21st Century Chinese Poetry

At forty, I thought I knew what was what and moved to the mountains,
picking up prime farmland short of a hectare frequented by light clouds.
Spring is the time to sow. Farmers get to decide who live and who die —
with a flick of the hand, the fate of each fennel seed is determined.
The small chestnut tree was brought home from the swap meet,
now satiated in the soft rain after my earnest prayers.
Flowers are knockout beauties, unlike me, a complete lemon even with rouge.
The whole mountain feels like a mature woman with child.
Nature goes about its business day and night: the ways of the birds and the bees.
The beekeepers continue their grand schemes, the moonlight continues to glint on the roof,
but my romantic ambitions usually fade by the end of summer —
my bizarre and lavish ideas.
All things under the stars are sheltered by the mountain,
even the little snake that I ran into in the ravine,
and the myriad of plants with or without a name.
Time enters the mountains, absent of memories, unaffected by the past.
Other than those resting in peace, other than my wandering self,
the farmers resting on the potato patch, and the secretive few behind the bamboo groves,
hardly anyone comes here. I have slowly gotten used to the ways of the trees
and the habits of the wild grass, and learned to tread lightly for the sake of the turtledoves.
As to the land, it deserves nothing but praises; any other words are cheap talks.
Winter is for chopping wood, making fire, but to act like a thinker
is absurd. Compared to trees, mountains, and rocks,
my biography is a bit overwrought: surname, age, acquired skills,
dubious background, and whereto is anyone’s guess.
The full moon shines on our beloved Eastern Mountain.
The full moon likes to perch on the verdant Eastern Mountain,
beaming on the graves and the ashen eaves of the few houses here,
a weary scene in time's infinite path, a wordless lament.

Translated by Meifu Wang & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/O5ByV19JI5_M_FvP20x7lA

东山顶上

白玛

四十岁，妄以为不惑，搬进山里
获良田七分，头顶浮云好几片
春日忙播种，地里都是铺排生死的人
一把茴香种子的命运贸然由我决定
小栗子树是从集市上带回的
一夜细雨如叹息，是我求来的
百花开疯了，把我晾在一边，抹胭脂无用
整座山如同一个怀孕的中年母亲
土地日夜酝酿大事：关于蓝尾雀的和野刺玫
捎带养蜂人的盘算，瓦砾上单薄的反光
我试图吟唱的野心消褪于夏季
我的主意古怪又多余
一座山安顿所有。在群星注视下
包括一条小蛇，我在涧沟那里遇见它
包括被人类以名词裹挟的草木种种
山里有光阴，却没有回忆。不被过去打扰
除了长眠墓地的人，除了四下游荡的我
算上竹林里以手掩面的和土豆地里歇息的几个
山中人烟向来稀疏。我得适应树木的想法
和野草的习性。还要令斑鸠不因我的脚步受惊
对土地而言，赞美之外的任何言语都是多嘴
冬季允许劈柴、生火，但模仿一个托腮的
思想者就难免可笑。和树木山石相比
我的构成过于繁复：姓氏、年龄、后天的本事
来历不明，去向亦成谜
圆月亮只光顾我们东山顶上
圆月亮只安放于东山顶的树梢上
照耀墓地也照耀清冷的几户灰屋檐
这也是不败岁月里黯然一景，是首无言啜泣之诗

WHEN THE LAMP IS BURNING

by Bai Qingguo

The shadow left,
and the light from the wall lamp floods the room.
So small is the flame,
but its smoke has smudged half of the wall.
At night when their rugged heads exchange words,
the lamp would cast their shadows on the wall like two titans,
but they never look as tall in daylight.
The things they talk about, which I have heard hundreds of times,
repeat the same themes over and over,
as unvarying as the annual return of Spring
with minimal variations, a blade missing or added.
Oftentimes I would be numb in the adjacent room,
a space so dark but so familiar.
It has been like this for thirty odd years.
My parents' conversation continues
as if I were not there.
Now and then something more serious would come up,
that's when they sit up like two sculptures without a word,
facing the darker corner of the room
unlit by the lamp
as if in a daze.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/R2J2LCq4LT_firT9sIS2bA

灯燃亮以后

白庆国

那个影子在我眼前消失以后
墙壁上的一盏油灯就亮了
那么小的灯头
不知何时把半个墙壁熏得黢黑
灯影里两个崎岖的头颅交谈了一会
小灯光把他们的影子印在对面的墙壁上很大，很高
但在白天，我从来没有见过他们如此高大
他们谈论的事情，我已经听了上百遍了
总是重复
就像每一个到来的春天
多一棵草叶或少一棵草叶
我在隔壁充满黑色的房间发呆
对于极度熟识的房间不需要灯光
我这样已经度过了三十个春秋
父母的交谈还在继续
他们无视我的存在
如果遇到重要事情
他们像两尊雕塑一样
不说一句话
面对灯光下的一个暗处
发呆

HIGH-SPEED RAIL

by Ban Ruo

I cannot be sure if the village in this far-flung place
is not my village. The sky is luminous, lighting up
the wintry world. An old man, a flash, by the water,
tends to weather, to his sheep flock, to his wheat fields
and the winking rice paddies.
A yellow ox dips its head to drink water. I don't have names
for all the creatures here, just like I don't know the names
of all of the people on the train.
A glamorous woman is crying, jabbering, recounting
her failed marriage. I don’t know her name,
but how familiar she looks. It's as if I come across my hometown
and met a kinswoman in another world and would quickly part. Look,
the graves in the wheat fields, the new tombs, the old tombs, how similar they look.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/9o05oMqGGj29MQvo2j0Z6A

高铁上

班若

我不能确定，这异乡土地上的村庄
不是我的村庄。天光如一面镜子，照亮了
入冬的尘世。水边，一晃而过的
老人放养着冬天与羊群，放养着麦地，
和水汪汪的稻茬田。
黄牛在低头饮水。这一切
我叫不出它们的名字。就像此刻
与我同车的人，我叫不出。
一个光鲜的女人哭着。高速叙述着
她失败的婚姻。我叫不出。
多么相似。像我与我的故乡和亲人，
在异地巧遇，又即刻分别。你看
那麦地里的坟头，新坟挨着旧坟，也多么相似。

NOVEMBER

by Bangji Meiduo

In November, winter charges on full on.
New snow piles on old snow, reshaping heaven and earth.
In November, snow falls on fallen pine needles;
they will stay prim on the mountains until past spring.
In November, the setting sun on skeleton trees attracts a following.
The breeze lazes about Sun Moon twin lakes, lagging behind the high clouds.
In November, the sickle moon waxes as the clouds wane and break.
A few deaths gently remind us of life's odd caprice and inevitable outcome.
In November, I want to walk out of this mountain reeking of annihilation.
The tender grass under the fallen leaves hint at their effort to take flight.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/XprT25ZPcaNK8oHtB8wRTQ

十一月

邦吉梅朵

十一月，冬天的力量在早晚分头行动
雪落在雪上重新酝酿着天上和地下的一切
十一月，松针掉落处传来雪落的声音
它们将在山上保存至下一个春天以及以后
十一月，枯枝撑着落日增加照片数量
月亮湖和太阳湖上荡起的微风比云慢一些
十一月，月亮从瘦变胖云在眼前来回几段
死亡不经意间提醒着几个意外和必然
十一月，我想从满坡的飘零中走出来
落叶遮盖的嫩草尖上印着努力抛弃的痕迹

PRINCE

by Bei Ye

I ran into Prince at the foothill this afternoon.
He waved at me from a distance,
then walked up to shake my hand.
He had just released a kept dove,
so his hand felt a tad softer than before,
and his face had the look of autumn sky.
Many people don’t know Prince.
His lady friends gave him this nickname.
One time they called me up, and said: "Bei Ye, come quickly, Prince is here already!"
Sure enough, Prince was sitting on a wooden stool.
He beamed at me from a distance
whilst a few cats lounged around him.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/UgKNPLSVfUvTdtDjWFcTgw

常公子

北野

午后在山下遇见常公子
他远远向我招手
走过来，和我握手

他的手因为刚刚放生了一只鸽子
而更加绵软
他的表情像秋天

许多人不认识常公子
他的女友们给他取了这个绰号
她们说，北野你快来，公子早到了！

果然，常公子坐在小板凳上
远远地冲我笑
身边卧着几只猫。

OCEAN'S NEIGHBOUR

by Bei Ye

I have never measured the distance
between the sea and my house
either with a rope, a yardstick, a leather tape or metal ruler.
But I guesstimate it with my heart: this building I call home
is three hundred meters from the sea; the seagulls' squawks
often wake me up at night.
Sometimes I go to the beach to check it out.
The white surfs wave at me from afar,
but I am unruffled.
Ah, the sea, the aqueous desert, men-eating water!
No one who died from thirst at sea
has ever received an apology from it.
Oh, the sea, the awe-inspiring drunken god!
He crouches under the dark seamount behind my house,
snorting a dizzying spell.
I do not live off the sea,
therefore our relationship is not at all complicated.
But if others feel the urge to flatter or curse it, that's fine.
Local fishermen said
the sea seldom climbed over the cliffs to repay anyone a visit,
but liked to send pillaging winds to inflict migraine on women.
I do wish it would hurtle up once,
whip up thunder and lightning, and whirl omens of destruction
like the sandstorms I encountered in the desert.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

大海的邻居

北野

我从未丈量过大海与我的住所
之间的距离
用草绳、木棍、皮尺或钢尺
我只是用心灵估算，我栖身的那栋楼
离海三百米，海鸥的叫声
时常在夜间将我惊醒
有时我去海边看看
白浪的手臂远远地起伏着向我召唤
但我并不激动
海嘛，液体的沙漠，吃人的水
谁要是渴死在海水里
海不会感到抱歉
大海就像一尊供人参拜的喝得烂醉的神
盘踞在我家背后黑色的礁石下
它呼出的气息令人头晕
我不靠大海为生
因此大海和我的关系一点也不复杂
假如有人愿意歌唱它或诅咒它，悉听尊便吧
我听当地渔民说
海很少爬上悬崖回访看它的人
它经常放出海盗一样的大风，刮得妇女头疼
我倒是希望它来上一次
带上雷电的鞭子、愤怒的咆哮和毁灭的警告
就像我在沙漠里看到的沙尘暴

EVENSONG

by Bo Hua

The afternoons were way too long
in prepubescent Europe,
was that the era when evensong came to be?
Doomsday authors, writers of death, misanthropes,
I hope none of you would be there.
Mr. Zongdai*, I have been thinking...
about the day June 1st, 1924:
were you there to repent for your zealous past?
"In the warm glow of the evening star suitable for atonement,
I say my prayer with gratitude.”
Terrestrial and pelagic forces, wind and fire surge and dissipate.
How do shrimps die? How do ants die?
Life is an off-chance, as rare as a blind deep-sea turtle meeting a driftwood,
but how brief it is between birth and death —
after breakfast comes lunch, and it will be supper again soon.
Pondering the reason for it, evensong...
Thinking about how to be, as Goethe put it,
unfathomable in old age,
do we, must we, never to forget, not for a minute,
those who pained us?

*Translator’s note: Liang Zongdai (1903–1983) was a Chinese poet and translator, one of the most popular poets writing in free verse in early 20th Century.

Translated by Meifu Wang with Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-AHWO0P1TfjCNwLetFLKNw

晚祷

柏桦

午后的光景太长了，
在欧洲的童年时代，
晚祷从什么时候开始的？
灾难作家、死亡作家、恨人类的作家
我希望你们都不要到场
宗岱先生，我也在想……
1924年，6月1日这天
你还在悔恨地沉思着狂热的从前吗？
晚祷“在黄昏星忏悔的温光中
完成我感恩的晚祷。”
地大水大火大风大，散光了
虾子怎么死的，蚂蚁怎么死的
生命难得，方生方死多么快呀
大海盲龟穿木——
早饭过后是午饭，晚饭说来就来了
想想这个道理，晚祷……
想想为了像歌德说的那样，
人应该在老了的岁月里变得神秘
我们是否必须念念不忘
那些曾经带给我们痛苦的人？

PAINTED FACE

by Bo Xiaoliang

Too lush, too brash,
a rebel whose life feels like a battle, but in quieter times,
she looks as pure as a vestal virgin from the west side.
In the bawdy quarter in town, people call her Cherub.
Sometimes, she notices the tofu merchant is eyeing her,
she would tip up her chin, and that's when the entire world disappears.
Still, society renounces her for being smutty, being hell-bound
even though drifters, students, gangsters, mandarins and the rest
treat her like diva in her boudoir, or perhaps more like prey.
She has weathered more than the world — a lonely soul,
sadistic and destructive at times,
but nothing is more tormenting than torment repeated.
Yet she loves,
desperately loves.
Knowing that everything amounts to dust, she still loves,
despite it all.

Translated by Duckyard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/cBVaJZZ89mDoNgIjnTDfig

画妖

薄小凉

绿，太动荡
狷狂如挣扎的命，娴静时
又如西街处子
花枝青门，人唤她袖儿
拐豆腐的多看她两眼，尖下巴昂起
明亮的事物都暗淡下来
仍是不容于世的孽障，野色
破庙潦草，赶考的、为寇的、做官的
供她于画堂，扇面，抓紧又松开
她比这尘世老，孤独
暴虐时存毁灭之心
有什么比把经历过的痛苦再经历更痛苦
可她爱
拼了命地爱
明知道什么都是灰尘还是爱
不顾一切

BURNING CLOUDS

by Buri Gude

God appreciates hardworking people,
sprinkling gold dust
on their millet and sorghum at sunset,
lending them a deeper hue, according the earth
a little extra sumptuousness.
Our insignificant days
are shrouded in burning clouds:
look, there are grandpas and grandmas in burning clouds,
so are the old well by the village gate, the grain mill, the field roller,
and the creaky water wheel.
Baiyin'na Hamlet and Taha River both lie in burning clouds.
A small freight train that also carries passengers
also comes in and out of burning clouds.
The forward carriages are a kaleidoscope of summer's
produce. The trailing carriages take in other odds and ends,
such as oil, salt, vinegar, tea, soy sauce. Sometimes
a burning cloud clings to a carriage, dreaming
its way to a bumper autumn.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/rt6hI4AxvWh6nPeBtKwZ0w

火烧云

布日古德

上帝喜欢勤劳的人
愿意在落日之前，撒下
一片金子，给高粱、谷子
增加成色，也愿意土地上多一些
成熟的故事
小日子
在火烧云里
爷爷、奶奶在火烧云里
村口那一口老井、碾坊、碌碡
以及吱吱呀呀的老水车
白银纳、塔哈河在火烧云里
一列半货半客的山里小火车
也在火烧云里。这一列
小火车，前面是山上七八月
新鲜的缩影。后面是一些枝丫
油盐酱醋茶。有时候
火烧云贴着车厢，睡在
秋天自老山的半道上

IS THERE A WIND

by Chen Can

I know regardless of which way I stand,
when the hailstorm picks up from god knows where,
it will hit me with straight punches.
Fortunately I have already weathered
too many violent push and shove,
and have learnt to plant my heels firmly like a tree.
If one day I should be uprooted,
no doubt the long scar from my old injuries
would still shout out to the newcomers, and say: “ You see,
this man was once a fighter for poetry,
rescued to a make-shift trench hospital in the southwest.
A doctor stitched up his torn flesh and broken bones,
leaving a scar that looks like a line of poetry. ”
Tell me, if a line of poetry is engraved on a poet's skin,
is there a wind that is strong enough to purge it?
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Hjl5AscDJEXdqPBFRDWgrQ

多大一阵风才能刮走这一行诗

陈灿

我知道无论我面朝什么方向
一个人的身体对于天地间的大风
都能构成正面袭击
好在我的身体已经承受过一阵
又一阵风莫名其妙的推搡
最后我以一棵树的形象站稳了脚跟
如果哪一天真被连根拔起
我相信身上那一道长长的伤疤
仍然会告诉后来者并大声说出你看
他是一位战士诗人
当年在西南那座简陋的战地救护所
医生把碎了的骨肉重新缝补修复起来
使他身上那一道伤痕多像是一行诗
而一个诗人有了这样一行诗句雕刻在身体上
要多大一阵风才能刮走这一行诗呢

LOGS

by Chen Liang

Every time Father cut down a tree,
he would carefully shear away its limbs with an axe
and stand it in the corner to dry.
The green wood,
as it released a strong lulling scent,
would twitch and squeak
in the middle of the night
as if wanting to run away.
Slowly the creaking eased
until it became wooden and silent.
—-The next winter after Father passed away,
I started to warm myself with the wood
to remedy the room's chillness and bleakness.
After I split the stumps open
and tossed them in the hearth,
the wood began to shriek
and spilled out tears, releasing
a rich aroma that quickly filled the house
as if to tell me
they had not died all the years.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/kiig-nvJ6WJMD5-Rvnu-4w

木头

陈亮

父亲每每伐掉一棵树
都会用斧头仔细削去枝杈
然后竖立在墙角阴干
新鲜的木头
会散出极浓烈的香味
甚至在深夜里
还发出咯咯地响动
让我以为它们会逃跑
慢慢的，它们消停下来
直至变成一根彻底沉默的愚木
——父亲走后的一个冬天
因为空落和寒冷
我开始用这些木头取暖
当我把它们劈开
扔进炉膛
这些木头竟吱吱喊叫着
涌出热泪，并把它们
浓烈的香味迅速充满屋子
仿佛在告诉我
这么多年，它们并没有死去

GRAIN-DRYING COURT

By Chen Renjie

An oblong plot of land
to dry the boundless harvest of grains and cotton,
or, shall we say, an oblong open door to welcome autumn,
even if the wild flowers under the hedges continue to bloom at summer's end.
Why is it oblong and not
another shape? But why not? See, it has the same shape as my joy
— a little longer than too short and a little shorter than too long.
But when the evening arrives,
it will be slightly bent out of shape by noises: the struggle continues
between a pack of wolves and a flock of sheep.
The dead will quietly breathe new life again at night.
The shadows of the clouds stand so still.
A carpet of blue spruce reaches as far as the eye can see,
almost a perfect rectangle,
unchanging in face of the capricious village life.
In this oblong courtyard, I sometimes notice
an invisible line going up diagonally to the sky, tethering
a young man on earth, akin to a grain, with his unbridled dream,
like a kite in the sky, larger than his hometown.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/n_0oauyt_nR7LAR2JQhhFg

晒谷场

陈人杰

长方形的空地，或者
以长方形来接纳
秋天，晒不完的谷子、棉花
夏天，四周篱笆下开不败的花
为什么是长方形而不是
别的形状？而我的欢乐
总是比短边长，比长边短些
只有晚间的喧嚣会撑得这一切
略略变形。那是战斗：
一群小狼，一群小羊
被吃掉者，会趁着夜色悄悄活转
静静站着的云影
铺向远方的无边的蓝色针叶地毯
一个整齐的长方形
一直没被村庄不规则的生活消化掉
站在它上边，我有时会看见
一根斜向天空的隐形的线，牵着
谷粒一样的少年，和他狂野的未来之梦
像一只比故乡更大的风筝在飞

A DAY ON THE MOUNTAIN

by Chen Xianfa

My ‘self’ hides away, in illnesses rather than in rude health,
as to what kind of illnesses, it’s not worth mentioning.
Perhaps no illnesses are worth mentioning.
I used to embrace vanity — my own vanity,
petulance — my own petulance,
and insulation,
as well as a deep commiseration for others' illnesses —
this commiseration is arguably a worse pathogen.
Objectivity oppresses. But let me leave some ink on the paper,
because no other soil would allow it to take root —
illnesses unlatch the door and walk in like old friends.
I spent another night on the mountain,
but this purported empty mountain,
what can it do for me?
There are footsteps, but no one knows
to whom they belong.
There are flowers up hill and down dale, but every one of them
has been inhaled by a nose before me.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/4lp-R1tkXcLSVXO7qrJ_cg

山居一日诗

陈先发

“自我”匿身在疾病而非治愈中
但我的疾病不值一提
也许所有人的疾病，都不值一提
我对我的虚荣
焦躁
孤独
有过深深的怜悯
而怜悯何尝不是更炙烈的疾病
客观的经验压迫。除了亲手写下
别无土壤可以扎根——
疾病推门而入像个故人
在山中住了一夜
但语义上的空山
又能帮上我什么？
满山有踪迹但不知
是谁的
满山花开，每一朵都被
先我一步的人深深闻过

FISHING VILLAGE

by Chen Xiaoxia

After the typhoon passed,
the flickering candlelight returns to every home, to every shrine.
Gentle waves lap against the twilight shore
below red lanterns, stone alleys, and burning incense.
The grannie who lost her son to the sea slept by the door all last night.
The village opens its eyes in the arms of the cove,
much like mother and son ...
The lost souls in the ravaging storm
have become tiny crabs, and
stumbled onto their own footsteps from the past life.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/mfRZXCZg2IxEggtzQh8E5w

渔村

陈小虾

台风走后
家家户户，供桌上，烛光摇曳
海浪拍打着黎明的岸
红灯笼，石巷子，香火袅袅
丧子的老母亲倚着家门睡了一夜
海湾的臂膀里小村庄睁开眼
多像母和子呀……
狂风巨浪中死去的灵魂
变作小螃蟹
在洞穴里遇见了生前的足迹

A SEAL FOR MYSELF

by Chen Yuguan

This old seal has only some old knife marks left,
the rest is intelligible because much time has passed.
First I lay the stone's face on a coarse sandpaper
and give it a serious rub, grinding it to dust,
to remove the stranger's imprint,
to ensure someone else's golden stubbornness cannot resurrect.
I keep at it until the old etching on the stone is all gone,
then put it on a sheet of fine grit
to smooth it with persuasion, not to startle it with rough breathing,
only then can I take out my knife, to carve out the long-premeditated perversion
—— a name for myself.
The knife moves to create a Small-Seal script.
Chisel it, file it, I engrave a name in the heart of the stone.
Blow on it, and watch the name relieved from the blade.
All the chaffs fall back to earth. Not that I believe in fate,
but inspecting the depth of the inscription on the stone — Wow, what a heart-piercing thrill.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

自刻章

陈鱼观

石头属于过去，上面所刻除了刀痕
因为年头已远认不出所以
先是将石头放在一张粗砂上
打磨，迫使陌生人从身体搬离
然后化为粉末，没有人能还原金石般的固执
直到一个截面的沟壑被彻底消除
就将石头放到一张细砂上
用心安抚，不敢惊动一丝呼吸
现在始能拿出刻刀，刻我蓄谋已久的狂狷
——为自己立传
行刀时，选择以阴文小篆推进
一刀一锉，将名字从石心中剜出
吹一口气，名字在刀口散开
纷纷跌落在地，命运与我无关
只是石头刻度——有了锥心后的快感。

SELF MANAGEMENT

by Ding Bai

After twenty odd years in business management,
I still haven't got the knack of
managing myself.
I am good at dividing a task into multiple parts,
equally good at setting priorities,
and scouting and recruiting talents.
To manage people is to manage affairs,
but if the target is turned to myself,
things are awash in a sea of indecisions.
Oftentimes the little things
lead to a quick reversal of fortune.
Old treasures can turn
into ashes in an instant.
Managing oneself
and managing others
are two separate matters.
Perhaps, there is a manager for me somewhere,
I begin to think.
Perhaps, being managed by other people
will unfold my true self.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/_RWE4J1EFN9xIMFpXzvMOQ

管理自己

丁白

做了二十多年管理
我还是没有学会
管理自己
我擅长把事情分成两段或者三段
擅长把主要和次要分开
擅长找人，招人
通过管人达到理事的目的
一旦，我将眼睛对准自己
事情就变得无所适从
往往次要的小事
导致重要的事情瞬间反转
价值连城瞬间变得
一文不值
管理自己
与管理别人
始终是不一样的话题
也许，我是别人的管理对象
我这样想着
也许。被别人管理着
才是真的自己

PAST MID-AUTUMN, ALONE ON A BARREN HILL

by Dong Li

Old Heaven has a really long face today;
someone must have owed him 800,000 in cash plus interest.
The hills are overflowing with wild daisies,
but not a single one of them
knows why the sunflowers
were all executed in autumn.
Sparrow hawks screech in the sky.
Are they looking for mates to raise a family
or are they hunting?
I sit on the hilltop, alone,
not thinking about our rundown village.
The farmers are harvesting at the foothill,
looking neither happy or sad.
Music is heard from a distance, the music for a marriage,
the same one that's played in funerals,
as if alluding to the adage:
there is nothing new under the sun.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/n_J_HE-LJiPoX19PWA0zLQ

中秋后，荒山独坐

东篱

老天把脸拉拉到
谁欠他八百吊的长度
漫山的小野菊不明白
为什么向日葵
会被秋决
半空中的鹞子鸣叫着
是找寻配偶
还是觅猎食物？
我独坐山顶
不是思忖破败的乡村
山脚下的农民在收获
不喜也不悲
远处婚庆的歌声
与白事并无二致
仿佛一句箴言
亘古如斯

THE OLD CARPENTER

by An Qiaozi

Timber neatly stacked in the house,
waiting for the diktat of the carpenter,
who has a vision for each piece.
When drilling, the squeal seems to come from him
as if he’s the one been drilled,
as if the fear of old age has intensified.
He is seldom sloppy, meticulous at every step.
His timeworn hands can still chisel out the prettiest waves.
Many unused scraps still have a residual life,
the rest were sent to the crematorium.
Some wood shavings float up and down,
smelling of decay already;
some sawdust rests on his head like snow
that won't be shaken off.
He interrogates and cross-examines every piece of wood;
each piece is unique,
all nicely textured, delicate and sleek.
The finished works sit on another side, waiting for their final
embellishment, as if putting on the bridal gown for each.
Now, a few things are coming to a conclusion.
This time when the door opens, there stands
someone who has been absent from his life for the past thirty years.
His adversary finally shows up after thirty years.
Already old, he offers him a cigarette with both hands
and lights it for him:
“Ah, time to have my coffin made.”
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

老木匠

安乔子

木材整齐地叠放在屋里
听候一个木匠发出的指令
该是什么他心里有数
给一块木材钻孔，发出的是他的尖叫
恍惚被洞穿的是他自己
这加深了人到老年的恐惧
难得糊涂，但每一道工序都要清楚
用旧的手还能刨出朵朵浪花
留下来的部分是它们的余生
另一些是送到火葬场
一些木屑从他身上飘下来
但味道已经开始腐烂
一些木屑像停在头上的白雪
但他抖落不了
对一根木材进行质问、追溯
每一根都有它的模样
质地光滑、细腻和精准
做好的木材在另一边，等他为它们披上
一件最后的嫁衣
现在，一些事情有了定局
推开门那瞬间，等了三十年的人来了
和他较劲了三十年的人来了
他已经老了，双手递上一根烟
并替他点燃了
“为我做一口棺材吧”

DAWN REDWOOD

by Feng Qiang

A squad of avenue trees guard the gate house of our Telecom Community,
awake like exposed urban nerves; their bare arms
conform to gravitropism, quickly adopting
a proper tilt, preferable if perpendicular
to the ground, no arching or maundering, and ready for
a new spur. Dawn redwoods give themselves very little time to dither,
not all pleased with men’s arbitration of their space, but quickly gauge
the distance from one another, ironing out which direction
to add a new spear so that everyone
gets a nice sprinkle of sunlight. My daughter and I marvel at
their tacit mutual respect: what length of branch
for what opening, not stiff-necked but willing to sidestep
to reach for the sun and push harder to reach a new height.

Each tree meditates by the road, gilding and shading our avenue,
— sometimes one is chopped down to make room for car park.
They share their pain, with a subterranean fist-bump, and share
the benign pinch of lime from us or the otherwise total neglect. A dawn redwood
will always be a dawn redwood, always adjusts its tilt to earth.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/92F7JkECTuai8e-pK8G3JQ

水杉

冯强

电讯小区居委会前的整饬队列
此地裸露的神经，叶片脱尽不影响
他们热爱地心引力，每一个当下
调整自己的弧度，热爱与地面的
垂直，绝不驼背，绝不旁逸，又引而
不发，水杉的时间允许暂时的困惑
不满于人类给予的位置，他们测量
相互间的距离，商议各自从合适的方向
伸出下一根枝丫，以确保每一个自己
获得恰当分量的阳光，我和女儿惊呼于
他们的尺度和默契：多大的距离
可以拉多长的枝，不一定向阳
可以迂回，向阴面伸展，或者力争
上游，在更高的地方透一口气
在路边入定，装饰着掩护着路面
被砍伐，为了腾出一个停车位的空间
相互交流痛苦，在地面下碰拳，接受
一米石灰的美意，接受我们的无视，水杉
依然是一株水杉，纠正着自己与地面的倾斜

SPARROWS

by Gao Feng

Inside the little sparrow, there is a temple for Mother Earth,
and a care home for the elderly.
The heavy snow last year
caused famine across the land, but luckily no one died.
All the sparrows survived.
They went from the Zhang’s to the Lee’s,
checking out the pigsty, the kitchen, and the window sills.
There might be a few rice puffs fallen from
a child’s hand or a grandma’s lips,
possibly hidden under the snow.
With the burning ban, the rice stumps were no longer salvageable.
There were puzzle nuts everywhere, but too hard to swallow.
The birds perched on the telephone wire,
each a heartwarming atom that transmitted blessings.
They prevailed over winter,
and have returned to fly high.
To conserve strength,
they start by falling, but within an inch from the ground,
their wings open up.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

麻雀

高峰

麻雀的小肚肠有一座土地庙
也有一座敬老院
去年那场大雪
天地为之绝食，但不绝命
麻雀们都活过来了
从张家串门儿到李家
猪圈瞧瞧，厨房瞧瞧，窗台瞧瞧
雪地里从小孩手里掉下的几粒爆米花
老人饭后抹去粘在嘴角的饭粒
稻草禁烧，不知所踪
楝果累累，难以下咽
它们蹲的电话线里
此刻正传递着温暖的祝福
冬天终于挺过去了
它们从高处往下飞
为了节省一点点体力
开始是垂落，快要接近地面的时候
才打开翅膀

LIFE IN A FISHING VILLAGE

by Gao Pengcheng

If you live by the sea long enough,
you would see some trees bend like hooks.
You would understand how they arch
against the wind when a typhoon passes through.
If you are patient enough, you might go up to the pier
and watch a grain of salt gnaw on the iron chain
and turn it into rusted chunks.
If you look even more carefully, you would also realize
a boat isn’t secured by the iron cleats on the concrete dock
but by the seaward gaze of the fisherman’s wife.
It is not the catch in the hold or the ballast
that stabilizes our lives,
but the anchor with mottled rust
deep in the mud.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Lv89sjCOXomiVmmSmjrG-Q

渔区生活

高鹏程

如果你在海边住得足够长久，你会知道那些树
为什么会有奇怪的弯曲。
你会知道，台风天
它们怎样把自己绷成一张逆风之弓。
如果你有足够的耐心，你会看到码头边
一粒盐，怎样把一根碗口粗的铁链
咬成一截一截的铁锈。
如果你有兴趣仔细观察，你会发现
把一艘船牢牢拴住的，不是钉在水泥里的丁字钢柱
而是朝向海面的那些渔嫂的眼神。
稳住我们的生活的，也不是船舱里满仓的渔获，
不是空舱时的压舱石，
而是一只深埋在淤泥里的
锈迹斑斑的锚。

BUTTERFLY TAXIDERMY

by Gu Chunfang

A butterfly, pinned on the clock,
whose hour hand just passed twelve.
It stirs up my memory about butterfly taxidermy,
somewhere on the Amazon River, midday
in the jungle, some riotous hours indeed.
The children hustled the entire summer,
all within the confines of a table and a chair.
They bent over the table, over wooden frames.
It reminded me of the tenebrious confessional
down the aisle at the end of a cathedral.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2019-09-23/10745391.shtml

蝴蝶标本

顾春芳

蝴蝶，被钉在时钟之下，
指针刚刚经过十二点。
它触动了一架标本的记忆，
在亚马逊水域的正午，
时间正在丛林里热烈地狂欢。
孩子，在整个夏天奔波于
从桌子到椅子的距离。
他们垂手伏案在木格子里，
这情形让我想起幽闭的忏悔室，
在一所教堂尽头的过道里。

MOSQUITO

by Gu Gang

Over the woeful corner of the room, the setting sun
whizzes by like a mosquito.
Slender long legs, a slap,
its limbs stuck to the net,
patterns of tiny cracks
on the white tile.
Palm size, heat on the ice.
Rectangular window, an air vent,
without a sound, the mosquito does what it does best:
blood transfusions.
Drilling a well on the skin, it carries
different blood types,
flaunting the world with its fishy smell.
Waving a bamboo fan, creating a draft left and right.
Homespun tunic, rolled-up sleeves in summer heat,
bare elbows,
dry and cracked at old age.
Unable to ever swing hard again,
mosquitos stuck to our glassy eyes
as if waiting for salvation.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/YsWUyclhd_t-eQLpmHO8Vw

飞蚊

古冈

病怏怏一角，夕照如蚊子
轻微地掠过。
纤细长脚，“啪”的一声
四肢粘到电网，
错觉为白瓷砖
震碎的裂纹。
手掌尺寸，热量的冰上。
长方形窗洞，进出气流
不吱一声，蚊虫却施展
血的流变。
如在肌肤上打井，运着他人
不同血型，
腥味招摇着市井。
挥洒竹扇子，左右起风。
平民的长衫身子，夏热里卷起
裸露的臂弯，
干燥、龟裂的老年。
甚至无力再挥打
眼眶飞蚊，它附在玻璃体
救赎般地等着。

MOURNFUL SOUNDS

by Gu Ma

At the temple's courtyard, under a silverberry tree,
a tethered ox
lolls his tongue and
licks his lips.
The fragrance of silverberry flowers
drifts across to my next door,
the dormitory for a folk opera troupe.
The sky has grown dark,
shadowy figures move about on the lit balcony.
High-rises have cropped up in the Northwest,
and inkwells are no longer made of ox horns .
The world looks blurry
through the ox’s tears.
Stars hide away, higher than
the sickle moon over the temple roof,
far behind the city towers and the floating clouds.
His tail sweeps constantly
to disperse
what hides in the floating dust.
Daybreak will come with piercing daggers
that no one can skirt around.
Throughout the night
the ox makes soulful moos with all his strength,
perhaps to eject
the weighty stone across his chest.
Its mournful voice
wakes up a famous opera singer,
causing him to toss and turn:
Although diaphragm breathing is now second nature
I still have not mastered the painting of tones.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/9698lnOs601ffRfaCSuhUQ

苦音

古马

寺院沙枣树下
一头被拴着公牛
舌头不停翻卷
舔着嘴唇
沙枣花的香气
蹿到隔壁
秦剧团的家属院里
天已黑了
灯火的阳台上人影闪动
西北有高楼
牛角废墨斗
牛会流泪
混浊的泪光中
星星躲得很远
远在寺院金属的月牙儿之上
远在高楼与浮云后面
尾巴不时摇动
想要驱散
空气里不安的尘埃
黎明
是一架绕不过去的刀锋
它开始悲吼
整夜向着虚空
用力抛掷
胸腔里粗粝而沉重的石头
它的苦音
让一个秦腔名角半夜醒来
辗转反侧：我虽善于运气，但仍不会行腔。

SHE COMES AS PROMISED

by Gu Ma

Near a desolate outpost at the end of the world,
we know no one and no one knows us.
Westwards, it is the panoramic Gobi.
Sunset walks in
solemnly and slowly,
arm in arm with solitude
as if in marriage down the red carpet,
towards a numinous, magical temple.
Two mounds of spear grass
hum and murmur with each other, sand in their bristles.
We sit side by side,
looking into the golden landscape, lustful for life:
for our remaining days, who says we have no home to return to?
Tears in our eyes,
a warm current rushes from our hearts
to the sparrows on the wire.
Little sparrows,
sleep tight in your red willow nest tonight.
When the sun’s afterglow sanctifies the world,
the moon will come as promised,
and covers us
with a lustrous sheepskin.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/tR6rX2aQlNzZp8JnPnXznA

如约

古马

到边陲一座荒凉的小镇
没有我们认识和认识我们的人
镇子西头，是一望无边的戈壁
落日庄重
如走红地毯一般
挽着寂寞
缓缓走向
神秘圆满的殿宇
两墩芨芨草交头接耳
头发中有些风沙
我们肩并肩地坐在一起
面朝西方金光炫目的屏幕
渴饮余生：谁说我们无所回归
我们热泪盈眶
温暖的电流不禁从心里交会
传给那些蹲在电线上的麻雀
小小麻雀
今夜你们去睡在红柳的家里
在落日向世界投来善解人意的一瞥里
月亮，会如约赶来
把羊毛的银毡
披在我们身上

SUMMER STORY

by Gushan Yun

My original plan was to go fishing with Gu
and have packed a tackle box with fishing gear,
but Sally asked us to go over to have lunch with her.
She said she had just learned to make salad.
While Sally was busy in the kitchen,
Gu and I continued to talk about fishing.
That was one sultry hot afternoon.
Gu and I were both sweating away,
but dared not take off our shirts.
Sally was wearing a suspender dress,
looking very cool.
She asked our opinions of her salad.
Gu was never a fan of westernized Chinese cuisine and dissaproved of it.
I said, very nice, but I meant her dress.
Later, Sally became my wife.
That was a long time ago.
Now I am sitting in the backyard alone, preparing the fishing tackle.
Sally has left for a coastal city,
a far bigger water than ours here.
Gu became food for the fish in a river,
that was the end of his poetry.
I must confess that when they were away,
I didn’t send letters to either of them.
Now, right here I have lettuce, coriander, and cucumber,
but I am not going to turn them into salad.
I am going to marinate and pickle them in soy.
Sally will never understand why I do it this way.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, and Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Qao6usXmSxBzPEXxpR4pkg

夏天的故事

孤山云 (李海鹏)

本打算和顾丁杨去钓鱼
我们已经准备好了渔具和鱼饵
但沙丽请我们去她家吃她做的沙拉
她说，她刚刚学会
沙丽在厨房忙的时候
我和顾丁杨继续说着钓鱼的事情
那是一个闷热的午后
我和顾丁杨热得冒汗
但谁也没敢把上衣脱掉
沙丽穿着一个吊带裙
看起来很凉快
她征求我俩关于她做的沙拉的意见
顾丁杨一直反对将中国菜西方化
我说很好，但我指的是她的裙子
后来沙丽成为我的妻子
这已经是很久远的事情了
现在我一个人坐在院子里收拾渔具
沙丽去了沿海的一个城市
那里的水域比这里的要更加宽广
顾丁杨到河里给鱼做了饲料
成为他诗歌中最后一个句子
我承认，他们走了之后
我没有给他们任何一个写过信
现在我身边放着生菜、香菜，和黄瓜
我没有将它们做成沙拉
而是把它们包裹起来，蘸黄豆酱
这就是沙丽一直不能理解我的地方

WIND FARM

By Guang Zi

What a whirling, twirling evening!
The wind is not making the pasture dizzy,
but the wind turbines are — each of them
has one extra horn than a bull. As they gently turn,
they gradually shuffle the sun behind the hills.
Some say these perplexing monsters
don’t just chop the sheep's heads off
but also strangle great swaths of clouds.
Hungry hawks have avoided their blades,
but cannot dodge the backwash.
For this reason the docile sheep
have moved themselves to a newer pasture,
bowing their heads as they chew grass,
doing it just for us, until time also humbles us
and our hunched backs look as graceful as theirs.
By now, we are numb to these spikes that unnerve the great earth,
and numb to other similar brutal forces.
The most we do is wave our arms and shout.
More and more we also turn ourselves into man-powered generators.
Even when there is no wind to push the wind turbines,
the grasslands continue to stupefy us.
The pasture itself is a giant spinning wheel,
unstoppable even at the close of day.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-pFdJWWa3yWP3yeo_OQjmA

让牧场晕眩的不是风，是风力发电机

广子

傍晚在旋转
让牧场感到晕眩的不是风
而是风力发电机。比公牛多一只犄角
只要轻轻转动，就可以
把落日挑下山冈。据说这些怪物
不仅折断过盘羊的头，还曾绞死大片乌云
挨饿的鹰躲开了它的风轮
但没躲开它的旋转
为此，一向温顺的羊群
开辟出新的地盘
好像是为了我们低头吃草
直到我们弯腰的姿势
练得比羊更优美和谦逊
对穿透大地神经的刺
失去知觉，对野蛮习以为常
只会挥舞双臂，大呼小叫
越来越像一排排肉体的风力发电机
而风轮静止，草地仍充满晕眩感
整个牧场仍是一只巨大的风轮
傍晚仍在不停地旋转。

THE RED OF RED GRASS MARSH

by Guang Zi

I am not a lover of red color,
perhaps the autumnal Ulanbuh Desert feels the same
and hides its bog of red grass in the deep.
If not for the windblasts and the quicksand,
I would not have seen it. Red Grass Marsh
does not mystify me,
for I can tell it used to be the blue-green Suaeda.
The spring and autumn breezes caressed it first,
then the wildfire and the white snow romanced it
until one day the sheep can no longer find it.
At Red Grass Marsh, I finally see a very special kind of red —
withdrawn, subdued, impure,
with an utter lack of pretense.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/WXtBRAKO5IZ0WO11pQ_GLA

红草滩的红

广子

我不喜欢红色
我猜乌兰布和的秋天也是
把神秘的红草滩藏在旷野里
如果不是大风和流沙邀请
我不会遇见它。红草滩
没有让我感到晕眩
还能认出它曾是青绿的碱蓬草
春风吹过，秋风又吹
直到野火和白雪同时爱上它
直到羊群也找不到它
在红草滩，我终于见到这样的红
孤僻的、暗淡的、不纯粹的
一点儿都不伪装的红

SHANGHAI VIGNETTE

by Guo Congyu

In an old narrow alley, at a breakfast joint,
I order a sweetened soy milk and a poached egg,
the very best kind, with a soft yolk. Everything comes steaming hot.
It has been a wet March, and the tail end of the cold drags on.
The shopkeeper speaks very little even though she looks to be
about the chatterbox age. She holds a large stainless ladle, leaning
over the kitchen counter.
I try not to notice the stripped rubber coating on the electric wire
or the mold stain in one corner of the wall.
Looking out through the arch of the front door, one can see
a sprawling shopping center. All the luxury goods I know of
can be found there, and those unknown to me are likely even more luxurious.
Huangpu River is within earshot,
holding Lujiazui in its oxbow.
The city impresses me in different ways, depending on whom I brush shoulders with
that day on Nanjing Rd. It is only early morning, but I have already received
the new phone that I ordered yesterday. My typing speed
still needs improving, but the new-age keyboard has little compassion.
Things here are pushing Shanghai the metropolis a step closer to delirium.
Other customers have left the canteen. The owner turns to look at
my empty bowl, that's when I realize it's time to pay. Being proactive
might earn me the privilege to hang out here a little longer next time.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/0nLckjywjd1DaXbMCRh8KQ

上海琐记

郭丛与

弄堂狭窄而古旧，一间早点铺
点一碗甜豆浆，荷包蛋
最好是溏心的。热气
蒸腾。三月的潮湿，一息尚存的
阴冷。老板娘在最唠叨的年龄里
沉默，拿着不锈钢大勺，斜倚
餐台。电线胶皮的剥落与墙角的
霉迹视而不见，门框外是一家
望不到边的购物中心。我认识的
所有奢侈品都在这里，不认识的
往往更加奢侈。黄浦江的水声
不远，陆家嘴是一个突出的循环。
城市的印象交织于，南京路上的
擦肩而过。我一早便收到前一天
下单的手机，打字的速度
还没有恢复。原来，在时间之前
连键盘都无法了解我，上海
也更接近于某种谵妄。店里
没有其他客人，老板娘注视着我
面前空空的碗，我发现自己
早应结账。积极与主动也许可以
换来继续坐一会的权利

TEETH

by Guo Hui

Autumn colours are in quick retreat,
but the thorny bushes along the Algonquian trail
are still boisterous,
teeming with tiny purple bells.
I reach out
to pick a flower, tempted by its fragrance and colour,
but is met by a thorny sprig
that viciously grabs my sleeve.
These crimson blackish greyish thorns
are seventy percent blood sport and thirty percent repose.
All spines and nothing else, they obviously
have invested a lot to develop these small sacrificial teeth
in their bloodline,
so delicate in appearance,
but possessing the most aggressive trait
— stubborn, extreme, unforgiving —
and ferociously dig their teeth into
my frivolous move, my fickle reasons to love or hate.
Oh, they are —
as if anticipating this moment — fully ready
to engage in the fight of a lifetime.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/1GxHZ-uNy707nW8bdx5HzQ

牙齿

郭辉

秋色已开始全面
退却了，阿冈昆山径边的棘丛里
犹还热热闹闹
开满了紫铜铃般的小野花
我伸过手去
欲摘取一朵，闻香识色
却被枝条上的
一根根刺，恶狠狠地扯住了袖口
它们黑里透红，偏暗
三分静气里埋伏着七分杀气
一身硬，分明
是把自己的身家性命
长成了一粒粒不惜命的牙齿
它们看上去多么细小
却动用了，最大的心机与心力
固执，偏激，不依不饶
决绝地咬住了
我的轻举妄动和尘世间的爱恨交加
它们呀——
仿佛为这一刻，已经足足
准备了一生！

VOICE OF THE CORN

by Han Zongfu

Sooner or later Autumn will use its hoarfrost
to seal the lips of the corn — side by side, all quiet,
head-bent, receiving the untiring watch of the earth.
A few refuse to be voiceless, raising their heads,
calm and unwavering, to watch the birds fly.
Autumn wind has hollowed out the entire plain.
Oh, Corn, you ride together in old Bachelor Hou’s wagon,
hand in hand, glowing with wild exuberance,
thanking Autumn, thanking the yellow earth, thanking Mister Hou.
Oh, Mister Hou, your draft horse is as good as a wife,
wizening for you till the end, heartbreaking to watch sometimes.
Rainy October drives the damp feet
to speed up on the road. These corn are a band of
wanderers without freedom, unfit even to be made into a torch.
It's almost the end of autumn, and they have gone farther and farther from home.
Can a nobody like me outclass these marvelous souls from the plant kingdom
and lead them to the promised land?
I once dreamt of cornfields after confields,
all basking in the warmth of the sun.
Indeed there was a light shining on them,
a light raised high by a great mind.
Deep at night, the ants still hustle, the grasshoppers are on patrol,
a lovely moon sits over the plain. The corn and I,
we love and are loved like all mortals, and dream a small dream.
On the road on this desolate world, I am forced to admit:
my heart that is sealed up by autumn frost
is the heart of the corn; my body that burns wild at night
is the body of the corn.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/pnEGgTFnqQ8Vievfw7fFhg

倾听玉米的声音

韩宗夫

秋天总是在某个时候，以白霜的嘴
封锁了玉米的消息，它们全体缄默
面朝土地深藏了不倦的眼睛
也有几个不甘寂寞的，面向天空
数着来来往往的鸟儿
安静、自勉，秋风已掏空了整个平原的腹腔
哦，玉米。坐着光棍老侯的马车
集体的脸上永远洋溢着一种感恩的光泽
感谢秋天。感谢黄土。感谢老侯
哦，你马车的马，就是你的老婆
它终究会为你而老，你难免为此痛惜
十月的雨水，总是在催促潮湿的鞋子
疯狂地赶路。它们是一群
无法流浪的流浪者；是一束不能点燃的绿焰
离开秋天，越走越远的玉米
我是否能超越植物世界的心灵之光
成为一名普通带路者？
曾经梦见了一大垛一大垛阳光的玉米地
是一块好玉米地；
曾经照亮了一大片玉米地的灯光
是智者手里的灯光
深夜，蚂蚁们并没有休息，蚂蚱还在逡巡
平原月亮的美丽。玉米和我一样
有凡人之爱，有一个小小的心愿
走在苍茫大地上，我被迫承认：
我被霜白秘密锁住的心
是一颗玉米心；我在黑夜中疯狂燃烧的身体
是一棵玉米的身体

A BRILLIANT NEW HOUSE

by He Qingjun

The weather front has passed, so we decide
to spend the day as originally planned, even if
a strong wind may funnel down the valley,
or the mosquitoes and the wasps may bother us,
we will trek up the mountain
and walk along its ridge. Scattered cumulus clouds overhead,
sunrays reaching down like tight rubber bands,
with one end on the broadleaf trees,
we sit down under them,
not thinking of going farther. A distance away,
two birds sweep in and out of a closed atmospheric cell.
We continue our chitter-chatter, finger-combing the grass around us.
The moist air is being lifted over the mountain face,
we therefore should expect rain.
We retrace our steps, trampling on the grass
that has just recovered from our weight earlier. Leaving the mountain,
our rubber-sole shoes tread the potholes until coming to the main road,
which would take us back to our home in town.
Soon we see our brilliant father switching the TV to a city channel
transmitted from the mast tower on the mountaintop.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

崭新的屋子

何青峻

自从锋面离开这里，往后的时间
依照我们所计划的，不论是
来自冲击锥的风力因素，
还是蚊虫与黄蜂的阻扰
我们都将沿着山路走上去，
顺着山脊。近处是分散的淡积云
阳光像绷直的橡皮筋
在地球的这头系着阔叶树，
我们就此坐下了
不打算走。我们的远处
一对山鸟在大气闭合环流中穿梭
我们继续聊着什么，扒开草丛
暖湿空气因山地阻碍而抬升
很大程度上我们将遇见雨
沿着来时的路，我们又一次踩踏
愈合后的草丛。直到离开
防滑鞋边踩着土窟窿边走向大路
朝县城的家中走去
我们看见崭新的父亲
在换山顶电视塔传输的都市频道

THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN

by Black Tooth (Xu Zhanxin)

The interior of a mountain
can be porous. Some are very porous,
with more hollows than earth.
Some have very few cavities,
hardly room for another speck of dirt.
There is a mountain in my hometown
that has an unbelievably roomy interior
and a magical spell:
people who go in would re-emerge
as a sparrow, a squirrel,
a ruby-eyed rabbit,
an insect with musical wings,
or some kind of flower or tree.
One year, late autumn, I went up to the mountain,
and bumped into Little Buffalo, a shepherd since boyhood.
He showed up in front of me
in the shape of a jujube tree.
It was getting cold then, grass yellowing.
He stood quietly on the mountainside,
looking down at the village.
Several jujubes hung on his forehead,
gleaming like cornelians.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/VlPAj9nKvBpuHatmGRMljg

神山记

黑牙 (徐占新)

一座山的内部，通常
是空的，有的空很大
大过山本身，有的空很小
难以容纳一粒灰尘
我家乡的一座山
内部空间大得惊人，并且
还有一种神奇的功能
进入里面的人，过段时间出来
就会变成灰雀、松鼠
变成红眼睛兔子
变成振翅如琴音的飞虫
变成各种花草树木
秋末，我爬山时
见到了放了一辈子羊的牛二
他以一棵酸枣树的形象
出现在我面前，那时
天已转凉，草渐枯黄
他默默站在斜坡一角
望着山下的村庄
几枚小枣挂在额头
晶莹剔透，宛若玛瑙

SUOYANG aka. SONGARICUM

by Hong Li

We drove into Alxa,
all eyes burning for Suoyang,
late autumn's red flames on the dunes,
swishing in the wind.
We shouted "stop", a few of us went picking for them,
against the sun's path.
Two amongst us wouldn't stop pursuing them.
Our eyes squinted narrower and narrower,
their shadows became smaller and smaller.
As the sun melded with the sand dunes,
we found ourselves in a world of silence surrounded by red twinkles.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/w9qa_zupxwkR5DJWBCn8Yw

锁阳

洪立

车子驶进阿拉善
被目光一直眷顾的锁阳
如秋后的火焰与沙丘摩擦
发出沙沙响声
我们叫停，几个人去捡
一直向太阳滚过的地方
其中两位一直未停
目光越来越细
影子越来越小
在太阳和沙丘融为一体时
四周散发着静悄悄的红光

DIGGING SWEET POTATOES

by Hu Hairong

“I have faith in the earth, let me pay homage to every growing day."
... sweet potatoes, freshly dug out from the soil,
show up in a group hug. Perhaps
a little terrified to be separated,
they shyly bunch together.
The bullheaded autumn wind blows on —-
I hear myself nurst out doting words to these sweet potatoes.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/VlPAj9nKvBpuHatmGRMljg

挖红薯记

胡海荣

“我一直信奉着土地，我必须对每一个向上的日子深深鞠躬。”
……那些刚从泥土里挖出的红薯
团抱着。也许
是胆子过于小的缘故
怯生生地挤在一起
秋风沉甸甸地吹着——
我极其小心地喊着它们

GOOD NEIGHBOR

by Hu Liang

This pot plant receives only habitual neglect from me.
Relegated to my small balcony,
it has lived like a lodger for sixteen years. Before this autumn,
I had hardly any time to look at it.
— Now it surprises me with bustling red berries!
— They seem to be its first fruit!
I envisioned glossy privet to be prettier than this,
but this is indeed a privet! In the past fifteen years,
this plant has concealed her pearls. I wonder
what else it would hide from me going forward?
Strings of planets? Every red berry
follows its own orbit, so unassuming, so unwilling
to return a glance at my myopic eyes. Oh, no,
what they are avoiding is my cold stony heart!

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/da6PvNQB_Vv3Mmo7v6iaLA

芳邻

胡亮

这株植物几乎每天都会获得我的忽视。
它寄居于这个小阳台，
已有16年。一直到这个秋天，
我才有了一点儿看看它的余暇。
——它居然结满了小红果！
——就像首次结满了小红果！
我想象中的女贞比它更俊俏，然而
它就是女贞！此前15年，
这株女贞对我隐瞒了珍珠。此后
若干年，它还将隐瞒什么？
一串串的星球？每粒小红果都沿着
自己的轨道，那么谦逊，而又不屑于
逼视我的近视眼，哦，不，我的铁石心肠！

LOOKING FOR ONE'S LOST FAMILY

by Hu Mingming

Waking up at midnight, my hands habitually reach out for a soft warm body;
years ago it was my daughter, now it's a cat.
I lay my hand on it, our body heat commingle.
Often I feel sad for the cat, who is aging seven times faster than me. Just last night
she stared at the ceiling for a long time, yowling and growling;
her feminine feline eyes must have seen something in the air.
I tried meditation, tried chanting, but still felt restless.
I begged the good soul to leave us
even if it were my late father who came to find his family.
Father, my hands are becoming more and more like yours.
Tonight I sleep soundly, the chalice of life is in good hands.
Rustling in the wind are pear blossoms, plum blossoms, cherry blossoms, and birds of paradise...
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/m9b-721XvVzV_Za3CH5BfQ

寻亲记

胡茗茗

夜半醒来，习惯性寻摸肉乎乎的小身体
若干年前是摸女儿，现在是猫咪
大手掌盖上去，我们的体温有太多的融合
时常忧伤它七倍的老去，就在昨晚
它久久盯着天花板不停嘶叫
阴性的猫眼里一定有什么在上下飞翔
心念起，诵经，依然不安
我央求善意的魂灵尽快离去
哪怕是来寻亲的老父亲
父亲，我的手越来越像你
这一夜我睡得深沉，生死的酒杯已然端稳
那簌簌而下的梨花、杏花、樱花、天堂鸟……

A Petite Flower in Ta'er Monastery

by Hu Yonggang

In the low ground, even lower, I see a petite flower.
Its head reaches out of dense grass, nudging up for the sun,
and its golden tendrils dazzle in heaven's light.
It bends menially in the wind, like a pilgrim offering a prayer.
It has a dream unknown to all, hidden under tall grass,
but each time a wind blows by, the little flower sees its innermost self.
Walking by the petite flower, I feel curiously calm.
Dewdrops moisten my garment, my inner emptiness and my loneliness.
Afar, a prayer sways his praying wheel in the snow,
then prostrates lower than the flower, like the wild grass on the plateau.
In this vermillion monastery, flowers are the most touching sight,
and no passage in the sutra is as lovely as the mutual dependence of two hearts.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Huang Hongqi

塔尔寺之花

青海湖

在低处，甚至更低，我看见一朵小小的花
在草丛中昂起头来，它沉默着，接近日光。
叶脉上，金色的触须与天光辉映
它卑微地弯腰，在风中致意，仿佛是朝拜。
它有不为人知的梦想，深草遮蔽了它
佛寺之风一次次把它吹开，看见自己的心。
而我经过它身边，莫名地静了下来
露水沾湿了我的衣裳，我沾湿了内心的空寂。
远处，一个雪下面祈祷的人摇晃着经筒
他比它更低地匍匐在地上，像紧贴高原的草。
在赤红的喇嘛寺中，没有比花草更美的风景了
没有一道经文比心心相印的依赖更生动。

FISH

by Huang Fan

Eyes like light bulbs, why don't they light up?
Eyes like flower buds, why don't they bloom?
Unless, unless you are like people, wearing a permanent mask?
Then, why should you, with so many bones, wait
until after death to pierce a man’s throat.
I sit by the plate where you are served,
holding on to the false mercy for you.
You smell so good, even if it’s after a bloodbath.
The story of your life, can I digest it with my mouth?
Your lifelong vision, can I inherit it with my tongue?
Consider this: you, once alive, might even be a prophet in the fish world,
I can no longer feign blind or deaf,
suddenly I, a sinner, hear and understand your last wish.

Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

鱼

黄梵

像灯一样的眼，为什么没有照亮？
像花蕾一样的眼，为什么没有盛开？
莫非你也像人一样，一直戴着面具？
为什么你有足够多的骨头
偏到死后才试图卡住人的喉咙？
我守着装你的盘子
守着怜你的假慈悲
你散发的浓香，来自你血腥的死亡
你一生的故事，我吃进嘴里还有用么？
你一生的视野，我用舌头也能继承么？
想到你是一个生命，甚至鱼里的先知
我不再是瞎子和聋子
一刹那，我成了能听懂你遗言的罪人

THE SECOND ME

by Huang Guohui

There is me in the mirror, wearing pajamas inside out,
someone I haven’t seen before —
without a smart profile or other distinctions,
no question it would be swamped in any crowd.
True, even I myself
wouldn’t pay much attention to it.
I take two steps back,
deliberately keeping a distance,
to take a better look — to see if it has a hunchback
or if there are other signs of wear?
I examine it the way I examine myself,
brushing off a lint on the shoulder.
The cotton thread falls like a dream
and I reach out to catch it.
It rests quietly in the other space,
waiting for a pair of gentle eyes all the same.
Suddenly I feel a little frightened.
Will this auxiliary me be ravaged by my fire?
The front man is as important as the guy backstage.
Indeed there is another me on the other side.
I feel the urge to go behind the mirror,
to talk to the stranger:
Hi, hello, there! Hello.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/k4s0HwfWuHCURGaneErAoA

第二个我

黄国辉

镜子里有一个穿反了睡衣的我
那是我不曾见过的，自己的背影
它好像并不挺拔也没有性格
会不假思索地淹没在人群里
真的，即使我自己
也不会过多地关注它
我后退两步
有意与这背影拉开距离
我想看看它有没有佝偻着
有没有染上饱经风霜的模样
我端详它就像在端详自己
我为它掸掉肩上盘绕的一小段棉线
棉线像梦境一样飘落
我伸手接住它
它便静卧在另一个空间里
等待同样一双柔软的眼睛
我忽然有些害怕
我的背影会不会被自己灼伤
面对的和背负的一样重要
而我之背后，真的有另一个我
我想走到镜子后面
跟这个陌生人说一声
嘿！你好

ODE TO SWALLOWS

by Huang Lihai

The swallows swoop, trajectory indeterminate,
capturing insects high and low,
precise and fast.
On the electricity wire, they sit so still,
like dabs of new ink on a rice paper.
A gust comes, perturbing the wire, recongregating the light.
The birds gently sway and widen my field of view.
Scissor-tailed swallows tailor a new season,
then disappear into the clouds without a trace.
They are spring’s entourage for this great land,
bolts of lightning dressed in black.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/YA3Wxn00DcWkvEF-flVIZg

燕子之歌

黄礼孩

燕子忽上忽下，飞翔不定
它急速又准确无误地捕捉到
高处或者低处的小昆虫
停在电线上的燕子，寂静
像白色宣纸上初来的新墨
风迷惑线条，吹动光的附和
微微晃动的身影推开了视野
燕子带着刀刃，裁剪新的岁月
云天之上，它的签名无迹可寻
如黑色的闪电拜访了春天的大地

PENNYWORT*

by Huang Sheng

To transplant is easy — simply stick the plant in the soil,
no need to over titivate;
even so, pennywort is nothing to sneer at.
Other than their looks, the way they sway in the wind
also reminds us of gold coins, silver dollars,
beads of an abacus. They jingle.
Endowed with proliferous veins,
they sit in a hotbed of soil, waiting
to grow jungly in the spring breeze. Ka-ching, ka-ching,
a seductive sound
that only astute ears can tell. They dance,
although not as courtly as orchids, but cheery enough for a humble home.
Brought out by a pair of fat hands as a sumptuous showpiece,
they ring like the wind chime under the eave,
so persistent that even a deaf ear
cannot tune it out: pennywort, penny wealth, a mere grass.
Translator’s note:
*Pennywort: The literal translation of pennywort is “coin tree” in Chinese for the shape of its leaves.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/EZRBT0sG-Sjr5De3PP9prA

铜钱草

黄胜

移植不算难事，即插即活
无需刻意培植
但铜钱草，总让人无法藐视
除肖似的外形，风中摇曳的样子
会让人联想金币、大洋
钱庄的算珠。金石般鸣响
无处不在的血脉
泥土是其温床
春风捧出绿油油的欢喜。叮当作响
唯有心人能听懂
荡漾的声线。它们即兴舞蹈
虽非芝兰，却满足了窘困的想象
借肥厚的手掌，把丰盈的日子和盘托出
像檐下风铃
无法让人充耳不闻
不时告诫：铜钱是草

FATHER’S FLOCK OF BIRDS

by Jia Xiang

Father gave me a ride home, light rain on the way.
His motorcycle stalled. Fields left and right
jested at us as the distant hills
vanished in the mist.
All we could do was walk. Rain, timorous rain,
one looked at her with squinted eyes, but she said: I am not here.
Father’s pink ears perked up from his white T-shirt,
listening.
Knowing it's safe, the rain summoned all her companions
from behind the clouds. A flash mob
struck on Father: pouring rain. There was always a small trick to hide away:
I immediately opened the umbrella, and said:
I am not here.
Only Father and the temperate boreal vegetation remained,
raindrops landed on his shoulders like a translucent flock of birds.
What marvelous rain. But this seasoned farmer whispered:
I fear it may scare off autumn that has just arrived.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/lOCXk2vmtVWcKx-egIk32w

父亲的鸟群

贾想

父亲载我回家，途中微雨
摩托也突然熄火。左右田野
一阵哂笑，而远山消失于空蒙
只好推车漫步。雨异常胆小
你眯上眼睛望向她，她却说：我不在。
绯色的耳廓，从父亲的白T恤上
探出来，听着声响
确认安全后，雨唤下云中
躲藏已久的同伴。一个集合名词
砸中父亲：瓢泼大雨。小隐隐于野
我立即撑伞说：我不在
只有父亲和北温带的植物
裸在雨中，任肩头落满透明的鸟群
好雨一场。这个老练的农夫轻声说
生怕将初来乍到的秋天惊散

ON OLD SLATE MOUNTAIN, I SAW TURTLEDOVES

by Jian Nan

At dawn's first light, I saw turtledoves
waking up in their warm nest.
These plump birds, mocked by scholars in the old classics
and judged by Zhuangzi as short-sighted,
are perching on an oak tree and cooing.
It has been a long time since I saw
turtledoves looking so grand.
Without the need to dodge bullets nor arrows,
life has become posh.
Watching these birds taking short flight and wobbling
between shrubs, oak trees, and cinnamon trees,
untroubled by the confine of their world,
it triggers in me — a dispirited middle-aged
rambler in this shadowy wood — a renewed lightness in my footsteps.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2019-06-03/9854200.shtml

在老瓦山看见斑鸠

剑男

在早晨第一缕阳光中，我看见斑鸠
这些从暖巢中醒过来
被一句成语所构陷
并被庄子认为目光短浅的家伙们
正肥而不腻地坐在橡树的枝上咕咕叫
很长时间，我都没有
见到过体态如此可观的斑鸠
看来不用像从前躲着猎枪和弹弓后
斑鸠们的生活变得滋润了
你看它们肥硕而笨拙的飞行
尽在矮灌和橡樟之间跳上跳下
似乎世界的高度就是它们腾跃的高度
让我这样一个颓唐的中年人
在幽暗的林中也有了欢快的脚步

DRIP DRIP QUICK

by Jian Nan

There is a bird that chirps Drip Drip Quick.
This morning, I went with my big sister and her son
to the peanut field to thin out new shoots,
and heard those birds in tea-oil camellias on the hill,
in the shrubbery by the road, and high up in the maple trees.
Their calls were short and quick as if anxious.
Can we hope raindrops would drip drop quickly but not rush to the sea?
It seems even birds do not keep a perfect rhythm;
they cannot avoid discords and inconsistency just like us.
Last night the spring rain came, drip drop, drip drop.
My sister said this bird only sang in the spring,
to urge the farmers to come out,
to welcome the life-giving rain, the loveliest oil on earth:
Hurry plow! Hurry plant!
On the muddy winding mountain path,
my nephew and I walk behind my big sister,
and instinctively quicken our steps
whenever she says something.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/7Os1Dtxxun-pOUWcZPHHAw

滴水快

剑男

有一种鸟叫滴水快
清晨我陪大姐和外甥去地里间花生苗
它在山上的油茶林中叫，在
路旁矮灌丛叫，也在高高的枫杨上叫
声音短暂而急促，似乎
充满了焦虑
滴水如何快起来，又不使其成为水流
看样子鸟也有自己掌控不了的
节奏，矛和盾也一样
对立统一地存在于这些非人类生命中
昨天晚上淅沥下了半夜春雨
大姐说这种鸟音只有春天里才能听到
是催促农人在贵如油的春雨中
抢耕抢种
山间小路曲折泥泞
听到大姐的话，走在后面的我和外甥
都不由自主地加快了脚步

IN YANJIAO

by Jiang Bohan

Residents of Yanjiao commute to Beijing,
mostly office workers. Those who stay local are real estate brokers,
although some rookies say they haven’t made a sale in three months,
blaming it on new regulations that target property speculation.
I live in Yanjiao on a tree-lined boulevard
in my own house, don't go to work, no children to look after.
Here I read and write, cultivate a small plot of land
for Yanjiao's present and future —
and ponder about life in Beijing.
For now, everyone here drives a Mercedes or BMW,
hoping to pick up commuters rushing to work,
charging ten yuan for a share ride to Grass Hut or International Trade Center.
Once the car crosses Sanyuan Bridge into Zhongguan Village,
inside the Fourth Ring Road, the fare increases to fifteen yuan.
This is by far the fastest and cheapest way to get to Beijing.
The new-comers at Yanjiao work from sunrise to sunset,
charting a bright future for their family,
expecting one day Beijing will incorporates the three northern counties
and their children will be registered as Beijingers.
That will be a dream come true — this thought makes
the road from Yanjiao to Beijing seem less tiresome.
— Yanjiao is the one-and-only Yanjiao.
The loud, gurgling Chaobai River flows around it.
Xuyinlu Bridge connects Yanjiao with the Songzhuang art colony.
Left Bank Road and Right Bank Road stretch out,
looking like Beijing’s left and right arms.
I often cross the river to Songzhuang to look at new arts.
There are so many painters there, all men, and naturally
some poetesses would move in soon.
A good variety of art nouveau have moved here from across the country.
The landlady can't cope with the influx but raising rent.
I look on, can't understand the absurdity, don't know
what to say, don't expect any good bargains,
just like with all the expensive paintings.
I tell everyone “Come to Yanjiao, quickly,”
“it is the last land of honey.”

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/nMAEOjiHFFlIAPZ38oEOLg

在燕郊

姜博瀚

燕郊人都要去北京上班
不上班的燕郊人都在燕郊卖房子
刚毕业的大学生说，三个月没挣到一分钱
源于刚刚出台限购的新政策
我住在燕郊的林荫大道
我有房子，我不上班也不看孩子
——在燕郊读书、写作，耕耘三分田
燕郊的现在和未来——
想想生活在北京的我
现在。他们开着奔驰或者宝马
在路边捎着赶时间的乘客
十块钱到草房或者国贸
一过了三元桥到四环中关村就十五
这是速度最快也是最便宜的北京顺风车
在燕郊生活的外省人披星戴月
他们有着美好的规划将来
到时候。一旦北京吞并了北三县
孩子的户口将要变成北京人
他们都在这么想，所以不觉得路途茫茫
——燕郊就是燕郊
一条潮白河哗啦啦地流淌
徐尹路大桥相连燕郊和通州宋庄
左堤路，右堤路伸开胳膊
就像北京的左膀右臂
我经常穿越河水去宋庄看画
那里的男画家实在是太多，当然
后来又来了不少女诗人
天南海北，各种各样的派
把房东大姐气得只好加价，
我站在一边，哭笑不得
看不下去。无力讨价还价
就像那些昂贵的画
我说，你们快来燕郊
这是最后的沃土。

THE CREAKING DOOR

by Jiang Fei

You heard the door creak.
It's a hedgehog
at night in the autumn,
loitering by your door.
The road twists and turns.
The hedgehog rolls its eyes,
and goes around obstacles
to come to push on your door.
It is there all night,
knocking at your door,
curious about what hides behind.
It makes a creaking sound.
It has no companion.
It comes here for food.
It wakes you up,
and you feel you must open the door.
As if it is coming home,
as if it lives in your dream,
and asks whether the dreamer is real or surreal.
Outside your door,
a hedgehog is knocking at the door,
making a creaking sound.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/PvhBTuM-YxMaXKamLj01YA

门扇作响

江非

你曾听见你的门扇咯吱作响
那是一只刺猬
在秋天的夜里
在你的门外徘徊
道路弯弯曲曲
它转动着它的眼睛
绕过无数的物体
仿佛要把门推开
整夜，它在那里
在你的门外
叩问着门后的事物
它让你听到你的门扇咯吱作响
它没有同伴
它只是为觅食而来
它让你醒来
让你忍不住要去开门
仿佛是要回到它自己的家中
仿佛是一位梦中人
在问一个沉睡者到底是存在还是虚无
它在你门外
一只刺猬，把你的家门弄得咯吱作响

STAR MAP

by Jiang Li

My grandmother once told me that every star in the sky
correlated to a person,
that when someone died, his star would fall, too.
It was summer then, the handle of the Big Dipper was pointing south,
and I leaned on her knees to watch the stars
streaming silvery bands across the sky.
I listened to her mythology about ghosts and gods, as if
they were right there in the fields amongst the trees.
What an infinite world that was.
They became permanently engraved in a child's mind.
One night, the light of her star vanished,
and the Milky Way never appeared as brilliant as before any more.
That’s why when I grew to be a teenager,
I frantically studied it in the library:
Ursa Major, home of the Big Dipper;
Betelgeuse and Rigel that constitute Orion the Hunter;
and I envisioned Grandmother’s star in Cassiopeia,
imagining that it only faded out but didn’t vanish,
but gone to join the bluer, deeper part of the sky.
I resisted the cold science used to describe the stars,
and liked to carry a lustrous star map with me
to give life an extra depth.
I remember her cooking smoke, her village in periwinkle sunset,
the old streets at sunrise before they were razed flat,
her longing, and her somewhat clumsy constancy,
and continue to extract from them life’s hidden meanings after all the years.
What I am trying to say is: each of us carries one’s own star map,
to chart one's own course,
to choose the manner of living, to fire up the soul.
Tonight, a starless night, when my mother, my wife and my children
are all asleep, I think of my grandmother,
and the way she pointed out the stupendous full moon over the tree boughs.
She is the breath of wind that keeps the dandelion wisps afloat.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China by our partner —
Poetry Journal （诗刊） (Beijing, China, est. 1957) : https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/NDLhXS8uZBjYaKWtGO4nzQ

星图

江离

外祖母告诉我，天上的每颗星
都对应着一个人
每当有人死去，属于他的星就会陨落
那是暑期，七星的斗柄正指向南方
我靠在她的膝上，看着星辉组成的
银色光带横亘天际
听她讲鬼神的秘闻，仿佛草木之间
到处都有神灵
这是何其宽广的世界
它们永久地铭刻在一个孩童的心中
当她的那颗星带着光焰消逝在夜色中
我就再也没有见到过那璀璨的银河
这就是为什么，我还是少年时
从图书馆里疯狂地寻找它们：
北斗星所在的大熊座
参宿四和参宿七构成的猎户座
我想象着，外祖母的星应该是在仙后座
想象着当它消隐之后，只不过是
参与到更深邃的暗蓝色的夜空里
我抵抗着，将星星描述为客体的冰冷知识
带着那张璀璨的星图
为了使它成为一种生活的远景
那些炊烟、伫立在浅紫色晚霞中的村子
那些已经拆除了的黎明时的街道
你的渴望，你的看上去有些笨拙的坚持
那么久远之后，依然在向我展现
那种隐秘的意义
我的意思是，每个人都带着自己的星图
——我们主动塑造着的自我
一种生活的风格，灵魂的强度
今夜，没有星光，母亲、妻子和孩子们
都已睡去，我想起你
当你指着树枝上浩大的圆月
而你是一阵风，托举着飘散的蒲公英

LEAVING THE STATION LATE AT NIGHT

by Jin Wenyu

As you leave the station late at night,
a stray dog woofs and rushes you on,
but there is something homely in its folksy yaps
that warms the heart.
Away all these years, you are now
an out-of-towner to the dog.
Under a wary smile, you feel fortunate
to have chosen this hour to arrive.
Right now, kinsfolk who sometimes appeared in your dreams
are asleep in their own dreams,
except this grimy scruffy dog,
who actually sniffs out your sheepish contrition.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/T2fN3t4ZOT0yoe6Ea6GHEw

深夜走出车站

金问渔

深夜走出车站
被一只流浪狗撵着吼
你心头一热
吠声竟是浓浓的乡音
离开多年后，变成了
狗眼里的外乡人
你暗自苦笑，又庆幸
故意选择的抵达时间
此刻，那些睡梦中出现的亲人
一定还在睡梦中
只有这只脏兮兮的狗
嗅出了你的卑微与不安

SPRINGTIME

by Ke Xiuxian

If a birdsong lands here
just as the sun slowly sets,
and I happen to push the door open,
— the host may be in or not —
an ink-wash painting is all it takes
to feel the wind, to hear the cicadas.
Obviously this earthen wall is more than just a wall,
but something is being chipped away by time.
Look, the mountain range meanders over an idyllic landscape,
let me not question the shadows on the move
or where the water is flowing to.
Right now the field is green, banana leaves gently rustle,
the dewdrops and raindrops
add to time's wrinkles,
I cannot bear to call it a weathered world, but leave a note:
Looking in or looking out, springtime is all around..
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

春天

柯秀贤

如果鸟鸣正落在上头
夕阳一步步偏西
而我刚好推门而入
主人在，与不在
一幅水墨画便可临风听蝉了
显然这黄土坷夯成的墙别有用意
时间一定从中掰走了什么
但见群山绵延，四野寂静
不敢想象那些来来去去的影子
那些水，都流向了哪里
此时，青草茵茵芭蕉摇曳
露珠和雨声
都成了光阴的皴笔
我不好说沧桑，只能忍着写下
门里门外，都是春天

CORRALLING THE MOUNTAINS

by Li Daozhi

At the frontier, if you look up, all that you see are mountains,
kinky jagged outcrops, as if ready to run away,
not to be held back. Local people say: there are good mountains and bad mountains.
Those from a monkey-shaped mountain have quick hands and feet.
Those from a pencil-like pinnacle can become good writers.
Some mountains are wild at heart, best to be corralled; if overindulged, they may run off with the clouds.
From my balcony, I watch these mountains, and see flags on the peripheral,
forming a giant ring. Whoever tries to climb over this palisade,
to smuggle out a keystone, a statue, a bedrock, or a totem
will be detained by the rapid before the cliff —
The intrigue is: These mountains do not form a closed mountain range,
therefore it is a mystery why and how
one feels obliged to stay. In the mountain breeze,
as I read the verse "a streak of sunshine, a dribble of rain ",
nightfall has reached the earth, and lamp lights begin to pop up at the foothill.
The air is moist, the air is crisp,
and I oddly feel the desire for the unreachable.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/17W8qi49dwWMb4cXshLTXA

养山

李道芝

到边境，抬头全是山
那弯曲的、冒尖的棱角，一再有奔跑的念头
拦也拦不住。边民讲，山有好恶之分
山像猴形，山民的手脚就比较灵敏
若像巨椽大笔，就会出文章
这里的山有狂云之心，不能放任只可圈养
我在阳台看这些山，四周插着旗帜
围成巨环，有人要跨越栅栏
试图凿出柱墩、抱鼓、路基和石敢当
都会在悬崖前被流水拉住——
这妙不可言的事，证实山与山是分开的
谁也不知道自己走到了哪里
何时受到了管束。山风满衣袖
当我读到“一时日照一时雨”的诗句
夜幕已经落地，山脚升起灯火
空气湿润，清新
令人无端地想去捕风

EVEN THE BIGGEST SNOW IS ONLY A BLUFF

by Li Hao

Fantasms have no way of sustaining themselves,
similar to snow, in face of unflinching spring,
when we dream and dream,
they eventually waiver and miss the point,
like an empty-headed slippery chimaera, not a trace left.
Even the biggest snow is only a bluff.
Those who love snow do not all laugh
a debased laugh, some may hide a rapier
beneath their whitewashed hilt, but I am impetuously sentimental,
never give in to curses or omens,
never have faith in snow, knowing it is only a disguise.
In the world of ashes and dust, not one snowflake is pure.
No need to run amok, because, if plucked out from the snow berm,
the snowflakes will only reveal their wretched past.
Big roads blaze into the sky, but trenches choose to lie low.
Some flowers do not jostle for love, uninterested in thriving on a pile of dung.
Why squawk, as it does not cancel out loudmouthed snarls.
Things that glitter can indeed hide a stain.
Trust your intuition. The north wind that you have endured for so long
is relentless because of its brutal past.
It whistles a cheery tune, but that may not be its real mood.
No need for vengeance, in time it will be replaced by the easterly,
and the snowflakes will melt to mud regardless of who cries for them.
Parting ways, that is by far the best game plan this winter.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — Poetry Journal （诗刊） (Beijing, China)

再大的雪也不过是虚张声势

李皓

那些虚幻的事物，譬如雪
在坦坦荡荡的春天面前
终究无法坐实，一场接着一场的
春梦，言不由衷或词不达意
像虚头滑脑的鲇鱼，了无痕迹
再大的雪也不过是虚张声势
不是所有喜欢雪的人，笑声
都那么卑微，被粉饰的刀柄
呈现出太平的利刃，而我有妇人之仁
自始至终不相信一语成谶，不相信
雪，其实是用来藏污纳垢的
在尘世，没有一枚雪花是清白的
没必要大张旗鼓，让雪花从积雪里抽身
顶多有一把辛酸泪，有隐忍之美
大路朝天，沟壑自觉放低了身段
鲜花退出了名利与粪土的纷争
恶语相向的鸡鸣和狗盗沆瀣一气
那些貌似明亮的东西其实是一个污点
相信直觉吧，你一再容忍的北风
它撕破脸皮总有自己的道理
它吹着欢快的口哨，并不代表它的心思
没有怨怼和记恨，当他被东风取代
当雪花零落成泥，无论你怎么哀嚎
决裂，是你我这个冬天再好不过的游戏

GALE

by Li Jiefu

On the way to you is a wall reinforced by a ten-ton gale,
whereas my lifeline and my shadow sum up to less than 0.1 ton.
Turning left from G Ave overpass, I come to a long-winded road ahead.
At one fork of the road, I see a gust pulling up three big trees,
but no pedestrians are pushed over.
This wind wants to blow me away.
It wants to blow me to the far side of the mountain,
but I know it won't succeed.
This wind is the harbinger of a new season and will blow away my loneliness.
I would like to know where the wind is coming and going,
but I find no answers. No one else knows, either.
I only know that there are shadows before and behind me in the brief lifetime.
It's useless trying to get ahead, to beat the wind on its best game.
Voiceless lightning flashes ahead,
behind this wind is another wind.
When this wind dies down, new faces will appear on fresh new streets.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/mfRZXCZg2IxEggtzQh8E5w

大风

李洁夫

在通往你的路上，有十吨大风挡在前面
而我单薄的一生加上长长的影子都没有0.1吨重
从体育大街地道桥西拐，前面的路被压成一根长长的面条
我亲眼看到在一个十字路口，大风一口气推倒了三棵大树
但是没有推倒一个行人。
大风想把我吹跑
大风想把我一下子吹到山的那边
我知道，其实风一点也吹不动我
大风只是吹来季节的消息并想吹走我的孤单
我很想知道风从哪里来，又要到哪儿去
可我找不到答案。也从没人告诉我答案
我只知道，我短暂的一生，前后都是身影
大风过处，没有谁能够跑到风的前面
风的前面，一对哑巴一闪而过
风的后面仍旧是风
大风过后，干净的街道上面，还会走来新的面孔

MONARCH BUTTERFLY

by Li Manqiang

In my younger days,
I raised a tiger, a feral wolf and a lion.
I thought they were a bolt of lightning, a knife, and a path forward.
As I grew older and became less excitable, I preferred
a butterfly. It has a dainty torso,
but can traverse more than 3,000 kilometers of sky, even through storms.
On every migration, their
fine antennae guide them through the journey,
in touch with the sun.
Whenever weighed down by despair, I know:
the monarch butterflies are crossing the American Continent
like a messenger from God.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/UengBVUMH7XgU--QSMZMqA

金脉黑斑蝶

李满强

我曾豢养过老虎
野狼和狮子，在我年轻的时候
我以为那就是闪电、刀子和道路
不惑之年，我更愿意豢养
一只蝴蝶。它有着弱不禁风的身躯
但能穿过三千多公里的天空和风暴
漫长的迁徙路上，它们
瘦小的触须，每时每刻
都在接受太阳的指引
在我因为无助而仰望的时刻
金脉黑斑蝶正在横穿美洲大陆
仿佛上帝派出的信使

MIDLIFE

by Li Shangyu

The clock is a star, constantly overhead...
Time is a planet, orbiting...
Ah well, what can we do, the wind is blowing.
In the afternoon, we drink a bowl of borscht.
Cold spring days, they always make the alley look more picturesque.
Cold spring days, they always deaden the camphor trees.
That year you bought The Three Musketeers,
the other year your father saw a ghost in the alley.
These days when we talk about memories, we are
professing midlife. Ah well, in middle school
a raindrop spattered on the desk, it was wiped away.
In middle school, a raindrop splashed on the textbook,
it was wiped away, and a girl fell for the geography teacher.
What could we do?
Ah well, years later, you fell in love with the pine trees.
Nothing in the world compares to this
view — serene, this intimate, laissez-faire —
only the pine trees are worthy of this airy golden age.

Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

人到中年

李商雨

年岁如恒星，悬挂在头顶……
时光如行星，在轨道运行……
哎，有什么办法，风在吹
在午后，我们喝了一碗罗宋汤
春阴，总会把弄堂变得更写实
春阴，总会让香樟树更安静
那年你买了一本《三个火枪手》
那年你爸爸在巷里见到一个鬼
当我们讲起往事，其实在
讲起人到中年，哎，中学里的
一滴雨水溅到了桌子上，擦掉
中学里的一滴雨水溅到了课本上
擦掉，那个女生爱上了地理老师
该怎么办？
哎，多年后，你爱上了松树
人世间再没有什么比得上这样的
风景，寂静、依恋、无碍
只有它配得上这卿云烂的年纪

AT DUSK, A FATSO BY THE SEA

by Li Shaojun

Past middle age, the punishment God chose for him
was to let him gain weight, turning him into a fatso
with a dejected look,
huffing and puffing for nothing more than just walking.
One day Fatso felt the urge to see the ocean,
so he humped and bumped to the end of the world.
This hopeless fat man stood on the windy beach,
watching the beautiful sun falling into the deep blue sea,
his heart ached and broke into tiny petals,
to float on the waves as they rose and fell.
Seen from behind, his huge body
looked like a lonely planet, gently quivering.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

黄昏，一个胖子在海边

李少君

人过中年，上帝对他的惩罚
是让他变胖，成为一个大胖子
神情郁郁寡欢
走路气喘吁吁
胖子有一天突然渴望看海
于是，一路颠簸到了天涯海角
这个死胖子，站在沙滩上
看到大风中沧海落日这么美丽的景色
心都碎了，碎成一瓣一瓣
浮在波浪上一起一伏
从背后看，他巨大的身躯
就象一颗孤独的星球一样颤抖不已

THE SHAPE OF FOG

by Li Shaojun

The fog is a shapely thing,
visible and touchable.
Floating around the tree, it condenses into the shape of a tree;
adrift on the mountain path, it stretches out like a ribbon;
lingering over water, it takes on the shape of mist.
When the fog caps the mountaintop, it looks like a pagoda.
The fog is a shapely thing,
visible and touchable.
But the fog in our hearts
is the only fog that is dim and vague.
No one knows its shape.
It sits in our heart and stays there year-round,
a little chilly, a little damp, sousing our body and soul.
If someone insists that I describe it,
I can only say it has the shape of a riddle.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

雾的形状

李少君

雾是有形状的
看得见摸得着的
雾浮在树上，就凝结成树的形状
雾飘散在山间小道上，就拉长成一条带状
雾徘徊在水上，就是水蒸汽的模样
雾若笼罩山顶，就呈现出塔样的结构
雾是有形状的
是看得见摸得着的
唯有心里的雾啊
是隐隐约约朦朦胧胧的
是谁也不知道它是什么样的形状的
它盘踞在心里，就终年不散
沁凉沁凉的，打湿着一个人的身与心
如果我们硬要说它象什么形状
我们只能说它象谜的形状

THE SORROW OF LOOKING BACK AT LUOJIASHAN

by Li Shaojun

For many years, I only wanted to remember the brimming cherry blossoms at Luojiashan.
So sad that I wasted the entire four years,
so sorry that the spring of youth and the glorious landscape are gone forever.
Indeed, Luojiashan was such a beautiful college campus.
All the men who didn’t declare their love then now admit it to their friends.
They are chided as silly geese, and receive no sympathy.
At the reunion, these middle-aged classmates use their tipsiness as cover,
rushing to confess whom they secretly loved and guess who else loved whom.
And those women, still alluring, reply with regret: why didn’t you say so back then?
Finally, after drinking more than ten bottles of hard liquor and more beer,
all the men stand up and bow their heads,
apologizing to the women who are still unmarried,
apologizing for having wasted those beautiful time and opportunities.
One of them even cried, kneeling on the floor.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

回望珞珈山之伤感

李少君

多年来，我只要一回想起珞珈山的樱花烂漫
就痛心疾首，就感觉虚度了整整四年光阴
对不起那一去不复返的大好青春和湖光山色
确实，珞珈山是如此美丽的一个校园
所有向好友倾诉大学期间未谈过恋爱的男生
都会被骂为呆鹅，得不到半点同情
同学会上，人过中年的男生们借着酒意
争相表白当年暗恋过谁，揭发谁喜欢过谁
风韵犹存的女生则满怀幽怨：当年你不早说
最后，在喝完足足十瓶白酒加若干啤酒后
全体男生站立起来，低下头
向至今还未嫁出去的女生谢罪
向辜负如此良辰美景发自内心地道歉
其中一个，还跪在地上痛哭流涕

UNEARTHED IN YIWU

by Li Shaojun

Yiwu is a trendy place, the epitome of international trade.
Yiwu is also very earthy, marked by the typical image of
a hustling peddler with a rattle drum.
At Yiwu Bus Station, a bazaar’s energy cannot be mistaken —
the smell of sundries, spices, and sweaty bodily odor.
Laughter, crying, and squabbling commingle to raise a torrent.
A Rolls Royce is stuck in the traffic amongst migrant hawkers.
Anxiety, jubilance, pain flash through people’s faces, until
it's impossible to separate tears from rain as they seep into the earth.
Here, the meaning of grassroots comes alive.
During a short trip to Yiwu, my usually spiffy
corduroy trousers caught some of the long-parted mud.
Most metropolises have only the concrete pavement,
but here, there is also the earthy fragrance of soil and weeds.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

义乌出土

李少君

义乌很洋，国际商贸城的风范
义乌也很土，其经典形象
仍是一个手摇拨浪鼓的货郎
在义乌汽车站，扑面而来的集市气息
风风火火，杂货味夹杂汗味飘散空气中
笑声、哭声和骂声汇入同一喧闹的洪流
劳斯莱斯和肩挑箩筐的农民工都堵在街角
焦灼、欣喜和痛苦的表情交替闪现，直到
一个人已分不清泪水还是濛濛细雨渗入泥土里
在这里，我深刻感受到了什么是田野草根
在短暂的义乌之行后，我一直笔挺的
灯芯绒西裤，沾上了久违的泥巴
因为在大都市里，只有水泥地
而此地，还有土壤和野草散发的朴素清香……

WASTED GARDEN

by Li Shaojun

Seemingly random, but in fact every flower and every blade of grass
was carefully curated.
Seemingly disjointed and wasted, the garden
was tidied up just yesterday.
Even those insouciant-looking pedestrians
make a special point to come to visit.
One little critter is the exception — its fleeting shadow
and its hysteria are unplanned.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

废园

李少君

表面随意生长的花花草草
其实都是精心挑选出来的
看似杂乱荒芜的园子
昨天刚刚细致清理过
连那些似乎漫不经心的行人
也是专程赶来的游客
只有小兽例外，一闪而过的影子
它的惊慌是突然的

TWO SHEEP

by Li Songshan

He doesn't know her name,
doesn't even know her age.
Two flocks of sheep converge on the riverbank in the afternoon,
head-butting to allay the newness with each other.
She doesn't look at him. She lowers her head while turning the pages of a book,
like a sheep browsing for sweet grass.
He doesn't speak, rapping his willow whip on a boulder.
When the sun is about to set, she closes her book.
A trill rings through the silent meadow calling for the sheep to return.
He madly beats his own shadow on the grass
like beating a sheepish billy goat.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert.
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/3ZJZUN8fgGHu5jNSZT8LCA

两只羊

李松山

他不知道她名字，
甚至不知道她的年龄。
两群羊在午后的河滩合为一处，
它们犄角相抵，以消除彼此的陌生感。
她不看他。她低着头翻书，
像只羊寻找可口的草。
他不说话，他用藤条敲打着石块。
夕阳快落山的时候，她合上书。
寂静的河滩响起一串银铃般的唤羊声。
他拼命抽打草地上他自己的影子，
像抽打一只不够勇敢的羊。

FORMER RESIDENCE

by Li Tianjing

The doors are light on the passage of time —
you only need to lift a foot to stagger in.
Let a boy’s little hand
push open every hidden door along the passage.
A wooden horse comes to life!
As if the old garden has flashed back
in time, the reflection on the water
is as fresh as today’s flowers.
But images are mirages,
like a hand that strangely cannot raise
to knock on doors in a new town.

Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/7TyDh9UdQGQbW3zH2cOxNQ

故居

李天靖

时光很薄
一抬脚　就能踉跄步入

任童年的小手
推开楼道所有的暗门
木马复活———

如电光燧石穿过
儿时的庭院　镜面的倒影
鲜花如斯

映像如此脆弱
像异乡客　终不能举起
叩响门环的手

XIAMEN ISLAND

by Li Xianxia

In a new place, Time, this odd bird,
seems to whip along faster, setting off asthma
and raising a hue and cry. My feet have landed,
but the head is still in the clouds. With all the strangers around,
there is a marvelous sense of safety
even though the feeling of being transient makes me nervous...
But, as charming as this place is, for sure I will only visit it once in a lifetime,
or perhaps twice but no more than three times. I haven’t fallen for it,
but can’t help but ponder about life's chance encounters,
sometimes with the wish to hold on. Here the streets are spotless and the sky is blue,
with no sign of street sweepers, and for a minute
I even dream of moving here perhaps in a few years,
but quickly dismiss the thought as whimsical, knowing
no one can really walk out of one's native home, just like
no one can ditch one's childhood.
A person may run away now and anon, with the air
of an unconcerned globetrotter, evincing the envy of others,
but envy is a thing that will soon prove to be irrelevant ...

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/eBn3TfHwueV04QyguqFpEw

厦门岛

李衔夏

在异地，时间这个怪家伙
突然变得急促，它的哮喘病犯了
空气翻起风雨。脚落地了
心却还骑着风的坐骑。满目陌生人
反而带给你美妙的安全感
它的不可久驻令你焦躁不安……
这里再美，你一生也许只来一次
顶多两三次。你并未爱上这里
却莫名地萌生了对生命因缘的感叹
与不舍。街道和蓝天非常干净
但没有环卫工人的身影，那么一刹
你畅想若干年后搬到此地定居
转瞬又自嘲是异想天开
没有人能让灵魂走出故乡，正如
没有灵魂能走出童年。你
只能偶尔出走，装出一派浪迹天涯的
豪情，让别人羡慕一下
然后继续与你无关紧要……

NECTAR

by Li Yun

The heart of a flower only accepts the probe
of a needle. A mysterious flow on a condensed riverbed,
similar to the formation of amber.
Flower fairies dance in thousands,
fanning honey, giving it the clarity of a child’s eyes.
How their golden wings arouse feverish dreams —
a golden atrium, bathing in silky golden rays.
Watch that golden swarm from flower to flower,
and don't forget to count the teary eyes of the flower romancers.
A beekeeper is hooked on the venom of flowers.
I guard my spoonful of gold.
Not a word, except to listen to the buzz on the window,
once, twice, thrice...
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

蜜汁

李云

花蕊的心思只有一根针才能
戳破惊天秘密在黏稠的河床流动
琥珀生成的模样
千万只花魂飞舞的心跳
最后沉淀为童年眸子里天真无邪之色
多少次金翅振响催萌了季节的艳梦
金子打造的殿堂和金丝纺就的光线
从一朵花到另一朵花谁驭动一座金山在飞
花季里的花事过敏了多少人的目光
养蜂人是被花下了蛊的人
我只守着一勺黄金
不语听窗玻璃被谁嗡嗡嗡地撞响
一次二次三次……

AN INVENTD MOMENT

by Lian Shu

1
I see things at rest,
a sparrow in the nest, water locked in ice.
I get on the train, now pulling out from BinXi Station.
2
This is a lonely morning,
smelling of asphalt and coal.
I should bury myself in infinite prayers.
3
Almost yearend, but I still cannot grasp
the obscure inner workings
of life's cycles. My head to my toes, dawn to dusk,
the Loess Plateau in my mind, trees,
Hajin Terrace, each is renewed time and again.
4
The simplest manifestation of God is fire,
the one thing that can be witnessed
but not touched,
white-hot
like a fever.
5
This space is intentionally left blank,
to be continued next time —
a much-needed blank.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

虚拟时刻

连殳

1
我看到了所有事物的静止状态
麻雀挂在捕网上，水在冰里
我上了火车，刚刚驶出滨西南站
2
这是个孤独的清晨
沥青，煤
我该陷入无限的祈祷中
3
临近年关，我无法捕捉到
一种无影的内在循环
重复的事物，从头到脚，从早上到夜晚
再到被记起的黄土，树木
哈金坝，每一次都是崭新的
4
神的化身最直白的就是一团火
这是唯一能被我们目击到的
无法抵达的
炽热的
像人的一种疾病
5
此处空白
应该留给下次续写
一个应该的空白

THE EAGLE

by Liang Jilin

Over Alxa League on the Mongolian Plateau, an eagle flies,
carrying on its wings a massive silence.
It circles, swoops, swerves,
and suddenly lets out a screech,
a screech that is as focused as a man's longing,
as penetrating as a man's sorrow,
as willful as a man's rejection of the world.
A Bactrian camel shows up on the desert,
head high, sharing a man's untouchable pride.
It looks up at the eagle,
at the relic of the old cosmos.
Remind me, Baghatur, or herder Buren Menghe,
what is the thing I like —
from Left Banner to Right Banner,
with five hundred kilometers of vastness in between,
there is someone as fiery as the strongest spirit ever, whose name
evokes a flower, a red one,
a red flower.
The eagle takes after the sun; the sun,
an eagle.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Ln73gMKyUey07y828pSi6g

鹰

梁积林

阿拉善盟，蒙古高原的上空
一只鹰的翅膀上究竟能驮动多大的寂静
它盘旋，它俯冲，它踅乎
突然就唳了一声
一个人的思念也不过如此
一个人的伤心也不过如此
一个人的遁世也不过如此
一匹走出沙漠的双峰驼
昂首，孤傲，挟带着我身体里的冷峻
看鹰
看一粒太阳的舍利
巴特尔，或者就是那个叫布仁孟和的牧人
我喜欢什么来着——
从左旗到右旗
五百多公里的距离
就是那个有六十八度酒一样烈的人名字
琪琪格，红
红琪琪格
鹰像太阳，太阳
像鹰。

UNDER THE SUN, THE MOON, AND THE MOUNTAIN

by Liang Jilin

The stupendous yak by the ancient Silk Road
softly pants; he is the saving grace for this jolting journey.
I stop the car, and stop the curious rush in my heart.
In the deep eyes of the bull, I see wind,
and almost hear the bell toll from the eaves of a temple
breaking years of silence.

Princess Wencheng now lives in our common memory
that points to the hinterlands, as well as to love and nostalgia.
The mist and hues drift and waft, lending melancholy to
the mountains that veil and unveil;
amidst it all, the sky even shows a patch of blue momentarily.
Let me listen to the prayer flags flap
as they forfend the safehold in the valley,
while, on the hillside, a granny shepherdess tends to
her burnish copper samovar on an earthen stove.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Ln73gMKyUey07y828pSi6g

日月山下

梁积林

唐蕃古道旁的那头雄牛
低声喘息，绝不亚于一次颠簸的迁徙
我停下了车子，还停下了心里一种过于急迫的东西
且看那牛，眼睛的铜铃随风晃动
仿佛，庙堂檐角上经年的寂静
突然就当的一声
文成公主已然成了一句古语
还带有点边疆的含义。还有爱和远古
头顶的岚雾一直飘摇些说不清的忧郁
山一会儿隐一会儿现
还露了会儿晴空
且听山坳里愕堡上的经幡拍打翙翙
牧羊的老阿妈已在半坡的土灶上
搭起了冉冉昕昕的黄铜茶炊

AWE

by Lin Mang

With a gunshot, a puff of dusty smoke rose from the hillside.
Hopping sideways a few steps,
a small red fox, unharmed, turned his head to look at us.
The old bronze-faced driver shouted a few Tibetan words.
The rider put away his rifle.
That day, we were lucky to visit the sky-burial at upper Nu River,
and rushed off the canyon on a steep muddy road before a cloudburst.
Ah, be grateful to gods in heaven, who had been watching and guiding us.
Many years later, I reflected upon the way we were,
driving a thousand miles across the summery highland,
making light of life just to scale a sacred mountain.
We were rash, ignorant, and rude to those departing souls.
Today I behold with awe the colossal mountains under the clear sky.
Looking ahead, I can’t count the things my eyes can't see,
the things I wait to be enlightened, and the actions to be forgiven.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/TQujBwNXTcp49E3KqAwoJA

敬畏

林莽

随着枪声山坡上冒出一小缕尘烟
它轻轻跳开了几步
一只土色的小狐狸依旧回过头来向我们张望
面如古铜的老司机用藏语低吼了几句
那个搭车人收起了他的枪
那天我们幸运地拜谒了怒江上游有骷髅墙的天葬台
在暴雨到来之前赶过了那段泥泞而陡峭的峡谷险路
啊感恩一直俯视和指引我们的苍天与众神
时隔多年想起当时还算年轻的我们
在夏日的高原上驱车千里
像那些冒死攀登神山的人们一样
用一种近乎无知的鲁莽
兴致盎然地冒犯了那些寂寞中苦修的亡灵
看晴空下的雪山凛然屹立令人心生敬畏
嗷但至今我依然不知这一生中
到底还有多少事应该幡然领悟虔心忏悔

THE CAMEL PULLER

by Liu Dawei

To resist illusions, you trek this alien country
and welcome the howling sand as good news
— the great beauty and great terror of this desolate place
are greeted by one solitary soul.
Then the sun funnels down between the camel’s twin peaks,
an animal led by the reins as if by a nymph.
As a gesture to transcend worldly impurities, you raise
a huntsman’s flag on this fictionalized and refictionalized place.
Obstinate, feeble, and parched,
you have fallen deep for this place.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

牵骆驼的人

刘大伟

既然艰难跋涉是为了抗拒幻觉
索性将沙粒的歌唱当作福音
——这盛大而荒凉的美与恐惧
皆由一个人来迎接
而骆驼的双峰藏不住落日
仙子窈窕，牵引缰绳
你腾空浊世之躯，在不断被虚构的荒原
树起一名猎手骄傲的旗杆
执拗，虚弱，干涸
为之深深沦陷

SNIPPETS FROM THE FACTORY FLOOR

by Liu Jian

Those drab, dull metal sheets hide their sheen on the factory table.
Layer upon layer, what comes to light is not their hardness,
but in fact their innate weakness and softness.
Cast. Cut. File. Grind. There will be an end to the work down the line.
A well-calibrated blueprint does not indulge;
it has its plan and raises no voices,
more like god’s hand, with restraint.
The hustle and bustle of rush orders. Meticulous inspections.
Invoices neatly stacked in order.
I don’t know where these products are going, just
like myself, destiny unknown. I also see:
like the metal, we gleam when we sweat,
with a similar kind of shine.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Axiw4gftnfYAB6Xsi5zDwQ

工厂片段

刘建

那些愚钝、木讷的金属，在加工台前
敛起它的锋芒。渐次呈现的不是生硬
而是内心的懦弱和柔软
铣。削。锉。磨。一定有个结局等待在某个地方
胸有成竹的图纸置身事外，不动声色
有着上帝的矜持和冷静
计划单手忙脚乱。检验单一丝不苟。发货单按部就班
我不知道那些打包发出的成品工件的去向
就像我不清楚自己的命运。我看见：
我们和它们都闪耀着汗珠一样的光泽

AT THE SILVERSMITH'S

by Liu Nian

The slate roof glints in the moonlight with a polished-silver look.
I am thinking of Huaxi; her name has flowers and brooks in it.
Her skin glistened in the water —
perhaps women’s bones are made of silver.
On the silversmith's anvil, silver has an effeminate softness,
easily moulded into the shape of the moon.
They say silver bracelets work like magic, better than a titanium tether,
for keeping a woman nearby.
All of a sudden, a silver ring falls from the table to the floor,
clinking rolling across the marble floor to some twenty feet away.
It reminds me of Huaxi again.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/ZMmlbRCtPeo9Ep0hbBEp1A

王村镇的银匠

刘年

瓦背上，月亮，像刚刚抛光的银
想起了花溪
肌肤在水里，透着光泽
仿佛，女人是纯银的骨
铁砧上，银，女人一样软
很容易就弯成满月的形状
他们说，纯银的手镯，比精钢的手铐
更能锁住一个女人
银圈不小心跌落，顺着青石板
叮叮当当，滚出两丈多远
这让我再次想到了花溪

THE YAK HERDER

by Liu Nian

She milks the yak while her calf looks on, not troubled at all
as his mother is strong, giving endless milk.
The shepherdess carries the calf to the other side of the yurt;
it tries to break away, but this woman is stronger than its own mother.
She could have just spurred it to go, instead she cuddled it —
this weighty feisty thing seems to fill the void in her heart.

Translated by Meifu Wang

牧牦牛的女人

刘年

女人挤牛奶，牦牛犊在旁边呆呆地看，它不在意
它有个强壮的母亲，有着喝不完的奶
女人抱小牛犊到帐篷另一边，小牛犊挣扎不过
那是个比它的母亲还要强壮的女人
女人可以赶，但她喜欢抱
怀里抱样沉重的不听话的事物，能填补内心的空虚

TO CHONGQING

by Liu Ting

The river swells, like a mature man with a potbelly,
but its roaring waves cannot subdue the city's furor.
First a short holler, then a long yowl and a hoot,
then a huckster shows up with a head of ruffled hair.
It takes only spare change to hire him, to pass on
a scrap of our fortune to this tobacco-puffing drudge,
carrying two baskets of duckweed on a shoulder pole,
while the only weight we carry is the ferry ticket.
In this world, some sentiments live on
while the rest dissolve in the evening rain.
It is said, go to Chongqing if you are downhearted;
the hot pot there is the last romance for the mortals.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

....................................................................

去重庆

刘汀

江水起伏，如中年人的肚腩
涛声也不过是城市的呼噜
一声短，一声长，第三声
流浪者露出了蓬乱之首
从一生里拿出三天两夜
付给蹲坐江边吸旱烟的棒棒
他们肩膀上两筐浮萍
我们手心里一张船票
在人间，有些情绪万年不散
但另一些，已消失在夜雨中
人们说，悲伤时便去重庆吧
火锅才是凡人最后的抒情

THE EAGLE

by Liu Yang

the eagle
is the loneliest thing
in flight
without even the company of its own shadow
its small roaming body
takes on the boundless blue
its wings crash into sunset
and ride out with a metallic sound
when battered by stormy rain
its heart grows wiry like a hedgehog
in a thunder strike
it swoops towards the lightning, not to steal its torch
but to tear up the evening's canopy
that collapses squarely on its back

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/kycbZXAUfD6uS6s1NRWHmg

鹰

柳扬

一只鹰
只有在飞翔的时候
才显得那么孤独
连影子都没有
它是在用自己小小的自由身躯
对抗没有边际的天空
它的翅膀
把残阳撞出金属的声音
暴雨击打在它身上
它生出刺猬的愤怒
雷霆到来时
它攥住闪电，不是为了照明
而是要劈开那一摊
坍塌在它背上的夜幕

GROWING INSPIRATIONS

by Liu Yanghe

After dinner, I went out for an ice latte
with friends. We drank while planting
cigarette butts in a mini-pot filled with
coffee grounds, one by one —
Between puffs, we also planted contemporary writers
in the history of literature, and enumerated the crashes
when the flight of modern poetry took off. Each time
we swallowed a chunk of cheese or salad, we also threw out
a bitter or sweet memory. Eventually we felt
we had talked about too many sad stories — historic
tribal feuds or domestic impasses.
In-between cigarettes, we paused
for brief silences, meanwhile the cheery laughter
from the next table spilled over, mostly melodramatic
topics that touched on the absurdity of everyday life.
We continued to plant — cigarettes and literary figuress —
before exhausting our historic vision; no reason not to
elevate Li Jinfa’s Light Rain* to the Drum Tower
next to the bell tower; the bad episodes must be included, too.
We planted and planted until all spaces were used up.
Fortunately, I also planted a few witty phrases
on this page, but perhaps they are all a little bland...

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/PIPO3D8PszIJxvVsimntEg

种烟士批里纯*

刘阳鹤

饭后，与友人来喝
加冰的拿铁。我们一边喝，一边
在装有咖啡渣的微型花盆里
种烟蒂，一节接着一节——
我们把同代人种进文学史，
把新诗史的空难种进
我们的吞吐。我们每吞一块
芝士或沙拉，必吐诉一段
或涩或甜的往事。我们终究谈了
太多的涩，事关家族的
种种恩怨，抑或内在史的困顿。
在节间，我们少不了
短暂的沉默，而邻桌不时
旁逸的欢笑，更像是一部轻喜剧，
大多与荒诞的日常有关：
我们接着种，种即将耗尽的
历史想象力；我们没有理由不把
李金发的微雨，种进鼓楼
传来的钟声，凶年也理应种进去。
我们种啊种，种到无处可种。
所幸，我种下了这些
或有兴味的词，或也无味……
注释：* Inspiration音译

MEMENTOS

by Liu Ying

Some grasses look stark, but find a way to survive.
I always thought they were mementos God left on earth;
for example, the stonecrop called dunce cap,
low, short, sometimes even surrenders the little room it has.
Its dusty shade is far from crisp green.
A poor child in the plant kingdom that has never caught our attention.
It roots in the air
and trains day and night
to drink from the wind and nosh in the moonlight.
One day I happened to raise my head
and see a few tiny dunce cap sitting like pagodas between roof tiles,
perhaps they were there to shield our little destitute home;
I was overcome by a sense of nobility
for being loved by these humble things all these years.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/d3XZpQXHfPiSTFrFREFatQ

信物

刘颖

有些草很贫穷，却能自己挽救自己
我一直认为，它们是神放在人间的信物
比如瓦松
它低矮，甚至想省略掉所有的空间
它土气，绿色只有七分
它是植物中的苦孩子，从未收获人类的关注
把根扎在空中
日夜修炼自己
与风借水，与月光借土壤
某一天我偶然抬头
看到一些小小的塔端坐在屋顶的瓦缝中间
庇佑那些年我们清苦的家
我感受到这么多年来，被低微的事物所爱的
那种高贵

THE UNION OF THE SEA AND THE SKY

by Yinger Yinger

Old tea leaves lurch in the tray, coming
to rest like ghost memories.
An untold number of trifling matters bereave our days,
just like this moment, you and me,
at two ends of the table, in the sunset,
without words for the entire afternoon,
giving the impression that love is beside the point.
Contentions and mutual grievances, too many of them,
have muddied the water, and I am surprised that
we still stay magically as a conjugate pair,
as a part of each other, even looking majestic
like the seamless union of the sea and the sky
even though something leery, a vessel called LIFE,
is cutting through the middle of the sea.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China by our partner —
Poetry Journal （诗刊） (Beijing, China, est. 1957) : https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/w_6xZLzY6qfi8tgqflbqcw

海天一色

颖儿颖儿

残茶在木盘里翻滚，下落
安详得如同一个遗忘
一些多余的东西擦洗着日子
比如现在，茶的两端
我和你，坐在夕阳里
没有言语，整整一下午
把爱情过成了多余的样子
无数的怨尤相向，无数的南辕北辙
沉落湖底，我惊讶于
彼此，神奇地连接在一起
成为对方的部分
现出海天一色的威仪
中间穿行着一个令人怀疑的
被称做生活的物体

DROMEDARY

by Long Lingqiong

After careful consideration, I concluded that when the world
becomes a wasteland, I would like to be a dromedary,
dreaming of only sand and water.
Without the need to ponder or worry, the size of the head can shrink;
but walking is a must, so the feet are better to be large.
Since sighing won’t do any good any more, it’s best the neck grows thicker
for breathing —
Let there be a veiled animal tamer for me. I'll call her Mother, but without the need to share
tears or laughter, all that I need to understand are three words:
Kneel! Kneel! Giddy up!

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/8AY_kVS_zwb19_VgwX1b_g

单峰驼

隆玲琼

我仔细想了，等到我的世界
荒芜，就变一只单峰驼
理想只留沙子和水
已再没有什么需要思考和忧虑，头可以变小
行走是逃不了的，脚掌一定要变大
叹气也没必要了，就长一个粗长的颈
喘息——
认一个戴面纱的驯兽师作母亲吧，不用交换
哭和笑，只需要听懂她的三个字：
跪，跪，起——

GOODBYE, CHIMNEY

by Long Xiaolong

Father once said
where there were tall chimneys,
where there were smoke rising from chimneys,
there was first-class industry.
Nowadays, many plants has changed the way they make steam;
some use natural gas, some use electric boiler;
exhaust from natural gas is recycled as renewable resources,
and the electric boiler does not even put out exhaust.
The chimney has quit smoking. I hope no one rush to dismantle it;
let it stand tall, be a marker, be a memory,
but the high officials are determined to tear it down.
One day, they set off a directional implosion.
With a thunderous roar, the chimney instantly fell.
I felt terrible about it for a long time
as I suddenly remembered my late father who loved to smoke a tobacco pipe.
I held back tears and quietly said in my heart:
Goodbye, chimney.
Goodbye, my dear old father.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/jgzwXnPhcXxTRhLnHFEzkw

再见了，烟囱

龙小龙

父亲曾经说
哪里的高烟囱多，哪里的烟囱在冒烟
就说明哪里的工业最发达
如今，许多工厂生产蒸汽的方式彻底改变了
有的用天然气，有的用电锅炉
天然气的尾气全部回收成为资源再利用
而电锅炉干脆就不产生尾气了
烟囱戒烟了。我希望不要急于拆除
就让它高高地挺立，成为一种标记、一种记忆
而领导坚决要拆掉
那天，我们实施的是定向爆破
只听见一道闷雷，烟囱便应声倒下
那种感觉让我难受了好久
因为我突然想起了平素叼着烟袋、溘然长逝的父亲
我含着泪在心里默默地念叨
再见了，烟囱
再见了，我的老父亲

STAPLE REMOVER

by Lu Huiyan

I stapled a dossier together, but missed a page.
I wanted to pull the staple out,
but saw it already deeply embedded in the book,
so I placed the missing page on top,
and re-stapled the document,
new nail over the old nail.
Now, my life is spiked by double nails.
Still, some colourful moments may have been left out —
a pivotal person, an awakening, a breeze,
the starry sky and the forest seen from a midnight train —
how do I insert them
and bind them with other sorrows and joys?
It seems to me the sum of life’s quintessences
is being redressed by an invisible nail remover,
hidden somewhere undisclosed,
perhaps at the joint of the bones.
Deep at night, I hear it prying open the olden days.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/jlwUkVwUMb5s4Ola_r8MnQ

生活需要一个起钉器

陆辉艳

用订书机订一沓文件时，漏了一页
想要拔出那颗订书钉
它已深深嵌入纸张
我把漏掉的那一页
覆盖在其他纸张上，在那颗订书钉的偏上方
又订下了一颗
现在，我的生活被揳入了双重钉子
但我此生漏掉的那些光亮
某个重要的人，新鲜的时间，微风
一趟夜行列车外透出的星空，森林
要如何与我现有的
悲喜交集的生活装订在一起
我感到所有这些加起来的分量
被一个隐形起钉器平衡着
它藏在这世上的某个角落
在骨骼间的连接处
深夜里，常常听见它扳动时间的声音

INFINITUDE

by Lu Ye

Give sorrow a set of wheels, let’s go.
Give loneliness an engine, let's hit the road.
Give dolor a chassis and a carriage, let’s go, not to stop.
Life is too short for too many detours, let’s go straight on,
taking lessons from this desert highway.
These mouse-coloured bald mountains, so arid and so stubborn,
and the sky, so blue and alone without a cloud,
but the cacti adore them and cheer them on.
Suddenly a tiny one-horse town appears,
smack in the middle of nothingness, enshrining itself.
A train nudges across the distant landscape
— an orange locomotive pulling 126 carriages —
with the weight and drag, it manages never to look back.
An eagle, the confident flyer, at the heels of the sky,
abandons everything to glide into the open nothingness.
Big puffy clouds, doing what they usually do:
coming and going at whim, loitering near heaven’s door.
The land retreats, but stretches out simultaneously.
Time and space part and re-rendezvous as we drive on.
Our big bus skirts three states, striking me as being on Mars.
The sun has rolled from the left to the right window,
bright to a fault, as if flirting with ruin.
The horizon aims for something greater: kalpa, the time beyond time.
It contracts, expands, bounces, and leaps,
Indeed, it is infinite. How much is infinity divided by two? Infinity again.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/C0Qi_q-kmZ5pWMcrgmU1cw

辽阔

路也

给悲伤装上轮子，就这么一直开下去吧
给孤独装上引擎，就这么一直开下去
给苦闷装上底盘和车身，就这么一直开下去
这人生不会太久，不必拐弯抹角，要笔直向前
像这穿过沙漠的高速公路一样
那些灰褐色远山光秃着，干旱得那么倔强
天空已经蓝到举目无亲了
仙人掌对它举手加额
偶有巴掌大的小镇，在茫茫荒凉之中
珍爱着自己
一列火车在远处缓缓移动
橙色车头牵引着总共126节车厢
即使如此拖拖拉拉，也可以做到永不回头
鹰把自己当英雄，飞至天空的脚后跟
全力以赴地奔向空荡和虚无
大朵大朵的白云，具有云的本色
走走停停，飘浮在天国的大门口
大地在向后撤退，同时又向前铺展
时间和空间在速度里既重逢，又诀别
大巴车斜擦过三个州的腰，仿佛行驶在火星
太阳从左车窗翻滚到右车窗
它过分鲜艳，以至于接近苦难
地平线有更大野心，是不远不近的劫数
它在拉紧，在伸展，在弹跳
其实它是无限，无限的一半是多少？仍然是无限

PARTRIDGE

by Mai Dou

In wintry February, on a wet roof,
or in March, on one of those barren twigs,
it cries out with an out-of-towner’s voice.
It seems to know only one call —
the melancholic call.
Its face is too small,
too small to display a smile.
It doesn't have a brave heart
— when seeing me, still far away, it flies off.
Its profile comes across as a lonesome foreigner.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/762B8anq21Z0EVjWf3SsUQ

鹧鸪

麦豆

二月冷雨的屋脊上
或三月空荡的枝头
它的鸣叫声像一个异乡人
它似乎只会一种叫声
听着忧伤的那一种
它的脸太小
小到不足以看见笑容
它也没有一颗勇敢的心
看见我，就远远地飞走了
它的身影像一个孤独的异乡人

BOILING POINT AT DAWN

by Mang Yuan

Although water boils every morning,
its burbling sound has become more pronounced these days,
first due to my lighter sleep, then because of the snooze alarm,
which pries the mind inch by inch away from dreams,
by doing so reclaiming the body
bit by bit, like trimming the shadow from light,
like paring virtuality from reality,
like a sailboat returning from the abyss of time.
Every dawn is sizzling, and a little hostile.
Every dawn requires repair and self-discipline.
Hurry up, time to work —
just then, we get to see the multiple self-images in the bathroom mirror.
On a frigid winter day, we wake up like an imperfect kettle,
comical and tough, uppity and helpless,
but will eventually begin to puff steam,
to join the revolution started by James Watt,
to crank up the heart of dawn,
so it quivers and roars.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/p3z9ZUGQAZKp44LbA6kwww

沸腾的黎明

芒原

其实，沸腾一直存在
只是这些年，它变得越来越突出
首先，从减少的睡眠与反转的闹钟开始
响声恰如其分地把人和梦分开了
这一过程，将会在身体上
不断延续。像光与影，虚与实
像从时间的汪洋里上了岸
每个黎明都那么得热气腾腾，又带着敌意
每个黎明都在修补，又自己告诫自己
快点，该上班了——
这时，在洗漱间的镜子里看到无数个自己
在这严寒的冬日里，我们像一只装反的烧水壶
滑稽又隐忍，冷峻又无奈
但最终，都沿着噗噗的水汽，一瞬间
滑入瓦特的蒸汽时代
让每一天刚刚开始的黎明
颤动与轰鸣

The Depths of Dusk

by Mei Yi

Some of us cannot help but walk into the depths of dusk.
Ah, in any season,
on any twisted road,
she goes into twilight like the wind.
The lilacs by the road evokes the tenderest affection,
the wild grapevine brings nostalgia ,
fallen leaves reminds her of life’s cycle,
as for loneliness,
dearest, her only reference is your departure.
She extracts you a little a time from the universe,
and gives them back in the same fashion, a game
she takes for granted as a gift from nature,
similar to how raindrops return to being clouds
and rendezvous with her as a snowfall later.
Alas, she takes this road at dusk daily.
She has no choice.
What is it that she is grieving over — something in the light,
something in the dark.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/oemKQ_d4_vPGN4RuIi7Wkg

黄昏深处

梅驿

走进黄昏深处的人只有一条路
唉，管它什么季节
管它怎样曲折
她都会一直走进暮色里
她用路旁的丁香花描述深情
用树上的野葡萄描述过往的日子
用满地枯叶描述生老病死
至于孤独
亲爱的，她只能用你的离她而去
她把你从万物中一点点抽离
又一点点还了回去
她迷恋命运赐给她的这种游戏
如同把雨水还给云朵
让她在冬天邂逅一场雪
唉，每个黄昏她都要走这条路
她只有这条路可走
是什么不肯饶恕她——有时候在明处
有时候在暗处

REVERSE COURSE

by Meng Xingshi

The beauty of a vessel lies in the hands of the craftsman —
sift, wheel and pull, paint, engrave, and sinter...
The art of black pottery centers on hollowing out,
to let the light enter its secluded heart.
Likewise, men's virtue at midlife is openness
— for all weathers, including the swallows that come to nest.
For my remaining days, I would like to reverse the course —
extinguish the fire, smooth out the nicks, erase the traces of paint,
stop casting, panning or sifting,
so as to return me step by step like a black pottery to clay,
ready to be buried with other white bones in old riverbed of Yellow River.
There will be you in me, and me in you.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/cA3Fnzb1O0gu9qLRvptjpw

逆行

孟醒石

器物之美，在于手工
淘洗、拉坯、绘画、雕刻、烧结
黑陶之美，在于镂空
让光线照进幽邃的内心
人到中年，在于通透
接纳风雨，也接纳筑巢的燕子
我的余生，偏要逆行——
熄灭炉火，抚平刻痕，擦掉画迹
停止拉坯，不再淘洗
一步步，从黑陶返回胶泥
在黄河故道，和那些白骨埋在一起
你中有我，我中有你

A FLOCK OF BIRDS

by Mu Bei

Someone is talking about a flock of birds, describing it as if
it were an age-old sore that is still raw and angry.
He also describes springtime as some personality, as if
all things were infallible in time and irremovable from time.
He describes the forest where the birds once perched,
the lushness that characterized the forest, a world
of stupendous verdure...It's as if words were his garish old pet
that rambles in a fantasy world beyond the reach of time. It's as if
the flock of birds were still circling around over where the forest once was.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/_XcnAp8Vzd7b26DxlXfiWg

鸟群

牧北

有人说起鸟群，就像谈着
远年的伤疤，鲜艳。
好像春天也能成为性格，好像
所有的情节都与时间
情同莫逆。鸟群曾经栖息的树林，
树林曾经的茂密，茂密曾经占据的
空间……语言成为一只豢养多年的宠物
摇头摆尾地化作想象、幻觉
冲出时间的界限。仿佛
鸟群仍盘桓在树林存在过的地方

THE RUMBLE OF THUNDER, PERHAPS WITH A SUBTEXT

by Nan Qiu

No rain despite long rumbling thunder,
a premonition one must heed.
At least I should pay attention,
and try to see where it is from.
A lot like crying a long cry without tears.
A lot like a well-rehearsed play without any dialogue.
A lot like a mansion with open doors but no footsteps.
A lot like a monk's mesmerizing ritual without believers around.
A lot like an epic novel without a protagonist.
Perhaps we live in an illusory world
where only the rumble of thunder is real,
or, can it be the opposite, that
thunder rumbles high and far, but is in another plane from the human pathos?
It is also possible the non-verbal thunder tries to communicate,
but we have long turned into numbskulls.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊） : https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/0LqSaStMngwlZDtuFpg35Q

雷声，或者语意

南秋

这么长久的雷声却不见大雨落下
我必须引以为戒了
至少，我必须认真地倾听
剖析它们的来路
这多么像长嚎之人却不见眼泪落下
这多么像蓄势已久的朗诵却不见一句台词
这多么像一座大房子敞开着却不见一人出入
这多么像道士忘我地念念有词地做法事
却不见一名至亲在场
这多么像长篇巨著中未有一个主角现身
或许，这世界只是个虚拟
只有雷声是真实的
或许，恰恰相反
雷声虽然通天，却未必通晓人间
或许，雷声言不达意
我们已经入木三分

MY LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIP WITH MT. QINLING

by Nan Shutang

The reason why I hate this mountain
is because it blocks my view, posing to be
the end of the world. Still, it serves
as a jail door that keeps away the people and things
that I love to hate but dare not.
I take it all out on Mt. Qinling,
so when I hate you, and you, and you, once, twice, and thrice,
I gradually build up a mountain of hatred.
Surely one of Qinling’s peaks is the outcome of my work.
Hear the rainless thunder from the mountains,
hear its echoes spreading hatred.
At the same time I love this mountain for mysterious reasons —
the way the birds sing, the way the peach flowers bloom
speak for my ardent love for the mountain;
the rugged boulders and the hardy grass around my father’s grave
also explain the tenacity of my affection,
which I write down as a list of words and arrange them with a secret formula
(the way a pharmacist designs a prescription),
and feed them to the spring breeze or autumn wind.
The mountain is said to be growing at two centimeters a year.
Does that growth come partly from the power of my love?
Nowadays I am more even-tempered,
with little love or hatred in the heart,
and the mountain seems to treat me the same way,
listening to me calmly
without showing any happiness or sadness.
Now I can sit comfortably with the mountain
and strike up a conversation.
But if the mountain could give back my past love and hatred,
I would use the love to backfill the cavities
undermined by the old hatred, so that we will have
a gentler terrain that's worthy of our trust
between mountains and canyons.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/xX1G805GeHDPAR8mpFHyUg

爱恨秦岭

南书堂

恨它的理由，是它一直
阻挡我的视野，充当着
世界的尽头。可它又像为我的恨
专设了一个衙门，让我把
想恨不敢恨的人和事
冲着它，恨上一回，再恨上一回
这样一推算，它的某个山峰
肯定由我的恨堆积而成
从山顶偶尔传来的闷雷
仿佛这些恨的回声
爱它，却无言表达
因而鸟鸣和桃花
抢先说出了鲜丽的部分
长着白牙的巨石和父亲坟头的小草
代言了执著的部分
我只需药师一样，把一些词语
按秘密的剂量，写在
春风或者秋风的处方笺上
据说，它的主峰，还在以每年
两厘米的速度往高里长
是不是其中也包含了我爱的力量
现在，我对它更多的是
不爱不恨，就像它
始终都在平静地倾听
而不显露悲喜
现在，我已是可以与它坐下来
促膝相谈的人，如果它能
把我曾经的爱恨还给我
我就会用那些爱去填补恨
砸出的深谷，使人生看起来
像这崇山峻岭间，确有
一个个值得信任的平缓地带

IS THERE A SPRING NOT BORN OUT OF NEAR-DEATH?

by Pan Xichen

After trying to spawn day and night,
snow finally comes through.
Snowflakes cover up my mother
and the entire
magnificent north.
Now, in a separate
kingdom, sunny and bright
with a temperature difference of 50 degrees,
I can still feel
the ferocious, piercing,
unforgiving cold.
But only an idler
would say: Winter is here,
spring can't be that far away.
Can anyone imagine winter would voluntarily leave?
Can anyone tell me
that he has known a spring
that didn't go through a survival fight?
Can anyone tell me that he has seen a spring
that wasn't born out of near-death!

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/OFVk4tpM1G_tLiKynhHjYA

有哪一个春天不是绝处逢生

潘洗尘

酝酿了几个季节的雪
终于下了
雪覆盖了我的母亲
以及整个
广大的北方
此刻即便是置身另一个
看似阳光明媚的国度
远隔50度的温差
我也能感受到
来势汹汹的
彻骨寒意
只有懒惰的人
这时才会说
冬天已经到了
春天还会远吗
但寒冬是自己离开的吗？
谁能告诉我
有哪一个春天
没经历过生与死的搏斗
有哪一个春天
不是绝处逢生！

SPRING NIGHT

by Pang Pei

A woman worker from the nearby factory,
with all the giveaways of a rural migrant
— a bit cruddy, with strong complexion,
hair dripping wet (probably just after a shower).
She comes out from the afternoon market,
holding a plastic bag full of vegetables.
I walk a few steps behind her
on a crowded street ―
The weather has recently warmed up. Suddenly I realize
it's already March, and feel the warmth in the wind.
People are catching up with me from behind,
causing me to scuffle.
Even with a small crowd between us,
I can feel her strong steamy body.
I also feel the night sky, so deep and so blue, beneath it
are factory chimneys, a murky river, a bustling city block with untidy vendor stalls,
and debris left from the used-up daylight hours.
In the twilight, in the wafting scent of the canal boat lock,
she slowly walks away from me, and her silhouette
evinces, on this great earth,
a seductive spring night full of mysterious wonders.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/mfRZXCZg2IxEggtzQh8E5w

春夜

庞培

一名附近厂里的女工，经过落市的
菜场，手里提着塞满菜的塑料袋，身上
明显的外地人特征：
有点脏，但气色很好；
头发湿漉漉（大概，刚洗过澡）。
我隔她三四步路，在她身后
从烦乱的马路上经过——
天突然热了，刹那间，我想起这是在
三月份，吹过来的风仿佛一股暖流——
行人拥上前，我的脚步变得
有些踉跄——
隔开人群
我能感到她健壮湿润。
我感到夜空深远而湛蓝。在那底下
是工厂的烟囱，米黄色河流、街区、零乱的摊位。
遍地狼藉的白昼的剩余物。
从船闸的气味缓缓升降的暮色中，
从她的背影，
大地弥漫出
一个叫人暗暗吃惊的春夜。

MINOR HEAT

by Qi Lun

A quiet afternoon has its own allure,
"Goodbye spring, hello summer", a sneaky move, kind of poetic,
but makes some of us a little restless, and others a little pensive.
As for me, I quit drinking, fall in love with tea, and accept life’s mundanity.
High on the 27th floor, I sometimes find myself literary up in the air,
much the same as mid-life. It’s not unusual for me to hang out by the window,
from there I can observe the unmissable clues of a floating world:
for example, dust, just enough to conceal life’s existential gloom.
I like the sun’s rays when they drop in from the west,
obliquely into the vast nothingness of my heart.
If I look even farther into the distance,
a forest would be in view. I envision shadows upon shadows
in the woods, contrasting the cicadas’ chatter, and lifting a vague sadness
to the clouds. If a little yellow dog happened to
doze under the trees, for sure it would be drunken with love,
dreaming about birds in the sky.
Oh, I mean, all souls find a way to be out of their bodies,
yes, if only because, because we love the thought of roaming and returning to our roots . .. ..
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/oZrKfEeYO5CxIV_X7HrZ4w

小暑

起伦

下午的寂静，自带诱人的光芒
出梅入伏，一种诗意的暗度陈仓
让人略感不安，又陷入冥想
我戒酒了，爱上喝茶，对生活已无太多期待
住在27楼，恍惚时有悬空的感觉
颇像中年人生。常在窗前伫立良久
如果俯瞰，大地上浮起的庸常事物
比如尘埃，恰好可以掩盖万古愁
我喜欢偏西的阳光
斜照过来，落入内心辽阔的虚无
如果把目光放远些
会看见一片林子。我能够猜到林地间
影子与影子的叠加，把蝉唱衬托得更加
高远，把一种淡淡忧伤
送向白云。如果有一只假寐的小黄狗
躺在树阴间，它一定中了爱情的毒蛊
没来由地梦到天空的鸟群
呵，我是说，一切灵魂的出窍
是，也仅仅是，爱上了漫游与还乡……

TUMBLEWEED

by Qi Zi

Tumbleweeds, adrift over hills and dales,
across the fields, by water's edge,
let me try to find a quote from the classics
to say something romantic about them,
such as “humble wild bramble, to be harvested…”.
But I have, truth be told, chopped these dead tuffs down,
bundled them and carried back to the village for firewood.
I also once pried open a thicket to look for a lovely little bird
— some kind of thrush, nesting deep in the tall grass.
Out in the plains, you can hear it calling,
a truly happy encounter.
Dried and tired, thrashed by the autumn winds,
tumbleweeds look disheveled, much like many of life’s true stories,
little can be embellished about them.
Adrift over hills and dales, across the field, by the water's edge,
trembling, forlorn, the embodiment of loneliness.
Here comes the tumbleweed, rolling, tumbling
from the ancient mountains and rivers.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/VApmFFsj6g2Xi_YbG_0xAQ

枯蓬记

圻子

枯蓬落于山间、水间、田野间
我想加入一些流传下来的诗句
让它看起来像我们的诉说
比如“翘翘错薪，言刈其蒌”
事实上我曾刈下那些枯死的草
将它们捆扎在一起，背回村庄，用作灶膛之火
我也曾拨开草丛，探寻一种体态娇小的鸟
——那是一种鸫鸟，建巢于芒草深处
在荒僻旷野听到它的鸣叫简直是意外的惊喜
秋风里的枯蓬，凌乱
失意，恰似众多生命写实，寥寥的数笔
落于山间、水间、田野间
抖抖索索，所谓的孤寂正跋涉故旧山川而来

NIGHT OF THE BIG RIG

A big rig can carry twenty tons of coal
— it is on the move, that's how tonight feels,
in pitch black. but the ears know it by the rumbling sound
and the feet know it by the vibration.
A night like tonight,
it feels as if the mountain would be left empty by tomorrow.
How many times have I dreamt of a civilization
built on good ideas and people queue up to borrow it
to light up their dawn sky. They ride on a big rig
across my village to honor the philosophers.
But I am wrong, folks are forever ravenous for salacious gossips,
choosing jeers and jests over philosophies...
The soot have fallen and darkened the books,
that’s how tonight feels. The earth is shaking,
but nothing beautiful is being transported on our roads any more.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/VApmFFsj6g2Xi_YbG_0xAQ

重卡车之夜

圻子

重卡一次可以装载二十吨的煤
正如此夜，漆黑，仿佛装载
数十吨不透光材料，只闻其声
只感受到马路在脚下颤抖
仿佛这是剩下的最后一夜
一座山即可搬运完毕
我多次设想过这样的场景：
一旦思想成形，人类必须排队
借文明点亮曙光，开上重卡车
经过我的村庄，向思想者致敬
然而我想错了，人们偏爱夸夸其谈
继续追捧花边消息……
他们的书本落满灰暗的颗粒
正如此夜，我感到大地颤抖
马路上，再没有人运送轻盈的东西

NOTES FROM A HOSPITAL WARD

by Qiu Shui

One keeps watch, the other is being watched.
Between my mother and me, a fog is getting thicker.
We can no longer look and recognize each other.
The fog creates a distance between us,
hiding us from each other,
but also bringing us closer more than ever.
In fact we need this fog
and even appreciate it
because it preserves our alliance
like two sides of a coin --
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

病房记事

秋水

守着，与被守着。
母亲和我之间，弥漫的雾气越来越重。
我们无法再用眼睛确认彼此了。
雾阻隔着我们，
藏起我们，
但也没有什么能比它更好地拉近我们。
我们其实需要它，
甚至感谢它，
它保持了我们的关系，
像守住了一枚硬币的两面——

THE FIRE SPUTTERS

by Qu Rui

It seems to have something to say to me, but I always answer
with silence. It was like that that winter when we were away from home,
near New Year, with fireworks everywhere;
and another time when we burned joss money at the graveyard.
Something compels us to sit by the fire,
watching it as it bursts out futile shouts,
meanwhile we listen, treating them as ghosts
that return to our world in the shape of a fire.
One Saturday, I paid Mother a visit, and told her
about the sad faces of the dead in my dreams.
Dreams will disappear, so you must write them down.
She thought long and hard before telling me.
We can't make a long-legged dream stay,
nor can we ask a fire to burn steady all night.
The fire changes and morphs as if to mock us,
as if to prove that we are deemed to miss out —
Every fire gives out a last gasp.
It grows into a wild horse before disappearing,
leaving us a wasteland and a sputtering sound
to accompany lives that are already in decline.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WWeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/ko8shyVZBCgs1xhmRGwC2g

火的呓语

瞿瑞

它总是有话要讲，像我面对它
总是沉默。比如在外省我们
放烟火的那个小年夜，或
烧纸钱的那些坟墓旁。
坐对火焰是必要的对质，
它的爆裂是一种徒劳的呼喊，
而我们聆听每一个幽灵
回到人间，栖于火的形态。
一个礼拜六，我去拜访母亲
说起梦中面目悲伤的死者。
“梦会丢的，你要写下来。”
她沉思良久，最后忠告我。
我们无法挽住一个长脚的梦，
如同无法向火借宿。
火的变形仿佛试探，仿佛确信
人注定会错过——
每一束火焰的临危一挽。
火灼烧如野马奔突，熄灭
如荒原，唯火的呓语
不息：送往人的每一种余生。

RELIVING

by Rong Rong

Now, old and deranged, my daily reminiscences
consist of too many myths and embellishments.
The people and things that I embraced,
the others whom I only leafed through,
the monotonic and the flamboyant friendships,
the melancholies and quandaries that I alone know,
how reliving them is useless but indispensable.
To someone like me, a bad case of delusion and nostalgia,
the frail inner castle is held up only by memories.
For example, right now, I am missing an old friend,
seeing him as the foundation of my ailing kingdom
that's eroding away, but finding no way to stop it.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

怀念

荣荣

我年老虚妄里的怀念
有太多的虚拟和拼凑
那些交集过眼的人或事物
那些情谊单色或斑斓的
那些孤独时分里的苍凉或纠结
我太明白怀念的无力却如此依赖
一个怀念的虚症患者
怀念构成我内心虚弱的国度
如同此刻我怀念一位朋友
感觉他就是我虚弱国度里的水土
无法阻止他快速的实质性的流失

STRONG TEA (or FATHER)

by Shao Qian

I feel hungry and I want to go home,
unsure which came first — hunger or homesickness.
Soon I will have tea with Father,
a strong cup of tea as usual,
but the eddies in the tea cup will further confound
my sense of time: am I still five years old
or twenty and five; perhaps Father
has not really grown old just as I haven't grown up.
Father is not a talker, keeping to himself most of the time,
although in the old days cigarettes spoke for his mood.
Tonight when we have dinner, I will be jovial,
going after his abject failure in learning to cook,
just like my inability to enjoy strong tea.
When I was a child, the bitter taste of tea
was accentuated by my kittenish palate, much like life’s other intrigues.
I have been quiet about things, and still I don't know
how to forgive myself as a son would be forgiven, or
how to understand my father by looking into myself.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/oXLwa7_ntS2xZy2E3J2GPA

浓茶或父亲

邵骞

我怀着饥饿感寻找家，
不清楚家和饥饿感两者
究竟谁是谁的代名词。
我想我即将和父亲对饮
杯中的浓茶，一如往常，
茶水浓腻的涡旋让我
分不清所处的时光，五岁
或者二十五岁，父亲或许
尚未苍老，我并未长大。
父亲不善言辞，惯于沉默，
戒烟前香烟代表他的情愫。
餐桌上我会揶揄他的厨艺，
他始终笨拙地学不会翻炒，
而我也尝不惯杯中的浓茶。
茶水的苦味在我年轻的时岁
被舌尖放大，仿佛生活的网。
而我已沉默多年，并未想清楚
如何在父亲身上原谅我，或者
如何从我身上理解我的父亲。

SOMETHING HAPPENS IN THE DARK CORNER OF THE SOUL

by Shen Haobo

Some feelings aren’t obvious during the day,
but in her deep sleep at night,
with her eyes closed tight,
she looks kind of sad.
Sadness in sleep,
alas, is probably real sorrow.
I take part in her life during the day,
but cannot enter her sorrowful sleep.
Wakefully I witness her sadness,
but cannot understand the reasons.
Something happens in the dark corner of the soul
where I am kept out, in the light.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/z6TQ7P6kfIEkA3wawbrWCQ

有些东西在灵魂的黑暗处发生

沈浩波

有些感觉白天还不明显
但当她在深夜熟睡
紧闭着眼睛时
看起来竟是悲伤的
熟睡时的悲伤
恐怕就是真正的悲伤了
我能够进入她在白天的生活
却进入不了她悲伤的睡眠
我眼睁睁地目睹着她的悲伤
但我不知道她为什么悲伤
有些东西在灵魂的黑暗处发生
而我被阻挡在光亮里

CAMEL BRIDGE*

by Shen Wei

Going east, beyond the City of Huzhou
you will find an underworld in Qian·shan·yang Ruin —
fossil silk, mulberry gardens, tall lonely trees,
Mama Wang's noodles, and the perfectly preserved sandalwood...
Going west, you will find modern camels made of alloy,
traveling between metropoleis and a moonscape
on a seemingly endless stretch of yellow sandy road.
It takes only a fumble
to stumble on this allegorical western frontier.
The river's headwater perches high on Phoenix Mountain^,
like an orange or grapefruit on the tip of a sprig.
It finally joins the oxygen-rich Zhaxi River
near a tired stone and mortared bridge —
Camel Bridge* is its name, denoting a water town
that communed with a distant place.
Farther west, the river ends in a trickle in the desert,
whose sand dunes sometimes enter our dreams.
Streams come together, each from a lush mountain,
rambling across the great plain,
interweaving like a melancholic tassel of silk.
A pilgrim sits between a camel’s wavy humps
traversing the windswept landscape, westward, westward —
the new world feels like home, the old home feels alien.
In a land where native and foreign ballads commingle,
he says a silent prayer:
this world, that world; this shore, the other shore;
go, go, to the other shore...
Translator's Note:
*Camel Bridge was built in 685 C.E. in today's Huzhou, Zhejiang Province.
^Phoenix Mountain: The original name for Renhuang Mountain.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/qkeauZmewNi4s0AB-jmR6A

骆驼桥

沈苇

向东，湖州城外
钱山漾的地下世界
碳化的丝、桑园、孤独的高杆桑
王大妈的面、淤泥里不腐的檀香木……
向西，骆驼的肉身已是合金
从荒寂到繁华
一条黄沙路似乎没有尽头
仿佛你凌乱一脚
就踏入了西域的隐喻
水的高处在仁皇山
譬如枝头的柑橘和柚子
富氧的霅溪之上
石头和水泥的骨架也会颓丧
骆驼桥，只是一个水乡隐喻
一次与远方的对话和关联
霅溪的湿，一滴滴注入远方的干旱
而漫漫黄沙，总是梦里相见
溪流会合，来自蓊郁群山
在大平原，绵长、蜿蜒
如一束惆怅的生丝
骑着波峰的驼背，这心灵的
雅丹地貌，一路向西——
远行者已是他乡故人、故乡异客
在丝竹和隐约的胡乐中
一再默祷：
此岸，彼岸；彼岸，此岸
揭谛，揭谛，波罗僧揭谛……

SPEAKING OF COCONUT TREES

by Sun Wenbo

... Coconut, it seldom falls and hits a man's head,
but will roll like a football when the wind blows.
The sea is its home.
Floating at sea, it behaves like a football
— the waves kick it as if to pass it through a goal
defended by some ghost goalie.
One may say this is just a fantasy,
but of course it is — although not without basis.
It originates from a folk tale.
My reliable source says that no one has ever been hit by a coconut.
Therefore I am not the least worried when walking under coconut trees,
but admire their fruit hanging from the treetop.
Indeed, the way they bunch together fascinates me:
each bunch has a unique shape — how extraordinarily unique — even more unique
is the tree's shape with a vertical tree ring, a ring atop a ring on the trunk.
Generally they are perfectly straight, like flag poles. I like
the way they sway in a typhoon, like ballerinas, evokes the name Pink Girly Trees,
(Poet Yang Xiaobin has a knack for giving these kinds of names.) contrast to the giant tree Fir,
which is considered a masculine name — it’s settled then — don’t you agree
that the other name tickles your heart more —
though the sentiment is possibly an indulgence.
So be it, let us indulge. Don't you agree: after drinking coconut juice,
we still want to eat its thick sweet meat. That’s one way to put it, how sweet it looks,
especially at sunset.
As I sit on a reclining chair under the coconut trees,
looking out to the ocean — no, there isn't a flower around,
but a sweetest fragrance permeates in the courtyard of my heart.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/50CH7k8yow8QeQ-NdtPwkA

椰树叙

孙文波

……椰子，不会落下砸中人的头颅。
它只在风中滚动，迅疾像一只足球。
归宿是大海。在大海中它仍然像一只足球，
由波涛踢着，仿佛大海中有一扇不知
什么鬼守护的大门——请问，这是不是虚构。
当然是——并非没有事实基础。
它来自民间传说。我的确没有听说过有人
被椰子砸中。它使我无论什么时候
走在椰林中看到悬挂树梢的椰子，一点不担心。
反而好奇，它们纠结一起
形状的独特——的确太独特了——独特的还有作为
树的形状；一圈一圈树干说明年轮。
主要是它笔直，犹如自然的旗帜。我喜欢
看到它在飓风中左右摇晃柔韧如芭蕾——女粉子树。
杨小滨会这样命名。对应被命名为男树的巨杉
——就这样定了——难道，
还不让人内心生出柔情——虽然可能是柔情滥用。
滥用就滥用。这一点，就像我们喝了椰子水，
还要吃椰子肉。甜密，可以这样形容——
尤其是在夕阳西下时分，椰树下放一张躺椅，
面朝大海——花不开，我的内心仍满庭芳。

A DARK ROAD ON A DARK NIGHT

by Tan Xiao

Father straps up a bundle of spruce bark,
the best material for the best torch. He holds it up
in the dark, and occasionally squeezes the bundle
to slow down its burn, to keep the fire from flaring up;
this long road doesn’t really need a blazing light.
Along the way, he continues to nudge the flame
and leads us through the night.
In soft voices we talk to each other
— two shadows with blurry faces —
and our footsteps are also very light.
When the torch grows dim,
it can re-ignite itself with the sparkles in the ash.
Finally it burns steadily, and we’re almost home.
Father shakes his wrist, sending the ashes to fly in the wind
— no need to save the bark anymore, no longer a dark road on a dark night,
no longer the road to the end of the world. The flame is now roaring,
shining beautifully on the last stretch of the road.
We look radiant ourselves as if journeying through a giant halo.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊, Beijing, China）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/m9b-721XvVzV_Za3CH5BfQ

夜路

谈骁

父亲把杉树皮归成一束，
那是最好的火把。他举着点燃的树皮
走在黑暗中，每当火焰旺盛，
他就捏紧树皮，让火光暗下来，
似乎漆黑的长路不需要过于明亮的照耀。
一路上，父亲都在控制燃烧的幅度，
他要用手中的树皮领我们走完夜路。
一路上，我们说了不少话，
声音很轻，脚步声也很轻，
像几团面目模糊的影子。
而火把始终可以自明，
当它暗淡，火星仍在死灰中闪烁；
当它持久地明亮，那是快到家了。
父亲抖动手腕，夜风吹走死灰，
再也不用俭省，再也不用把夜路
当末路一样走，火光蓬勃，
把最后的路照得明亮无比，
我们也通体亮堂，像从巨大的光明中走出。

THE REBUILT FEET

by Tang Yangzong

It has been forty years, see, the world must deal with it again.
The eagle returns to nest on the precipice, and takes a hundred and fifty days
to remodel its body, first by hacking
its curl-up old beak on the crag to chip it off ,
then ripping off its fossilized toenails with the new beak.
Now, with brand-new claws, it plucks the shaggy feathers off its wings.
“Unthinkable that one would manhandle oneself this way.”
The cliff says, hanging upside down, its interior completely rearranged...
Well, everything is brand new, so new
that the neck for exploring the world is now shorter.
In fact, nothing is truly new or truly remarkable, except a reminder
that an antediluvian body can be a paradise regained.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/pzhyv-St9z0q5w--nVIVbw

再造的手脚

汤养宗

活过四十年后，看啊，世界又要配合它
鹰再次筑巢于绝壁，用一百五十天
重新打造一副身体，先是叩击坚石
废掉已弯的不能用的尖喙
再用新长的，啄出老化的趾甲
有了新爪，又一根根拔去翅膀上那排旧羽片
“竟可以对自己这般做手脚”
说这话的危崖倒立着，并真正被内心整理过
好了，一切又是全新的，新到
发现世界的脖子比原来的短了很多
什么是新叙述，只记得
那么老的身体，又是一座失而复得的花园

REMBRANDT IN SELF-PORTRAIT

by Tang Yangzong

A hundred plus self-portraits
in a lifetime, why? Still, his facial lines
never quite settled, between age 34 and 63.
This monkey must have been hard to coax,
too ill-at-ease to feign a different persona,
and so he produced not a single portrait
that was heroic enough for posterity.
None of them shows a strong conviction about life
to offset that famous squint, peering into
a chaotic layered universe.
A master of planetary art, his treatment of light was unique:
“There you are, in this world, highbrow,
but you hide a drear dike in your eyes, weighty and about to burst.”

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/bjSBg5LPn5CF3vCGAKfzJA

自画像中的伦勃朗

汤养宗

一个人一生中为什么要画下
一百多张自画像？脸上的线条一直无法
落实，从34岁到63岁
他感到难办的是一只十分为难的猴子
时光中的变脸术捉襟见肘
没有一张头像
具有纪念碑式的气魄
用来说服活着的主张，用来调整
那出了名的斜视，它通向
重叠又错乱的时空
作为二维高手，这里有特殊的明暗法
“我看到的世界，都有眼神上扬的你
而你眼里总是条不堪的老堤，沉稳和欲决”

THE MOON DITHERS

by Tian Xiang

There it is, the sickle moon. So deep is the night.
I linger by your house, unsure ——
whether to push your door open or to tap on your window?
Wavering and dithering, the moon grows thinner,
and slowly loses its luster in the autumn wind,
over a courtyard of fallen leaves.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/E2qxRSv5R9kXkOBgn3_Pvw

推敲

田湘

月如钩。这么深的夜晚
我在你屋前彷徨、迟疑——
究竟是推你的门，还是敲你的窗
犹豫再犹豫，月亮变得更瘦
秋风一吹，就吹凉了热血
叶亦落满了庭院

AN HOUR IN THE CHILL-OUT ROOM

by Wang Feng

Yawning, I sit down by the orchids for about an hour.
The orchids’ stalks, with only a leaf or a paltry array of leaves, do very little but to look green. They are also free to daydream.
Who knows, perhaps the small hoe on the wall may curiously grow into an orchid.
Of course I can do the same — sit here for an hour or more. Eyes closed,
letting the sun diffuse the knolls in me, wholeheartedly.
The music’s beats are faster than the tears can fall: such a rush, more earnest than the seeds in the soil
trying to outgrow rotting roots and stalks, but, let orchids do what orchids do:
be composed and comfortable with themselves.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

在生活区休息的一个小时

汪峰

打着呵欠，在兰花的根部坐了一个多小时
身体是一片叶也好，一丛叶也好，反正可以自由地绿或者自由地想些事
像一柄小花锄靠在墙上可以毫无来由地长成兰花。
当然，我也可以毫无来由地挨着坐一个多小时。闭上眼晴
听阳光在身体里洗掉多余的山坡，一心一意地
比眼泪还要密集地落在弹奏里：音乐比种子还要急迫地在泥土中
胀破衰朽了的根和茎，反正要像兰花一样
有自己舒爽和旷逸的身体

EDUCATION BY SNOW

by Wang Fugang

At dusk, lonely snowflakes fall on the north.
A passionate young poet, a little melancholic,
comes to a small dingy inn that sells home brews,
looking to buy the best imported wine.
He chats up the innkeeper to talk about poet Li Shangyin.
but the innkeeper knows only poet Li Po.
He presumes to call the barmaid My Little Sister,
but this little sister must sweep and wash.
Using a public phone, he calls up a woman
he used to hang out with for stargazing, and tells her:
There are more snowflakes here than the stars that night.
But he is a failed mathematician, an out-of-touch
millionaire, but this little inn
offers no silky wine other than home brews.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/hIvRwSxFJIvQk97rIJRGaw

雪的教育

王夫刚

傍晚时分，孤独的雪做客北方
写诗的年轻人激荡，忧郁
他来到出售景芝白干的
小酒馆里，购买最好的风花雪月

他拉着酒馆主人谈论李商隐
但酒馆主人只知道李白
他把酒馆里的女服务员叫做妹妹
但妹妹们需要扫地，洗碗

他用公用电话寻找曾经一起
数星星的女孩——他说
现在的雪花比那一夜的星星还多

但他是一个失败的数学家
有百万英镑，而小酒馆
只能出售无关风花雪月的景芝白干

THE BIG BEND, OH GREAT RIVER

by Wang Fugang

The Yellow River decided to loop a big loop
without giving a clue; the county chief at Zoige Grassland
decided to build an escalator
to the tourist platform higher up —
so that we can scream and applaud for the river,
and cheer and shout for a more enhanced experience.
The Yellow River loops a big loop without giving a clue,
but it looks at ease as we stand on the viewing platform
and comment on the landscape: look at the temples,
look at the meadows, look at the snowy mountains so far away,
and so on, and so forth...The Yellow River loops a big loop
without giving a clue, but we have decided to hold back our usual bad behaviors.
Standing on the escalator, built for the Yellow River
— such a far-fetched idea, such a useless gimmick that serves no purpose for the River —
our hearts are filled with total frustration.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-w_mSHNeI2mQh2AVSydM9A

大河拐大弯

王夫刚

黄河决定拐一个大弯而不告诉我们
拐弯的理由；若尔盖
决定修一部手扶电梯
把我们送到高处替旅游站台——
献给河流的尖叫和掌声
当着河流的面说出来
才算完整。黄河决定拐一个大弯
而不告诉我们拐弯的
理由，但同意我们在观景台上
指点江山：寺庙这样
草地那样，远处雪山
这样或者那样。黄河
决定拐一个大弯而不告诉我们
拐弯的理由，我们决定
收回我们的坏脾气
让抽刀断水的游戏
在一部跟黄河有关但它从未使用过的
手扶电梯上，充满受挫的感觉

CRYSTALLIZATION

by Wang Jiaming

I will call you Blue Jay even though
you have only a touch of blue on the tail; you appear out of the blue
on my way to Xicun Garden*. Some like to say
two invisible hands shaped you by design, but I would say
“as pure happenstance” instead. The school bus makes a tight turn,
but you continue to peck and flick, until the setting sun sprinkles
the millets with glitters. You flap your wings, heaving for the river,
where cattail sways in the meadow fed by a warm underflow,
a view that takes my breath away, that affirms the notion of “innocence”.
Translator's note:
*Xicun Garden or Emperor’s Spring Garden: A historic garden near Beijing built in C.E. 1707 by Qing Dynasty Emperor Kang Xi.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert.
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/49lvZZFlyq0nM7CChIsKEg

结晶

王家铭

我将你称之为“蓝鹊”，尽管只有
尾部的一点颜料，晴天般出现在
去往熙春园的路上。像是浮絮中
伸出一双手把你捏塑，我称之为
“偶然”。校车使劲地拐过弯道，
你仍啄食，直到夕光把最后的
小米照得璀璨。你振翎飞向河岸，
那里蒲草微荡，湿土里埋着暖流，
而我的心跳抑止，确信了“诚恳”。

POST OFFICE

by Wang Jian

I walked halfway across the city
before seeing a post office
in a dingy small alleyway.
I would like to reclaim my address,
the address that was buried
in the post office
— an unremarkable outdated green building.
I wrote a very long letter
to send to an old friend who is also an old-timer.
I still try to be eloquent, to elaborate my thoughts,
and know the recipient will delight in the pictographs
that evoke the shapes of things,
that retain a little history in the ink.
This letter will fly over the sea
to deliver news about modern life.
For example, mankind has battled canine robots three times.
(Ultimately, men lost.)
For example, some people have fallen in love with AI dolls.
(Surprisingly, many bystanders rooted for the affair)
And, for example,
some people have discovered a way to
never to die. . .
The human race is full grown and their desires multiply exponentially.
But everyone knows we are all going to die,
as sure as the way seasons revolve,
as sure as the sun and the moon rotate.
A finale can be the start of a great revival.
But I am convinced that this post office
is doomed to lose its address and be wiped out from Earth forever.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/0zsXjI0abovvwMpwfXzHgw

邮局

王键

我穿越大半个城市
才在一个不起眼的陋巷
找到一个邮局

我要重新找回我的地址
我将我的地址
丢在了邮局
——那个过时的穿着绿色衣服的小楼

我写了一封长长的信
要寄给一个过时的老朋友

我仍习惯于在纸上铺展修辞和思想
我知道，你也喜欢在象形文字中想象
一些事物的形象
在墨水的呼吸之中搜寻一些痕迹

这封信将穿洋过海旅行
它会带去一些新时代的信息
比如，人类同机器狗有过三次战争
（最终人类在战争中落败）
比如，有人同机器人谈上了恋爱
（这场恋爱竟然被很多人看好）
还有，有人找到了可以让人不死的
方法……

长大了的人类开始成倍地增长它的渴望

但我们都知道，我们终将死去
就像四季的轮换，又如
太阳和月亮的两次升起
一次终结意味着另一次的伟大开始

我还确信：这个邮局也
终将永久失去它的地址

WHERE IN THE WORLD

by Wang Jiaxin

The valley is thick with snow, but some outcrops begin to show.
Along the road we walked last year,
azaleas are blooming.
A bird unmasks the entire sky with a twitter.
We say to the things not yet arrived:
Come! We are here.
On the hillsides of life,
some slopes bask in the sun, twinkly and bright,
but these days
we are enshrouded by winter spirit,
trudging through the shadowy valley,
not knowing since when
or until when.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/4lp-R1tkXcLSVXO7qrJ_cg

什么地方

王家新

山谷中充满了雪，岩石开始裸露
就在我们去年走过的路上
开出了杜鹃
一声鸟鸣，廓开了整个天空
我们对尚未到来的事物说
来吧！我们在这里
生命是一道山坡
向阳的地方辉耀着阳光，那样明亮
但是现在
我们被冬天的精神充满
我们仍在山谷里走着
不知从什么时候开始
也从不到达

MY INEPT LOVE FOR THIS WORLD

by Wang Jibing

The used sofa given by our neighbor
made my wife very happy.
She talked excitedly about the plan
to find a proper coffee table to go with it,
all the while trying to add a book, and another book,
to prop up the corner of the sofa that lost a leg.
I went to the bathroom and washed my face with cold water
before coming out with a fresh new smile.
All these years
I have been sweating in the sun,
labouring to squeeze out the juice of life,
but never can turn life into a gem.
In my own clumsy way, I have loved this world
and love those who love me.
It has been almost thirty years, still, how unprepared I am
to let tears flow in front of my wife.
All I can do is be the pendulum of a clock
— love and love back, a tick to a tock —
a harmonic oscillator, ticktock, ticktock.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/d8KyOPiB2zw3PnBM2K3ibA

我笨拙地爱着这个世界

王计兵

邻居送来的旧沙发
让妻子兴高采烈
她一面手舞足蹈地计划着
给沙发搭配一个恰当的茶几
一面用一本一本的书垫住
一条断掉的沙发腿
我在卫生间，用清水洗了脸
换成一张崭新的笑容走出来
一直以来
我不停地流汗
不停地用体力榨出生命的水分
仍不能让生活变得更纯粹
我笨拙地爱着这个世界
爱着爱我的人
快三十年了，我还没有做好准备
如何在爱人面前热泪盈眶
只能像钟摆一样
让爱在爱里就像时间在时间里
自然而然，滴滴答答。

OVERDRIVE

by Wang Jibing

One must not miss the opening for an entrance?
The truth is: oftentimes
the race track of life is as impervious as a piece of plywood.
The jockey rides on, stiffening his spine
like a spear
to take the corner.
Every nail that is bowed
will be discarded
or straightened out by a brutal hammer.
Building a life is like building furniture,
each piece needs more than a few
stiff tidy nails.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/mVWfY4RXK1ATwz7PIlXBig

赶单

王计兵

见缝插针？
实际上，很多时候
生活平整得像一块木板
骑手是一枚枚尖锐的钉子
只有挺直了腰杆
才能钉住生活的拐角
每一根弯曲后的钉子
都会被丢弃
或者承受更猛烈的敲击
重新取直
生活是一种家具
每一件，都需要很多
工整的钉子

YARDSTICK MOUNTAIN

by Ah Long

A mountain of staggering height: measure it
with your eyes’ yardstick, but don’t allow your knees to wobble.
Every mountain pass and every tight curve
throws you to the edge of the precipice, leaving your heart in pieces.
Luckily a swaying roadhouse awaits midway up the mountain.
Luckily a strong tea will slake your thirst before the summit.
The higher you go, the closer you are to an irenic world,
under a lighter weight of time…
Translator’s note:
Yardstick Mountain is a peak in Mingshan Mountain Range in northwestern China. It is famous for its upright profile, similar to a upright yardstick, hence the Chinese name Tiechi Liang (Yardstick Mountain) and the Tibetan name Tiejie Ri (Shining Forehead).
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/XTVl3JPbeNqw8yBD_F4Qng

铁尺梁

阿垅

到底有多高，不要让眼里的
那把尺子丈量到两腿发软。
必须要翻越的一道山梁，每一弯的大回转
都险象环生、牵肠挂肚。
好在半路，还有一座摇晃不定的客栈。
好在途中，还有一碗浓酽的茶水解渴。
越往上，尘世越平淡
光阴越稀薄……

SEAWEED IN THE CORNER

by Wang Xiaoji

This wrinkly fabric looks derelict, even more so
after being wind dried.
The salt crystals, pilfered back from sunlight,
are very particular about whom they bond with.
I grab a bunch of the seaweed
and feel the salt grains fall to the ground.
There is more salt here than all that churns upriver.
Bundled up, stashed in one corner of the house,
its spirit quickly eternizes, dormant through daily humdrum
until one day, shaken loose over its native water,
the seeds fiercely multiply and expand.
Taking cues from the fishermen, I no longer scoff
at the knotted seaweed, scraggly with frosted spots.
Is it too salty or not enough? To each his own.
This glittering sea, roaring with iodized salt sprays,
is surging into the Aojiang River*...
Translator’s note:
*Aojiang River meets the Eastern Sea in Fujian Province, Southeast China.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/13R0x2LSUnZeclmIjdCKIw

屋角海带

王孝稽

褶皱的布，风干之后
隐藏了更多的寂寥
盐粒，从日光中盗来的遗物
不是所有的躯体都可以依附的
我抓在手里
摸到了许多，撒了一地
远远超出一江浑水的含量
捆起来，放于屋角
迅速收回它的命，眠于庸常的时间
稍微一抖动
孢子在熟悉的水域，又齐刷刷地扩展它的疆域
跟着渔民，我不再迟疑于
打结的、无序的、满是白霜的海带
对咸淡适宜说，各有所需
海涂上闪闪发光的、含着碘的颗粒
摇撼着驶过鳌江流域…。

A TOAST TO THE BARLEY WINE OF DELINGHA*

by Wang Xiaoni

Everyone is waiting for the wine.
Other than being gladly drunk,
things are as we like it.
The wine runner, chased by a storm armed with lightning,
scuttles past a spinney of skeletal cypress.
The arid wilderness quickly darkens.
In our beer-goggled stare,
we see only a high-neck bottle flickering in someone’s bosom.
Frankly, beer is not what we are really waiting for.
Tonight, everyone feels the urge to talk,
but needs extra courage to wag their tongue.
The sky is raging with cracking whips.
Rushing through the door, just in time, is our wine runner holding the jug.
Dear me, the door slams shut,
at last we can open up,
but before raising hell, let’s raise glasses.
*Translator's note: Delingha is the seat of Haixi Mongolian and Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in Qinghai Province in northwest China.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/0B3MPfT4ddpypHwiGsH1nw

致德令哈的青稞酒

王小妮

身边人都在等酒
除了还没醉
就什么都不缺了。
看那送酒人歪斜着穿过柏树的骷髅
风暴举着闪电追他。
光秃的荒野飞一样暗下去
恍惚里只看见
抱在怀里的高颈瓶一亮又一暗。
有时候真不是在等酒
这一夜，他们就想说话
张嘴前他们真要向酒借个胆
天上全是抽人的鞭子
搂着酒瓶的正撞门进来。
哎呀，门正合上
终于可以说话了
在那一切一切之前，先让我们碰杯。

THE ANTIQUE NIGHT MARKET

by Wang Yiping

If this is your first time here, there is no way
you can get to the heart of it.
Going alone won’t let you see what is what.
Two as a team is ideal.
A group of three looks spurious.
One vendor is happy to peddle to women and children.
The other place, if one doesn’t stay calm,
those iron and copper and utensils, recently unearthed or discarded,
may be reburied or thrown back to the dark.
Red lipsticks, long hair bundles, dagger and knives, wine cups, every item kneeling on the ground.
A private collection is being caressed on the face by everyone;
who knows on which journey her beauty began to fade,
similar to the ones coming here, busy losing their helmets and armors.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://zgshige.cn/c/2019-10-10/10893192.shtml

古玩夜市

王一萍

没有去过的人深入不了内核
一个人是不被识货的物什
两个人甚好
三个人像是赝品

那边喜欢叫卖于妇孺
这边若不沉静
被挖出或被抛弃的铁、铜、器物……
会不会重新隐身于黑暗或地下

过世的红唇、长发；兵器、酒樽俯首贴地面
那个私人珍藏被众人触碰眉须
她的容颜衰败于哪条走过的道
像一个人，在来时一路的丢盔弃甲

THE SCARECROW

by Wang Zhanbin

The lightning hasn't shown up, for the time being I am whole,
head to toe, inside and out.
I hear the wind holler-roaring across the wild north,
wham, wham, throwing its weight.
Sooner than later the nervy sky will disrobe and retire for the night,
while the ants, glummer than me, continue to hustle en masse,
even make an attempt to flip their oversized fate.
I have slowly shriveled over the years — the rain didn't help —
I now look more and more like a tramp,
swamped by the old straw hat,
but never contemplate doing without it.
But the unchanging sunshine on the highland returns every day.
The anticipated lightning flashed just once,
but it punctured the silence, and emptied out my age-old ashes.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/IdJHYyLq5HtgWSTSCTfXLw

稻草人

王占斌

我期待的闪电没有来，暂时我是完整的
从上到下，从里到外
我听到风在北方的旷野滚着铁环
哗啦、哗啦，像在丢弃什么
暮色慌张，丢下外套躲进了山坳
还有比我更沉闷的蚂蚁，它们成群结队地
忙于搬运，也搬运高过头顶的命运
这些年我一直枯黄，雨水也无能为力
我看上去更像一个落魄的人
被一顶旧草帽压得喘不过气来
却从未想过要丢弃
高原上的阳光，昨天和今天一个样
我期待的闪电只晃动了一下
寂静就撕开了口子，倒出陈年的灰烬

THE SNOWMAN IN WHITE HORSE FOREST

by Wang Zijun

In this expansive timberland, all is still, except
the once-every-five-year moderate snowfall.
Someone said we might even get lucky
and see last year's jujube berries.
... to make a snowman, moderate snowfall
is the best. One snowman already stands there, sloppily slapped together,
unclothed, his heart must have quickly gone cold.
Given a body but not a soul, the snowman did not survive despair.
We found some pine twigs and berries to prop up
his saggy frame.
He opens his eyes and exhales.
Suddenly he has a soul, like the grove nearby
with a partridge singing in it.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/d8KyOPiB2zw3PnBM2K3ibA

忆白马林场的堆雪人

王子俊

林场很大，但没有声音。除了这场
五年一遇的中雪。
有人说，若运气好，我们会遇到野枣树上
去年的浆果。
……堆雪人，中雪
刚适合。胡乱垒出时，它光着身子。
它的心早寒了，
这个没魂的人，它一定是伤心死的。
我们用上了新鲜松树枝，或浆果，填进它
松软的骨架。
它睁眼，呼出了气，
它突然有了魂，像附近的小树林有只鹧鸪叫着。

ELEGANT PINES

by Wei Tianwu

Hidden pines, unseen in the fog.
Restive fog, adrift across the mountains.
It's not hard to connect pine trees with elegance,
imagine their shushing sounds, even including a boy
trotting, carrying a shoulder basket purely as a habit;
the golden needles under his feet exudes a medicinal scent
with psychedelic effects, like the fog here.
How does one imagine things not seen: are all pines elegant?
A tunnel without an end. Easy to think of it
as a labyrinth for words. Imagine a bridge
spanning across midair with car wheels slowly spinning.
Imagine a monotone old cat striding gracefully
over the ridge of the mountain range, looking into
things unseen.
Note: Driving down China’s Highway G60, from Shanghai to Kunming, one will pass by Elegant Pines Tunnels No. 1 and Elegant Pines Tunnel No. 2, with a bridge spanning midair connecting the two tunnels.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/z6TQ7P6kfIEkA3wawbrWCQ

松皆雅

魏天无

松皆隐，隐于大雾之中
雾皆迷，迷于群山之间
你可以想象松和雅，想象松涛阵阵
甚至想象那松下的童子，背着莫须有的小竹篓
他脚下金黄的松针有着中药
迷幻的味道，如同你眼前的大雾飘过
你如何想象没有见过的事物：松皆雅？
隧道不见尽头。可以想象那是
语言的迷宫。想象那座凭空升起的桥
就在车轮缓慢地碾压下
想象那只无杂色的老猫，在群山之巅
正迈着优雅从容的步幅，逼视着
它看不见的一切
——————
注1 ：G60沪昆高速玉凯段有松皆雅1号、2号隧道，中有松皆雅桥连接。

THE NAKED EARTH

by Ah Xin

A brutal wind scours the naked earth.
Under heavy chunky ice, the big river slows down.
On horseback,
Kampot and Tenzin, the two brothers and I ride along the river
with ice crystals on our mustaches and eyelashes.
Is there anyone ahead of us? Is there anyone waiting, making tea?
Whose hand has dragged us into this thangka landscape?
One ashen-black, one sunset-red, and the last horse is maroon with snowflakes.
The wind infills our parkas, we tighten our belts.
Men and horses move quietly upwind, over the frozen naked earth.
Is there anyone ahead waiting for us, making a pot of black tea?
What is the message from the dead that drives us into this destiny,
to go against this stupendous river?

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-01-13/11820877.shtml

裸原

阿信

一股强大的风刮过裸原。
大河驮载浮冰，滞缓流动。
骑着马，
和贡布、丹增兄弟，沿高高的河岸行进，
我们的睫毛和髭须上结着冰花。
谁在前途？谁在等我们，熬好了黑茶？
谁把我们拖进一张画布？
黑马涂炭，红马披霞，栗色夹杂着雪花。
我们的皮袍兜满风，腰带束紧。
人和马不出声，顶着风，在僵硬的裸原行进。
谁在前途等我们，熬好了黑茶？
谁带来亡者口信，把我们拖入命运，
与大河逆行？

THE OLD CARPENTER

by An Qiaozi

Timber neatly stacked in the house,
waiting for the touch of the carpenter,
who has an eye for each piece.
When drilling, a shrill seems to come
from him, as if he’s the one been drilled,
as if the terror of old age has heightened.
Meticulous and precise in every step,
his overused hands can still carve the prettiest waves.
The scrapes are given a second life,
the others will be delivered to the crematoriums.
Some shavings slowly float down,
already smelling decay;
some saw dust rests on his head like snow
that won't be shaken off.
He studies and scrutinizes every piece of wood;
every one is unique,
nice grain, elegant and sleek.
The finished pieces sit aside, waiting for the final
dressing-up, like a bride waiting for her bridal gown.
Now, a few other things also have their finales.
This time, when the door opens,
someone absent from his life appears.
His archenemy finally shows up after thirty years.
Already old, he hands him a cigarette
and light it for him:
“Ah, time to have my coffin made.”
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

老木匠

安乔子

木材整齐地叠放在屋里
听候一个木匠发出的指令
该是什么他心里有数
给一块木材钻孔，发出的是他的尖叫
恍惚被洞穿的是他自己
这加深了人到老年的恐惧
难得糊涂，但每一道工序都要清楚
用旧的手还能刨出朵朵浪花
留下来的部分是它们的余生
另一些是送到火葬场
一些木屑从他身上飘下来
但味道已经开始腐烂
一些木屑像停在头上的白雪
但他抖落不了
对一根木材进行质问、追溯
每一根都有它的模样
质地光滑、细腻和精准
做好的木材在另一边，等他为它们披上
一件最后的嫁衣
现在，一些事情有了定局
推开门那瞬间，等了三十年的人来了
和他较劲了三十年的人来了
他已经老了，双手递上一根烟
并替他点燃了
“为我做一口棺材吧”

A FROG IN THE WELL

by Xie Jiong

There are times when
I wish to be a frog in the well,
a lifetime spent on an inch of blue-green mossy
earth, a lifetime staring at the space overhead,
yearning for a white cloud
to shelter me from the piercing sunlight.
When you tell me about your journeys across the seven seas,
the highest mountain, the deepest canyon, and the farthest shoreline,
when your face appears in my ever-changing sky,
all I want is to be a frog in the well,
in the deepest pool, raising my head
and taking all of you in.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/ejXZKe41q6JxqXh2j_M4xA

井底之蛙

谢炯

有时候
我想做一只井底之蛙
一辈子住在青苔覆盖的
寸尺之地，一辈子只见一方世界
渴望一朵白云
为我遮挡刺目的阳光

当你说，你走过五湖四海
最高的山峰，最深的峡谷，最远的海岸线
当你的脸，出现在我
变幻莫测的天空

我想做的不过是一只井底之蛙
在深渊，抬头摄入
你的全部

Sensō-Ji Temple

by Xie Yuxin

At a holy site,
the spectators see no differences
between sunrise and sunset:
time allows time to pause,
everything welcomes everything to stay.
God willing, at the right moment,
the hallway wind
that awakens the copper bells
will also pick up the believers’ hair.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/LC2JbSUt3gYFyDqBuhhUdw

浅草寺

谢雨新

在神圣的地方
无论看朝阳或晚霞
都是一样的事
时间允许时间静止
万物允许万物停留
在神明允许的某一个刹那
那穿越廊间
让铜铃齐响的风
也会吹起信仰者的头发

DAISIES AND TANGERINES

by Xiong Fang

This time of the year, the gutsiest exhibitions on land
are the wild daisies all over the hills and the red tangerines on the twiglets.
Daisies and tangerines, flowers and fruit face off
in simultaneous blooms — one pours its heart out,
the other wraps a softness within, and waits for its turn
to explode. The mirthless gray winter, still young,
is jeered into going rogue by yellow daisies and orange tangerines.
I am the least noticeable amongst these warm color tones.
This season has its mix of doldrums and witchery,
we also have our winter blues and furors.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/JLWb7kDYmrK-pepwuqrnLg

菊与橘

熊芳

这个季节，最张扬的就是
漫山遍野的小野菊和挂在枝头的红橘
菊与橘，花与果在同一个季节
以绽放的方式相遇，一个把姿态裸露在外
一个把柔软藏于囊中，等待一场
淋漓尽致的爆破，整个初冬的萧瑟
都被这菊黄橘红撩得跃跃欲试，不可一世
我也成了这暖色调中，最细密的一部分
这季节有这季节的寂寥和妖娆
这季节的我们有我们的静默与喧嚣

GOOD TIMES

by Xiong Man

Times are good when magnolias bloom
and speedwells suffuse the field.
Something fills my heart
to the brim,
almost overflowing.
My throat wants to sing,
so my arms hang down naturally,
all ears to listen.
My feet no longer on the road
to rush or hustle,
but steadfast on the earth
to answer the call of the wild.
And, as I look over a sea of people
— once more after ten thousand times —
you appear before my eyes.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Ud8QYjzOh9bPa1zcNbdUQA

好时光

熊曼

好时光是高处的玉兰开了
低处的婆婆纳也开了
心里有什么东西
装得满满的
就要溢出来
嗓子有了歌唱的想法
而手自然地垂落
在一旁安静地聆听
脚不再被什么驱赶着
疲于奔命
而是踩在土地上
感受着田野的呼应
目光在茫茫人海中
一万零一次伸出去时
你恰好出现

THE BLACKSMITH

by Xiongguan Mandao

Mr. Wang, the blacksmith, forged iron all his life,
capable of turning the grubbiest block into useful tools.
Mr. Wang, the blacksmith, believed people could be forged like iron,
to this end, he produced a punitive rod,
and began to use it on his son as early as three years old.
The initial ambitions were to make him an emperor, a governor, a general or a marshal.
Later, the aim was lowered to the level of county magistrate, constable or county clerk.
Even later, he only wished to hammer his son
into a blacksmith.
The son is now twenty-two and knows only how to blow the bellows.
On his dying day, Mr. Wang found no peace;
he couldn’t understand why there were blocks that couldn't be shaped.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/jdsAMP9tK5Xb9W_kWsAVXA

打铁

雄关漫道

王铁匠一生打铁
再浑沌的铸块，经他锤打，都能成器
王铁匠相信，人，也是打出来的
为此，专门制了一把戒尺
从儿子三岁时，开始敲打
起初的目标是皇帝，丞相，元帅和将军
后来是县衙，捕快和师爷
再后来，他只想把儿子
锤成一名铁匠
儿子二十二岁，只会烧火拉风箱
王铁匠走的那天，没有瞑目
他不明白，一生中，也有他锤不成器的铁

LIMU MOUNTAINn*

by Xu Yanying

Lovegrass, the wind vane of the land, is always there
as other greeneries race to flaunt their brilliance.
The fog can no longer hide the blue hills from the world.
If you feel like raging and raving, why not blame Spring’s first rumble
for waking up the trees and nudging the streams to lace the mountain.
There are also waterfalls,
and large and small quern stones in the riverbed,
for sure an old settlement was nearby thanks to the wild rice that thrived with the wind.
I can also hear green barbets' gabfest in the mountain,
bright and cheerful. Whose secret garden is this?
The immortals must have set foot here; look, there are evidences everywhere.
True, it took only one look
for the gods to choose this world as their second home.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, & Guy Hibbert.
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/CMC75o12JWk1odb4JhKyiA

黎母山

许燕影

总有知风草不经意泄漏风向
而绿，趁势扑面而来
雾是锁不住青山了
要怨，就怨第一声春雷
草木醒后，水流开始绕着山转
也有飞流直下
河床布满大小石臼
应是故土，山兰稻随风安居
我听见五色雀满山嘈囋
玉佩叮当。谁悄悄藏起这座后花园
必有仙人的足迹踏过
是的，动情只在一念
人间因此多了一朵桃花

BLACK SWAN

by Yang Chen

Yes. I like the blackness of the black swan,
similar to shadows here and there,
but with a shape that stays behind closed eyes,
a little like the answer to a riddle.
When the night floods over, it looks like a boulder,
dividing darkness but stitching it back behind it.
Owing to it, the night
has a bohemian undertone, like a deep mystery.
I admit that it is the focus of the night,
the pupil of the night, through which
some people see eternal love, some see
life’s noble nature. I see nothing,
except hoping to be captivated and tamed by it
and become a reflection of it. Suddenly
the swan swims towards me across the lake, as if
wanting to share its thoughts with me.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/4irRVKjW1gt3kUUmC_JIVA

黑天鹅

扬臣

是的。我喜欢黑天鹅的黑
它像随处可见的阴影
却有一闭眼就能想起来的形象
也许是未解之谜的谜底
当黑夜漫过时，它像磐石
把黑暗分开，又在不远处缝合
它的存在，让这里的夜晚
有异样的底色，让我产生更多疑问
我承认，它是黑夜的中心
仿佛夜的瞳仁，透过它
有人看见隐忍的爱，有人看出
生的高贵。我什么都没看见
宁愿被它驯化，成为黑夜的俘虏
或者它的倒影。突然之间
它从湖面朝我游过来，仿佛
要告诉我它的一切想法

TUYA'S STONES

by Yang Senjun

The seductive thing about rock hunting is the process:
first they profess their love for stones,
choosing this over that, then they became connoisseurs,
loving this over that, and one day they became true aficionados without knowing.
Amongst the rock hounds I met, there was a school teacher,
now retired, but before she got married and raised a family,
this Mongolian teacher, by the name of Tuya,
travelled places all over Yingen Sumu, Uliji, Chagan Zadege
to find stones like men did.
She had a soft spot for yellow jasper,
as to agate, she liked it only if it was spotless,
either pure red or pure white.
She didn’t think all jades needed polishing:
a true lover of stones
do no harm to the stones.
She made her son
bring out a box and another box of stones
for us to choose,
not because she had outgrown them.
She must endured the parting pain
because of money worries.
I could sympathize with her.
Before we agreed to a deal,
she sized up our intentions
as we weighed her agony.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://wemp.app/posts/2aa31f02-596a-4006-a524-bec76b56280f

图雅的石头

杨森君

选石头的魅力在于
一个假装爱石头的人
挑着挑着，就有了眼光
挑着挑着，就真的爱上了石头
石头的持有者，是一位中学女教师
她已退休，还是在当姑娘的时候
这个叫图雅的蒙古族女教师
就开始在银根苏木、乌力吉、查干扎德盖
跟着男人捡石头
她对黄碧玉情有独钟
玛瑙也只喜欢干净的
要么纯红，要么纯白
她不认可玉不琢不成器之说
不伤石
才是爱石
她让自己的儿子
把整箱整箱的石头搬出来
让我们挑选
不能说她已经不爱这些石头了
她有变现之需
不得不忍痛割爱
我能体谅她
在石头成交之前
她揣摩着我们的心思
我们也揣摩着她的心思

THE THINGS I PRAISE ARE GENERALLY LIGHT

by Yang Xuelong

The things I praise are generally light.
I praise them because my heart is heavy.
I praise rain, wanting it to wash away
the muck in me. I praise snow
for I see a wasteland, hoping to dress it in white.
I am even tempted to praise you,
carrying your home in a briefcase
under the ominous moonlight in someone else’s hometown.
But, to praise exile
takes more bravado than to praise solitude.
Time backs away from us, awash with blurry faces,
which have become lighter owing to their lessened pull.
I often search at night for something light,
asking about the wind, going to the lake,
hoping to see old sufferings become a little buoyant
as timeworn memories are left with a lighter sheen.
But oftentimes I only see last years’ fallen leaves
with a faded sheen.
I am afraid to touch them
for fear they would fracture,
no longer to be adored
in full.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/M6uOuM600JZrHxnxaSESKg

我想赞美的事物一般都很轻

杨薛龙

我想赞美的事物一般都很轻
因为沉重，我赞美它们
我赞美过雨水，是想卸下我身体里
含铅的云块，赞美过雪花
因为荒芜，等着一片白的覆盖
我甚至，险些就要去赞美你
拎着一整只皮箱的家
还有他乡闪着刀光的月色
但是，赞美一次无根的流浪
比赞美孤独，需要更大的勇气
流逝的光阴里，挤满了虚无的面孔
它们因为卸下重力而轻盈
我时常趁着夜色去那里寻找
打听轻的下落，我拜访过清风
拜访过湖水一般地仰望
在那里，包浆的记忆，隔着岁月
将苦难裹上一层淡泊的云彩
让它们获得上升的浮力
可我往往只是找到一些积攒多年的落叶
它们蒙着枯竭的金黄
我不敢用轻易的手指去触碰它们
我怕它们碎成一地，想赞美
都捧不起来

ELEVENTH HOUR: THE RISE OF DAYSTAR

by Yang Zi

I hardly feel the train moving, no ripples in the glass of water.
People sit quietly or pretend to sleep in the dimly-lit carriage.
I look out the window and see small beads of light flash by in the dark.
The villages, woodlands and fields are all hidden away.
The stars are bright, but quickly erased from view by the speed of the train.
Rats must be out parading. A bell tolls through the midnight space.
Ideas float in and out of my head one by one before the thought of you
come to stay; just then, the train pulls into the misty-eyed platform,
where nothing moves, not even time. But suddenly I feel the daystar rising
as if to tell me to snap out of the romantic mood.
Alas, no matter if I am on the train, or the train is in my dream,
they all run towards you, into the arms of delusion.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/jHJn180PdQiqpA0wWVYw0A

子时：阳始

杨梓

感觉不到奔驰，杯水没有波纹
灯光昏暗，人们静坐或者假寐
我望向窗外，一个个光点掠过漆黑
树林、田野和村庄全部隐身
星星应该明亮，却被飞速擦去
老鼠游行。夜半钟声穿越时空
一个个念头跳出，又瞬间熄灭
直到想起你时，月台含着泪水
每一秒都停在原地，阳气生发
仿佛在提示，此刻不宜缠绵
不管我在火车上，还是火车在我梦里
都在向你奔去，奔向妄想的怀抱

THE AURA OF GREEN MOUNTAINS

by Ye Yanbin

Clouds floated by from some faraway place,
somewhere dream-like, somewhere incredibly far,
but in an instant, their coy tendernes turns into a fierce army
to beseige the city.
The wind blows them here; the wind
will also blow them away.
Gone are the clouds, and
the ten thousand fine threads of raindrops.
They roar, squall, and blast with thunderbolts,
but in the end only a dewdrop stays,
hanging on a blade of grass.
The rain sends them here; the rain
will also send them away.
What will not go are the moon and the stars.
The full moon, as if with wings, is adored
by all, at home or abroad.
We gaze at its halo
until it dissolves in the twilight.
The night sends it here, the night
will also send it away.
What will not go are these emerald mountains.
The wind comes, welcomed by the green mountains.
The rain comes, welcomed by the green mountains,
same with the moonlight, and the starlight —
Mountains are simply there, these gracious mountains
with their timeless, exuberant green.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/5oWlskzwJ5gEvYLrIBiioA

青山风度

叶延滨

白云就那么从远方飘过来了
那个如梦如幻的远方
柔情逶迤霎时变成
压城的厉兵
是风吹来，风
也吹走
吹走云也吹走了雨丝万缕
哭过骂过雷霆般吼过
最后剩一滴露水
挂在草尖上
是雨送来，雨
也送走
送不走的是满天的星斗月圆
月光如翼天涯共此时
只望得那轮月光
溶进了曙色
是夜送来，夜
也送走
不走的是这满目的青山翠岭
风来，青山度风
雨来，青山度雨
也度明月，度星光——
山闲在，闲在的青山
有万载千秋的青翠风度……

THROWAWAYS

by Yu Jian

I rarely come here, as it is as pointless as holding the drooping hand of the dead.
Here lies a pile of throwaways: an old box, dated magazines, a twenty-year-old rag doll,
Grandma's black trunk. Some things we dare not throw out,
unsure about their insignificance, or being indecisive,
leaving them to a careless offspring to discard.
But everyone hangs on to them, stashing them away in a forbidden corner under the staircase,
or in someone’s tiny old room. It is already dusk, and I discover a sapling, already knee-high
in a sunless spot behind someone's old room. Where did the seed come from?
Was it planted by the pregnant woman whose image is here in this old album?
What is her name? What else hasn't been planted?
The tree is covered with tiny new leaves — mossy green curls —
as if flaunting its youth, the spirited and mystic youth
I rarely come here. The piano has been silent for years,
the last player forgot to close the lid.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/CkZSYRs8qwC94UWXRtFbvQ

弃物

于坚

我不常到此仿佛死者垂下的手你不能再握
堆着弃物旧盒子过期杂志二十年前的布娃娃
外祖母的黑箱子有些东西我们永远不敢遗弃
含义不明下不定决心留给下一代的冒失鬼去扔
他们也不敢于是留下来成为一个禁区在楼梯下面
在从前某人的小房间屋后阳光不管的一角
发现了一棵小树在黄昏已经长到膝盖高哪儿来的种子
从旧像册里那位怀孕的褪色妇女？叫不出名字
还有什么没有种下？绿茸茸的卷发上满是小耳朵
在向我炫耀着年轻生机勃勃和幽暗的青春——
我不常来此那台旧钢琴暗哑多年会弹的人走开时
忘记了合上盖子

COTTON ROSE

by Yu Xiaozhong

Now I believe everyone that appears in my dream
is on a long arduous journey
and by chance come to my dream for a rest,
a lot like an antediluvian
leaving his old home to get acquainted
with a new neighbor;
a lot like pigeons, circling in the twilight,
one following another,
wanting to get closer for a chat;
a lot like the cotton rose that blooms after autumn frost,
with a borrowed name, destined
to take an ambiguous role,
but dedicate its life to it.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Im3YWnZMxnfLBlzu5kO9Og

木芙蓉

余笑忠

如今我相信，来到梦里的一切
都历经长途跋涉
偶尔，借我们的梦得以停歇

像那些离开老房子的人
以耄耋之年，以老病之躯
结识新邻居

像夕光中旋飞的鸽子
一只紧随着另一只
仿佛，就要凑上去耳语

像寒露后盛开的木芙蓉
它的名字是借来的，因而注定
要在意义不明的角色中
投入全副身心

OLD TIMES

by Zhai Wenjie

A village lay low in the plain
dotted with small humble old houses.
A small stool in front of the old house,
my very small mother sat on the very low stool.
She sat next to the dwarf wheat in the field,
the wind blew across them, hugging the ground.
The wind brushed over the golden wheat,
and ripened Mother’s bean field.
Dwarfish wind climbed no mountains,
it rambled over shallow water.
The shallow water rippled beautifully in the wind,
the low-lying village swayed beautifully in the wind.
Mother sat in time past,
the lowly old times, a beautiful thing it is.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/rAaX8MjFfwHPyKINssXrFg

旧时光

翟文杰

平原上的村庄矮矮的
村庄里的旧房子矮矮的
旧房子门前的櫈子，矮矮的
母亲坐在矮櫈子上
母亲与矮矮的麦子在一起
平原上的风也矮
平原上的风吹黄麦子
母亲的豆子地，被风吹熟
矮矮的风不用翻山
只行走在浅浅的水上
浅浅的水，风中流动很美
矮矮的村庄，风中摇曳着很美
母亲坐在旧时光中
矮矮的旧时光，很美

THE SAME FATHER UNDER EVERY STRAW HAT

by Ah Cheng

Towards the end of May, the weather is getting hotter —
The chores on the mountain, on the farm or in the field
are piling up. Here in the countryside, straw hats are put to
their proper use — those straw-woven hats, yellow or gray,
smelling of sun and human sweat, left in the granary or
untouched on the wall for months, are now grabbed
and securely tied
on men's heads...
Wearing these straw hats, they hoe, fertilize, reap, or
wack the weedy brush or grass, sometimes
plough and till and plant and harvest
in the mud-splashing fields,
sun-tanned, sleeves-flowing in unison;
— working away, no one says anything for a long time, seen
from afar, it’s hard to tell who’s whose husband
or father. Anyone hurrying home across the field
and wishing to greet their family is oftentimes unsure about which one to call,
and eventually staying quiet after much hesitation —
In fact, it makes no difference to shout out or not — summertime
in the countryside, it is the same father
under every straw hat.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/3XJgQJYjoWO_7SD9NJyJRg

每一顶草帽下都有一个相同的父亲

阿成

小满之后，天气渐热——
山上的、田中的、地里的活儿
多起来，在乡村，草帽派上了应有的
用场——那种草编的，或黄或灰的
带着太阳的香味和人体汗味的，在粮仓或
墙壁之上歇息多时的帽子，被男人们
一把抓起，扎扎实实地扣在了
脑门上……
他们戴着草帽锄地、施肥、割草，抑戓
用柴刀砍去田边的杂灌和芭茅，有时在
泥水飞溅的田畴中犁田打耙、栽秧割禾
肤色黝黑，衣袂飘飘，仿佛是同一个人；
——埋头劳作，半天不说一句话，远远
看去，不知是哪一家的男人哪一个人的
父亲，当归乡的人匆匆穿过田畈，要喊
一声，却不知要喊哪一个，于是不得不
三缄其口——
其实你喊或不喊都一样——乡村夏日
每一顶草帽下，都有一个
相同的父亲。

SMALL TOWN

by Zhang Ergun

Every small town has an old crank in faded army fatigue
with a dulled medal. His haggard face shows up on the street,
no one knows if he’s waiting to take a bullet or looking for a comrade.
Every small town has a lonely little noodle shop,
whose hostess in cheap makeup sits by a greasy window
knitting a sweater, unraveling the yarn and knitting it back.
No one knows why she smiles or frowns.
Every small town works as a stopover for some mysterious circus.
They holler up and down the muddy street advertizing their stunts:
spitting fire, swallowing swords, and spinning plates.
No one knows what they bury under the bridge,
where they sleep and cry.
In every small town, there are women who weep,
lunatics who mutter aloud, and thieves who cry in pain.
In every small town, there are kneeling knees,
trembling shoulders, and tottering shadows on the street.
In every small town there is a deity quietly keeping watch,
guarding life's mysteries from being revealed
and making sure they replay again and again.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

小城

张二棍

每个小城，都有过一个穿着旧军装的糟老头
他佩戴着褪色的勋章，面容枯槁
在街头，一遍遍走动着
没有人知道，他在等一枚子弹，还是寻找一个战友
每个小城，都有一家门可罗雀的小面馆
老板娘涂着廉价的脂粉，坐在油腻的窗前
她手中的毛衣，织了拆，织了又拆
没有人知道，她为什么笑了，又为什么皱眉
每个小城，都停留过一个神秘的马戏团
他们在泥泞的街头，一次次吆喝着
有人吐火焰，有人吞刀子，有人顶着一摞碗
没有人知道，在他们宿过的桥洞下，埋了什么，哭着
每个小城，都有女人啜泣、小偷喊疼、疯子胡言
每个小城，都有下跪的膝盖，颤抖的肩膀，摇晃的背影
每个小城，都有一个默默盯着这一切的城隍
让这些秘不发丧的故事，再一幕幕重演。

FAMILY HISTORY

by Zhang Qiaohui

The young man stutters to describe his home:
downstream of Meiyang, a hamlet behind the ferry dock,
a house, the third floor unoccupied,
intended for him and his future bride.
In the countryside, everyone is like that.
They work in a factory run by overseas Chinese, room and board included,
and go home once a week. The home-coming trips become fewer after a while.
As we talk, the ferry has done the crossing.
The ferry carries those who want to leave
and those who want to return.
A dog waits at the door every weekend
whether the owner comes back or not.
(I had a dog like that. It got very ill but still waited for me.
Our days and our dogs,
they faithfully accompany us till the end.)
Our car moves along Flying Cloud Lake,
serene and bighearted, like a mother
embracing her son's stories of adventures and misadventures.
Crossing Zhaoshan Narrow, a large dam suddenly appears;
it neatly chokes off a creek,
placid before it pours down the steep spillway.
I did not ask the young man’s surname.
The field of rapeseed flowers along the road
look every bit like him. The home that he described
is like my hometown that has long disappeared.
These years, I have loved foreign lands
the way I loved my hometown.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/ueInY5wIsTrGJ6MKSKCTXw

家春秋

张巧慧

结巴少年，描述他的家
梅垟下，渡口那头的小村，
三楼空着，等他攒钱娶媳妇
乡下人家都这样
少年们在华侨厂里上班，管饭，管住
一星期回一趟家。次数已越来越少
交谈中，我完成一次撑渡
想出去的人渡出去，想归来的人渡进来
一条狗，每到周末都等在门口
你回不回来，它都在那里
（我也曾养过一条狗，病重了还等着我
忠实的生活和狗
到死也等着我）

飞云湖跟着我们的车跑
平静，开阔
像一位母亲，听儿子略带兴奋和羞涩的描述
车过赵山渡，我看到大坝
某种规则扼住溪的喉咙
平静戛然而止，剩下落差与泄洪
我没问少年姓什么，
一路上我遇到的成片油菜花
都像是他；他所描述的家，
如我失去多年的故土。
这些年，我像爱故乡一样爱着异乡。

MOUNTAINS WITHOUT NAMES

by Zhang Weifeng

Amongst rivers and mountains, birds and flowers,
I make my roosting place. At dawn I light a candle at the alter and lay out fruits.
After sundown, I say wordless prayers.
As years go by and saplings grow into thickets,
my universe slowly shrinks in size. The surpluses
are trimmed, the extras are disowned; cancers of the spirit
are scooped out without a second opinion.
Between heaven and earth, I live unnoticeably and alone,
to honor the rivers and the mountains. They reciprocate
by taking me in. There are no talks of mad love between us,
only the simple delight of peaceful co-habitation.
Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/RVZFOSGiIvvTiUUdn6o4uQ

无名山

张伟锋

在青山绿水间，在鸟语花香处
我偎依着一座房子。日出供奉果实和灯盏
日落之后，还念着无字的经书
宏阔的宇宙，随着年轮的增长
慢慢变小。开始慢慢舍弃多余的部分
身外之物，舍弃；刺伤心灵的部分
毫不犹豫地剜除
在天地之间，我静默，独处
我把山川与河流放在高处。它们以同样的方式
把我容纳在身体里。没有激烈和热血般的爱
只有相安无事的共处和存在。

POSTERS OF MISSING PERSONS

by Zhang Xiaozhen

Posters of missing persons are everywhere on Yangtze River Bridge.
We pass by the bridge one misty afternoon.
Only roaming angels read these posters
with a merciful sigh. The papers have already yellowed,
the same colour as the water under the bridge, with floating oil,
vegetable leaves, and dusts.
See, she perches on the curled-up corner of the poster,
fluttering like an insect with translucent wings.
How amazing, isn't it? We can’t find her.
We have dug canals for drainage, mapped out power grids,
thawed the northern permafrost,
and delivered southerly winds to soothe the great land.
We said "Long Live this" and "Long Live that" and watch ten thousand things thrive.
We have put a brain inside steel boxes,
and used wires to induce magnetic currents
for the exploration of sulfur caves, even into the valley of death.
We have sent people to the balloon-like moon.
Still, we cannot find her.
We continue to drink this water, this murky water in the fog.
Raising our glasses, we tell ourselves
she might have gone to the big city such as Yangluo, surfing its black whirlpool
like riding a black dragon on the cusp of triumph,
or maybe she has reached Nanking, and mistaken the big river
for the sea . . .
Laughing, we drank up our wine,
holding hands and saying hopeful words to lift our spirits.
Tomorrow will be a new day, we will surely find her
because the whole universe is praying with us
with inaudible sighs.
But how terrified we are by the thought of finding her!

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/t3yc2z3t-Jl3jLs69wvU4Q

长江大桥上贴满寻人启事

张小榛

长江大桥上贴满寻人启事，在某个雾气弥漫的下午
我们路过那里。只有无家可归的天使用叹息
轻轻地读它们。它们的纸张都已经泛黄，
就像脚下淌过的水，漂着油渍、菜叶与灰尘。
你看，她就停在那张纸翘起来的角上，
轻盈如翅膀透明的飞虫。
多奇妙呢？现在我们找不到她。
我们为雨水开道、为雷电分路，融化北方数百万年的冬季，
放出南风使大地沉寂。我们一吩咐生长，万物就生长。
我们在钢铁里播种意念，用导线牵引地极，
借此窥探硫磺的家乡、死荫的幽谷。
我们现在能把人送到气球般的月亮上去。
但我们依旧找不到她。
但我们依旧饮用那水，雾气中昏黄的水，
一边举杯，一边告诉自己现在
她或许已经到了阳逻，正骑在黑色的大漩流背上
准备伴着清晨的歌声凯旋；
又或许到了南京，把宽阔的水面误认成一片海……
我们笑着喝尽杯中之物，拉着手互相鼓劲、互相打气：
明天就是新的一天了，我们必找到她，因为众生灵都在
用听不见的叹息为我们祷告。
我们多么害怕我们将要找到她

EMBER ROASTED SWEET-POTATO

by Zhang Xinquan

To roast sweet potatoes,
he selects the finest ones that speak to him,
places them in a barrel oven,
and arranges them snug and cozy in a circle
on the oven wall, allow them to stretch, sweat,
like poets. Uh! Aah! Ouch!
Roasted over coals, they slowly turn soft, aromatic, sweet.
Moans and sighs are now softer, taken over by steams, Mmm...
Before considering it done, he will make sure
everyone is evenly roasted front and back
until he too looks like a roasted potato himself in peasant garb.
I am awestruck by the red glow on his face,
and huddle close to the oven to listen to him.
Later when he is dead tired, I help him handle the money and change,
sharing his simple fare of strong tea and sesame bread.
Before the evening ends, I ride with him on his sweet-potato cart for home.
He asks: What do you do, my gray-haired big brother?
I replied: I write, paid by number of words, it has been a few decades now.
He chuckles and says: Far better to code sweet potatoes.
Change your job, better off to be a sweet, warm-hearted street pedlar...

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊） : https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/zKn-uAZcNxiORBCQXlo56g

布衣红薯

张新泉

烤红薯就是把红薯中
优秀而落寞的选出来
放进炉子，让它们贴着炉壁
站成一圈。伸腰，淌汗
诗人一样——哦！啊！噢！
然后逐渐变软，变香，变甜
由叹气到哈气，到噫吁嚱
卖红薯的烤完前胸又烤后背
直到把自己也烤成一根
红光满面的布衣红苕
直到吸引我驻足观赏
偎他炉子听他身世倚他车辕
忙不过来时，帮他收整找零
也接受他浓茶伴烧饼的便餐
黄昏，搭他架子车回家
问：白发老兄什么的干活？
答：一个几十年的码字工
他笑笑说，码字不如码红苕
改行吧，来当糖心蜜肺的小商贩……

A HUMBLE POEM

By Zhang Zuogeng

The inexplicable
tiny
eye of a needle that lets a camel walk through,
the camel that looks like a small tumbleweed
will now enter my eye.
The earth that shudders under the wheelchair,
the rain’s glitter that falls through the air undetected,
those sobs that faintly ripple between the fingers,
the tender buds unaffected by the cold snap in the spring...
The meteor shower
that glides by and caresses my cheeks,
the inexplicable
tiny
bristles of spring wheat that brushes against my heart...
— each of them a grain of sand that builds the pagoda
that props up my humble and tenacious life.
These things are infinitesimal,
smaller than a second,
but when I hold them together,
I feel larger than the universe.
When I gather all of their lightness,
I feel the enormous essence of life.
Therefore, I bend
like a sheaf of wheat.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Peter Micic, Michael Soper, & Johan Ramaekers

卑微之诗

张作梗

那微妙的
微小的
针孔里走骆驼的
从任一方向看去都像微末的飞蓬
要钻进我眼睛里的
那轮椅下战栗的地面
那空中察觉不到的雨星儿
那微澜，那从手指缝里迸出的啜泣
那一粒倒春寒也捂不熄的嫩芽儿
那滑过我脸颊的
流星的抚摸
那微妙的
微小的
像春天的麦芒儿拂过我心尖的吹息……
——它们聚沙成塔
构成了我卑微而顽强的一生
这些微茫的
比一秒钟还小的东西
当我完整地拥有了它们
我感觉我比宇宙还大
是它们的轻，让我获得了生命的重量——
我因此像谷穗
低下头来。

1990, RUNNING WATER CAME TO OUR VILLAGE

by Zhang Zuogeng

The upside-down water barrel was carried away.
A damp circle was all that’s left, as if setting the clock back to zero.
Water barrel, now a redundant worker,
was grabbed on the belly and dragged off.
Where's a good place for it?
— some younger and faster servant will step in.
Water pipe, not a line to lead you to the headwater
but runs underground, and tears open
the wall for the bibb —
“This water, it smells of chlorine.”
“Oh, push buttons, valves and knobs everywhere.”
My elderly mother grumbles as she carries
clothes and vegetables to a river pond to wash.
Cool running river, lichen sways on rocks,
as if water has grown a beard.
With running water in the house, Father removed our water barrel
the next evening, leaving behind an empty spot, a raw scar.
But then, why in the world do I still wake up in the sound
of a pail knocking on the lip of the water barrel,
as loud as before, as if Father were still with us,
carrying water, bringing us everyday's
blissful news.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-01-13/11820877.shtml

1990：村里通上自来水

张作梗

倒扣的水缸被移走。
一圈湿印，使一切过往的日子归零。
水桶，像一个突然多出来的人，
拖着水桶般的腰身，
不知道站在哪儿为好。
——生活，有了更年轻、便捷的仆人。
水管，可不是水的索引。
它游动在地下，又在每一个水龙头那儿
撕开一个缺口——
“这水，有一股漂白粉味儿。”
“唔，到处都是按钮、阀门和开关。”
我的老母亲嘀咕着，依然将衣物、菜蔬
提拎到门前的大水塘去漂洗。
水声清泠，埠石上拂动的青苔，
像是水长出的绿胡子。
隔夜，我的父亲把水缸移走。
那空出来的地方，新鲜如伤疤。
可为什么每日早晨醒来，
我依然听到水桶磕碰缸沿的声音，那么
清脆，像是死去多年的父亲，
仍然在为我们担水，送来一日
清凉的福音？

WHEN THE WIND SCOURS GUIYANG

by Zhao Weifeng

A spring wind scours Guiyang as if staging a guerrilla war.
But all is fair in love.
For a start, it wants to look dashing,
therefore mimics trees and flowers by donning new outfits. The year before,
the moon even showed up to cheer on.
If you can decide who is more mischievous —
the wind or the moon — you would be able to predict
the winner in the battle between muted memories and radical realities.
Spring wind circles and sweeps across the board — across cities and villages,
across chopping boards, keyboards, tower blocks, across you and me.
It goes where it wants, most people
cannot see that the wind is going through different phases,
from wild to violent, to feeble.
You say some winds have too many escapades.
You say some winds have still more to ride out.
You say a few of them will
end as unsolved mysteries,
and most will die young the same old fashion.
You say a certain person, nothing less than magic,
snuck in at night with the wind,
stayed for a brief moment
and soon became the past,
a sorrowful past.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-1Hloch7g9VxLpRnoRfABA

春风清洗贵阳的时候

赵卫峰

春风清洗贵阳的时候化整为零
这就很公平
爱美之心，开始了
向换装的植物们看齐。还像去年
月亮有时会来助阵
如果你能看出春风与月亮
谁更淘气
就可以预见
沉静的记忆，调皮的现实
谁将取得胜利
春风盘旋，春风浩荡，在城乡之间
在果盘、键盘和楼盘、在你我之间
随意变换体位，一般的人
应该看不出风怎么乱来，激进
又怎么衰弱下去
你说一些春风经过太多
你说一些春风还将经过更多
你说春风中的少数
投身不知所终的远方
大半夭折于老路
你说，那人简直是个神仙
随风潜入夜，在你身上
只逗留了瞬间
然后就一步步退回到了从前
忧伤的从前

IF MY DREAM LASTS LONG ENOUGH

by Zhao Wenhao

If only my dream lasted long enough
for me to walk with you to the kitchen, to see how you
set each dish in its unique place, to see how you
recall everyone's taste and appetite —
for the elderly, a delicate tasting menu;
for the portly ones, specially designed lighter recipes.
The heartache is not from the wait, waiting for you to wake up,
but to see how you turn into a different person.
Despite it all, even though my heart
gives me many reasons to cry,
I come to remember that
oftentimes, on the spur of the moment,
I came to see you in your home. While having a sesame bread,
I listened to you go over the itsy bitsy things of the day,
taking them in with a warm bowl of soymilk from you...
again, please... if only our dreams lasted long enough,
long enough.

Translated by Meifu Wang & Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/yMlVS1PpBk9mtR4wEVNsRg

如果我的梦足够长

赵文豪

如果我的梦够长
足够时间，陪您走到家里的厨房，看着您
牢记冰箱里摆放每道菜的位置；
牢记每个亲人的口味与胃口
老了，日子淡一点；
重了，计较轻一点。
最脆弱的不是等待您醒来的难熬
最脆弱的不是您变了模样
尽管我们的心，
总是告诉我无数次可以哭过的理由，
却总是想起
在兴之所至的日常
来到您家里，吃着烧饼
听您说着芝麻小事，拿着装满温热豆浆的碗接着
接着，如果我们的梦够长
够长

EARLY SPRING

by Zheng Maoming

An empty truck rumbles down the road behind our office building,
rattling every inch of its metal frame, clankety-clank.
Dazzling sunshine, sluggish spring, a groggy afternoon,
the truck passes and leaves behind a block of quietness.
Green halos on trees; moss-green daydreams;
an old chair tries to shine;
the desk files and charts never get a chance to get moldy;
the phone rings, the door knocks, two waves of visitors come without appointments.
That's when the quietness ends.
We begin to babble about this and that and everything else,
dotted with moments of boredom.
Then, I decide to shake the sand out of my shoes.
Suddenly a tractor squeezes in amid it all,
happily tooting along, chugging out black smoke from its exhaust pipe,
belching soot like black flower petals.
Silence is gone again, so are the office rackets.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Nhjno9dYzC9yJj_UOD8ZIA

初春记

郑茂明

空货车轰隆隆从写字楼身后驶
抖着满身的铁，响声铮亮
日光春困，半睡半醒的下午
货车走过的地方，空出一小块寂静
树木青晕，幻想中有苔藓的颜色
一把陈旧的椅子，企图发出新
桌上的文件和报表永不发霉
电话和敲门，不约而至两波客人
那是寂静终止的时候
我们总在滔滔不绝谈些什么
有时候，也会出现一个无聊的空当
我就想抖一抖鞋子中硌脚的沙粒
一辆拖拉机挤了进来
突突突跑得正欢，烟囱里冒着黑烟
像沙尘中盛开着薄而黑的花瓣
寂静再一次远去了，喧嚣也不在这儿

DISTANT PLACES

by Zhijian Liunian

Unreachable time and places mean very little to me now.
I have been to Harbin only a few times:
the first time was to see my son off to a southern university;
I saw an airplane for the first time and thought
it had been waiting there for us the whole time.
Later I learned that it flew in only 30 minutes ago.
My son waved to me from the checkpoint, I said nothing,
waving him farewell with travelers passing through between us.
That was the first time he left home to go far away.
Then the flight crew that had just landed walked past me,
pulling their luggages, looking very vivacious,
as if they would be young and handsome forever.
Every year I go into town a few times for errands,
to buy seeds and fertilizer, once to swap for a second-generation ID,
the new and old head shots betray the years that had gone by.
Time has the power to crush a person,
turning him powdery, delicate and soft.
From a small village to a small town, all that I ever have
is a little bit of a place. In the end of February,
my courtyard still hardly feels warm,
still desolate, but I can detect
a few things ready to wake up: my grape vines
look shiny even though their roots
are grasping even tighter to the darkness of the soil.
You said: "Find an opportunity to come for a look around!"
I said: "Will do!" In my younger days,
I wanted to go to Ireland, and walk
around the sad streets of Dublin,
with my hands in the pocket, like Bloom and Stephen.
Those days I read James Joyce's
Ulysses. I also read about Mr. Van Gogh,
and yearned for the wheat fields and crows in North Brabant.
"My dear Theo, if you were alive,
your brother would have returned your money ten folds."
Tiny Holland, rich with tulips and artists,
Rembrandt was eclipsed by Van Gogh's brilliance.
But, Amherst, you truly are too far!
Otherwise I really would like to be there for a few days. To visit your home,
which has been converted into a Shell gas station.
Seeing your small desk, I sure would be amazed.
Did you really write those immortal poems at that small desk?
I would sit in a small café in Amherst, watching other
visitors, like me, here to pay homage to you.
I imagine you in your lonely garden,
picking geraniums to make a flower press.
"Wild strawberries by the fence."
Well, Dickinson, I can't help but feel happy.
Now, I think the most livable place is England.
France is frivolous; Rome, the city of loneliness.
England has Shakespeare and the Bronte Sisters.
It has Cambridge, football hooligans, gentlemen and paupers,
the simplicity of the countryside,
and islands that separate us from one another...!

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/4phI2EaPuhJ9VxdFc6nORg

远方

指尖流年

我对未来和远方几乎淡漠了。
我只去过几次哈尔滨，
第一次，是送去南方上学的儿子，
我第一次看见飞机，我以为
它一直在那里等候我们，
后来我才知道它是前30分钟飞来的。
儿子在安检口向我招手，我木讷。
我夹杂在穿行的旅人里与儿子道别，
那是他第一次离开我们，去很远的地方。
刚刚降落的空少和空姐神采奕奕，
拉着拉杆箱，从我身旁走过
仿佛永远那么帅气漂亮。
我一年去几趟县城办事。
买种子化肥，和换二代身份证，
我上面头像一年老过一年。
时间已经把这个人碾碎。
现在他呈粉末状，格外细腻柔软。
从小村到小镇，我只有这么
一丁点的地方。我的庭院，
二月的末尾，乍暖还寒，
还在荒芜之中，但我仍感到
万物正在苏醒，我的葡萄藤蔓
闪闪发亮，根系在尘土里，
它正把黑暗抓得更紧。
你说，“有机会出来走走吧。”
我说“会的”。年轻时，
我想去爱尔兰，手插裤兜
走过都柏林忧伤的街，
像布鲁姆和斯蒂芬，
那时，我读詹姆斯.乔伊斯的
《尤利西斯》。我读梵高先生，
就向往北布拉班特的麦田和鸦群，
我亲爱的提奥，如果你健在，
哥哥一定把你资助的钱十倍奉还。
小小的荷兰，盛产郁金香，也出艺术家
伦勃朗被梵高的光彩已然遮蔽了。
可是，安默斯特你真是太远了！
不然我真想去那小住几日。去你家，
据说现已改为“壳”牌加油站。
去看你的小书桌，我惊叹，
你就是在方寸的书桌上写下不朽的诗？
我坐在安默斯特的小咖啡馆，看到这儿
来的游客，他们都像我吧，为你慕名而来；
我想你在你孤独的花园里采撷，
准备制作天竺葵的标本。
“篱笆那边的野草莓”
嗯，狄金森，忍不住我想乐。
现在，我想最宜居的地方是英国，
法国浪漫的轻浮；罗马，一座寂寞之都。
英国，有莎士比亚也有勃朗特姐妹，
有剑桥，也有足球流氓，有绅士也有穷人，
有乡下的素朴，也有海岛把我们隔开…！

OUH LÀ LÀ

by Zhong Shiwen

I had hoped to admire her bloom in the spring, tall and cheerful among others,
but before spring, ouh là là, she bid us farewell,
leaving only a trace of fragrance. She said she didn’t feel she belonged.
Ouh là là, why couldn't she stay, couldn’t she see we had a kind heart?
Were we not clean enough? Was the space we gave her not suitable?
Did I do anything wrong? Ouh là là, I suddenly thought of the ethereal her and the miserable her.
Oh, a nice Sunday weather, and a little breezy, I think l need a chat.
What's the date after Sunday? I was still so very young yesterday.
Did good weather make me age? So many are already dead.
Ouh là là, so many names are being recycled by others, wiped clean with their sleeves
and taken home for reuse like some treasure. Ouh là là, was it like this in the old days?
I need a fish, a fish to accompany me in my river.
Surely this river of mine doesn't need anything else. Ouh là là, all birds are dead.
My river, I decided no trees on the riverbanks. Too many decisions to make.
Oh, we can't negate our responsibilities. The flowers are gone.
The birds have left us, too. I hope you will mention useful things for everyone to hear,
including those things that I have no words for.
Oh, silly, I just lit another cigarette. Don't knock on my door when I am asleep.
Ouh là là, I am famished, but there’s no need to eat, I am already in bed, under the blanket.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/13R0x2LSUnZeclmIjdCKIw

乌啦

仲诗文

我曾希望她在春天盛开，希望她站在群花之中，露出欢颜
乌啦，春天还没有到来，她就告别离开了
她只给春天留下一点儿香味，她说她不属于这里
乌啦，她为什么不愿意留下，我们的善她看不到吗？
我们的洁净还不够吗？我们给予的空间不合适吗？
还是我做错什么了吗？乌啦，我突然想到神明的你与愚蠢的你
乌啦，星期天的天气很棒，有一点儿风，我需要谈谈
星期天过了是几号？我昨天那么年轻
是好天气让我衰老了吗？好多人已经死去了
乌啦，好多人的名字被别人捡起来用袖子擦了擦
宝贝一样带回家继续用。乌啦，从前也是这个样子吗？
我需要一条鱼，我要鱼来陪伴一条河
我的这条河真的不需要别的什么。乌啦，鸟都已经死掉了
我的河，我决定河岸不能长树。需要决定的事情太多了
乌啦，我们不能放弃责任。花儿离开我们了
鸟也离开我们了。我希望你把那些有用的，那些我无法说出来的
多讲出来给大家听。乌啦，我已点上了烟。在我睡下去的时候
不要来敲我的门。乌啦，我饿了，但我不需要吃东西，我已盖了被子

ORANGES

by Zhou Sese

Far away in Hunan,
countless orange factories
hid amongst dark green woods,
oranges rolling
from one end of the conveyor belt,
heading for the kingdom of freedom —
an endless stream of
new arrivals.
We climbed up to the roof of the orange factory,
looking out at the distant orange groves,
fruit abounds
like plump hens
crouching on the hillside.
I wanted to enter into an orange,
only then could I really taste raindrops, sunlight
and the nectar of midnight dew.
After the flock of us left,
the oranges took off into the sky,
shouting for joy,
causing us to look back.
Those were happy times two years ago.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/RlYqI0CQ5_jRlCWL0C1U_Q

橙子

周瑟瑟

在遥远的湖南
有无数间橙子工厂
隐藏在墨绿的树丛中间
橙子滚滚
从机器传送带一端
奔向自由
还有源源不断的
橙子到来
我们爬上橙子工厂楼顶
眺望远处大片橙子树林
它们果实累累
像一只只体态丰满的母鸡
蹲在湖南的山坡上
我要走到它们体内
才能吮吸到雨水、阳光
和夜露的甜蜜
当我们一群人离开时
橙子飞满了天空
橙子的欢叫
让我们频频回头
那是两年前的好时光

INPUT METHOD

by Zhou Weimin

It archives the vocabulary I used,
and the volume grows bigger
like troops marching forward.
Life slowly wears away.
Those loud slogans, covert profanity,
and the names best forgotten
bubble up as I frantically try to cover them up!
They gallop in cyberspace,
huffing and puffing before being reduced to archaic motifs.
But I don't feel like picking up anyone of them.
This is the way it is meant to be,
the fated journey was taken.
I will be, in the twilight of my old age,
tapping the keyboard, to seduce,
to see which old words are still at my fingertips,
to replicate the world I have experienced,
or perhaps they would be gone without a trace
to somewhere faraway, to compile the lives of the others.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Eq0dZ0qguSYLONrYopvxmA

输入法

周卫民

它记录我使用过的词汇
使它们日益壮大
如一支前行的队伍
我的一生慢慢消磨
这些义正辞严的口号与不为人知的秽语
还有本该遗忘的名字
会不时冒出来，让我慌乱遮掩
它们在网络世界一路奔跑
最终气喘吁吁，破碎成陈旧符号
现在我不想捡起任何一个
命运早已安排了
一切。走过的都已走过了
我将在老去后的黄昏里
敲击键盘，引诱它们
看其是否随时待命
准确地重现我经历过的世界
还是早已无影无踪
远远地跑去，拼凑了他人的一生

UP ON THE WHITE CLOUD PAVILION

by Zhou Xixi

Early spring, at three hundred and fifty meters high,
with a chilly nip in the air,
the White Cloud Pavilion has seen very few visitors.
I climb up from the foothill,
each step a step closer to the sky.
Up here, the wind is hushed, white clouds slowly drift,
a few birds dart down, towards the human world.
The forest stays lush, the lake shimmers, nothing
has changed except some folks have left
time’s precipice like a fallen rock.
The White Cloud Pavilion is a fixture here, wedged between the hard rocks of time,
shaped like an empty wine glass, suspended in the air.
The sky is ablaze at sunset, but butterflies seek oblivion in hidden niches,
and there is no need for the truth-seekers to linger.
At Nanshan Temple, the unpruned ginkgo trees,
the unshaven monks, both witness time but do not romanticize.
Bird songs are heard, coming from the mountainside,
some going up, some going down.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/hAWnb7OFN8eBeq_MCTeCAg

白云阁登高

周西西

海拔三百五十米的早春，寒意料峭
白云阁行人罕至。我从山下来
每上一层，就向天空近一分
更高处，风声清寂，托着白云缓缓游动
几只鸟雀向下，飞往低处的人间
山林苍郁，湖泊泛着微光，仿佛
旧日模样。只是时光如悬崖
故人已抱着石头离开
白云阁像一枚钉子，楔在坚硬的时间里
又似一只悬置在生活里的空酒杯
此处晚霞过火，蝴蝶远遁
缘木求鱼的人不宜久留。南山寺里
带发修行的银杏
只管见证，不问抒情
山腰传来鸟的歌声，有坠落，也有上升

SEEING OFF A FRIEND, DRUNK AGAIN

by Zhu Ligen

This is how we usually wile away:
making innuendos, laughing and jesting.
Last year we sent off YQ, knowing
gentle-hearted City of Dali would embrace him
and kiss him on the forehead.
The year before, we saw off WD to Shangri-La,
who would welcome him with a big smile, and
light up his face with its snow mountains and snow water.
It is winter now,
few leaves remain on the trees.
I thought the year was almost over,
but received a message to see off TC today.
He is going to Banna, in southern Yunnan, a warmer place.
The jungle, the Buddhist stupas, and the Dai women there
will all adopt him and look after him.
Let us bid him farewell with a drink,
which suits Kunming in a cold day like this,
and suits our staggering, swaying hungry hearts.
Only eastern Yunnan is still waiting for one of us to go,
to admire its fog and collect its wildflowers.
We look at each other: a little tipsy,
I count heads, one by one,
DS, ZR, XW, AQ, JS, and lastly
Sun Bo, from China's northeast, tall,
heartless, merciless, been in Kunming all these years.
He raises his wine glass towards the northwest,
saying “Cheers!”
saying “I love you, Yunnan.”
saying “I love Yunnan, no heavy storms here,
never a blizzard that would drag on like the hysteric bloody rock-and-roll."

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Z2AVOkPuz-VO_eQP_UQM6w

送友人往滇南又醉

祝立根

这是我们一贯的伎俩：
指桑骂槐，笑出眼泪。去年送映泉
大理的风月，会拥抱他
亲吻他的额头
前年送旺电，香格里拉的雪山和雪水
会咧着嘴，擦去他眼角的灰烬
已经是冬天了
树上已经没有多少叶子
我以为，这一年即将过去
今天又送田超
去版纳，温暖的云南南方
那儿的丛林和佛塔，傣女子的手
会收留他，看顾他
祝福他吧，杯中酒
适合降温的昆明
适合那些东歪西倒、摇摇晃晃的
一颗颗有缺口的心
只有滇东了，那儿的大雾和野花
一直没人去收集，没人去赞美
我们面面相觑：借着酒劲
我一一清点了一下人头
杜松、子人、翔武、安庆和金珊，还有
孙博，那个塔一样的东北人
那么没心没肺，一直在昆明
对着西北方，说干杯
干杯
说我爱，云南
我爱云南从没有一场雪
从没有一场雪下得像一曲歇斯底里的死亡摇滚

ASHEN SKY

by Zhu Ligen

My father, a dormant volcano,
with streaks of cinereous hair,
cultivated camellias all his life.
These broad-leaf trees had long dark offshoots
that fueled spectacular red flames against the sky.
Mother was also a volcano, dormant too,
hard at work all the time, hoarding plenty of magma.
The potatoes she planted
filled her little granary, and offset her worries.
Both worked on the same family plot,
and waged a protracted tug of war:
Father, the idealist, wanted more room for good vibes.
Mother was pragmatic, forever optimizing for life-saving sunshine.
They quarreled and exploded . . .spewing fiery ashes
over the stove, over the hot water bottle,
and over every inch of the earth, from here to the hills far away.
In later years, they finally reached an understanding,
like people accepting the gaiety and angst
of the battles between body and soul.
Their children, raised on the same soil,
inherited the guileless humble traits of the potatoes;
still, to the everlasting sky and the deep blue sea,
they never fail to offer
festive fireworks and gorgeous brocades.

Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper & Guy Hibbert
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/1OZ7PEDH1knS-wjXHtRRQw

苍茫

祝立根

父亲是一座休眠的火山
他头发灰白
一生栽种茶花
大叶乔木又细又长的黑枝条里
运送着焚烧天空的烈焰
母亲也是一座休眠的火山，一生
都在埋头劳作，囤积岩浆
她种植的块茎
是她对抗不安的、一个个小小的粮仓
在同一块自留地里
他们开展了持久的拉锯战
父亲，希望热爱和理想的空间多一点
母亲，想要多收集几缕现实主义的阳光
他们为此争吵、爆发……火山灰
曾覆盖灶台、暖水瓶
他们目力所及的旷野和群山
直到晚年，他们终于达成了谅解
像一个人，容忍了灵魂和身体
彼此撕裂的上升和下沉
像他们的孩子，在地里生长
继承了土豆的卑微与质朴
对头顶那永恒不变的、蔚蓝的大海
也一次次想要贡献
节日的焰火，华艳的锦缎

DISSECTING THE DEER

by Zhu Tao

For the whole trip, the couple did not exchange a word.
The woman looked at the scenery,
the man stared at his phone.
Occasionally their hands grazed,
but pulled away
as if shocked by electricity.
How women and men
have forged mountains so high to become so separated.
When I was a child, some old geezers liked to asking me how old I was,
and I would jest
"Perhaps eighteen, perhaps thirty-five."
They would say, "Child, you should learn math.”
or “go get your head checked by a doctor.”
Luckily, our journey turned a corner,
a deer appeared,
all eyes darted through the train windows into the wilderness
as if to dissect the deer that looked as fresh as a peach.
Translated by Meifu Wang, Michael Soper, Peter Micic & Johan Ramaekers
Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/uXDyMF9Seil-5fIcEYeLaw

肢解那头鹿

朱涛

整个旅程这对情侣不说一句话
女的看风景
男的盯着手机
偶尔他们的手会触碰一起
但旋即闪开
像触了电
女人与男人
要锻造多少群山才能做到如此隔绝
小时候常有秃了毛的山羊问我的年龄
我总是胡编
“我十八或者三十五岁啦”
他们会说“孩子你该学数学了”
或者“快去医院吧”
幸好，在旅途的拐角
一头鹿出现了
所有的眼睛逃出车厢奔赴旷野
仿佛要肢解那新鲜如水蜜桃的麋鹿

These poems were written in Chinese originally and published in Poetry Journal (Beijing, China) between 2018 and 2022, followed by their English publication on this website shortly afterwards.

以下原版中文诗歌首发于诗刊 （中国北京，诗刊社）。

以下原版中文诗歌首发于诗刊（中国北京，诗刊社）。