Yang Mu (Chinese: 楊牧; pinyin: Yáng Mù, September 6, 1940 – March 13, 2020) was a pen name of Wang Ching-hsien (王靖獻), a Taiwanese poet, essayist, critic, translator, Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at the University of Washington, and Founding Dean at NDHU College of Humanities and Social Sciences and HKUST School of ...

Becoming Secrets: Yang Mu’s Memories of Mount Qilai: The Education of a Young a Poet

Yang Mu (Chinese: 楊牧; pinyin: Yáng Mù, September 6, 1940 – March 13, 2020) was a Taiwanese poet, essayist and critic. [1] He was born in Hualien County, Taiwan. [2] His work was known for its combining of the graceful style and writing techniques of Chinese classical poetry with elements of Western culture.

Hawk of the Mind is a comprehensive collection of Yang Mu’s poetry that presents crucial works from the many stages of his long creative career, rendered into English by a team of distinguished translators.

Born Wang Ching-hsien in Hualien, Taiwan in 1940, Yang Mu is Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at the University of Washington, Seattle, Distinguished Professor at National Normal University, Taipei, Taiwan, and Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Chinese Literature at Dong Hwa University, Hualien, Taiwan.

Enhancing Extracellular Electron Transfer of Shewanella oneidensis MR-1 through Coupling Improved Flavin Synthesis and Metal-Reducing Conduit for Pollutant … Biological hydrogen production in a...

2021年3月12日 · It consists of fourteen fourteen-line poems, dedicated to his son, Ming-ming, newborn at the time of writing, March 1980. In them, we see the father’s eager anticipation, his earnest care and wishes, all for his son. In rendering any poem, I pay most attention to readability.

Yang Mu has been writing poetry continuously for sixty years. The longevity of his career is matched by his extraordinary creativity, which has exerted a transformative influence on Taiwanese poetry in general from the 1950s to the present.

Yang Mu, Selected Poems 85 And since all is laid out perfectly upon this classic scale, there is a memory of the farthest place I have ever been— turtle doves, buckwheat fields, sickles rapiers, spurts, chapters left in the sun— I see an illustration in polychrome broken by the breeze, and still love the script of an insular art: the ...