The Poetry Journals Zixiao YUe

Journal five


My favorite poem of this week is "Crows", written by Steve Mcormond. This poem describes a fused image with black crows and a shabby town. The black crows become a perfect comparison of the people living in that black town, which makes a great gothic picture. Poor people live without tomorrow and get drunk to escape the reality. "A few blocks south on Dorchester Street,/ the locals are blowing their pogey cheques/ on Vodka and rye...." With the economy went down, people lived desperately. It reminds me Kurt Cobain's hometown, Aberdeen, in 1970s, which I read in a book about Cobain. I really love the last four lines, "In the morning, crows will wake us/ from a tangle of uneasy dreams./ Boisterous in the treetops, tuneless/ as 10,000 cigarettes, they are singing our song." It creates a cold, black and white image. Crows seem wake the people from "uneasy dreams"; however, are the memories of yesterday dreams? and after people are awake today, will they still be stuck in the terrible strange lives? The crows, the "clotted darkness", will sing a sad, broken song, for the hopeless people in the town.

"Morning Cigarette"

Azure firmament. Bold Twigs.

A raven, a seagull, fly to different directions.


My favorite places to walk are those narrow, dim alleys. They hide behind all the modern skyscrapers, plazas, and shopping street. Away from the bustle of the city, those alleys narrate numerous bitter-sweet stories of life in a silence. I always visit alleys when I am free, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the night. These long, complicated maze-like alleys is filled with the scent of old time, like a sake at 45℃, gentle and dazzling.

In a morning of summer, the wet sunshine is newly born. Taking a cold shower, plugging my headphone, I travel through the alley, without a destination. The cloudless, azure sky, the shattered shadow under a plane tree, the dewy purple flower of triangle plums, and the strong summer smell remind me of the temperature of a heart that I love. A calico cat is sleeping on the brick-made mottled red wall. The girl wears a light bright dress, running towards me. A black butterfly shines in the morning light.

"I walk as far as I can,/ then farther, past/ the chain-link barring the road,..." Alison Pick wrote in his poem, "The Hinterland". I've done the same.

In the narrow alleys, walls block the view. Nobody knows what is there after the next corner. I love being fresh; I love being strange.

In the wind of autumn, lighting my cigarette, I travel through the alley. No green stay anymore. A few yellow, dry leaves tremble in the tips of branches. The nights are cold. The sadness and loneliness are blowing in the breeze. Under the dim yellow light of lamps, I walk. I've seen a white-collar worker going back home, drunk, dancing a single waltz. I've seen homeless dogs rambling in the cold wind, sniffing around. I've seen young teenage lovers, kissing beneath a tree, desperately.

All the scenes are stories of life, memories of others. I have watched them smiling, embracing, holding each others hands. I have also watched them weeping, quarreling, kissing in tears. I have watched them like I’ve lived a thousand times.

“There is nothing new in the world.” A voice talked to me.

“But every story is unique.” I answered.

I need to go home now, I think, and go on with my story. "By walking I found out/ Where I was going./...Another step/ And I shall be where I started from." Irving Layton said.

Created By
Zixiao Yue


Created with images by MEDIODESCOCIDO - "Kurt" • ogio - "bird crow dark"

Made with Adobe Slate

Make your words and images move.

Get Slate

Report Abuse

If you feel that this video content violates the Adobe Terms of Use, you may report this content by filling out this quick form.

To report a Copyright Violation, please follow Section 17 in the Terms of Use.