The process of writing poetry is also the process of my death. And it is also the process of my resurrection. Every time I write poetry it is like I travel from the earth to the moon, from the moon to the constellation Ursa Major…Every time I write poetry, it is the process of my surviving. After expressing my passion and inspiration, I obtain peace and tranquility like the sea and moonlight.


You said you were looking for another possibility,
A brighter shadow than here.
And my body is silent
Like language getting old.
How long can I keep my love for you,
I stand here, the field has run out of the birdsong.

You can’t live another life,
You can’t have a second shadow.
After my body was silent, I moved again
As the language I speak to you, flows to another city.
I speak to you: I love you.
The days of its validity are like the days of forests on earth.
Birds open their own, but also open the silence of the field.






You Taught Me This Kind of Life

Talk with the third person about what we also talked about,
Arouse my fantasies about you.
Your nails or even suitcase
What texture of shirts and sadness are filled in.

Your name is a contract.
Speaking of you——this virgin territory
I swept away the treasure map like a thief.

I went to the restaurants and bookstores you have been to
Like a museum collecting your life.
And you, the generous artist

You exhibited to me, despair is a piece of paper
Painted flying birds, painted blue grass,
You taught me this kind of life.

Fantasy I were a bird
footsteps move backward, there is a high cliff behind me.

The memory with you
Like a river flowing between our hands.










Spring Scenery

You make my blood obtain flow,
You make my time begin to die.

You make me know a second is
Finite, endless.

Everything is you,
Can’t stand more you.

I want to die in every second of the sea,
The tide surges over every inch of our skin.

Every inch of our skin longs for death,
Longing for the fields is like love.

The plague that carried the spray.










Incheon Port

Before we left, we took one last look at blue.
Blue as my parting words.

Before we left, we took one last look at blue.
Sea, your traveler is leaving.

Before we left, we took one last look at blue.
It dyed my returning shirt blue.

“What is the name of this sea?”
“Or, let’s call it the Incheon Port.”

Before we left, we took one last look at blue.
Incheon Port. If you don’t like the name,

I will call you, lover’s gaze.










Light Up

They put a carrot nose
Two brooms
On my silence.

They laughed beside my window,
Tore my silence
Into small snowballs.

They had a snowball fight, my silence
Was thrown into the air,
Was trampled under their soles.

They had loved me, touched me, kissed me,
And they left, the snowball rolled to the withered grass.

Many afternoons,
Only snow and me,
Light up each other.










We are cut off by language and daily life,
Abandoned by the sky on the earth together.

Our love is handcuffs,
We share each one

And be a pair.
The bird is about to soar and to sacrifice.

You beyond
Our common and only existence.

The moment the bird is decapitated and released,
I close my eyes. God is crying.

We wander around the planet,
The bird distinguishes us.

God’s tears welled up.
This is an old clock. You and I are second hands.

Second by second. If you start crying now,
It’s just tears coming prematurely.












Note on Translations: All poems translated by Sinan (Cai Yingming)


off the margins contributors are asked to respond questions that will be asked of all featured writers to further articulate a collective response to the question: How do we step off the margins of convention and enter the wild terrain of our writing?

Who are the women writers who have influenced your own work?

This question reminds me of moonlight and literature mother.

The women writers who have influenced my works are my moonlight and the literature mothers. In fact, there should be a similarity between our souls and the works. I see my own shadow in her lofty figure. I find holy snow and light from the Himalayas, baptized and illuminated, and worship her.

This literature mother should have a profounder meaning, not a specific woman writer. She is the writer of all women writers. She is the source of all light. She is a great power that calls me. So far, I do not know who this literature mother is for me, but I think she is a mysterious power, she should not be a specific person.

And when it comes to the specific women writers who have influenced my own works, the strength of Russian poetess Marina Tsvetaeva has influenced me. Her influence on me was not limited to words. Nor was the influence I drew from her confined to her words. There was something in the depth of her soul that strongly attracted me and influenced me. Her ardor, her naivety, her idealism, her romanticism, and the destructive power of her soul and life, the fearless and unyielding power of her words. She has been waiting for the point of the knife for too long! She sanctified everything in the world but what were truly sacred were not everything but her soul and emotion. Her perseverance of life also moved me. She has always maintained a noble heart in her life of suffering, like an indomitable and smooth pebble in the heavy spoondrift of history. There was an indestructible power in her words, or rather in her life and soul. She was like a giant magnet, and I was firmly attracted to her.

Provided that Tsvetaeva is a sea with rising tides to me, Emily Dickinson is a sea with falling tides to me. After the ebb of tides, the world obtains a kind of eternal and tremendous silence and tranquility, as if the end of life. Had I not seen the sun, I could have borne the shade. But light a newer Wilderness, my Wilderness has made. This is incomparable wildness. This is the world’s greatest desolation. Her sea is endless, deep and fascinating, sparkles with quiet and passionate light. Her tranquil passion is a kind of passion to attain eternity. The ebb tide also contains the rising of life force. Her words are as if time indwells the earth. There is a kind of gentle maternity on her that attracts me. Although she was unmarried and childless all her life, her maternity has been reflected and shining in the words. If Tsvetaeva is tearing me apart, Emily Dickinson is repairing me. They are the burning and dazzling sun and the deep and serene moonlight. They are the seas with rising tides and falling tides.

I’m reading American poetess Sharon Olds recently. Many of her works reflect female unique exquisite innermost feelings, which deeply moved me when I read. She controls the details of the text precisely just as if she can set off an electric shock experiment of a human body from a microscopic human sell. She is honest with herself, with her heart and with her life, and shows the honesty to the readers. This honesty sublimates to a kind of faith and loyalty. She is loyal to the feminine distinctive sensibility of life, to words and to the world. She writes with noble and brilliant humanity. Her poetry moved me and awed me.

I am also impressed by the works of the Japanese poetess Kaneko Misuzu and the Swedish poetess Edith Sodergran. The reason why these women writers influence me or resonate with me is that we have connections, not only between words, but also between thoughts and souls. I feel uneasy about it when the first time I face American readers and depict the wonderful American women writers that you are familiar with. The understandings and feelings to above mentioned women writers are based on my limited experience of reading in my young life. Looking for women writers who have influence on oneself is like looking for the light from one’s literature mother. I am still in the process of looking for them. I hope that in my future life meeting others who have influence on me and accept her shine to light up my life and soul. Perhaps, this woman writer is time, or the universe that we exist.








What would you like people to know about what inspires your poetry?

When I write poetry, I often feel that I have experienced tsunamis and earthquakes in my mind. My fingers beat on the keyboard as spoondrift spraying and rolling. When I write poetry, I often feel like I’m a nuclear power plant, and the sparks of inspiration spurt out from my brain. When I write poems, I am self-destructing. I am self-igniting. I am igniting my endless passion and outpouring inspiration. This process approaches death. The process brought me back to the moment when I gave birth to my mother, sweet and cruel, painful and happy.

The process of writing poetry is also the process of my death. And it is also the process of my resurrection. Every time I write poetry it is like I travel from the earth to the moon, from the moon to the constellation Ursa Major. Every time I write poetry, I am divorced from reality and led to distant places where deep and unknown in the universe. Every time I write poetry, it is the process of my surviving. After expressing my passion and inspiration, I obtain peace and tranquility like the sea and moonlight.

Then, what inspired my writing? What is the Muse of my poetry?

I often say — it is not the Muse that comes to me but I come to the Muse. It is not me to find poetry but poetry finds me. And poetry and I choose each other. We are fated. Poetry is my savior and slave owner, my nuclear power plant explosion and tsunami, my death and love, my pain and happiness. Writing poetry is bound up with my destiny. Or, poetry transcends my destiny, my physical body and my language.

When I meditate quietly, my mind enters a sea. Thoughts and inspirations pour down naturally like moonlight, and words flaps like waves and whirlpools. This is the revelation from nature. I’m listening to nature’s command to me. At this time, if I were a shrimp or a crab, I would be addicted to the sea. If I had been more intoxicated, I would have drowned in the sea, and given up the struggle.

When I write poetry, I am creating the illusion of life. I exist in the universe and time while my existence is an illusion exactly. I soothe my soul with poetry, and my thoughts of life like leaves fall, fall, fall. They can’t stop. Spring, summer, autumn and winter, even when leaves wither in winter, they still have their vitality. The inspiration for my poetry writing is probably the same. As long as my physical body exists, inspiration will melt into the root of my life like a tree. Even if my body dies, my faith exists, and my inspiration also flows in time and space.

Writing poetry is something I have to do. If I don’t write it down, I will be swallowed up by the waves on me. If I don’t write it down, I will be burned by the flames on me. — I have to write it down–god orders me to write it down–I can’t stop it, nobody can. I am a labor of poetry forever. I submit to poetry, and poetry is my proudest craft as a mortal.

I seek the profound meaning of life from poetry. I seek my existence in the universe and time from poetry. And where do I exist? An unknowable place. Just like poetry is unknowable. The essence of my relationship with poetry is the fundamental source that inspired my writing. Because poetry and I are destined, I was born for poetry. And as above-mentioned, poetry transcends my destiny, my physical body and my language. Where does inspiration come from? Is it from the universe? Is it from nature? Is it from time? I think it comes from my being, and the connection of my being between the universe, nature and time.










Sinan (real name Cai Yingming) is a young Chinese poet, born in Fujian Province in 1999. She published her first book of poems Naming at 20 years old. Her poems have been published in national, provincial and municipal magazines in China, such as Poetry Magazine, Stars, Flying sky, Grassland, Poetry Forest, Coconut City, Jiangnan Poetry, Prose Poetry, Quanzhou literature, Shan Dong literature, Yanhe Poetry, among others. Her poems have been translated into Japanese and English and also published overseas, such as the Japanese magazine Gendaishi Techo (Journal of Contemporary Poetry) and Philippine World Daily. Her poems have been selected in various writing anthologies such as: 2018 Annual Anthology of Chinese Poetry, 2018 Youth Poetry Yearbook, 2018 list of Chinese New Poetry, 2019 list of Chinese New Poetry, Three Hundred Chinese Poems in 2019, 2019 Annual Anthology of Chinese Poetry, 2020 Calendar of Chinese New Poetry, Selected Works of Chinese Young Poets in 2020, Daily Poetry for Volume 2021 and Penning The Pandemic (USA), etc. She has won The Outstanding Writer Prize in the first international micro Poetry Competition, the Third Boao International Poetry Prize for Young Poet, the Outstanding Prize in the Seventh Handan National University Students’ Poetry Festival, and the College Student Special Prize in the Second Dufu Chinese Poetry Competition. In November 2019, She attended Poetry Bridging Continents, an international symposium held at New England College in Henniker, New Hampshire and the AMC Highland Center in Bretton Woods .In 2020, her first poetry collection Naming won Hainan provincial literature award, the First Xiaojian Youth Literature Award. This prize was awarded to outstanding Hainan writers who born after 1975, she was the youngest writer among the ten winners.