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Yu-ching Lin, 31 years old, a poet and artist, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Nantou (Taiwan). We are grateful for the participation and wish it success.
To My Beloved: the D'Urbervilles (A 2-Poem Suite)
1. Dear Tess
Part of me gushes out as you strike back — vermilion
Like strawberries craving to unseal those lips
With full-fledged plumpness… struggling to swallow
The last scene of a knife in your eyes. Once penetrated
By my body heat, you end up cold,
With a piercing response like icicles.
Recall the night in the saddle in dense woods, lost
As the chill of darkness encroached… a coat of gentlemanly gestures
Presented an embrace of goodwill on behalf of me,
Though a veil of fog as portières, a carpet of leaves as bedding…
In undertones rustling, inciting me to take
Your fast-asleep self you'd been unwilling to give.
Succumbing to temptation, the tonal deviation enveloped in fog
Rang quivering trills of deflowering… infused into the bud
Warm flows of fulfilment of spring,
In the name of love.
Shepherded by divine calling, the converted reformation
Could not redeem what had never been given.
Though subsequent feeble chapters had withered young,
Attempts at the other side beyond reach weren’t extinguished.
As it had to be, I thought I’d entered your heart already.
Favoured by your stubborn obsession, the false angel
With pretence of uprightness, turned harsh
Towards the very first florescence he had missed.
Soft and tender, you turned harsh
Towards this religious, redeeming genuineness.
Smouldering, gluttonous eyes before closing,
For the last time, relive the sweetness of the bait’s outline…
You are tinder wrapped in morning dew,
Having ignited my everlasting flame — together burned
Into the cinders of me. In your eyes,
The blaze of punishment forces me to bid
Forever farewell to the strains of my life — in the roaring fire
Of beauty indulgence, with an unvoiced epilogue of no regret.
Sorry and goodbye, the fairest and most desperate
Notes of dolor I no longer recognise.
2. Dear Angel
At Stonehenge at dawn, beyond the hoisted black flag,
I see the last dayspring rise in your eyes.
The remorseless sound of the coach looms in my ear…
How I wish the biting iciness on the gallows would melt
In the remaining warmth of an angel’s kiss.
Strains of curse-racked aristocracy suffer a rugged fall.
Rondos in generations reverberate
On a grim trajectory towards the end of destiny….
Remember labours at the dairy with rhythmic incidental tunes,
The day at the swollen creek with heart’s up-tempo fluttering,
And the mutual, harmonious chords of glee…
Forced into Luciferian overtones by evil discords
At a fork in the road, though, I strayed from your blissful melody.
Back in early chapters, you should have taken directly —
Before deprivation, the untainted, budding first notes of me.
Variations of final chapters gushed out from Hell,
Lured and sank me into a frantic frenzy.
Desirous of returning to our unshared duet solely,
I redeem moments in your arms to relive the cuddles
Regardless of the cost of all the days to come. Allow me
To remember the warmth of your grace as company
On the road when bleak solitude unfolds….
Forgive me for the unvoiced farewell. The deafening
Sound of the coach is burning… weep not
For this regretless life of mine. One cannot escape
The original sin of fate. Sorry and goodbye,
The rosiest and most mellifluous notes of poignancy
Lugubrious fortune has ever granted me.
A Great Metamorphosing Sitcom
Minutes quietly scud
In the back of my head and occiput…
An overload of sighs
Pours into a silent ocean in my eyes.
Ruminate on pieces of old failures
When memories cloud over.
Confidence turns flaky
In a surfeit of self-pity.
Try to mute the broken past
With stitches on a cracked heart of glass.
Ego is rendered paralyzed
On a sunless face when smiles don't rise.
Wish upon more but less tomorrows
As I pass through stormy waves of sorrows…
Before drowning, I epiphanize:
The derailed story needs a rewrite.
No more weighty overcasts
Before a straw breaks life's paperback.
I tell myself, the splendid is yet to come;
These are but sad episodes of a great sitcom.
I let go of the grip,
The grip on maps of a rugged trip.
Led by the inner guide,
Trust the mercy of the Most High.
Feel nature's flow
As I humbly follow…
Breeze, rainbow, drizzle or shine,
Every day is a gift from the divine.
Greet the beetle on a windowsill.
Little things make me grateful.
From an enigma a slumberer awakes,
Escaping from the blind prison of the mind's grave.
Rising from ashes of a seamful heart,
Self-love incubates a sprouting start.
Heal the pain with pain itself,
Then leave yesterdays, never dwell.
Given by faith is clear vision;
The future glances on a path to destination.
Peace and joy stay
When soul awakens and elevates.
I stand taller after highs and lows,
Eulogizing the world's light and shadow.
Metamorphose into a higher entity,
Expect merits in the great chiliocosm's infinity….