1. 我与平行世界的我一梦之隔

风敲青铜，编钟自鸣

时间绞咬齿轮

人类老去的骨骼哗哗作响

梦如此慷慨，予我一双翅膀

去到比风飞得更远的地方

在天之涯，我听到落日坠海砰的巨响

我是梦游病患，黑暗的狩猎者

在夜里缝补白天的缺憾

睁着眼做梦，将自己锁进城堡

我是尚未老去的孩子

在诗里

有时是女孩有时是男孩

我想和黑夜做个交易

用白昼换取梦中跌落过的陷阱

那里开满玫瑰还有苹果树的香气

有光透过日月交替的缝隙

把我推进暗门后的秘境

那里空旷无垠

真寂静呀！寂静即刻被打破

真荒芜呀！即刻无中生有

星空万里，任天马行空，驰骋

蓝天，海洋，草原……

山洪，海啸，荒漠，残垣，枯骨……

有喜，有惊，有兽有无常

日光一生最灿烂辉煌之时莫过于夕阳

漏尽成丘，晨露睁开眼

黎明从太阳升起的地方奔到我面前

坐在时间肩头的云

透过冰封的镜面摄取我的魂

硬生生把梦剪成碎片

点亮蜡烛

灵清晰的轮廓穿破铠甲

解禁，执念的枷锁

阳光与黑暗互为投射

以梦拥宇宙入怀，清风朗月

解开绳结捋着往事，在阳光下，晾晒

时间正在赶路

我与此刻交臂而过

向前，生命是每一步坚定向前的脚印

2. 可知思念的由来

雨敲青瓦风摇铃

江南寂冷的晨曦里

不雪的冬天总好像缺了些什么

风蘸着清凉叩响柴门

打开窗已不知去向

屋檐下灯笼兀自燃着红光

虯龙扶疏春蠢蠢萌动

梅开了

落英纷纷落在鼻尖

采一花蕊点缀岁月冻伤的脸庞

阳光下金色的芬芳是母亲的体香

借鬓角一根银丝将碎瓣纳成袍

用念想熨平离歾的褶皱

开窗邀梅进来小坐

暖坑上，壶里陈皮缓缓舒放

我似猫懒懒打开思想的萼

用花瓣把你的名字绣在墙上

梅，母亲高傲的名字

是红尘最美的花

转动五色球

找一颗属于今天的心情

留下生活的屑片交给阳光打扫

3. 岁月沉香

闲云浮起青山潦草的影子

一袭托钵的袈裟

从薄雾中走来

削瘦的竹杖

低头看着鱼尾划碎自己的倒影

碎了，又圆

虫蚁啃食过的白木，枯朽

匍匐在红土里的伤痕

是否熬成树瘤便可修成正果

结痂，成香

4. 红尘与空门，举手扣环之间

寺外芭蕉，寺内莲

狗吠声拉近了红尘与空门的距离

易经，佛经，一脉龙元

如来

宁静的寺院

风是最频繁的造访客

以玄幻的方式穿过薄雾

那青烟带着檀的香味

使我沦陷，在追究的陷阱

荷瓣上的露珠

莲蓬里的一粒种子

荷缸，修心的道场，如一面镜子

照见灵魂深处固有的佛性

仿若那枚悬在古松上冥想的果子

蝉鸣中，悟化成形

我非佛的弟子

却总爱在禅的世界游走

月光是打坐的蒲团

每起身，灵魂总被囚在阳光下

钵，袈裟，念珠，皆是

禅的修辞

试着将箴言塞进鱼肚

每敲一下，便听得

南无.阿弥.陀佛

5. 大雁塔

在盘旋的文字中走神

走进天竺的佛道

贝叶经上是否有坠雁的血迹

雁声半空，我也在半空，俯看

一滩血托起的七级浮屠

塔顶，播种信仰的云已随风去

大雁塔，佛的天国

我只能在梦中拾阶，盘桓

于你的翅膀上

在诗里做第一流人第一等事

把汉字炼成的舍利

供养在莲花台上

6. 荷塘夜话

想写一枝一叶一荷

却见莲叶上坐着我的影子

在褪色的花瓣上如青春的嫣然

我是凡尘女子，无意皈依

蓬门中的打坐的莲子

才是转世的佛

花开为伊花谢也为伊

淤泥中有卧着的白骨为证

莲子安于蓬巢

我安于异乡客舍

那花晃动着月光的梦幻对我浅笑

从莲座起身

顺手，我把心中涌出来的那朵荷

收进诗里

7. 时间，冷寂成冰

缓缓，破土的笋探头，窥视

那被风所流放的竹叶

代我死去

残荷，微雨

瞳仁上，滚着，一滴

泪的承诺

幽居，寒露中

竟痴迷至不敢眨眼

唯恐珠儿从叶上滚落，摔伤

池底锦鲤啄着云影

这是多么令人渴望的天堂

彼岸，曼陀罗正艳

8. 蝴蝶是季节为我描的窗花

一幅美丽而模糊的剪影

伸手，就化为指间的清烟

向虚无处，飘去

墙上的日子被撕得越来越薄

一如群山接住落日

那旧皇历折的纸鸢在坠落

天边，哦，看天边

有雁飞过

9. 折叠

风又归来

拎着，被暑烤卷裙摆的

那朵云，晾在飞檐

一如窗花，又如曾经的嫁衣

叠在春日褪却的长衫下

些许樟木的香气

些许岁月的皱褶，还有些

微尘啃噬过的记忆

飘出

10. 静美如秋

枫叶泛红

便又多了几枚诗笺

在纸上，在虫鸟归于寂静之后

那些繁茂的日子

随夏之华服，一季晾晒

就被收进箱笼

秋，静静行来

如东窗窥镜的月，清冷

又如镜前卸下盘髻的女子

一瀑垂柳钓月，寂寂

项美靜

出生杭州。学习成长于湖州。汉语言文学专科毕业。2001年起，迄今长期居留台北。【意渡世界】《诗海峡》栏目主编。作品常见于中国、东南亚、美国以及台湾、香港地区等诗刊杂志。著有诗集《与文字谈一场恋爱》《蝉声》《谪仙》。

1. A Dream Apart from My Parallel Self

The wind knocks on bronze, chimes ring on their own,

Time gnaws at gears,

The aging bones of humanity clatter and groan.

So generous is the dream, granting me wings to fly

To places farther than the wind can roam,

Where, at the edge of the sky, I hear the sunset plunge into the sea with a boom.

I am a sleepwalker, a hunter in the dark,

Mending the flaws of daylight in the night,

Eyes wide open, dreaming, locking myself in a castle of my own.

I am a child not yet grown old,

In poetry,

Sometimes a girl, sometimes a boy.

I want to strike a deal with the night—

Trade the day for traps once fallen into in dreams,

Where roses bloom and the scent of apple trees lingers.

Light seeps through the cracks of sun and moon,

Pushing me into a hidden realm beyond the door,

Where emptiness stretches boundless.

So silent! Yet silence shatters at once.

So barren! Yet life springs from the void.

A sky of stars, where winged steeds gallop free—

Blue skies, oceans, grasslands…

Flash floods, tidal waves, deserts, ruins, bleached bones…

Joy, terror, beasts, the whims of fate.

The sun’s most glorious moment is its dying light,

Sands trickle into hills, dewdrops blink awake,

Dawn rushes to me from where the sun ascends.

Clouds perched on time’s shoulders

Steal my soul through frozen mirrors,

Shearing dreams to fragments.

Light a candle,

The spirit’s sharp outline pierces its armor,

Breaks free—shackles of obsession undone.

Light and darkness cast each other’s shadows,

Embracing the cosmos in dreams, wind-clear, moon-bright,

Untangling knots, airing out memories in sunlight.

Time is on the march,

I pass by this moment, arm in arm,

Forward—life is every steadfast step I take.

2. The Origin of Longing

Rain taps on blue tiles, wind chimes sway,

In the silent dawn of Jiangnan,

A snowless winter always feels like something’s missing.

The wind, dipped in coolness, knocks on the wooden door,

But by the time I open the window, it’s already gone—

Under the eaves, a lantern glows stubbornly red.

Gnarled plum branches stir, spring stirs in secret,

The blossoms open,

Petals drift down, alighting on my nose,

I gather a stamen to adorn time’s frostbitten face.

In sunlight, golden fragrance—my mother’s scent—

I thread fallen petals into a robe with a silver hair from her temple,

Smoothing the wrinkles of parting with memory’s iron.

I open the window, invite the plum blossoms in to rest,

On the warm kang, dried tangerine peel unfurls in the teapot,

Like a cat, I lazily peel back thought’s petals.

With blossoms, I embroider your name on the wall—

Mei, my mother’s proud name,

The most beautiful flower in this dusty world.

I spin a colored glass sphere,

Searching for today’s mood,

Leaving life’s fragments for sunlight to sweep away.

3. Time's Silent Incense

Lazy clouds lift the mountain's careless shadow—

A robe of patched saffron

Emerges from the mist.

A gaunt bamboo staff

Lowers its gaze as fishtails shatter its reflection:

Broken, then whole again.

White wood, gnawed by insects, decays;

Scars crawling in red earth—

Do wounds become enlightenment when they harden into burls?

Scabs turning to incense.

4. Between Red Dust and the Monastery Gate

Outside the temple, banana leaves—

Inside, lotus blooms.

A dog’s bark shortens the distance between worldly life and the sacred.

The Book of Changes, Buddhist sutras—

one shared pulse of the dragon’s breath:

Tathāgata.

In the tranquil courtyard,

wind is the most frequent visitor,

passing through mist in phantom strokes.

Blue incense, sandalwood-scented,

lures me into contemplation’s snare.

A dewdrop on a lotus petal,

a single seed in the pod—

the water urn, a mirror for the heart’s practice,

reflects the Buddha-nature deep within.

Like that fruit suspended in meditation

from an ancient pine,

enlightenment takes form in the cicada’s drone.

I am no disciple of the Buddha,

yet I wander always through Zen’s realm.

Moonlight is my sitting cushion—

each time I rise, my soul remains trapped in sunlight.

Alms bowl, robes, prayer beads—

all are Dharma’s metaphors.

I try stuffing wisdom into a fish’s belly.

With each strike of the bell,

only this echoes:

Namo Amitābha.

5. Giant Wild Goose Pagoda

Distracted amid swirling scriptures,

I wander into the Buddhist path of Tianzhu—

Are there traces of fallen geese on the palm-leaf sutras?

The honking of geese mid-air, and I, too, suspended, gaze down

Upon a seven-tiered pagoda borne by a pool of blood.

At its summit, the faith-sowing clouds have drifted with the wind.

Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, Buddha’s celestial realm,

I can only ascend your steps in dreams, lingering

Upon your wings.

To be first among men, first in deeds within poetry,

To refine Chinese characters into relics,

And offer them upon the lotus throne.

6. Night Talk by the Lotus Pond

I meant to write of a stem, a leaf, a single bloom—

But there, upon the lotus pad, sat my own shadow,

Perched on fading petals like the glow of youth.

I am a woman of this dusty world, with no intent to convert—

The meditating lotus seeds in their humble pods

Are the true reincarnated Buddhas.

They bloom for her, they wither for her too,

As the bleached bones lying in the silt can attest.

The seeds rest easy in their fibrous nests,

I rest easy in this foreign inn—

That flower sways, bathed in moonlight’s dream, and smiles faintly at me.

Rising from the lotus throne,

Casually, I gather the blossom that surged from my heart

And tuck it into a poem.

7. Time, Frozen in Silence

Slowly, the budding bamboo shoots peek through the soil,

watching the exiled leaves

die in my stead.

Withered lotus, light rain—

upon the pupil rolls

a promise of tears.

Secluded in the cold dew,

I dare not even blink,

fearing a pearl might drop and shatter.

Carp at the pond’s bottom nibble cloud-shadows—

what a longed-for heaven.

On the far shore, datura blooms in riotous red.

8. The Butterfly, a Window Decoration Painted for Me by Seasons

A silhouette—lovely yet indistinct—

Reach out, and it dissolves into mist between fingers,

Drifting toward the void.

Days on the wall grow thinner with each tear,

Like mountains cradling the setting sun,

As the paper kite folded from old calendars plummets.

Look—oh, look to the horizon,

Where wild geese pass by.

9. Folding

The wind returns,

carrying the cloud whose hem was scorched by summer heat,

and hangs it on the upturned eaves.

Like paper-cuts on windows, or a wedding gown once worn,

it folds beneath the spring-worn robe.

A hint of camphorwood scent,

a few creases of time, and traces

of memory gnawed by dust—

they drift away.

10. Serene as Autumn

Maple leaves blush crimson,

and a few more poem-pages appear—

on paper, after insects and birds have hushed.

Those lush, bustling days,

like summer’s embroidered robes,

are aired one season, then tucked into chests.

Autumn approaches in silence—

like the moon peering coldly through east windows,

or a woman loosening her coiled hair before the mirror:

a cascade of willow strands fishing the moon,

wordless.

Xiang Meijing

Born in Hangzhou, Xiang Meijing grew up in Huzhou and graduated with a diploma in Chinese Language and Literature. Since 2001, she has resided long-term in Taipei. She serves as the editor of the Poetry Strait column for [Transcendence World]. Her works frequently appear in literary journals and magazines across mainland China, Southeast Asia, the United States, as well as Taiwan and Hong Kong. She is the author of several poetry collections, including: Falling in Love with Words, Cicada Songs, Banished Immortal