Fang Yaw-chien （aka, Png Iau-khian, b. 1958）is a Taiwanese poet, writer, scholar, and editor.  Currently he is a Professor of Taiwanese Languages & Literature at National Taichung University of Education, Taiwan, and President of “Taiwanese Literature Battlefront”, a member of International Writers and Artists Association（IWA）.  He obtained his Ph.D. degree in Taiwanese literature from National Cheng-kung University, Taiwan.  He has been awarded with Wu Zhuo-liu Literary Prize in poetry, the Ing-au Prize for Taiwanese Poets, the Tainan Literary Award, etc.  His publication of poetry include “My Mother Is An Astronaut”, “Loving Words To My Wife”, “Songs Of Egrets”, “Planting Tainan In My poetry”, “Selected Poems Of Fang Yaw-chien”, “A Literary Journey Of Fang Yaw-chien”, “Black/White” and “Tayouan Paipai”.  His other principal works are: “From Margin To Centers: The Construction Of Taiwanese Literature”, ” Taiwanese Vernacular Literature: Historiography Of Minority Literature”, ” The History Of Taiwanese Literature”, ” The Origin And Development Of Taiwanese Literature”, “The Theory And Practice Of Historiography Of Taiwanese Literature”, etc.

Poems by Fang Yaw-chien

My Mother Is An Astronaut

On July 20^th, 1969,
Armstrong,
Dressed in the space suit,
Wearing an oxygen mask,
Walked on the Moon, and said
World-shaking words:
“ That\'s one small step for a man,

one giant leap for mankind.”
From that time on, I secretly
Planted a dream,
Hoping to be an astronaut.

28 years later,
My dream,
Sprouting not,
Rooting not,
My mother becomes an astronaut,
Dressed in the space suit,
Wearing an oxygen mask.
The Moon turns into a sickroom.
She moves not even one small step,
Not to mention one giant leap.

Right now, I am

planting another dream,
Hoping my mother becomes an astronaut not.

Mother’s Handbag

When I was a child,

My mother’s handbag was

A treasure bag

With sweets and cookies,

With rouge and power.

When I grew up,

My mother’s handbag was

A medical box

With medicines for the stomach and bowels,

With medicines for high blood pressure and the heart.

Right now,

My mother’s handbag is

A sickbed

With her skinny body,

With my sadness.

The Golden Tsan-bun River

The golden dusk is reclining on the Tsan-bun River.

Omar Khayyam is gentlely rowing a poem

with slight intoxication.

Sandro Botticelli hangs Primavera

On my bamboo raft.

As Demi’s hair flows towards the west sky,

Comes a burning phoenix.

In her eyes,

I smile like a golden-red erythrina variegata.

At this moment, a sugarcane-carrying train,

Carrying a sweet wish,

ploughing its way and shouting through the Sai-kang Bridge.

Purple Ageratum conyzoides salute at

The both banks of the river.

Yellow Ixeris chinensis are waving their hands

Saying hello.

The golden river water is

Flowing towards the west.

I am waiting for the evening sky,

Slowly netting

A night of ting-ting dong-dong.

When Bauhinias Get Fevers

When bauhinias get fevers,
The spring will come.
From the bottom of my heart,
I will sing songs.
We will contemplate each other
Till we both get fevers.

When bauhinias get fevers,
The spring will come.
From the bottom of my heart,
The Sun will rise.
We will sit under the tree
Till the whole park get fevers.

When bauhinias get fevers,
The spring will come.
From the bottom of my heart,
The rainbow will appears.
We will walk hand in hand
Till the whole streets get fevers.

When bauhinias get fevers,
The spring will come.
From the bottom of my heart,
I will bloom.
I will plant a flower in each one’s heart,
Let each one get a fever.

Pan-tsi-hue[1]

In the nights in March,
I mean to make you hear,

Inside my body, the heartfelt sound is blown

Out from the horn,

Gentle but resolute.

The golden will

Whirls by the wind.

   Though the head is falling onto the ground

   And the limbs are breaking apart,

   I will not let any tear drop.

Pain of voicelessness is practicing speaking out

From the deepest, deepest belly

Again and again,

Again and again:

I wanted to be called “pan-tsi-hue”.

My name is not “mu-mian-hua”.

In the days in March,

I mean to make you see,

Inside my body, the true statue of me

Is seated on the throne,

Dignified and sturdy.

The golden will

Shines like the sun.

   Though the head is falling onto the ground

   And the limbs are breaking apart,

   I will not let any tear drop.

Pain of namelessness is practicing writing the name

With weak fingers,

Again and again,

Again and again:

I wanted to be called “pan-tsi-hue”.

My name is not “mu-mian-hua”.