Zhang Zhi, also known by his pen name Diablo and English name Arthur Zhang, was born in 1965 in Phoenix Town, Baxian County, Sichuan Province, China. A towering figure in contemporary Chinese literature, Zhang is widely recognized as a distinguished poet, literary critic, translator, and publisher whose influence extends far beyond national borders. Holding a doctorate in literature, he serves as President of the International Poetry Translation and Research Centre (IPTRC), and is the editor-in-chief of the Rendition of International Poetry Quarterly, a multilingual literary journal, as well as the English-language edition of the World Poetry Yearbook. He is also a key advisor to the Center for Globalization of Chinese Poetry at Nankai University. Since 1986, Zhang has been a prolific voice in both creative and scholarly writing, with his poetry, essays, and translations appearing in leading journals and anthologies across the globe. His works have been translated into over forty languages, demonstrating a rare universality of spirit and expression. Zhang’s global literary contributions have earned him numerous prestigious poetry awards from countries such as Greece, Brazil, the United States, Israel, France, India, Italy, Austria, Lebanon, Macedonia, Kosovo, Russia, Serbia, Morocco, Montenegro, and Japan. In addition to publishing seven volumes of his own poetry in foreign languages, he has translated and edited multiple collections of poetry and fiction, bridging diverse cultures through the power of language. As a passionate advocate for poetic dialogue and international exchange, Zhang Zhi remains a vital force in shaping the landscape of world literature today.
E-mail: iptrc@163.com
To engage deeply with Zhang Zhi’s affecting quartet of poems, one must read through multiple lenses, absorbing the language while attuning to the subtle undercurrents of theme and craft. Reading and understanding the poems becomes the first act of intimacy, allowing each word and silence its place. As the works reveal, connections begin to emerge, binding the poems through shared emotions and concerns. Understanding how the collection fits within the wider context of contemporary poetry, and how Zhang draws from and departs from tradition, adds another layer of insight. Evaluating the poet’s craftsmanship means appreciating both his precision and his restraint, while assessing the emotional and intellectual impact helps uncover what lingers long after the reading ends. The effectiveness of the poetry comes not from volume but from resonance. From there, we turn toward appreciating Zhang’s quiet but deliberate artistic process, observing how each poetic device works in service of meaning. Finally, placing these works in historical and cultural context reveals how poetry, even at its most personal, becomes a mirror of the moment in which it is written.
The first poem, METAL HEART, opens with a striking paradox, something mechanical housing a desire for warmth. What begins as a description of a heart “not too fervent” inside a “chest of steel” evolves into a meditation on emotional longing within an impersonal world. The sparse language is deceptive; beneath its cool tone pulses a yearning for connection, for something human to interrupt the metallic rhythms. This desire, “the faintest spark of human warmth”, is not only individual but universal, encapsulating our search for meaning in increasingly cold and technological surroundings. Zhang’s controlled diction and the gentle build-up from physiology to cosmic reflection is a testament to his quiet lyricism.
The tone shifts in ELEVATOR USAGE PRECAUTIONS, a poem that uses the language of everyday instructions to question the rigidity of modern systems. What reads initially like a bureaucratic notice quickly becomes a playful, philosophical subversion. By stacking one prohibition after another, “Do not pry open the doors. Do not lean against the walls. Do not loiter.”, Zhang simulates the numbing rhythm of institutional voice. Yet, just when the poem seems fully entrapped in its structure, he breaks free: “But poetry / And the soul are exceptions.” This simple reversal breathes life into the rules, suggesting that art and inner spirit defy systems by their very nature. The juxtaposition of rigid control with a final note of liberation is executed with both wit and reverence.
I’M NOT SURE IF IT’S ALSO SNOWING IN THE OTHER WORLD is the emotional centre of this selection. An elegy to the poet’s late mother, it begins with stark physical transitions: a movement from “a large cement box” to “a small ceramic one.” The bluntness of the crematory image is softened by snow falling both in the poem’s present and in the imagined afterlife. The poem never lapses into sentimentality; instead, Zhang reflects on absence, legacy, and the difficulty of carrying memory. “I dare not / Easily cut out a piece of / Memory with you” speaks to the weight of grief and the hesitancy of letting go. The snow becomes a repeated metaphor, pure, quiet, cold, suggesting both beauty and pain, memory and forgetting. Here, Zhang writes with restraint and vulnerability, honouring his loss by naming it without embellishment.
What stands out in these poems is the emotional range Zhang manages across just a few poems. From the mechanical to the metaphysical, from bureaucratic absurdity to personal mourning, the poems remain thematically cohesive. They speak of disconnection, between machines and humans, life and death, languages and cultures, but they also seek threads that can tie these fragments together. There’s an echo between the “cold cosmos” in METAL HEART and the “miserable world” in the elegy. Even the list poem resists disconnection by naming poetry and soul as ungovernable. These threads form a fabric of reflection, on modernity, mortality, and the role of art in bridging inner and outer divides.
Within the broader context of genre, Zhang’s work occupies an intriguing space. He draws from classical haiku-like minimalism yet places it within distinctly modern concerns. His elegy resonates with Eastern ancestral reverence, but the voice is contemporary, pared down, and open-ended. His tribute to Argentine poet Luis Benítez folds global literary dialogue into its frame, embracing a transnational poetic tradition. The poems do not rely on traditional form, yet they echo with lyrical balance and disciplined rhythm. This synthesis of tradition and innovation places Zhang among the growing number of poets writing across languages, borders, and generations.
Language is Zhang Zhi’s most finely honed tool. He writes in spare, declarative lines, yet these lines leave space for the reader to wander and absorb. The effect is like standing before a simple ink painting, few strokes, but each precise and suggestive. In TO THE RENOWNED ARGENTINE POET LUIS BENÍTEZ, we read, “Words are like stars, scattering light in the dark,” a metaphor that captures both the poem’s praise and its own technique. The collection is crafted with care, each poem sequenced to expand or echo another, culminating in a structure that feels quiet but cumulative, never forced, always progressing.
The emotional and intellectual impact of these poems comes in their ability to linger in the reader’s thoughts. One does not finish reading and walk away unchanged. The elegy leaves a chill in the bones. The elevator poem leaves a smile. The metal heart continues to beat in memory. Perhaps most powerfully, the poems elicit empathy. They remind us that behind every system is a soul, behind every passing is a story, and behind every silence is a language trying to be heard.
What makes these poems effective is not their complexity but their clarity. They do not rely on dense allusion or linguistic acrobatics; rather, they focus on resonance. If read aloud, each poem would land softly but firmly, with the kind of cadence that invites pause. Zhang’s ear for rhythm allows him to move fluidly from declarative to meditative tones, without disruption. His use of repetition and quiet metaphor is consistent and precise, never ornamental but always meaningful.
Appreciating Zhang’s process involves sensing how deliberately he balances theme and tone. He does not rush toward profundity but allows it to emerge from simplicity. In many ways, his poetry feels less written than revealed, as if he listens carefully and translates what he hears from silence. This sensitivity is especially evident in his elegy, which unfolds like a snowflake, light, intricate, fleeting, but unforgettable. It is clear that Zhang writes not to impress but to express, not to perform but to remember and reconnect.
His use of poetic devices: metaphor, repetition, contrast, is restrained but impactful. The snow in the elegy, the machine-body metaphor in METAL HEART, the turn in the elevator list, all reflect a poet who knows how to use language to mirror internal states. There are no wasted lines or overstated images; everything serves a purpose, and silence is used as thoughtfully as sound. His poetry speaks not only through what is said but through what is left unsaid.
These poems cannot be divorced from their cultural and historical moment. Written between 2022 and 2025, they exist in a post-pandemic, digitally accelerated world where disconnection often feels like the norm. Zhang Zhi, writing from China but addressing a global audience, reflects on grief, alienation, and the stubborn flickers of warmth we still seek in one another. In doing so, he joins a chorus of poets responding not just to personal loss, but to the shared conditions of our time. His voice, quiet but unwavering, is one that deserves to be heard across languages and continents.
Metal Heart
A heart
Not too fervent
Beats within the chest of steel.
Delicate currents
Flow through your veins silently,
Stirring the pulsing,
Even cheering of life.
Indeed,
You have a metal heart,
Yet yearn
To seek
The faintest spark
Of human warmth
In the cold cosmos.
Written on February 18, 2025
Elevator Usage Precautions
Do not pry open the doors.
Do not lean against the walls.
Do not loiter.
Do not play around.
In case of fire or earthquake,
Do not use the elevator.
Do not press buttons at random.
Do not smoke.
Do not litter around.
Do not bring in fierce dogs.
Do not slap the doors.
Do not block the doors with body or objects.
Do not allow electric bikes inside.
Do not run into the elevator.
Do not overload.
But poetry
And the soul are exceptions.
Written on December 20, 2024
I’m Not Sure If It’s Also Snowing in the Other World
—To my late mother, Chen Yibi (April 29, 1937—12:33, December 27, 2022)
The moment
They pushed you into the cinerator,
I knew
From that time
You had moved from a large cement box
Into
A small ceramic one.
Then
In the sky above us
It was snowing…
Then
It seemed to me
You were standing alone
Under another sky,
Reunited with your parents,
Your husband,
And your siblings,
Leaving behind
The scattered
Stars and moon
For us,
For this miserable world…
I am not made of steel.
I dare not
Easily cut out a piece of
Memory with you,
Even in words.
I have to slow down my steps
And slow down the wings of my soul…
You came
To this world.
So did I.
Our lives
Seem to be merely a pause
Between one snowfall
And another
…
Suddenly, I feel a bit cold…
And then
I was not sure
If it’s also snowing
In the other world…
When dawn
Was awakened
By a bird’s chirp
And twilight
Like your withered
fingers
Brushed away gently
The snow all over my body…
Written on the night of December 28, 2022, in Chongqing
To the Renowned Argentine Poet Luis Benítez
Moonlight on the corners of Buenos Aires
Shatters into countless nights.
Your verses sway in the wind
Like a flag, more like sighs.
The mirror of time flows on white paper,
Each word being an unhealed wound.
Words are like stars, scattering light in the dark,
Illuminating all the lost directions ahead.
Now, you stand at the peak of the world,
Measuring eternity with silence
All I want to tell you is:
We are all stars exiled by God.
And now, in the labyrinth of Spanish and Chinese,
We are searching for each other’s warmth and a clear dream.
Written on February 8, 2025
(Translated by Prof. Li Zhengshuan）
