Mr. Aiqing Mourns the Passing of Brother Wang Jiakang
My bond with Brother Jiakang (Mr. Wang Jiakang) began in 2013 and lasted until his passing yesterday — a full thirteen years and more. On hearing the grievous news, my sorrow needs no telling; I have gone through my old poems and writings and gathered some of the records of my exchanges with him, to convey my mourning. The earliest of these poems was written in 2013, before I had ever met him face to face.
Later I heard him say this: "Aiqing, you wrote me into your poems, and in that instant you won me over. If one day I could live on inside Aiqing's poems, then this life of mine would not have been lived in vain." Only then did I realize that even before we met, he had been hooked by my utterly worthless verses and had become my most devoted reader. From that time on he never forsook me, never complained of hardship, never asked for anything, and did so much to look after me, help me, and hold me up.
Today I have sorted through the poems and writings of my years with Brother Jiakang, to offer a small token of mourning. There are far too many; most of the poems inspired by him never carried his name in their titles or lines, and can no longer be found — a grave disrespect to him on my part.
Excerpts of some of these writings follow.
Excerpt from the original preface: One day in the autumn of 2013, my friend Zhang Bingyi of Shanghai telephoned, saying that his friend Wang Jiakang wished to do something for Aiqing in Shanghai.
Head raised, I bow to the Eternal Heaven; sword pointed southeast, I mean to break through the wall.
Wanchun at seventeen dared raise the standard; at fifty, all his vital spirit he bequeathed to me.
In Thanks to Brother Wang Jiakang
No. 1
Range upon range, ten thousand li away — yet nothing can stop the Huangpu from bearing its tide.
Yesterday my dreaming soul wandered the Bund; today my brother brings glad tidings.
The river joins the snow mountains, rising from a thin stream; its waves surge to the ocean and a great whale appears.
On this golden-autumn night of the bright moon, when we raise our cups by the Huangpu — how could it be only the two of us?
No. 2
Autumn winds rise and the great tide surges; once more I take Shanghai as my Jingzhou.
The bright moon climbs slowly over whale-high waves; once more I cast my golden hook toward the ocean.
Tao Zhu moved house three times, not for wealth; Han Xin crawled between legs — did he relish the shame?
Wait till Red Cliff settles the threefold division; then raise a cup, invite the moon, and sing the Great Wind.
No. 3
This life of campaigns leaves many regrets; three hundred times I stumbled at the horse's foreleg.
Now once more I march to attack Hangu Pass, gripping bow and blade, the horse gagged for silence.
Craggy and dense, the night is deep; a single cock crows in the sky.
Then I see Hangu Pass open for me. Your lord is no Lord Mengchang.
No. 4
That year I first went to Lujiazui, heroic in bearing, in feathered cap and silk kerchief.
Three thousand drunken gallants I greeted daily; my guests came from Osaka or from Tokyo.
Now I go to Lujiazui again — still able to eat three pints of rice a day.
I watch the Huangpu's eastward-flowing waters; the river laughs and I come flying back.
No. 5
A single bond I cannot shake off; a thousand li I follow the waves — and come circling back.
A lone boat, one leaf, drifting to the far west; wave rising, wave falling — always on my mind.
At the Huangpu's shoal I lost the rudder; on the Lingding seas the banner broke.
I ask: how deep is the Huangpu? The little boat comes back, now a great warship.
No. 6
Broken spears sink in the sand by the Huangpu; defeated again and again, still unwilling to yield.
Shut in and self-imprisoned for ten full years; the sleeping dragon rolls up the dust and comes out of the mountain again.
Sun Bin with shattered knee awaited Maling; Lian Po, not yet old, could still eat his fill.
The East Sea lies calm beneath the bright moon; cup in hand, I look back on a road of eight thousand li.
No. 7
Ten years of fighting across eight thousand li; more loss than gain, ashamed to make it known.
Once I stood neighbour to a Fortune 500; overnight, routed, I meant to throw myself into the river.
A thousand wounds, a hundred holes, no whole skin left; in the still night I scrape the bone and lick my own hurt.
I gather up the broken frame and come again — without the Wu hook, I go down to Qiantang.
Wishing Brother Wang Jiakang Victory as He Carries the Nine-Jointed Divine Whip to the Jinan World Martial Arts Tournament
No. 1
The whip is but nine feet long; a single swing reaches thirty thousand feet.
Eastward it lifts sea-swells; westward it shakes the wilderness.
Pear blossoms fall petal by petal; dragons sway coil upon coil.
He ends with a clasped fist — who dares step into the ring?
No. 2
Do not say Lian Po is old; in softness he carries his own steel.
Westward the whip topples a pagoda; eastward it strikes the Dragon King Ao Guang.
Pear blossoms rise as a flying waterfall; dragons scatter phosphor light.
He draws back the whip at three parts strength, looks around — who dares come up?
Written in October 2014, on hearing that Brother Wang Jiakang would hold a preview event for The Workplace Apocalypse at the Shanghai Art Fair
No. 1
Once more I make Shanghai my Hanzhong, face south and call myself lord, setting up my own altar.
North against Wei, east against Wu; the great banner once raised points to the blue sky.
The generals hear the order and rouse their tiger might; before long they will march down to Meng Pass.
Of three parts under heaven, to take one part — a true man does not come into the world for nothing.
No. 2
Again I hear the Huangpu rising in flood; three thousand fat fish rush before my eyes.
I put away the golden hook and take up the great net; your lord goes down to the Huangpu once more.
The Grand Duke fished with a straight hook in vain; to catch fish one must finally go naked into the water.
Stripping off my clothes, bare-chested against the mad waves — I refuse to believe a great whale cannot be caught.
No. 3
I gaze afar as my brother raises three armies; banners flutter like heavy clouds.
The Longquan sword on the wall leaps up of itself; the black steed lifts its head and neighs long.
When will the flesh grow back on these thighs? Today I mount and spur my own hooves.
Wolf-smoke rolls, war drums beat urgent; a road of eight thousand li to Puxi.
The Sword Leaves Its Sheath
In early November 2014, travelling to Shanghai to attend the preview of the TV dramas The Workplace Apocalypse and The Sacred Mountain, organized by Brother Wang Jiakang. Improvised on the bus to Chengdu Shuangliu International Airport
No. 1
The great peng rises on the wind at once, soaring ninety thousand li to the east.
Winter smog shrouds all nine provinces; I refuse to believe Xihe cannot be woken.
Ten thousand jade blossoms wait for dawn to open; when the sun rises, why fear the golden cock's crow?
Sima Xiangru, Li Bai — watch me: with four-horse carriage and sword, I leave Sichuan behind.
Written in idleness while waiting in the VIP lounge of Chengdu Shuangliu International Airport
No. 2
The great peng folds its wings, awaiting the hour to fly; let it rest a while in the fine chamber.
The nine heavens are vast — surely there is a road; one spread of both wings will break the heavy clouds.
In the transit lounge at Chizhou, gazing afar at Mount Jiuhua, seat of Ksitigarbha
No. 3
From the nine heavens Mount Jiuhua suddenly descends; before the Buddha Ksitigarbha I pause to call.
Only after ferrying all ten directions does one become a Buddha — does my brother still hold a grudge?
Only because Aiqing dwells in hell has he not yet risen to the Buddha's heaven.
Arriving at Shanghai Hongqiao Airport
No. 4
A single rider heads east from western Shu, and makes the Huangpu his Tan River.
The Dilu horse lifts its head and neighs at the sky; without the whip it spurs its own hooves.
The Silver River stretches far beneath my feet; the dragon steed loves best the joy among clouds.
One long cry breaks the night sky; the golden cock starts awake and sings the dawn.
Aboard the metro from Hongqiao to Wujiaochang, after landing in Shanghai
No. 5
From Hongqiao straight to Wujiaochang; the hidden dragon conceals itself underground.
One day it will lift its head, break the earth in wrath, and spread its scales toward the nine heavens.
After the preview of the TV series The Workplace Apocalypse at Shanghai International Fashion Center; lodging overnight at Wujiaochang, recalling the old days when I suddenly took it into my head to write a novel
No. 6
Old friends and new all gather; one small book performs a great play.
Three thousand below the stage, none unlettered; those above add to the joy with elegant song.
Shanghai, where the sea takes in a hundred rivers — birthplace of most of our literary giants.
What do I recall at Wujiaochang? At Lujiazui I first put pen to paper.
Moving on Line 4 toward the Free Trade Zone
No. 7
Half the day in daylight, half sunk below ground; in one day I cross Puxi and back.
Lift my head — broad roads all of gold leaf; lower it — darkness before my eyes again.
Winter should bring lasting clear skies; yet it is half sunshine, half rain.
Tonight I bow at the Xiahai Temple; one stick of incense to scatter the heavy clouds.
Lodging overnight at Lujiazui
No. 8
A road of eight thousand li to the Huangpu; three steps forward and I am at the ocean.
At night I climb the skyscraper alone, and in high spirits raise a cup to pluck the Heavenly Wolf.
Eastward, gold light spills beneath the moon; Penglai is not far — the osmanthus smells sweet.
The whale-waves roll — surely there is a road; I command the Dragon King to greet me by the way.
Morning Scene at Lujiazui
No. 8
The high tower pierces the Palace of the Empyrean; sun and moon go round and detour about it.
Though this mortal frame has no Chang'e's feathers, in an instant I climb to the ninth cloud.
I command the Jade Emperor to give up his seat — today your lord sits in the heavenly court.
When one man attains the Way, all rise with him; brothers, come quickly and share the fairy maidens.
Congratulating the Founding of the Aiqing Readers' Club
No. 1
Three thousand refined guests all gather; it is called the Aiqing Readers' Club.
Every reader is an emperor; the one subject is named Aiqing.
No. 2
Alone I go back and forth to Shanghai; my worn brush is like a sword in the palm. It splits the muddy waves and hews the long whale, and builds a sacred mountain on the shoal.
To President Wang Jiakang
The great banner once raised roars at the sky — which brave man dares climb the hill?
Without the nerve to cut a road in three, do not come to your lord begging for leftovers.
Heroes have always come from the marshes; wealth and honour fall by chance on Yellow Mud Ridge.
Today the seats are set beneath the banner; tomorrow we share the gold in high delight.
Mr. Aiqing
Shanghai Dragon TV reports on the RV Camper Committee
Some group photos from the Shanghai Aiqing Film Tea Gathering
My thanks to the renowned Taiwanese poet Dr. Fan Guangling, Secretary Li Hui of Shangdong Culture Media, the celebrated Shanghai social activist Mr. Wang Jiakang, the celebrated Shanghai social practitioner Ms. Zhang Wenli, the celebrated Shanghai filmmaker Ms. Wu Ji, the celebrated young Shanghai talent Mr. Zhang Houzhong, the celebrated Shanghai model-appraisal master Ms. Wu, Zhang Haojun of Dragon TV, the celebrated Shanghai beauty Liu Sihan, the celebrated Shanghai philanthropist Mr. Dai Guangrong, and many other friends for honouring us with their guidance.
In olden days Liao Hua served as vanguard; today Aiqing pushes himself to the fore.
My head is not so high — a mere three inches; a monkey crowned with a cap, hopping three hops.
The masters below all cover their noses; the ladies in the seats all shake their heads.
Two ounces of ink is all I hold in my breast; my verse is truly stink, stink, stink.
Congratulating the Victorious Meeting of Wang Jiakang's Team and Zheng Haiying's Team
Do you know of Jinggang Mountain in those years, two columns of troops ascending the peak?
The Autumn Harvest column numbered three thousand; the Nanchang column not ten thousand.
Jiakang and Haiying clasp hands; in years to come they will look back and speak of those days.
The late emperor, defeated by Aman at Jiangxia, never abandoned his thirty thousand old and young.
Victory and defeat are common to the strategist; only let us not offend heaven and earth.
The Road of Enterprise
Three thousand passers-by abandon me and go; eight thousand followers come with me.
The great banner once raised never falls; I refuse to believe the pass cannot be broken.
Congratulating Brother Wang Jiakang on the Successful Holding of the RV & Model Tourism Contest and the Aiqing Film Actor Selection
A few rare blossoms come forth from my hand; this round of selection looks to Brother Wang.
One blossom, one more, and yet another; tomorrow their radiance will light the screen.
At Brother Wang Jiakang's invitation, wishing to retire to Jiuting Town, Shanghai, to reclaim wasteland and live self-sufficiently
Let me make the dusty world my Peach Blossom Spring; why should a great hermit not hide amid the market?
The neighbour's BMW sweeps past in dust; I only shoulder my basket and hoe the earth.
At leisure I invite the moon and pour my own wine; when busy I drive the dogs and fowl from the fields.
When autumn brings a good harvest, it will outshine gold a hundred million times over.
Such are the excerpts of my writings from my years with Brother Jiakang; the rest lie scattered among the various collections of Aiqing's poetry.
Brother Jiakang, immortal!
Alas and alack — may you partake of the offerings.
Offered by Aiqing
9 September 2026
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