The River In Our Blood
A Sonnet Crown
For Lord Bruce
By Wang Ping
VII
The heart beats alone, keeping its own pace
Fear, rage, sorrow—storms beyond our range
The river bows and bends, birthing new space
To die and live again–this constant change
Veins of water across the delta wrist, opening
Cupped hands…fish, reeds, frogs mating in puddles
Home… where cranes stop for a drink, then rising
Back to their birthplace. The spirit shuttles
Between heaven and earth—how you follow
This primordial path? The brain, a wrinkled mass
Keeps us at bay, eyes on the black swallow
From distant sea…messenger through tall grass
Memory split from the Fountain of Youth
You hold us to the place– this beat, this truth
If you would like to read Wanda Ping’s entire crown of sonnets, click on the link below:
Wang Ping
Immigrant Can’t Write Poetry
Wang Ping
“Oh no, not with your syntax,” said H.V. to her daughter-in-law, a Chinese writing poetry in English
She walk to table
She walks to a table
She walk to table now
She is walking to a table now
What difference it make
What difference does it make
In Nature, no completeness
No sentence really complete thought
Language, our birthright & curse
Pay no mind to immigrant syntax
Poetry, born as beast
Move best when free, undressed
Fourteen Lines 