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In 1936, Ji Xian, a well-known Chinese poet who lives now in San Francisco, lived in Suzhou, a garden city in China, but he taught and edited a literary magazine in Shanghai. He commuted between the two cities. Each time when he came back home, his friend Yao Yingcai, a professor and musical talent in Suzhou, dropped by for a chat and dinner with him. Always after dinner, Yao, who memorized almost all of Beethoven’s musical pieces, played Moonlight in the living room. One time, Yao even turned off the lights in order to create a musical atmosphere when he played Moonlight. Touched by Yao’s wonderful performance, Ji imagined:
the moon rising on the keys;
the lamp in the dark room.
In 1938 Yao went to the front to fight the invaders and died heroically in the war. Since then, Ji never heard anyone who could play Beethoven’s Moonlight as well as Yao did because Yao’s moonlight has been shining in Ji’s memory for over sixty years.
mid-autumn night
osmanthus blooming
in an old picture
Copyright 2021 Jianqing Zheng. From A Way of Looking.
Jianqing Zheng (who also publishes under the name John Zheng) is a professor of English at Mississippi Valley State University. His books include A Way of Looking (Silverfish Review Press, 2021) and The Dog Years of Reeducation (Madville 2023).

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Another exquisite haibun from a master of the form.
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I couldn’t agree more, Mandy.
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Read when I first woke up, I want to float back to sleep in moonlight. Thank you.
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Yes, a sad but strangely calming poem
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Thank you for your comment! JZ
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Thank you for sharing the moonlight! JZ
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“Yao’s moonlight has been shining in Ji’s memory ” as this poem will, now, in mine.
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Mine too. Thank you.
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Thank you for your comment! JZ
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