Chen-ou Liu's Translation Project: First English-Chinese Haiku and Tanka Blog

Friday, September 11, 2026

September 11 Haiku

false dawn
in a bead of grass dew —
September 11

 

FYI: For more poems about 9/11, see "Special Feature: Selected Poems for Reflections on Remembrance of 9/11"

Remembrance is less a fixed record than a stencil constantly revised; each time we retrace the steps of the past, our present reflections reshape the impression left behind.

-- Chen-ou Liu


Added:

another year
another “thoughts and prayers” —
9/11, grayer


Added:

And after ...

Facing south, a sea of white empty chairs, 2,753 in all, flooded the lawn of Bryant Park, Midtown Manhattan. One for each person. Not a breath of air. This burden of hushed silence...

blinds drawn
against the light of dawn
9/11, yet not


Added:

Retracing and Reflecting
for those who have journeyed heavily across the landscape of the heart

the light of dawn
on September Twelfth
the time it takes 
for leaves zigzagging 
to the dust-choked ground

off the tower
one after many sped downward —
Muslim lives
and our world ripped by the day
before and forever

the footprint
of each tower that once stood
now surrounded
by four walls of water and grief
an Afghan woman's look


FYI: The dedication alludes to Melvina Young's remark:

Sadness takes its own time. It can't be hurried along. It can't be rushed. It "moves heavily across the landscape of the heart" until time and love can carry it further into the distance. 

Thursday, September 10, 2026

Moonlit Kiss Haiku

our moonlit kiss ...
that first time years ago
and the last



Added:

sultry night
a couple knee-deep
in stars


Added:

jasmine breeze
tonight smells of her
gone for years


Added:

hopscotch squares
in pink blossom rain
For Sale tilted


Added:

moving day
the backyard swing 
slows to a stop

Wednesday, September 9, 2026

Screams Gendai Haiku

screams red bleeding through midnight fog



FYI: This is written in response to the following:

knife cold swimming into blue bones

Modern Haiku, 44:1, 2013

Susan Constable

My detailed analysis can be accessed here.

Late Wife Haiku

half-sleep again …
seeing my late wife turn back
not turn back

Tuesday, September 8, 2026

Rooftop View of My Life

night shift done
in 7-Eleven lights
a stray and I part

Tar sticks to my sneakers. Below, the grid of this city is a circuit board of silver, yellow, and red LEDs. A siren wails from afar, then is swallowed by the concrete canyons. Up here, a place of my own: the city noise thins to a hum.

clothesline
a damp sheet snaps
at my cheek

Monday, September 7, 2026

Try Again and Fail Better

written in response to Thomas Mann's remark on writing:

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.


My fingers strike the keyboard with rhythmic force; my eyes sting, rimmed with red, but something keeps carrying me forward like a surging current beneath the skin.

another
false dawn while robins call
I add three words
backspace them, write five more
then delete the whole line



FYI: The title alludes to the famous quote about trying and failing:

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. 

-- Samuel Beckett, "Worstward Ho,"  a radical, minimalist prose text that strips language down to its barest essentials to explore decrepitude, memory, the limits of expression, and the stubborn human compulsion to keep going despite inevitable defeat.
 

Sunday, September 6, 2026

Cyclic Pursuit of Love

I scroll through one dating app after another, and another.

snow on snow
our pot of tea steeps dark
and bitter

Beeps flurry. Messages stack up. Faces blur. I scroll until my thumb aches. The night thins out into small screens.

awake, facing
the empty side of my bed
sunrise tinged gray

A vee of geese unzips the morning sky. I reach for my phone.

Saturday, September 5, 2026

Truck Stop at Midnight

Diesel fumes and the hiss of air brakes. The neon ‘Open’ sign buzzes, casting a flickering pink halo over cracked asphalt, a discarded ‘Lucky for Life’ ticket, and cigarette butts.

highway hum
a luna moth flattened
on the windshield

hedgerow, 153, 2026 

Friday, September 4, 2026

Sweat-and-Tears Life Tanka

another
mid-sentence silence
this muggy noon
our thoughts of returning
to sweat-and-tears yet sure life



Added:

cubicle glass
the stare of my eyes
the stare of my eyes


FYI: This could be read as a sequel to my haiku below:

a fly battering
at my cubicle window
this 9-to-5 job

Haiku in Action, Weekly Prompt:"Primordial Fears," July 2nd-6th  2025


Added:

in giant letters
think outside the box
on the wall
of this newbie's cubicle 
on my wall, actions speak louder


Added:

After three years of walking my boss's bulldog, I imagine all I can imagine and then keep on going.

corner glass cubicle
new self growing larger
with afternoon light

Wednesday, September 2, 2026

Dare to Be Happy

The neighborhood is a hush of humid air and mown grass. Time feels suspended, marked only by the rhythmic pulse of water hitting the driveway. For a moment, this white picket fence world is nothing but light and motion, before the next headline arrives—red banners scrolling, digits flickering upward.

on the front lawn
the sprinkler ticks like a clock
throwing silver arcs...
his toddler's laughter
chases a beagle's bay

Tuesday, September 1, 2026

Transient Glow Tanka

response to Thomas Mann: A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people


a transient glow
before another sunrise
the cursor blinking
while I'm alone with a mind—
all its windows closed



FYI: Ls 1&2 refer to a "false dawn," a transient light that precedes the rising of the sun by about an hour.


Added: 

My fingers click-clacking — hail against the window.

what's left unsaid
between words and lines ...
alone at false dawn


Added: response to Richard Bach: A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t QUIT. 😎 

robins chirp
to a faint glow in the sky —
carving out
showy verbs and fatty nouns
I hold the poem's bare bones

Sunday, August 30, 2026

Red Balloon Haiku

Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCCVII: "Gazan girl's red balloon"

to Banksy

fireballs bursting into the dark a Gazan girl's red balloon



FYI: The phrase, "to Banksy," serves as a joshi (prefatory note), alluding to Banksy's iconic Girl with Balloon, an image associated with childhood, innocence, hope, and loss. For a detailed analysis of this haiku and the use of "enjambed double-take," see To the Lighthouse: The Art of the One-Liner, Mastering the "Enjambed Double-Take"

Saturday, August 29, 2026

Stonehenge Tanka

a full moon
between the sarsen stones 
of Stonehenge
one silhouette ghosting
across the gravel path



Added:

a thrum of rain
on the old van skylight 
in a parking lot
I murmur, the life I dreamed
yet the life I'm living


Added:

flash after flash
of midnight lightning
my dream and I
rippling
in the vodka glass


Added:

words are only air
dissolving as they are said ...
yet my chest tightens
as if I’ve swallowed a rock
lodged beneath my breath


Added:

belief is a bridge
built across surging waters...
yet my shaking hands
cannot find the wooden rail
to the altar in dim light


Added:

emigration eve
the last notes
of Home Sweet Home
fading once more
into this moonless stillness

Friday, August 28, 2026

Reflection Haiku

Chen-ou or Eric ...
my reflection in the eyes
of a white colleague



FYI: This haiku is written in response to the following:

spring mud
the hyphen
before American


Fay Aoyagi

And my haiku blow could be read as a sequel:

Pacific waves
Chen-ou Eric two names meet
and part here not here

Thursday, August 27, 2026

On Shifting Ground

With skin creased like winter-worn leather and hands calloused from decades of labor, this gray-haired immigrant bears the map of a hard life across his face. His heart and mind now straddle memories of a sun-drenched homeland and a no-milk-or-honey future.

in wind-blown leaves
go back where you came from ...
he limps along

Wednesday, August 26, 2026

A New Immigrant

Outside the floor-to-ceiling airport windows, snowflakes waft down from a starless sky, then disappear into a world of one color.

I muse how far to walk to the pickup stop— a threshold to this land of milk and honey.

looking back
at footprints in the snow ...
which are mine?

Tuesday, August 25, 2026