Ouyang Yu Poems

By and large:

By blood:






By birth:

By death:

By language:




By mistake:



By nationality:




By nature:

By occupation:



By race:



By skin-colour:





By the way:


not much of a poem to speak of;

han nationality for the last 46 years
including this year but uncertain
if going further back; there could be some
other bloods mixed; a dna test would be
needed to determine the purity or
percentage of purity;

a no hoper, destined to drift for life;

someone australia will regret to have;

capable of speaking only two at the
moment; bilingual in the sense of bi-
sexual or bi-partisan or bigamous or
bipolar;

getting caught by two, wanted by none,
hated by most, and preferring to be left
alone;

australian for the last couple of years;
chinese for the first 43; unashamed of
either; having a bit of problem with
both;

a cross-cultural fucker;

a stateless and statusless poet;
downward mobile; upward wayward;
edgewise, always edgewise;

hard to define at the moment; some sort
of as yet unformulated new theory
would be needed;

supposedly yellow but looking slightly
white in winter or dark in summer if in
receipt of too much sun; preferring to be
changeable according to weather, and
place;

i haven't had a decent job for the last 11
years; would you consider taking me on?
...

Past target for attack

Current target for research

Forever target for alienation

(2/1/05 in kingsbury)
...

sometimes they give you the idea that australia is some pure land called ‘terra australia
incognita' or ‘australia felix' stuff like that or they let you think that australia is called cook
or murray or white or uk or robinson or howard or dyson or morgan or nolan or jennings or
gould or hughes or carey or martin or hanson or woodard or american or -

going through the cards that kind of australia is dissolved in names like arranga or zareski or
chan or ng or pitruzzello or karogiannis or truong or wang or zhang or ouyang or xiao or
strangio or asuncion or plousi or petrovic or abdulatiff or kovacevic or de jong or ubaldi or
van leeuwen or choy or lista or banitsiotis or teoh or wong or kee or da costa or quattrone or
moulin or maraoti or mudrooroo or oodgeroo or ginibi or huang -

still all you get to hear when you are put on hold or being put through is this helen or
margaret or dick or david or doug or dicky or sam or ian or merv or geoff or peter or simon
or les or john or richard or judith or judy or justine or jane or jo or joe or junk or jeff or tom
or terry or tony or tongue or tealby or ross or rose or ronnie or roy or ron or rot or raunchy or
rainy or ray or ring or james or bill or bob or bunny or kim or king or yvonne or -

makes you wonder what this identity business really is and if a yellow pages is more
australian than any genuine anthologies of literature and poetry put together can ever be and
if all these bunches of business cards i've spent years collecting in australia - and there are
not many years: only 9 - are not a real australia: realer than either you and me
...

i would like to talk to them on another planet
the night as vast as a graveyard
my bed like the leaf of a boat floating on the edge of the earth
i do not know whether they divide time into the ancient and the modern
perhaps a petal of my soul
will drift away like a meteor with spring water
shooting out a flying arc in the steely darkness
perhaps it will ignore waves of electricity in the universe
and my life as free as these electronics
with the other eyes
the other emotions the other languages
or is it someone else who is writing with this pen
or my brain has already been as empty as ether
and my eyes but two imagined stars
watching my own body
dying away with the world
but poetry is insistent
with its obscure words

on another planet
against the glimmering light
i see my leaf of a boat carrying my ashes
down the big river made from the dust of the universe
swallowed up by the vortex of the century

is it true that the so-called mirage
is but an unidentified smiling face?
...

They are separating
Splitting everything down the middle:
Their money
Their furniture after depreciation
And their son
Although they can't cut him in half
The way you treat a piece of wood
He can live either way
For a consented period of time
Except that they won't be able to transplant the tree in their
backyard
Which goes much deeper than their marriage
He said: how much do you say it's worth? I'll give you the money
She thought and said: well, let's just have it cut down and have
done
with it
The marriage gone, why would you want to keep the tree?
He said: fair enough; let's get someone to cut it down
And we'll share the cost -
I was jolted back
Into reality
To see her plant another tree
...

you have walked for a long time in the territory of the heart
hovering around the edge and dreaming of the freedom on the other shore
your reality is iron bars
the shadows of the sun ten thousand miles away perhaps not joined

you are lumbering towards there in response to the voiceless call
you encounter identical days and nights
everything keeps you at a distance and everything is laughing
you hear secret cries in the middle of a desert and ocean

the bone marrow has turned into fossil before trails of blood burst into flowers
submerged in sunshine, bars of iron are poking through seams of cloud
before you catch the sun you have been sunken by the stars
bearing yourself you fly with wings bound by the universe

wherever you go it comes back to you
you are yourself and the loss of you
hovering around the border and dreaming of the freedom on the other shore
you have walked for a long time in the territory of the heart
...

I love sleep knowing it is politically incorrect and culturally inappropriate
To say this but I love sleep not caring whether someone is going to bomb
The rialto tower or the Sydney opera house I love sleep at 46
For I don't remember anything about myself or what I do I love
Sleep lingering in my bed with a bit of dream here and there but nothing substantial
To merit a mention I love sleep years ago in Wuhan while I was working
As a lorry driver in a shipping yard I had a roommate who loved sleep
The only two things he did was go to work in the factory lifting things and come
Back to sleep in our three-bed room "I love sleep" he said one night as we stood
On the bridge across a nameless creek that ran into the Yangtze River
"for I dream of things, beautiful things that you never will see anywhere in the world"
I began to know that he was an orphan that he had nowhere to go on weekends
Things like that and I felt sad kind of for him and for myself I love sleep
And when I do so I know I am wasting my life knowing that I am wasting my life
Anyway even if I do not sleep I cherish the time immediately after I wake up
For I hear the birds calling out to each other among themselves I do not hear them in
sleep I become wordy soon I'll stop I love sleep I dream a little although I don't recall
anything this morning I went to a friend's house to interview him he had a beautiful
house that cost him nearly one million dollars off record he talked about his plan
For afterwards he said he would love to lead a xianyun yehe life
I shared his view although I know ours would be different
For that kind of life of leisurely clouds and wild cranes
I love sleep correct me if I am wrong for in sleep I am equal to anyone
Without a fight
...