinwen, and Jing Xianghai.

The surrealist techniques of Lo Fu have been extensively introduced in this book. I aim to guide readers to appreciate the surrealist works of several younger poets.

“Suspended Daily Life” / Ding Weiren

An afternoon with a few cigarettes quietly feels a bit abstract;
the utterly loyal dizziness refuses to leave.
I cannot fathom the reason for falling,
so I can only take the scenery at the bottom of my eyes
and knead it, then lock it away for later.

Why mix drinks with unease,
writing a realistic small town, hot as if swept by the equator,
slightly tipsy, occasionally hungover,
all teasing me in my dreams,
that faceless visage.

God is tired,
because we hate ourselves more than anyone else,
often murdering
the little remaining floating bits of
happiness.

Listening to a song, changing a pair of glasses,
just to find the borders of lies,
picking up white bones from the sand heap,
holding them, nestling in laziness,
writing myself into half of
Dunhuang.

This “Suspended Daily Life” employs several surrealist techniques, for example, in the first stanza:

1. Synesthesia: transferring the visual and olfactory quietness of smoke to the mental dizziness: “An afternoon with a few cigarettes quietly feels a bit abstract; the utterly loyal dizziness refuses to leave.” This creates an intriguing image; the smoke’s quietness is visual and olfactory, while the dizziness is a psychological (mental) state, entering the realm of psychological analysis.
2. Transformation and metamorphosis of imagery: “so I can only take the scenery at the bottom of my eyes / and knead it, then lock it away for later.” The scenery seen visually is kneaded, transforming it into a concrete, manipulable object. The addition of “locked away” turns it into an object like a diary or a box, representing a metamorphosis from “visual scenery” to “an object that can be locked.”

In the second stanza, ordinary depiction appears:
“writing a realistic small town, hot as if swept by the equator, slightly tipsy, occasionally hungover, all teasing me in my dreams, that faceless visage.” On the surface, it uses simile, first describing the stifling town as if swept by the equator, then personification: the hangover teases the dream, that faceless image. Linking these two images narrates the author drinking in a sweltering small town.

In the third stanza, reality-illusion translation occurs:
“because we hate ourselves more than anyone else, / often murdering / the little remaining floating bits of / happiness.” Murdering the remaining bits of happiness—the abstract emotion cannot literally be murdered; here, “murder” equates to “stifling.” Abstract emotion (happiness) is translated into a concrete object, turning the abstract into the real.

In the final stanza, imagery suddenly shifts to a desert:
“Listening to a song, changing a pair of glasses / just to find the borders of lies / picking up white bones from the sand heap / holding them, nestling in laziness.” The author, changing glasses, finds himself in a vast, desolate room, reminiscent of a desert. “Writing myself into half of Dunhuang” is an imaginative exaggeration, metaphorically “small representing large,” with imagery transformation—the human body is so tiny, how could it be written as “half of Dunhuang”?

When readers engage with surrealist poetry, they are often drawn in by the author’s “absurd yet brilliant imagination.” The common impression is “language shocks or dies trying,” what is known as “irrational yet wondrous, wondrous beyond words.”

“There Is a Person” / Li Jinwen

Silence, ah, silence grows branches from the balcony.
There is a person who becomes compound leaves, gazing into the distance…
Outside the window, petals and autumn skip rope under the tree.
Childhood has just passed by.

The wind strikes the church bells, scattering fragrance in all directions.
Your name falls like raindrops on a foreign cobblestone street.
Will the display window devour the solitary sound of shoes?
Will you tie your distant home tightly with a scarf?

On the way home or traveling, did you encounter dreams?
You promised to bring back a map with blonde hair and blue eyes,
and guaranteed not to be bitten by the French plane trees.

Before nightfall, our story sits on the balcony,
watching a long distant embankment walking along.
The ocean seems too old and weary to fold another ship.

This poem There Is a Person also employs surrealist techniques, especially reality-illusion translation, converting abstract emotions or formless objects into visually concrete subjects, through “re-coding”: the imagery code is transformed, exchanging positions, which is semantically similar to what ancient scholars called “mutual complement of the abstract and the real.” For example:

1. “Silence grows branches from the balcony”: Silence is an abstract physical phenomenon and subjective psychological perception, without visually tangible form. Silence growing branches from the balcony is a “virtual-to-real” reality-illusion translation. Similarly, “Your name falls like raindrops on a foreign cobblestone street / Will the display window devour the solitary sound of shoes? / Will you tie your distant home tightly with a scarf?” also use reality-illusion translation:
2. • “Your name falls like rain” combines metaphor; the name is an abstract symbol with auditory attributes, a virtual-to-real translation.
   • The display window is a real object, shoe sound is an abstract auditory code, translating from real to virtual.
   • Scarf is real, distant home is an abstract visual; again, real-to-virtual translation.
     The third stanza, “On the way home or traveling, did you encounter dreams?”, is likewise a real-to-virtual translation. The fourth stanza, “Before nightfall, our story sits on the balcony / watching a long distant embankment walking along”, is: the first line is virtual-to-real translation; the second line uses inanimate personification, giving the embankment legs so it can walk.
3. Synesthesia: In the second stanza, the first line, “The wind strikes the church bells, scattering fragrance in all directions,” moves sound into olfaction—“turning sound into scent.”
4. Personification and objectification:
5. • Personification: First stanza: “Outside the window, petals and autumn skip rope under the tree / Childhood has just passed by”; final stanza: “A long distant embankment walking along / The ocean seems too old and weary to fold another ship.”
   • Objectification (assigning object traits to other objects): “and guaranteed not to be bitten by the French plane trees”, the plane trees become teeth-sharp, able to bite like dogs.
6. Deliberate lexical misconnection: “You promised to bring back a map with blonde hair and blue eyes”, using the adjectives to describe the map, not a person; the semantic ambiguity encourages the reader to ponder why it wasn’t written “You promised to bring back a blonde-haired, blue-eyed foreign girl,” producing playful ambiguity and imaginative engagement.

Every one or two lines of this poem contain rhetorical devices; the prose syntax is minimal, giving the poem a dense texture. The poem provides a rich and multi-layered semantic field, challenging readers’ aesthetic experience and rhetorical understanding. Ordinary readers often perceive only sequential images, guessing the meaning from feeling, rarely able to specify the poet’s exact intent or techniques, except for trained critics like the author of this analysis.

Due to the diversity of techniques used, surrealist poetry is arguably more challenging to read than symbolic poetry, which is part of its charm and worthy of careful study by new poets.

XI. Neoclassical Poetry

Neoclassical poetry draws on Western neoclassical creative perspectives, innovating from the “classics” (traditional poetry), using classical imagery to create retro-colored, elegant scenes, recreating the reserved and refined lifestyle and humanistic atmosphere of ancient literati. Prominent domestic practitioners include Yu Guangzhong, Chen Yizhi, Yang Ping, and the author. Writing neoclassical poetry requires deep immersion in traditional poetry: “digesting the past without being enslaved by it,” extracting and transforming old ideas into new meaning.

“Under the Full Moon” / Yu Guangzhong

A pond of lotus flowers sleeps.
Frogs croak, amplifying the summer heat.
It is the most pleasant kind of clamor.
Sitting on a stone bench by the pond, I think:
By now you should also be asleep.
Thinking of your long eyelashes, they must be sewing up,
sewing a string of dreams.

Dreaming you come to our appointment,
to share the cooling of these white stones,
or transform into a dragonfly,
resting on a corner of a lotus leaf,
sipping dewdrops, cupping a handful of moonlight,
or letting me hold your waist,
hold your classical grace,
just enough to make the King of Chu jealous.
King of Chu? King of Chu? The night patrolling fireflies
say it is late, say the mist
rises from the pond, hazy.
The fibrous moonlight is slightly fluffy.
Then I fold a wider lotus leaf,
wrap a piece of moonlight, take it back,
and slip it into Tang poetry,
flat, like pressed longing.

This poem exudes classical charm. In the first stanza, suspended imagination is used: imagining the sleeping “you” at night, “thinking of your long eyelashes, they must be sewing up / sewing a string of dreams.” The second stanza: the female protagonist, in her dream, becomes a dragonfly to attend the meeting: “resting on a corner of a lotus leaf / sipping dewdrops, cupping a handful of moonlight / or letting me hold your waist / hold your classical grace.” The final stanza: a lotus leaf wraps moonlight and slips into Tang poetry—a romantic conception under classical sentiment. Midlife Yu Guangzhong, understanding traditional poetic aesthetic, reproduces the refined lifestyle of ancient literati with a nostalgic pen.

“Seven Grades of Summer Heat in the Mountains: ‘The Sleepless Dog’” / Yu Guangzhong

Often, after the last bus passes,
the vastness of heaven and earth is no more than
one or one-and-a-half miles of road outside.
The distant barking of houses’ dogs, three or two barks,
only the lamp can understand.
At this hour, the white-haired person under the lamp
is also a sleepless dog,
but guarding another kind of night,
barking at another kind of shadow.
If you listen from far away—
say, a hundred years away—
you can hear clearly,
purely.

In his later period, Yu Guangzhong no longer confined himself to song-like metric forms but focused on deepening the aesthetic realm of neoclassical poetry. This poem Seven Grades of Summer Heat in the Mountains flexibly employs synesthesia, exaggeration, imagery transformation, montage, and spatiotemporal interweaving, surrealist techniques. In “The Sleepless Dog”, exaggeration and imagery transformation manipulate space (size, distance), time, and sound, flexibly changing their forms to deepen the poem’s aesthetic realm.

“Mountain Temple” / Chen Qufei

(1) Jinlong Zen Temple
Fine rain wets the temple bells,
washing bright the dark greens and blues of the mountain.
The mountain cherry blossoms along the path bloom like scorching flames,
silently burning toward me,
scorching my eyes, my heart.
In the rain curtain, the blurred Taipei Basin is a gray clay pot,
boiling with the greed, hatred, and delusion of thousands of men and women.
“Reciting the suffering of all beings, I dare not save myself.”
A single pine cone is tossed by the wind into the pond,
instantly breaking a pondful of silence.
After the bell stops, a wooden fish carries the hazy night,
swimming calmly out of the main hall.

(2) Zhangshan Temple
At dusk, the bell is an ancient, crude fan,
patting the sunset into the valley, the echo faint.
As if a lost courier letter is hastily returned by the mountain wall,
slapping a dozing novice under the pines.
In the faint pine-scented evening wind, the evening cicadas whisper,
debating what Dharma name to give the newly ordained novice.
The pine waves surge like a thousand mountains of heavy rain rushing from all directions.
I sidestep into the twilight, as if a note
slips quietly into thick Buddhist scriptures.
(Thinking thus, one might stand outside the world.)
If a little farther, say, a hundred years away, I think the bell
might be heard more clearly.

(3) Zhinnan Palace
White clouds cover the ground, no one sweeps. On the stone steps of the mountain path,
yellowed thread-bound scriptures are sunning.
Climbing the steps, the sound of wind fills my sleeves,
sometimes falling leaves chase the wind from behind, interrogating.
But I am just an ordinary visitor, neither meditating nor planning to pay respects.
The distant clouds like waves silently hit the green mountains.
The frozen sunlight hides and peeks along the mountain path.
Tree shadows sway, seeming to rise with dog-like legs.
Several stone-built Japanese-style palace lanterns lie drunk on both sides.
Moss tattoos, empty lamp shades capturing fatigued slivers of sunset.
Rain approaches; the saturated sky seems lightly lifted,
enough to squeeze a bowl of pattering rain.

Mountain Temple is the author’s 2004 work. Using neoclassical imagery to depict three temples in the suburbs of Taipei, it employs synesthesia, exaggeration, and imagery transformation, giving the poem vivid, lively imagery that deepens the aesthetic of these historical sites.

〈The Out-of-Print Lover〉 / Chen Qufei
"If Heaven has feelings, Heaven too will age." – Tang Dynasty • Li He, "Song of the Jin Bronze Immortal’s Farewell to the Han"

Since you entered the monastic life, I have cut off my black hair.
From then on, the lake of my heart no longer ripples.
If Heaven has feelings, how could you merely waste empty words?
Leaving me a segment of out-of-print love.
If this is the lesson I must face alone,
Then you, who leave with ruthless detachment,
Are the kite with a broken string in the wind.

A row of clouds drifts across the quiet lake surface.
Falling raindrops stir ripples.
I hear the drifting sighs of the floating duckweed.
That year, if I had not met you,
Perhaps, I would still be in the brothel,
Singing of spring flowers and autumn moons, an oblivious courtesan.
The new lyrics you wrote for me
Are a clear spring in a deep valley, rushing through my heart,
Washing the mossy traces of age in my soul.
Amidst the mortal world, I still remember to this day.

Holding that frayed string, in the mortal world,
I am a lone flying wild goose.
I am an orphaned line, with no matching couplet.
I am a comet wandering alone in the night sky,
Hovering in a dreamscape without exit, out-of-print.
If Heaven has feelings, Bodhisattva!
Please allow me to be liberated from this life to meet the next,
To replicate that out-of-print love…

This poem 〈The Out-of-Print Lover〉 was written in 2015. Using the narrative perspective of a tragic female protagonist, it depicts a doomed love where affection exists but fate prevents union. The male protagonist "you" retreats into monastic life, severing worldly ties, yet the devoted female protagonist cannot let go. Originally, the female lead was a courtesan, and the male protagonist’s poetic talent deeply attracted her. She resolves to leave the pleasures of the brothel to follow him. Alas, he sees through worldly attachments, leaving the heroine like a lone flying goose, solitary and bereft. The poem’s narrative axis is clear: it unfolds how the couple meets and falls in love, how external forces prevent the man from staying with the woman, leading to his retreat into monasticism, thus betraying the heroine’s deep affection.

Twelve, Erotic Poetry
Erotic poetry, also called "poems of desire," gained partial support among poets (mainly female) with the introduction of feminism into Taiwan, advocating for female subjectivity. This is concretely expressed in resisting patriarchal societal systems, liberating female bodily desire, and promoting freedom in marriage and love. Few contemporary poets focus on erotic poetry. To my recollection, notable practitioners include Luo Ying, Xia Yu, Chen Kehua, Yan Ailin, Jiang Wenyu, Ding Weiren, among others. Many published collections dedicated to erotic poetry. In the 1990s, “lower-body writing” caused considerable stir in the modern poetry scene.

〈The Unbeheaded Poem〉 / Chen Kehua

(I) I am curious about the body
I have already completed my nudity
And begun to get used to it. Of course, since the lips are awake,
One must avoid kissing.
Very difficult, *
Kissing, likewise
Also very difficult.)
In accordance with the contract and with a camera,
I engaged in passion for 30 minutes.
A fig leaf forgotten by God
Did not happen to hang upon my penis.
I kissed myself in the display window,
As if this were a stunt,
Though I had never practiced in advance
How to excite a big toe,
But I pointed out the truth.
A thousand kinds of bodily fluids seep into the blood,
Attempting to replace my sensitive and precise organs.
Truth is inherently obscene and violent,
Fatal, as though a thousand substitute fluids
Are exuding the same rotten sweetness…
Let saliva dissolve acidic steel and rust!
Semen dries on the cracked riverbed of my lips,
Phlegm mixes with pollen and fish eggs, rushing to the vast ocean.
Tears corrode the eyeball, infecting vast blindness…

(II) Close your labia
You already understand this decent yet violated world,
The boundary between emotion and non-emotion,
Beasts and humans less than beasts.
You say you have matured, even
Ripe to the extreme,
Redistribution of sex and power,
Decrepit penises and neurotic vaginas,
You are familiar with all.
You say all trash may be poured into your cleavage,
You are the Mother Earth, sores on your head, pus on your feet,
Your obscene clothing a flag of all nations.
You say allow me to subvert, allow me to deconstruct,
Let me say in Caesar’s voice:
I came, I saw, I was fucked.
When the army of justice charges into the besieged city,
This land is gloriously wrapped in pious lies.
You say this is the country that cannot hear conscience:
“I love pork.” Language teaching instructs you thus,
Pork also loves you,
Pork loves us.
(Recite after me)
Pork is infinitely charitable—
Like a tsunami, the highest climax of this century is approaching,
Like the subconscious yearning for fascism:
But
But before I truly listen,
Why not first close your labia.

(III) Wedding message
My beloved,
Today I receive from your hand the ring you bestowed,
Of no small value,
And I hereby grant
You the legal right to use my vagina.
You will feed me Chinese, Western, Japanese cuisine,
Korean kimchi, Hong Kong dim sum, French dinners,
Of course, also your penis and semen,
Your toes and body hair,
Your STDs and warts, my love.
I am financially independent, educated, mature,
Today becoming your sole wife.
From now on, I will deny that my fingers ever touched
Other equally aroused penises,
Nor remember ever being touched by my father,
Only admiring your Adam’s apple and body odor.
I do not thereby abandon dieting and exercise,
Soap operas and masturbation.
I once cherished my hymen,
Diligently trained my vaginal sphincter,
But neither of us can comprehend what virginity truly is…
My beloved,
Please accept the whip and branding iron I return to you,
Handcuffs, instruments, and lubricant,
(Why are you not a Nazi SS officer?)
In this pure white wedding,
I long for a hairy baby resembling you,
Who will pinch my nipples and extract the milk,
I will thus excitedly experience the supreme happiness of this life.

(IV) The necessity of anal intercourse
We awaken from the splendor of the night initiated through the anus,
Discovering the anus merely ajar,
The uterus and large intestine are the same room,
Separated by only a warm wall.
We dance amidst the blooming flowers of desire,
Our bodies supplely flexing and sensing
Ourselves as a wholly new species.
Before the historical or impending storm of fate arrives,
Nothing had ever been mispronounced by Freud’s throat,
(We are a wholly new species,
Exempt from poverty, sports injuries, and AIDS).
Let us offer our fully naked conscience and anus for inspection,
And under a spotlighted magnifying glass,
Observe ourselves twitching like rodents,
Feeling ecstasy and pain,
Hair soaked with blood as if a bottle of paint had been overturned—ah, we
We may in our lifetime verify the necessity of anal intercourse…
We must return home before the anus is locked.
The bed will be buried directly in the grave.
The immoral end another day of deceptive glory.
No one knows what corruption lies within the sutured wound.
Why not just bleed to death here?
(The one who claims to corrupt morality first leaves the group,
Playing with the halo atop dense flowers,
At least he, he never confirmed the unnecessary nature of anal intercourse…)
Yet the anus is merely ajar.
Sorrow often leaks from the door crack like
The intermittently glowing lightbulb throughout the night.
We embrace and embrace, refusing to believe that the forms of lovemaking are exhausted,
The pleasures of the body discarded.
Why not join the healthy silent majority?
Why not join the majority?
The majority is good.
Sleep is good.
Sex is good.
No sex is also good.
Whether tapping or directly pushing open the anus,
The anus is actually forever
Merely ajar…

Chen Kehua’s 〈The Unbeheaded Poem〉 collection, when published, indeed challenged the reading limits of most audiences. The depictions of male and female genitalia (penis, vagina, uterus) and sexual acts such as anal intercourse, and the inventory of erotic paraphernalia—“whip and branding iron / handcuffs, instruments, and lubricant”—astonished readers, almost like watching a series of “perverse erotic action films.” Yet, setting aside moral judgments, readers can see that these erotic images explore the hymen complex, question the equivalence of heterosexual marriage with love and happiness, and examine these new concepts.

〈The Moon of Lustful Hours〉 / Yan Ailin

A filthy and obscene orange moon rises.
After absorbing the solar essence and the radiance of the sun,
She presents a faint waning crescent

With a smile,
Licking the clouds,
Licking the erect skyscrapers,
Licking the towering mountains.

With her teasing lips,
She hooks
The homesickness of every male organ.

〈Apple in the Bottle〉 / Yan Ailin

Who planted an apple
Inside my body?
Month after month,
It ripens its fruit,
Sinking heavily to the bottom of the uterus,
And I feel sluggish, dizzy,
As if something is about to happen.

Who endowed me with a sensitive
Physiological scale?
The apple ripens and rots,
Turning into thick juice,
And angrily, rapidly,
Falls downward,
Leaving my body…

〈Fluidity / Female Rider’s Addendum〉 / Yan Ailin

The days have just passed,
The uterus, washed by menstrual blood,
Now emptily cries with hunger;
No widowed eggs,
Nor visiting sperm.
Only one remains,
An empty nest hanging beneath the abdominal cavity,
Without father or mother,
Without children or grandchildren.

Unlike male poets’ perspectives on erotic poetry, female poets focus more on the exploration of the female body and the liberation of desire. They do not engage in "phallus worship" dictated by patriarchal society. This aspect reflects the era’s feminist insistence on bodily and sexual autonomy. The reproductive function of the female uterus causes women to be subject to menstrual cycles for much of their lives. Yet the liberation of desire allows women, when faced with male intent that violates their will, to have the right to say “no” to sexual advances or unwanted intentions. From the latter half of the last century to the present, feminist activists have achieved substantial gains: not only legally affirming women’s bodily autonomy and marital freedom, but also ensuring equal educational opportunities in civil society, and economic equality—“equal pay for equal work, equal treatment, and opportunities for promotion.”