POEM OF THE DAY 每日一首

The virgin ivy around Jianguo Road
is the best ivy in the walled city of Xi'an.
When I saw her,
she was on the climb, like a growing mountain,
stretching out free and easy,
palling the high-rises,
threatening them with a sense of peril.
I like how she is unstoppable,
cold-resistant, drought-resistant, thriving in barren places.
Her wisdom to unite toughness with softness
is not the easiest thing to learn.
Ivy, the tiger of the plant kingdom,
she demonstrates how the plant kingdom
can overcome the kingdom of reinforced concrete.
Let me sing her praises.
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/ryfTTWzWWINdMmOJfOdJVA

爬山虎

马慧聪

建国路这边的爬山虎
是西安城里最好的爬山虎
我遇到它时
它正像一座大山，往上爬
那种慢悠悠的姿势
让包裹起来的高楼大厦
岌岌可危
我最喜欢它的无孔不入
又耐寒，又抗旱，又爱贫瘠
这种刚柔并济的智慧
我是学不来的
爬山虎是植物界的老虎
爬山虎代表植物界
打倒了钢筋混凝土。我要赞美它

ON TOP OF EASTERN MOUNTAIN

by Bai Ma

At forty, I thought I knew what was what, and moved to the mountains,
picked up prime farmland short of a hectare riddled with clouds.
Spring is the time to sow, the soil bustling, with people plotting life and death —
the fate of a fennel seed is in a flick of my hand.
The baby chestnut tree was brought home from the market,
then the soft rain, beseeched by me, came like a sigh at night.
Hundreds of flowers teeming, leaving me behind, useless even if putting on rouge.
The mountain felt like a middle-aged woman blessed with child.
Nature went about its business day and night: the ways of the birds and the bees
all enter the beekeeper’s account, like frost on the roof.
My romantic ambitions faded by the end of summer,
some irrational and uncalled-for schemes.
The mountain accomodates every one under the gaze of the stars,
even a small snake, whom I stumbled across in the ravine,
and a myriad of plants and trees named by men, regardless.
Time flows by in the mountains, absent of memories, undisturbed by the past.
Besides those resting in graves, myself wandering about,
those recessing at the potato patch, and the secretive behind the bamboo groves,
there was hardly a soul around. I began to get used to how trees think
and how wild grasses grow, and tread lightly lest to startle the turtledoves.
As to the land, apart from praise, any other words is cheap talk.
Winter is for chopping wood and lighting fires, but to act like a thinker
is absurd. Compared to trees, mountains, and rocks,
my composition is overly complicated: family name, age, acquired skills,
origin unknown, and whereto is anyone’s guess.
The full moon only shines on top of our Eastern Mountain.
The full moon only rests on the trees on Eastern Mountain,
brightening the graves, and brightening up the ashen eaves of a few houses,
a weary scene from the never-ending years, a wordless lament.

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/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

After the shadow moved away,
the oil lamp on the wall brightens up;
so small a lamp,
but its smoke has blackened half of the wall.
Two rugged head-shadows conversed for a while,
the small lamp projected them on the wall like giants, so tall.
During the day, they never look so grand.
The things they talked about, I must have heard them a hundred times,
the same things over and over again,
almost like the way of spring, each returns
with only small differences of a missing blade or an extra blade.
Oftentimes I feel at a loss in the adjacent room,
no light needed in this familiar space.
It has been like this for 30-odd springs and autumns.
My parents' conversations still continue
as if I did not exist,
but when a serious matter comes up,
they would sit still like two statues,
not a word is said,
facing the darker corner unlit by the lamp
in a daze.

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/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 am not sure, but the village on this alien place
is not my village. The sky is a mirror, lighting up
a wintry world. By the water, an old man flashes by,
keeping watch of his flock, of the weather, of the wheat field,
and the watery rice paddies.
An ox is drinking. I don't have names
for all of these creatures, just like I don't know
the names of all of the people here on the train.
A glamorous woman is crying, jabbering,
recounting her failed marriage. I don’t know her name,
but how similar she is to me, to my hometown, to my folks,
in a foreign place like this, where we meet and quickly part. Look,
the graves in the wheat field, 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。

PRINCE

by Bei Ye

In the afternoon, Prince appeared from below the hill.
From a distance, he beckoned to me,
walked towards me, then shook my hand.
He had just released a kept dove,
so his hand was even softer,
and his face was like the autumn sky.
Many people don’t know Prince.
His lady friends gave him this nickname.
One time they called me, saying "Bei Ye, come quick, Prince is already here!"
Sure enough, Prince was sitting on a little wooden stool.
He beamed at me from a distance.
A few cats lounged next to 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 NEIGHBOR

by Bei Ye

I have never measured the distance between
the sea and my residence,
either with a straw rope, wooden stick, leather tape or steel ruler.
I estimate it with my spirit: where I call home
is three hundred meters from the sea, the sound of seagulls
often wakes me up at night.
Sometimes I go to the ocean’s shore to watch
the white waves waving their arms at me from afar,
but my heart is not stirred.
Ah, the sea, a liquid desert, man-eating water.
Those died at the sea from thirst
never received an apology from it.
Oh, the sea, a revered drunken god,
crouching under the black reef behind my house.
It breathes out dizzying air.
My livelihood does not depend on the sea,
so our relationship is completely uncomplicated.
Whoever wants to flatter or curse it, go ahead if it pleases him.
I’ve heard local fishermen say:
the sea seldom surges over the cliff to return one’s visit,
but would send out piratical winds that give women headaches.
I do wish it would come up once, with lashes of
thunder and lightning, howling and hurling omens of destruction,
like those sandstorms I saw in the desert.
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

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

SNOW FALLS ON THE WHITE HORSE TEMPLE

by Bi Junhou

When snow falls, the invisible white horses begin to neigh,
hundreds of them in the courtyard of the White Horse Temple,
running to the front, running to the back.
In a cloister, a monk meditates into equanimity. Another monk
knocks on a wooden fish, also transfixed.
Snow makes no sound. The horse hooves splash thousands of flurries
that gently fall on the monastery.
All is serene, all is quiet.
Only the wooden fish can be heard, as if in response to pain.
Each white horse descends from the sky, like a scroll of satin sutra,
to adorn the White Horse Temple, layer upon layer.

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/7Zku7Gk78OaQ6e0kjezzow

雪落白马寺

毕俊厚

大雪来临，白马寺内真的藏了几百匹白马
从寺前寺后，满院子的白马
咴咴而叫

寺院偏厢房，一个僧人，在入定做功。另一个僧人
手敲木鱼，也在做功

大雪无声。白马的蹄子溅起千堆雪
又轻轻落在寺院里
寂静，无声

只有木鱼"啵啵啵"地，一直在喊疼
只有从天而降的白马，仿佛一匹匹经卷，绸缎似的
一层又一层码在白马寺的身上

PAINTED FACE

by Bo Xiaoliang

Too lush, too brash,
as if a maverick flighting for survival, but in quieter moments,
she looks as pure as a maiden from the West Boulevard.
In the marketplace, people call her Snow White,
the tofu merchant's eyes linger on her,
but when she raises her chin, everything else pales.
Still, society sneers at her as hellbound, as a temptress, even though
drifters, poor scholars, gangsters, local officials, and other visitors
of her gaudy boudoir, play her like a diva, or more like prey.
She has weathered more than the world itself, lonely,
wild, and violent at times.
What can be more tormenting than being tormented repeatedly?
Yet she loves,
desperately loves.
Knowing everything amounts to dust, she still loves
despite it all.

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/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

QIN·DUAN·KOU, THE BROKEN ZITHER

by Che Yangao

No need to verify the exact damage to the zither,
but to ask if anyone could restore it.
Qin·duan·kou, broken zither, it’s not merely
a name for a simple old town,
the word seems to have a significance,
like a musician’s call waiting for a response.
A broken string can be restrung,
indeed your soulmate has passed, but many of us live on,
please, let your nimble fingers awaken our rusted spirits.
The river continue to flow, similarly
our progress shan't be blocked because of the past?
A death needn't result in shunning the living.
Tears suddenly well up, flowing from the eyes of the Chu Kingdom,
filling the Moon Lake with leaden nights
while wild grass flickers in the moonlight.
Boya and Ziqi rest here, their spotless minds and free spirits
forever stay in our memories.
Nothing remains except sheets of dust.
Two worlds, like a sword and its sheath, greet each other,
no distance between two hearts
devoted to each other.
Qin·duan·kou, your waters continue to charm,
telling the lovely story of a broken zither.
Listen to the words, but more to the sounds.
This moment, right now right here, surpasses history.
I bend down, and lift up the ladder of time,
and climb up the Zither Terrace to play a tune,
a call from the mountains, and the river will respond.
*Note: The title of this poem Qin·duan·kou (lit: broken zither) is the name of a place in Hanyang, near Wuhan in Hubei province. The name had its origins in a qin player, Boya, who broke his instrument after hearing of the death of his friend Ziqi, a woodcutter, who was said to be "the only person who truly understood Boya’s music."

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/19QIIKBwveZd2zB42NR4bw

琴断口

车延高

不去考证那把古琴损坏的程度
只问，有没有人想去修复它
琴断口不仅是过去的地名
它有强调的口吻，在等一句对白
断过的弦可以在断过的地方接上
是啊，知音死了，还有那么多人要活
灵巧的指头为什么不劝劝生锈的心
水流向前，生者不该被昨天伤害
一个亡魂也不该让你拒绝活着的人
泪突然间醒的，从楚国的眼眶落下
月湖盛满夜的沉重，月影梳理野草
伯牙、子期就坐在记忆守护的坟上
灵魂洁净，两袖清风
真正的符号夷为平地，尘埃
覆盖一切
现在空和有是相逢一笑的剑与鞘
两颗心的想念缔约，废除了距离
琴断口，你的流水有韵
述说一柄古琴摔出的佳话
听话听音，我知道今天一定比昨天重要
弯腰，我把时间扶起
去古琴台拨弦，听高山流水

CITY of YANTAI*

by Chen Dongdong

Ono no Imoko** probably delivered the belated message
from Chinese courtier Xu Fu some 800 years afterwards.
Landing on the island of Zhifu, he hurried to Luoyang,
but invoked Emperor Molten Gold’s*** wrath.
At sunset, which was even more sumptuous in those days,
he didn’t believe what was once believed
that there were magic mountains in the sea.
During the next 800 years,
smoking watchtower was used to name this place:
but like the bamboo spear with a hawkish name, it’s only sheep in wolf’s clothing.
A ship with eight pennants appeared in the telescope,
refocusing, a smaller and different horizon appeared.
We created the myth of Eight Drunken Immortals,
so Penglai Pavilion, home to elixir of life, lived another day.
Whether or not
the sea dragon conjured up a floating island,
strong minds and poets have different beliefs.
Fiction or facts, or fiction after all, sorcerers come and go,
did you really peer into the undersea Pearl Palace?
Walking on water or not, only the walker knows, as believable
as any mirage or phantom.
Still they must mount the overlook
for a view from the disused radar station,
to point out this and that from the cliff.
A lighthouse has replaced the smoking watchtower
to illuminate the waves of no return for the boys and girls,
reappearing in a 800-year dense fog.
They are ready to welcome the next mirage.

Notes:
* Yantai (lit: “Smoking Watchtower”) is a headland city in Shandong Peninsula, eastern China.
** Ono no Imoko: a Japanese politician and diplomat in the late 6th and early 7th century.
*** Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty (569 – 618 CE)

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/WmcpqHWF2NnsjIjNPYPCeg

烟台

陈东东

小野臣因高也许捎回了
八百年前徐福的口信
登岸芝罘，他往洛阳赶
领教熔金皇帝的不高兴
当落日西沉，更豪华的
不相信，曾经相信过
海上有神山
再历八百年
狼烟被用来命名此地
狼筅枝头，难免挂羊头
单筒望远镜遥测八幡船
却又调焦，缩转眼界
重新去发明酩酊的八仙
蓬莱阁上一天世界
是否
方术士真会起蜇鞭鱼龙
强人的疑惑不同于诗人
空明空复空，道法出没
是否探得贝阙藏珠宫
是否蹈浪者心知，所见
皆幻影
但他们仍要登临
观景，从弃用的雷达站
到悬崖边上辨认和指点
一座灯塔已替换烽火台
照耀童男童女的不归路
穿透新一轮八百年迷雾
他们迎向，新的蜃气楼

MY MOON, MY KINGDOM

by Chen Gong

One lone horseman,
on the meadow of an imaginary world,
let the horse feed on all the vastness it can,
but hide its legs and all traces
of reality, this domain is too small
for another to intrude.
A good horse does not rely on its reins,
and no lamppost can tie down
its flying hooves.
The survival of the kingdom
should not concern the terracotta warriors.
This is my own kingdom, and all that matters
is keeping a man's torch bright
to shine on the open roads at night.
My moon, my kingdom.

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/VzCmt0wBbk5tJAxxq_N6aQ

我的秦时明月

陈功

一人一骑
草场只在想像中
那就喂它眼前的苍茫吧
请把露出来的马脚
收回，眼前版图太小
小到容不得别人插足
信不信马，缰绳说的不算
没有哪一盏灯能够拴住
四处飞溅的马蹄声
一城一池得失
不应该是陶俑考虑的事
我的秦朝，只在乎
深夜驰道
一个人的烽火
我的秦时明月

LOGS

by Chen Liang

Every time Father felled a tree,
he would carefully shave the branches off with an axe
and leave it to dry standing in the corner.
The green wood,
smelling of strong balsamic scent,
would squeak
in the middle of the night
as if wanting to break free, methought.
Slowly the creaks dwindled
until it turned wooden and silent.
—-The next winter after Father passed,
I started to warm myself with the wood
to rid of the emptiness and chill.
When I split the stumps open
and tossed them in the hearth,
these woods began to shriek
and spilled out tears, releasing
a strong aroma that quickly filled the house,
as if to tell me
they had not died all those 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

A MOMENT OF QUIETNESS

by Chen Liang

I live in an attic — pinewood ceiling,
wallpaper with curious Persian motif,
a bedside table embossed with the ancients,
a Simmons mattress, and a huge ceiling fan,
spinning and spinning to give you an out-of-body feel.
The closet has a large crack,
causing me to be suspicious at times that it hides a fugitive.
Nextdoor neighbors are apprentices from a wine bar,
each speaking a dialect, all with overly prudent manners for their age.
The side window opens to the neighbor's wall, but during the day
intense sunlight pours in through the skylight.
No deep sleep for the second half of the night, I seem to
want to look through the skylight, to search for
blurry bright spots in the sky.
It's as if suddenly I return to the wild country in Shandong.
A teenager sneaked up the roof,
holding a pole for catching cicadas with a sticky end,
but trying to catch the stars in the lower sky, for a moment
he thought he’s the earthling nearest to the heavenly body.

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/p6Po6NfMo6Duh-pLqYczcQ

且停记

陈亮

我的住处是间阁楼，顶子是松木的
壁纸的花纹波斯般诡异
床头柜浮雕着古代的人物
床是席梦思，吊扇硕大
它的旋转会让灵魂渐渐出窍
衣柜裂了很大的缝
让我经常怀疑有人在此藏匿
隔壁住着酒号的学徒
有多种口音，一律少年老成的面孔
边窗外是遮蔽的，白天会有光
从天窗强烈地投下来
后半夜睡不沉，依稀中
我会透过天窗，努力去寻找
天上那些模糊的亮点
这时候，我似乎又回到了山东乡间
一个少年偷偷爬上屋顶
用一根粘知了的杆子
去粘那些矮的星星，那一刻
他感觉自己是离星星最近的人

THE STUDY OF MASKS

by Xixi Lala (Chen Liming)

We must talk about masks today
even if from a cruise ship quarantined on the Pacific.
The sea looks calm, the noonday sun attracts no attention.
A mask is minuscule next to a cruise ship;
a cruise ship is minuscule in the Pacific;
the sea is minuscule compared to the sky.
That is one way to look at it. The logic is simple.
The sky doesn't need to wear a mask, nor the Pacific,
nor the cruise ship anchored on the Pacific Ocean.
But right now we do, not to protect us entirely from all evils,
but only our respiratory system. You hear a cough from me,
and I hear the same sound from somewhere not too far.
The seagulls overhead did not make the sound.
Look, the seagulls are flying
like seagulls do, they look nothing like face masks.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-04-09/13174106.shtml

口罩学

希希拉拉 (陈礼明)

今天，我们有必要说一说口罩
哪怕是坐在太平洋一艘被隔离的邮轮上
大海看起来平静，正午的阳光被忽略
一只口罩与一艘邮轮相比不算什么
一艘邮轮与太平洋相比
不算什么，大海与天空相比也不算什么
这是研究的一个向度。道理终究是浅显的
天空不需要口罩，太平洋
及太平洋上停泊的那艘邮轮也不需要口罩
但此刻我们却需要，不是全部的我们
只是呼吸系统。你听见我在咳嗽
我也听见不远的地方有同样的声响
这声响，不会来自头顶盘旋的海鸥
你看，那一只只海鸥飞着
像一只只海鸥，绝不像一只只口罩

GRAIN-DRYING COURT

By Chen Renjie

A rectangular lot, or one may say
a rectangular space to welcome autumn,
to welcome its grain and cotton for drying
while summer flowers under the hedge refuse to wither.
Why is it rectangular but not
any other shape? But then my joy is also
a little longer than wanting and a little shorter than longing.
But when the evening comes,
it will be bent out of shape by some noises——
a struggle continues
between a pack of small wolves and a flock of lambs,
as the ghosts of those eaten quietly rise up.
The shadows of the clouds standing so calm,
the blue mat of spruce that reaches to infinity,
the rectangle that is still perfect,
none is chewed up by the irregular village life.
In the courtyard, I sometimes notice
an invisible line trailing from the sky, tethering
a young man, akin to a grain, and his unbridled dream
under the wings of a kite larger than a hometown.

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/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

TWO THIRDS OF THE TWINE

by Chen Shui

The unused twine looks to be 2/3 of the original roll.
Across the field, someone is shaking loose a bundle of hay;
he looks like my father,
but doesn’t have my face
nor my big eyes.
The leftover twine, shaped like bread,
but can do nothing to relieve hunger.
The tiny grains scattered across the field
will become seedlings soon,
but their sprouting so untimely,
therefore will be pulled out and leave to dry.
The twine gives the divided land a profile.
The leftover twine rests in my hands,
I repeatedly loosen, tighten, and pocket it.
Now, one side looks like the Chu River,
and my side is the rivaling Han Territory.
Where is it, the used-up one third of the twine?
It is a limited length of twine
that Father passed on to me.
Time, whereabouts unknown, once again
graced my late father’s portrait before gliding away.

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/7JFQjUDiqkEh9WWF-rd8MA

三分之二的线团

辰水

剩下的线团，大约有三分之二的样子。
在田畴的一边，一个晃动秸秆的人
他像我的父亲。
但他却没有与我一样的面孔，
一样的大眼睛。

没有用完的线团，变得松散，像面包
却无法充饥。
田野里到处都是遗落的粮食，
不用多久，
会重新长出不合时宜的幼苗
它们会被拔掉，晒成枯草。

一股线，就是地界的另一个侧面。
我手持剩余的线团，
放绳——蹬紧——埋土……
于是，一边成了楚河
而另一边恍若汉界。

那三分之一的线团，去了哪里？
父亲传递到我手中的部分，
是有限的线。
下落不明的光阴，再一次从父亲的遗像前
匆忙滑过。

WHEN DESIRE IS USED UP

by Chen Xianfa

I don't know what a phantom is.
Never witnessed
anything questionable like a phantom.
In front of me, this bowl
of millet gruel
has a swarm of destitute floating sampans.
And me, I live and receive the gaze
of everyone from the generations before me.

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

欲望销尽之时

陈先发

我不知什么是幻象
也从未目睹过
任何可疑的幻象
我面前这碗
小米粥上
飘荡着密集的、困苦的小舟
我就活在这
历代的凝视中

Sunset and Darkness

by Chen Xiaosan

Today’s sunset tells me the earth is turning,
same as the autumn wind on my back
that says the earth is on the move.
The wind blows into the golden pomelo sun,
also the work of the tilting earth, for sure.
The valley flares up, as if the bushes are on fire,
giving the sky the last glimmer of light
for the sailors at sea. In the highlands,
Southern Mountain and Northern Mountain look serene,
then why am I panicking?
This immense earth moves unnoticeably,
as slowly as an elephant.
Xiedi must be in the dark by now.
Father must have had dinner,
the two of us have not shared a meal for the longest time.
I keep walking, still no sight of land’s end.
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/cwYxuWHWDUeGPmgJfha61w

落日与天黑

陈小三

今天落日，我知道是大地在转身
秋风从背后吹来
我知道是地球步履不停
秋风吹向落日金黄如柚
我知道是因为地球的倾角
落日在灌木丛中燃起篝火
把最后的光送上天空
那是航海的光，高原上
南山冷静北山沉着
我为何感到惊慌
大地辽阔，它的转身缓慢如象
谢地早已天黑
父亲应该吃过晚饭了吧
父亲，我们很久不在一起吃晚饭了
我步履不停，而大地辽阔

THE FISHING VILLAGE

by Chen Xiaoxia

After the typhoon passed,
candlelight flickers on the altar in every home.
Waves lace the twilight shoreline,
adorned with red lanterns, stone alleys, and burning incense.
The grannie who lost her son to the sea slept
leaning on the door at night.
The village opened its eyes in the arms of the cove,
much like mother and child ...
Lost souls in the storm
become tiny crabs
crawling out from the cave following old tracks.
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

CARVING FOR MYSELF A SEAL

by Chen Yuguan

This old stone, but for the knife marks on its face,
all is intelligible since so much time has passed.
First I put the stone on a sheet of coarse grit,
sand away, to remove another’s imprint on it.
Turn it into powder, not for anyone with a golden stubbornness to resurrect.
Keep at it until the surface cuts are completely eliminated,
then put the stone on a sheet of fine grit,
smooth out its heart, not to startle it by uneven breaths,
only then can I take out the knife, carving my long-premeditated obsession
—— a biography for myself.
Soon the knife chooses to advance in Small Seal Script.
A knife, a file, will gouge the name in the heart of the stone.
Puff a breath, and the name separates from the blade,
debris falling to earth, not that I believe in fate,
but the depth inscribed on the rock—what a heart-piercing thrill.
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

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。

A MYRIAD OF COLORS FROM FAR AWAY

by Chen Yundong

Arriving at Delingha, the night is still.
Darkness shrouds the distant mountains and the Gobi Desert.
We recite poetry aloud in a halal noodle shop.
The drivers drink silently, gulping down the travel fatigue,
faces weather-worn.
Snow has covered all animal tracks in the forest.
Mist falls from the eaves,
with a hint of red from the lanterns on the wooden beam.
I travel a long way to this snowy country, an unearthly place
that gives light to the silent rivers in me.
In the Mulan Weichang grassland, lakes descend from the sky,
a vast sky, a towering sky, a desolately blue sky
that overlooks the flowers, the wine, and the rolling greens.
I pass by this place, named after the sun, the moon, the stars
in their transit.
On the way to Dunhuang, one must encounter the desert.
The ageless yellow stretches out before your eyes
and disintegrates all worldly fears.
From our blood vessels we will distill a strong spirit
to salute the bright moon that presides over heaven and earth.
I roam a place larger than me, and always return to it,
to take home a myriad of colors. These massive colors
will stay with me, as my hair turns white,
to remind me of the secret of living
in the days when I feel like a caged animal.

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/s6rBKrKUhq9KmfdvgDWhcA

我从远方带回众多颜色

陈允东

赶到德令哈，夜已无声
黑暗笼罩远处的山脉和戈壁
我们在一家清真面馆大声朗诵诗歌
司机默默饮酒，饮下一天的行程
他们的面庞风霜凝结
大片的雪和森林覆盖鸟兽的足迹
白色的呼吸从屋檐落下
灯笼挂在木梁上，是仅有的红
这里是雪乡，我不远千里来此
遁一片茫茫，照亮身体里沉默的河
在木栏围场，一群湖泊从天空降临
这天空庞大，高高的蓝，孤单的蓝
俯视人间的花、酒、连绵的草木
我经过这里，太阳、月亮、星星
经过这里，人们以此为众多湖泊命名
去敦煌的路上，要与沙漠相遇
那年老月深的黄铺在眼前
让尘世的恐惧不值一提
必须要从人类的血管里抽出一瓶烈酒
敬那一轮盛大的月，它清澈，看天圆地阔
走过的地方大于我，我总要适时归来
带回众多颜色，这颜色巨大
会在我的一生中停留，看我长出白发
也会在我成为困兽之时
说出活下去的秘密

A BRIEF LETTER TO MOTHER

by Chen Yupeng

I seldom write to you for fear that
my scribblings will bring you
sorrows, that you may see my scraggly living
through my scraggly handwriting. It’s now winter, no snow
in Beijing yet, but there are occasional
sandstorms, even more plentiful are people
in face masks walking through smog. And I belong to
the stay-in tribe, books and music
are my fortress. It’s not a big space here,
but enough to live, enough to facilitate
eating, toiletry, daydreaming, and sleep.
After living here for a long time, it’s inevitable
that I get tired of the northern cuisine, and begin to miss
the fish, shrimp, vegetables, mollusk, and rice
that you cooked with your callused hands.
But, rest assured, Mom, like before I am not a finicky eater,
and often have a good appetite. What’s less reliable
is a good night’s sleep, as I always dream of
what I imagined during the day. My dreams are
always a little sadder than those of others, and occasionally
I would wake up sobbing, then stand by the window
to watch the moon with arms down, until it rises
higher and sees me by the window
with leaden arms. This is the quietest moment
of my day, and it always reminds me of
the years when we relied on each other,
when at the end of the day's work, you took me
through the city at night. I was little then, and curious
about the moon, but you would say "the moon will
lead us home " with a tired and croaky voice.
After leaving home, Mom, I loved many
strangers, but no one spoke to me
with words like yours. Mom, my messy life
is getting muddier and muddier, and only now I understand:
the brightest and clearest part of my memories
has always been with you.

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/fYeVS3Lhduw1qR5b-hUPWA

给母亲的简短家书

陈钰鹏

很少给你写信，仅仅是怕
你看到我歪斜潦草的字迹
会伤心，怕你会由潦草
想到潦倒。冬天了，北京却
不下雪，偶尔也有
沙尘暴，更常见是一些人戴着口罩
穿过雾霾。而我是
另一些人，足不出户，用书和琴谱
把自己围起来。这里不大，
却已足够生活，足够容纳我
吃饭、排泄、虚构
和睡眠。住得久了，难免不对北国之食
有些厌倦，难免不怀念你曾用粗手
烹调的鱼虾、蔬菜、贝类
和米饭。不过请放心，妈，我依然不挑食
也很能吃。忽好忽坏的
只有睡眠，凡我所虚构的
皆会梦见。我的梦，比别人的
要悲伤一些，偶尔也哭着
醒过来，走到半夜窗前
垂手看月亮，月亮升起，看到窗前
我垂手。这便是我一天中
最安静的时刻，它总让我想起
过去我们相依为命的
那些年，结束一天的工作，你带我在夜里
穿过整座城市。而我年幼，对月亮
充满好奇，你就用疲惫、沙哑的声音
回答我：“月亮会
带我们回家。”
离开你之后，妈，我爱过许多
陌生人，可再也没有人，对我说过
类似的话。妈，我糊涂的生活
越来越模糊了，至今才懂：
原来记忆中最明亮、清晰的那部分，
一直由你来标记。

EVENING RAIN IS ABOUT TO COME

by Cheng Chuan

The traveler, hurrying along the road, cannot bear to
hear the sound of the rain. No matter how he listens,
the rain threatens like an army of enemy soldiers.
The sound of the wind leaks the secret of
its ancient past. The traveler is doomed to be caught
in the rain, with nothing on.
Icy hands sweep the leaves off the field,
but it's the rain that will chase him with another warrant.
Is it a friend or foe?
The traveler does not return,
knighted by rain to be a warrior on the road.

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/Arw9XhoDX5uRuOsC_BML6g

夜雨将至

嘉州程川

赶路的人，听不得雨声
无论怎么听
雨都像万千追兵
风声，早让千年前的天风
走漏。赶路的人，注定要与雨
赤身相遇
冰冷的手，掀掉遍野的树叶
是雨，发出的又一张通缉令
是仇人还是知音？
赶路的人一去不回
因雨成为声名远播的侠客

THEY ARE PLAYING CHESS

by Chi Lingyun

It will be years before the victor becomes apparent,
but maybe the result won’t be clear
as someone may leave midway without warning. In the beginning
there was no sadness because no one left any one behind.
They were preoccupied in building walls, barehanded,
taking deep breaths or muttering only a word or two
as if commanding an army, men and horses,
and thought the game would last forever.
But people who left early didn’t care.
Sometimes the best strategist didn’t get to play the winning hand.
People cry. Swords and spears get buried.
Painful dreams recur.
The once-dangerous field turns lush again
every spring. They light candles, pining for what’s lost,
writing down the names of the rivals who have left,
hoping the battlefield will soon calm down.
They would set off from their own homes
after gulping down a glass of strong wine, and meet up on horseback
to fight the colossal War of the Four Kingdoms,
and when the whip is raised, one sees
horsehair flying all over the chessboard.
They argue loudly and fight with words and hands
for affairs in a farfetched place.
They fight through the night until
one of them lays down a chip. There’s no way to predict
someone would strike out so soon and never to return.

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/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

他们在下棋

池凌云

还要再过些年头，才分出胜负。
也许不会有结果，因为有人在中途
毫无征兆地离开。一开始
他们并不难过，谁也没把谁孤零零留下。
他们只是筑城墙，手无寸铁
却屏住呼吸或喃喃自语，
像真的掌控着千军万马，
他们以为这游戏会持续几十年，
然而提前离开的人不管这些。
即使棋高一着，最终还是无从下手。
他们都哭了。折戟沉沙
疼痛，出现在睡梦中。
那曾经危险的陆地，在每年春天
茂盛起来。他们为失去的
点燃蜡烛，写下离去的对手的名字
静待一个个战事平息。
那时，他们从各自的居所出发，
喝一杯烈酒，策马而来
开始四国大战，有人扬鞭
马鬃就在棋盘上空飘荡。
他们高声争执，用嘴、用手争夺，
在一个不属于他们的世界里
彻夜征战，直到其中的一个
放下棋子。他们不知道
这么快，有人出局，并且永远离开。

A RIVER SET OUTSIDE THE WINDOW

by DaDa

A river, what does it denote?
A big river, or a small river, set outside the window, what does it mean?
The river is there, it has always been a fact,
and the window came later,
just like you were born later.
The river benefits the window,
which takes fruits from the river,
and if you grew up there and grew tall enough,
you’d see the river set outside the window,
but these all came afterwards.
Even though time flows like a river,
you won’t see a river flow out of the window,
or hang down from the sky.
When a river starts from its source, runs by your window,
enters your vision, and maps out a destiny,
that’s not the river’s doing.
The thing is called Time,
which disguises the traits of the tree and the river:
The tree, it grows inwards,
as to the river, it always flows away from itself.

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

一条河搁置于窗外

达达

一条河，那是什么概念？
一条大河或小河搁置于窗外那是什么概念？
一条河从来都是既定的事实
而窗户必是后来才有的事
像你出生也是后来才发生一样
是窗户占了河的便宜
窗户摘了河的桃子
而你长大，身高超过了窗沿
你站在窗前就看到了窗外有一条河搁置
那更是后来又后来的事了
虽然岁月亦如流水
但一条河决不会从窗内流出去
一条河决不会从天上挂下来
当一条河从遥远的源头流淌到窗外
恰好被你看到并搁置成一种命运
那不是一条河的错误
其错误在于时间
混淆了树与河二者的关系
树，内生长
而河，永远向远方生长

NINE TURNS

by Deng Deng

Changing direction doesn't mean
changing heart.
Every place I go, I have seen
small roads like that, winding
backward and forward,
getting thinner and thinner, quieter and quieter,
until you have no idea where it is going.
It happens in Inner Mongolia this time, at Nine Turns.
Seen from the airplane,
you see a knife’s edge in every twist and turn,
but as if purposeless,
as if unappreciated, as if angry.
And every one of them looks the same,
blushing under the setting sun,
as if driven by the same river
and has run out of words to say:
maybe he is running away from himself,
and keeps tucking away his heart as he goes.
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

九曲

灯灯

一条路改变主意，并不表示说
它回心转意
我在任何地方都能看见
这样的小路，弯路
一路往回走
越走越瘦小，越走越没有话说，越走
越不知道走向哪
这一次是在内蒙，在九曲
我从飞机往下看
每一个弯道，都深藏着一把刀
都无用武之地
都委屈，愤怒
落日下涨红了脸
都像同一个人，被同一条
河流追赶
同样说不出话：
仿佛，一个被自己追问的人
一边走，一边捂着自己的心肠。

SELF MANAGEMENT

by Ding Bai

After twenty odd years in management,
I still haven't got the knack of
managing myself.
I am good at dividing a task into two or three parts,
equally good at setting priorities,
and scouting and recruiting talents.
To manage people is to manage affairs,
but if the focus is turned on me,
things are awash in a sea of indecisions.
Often the little things
lead to a quick reversal of fortune.
What is of great value can turn
into dust in a second.
Managing oneself
and managing others
are two separate matters.
Perhaps, there is a manager somewhere for me,
I am beginning to think.
Perhaps, being managed by others
will unfold our true selves.

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

GOOD NIGHT, YOUNG MAN

by Ding Peng

The glitzy city whispers to you over the cell phone.
You can't sleep, as an electric conductor.
As your fingertips swipe across the screen
for second-hand truths, and your eyelashes blink
like the bristles on a spring millet, a current makes tiny waves.
No fears, if you die in a game, you will surely be resurrected.
Good night, young man. Tonight's voltage is stable.
Go back to bed, but be sure to recharge your phone.
The camera fixes its gaze on you as your eyelids close.
Your heartbeats bounce on the earth, and you’ll
fly through a nebula to reach the edge of the universe.
You will come to stand in front of her like before,
and kiss her, and share your sorrows.
Good night, young man, see you online tomorrow, when
Truman Burbank will flee his beloved hometown,
and breaking free is the most difficult thing.

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/nFkuptl8XO2hxBSzvtM1iA

晚安，少年

丁鹏

城市之光，透过手机向你低语
你失眠，因为你是一截导体
电流伴随你的指尖溅起细浪
指尖滑动，刷屏的二手真相
眨动睫毛，像一棵春天的稗草
像你在游戏中死去，又复活
晚安，少年。夜的电压平稳
躺回床上，手机放到座充上
摄像头在凝视你，你阖上眼睑
当心跳撞击地球，你飞起来
穿过星云，抵达宇宙的边缘
站到她的面前，像过去一样
你亲吻她，和她分享你的悲伤
晚安，少年。明天的屏幕里
楚门会逃出他所热爱的城市
你也会打通最难的一道关卡

AFTER MID-AUTUMN, SITTING ALONE ON A BARREN HILL

by Dong Li

Old Heaven has a long, drawn-out face,
someone must owe him 800,000 in cash plus interest.
The hills are overflowing with little wild daisies,
but not a single one of them knows
why the sunflowers were all executed in autumn.
Midway in the sky, sparrow hawks screech.
Are they looking for mates
or hunting for food?
I sit on the hilltop, alone,
not thinking about my tumbledown village.
The farmers are harvesting at foothill,
looking neither happy or sad.
Singing comes from a distance; it’s the sound of a marriage,
the same music as a funeral,
as if alluding to the adage:
There's nothing new under the sun.

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/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

SPRING SEASON PUBLIC WORK AWARDS

by Haiwai Dongjing

Gulls and herons to glide the rivers and riverbanks.
River clams to strain sand for pearl and jade production.
Schools of fish to perform a translucent shadow dance.
Wetlands to set up a reception for migratory birds.
Flowers to unlatch the doors for Spring.
Honey bees to give everyone a rendezvous with beauty.
Waterfalls, precipices, and jagged rocks to wake us from dreamland.
Secluded winding paths to help us explore mountains and rivers.
The wandering peddlers to broadcast folk songs.
The embroidery shoe shops to revive the colorful good old days.
The dye shops to furnish an ample supply of indigenous blue.
Barking dogs and crowing cocks to showcase pastoral life.
Fireflies to take charge of midnight lighting.
Whooping cranes to manage celestial sounds.
Nightingales to stage forest concerts.
Hilltop inns to livestream sunrise for millions to see.
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

春天的竞岗公示

海外东经

鸥鹭承包河流及其两岸的轻度滑翔
河蚌承包河砂的喷珠溅玉
鱼群承包透明的影子舞蹈
湿地承包候鸟归来的接待方案
花朵承包开启春天的摁键
蜜蜂承包美的邂逅
瀑布、绝壁和怪石承包梦境醒来
曲径通幽承包山河游踪
货郎担子承包民谣播报
绣鞋坊承包五颜六色的如烟往事
染坊承包海量的生态蓝
鸡鸣犬吠承包田园风情
萤火虫承包夤夜访问的灯火
鹤鸣承包云端噪音治理
夜莺承包森林的音乐会
山巅客栈承包等待直播的网红日出

MOURNING

by Du Hua

Wheat is just almost golden, apricots are just about ripe.
My aunt, who lived in Qingyang for fifty years, is gone.
A simple hearse, a white horse, sorna horns playing, mourning and crying.
My sorrow heaves with the wheat waves outside the courtyard.
A stroll around the fence, in and out, I see tress planted by Aunt:
walnut, apple, apricot, plum, peach . . .
Their foliage are still lush, fruits abound, but Aunt has forgone the world.
Even the pigpens and sheepfolds are crowded with pigs and sheep,
and purple medick and yellow day-lilies bloom on the edge of foot paths,
but dear, admirable Aunt has forgone the world,
passing the waist-high wheat at dusk,
leaving the serene and beautiful Dongzhiyuan Plateau*.
Deep at night, watching the big, solemn moon,
my sorrow overwhelms me like a cold wind moving across the plateau,
coming from below the blades of grass,
and reaching higher than the tallest treetop.
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

悼

独化

麦子将黄未黄，杏子将熟未熟
在庆阳生活五十年的姑母去了
素车白马，唢呐声声，哭声哀哀
我之哀伤犹如场院外此起彼伏的麦浪
信步所至，墙里墙外，几全部为姑母手植之
核桃树、苹果树、杏树、李树、桃树……
枝繁叶茂，果实累累，而姑母却撒手人寰
甚至，猪圈里，羊圈里，猪羊满圈
而且，田埂上紫花苜蓿金针黄花触目皆是
而我可亲可敬的姑母大人却撒手人寰
从齐腰身的麦子地边走过
黄昏，漫步安静、美丽的董志塬
下半夜，一弯月亮正大、庄严
我的哀伤犹如塬上冷冷的风
不起于草尖，也并不止于林梢

I ESPECIALLY LOVE THE PLANTS THAT DON’T BLOOM

by Fang Bin

On the shoulder of the mountain, when people loudly admire a gorgeous tree,
I cast my eyes lower, fix upon
a patch of shadowy, gloomy liverworts.
Clustering among rocks, wrapping them in time's nightgown,
they resemble a deep brown scab, or stitches on the earth's wound,
a wisdom covered up by dust that shields away daylight.
Yes, I especially cherish these plants that do not bloom,
like my love for a quiet mountain range, for the hidden mines or strut,
for a river's spring, forgotten as it collects water alone.
The lowly creatures usually only roam free at night, in icy blind spots,
like the current under the wings, or a clock's second hand making tiny advances.
It is the little pond with the moon in the wilderness, the mute watching the moon.
— they resemble my aunt who has not said one word in her life.
— I now have an epitaph for her:
Song Yue'er, female. Born in hardship, died in difficulties.
Using no words, she was the third leg for her husband.
Using no words, she painted a distant place for her son and daughter.
Please, kind-hearted passersby, the things she did not say,
you say for her...

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/Q36WmzSIBz1e5uh7sFjFpg

我尤怜爱那些不开花的植物

方斌

在山肩。当他们惊呼于那一树的妖艳
我的目光却投向低处，黏住了
影子一样幽暗的一地苔藓
它们簇拥着石头，给它裹上一件时光的睡袍
像深褐色的血痂，缝合了大地的伤口
像一句蒙尘的箴言，微光难觅
是的，我尤怜爱那些不开花的植物
像怜爱沉寂的群山，爱隐忍的矿与托举
像怜爱河的源头，爱被遗忘的汇聚与孤独
匍匐者的释放从来就在黑夜，在冰冷的盲区
它们是羽翼下的气流，是秒针追赶的微乎其微
是荒野端着月亮的小塘，是对月的小哑巴
一一这像极了我一生未吐一字的二婶
一一此刻，我想好了为她写的墓志铭:
宋月娥，女。生于苦，卒于难
她用无语，为丈夫打造了另一条腿
她用无语，为一对儿女勾画出远方
拜托每一位善良的路人，她没有说的
请你替她说出来一一

SOME PLACE

by Fang Qihua

After work, I passed an island.
The reason I call it an island is because
its life seems out of place in the constant stream of traffic
on the North Ring Rd, like a miniature park place
next to a crammed highway.
Behind it is an old neighborhood,
where the folks must have sneered at this "park",
not even one percent of what it should be,
not a real flock of birds except
two wooden cranes facing each other,
no live animals but for two rattan-woven
deer, one, head raised back whinnying,
the other grazing timidly.
As to the grass, it's true, it's real,
laid down by some worker, and one can also wonder
about the exotica of the flowers here.
So, about this island, we can draw our conclusions
safely: it's isolated and it's pieced together, its existence,
half-real and half-dreamt up, I feel close to it
as our fates seem to intertwine.
And it's great for poetry, each time
I pass by, I imagine myself
a great poet, eyes,
nose, subconscious mind hoping to capture
something with a touch of poetry, doing it with eyes open
or closed, or hearing with eyes closed
for something bigger than the endless honking and the dust,
something resembling the so-called
"traditional bird songs and modernist flowers."
I try to prove my point, not unlike going
down this road, separating myself from the city,
voicing my opinions in a lively poetry group,
constant pros and cons, hoping for a change of order
out of cause and effect, trying to pry open darkness
for the slightest peek of light within, even though
it might well be an even darker view. I try to quiet myself,
try to catch very carefully the sound of blooming flower,
not to miss the faint cheer in case it is there.

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/6HM3JZXIakZ60W3qC_3m8w

一处

方启华

下班的路上，我经过一处孤岛
之所以说它孤岛，是因为
它的存在与川流不息的北一环
格格不入，它像一个迷你公园
被设置在一条拥挤的道路边
它的身后是一处老旧小区
小区的人一定看不上这
至少被缩小了100倍的某处公园
所以没有现实的鸟群，只有
两只木制的仙鹤对眼相望
没有鲜活的物种，只有两只藤编的
小鹿，它们其中一只仰天长啸
另外一只小鹿羞涩地低头吃草
关于这草，我不得不承认
它是真实的，它是某个工人
从某处移植过来，同理可以推测
这里的花，也是来自某处
所以关于这座孤岛，我们可以
得出一个结论：首先它是孤立的
它是被拼接而成的，它是存在
于现实和虚拟之间的，它与我
有着一种仿佛命中注定的缘分
且它是可以写入诗中的，每次
路过，我都会想象自己是一个
伟大的诗人，我的眼睛，我的
鼻子和我的潜意识开始捕捉任何
带有诗歌的气息，比如睁眼或者
闭眼，亦或者是闭着眼睛倾听
除了连绵不绝的汽车鸣笛声和灰尘
我在努力寻找一种所谓
“传统的鸟叫声和现代主义的花朵”
我努力证明自己是正确的，就好比
我经过了这条马路，我孤立在这座城市
我在热闹的诗群说了我的某个观点
我开始反省和斗争，我望一切因果
可以扭转次序，我试着把黑暗剖开
去看看究竟里面是一点点光亮，还是
更加黑暗。我努力让自己静下来
认认真真的听听一朵花在开放的过程中
是否会发出微弱的喝彩声

WALLED IN

by Fei Bai

For the entire summer, I have holed in at home
and tried to stave off the chill that comes with the unbearable heat.
I also tried to write about the shadowy parlous couple in the apartment across,
and brewed a pot of fifteen-herb medicine with poetry mixed in,
hardly making any ripples.
After middle age,
even a ringing arrow folds its wings.
My vision,although not in the boondocks,
can encounter occasional outage, and get stuck in the dark,
or become listless like avagrant tapertail anchovy.
I labored to build the lines of defense, one by one,
to keep away the miserable world in decay.
The windows feel weary and tired
but know better to endure. Not once did they complain
about the ugly buildup of walls and fortresses.
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

围城

飞白

整个夏日我都空居一室
都在试图对抗酷暑难耐裹挟的寒意
我还试图描述对楼昏暗无常的夫妻
用文火和诗意慢炖十五味中药
让水波更趋平缓
即便中年以后
那枚响箭终究折翼
眼底，再无山丘僻林
也会偶尔停电，被挤进暗角地带
或刀鱼一样流离失所
我还是在不停为这世间所有衰败苦苦
筑牢防线，一道接着一道
窗子有些倦意
它竟也会委屈自己。绝口不提
——那些满眼遍布的城池

THE OLD CARPENTER

by An Qiaozi

Timber neatly stacked in the house,
waiting for the command of the carpenter,
who has an insight for each piece.
When drilling, a shrill seems to come
from him as if he’s the one been pierced,
as if the fear of old age has intensified.
He is seldom sloppy, precise in every move,
his overused hands still can chisel out the prettiest waves.
The scrapes have a residual life,
the others were delivered to the crematoriums.
Some shavings floated down,
already smelling of decay;
some saw dust stays on his head like snow
that wouldn’t be shaken off.
He studies and cross-examines every piece of wood;
each looks unique,
nicely textured, elegant and sleek.
The finished pieces lays aside, waiting for the final
adornment, for their bridal gowns.
Now, a few things are settled.
This time when the door opened,
someone absent from his life for thirty years appeared,
his adversary finally came after thirty years.
Already old, he handed him a cigarette
and lit 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

>p>
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 FEW WORDS ABOUT SNOW

by Fu Guangtang

Poets who write about spring
also keep snow alive.
Snow is snow, how varied can it be?
Southern snow, northern snow,
physical snow, metaphysical snow.
Untainted or tainted; serene or agitated,
dead or reviving….all kinds of snow.
It also enters one’s destiny,
for example, a snow-in hometown,
blurry realities, then
some sparrows got out, took to the air,
but again returned to the snowy ground.
And, the man who walks in the snow
may not have a mind of snow.
A heart without snow can make up snow
to please himself, and make others love it to bits.
Snow is a root word in etymology, an epistemology.
It exists in western pantheons, in oriental monasteries.
A peaceful snow gathers people around a round table,
so much to talk about, with one’s newly-found soulmate.
It can also be the foundation of a dictionary,
with infinite entries, but even the fanciest definition
must pass the simple test: does it have snow? yes or no.
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

也写一场雪

傅光堂

写过春天的诗人
会让雪存在

一场雪，有什么不同？
南方的雪，北方的雪
自然的雪，心里的雪

纯洁的、肮脏的；宁静的、喧嚷的
死亡的、复活的……雪

在一个人的宿命里
比如，深陷雪中的故乡
真相虚幻，但
挣脱出来的麻雀、飞着飞着
又飞落在雪面上

比如，行走雪原的人
心里不一定有雪
心里无雪的人，会虚构一场雪
让自己喜欢，让别人爱的要死

雪是词根，是一部认知史
西方的神殿，东方的寺院
交谈甚欢，相见恨晚

也是一个人的辞典
浩瀚的词条，再复繁的义项
绕不过无雪或有雪的简单

THE GLASS BRIDGE

by Fu Tianlin

The cliff faces, knife-sharp, I stand midair
in the chasm between them.
Knees shaking, fear of heights, my rabbit heart
leaped out more than once and got pushed back.
Eyes dare only look straight, sideways, or far out,
undoubtedly the precipices were glazed,
but the bright sun continues to paint over it,
giving it a blue sheen, a green sheen.
Birds fly by. One is already gray at the temples,
and in awe just like I am.
Their cries bounce off the cliffs,
as if the rocks are calling, the sky is calling.
Afloat are white clouds, soft like cotton tufts
as if freshly born from the precipices.
Leafy florets grow on the tips of trees:
round and fluffy like rising aspirations.
The green mountains expand into a sea!
My spirit is sky high, matching this eternal morning.
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

玻璃桥

傅天琳

峭壁如削！现在我就站在
峭壁之上的虚空里
腿软，恐高，小心脏几次跳出来
又几次被摁回去
只敢平视、斜视、远望
望对面悬崖，几疑上过琉璃釉
白太阳还在一遍一遍反复涂抹
微微发蓝、发青
有鸟飞过。其中一只已经两鬓斑白
脸上挂着与我相似的表情
它用叫声撞响石壁
就觉得是岩石在叫，一座天空在叫
白云轻盈如絮，一挂一挂
就觉得是从地里刚刚长出来的
树尖新叶如花，一团绒毛球球
就觉得聚集了一股蓬勃向上的气息
苍山如海！这个上午有多宽
我的心情就有多宽。

A NAME FOR A LAKE

by Gan Haibing

Away from the smog, twenty kilometers out
is a lake — a teardrop from a peach blossom, let me call it Peach Blossom Pond,
three feet deep, and farmer Wang Loon* lives nearby.
I love the fish in the water, who pick the best bits to eat
and flap away the carefree days. I love that peasant woman with a hoe on her shoulder,
she rakes and weeds, and fosters all the city folks and a hectare of radishes.
But clearly this luminous lake is the moon that Wang Loon
secretly gifted to me, which shines like a mirror
and plays the music of heaven and earth.
Translator’s note: Wang Loon (or Wang Lun in pingyin phonetic system) was a friend of the famous poet Li Bai in Tang Dynasty. Wang Loon was a city magistrate. After leaving office, he moved his family to a country house by Peach Blossom Pond, where Li Bai visited him several times, and wrote a poem titled Gift to Wang Loon : "The Peach Blossom Pond, a thousand feet deep, is not as deep as Wang Loon's friendship to me."
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/E2qxRSv5R9kXkOBgn3_Pvw

为一片湖水命名

干海兵

在离雾霾20公里远的地方
有一滴桃花的泪水，我想叫它桃花潭
水深三尺，旁边住着种庄稼的汪伦
我爱那水中居住的游鱼，食英撷玉
小日子荡漾。我爱那湖边荷锄而立的农妇
她指着桑骂着槐，是所有城里人和一亩萝卜的母亲
但这一汪湖水又分明是汪伦
偷偷塞在我手上的月亮，月光如镜
吹奏着天空和大地的声音

ME AND MYSELF

By Gan Sha

Sometimes I want to tell myself some home truths,
I suddenly feel touched
as if having met an almsgiver.
Sometimes I want to run away from the city,
to be alone to ponder,
I want to speak out loud what’s in my heart,
to hear it for myself.
Sometimes I am caught in a mesh of intrigues,
causing me to cease to exist,
only by shouting out loud, waking myself up,
that I know I am still here.
Sometimes I want to buddy punch myself
like running into a long-absent friend.

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/c03Y04-v_zvL7jcmiPB7cQ

我和我自己

干沙

有时我想跟我自己说句真心话
我会突然间感动起来
像遇到了恩人
有时我想逃离这座城市
独自一人想想心事
我想把心里的话大声地说出来
让我亲耳听见
有时我被一种莫名的怀念抓住
脱不了身，感觉不到我的存在
只有大喊一声，把我惊醒
才知道我还在我的身上
有时我想狠狠给我一拳
像久别的朋友突然见面时那样

SPARROWS

by Gao Feng

Inside a tiny sparrow is an even tinier temple,
there is also a hospice for the elderly.
The heavy snow last year
caused every soul under the sky to fast, but no death.
All the sparrows survived.
They went from the Zhang’s to the Li’s,
checking out the pigsty, the kitchen, and the windowsill.
A few puffed or cooked rice fell from
the children’s hands or the elderlies’ lips,
where did they go in the snow?
And the rice stump were all gone with the burning ban.
There’re puzzle nuts everywhere, but too hard to swallow.
The birds perched on the telephone cable,
a warm current running back and forth delivering blessings.
They finally triumphed over the winter,
flying down from on high
to save a little strength.
They start by falling, a few inches 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

TIME'S SCREW

by Gao Jiangang

From a stopped wrist watch,
I took out a tiny little gold-plated screw,
so tiny that I daren't risk dropping it.
When inserting a bead of battery into its belly,
the screw suddenly was gone
from the paper where it rested.
The sofa, carpet, tea table . . .every seam and crack,
is now a world subjected to the looking glass, to the magnet,
made chaotic by a roaring vacuum cleaner.
Amidst a hundred million dust-particles,
I found my love’s emerald gem, lost for years,
the lost needle that Mother worried might pierce,
my late father's salary seal from long ago,
my children’s colored marble,
men’s hair, women’s hair,
sunflower seeds, red beans, crickets . . .
I held on to this paused interval,
gazing out at the boundless sea through the window.
A tiny shiny screw is rising with the moon
above the sea.
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/KisprleFyj21Gb2wea9Etw

时间上的螺丝

高建刚

从停止的手表上，取下一颗微小的
镀金螺丝，微小到不能失手
在其腹部嵌入鹤眼似的动力时
螺丝突然从存放它的白纸上消失
沙发、地毯、茶几……所有的缝隙
放大镜的世界
磁铁的世界
轰鸣的吸尘器打乱世界
在亿万的灰尘中
发现了爱人失踪多年的一颗绿宝石
曾让母亲担心伤人的缝衣针
去世已久的父亲领工资的刻印
孩子儿时的彩色玻璃球
男人女人的毛发
葵花籽、红豆、蟋蟀……
我握住停止的时间
望着窗外广袤的大海
一颗微小的镀金螺丝伴着明月
从海平线上升起

THOSE DAYS

by Gao Liang

Those days, a long cord was tied to the switch,
you could still turn on a light while sitting on the bed.
Those days the lights were as plain as the country folks.
not worrying about the material of the cord.
You pulled it and it lit up, pulled again and it turned off.
After a light goes out, a winter night
often brings a deeper awakening
and even better vision.
Those days I used to like to get up in the dark,
and look through fence gaps or the seam of the doors
at what’s there beyond the dark world —
Moonlight, stars, white frost on the roof,
a small gray cat with bright eyes,
all were very fascinating,
and when a lamp broke, in those days,
they would compete to stand out and continue to shine.

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/dhPxdXrtjym-JxX6fdP9IQ

那时

高亮

那时用一根长线和开关相连
坐在床上，也可以拧亮一盏灯
那时的灯和乡下人一样朴素
从不计较挂上去的线是何材质
拉一下就亮，再拉一下就关
冬日的夜晚，一盏灯熄灭后
常常会带给人更深刻的清醒
甚至更明亮的视力
那时的我总喜欢摸黑起床
透过篱笆墙上的孔洞或门缝儿
看一看黑暗之外的世界——
月光，繁星，屋顶上的白头霜
一只小灰猫发亮的眼睛
都如此令人着迷
那时一盏灯坏了
它们会争相站出来继续朗照人间

GINKGO TREES ON BEIJING ROAD

by Ge Feng

Beijing West Road is shedding again.
Its ginkgo trees, its courtyards,
the streetscape and the crowds,
and the sunshine of November,
all are in tune with my ex-girlfriend’s
moods while sipping coffee:
"Gold dances in the sky,
and commands me to sing.”
The hippyish older poets
sit on boulders.
Beijing West Road has prepared for them
hearty dinners and ideas for couplets.
An autumn wind by itself is enough
for a howl,
almost tuneful.
Ginkgo trees litter the whole street.
The endless summery love
is now gold all over the floor,
brightening up the passersby,
brushing shoulders with those walking down
and sometimes turning around suddenly,
their parallel faces parading on,
arranged as if in couplets.
Autumn howls continuously,
like our poets,
slowly shedding
all of its hair.

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/9LTrWVJK97WVV98-LFDZkg

北京西路的银杏树

格风

北京西路一带
又开始掉头发了
那里的银杏树
庭院，风景和人群
十一月的阳光
匹配于前女友
一杯咖啡的内心戏
“黄金在天空舞蹈
命令我歌唱”
长头发的前辈诗人
坐在石头上
北京西路
为他们准备了
丰盛的晚餐和排比句
足够他们
大哭一场的秋风
秋风中的乐器
银杏树卸下整整一条街
整整一个夏天的爱情
遍地金黄
照亮走过来的人
走过去的人
擦肩而过和突然转身的
分行排列的脸
停在他们的句子中
整个秋天
也像他们的苦吟
一点点掉光
所有的头发

CAI LUN'S WELL*

by Gong Xuan

The well has no fence. Through a hidden spring
the invisible river wells up.
Those who come to wash vegetables or clothes
are treated like sons and daughters.
The bustling city is a formidable place
for any hermit. The granny waving a plantain fan,
the old man holding a hand of poker cards,
the street peddlers, and people hurrying by,
most are unaware of a poisonous potion
that took the life of a man, whose
choice resting place became a well of supreme spirit.
Centuries have gone by, the well remains a quiet place,
clear to the bottom, perhaps also soothing to a tormented heart?
Now, if I can borrow the magic of time,
I would untie the old knots of love and hate. Rarely anyone
investigates the truth behind the scene. But this tiny spot
is brimful with kindness. The writing on hard turtle shells made its way
to soft paper because of the divine nature of water.
They look handsome, with stride of pride. All types, freehand, standard script,
cursive, tablet inscription, or Song style, all delight
the keenest eyes and inspire great passion.
I imagine a jug of serenity, with water of civilization to wash away the world’s stains.
Then, innocent tears fall on paper, spread like ink to form a cloud, a blade of grass, a tree,
a boulder, a flock of birds in the sky, a warm house to keep watch of a well,
where passersby stop to talk to the spirit of water.
What to say in a discourse, so it doesn’t have the noise of “me, me, me…”?
Translator’s note:
Cai Lun (CE 48–121) is traditionally regarded as the inventor of paper and paper-making process.
The use of paper for writing spread within a few centuries after Cai Lun’s invention, and enabled China to develop its civilization much faster than it had with earlier writing materials, from turtle shell, to bamboo and silk, etc. Cai Lun’s paper-making process utilized water, therefore the significance of a well.
Cai Lun was a Chinese eunuch, inventor, and politician of the Han dynasty. He was in charge of manufacturing instruments and weapons, but also appointed as a Regular Palace Attendant and involved in a palace intrigue as a supporter of Empress Dou, and in the death of her romantic rival Consort Song. Consort Song's grandson later became Emperor, and Cai Lun was ordered to report to prison. Before he was to report, he committed suicide by drinking poison after taking a bath and dressing in fine silk robes.

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/Arw9XhoDX5uRuOsC_BML6g

蔡伦井

龚璇

这里没有井栏。看不见的泉孔
暗河之水，汩汩而涌
溺爱每一个净菜，或浣衣的人
街市喧闹。想做一个隐匿者
已很不容易。拿着芭蕉扇的婆母
握紧纸牌的老翁，叫卖的商贩
以及行色匆匆的赶路人
他们不可能知道，一杯毒鸩
戕害的生命，曾把这口井的灵性
替换了自己预选的墓地
几百年来，因此沉默寡言
而以清澈见底，抑制苦涩的心？
此刻，我借时间的法术，倾力解开
爱与恨的捆缚。不会有一个人
去追究暗处的真相。这方寸之池
盈满善念。水的造化
使龟壳的文字，闯入柔软的纸道
挺立着，不失风骨。狂草，正楷
行书，魏碑，宋体，一样的魅力
倾倒火焰似的目光，翻滚不止
我可以想象，文明的容器
盛满静水，世俗的尘埃
所以消失殆尽。之后
干净之泪，滴落纸间墨化
一朵云，一片草，一棵树
一块顽石，一群飞鸟，一间暖屋
守护的一口井，让经过的
或即将经过的人，与水的灵魂对话
怎样的作答？才没有自私的杂音

RUSTED LOVE

By Gu Baokai

A ceaseless drizzle falls on winter's wharf,
and falls on life's journeys, too.
I tried to call out your name but swallowed it.
I dare not touch those things that taper to a pointed end,
the heads of weed, the bristles of barley, a flimsy light.
I see a tree that summons a lifetime of strength just to
heal its wounds.
That day the earth was split asunder by a thunderstorm,
and things hidden in the dark suddenly became clear.

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/5wneVY40LDVfMnxHJqUDOg

爱情是一件生锈的铁器

顾宝凯

一场绵密的细雨下在冬天的码头
也下在一生的旅途中
我尝试叫出你的名字又咽了回去
我不敢去触碰过于尖锐的事物
草尖，麦芒，微弱的光
我看见一棵树用尽一生的力气
修复自己的伤口
那天的雷雨，劈开了大地
隐藏在黑暗中的事物那么清晰

IN THE MOMENT

by Gu Cheng

Each step is the last step in life, to a higher ground
I go, perchance to walk into the next world
through a doorway glistening in clouds and mists,
and a cold spring from a handsome carved dragon.
To stay in the mountain is it to live an innocent dream,
to perch tête-à-tête with a sweet flower on a branch of the other world,
counting stars, sipping dew,
doing something new every day for the simple joy of living.
The heavier the burden, the lighter the being,
look, the lotus flower is carved into stone:
the two are inseparable.

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/8cUFonSH495d-JnB_wG_Gw

一步一莲花

孤城

一步一莲花，登高台。会不会走着走着就
走进了来生
云雾洗涤出来的门槛，雕龙嘴里吐出的清泉
是不是不下山，就可以干净地活在梦里面
就可以
朴素地站在来世的枝头，和一朵心仪的花儿头挨着头
数星星，喝露水
一天换一个花样寻开心
苦难有多沉，身体就有多轻盈
宛若莲花刻在石头里
不离分

A BUTTERFLY SPECIMEN

by Gu Chunfang

A butterfly, pinned on the clock,
the hands have just passed twelve.
It jabbed at my memory of watching a specimen made.
Surrounded by Amazon's waters, midday
in the jungle, time was reveling.
The children hustled for the entire summer,
all within the distance between the table and the chair.
They bent over the desk, over wooden frames.
It reminded me of the secluded confessional
down the aisle at the end of the church.

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/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

Ailing in a corner, the sunset flits by
like a mosquito.
Slender long feet, a slap,
limbs stuck to the grid,
sketches of tiny cracks
on a white tile.
Palm size, heat on the ice.
Rectangular window, an air vent,
a suck, 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.
Swinging a bamboo fan, a draft from left to right.
Plain shirt, sleeves rolled up in summer heat,
bare elbows,
dry and cracked in old age.
Unable to ever swing again,
flying flies are stuck to our glassy eyes,
as if salvation awaits.

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/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。

AT LIANGHONG WETLAND

by Gu He

Early spring, the sun still imparts a touch of cold,
Callery pears are sprouting white buds,
wild reeds make waves in the wind.
All you can see is gray, as if the world is stifled by fate.
The sound of broken bones,
river ice cracking, while the rapeseeds glow by the water.
The rippling water reflects on its mirror
a new season that is foundering to take off.
So only love is not enough, it needs to take a leap,
and blind trust. No use to envy the eternal harmony between the clouds and the flowers.
This land so vast, the sky so low, you say it’s the earth holding the water,
or is it the other way around? I like
this scraggly, lazy early spring, in-between boats paddling,
dandelions and egrets take off,
retrieving old feathers and the key to regroup.
The river spreads like veins, reaching every part of the earth,
it will trickle through the spring
so as to retain bees, butterflies, and other flower robbers.
And I shall hold on to my secret craftsmanship
in keeping a poem self-contained and uncopiable.
I know, time will not lose heart
in the succession of seasons,
the earth dreams of flames and new bamboo shoots, it also moves the wetland
to where the river rests.

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/L74dJEZ2WhduNvIbTEbfCQ

在梁鸿湿地

谷禾

早春的阳光带着微薄寒凉，
豆梨才露出白牙，
风中俯仰的野芦苇
灰茫茫一片，仿佛被命运扼紧了脖子。
骨头的断折之声传来，
如冰茬碎裂，而水边油菜花金黄。
在细浪的镜子里，
季节刚迈开趔趄的脚步。
所以仅有爱还不够，还要跑起来，
还要一叶障目，无视白云与黄花举案齐眉。
野旷天低，你说是泥土涵养了水分，
还是相反？我喜欢
这散漫凌乱的早春，从浆声的裂隙里，
蒲公英和白鹭飞起，
从残雪下取回了羽毛和翔集的钥匙。
河水如脉络，遍布大地全身，
要蹀躞流过春天，
才能挽留蜜蜂、蝴蝶、更多的采花盗。
我还有秘密的手艺，
以保持一首诗的完整性与不可模仿。
我知道的，时间不会怅惘失神，
在季节的轮回里，
泥土梦见火焰和新生的青竹，也把这湿地
带向江水停歇之处。

MOURNFUL SOUNDS

by Gu Ma

In the temple courtyard, under a desert plant,
a tethered ox
lolls his tongue repeatedly and
licks his lips.
The fragrance of the desert blossoms
drifts next door to
the dormitory of a folk opera ensemble.
It's dark,
shadowy figures move about on the lit balcony.
Highrises show up in the northwest now,
a disused ox-horn still holds the ink line.
The world looks blurry
through the ox’s tears;
stars hide away, high above
the sickle moons sits atop the temple roof,
far behind the highrises and the floating clouds.
His tail sweeps constantly
to disperse
the restless dust in the air.
Daybreak is a realm of darts
that no one can walk around to avoid.
The ox begins a sorrowful bellow
with all his might, all night long,
hoping to eject the weight from his chest
to the void.
Its mournful sounds
wake up the celebrated opera singer,
causing him to toss and turn and think:
though I know how to move air through my belly,
I still cannot master a tune.

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/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。

MOVING CAMP

by Gu Ma

We must go where
the white-lipped deer kisses the sunlit moss,
and the water in rock cleavages shines like her glances.
Where we are going,
a tree or two stand with uneven shadows,
and clouds roll, and fish and grass and tigers and leopards,
who knows which is which.
Where we are going,
desert shallots glisten with rain,
Lord Genghis Khan watches over us,
so we'll be at the eye of all springs, north of the North Star.
The place we are going, it's nine days and nine nights away.
Pack the tents and tea things and cookware, catch up with the sheep.
There're still work to do before moving camp:
the fiddle strings are broken and its box needs mending;
the worn sturdy boots have lost their soles;
last night's fire for making milk tea and lamb stew
can be revived from the cold ashes;
all our misfortune and adversities are to be buried,
one by one, deep under the golden sand.
Let spring breeze return to refresh this beloved place.
All right.
We have a long way to go,
riding a horse and leading a camel.
Let a fine cheerful dog come forward.
Just don't forget
the early-morning whistle.
Just don't forget
the whistle in the night.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

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

转场

古马

我们要去的地方
白唇鹿的嘴唇碰到阳光的苔草
石缝里的清水就像它回头张望的眼睛
四周围或有树影一短一长
北山云鱼化草草化虎豹变幻莫测
我们要去的地方
雨水嫩绿沙葱长势正好
圣主成吉思汗的眼睛
泉眼之眼北斗以北
我们要去的地方要走上九天九夜
驮上帐房茶炊赶上羊群
转场前还有些事必须办完
马头琴琴柱断了琴箱破了
那双穿过很久的靴子底儿掉了
昨夜煮滚奶茶煮罢羊肉的火
已经灭了灰已经冷了
还有我们的不如意和难堪
要一一埋藏，干净的沙土埋藏深些
让来年春风吹绿这挂念的地方
好了
我们要去的地方还有很远的路程
要骑上马，牵上骆驼
让一只欢实的细犬窜到前面
只是你别忘了
带着清晨的口哨
只是你别忘了
吹起夜里的口哨

PILGRIMAGE TO CHANG'AN

by Gu Nian of Shaanxi

1.
Starting from the first brick, every part of Chang’an is real.
Like spring grass,
it once wilted, but fresh again in Bai Xiangshan’s poetry*.
Moss peeling off, a chunk at a time, the city walls
send the years off to somewhere faraway.
2
The moon sits high, over the city alone, like a teardrop.
The wanderers at night wander like phantoms. Darkness
stretches out at the heel of the city wall, from here
to no end. A wind chime trembles in the doorway,
giving a hint of starlight.
3
"I am a man on the road, dew on my eyelashes."
Chang’an burns under the moon. I say I feel cold.
I would like to set up camp in Chang’an, but I dare not say it.
Chang’an is a modifier, permeating my heaven and earth.
Note: Bai Xiangshan, Chinese poet, also known as Bai Juyi, CE 772-846

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/12nnn8RPJELXBRNanNu7KA

长安行

陕西顾念

1.
从一块城砖开始，长安是存在的
像春草
在白香山的诗句里往复枯荣
青苔整块整块的脱落，城廓
将岁月交付远方
2.
月亮孤悬于城头，如一滴泪
夜游人游荡的像虚无，大片大片的黑
顺着墙根蔓延，顺着目光
蔓延。风铃在门洞里，用颤栗
指引细微的星光
3.
"我是行路的男子，我的睫毛上有露水"
长安在月下燃烧起来，我说我冷
我想让长安成为我的宿营地，可是我不敢说
长安是一个形容词，铺天盖地的落下

SUMMER STORY

by Gu Shanyun

My original plan was to go fishing with Gu.
The tackle and bait were ready to go,
but Sally asked us to go over to eat her salad.
She said she had just learned to make it.
While Sally was busy in the kitchen,
Gu and I continued talking about fishing.
That was one sultry afternoon.
Gu and I were hot and sweating,
but neither dared take off his shirt.
Sally was wearing a suspender dress,
looking very cool.
She asked both of us our opinion of her salad.
Gu was never a fan of westernized Chinese cuisine.
I said, very good, but I meant her dress.
Later, Sally became my wife.
That was a long time ago.
Now I am sitting alone in my yard, packing up fishing tackle.
Sally left for a coastal city.
a far more expanse of water than here.
Gu became food for the fish in the river,
that was the end of his poetry.
I confess, when they were away,
I didn’t write either of them any letters.
Now right here I have lettuce, coriander, and cucumber.
I am not going to turn them into a salad,
but will wrap and pickle them in soy paste;
Sally would never understand why I did this.

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/Qao6usXmSxBzPEXxpR4pkg

夏天的故事

孤山云

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

A whirling evening,
what dizzies the pasture is not the winds,
but the wind turbines, which
have one more horn than a bull, and as they turn gently,
they shuffle the sun behind the hills.
Some say these bewildering monsters
don’t merely chop the heads off the sheep
but also strangle great swaths of clouds.
Hungry hawks have avoided their swirling blades,
but can’t dodge their whirling backwash.
For this reason those docile sheep
move themselves to a new pasture,
bowing heads and chewing grass
as if doing it for us
until our hunched backs
also become at least as graceful and as meek as theirs,
no longer resisting the stabs from the great earth
or fighting other brutal forces.
The most we do is wave our arms and shout.
More and more we turn ourselves into human-powered generators.
Even when there is no wind and the wind turbines are at rest,
the grasslands continue to spin.
The pasture is a huge wheel as a whole,
unceasingly spinning as twilight approaches.

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/-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。

SHANGHAI VIGNETTE

by Guo Congyu

On the narrow and dated alley, at a breakfast shop,
I ordered a bowl of sweet soy milk, and a poached egg,
the very best, with a soft yolk. All is steaming
hot. Wet March, the last of the lingering
cold. The breakfast shop owner spoke little even though she looked to be
at the “chatterbox” age. She held a large stainless ladle, leaning
on the kitchen counter. We tried not to notice the rubber peeling off the electric wire
or the sign of mold at the corner. From inside the door frame, one could see
a sprawling shopping center. All the luxury goods I knew
could be found here, and those unknown to me were usually even more luxurious.
The flowing sound of Huangpu River was near,
and Lujiazui was in a remarkable cycle.
The city gave different impressions depending on whom I brushed shoulders with
on Nanjing Rd. Still early in the morning, but I already received
the cell phone ordered the day before. My typing speed
still lagged behind. Even the keyboard, with an age gap with me,
did not understand me, and Shanghai was moving a step closer to
delirium. No other guests at the breakfast shop. As the owner looked at
my empty bowl, I realized I could have settled my bill. Being proactive and showing initiative
might earn me the right to hang out here a little longer.

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/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

SOMETHING IS CALLING YOU

By Guo Jianqiang

Something is calling you, calling you,
calling you to go down Prosperity Place, Courthouse Street, Mojia Street Market, down the office blocks, the Arts Museum,
down the various metaphorical windows on memory lane.

Something is calling you, calling you to enter a different city,
to mingle with a different crowd, whose airs and graces remind you of those in your dream.
Something is calling you, calling you to enter even more different cities,
to wine and dine and sing or keep mum with even more people,
and afterwards to exit into the wilderness, farther and farther away,
into the grasslands, into the adjacent Gobi Desert,
into a different desert, and the snowy mountains and the glaciers by that desert,
into the forests farther and farther away.
Something is calling you, calling you to sleep on a flowerhead, on an ascending bird song,
on a cloud, and on the sky above the clouds, on even higher skies.
Something is calling you, calling you to descend from the sky, to wake up on the sea,
to wake up on a scale of a fish in the Pacific.
Something is calling you, calling you to walk into the great west coast,
and then farther and farther away,
into the wilderness, into the grasslands, into the adjacent Gobi Desert,
into a different desert, and the snowy mountains and the glaciers by that desert,
into the forests farther and farther away,
into the shadow in front of your footsteps, into the sleepless, blood-red sunset,
into morning dew as light as a sigh.
Something is calling you, calling you
to walk into different layers of silky winds, into rough bags of winds, into fencing winds,
into fox and rabbit tracks, into the arcs drawn by migratory birds,
into the minute details of pictographs and the labyrinth of letters,
into this lifetime of yours stacked and stacked with memories
when the spirits, being revived and poured into the chalice, is gradually looking amber.

Something is calling you, calling you.
Among mists everywhere and flowers in every corner,
you are a long-distance traveler through this world and one communing with the ghosts.

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/E6tUGeYM7vD2Mb6piMC2Yw

在叫你

郭建强

在叫你在叫你
在叫你穿过兴隆巷法院街莫家街市场和行政楼和艺术馆
和一个在记忆里开合着不同隐喻的窗口

在叫你在叫你进入另外一座城市
和另外一些人擦肩而过那些神态和眼神仿佛一些似曾相识的梦
在叫你在叫你进入更多的城市
和另外更多的一些人唱歌喝酒沉默
然后走得更远走在郊野
走在草原走在毗邻的戈壁
和沙漠和沙漠之侧的雪峰冰川和远处的森林
在叫你在叫你睡在一朵花里和一声越来越高的鸟鸣中
和白云之上和白云之上的天空和更高远的天空
在叫你在叫你从天空下降之后的大海上醒来
在太平洋上的鱼鳞里醒来
在叫你在叫你踏上西海岸无垠的土地然后走得更远
走在郊野走在草原走在毗邻的戈壁沙漠
和沙漠之侧的雪峰冰川和远处的森林
和鞋尖前的影子和失眠的泼血的晚霞
和叹息一样的晨露
在叫你在叫你
走在一层一层丝绸般的风里麻袋般的风里钢铁般的风里
和狐兔的脚迹和候鸟的翅翼划出的圆弧里
和方块字的峻切里和字母的迷宫里
和你的此世和重重叠叠的记忆里
将醒未醒即将倾入杯中的醇酒正在成为琥珀

在叫你在叫你
水气缭绕万物花开
人生天地间你是远行客也是招魂人

BORROWING THE HEART OF THE GRASS

by Guo Xiaoqi

That day, we were in Guanegou.
On that day, the sky was gray, the air was wet and sweet,
and the water was flowing melodiously.
We were bogged down,
mired in a saga of love and hate, unable to break free.
Now, I am far away,
and you have become the faraway place of my life.
I can only confess to you, by the heart of the grass around you.
I can only borrow the heart of the dewdrops rolling down the grass,
to confess to you. Let me also borrow
the heart of the humming insects in the thicket, allow me to explain.
With the simplicity of the grass,
with the luminance of a dewdrop,
with the humility of the insects,
with these three hearts closest to the earth, I will love you for a lifetime.

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/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

借草木之心表白

郭晓琦

那一天，我们在官鹅沟
那一天，天空阴忧，空气湿甜、流水婉转
我们都卡在
一个爱恨情仇的传说中不能抽身
现在，我在远方
现在，你成为我今生的远方
只好借你身边的草木之心向你表白
借草木上滑落的露珠之心
向你表白。借
草丛中低吟的虫豸之心向你表白
草木之心质朴
露珠之心晶莹
虫豸之心卑微
今生，我要用贴近泥土的三颗心去爱你

LET ME DISAPPEAR

Hai Nan

Let me disappear, like how it happens in storybooks,
reading, skimming pages, in forgetfulness
granted a gloomy night. I'm tired.
The inland route will lead me onshore to my
next life. I savor the autumn scenery slowly rising over the horizon.
Only after trekking far in the mud, I see
those women wearing silver ornaments across their chests.
Among them, some have already grown old.
The younger ones haven’t known the art of harvesting wheat.
Drawers, earlobes, hidden weapons, a downpour of rain.
The divide between men and women over generations
led to territories separated by earth and water.
The cooling autumn reminds me of porcelain
and the cold virgin forests.
I want to sob in your arms.
A hard autumn wind blows…

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/bVTZ5h7JxDvOGUSh8LnIGw

我愿意就此隐形

海男

我愿意，就此隐形，像那些书中的故事
只在阅读、翻拂、忘却中
获得幽暗的一夜。我累了
那些从内陆上岸的路, 通往我的
来世。我咀嚼着这渐渐上升中的秋色
泥洼中我走了很远，才看到了
胸前佩带银器的妇女生活
她们中的部分人已老去
更年轻的一代人已经失去了割麦子的手艺
抽屉、耳垂、暗器中滑过一阵雨声
男人、女人世世代代划分了性别之后
才开始了以泥土和水为界
秋天的冷，使我想起瓷器
想起冰凉的原始森林。我愿意在你怀抱呼啸
秋风猛烈的揺晃……

FIELD OF CORN

by Han Dong

Many strange things happen at night.
A stranger stood in the cornfield.
Grandpa walked over, and heard a “plop” in the water.
Afterward, the cornfield had only corn.
Taller than men, all the corn in the field
danced in the moonlight waving their arms.
Did grandpa see a ghost or a thief?
Fearless grandpa walked all the way to the small river.
It’s a summer night, something moved in the water.
A green snake was choking a green frog;
even in the dim light, Grandpa could tell them apart.
Did he feel like a ghost himself?
– at least he is one now:
A lovely ghost stands in the cornfield behind the house,
the moonlight bleaches his clothes white.
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

玉米地

韩东

很多奇异的事发生在夜晚
玉米地里站着一个陌生人。
外公走过去，听见落水的声音
这之后玉米地里就只有玉米。
比人还要高的玉米
在月光下舞动无数条手臂。
外公看见的是一个鬼，还是一个贼？
大胆的外公一直走到小河边
夏夜的水面上有一些动静。
一条绿蛇缠住一只绿蛙
即使在朦胧中外公也能看清那绿色。
他是否觉得自己也是一个鬼？
——至少现在已经是了。
亲爱的鬼站在我家屋后的玉米地里
月色染白了他的衣服。

ORDOS

by Han You

Ordos, a glaring bright spot.
I come again, perhaps to reawaken my destiny.
Where did I come from, and which way do I go?
A new metropolis under the sky, construction halted,
seems unable to continue its spin, unlike the earth, has come to a standstill.
Only a few residents, weak and helpless,
on the overly wide avenues, the sad asphalt roads.
The air’s blueness makes me sad.
Being in love makes me sad, and all the statements for pain
stand out like vibrant plants on the steppe,
but none of them is here to enhance
this lush green, melded field that stretches to no end.
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

鄂尔多斯

寒友

鄂尔多斯，一块刺目的光斑
我重临或再度觉知了我的命运
我从何处来到这，又面临什么去途
偌大的新城，在竣工的天空下
仿佛未能追随大地的旋转，永久停滞着
稀少的居民在过于宽阔的道路上
弱小而无助，柏油路让人哀伤
空气里的蓝色让人哀伤
爱情让我哀伤，一切对于痛苦的描述
都像新鲜的植物伫立在平原上
但从没有谁衬托另一个
融为一片茂盛辽远的绿野

MEMORIES OF A SWAN

By He Bingling

One summer, on the way to Swan Lake,
I turned around halfway.
I truly knew, at night
the darkest lake water
would summon you.
Those fish, with translucent, soft bellies,
lure us towards the lake’s depths.
I am a frog being cooked on low heat,
Hefei has been simmering in me for the past twenty years.
Countless bats fly low in the dusk.
Someone, on a balcony, is growing monks cress,
collecting its seeds.
In that seed is the face of a man grown old.
The past, so bitter, so dark.
But now, we are in late autumn,
and the south fork of Hefei river is slowing down.
I once was sensitive as a gypsy crab,
tramping along in September plying my trade,
no rest, day or night.
People find solace and love
at the water’s edge. She was nineteen,
and here she offered her first kiss.
In the twinkle of an eye, a little fish broke the surface
and rippled it, shining.
She shyly cupped her face,
her black hair flowing.

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/7_t03MjL_JugroPfbMeRPw

天鹅往事

何冰凌

某年夏天，在去天鹅湖的路上
我折了回来
我深深知道，在夜里
黝黑的湖水会召唤你
那些鱼都有发亮的软肋
引着我们向湖的深处
温水里煮着青蛙
20年了，合肥在我的体内慢慢地热
黄昏无数的蝙蝠低飞
一个人在阳台上种花
收旱金莲种子
那种子里有一张老人的脸
往事那么苦，那么深
而今，秋天也越来越深
南淝河的水流也慢了下来
你曾是敏感的
寄居蟹，在九月
踏着哗哗作响的小水车
昼夜不停歇
人们总是在水边得到安慰
和爱情。她十九岁
在此献出初吻
鱼儿一瞬间跃出水面
波光粼粼
她以手掩面
黑发轻垂

A BRILLIANT NEW HOUSE

by He Qingjun

Since the weather front has passed, we decide to
go as planned for the rest of the day, even if
the wind should veer over the alluvial cone,
or the mosquitoes and wasps should bother us,
we will hike up the mountain
along the ridge. Above us are scattered fair weather cumulus,
with sunrays reaching down like tight rubber bands,
tied to some broad leaf trees on the earth’s end,
there we sit,
not thinking about going any further. In the distance,
a pair of wild birds shuttle through a closed atmospheric cell
as we chat and talk, as we break trail.
The warm moist air is lifted up, obstructed by the mountain,
sowe should expect to encounter rain.
We retrace our steps back, trampling on the grass
that has just restored from our weight. On theway out,
our cleated shoes tread the potholes until reaching the main road,
towards our home in town.
Just then,we see our brilliant father tune in
to the city broadcast transmitted by the TV tower from 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

ODES TO AUTUMN WIND

by He Zhengguo

It seems as if everyone has seen the autumn wind.
It seems as if everyone tries to avoid the autumn wind.
The ruckus in the woods upstages the serene mountain.
White clouds come and go without a care.
Riding on the wings of the wind, the skylarks
also veer off to the distance.
In the wind, the reeds can’t bow any lower.
In the wind, the stream gently rolls away the stones.
In the wind, crickets return to the night.
In the wind, wild horses return to the grassland.
In the wind, osmanthus flowers return to the twigs.
In the wind, I try to stand like a big tree,
allowing leaves to blow around in my heart.

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/pWDFkrqvBC8HzocJDaP7aQ

秋风帖

何正国 (蚂蚁唱歌)

似乎谁都看见了秋风
似乎谁都想躲避秋风
林间的喧哗，高过空山的寂静
一朵朵白云来去自由
因为乘着风的翅膀，云雀也
斜着身子往远方飞去
在风中，芦苇低得不能再低
在风中，流水轻轻卷走了石头
在风中，蟋蟀回到了夜晚
在风中，野马回到了草原
在风中，桂花回到了枝头
在风中，我努力站成一棵大树
任内心的落叶纷飞

THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN

by Black Tooth

The interior of a mountain is
partially empty. Some are very empty,
with more space than chunks.
Some are hardly empty,
with no room for another dust.
There is a mountain in my hometown
with an amazingly open interior
that also comes with a magical touch:
people who enter it will re-emerge after a while
as a sparrow, a squirrel,
a red-eyed rabbit,
a flying insect with musical wings,
or some kind of flower or tree.
One year, late autumn, I went up to the mountain,
and saw Little Buffalo, a shepherd since childhood.
He appeared in front of me
in the shape of a jujube tree.
It was getting cold then, grass yellowing.
He stood halfway on the mountain,
watching the village below.
Several jujubes hung on his forehead,
translucent, like agate gemstones.

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/VlPAj9nKvBpuHatmGRMljg

神山记

黑牙

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. C SONGARICUM

by Hong Li

We drive into Alxa,
all eyes burning for Suoyang,
autumn’s red flames in the dunes,
rustling in the wind.
We shouted stop, a few of us went picking for them,
against the sun.
Two among us never stopped.
Their shadows got smaller and smaller,
our eyes squinted closer and closer.
When the sun blended with the sand dunes,
all is quiet, radiating red.

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/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

POET LI PO PASSING THROUGH HUISHAN*

By Hong Zhu

A lotus flower looks back, it sees a dragonfly.
A butterfly looks back, it sees Liangzhu**.
A Tang poem does the same, it sees poet Li Po,
who once looked over his shoulder, too.
Could he have seen me? I am one of Li Po’s other poems.
When a dream turns around, it’s time to wake up.
When a river turns around, time returns to the past.
When a road turns around and around,
it becomes a winding mountain road.
Can a mountain also turn around? How much effort would it take?
“Hui” means to go back, the same in Huishan and in Huijia
—to go back to the mountain or to go home.
If a mountain wants to go home, it will turn around.
But why am I here, in a town with a name like "Go-Back Mountain?"
All I want is to have a drink where Li Po once looked back.
There is a universe in the glass as well as time bygone.
The vintage wine that Li Po got drunk on, let me see, what’s its name?
Is this a rhetorical question? Everyone knows it’s called Homesickness.
Notes:
* Huishan (literally translated into Go-Back Mountain) is in Zhejiang province
** Liangzhu: The Butterfly lovers, tragic love story of a pair of lovers Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai. One possible rendering of the second line: "Liang Shanbo looked back and saw his Zhu Yingtai." "A butterfly looked back and saw another butterfly..."

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/QEh3g2tKINapicrhhVkKWA

李白路过的回山镇

洪烛

一朵荷花回头，看见了蜻蜓
一只蝴蝶回头，看见了梁祝
一首唐诗回头，看见了李白
李白也在这里回过头
啊是否能看见我？我是李白的外一首
一个梦回头，就醒了
一条河回头，意味着时光倒流
一条路回头，一次又一次回头
就变成盘山公路
一座山也会回头吗？
那得用多大的力气？
回山的回，和回家的回
是同一个回字。即使是一座山
只要想家了，就会回头
我来回山镇干什么？没别的意思
只想在李白回头的地方，喝一杯酒
酒里有乾坤，也有春秋
这种把李白灌醉的老酒，名字叫什么？
还用问吗？叫乡愁

CASUAL BEAUTY

by Hou Ma

Over the city of Horqin,
the Cloud God saw the sky full of chaos.
She decided to sort it out.
rolling out a band of golden clouds, from here to eternity,
and a band of red clouds above it, from here to eternity,
and a band of blue clouds above it, from here to eternity,
and a band of black clouds above it, from here to eternity,
and a band of gray clouds above it, from here to eternity.
As to the rest,
she left it to the infinite sky.
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/O5ByV19JI5_M_FvP20x7lA

随意美

侯马

在科尔沁城市的上空
云神感觉天空有点凌乱
她整理了一下
一道远出目力的金色的云之上
是一道远出目力的红色的云之上
是一道远出目力的青色的云之上
是一道远出目力的黑色的云之上
是一道远出目力的灰色的云
其他的
就交给这远出目力的天空

GENGHIS KHAN'S SWALLOWS

by Hou Ma

On the girder over the gate of Genghis Khan Temple
are many swallow nests made of mud and straw.
From there, I went to visit the Inner Mongolia Hotel
because the wooden plaque in the lobby
describes the name origin of Genghis Khan:
it traces back to a colorful bird that
came from the sky and sang the word
Genghis, Genghis.
I see swallows enter and exit some nests,
but even more nests are occupied by sparrows.
I like birds who visit their poor relatives, and think
perhaps that is what Genghis suggests.
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

成吉思汗的燕子

侯马

在成吉思汗庙的大门横梁上
有许多燕子的泥巢
为此我特意去了内蒙古宾馆
因为它的大堂里有一块木牌
上面介绍了成吉思汗的来源
是因为天上飞来一只彩鸟
它的鸣叫声就是成吉思
成吉思
我看到泥巢有燕子进出
但更多的泥巢住了麻雀
我喜欢与穷亲戚来往的鸟儿
说不定这就是成吉思的含义。

NATURALLY THERE WILL BE A WAY

by Hu Cha

Seeds planted last year
have not sprouted yet.
Gardens of the others are blooming, their coffins made.
Darkness all around, but it makes no difference
as we are blind, our horses too, and know the edge of the cliff.
When the boat nears the bridge, it will align naturally.
None of the above has happened.
The seeds are still in the fruit, and the coffin still a tree.
All things differ in name only.
We don't need to guess where life is going.
Snow falls on the mountains, frost rests on the plains.
What can the ocean do? The great Nature will find a way.

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/-1Hloch7g9VxLpRnoRfABA

自然会有办法的

胡查

去年埋下的种子
现在还没有发芽。
别人家的花在开，别人家的棺材。
周围那么黑，看不见也无妨。
不用担心盲人、瞎马、悬崖，
船到桥头，自然会有办法。
我说的那些事并没有发生。
种子还在果实里，棺木还是一棵树。
一切形同虚设。
不必猜测生命去往何处。
雪落高山，霜降平原。
大海怎么办？伟大的自然会有办法的。

AFTER THE RAIN, IT BEGINS TO CLEAR

Hu Cuinan

After the flood, the rain finally stopped.
The dead grass will grow again after the Spring thunder.
The fledglings are anxious to grow, a little faster, then a little more
“His feathers have grown, along with his courage to fly.”
Dandelions, blown to all directions. Ah, such a vagrant life they lead.
At my window, I enjoy the storm’s strumming!
In the vast open fields, a teenager knocks at a door,
an old man hides behind the window curtains, not sure what to do.
Horses gallop, kicking up grass and flowers.
All is as expected.
A tender needlegrass stands tall again in the mud.
The things I have gone through
are also blessed to wear a new cloak of forgiveness.
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/O-jnGKLyJeayp0M9FwYLtg

雨后初晴

胡翠南

大雨在洪水之后停止
死过的草会在春雷后再次苏醒

小人儿总是盼望长大，快一点，再快一点
“他的羽毛渐丰，刚好有飞的勇气”
蒲公英啊
风一吹就四处流浪
我喜欢在窗前听大雨弹奏
旷野中少年在敲门
老人躲在窗帘后举棋不定

腾空的马蹄溅起草茎花叶
时光理当如此
一株年轻的芨芨草在泥泞中再次起立
我历经过的事物
披上宽恕的新衣

DIGGING SWEET POTATOES

by Hu Hairong

“I believe in the land, and shall bow deeply to
every fruitful day."
... sweet potatoes, freshly dug from the soil,
show up in a group hug. Perhaps
each is a little terrified if separated,
therefore shyly bunch together.
The stern autumn wind blows on —-
tenderly I call out for the 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

LOOKING FOR LOST FAMILY

by Hu Mingming

Waking in the deep of the night, hands habitually search for a soft warm body;
years ago it was my daughter, now it's a cat.
My big palm rests on it, our body heat has a lot to commingle.
Often I feel sad that it is aging seven times faster. Just last night
she stared at the ceiling for a long time, growling and yowling;
her feline feminine eyes must have seen something hovering.
I tried mindfulness, tried chanting Om, but still was restless.
I begged the good soul to leave us as soon as possible
even if it's my late elderly 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 the pear blossoms, plum blossoms, cherry blossoms, 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……

FROM YONGXING ISLAND TO QILIANYU

by Hu Xian

1
After the fighter jets roared by,
the birds started to sing again.
Their cheerfulness was consumed by the tourists.
And the roaring sound is
now high above the clouds with the fighter jets.
2
No, this isn’t just another place.
These small islands where you haven’t set foot,
the storm, the coconut, and the hermit crab
that just climbed up the beach,
this is our ancestral land.
3
The wind ruffles the beach cabbage.
What did the wind say?
Stones and corals grow old,
why doesn’t the sea grow old?
Someone is dredging oysters from the reef.
The beautiful sunset cannot be used
to barter for the oysters in his hands.
The sea has collected so much blue from the sky,
but still need to make it
to the map with the right kind of blue.
4
I can't say this chain of small islands
is like a necklace,
just like a motherland is not only a beauty.
I also want them to be fun-loving children,
playing through the day without a care.
I also hope they are vibrant,
seven young brothers, tough and strong.
5
Maybe this is as good as love can be,
waves rolling up the reef, the unmoving
reef –quiet, steadfast, as if
all words are unnecessary.
Maybe this is the highest bliss,
a coconut falls in the water and bobs with the waves,
it holds a different kind of water inside.

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/b4L7zNJAcraLFoMWjaEjvg

从永兴岛到七连屿

胡弦

1
歼击机的轰鸣过后，
鸟儿们重新开始歌唱。
那歌声中的愉悦被游客消费。
而阵阵轰鸣，
已被歼击机带往云天深处。
2
不，这不是另外的地方。
你从没到过的小岛、
一阵风暴、一颗椰子、一只从水中
刚刚爬上沙滩的寄居蟹，
正是你我的祖国。
3
风经过草海桐，
风说了什么？
石头和珊瑚都有年纪，
海水为何没有？
有人在礁盘上捞牡蛎，
夕阳的美，不能用于交换他手中的牡蛎。
大海，已从天空中收集了那么多蓝，
但还要教会它
在一张地图上如何蓝。
4
我不能把这些小岛仅仅
比喻成项链，
就像祖国不仅仅是一位美人。
我还希望它们是顽皮的孩子，
在时间中无忧无虑玩耍。
我还希望它们是蓬勃青年，
是有力、健壮的七兄弟。
5
也许这就是那最好的爱了，
浪扑向礁石而礁石
不动——它沉默、坚定，仿佛
语言是多余的。
也许这就是那最好的幸福了，
椰子落入水中，随波荡漾，
内心怀抱着不一样的水。

FISH

by Huang Fan

Eyes like lamps, why do they not light up?
Eyes like flower buds, why don’t they bloom?
Unless, unless you take after humans, under a permanent mask?
Then, why should you, with so many bones, wait
until after death to pierce a man’s throat.
I guard the plate on which you are served,
holding on to the false mercy that seems to sympathize with you.
You smell so good, even if it’s after a bloodbath.
The story of your life, can any be saved in my mouth?
Your lifelong vision, can I extract it with my tongue?
Consider you, once alive, might even be a prophet in the fish world,
I can no longer pretend to be blind or deaf,
suddenly I, who have sinned, can hear your last will.

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

THINGS TO COME

by Huang Fang

The beginning is very moving.
Let us not talk about the now, just listen to
the wind and the waves.
There are moments
when life feels like an onion peeled, a bunch of
untimely flowers.
Forgive me my hurried steps
that hide my incontrollable instinct.
Thank you for being addicted to Xanax, insomnia, and
shrill folk songs.
There are moments
when philosophy is just a migraine,
no more self-evident
than a mule, or a stubborn old black cat.
Thank you for releasing the caged soul,
letting it run wild in the forest.
Forgive me for holding the laurels of death,
rushing
to catch up with the heavy snow,
to bury up all the aftermath.

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/2VaMk-oa4-9KHypSsuy2YQ

将来的事

黄芳

开始是极其动人的
不说身前事，只听
风和海浪
有那么一瞬间
生活是一个剥开的洋葱，一束
不合时宜的花
原谅我步履急促
隐藏失控的本能
谢谢你爱上阿普唑仑、失眠以及
尖锐的民谣
有那么一瞬间
哲学不过是场偏头痛
并不比一头驴，或者一只偏执的老黑猫
更接近本质
谢谢你释放了笼中的灵魂
任它在森林中奔跑
原谅我手执死神的花枝
步履急促
去追赶那场大雪
去隐掉全部身后事

ON THE HILLSIDE FARTHER AWAY

by Huang Haixing

The afternoon wind blows, through the boundless sugarcane field.
I only need to open the window to see their familiar physique
swooshing and roistering under the July sky.
Time and time again, a flock of crows or sparrows
would dash into the sky, waking those green
dreamers. I think of a sugarcane field farther away, lolling
on a hillside far far away. Some gentle lads,
in a place unknown to the world, with perpetual patience, stake out
and savor all the bittersweetness and melancholy unknown to others.

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/pWDFkrqvBC8HzocJDaP7aQ

在更远的山坡上

黄海星

午后的风，吹过无边的蔗林
我打开窗户，就能看见那些熟悉的身影
在七月的天空下哗啦啦地摇晃
一群乌鸦或者麻雀
一次次，一飞冲天，把那些绿色的
梦寐惊醒。我想起更远的甘蔗林，在更远的山坡上
徘徊。这些善良的少年
在不为人所知的地方，以巨大的耐心，固守
并独享苦涩的甜蜜和忧伤

RECALLING ZHUCHENG CITY, 1993

by Huang Hao

Zhucheng City 1993, how it looked like a gigantic smokestack
choking out clouds of black smoke.
The Dahualing Mountain is an insurmountable ridge,
still I was often run off by little ruffians and barely escaped.
“Flows the Spring River” was a popular tune in the spring that year,
a time when more and more waded into the world of petty ventures.
The streets were flowing over with fake goods, and Dragon City Market was unrivaled.
We ate clams and drank beer from the vendors’ stands that summer,
love became chaotic; we said goodbye to old love, and the new was wild.
It was 1993, my first dip into the tinting vat of the underworld.
As the autumn wind picked up, I was stained motley.
one day at dusk as snow came down,
I rode a mountain bike along the Fuqi River.
The reeds in the river were swaying, letting out their sobs;
were they mocking me, for my innocence never to be regained?

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/E7iD3SdX-03jGY4hyiMT_g

一九九三年，诸城之忆

黄浩

一九九三年的诸城，怎么看也像个巨大烟囱
咕噜咕噜到处冒黑烟
大华岭是一道不可逾越的屏障
我时常被一群小痞子撵得落荒而逃
那年春天流行一首叫做《春水流》的歌曲
此时下海捞鱼摸虾的人们日益增多
街上充斥着假货，龙城市场无比繁荣
夏天，我们在地摊上吃蛤蜊喝啤酒
爱情变得混沌不清，旧人离开
新人却也狂热
一九九三年，我初入江湖的大染缸
秋风一起，我便五颜六色
一场雪下来的黄昏
我骑着山地车走在扶淇河畔
河里的芦苇晃晃悠悠，呜咽声起
是不是在嘲笑我，从此再也回不来的天真

PLAUSIBILITY OF MOTHERLAND

by Huang Jinsong

I woke from my slumber, and thought of the plausibility of motherland.
Well, it could be a dreamland,
form the Great Wall to the Yellow River, all roaring and solemn.
I have traveled from China's northeast to the north, to the east and the southwest,
climbing over the hills in the northwest, bathing in the southeast's climate,
whether north or south, whether east or west,
I did find things praiseworthy, which rise to infinite height
in the starlight of dreams to become a pursuit and a warmth.
Therefore, I will open my windows
for a view of the street and the red walls, to watch people going home
carrying their bags, as innocent as children.
In the children's dictionaries, there must be a list of
nouns associated with motherland to memorize.
After lunch, they'll quietly recite a poem and feel touched.
If I leave this city, I will surely be accepted
in another city. My ordinary, commonplace little face
will be refreshed to look like a real master,
potentially deserving an introduction. Then, motherland
will expand, like my malleable journey
that passes through cities and villages,
that passes through checkpoints at bridges and consulted by tigers,
that passes through vast crowds and receives fruit from their hands,
and this windswept world will stand out in the heart of motherland.

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/jM-7KOqlclstWsUtsOKTaQ

祖国的可能性

黄劲松

我在睡眠中醒来，思考祖国的可能性
那么，它可能是一个梦境
从长城到黄河，都在咆啸或者肃静
我从东北到华北，到华东和西南
经过了西北的山冈，沐浴了东南的风气
无论是北方还是南方，无论是东部还是西部
我都有一种赞美，在梦的星光中
成为无限的高度，成为追索和温暖
那么，我将打开我的窗子
看到街道和红色的墙壁，看到归家的人
提着袋子，像一个孩子般的纯真
在他们的字典里，一定存放着一串
祖国的名词，让他们铭记
在午餐之后，他们会默默吟诵并且感动自己
如果我离开这座城市，那么一定会被
另一座城市接纳，我的微小、卑陋和朴素的面貌
将会重新焕然一新，像真正的主人
被赋予了叙述的可能。那么，我的祖国
会越来越宽阔，如同我金属般的远行
通过了所有的城市和乡村，通过了
桥的认证、老虎的叮嘱，通过了
广阔的人群和他们手里的果子
而这苍茫的人世必将崛起在祖国的心脏里

SONG FOR SWALLOWS

by Huang Lihai

The swallows swoop, trajectories uncertain,
but capture insects high and low,
exact and fast.
On the wire, they sit so still,
like dabs of new ink on a rice paper.
A gust perturbs the wire, rebounding the light,
the wavering figures widen my field of view.
Scissor-tailed swallows, trimming the new season,
leaving no marks above the high clouds,
are spring’s entourage to the great land,
bolts of lightning dressed in black.

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/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

MUSEUM OF MUSIC BOXES

by Huang Yazhou

The figurine in the music box, now, is performed by a person.
Elbow joints and knee joints move like mechanical clockwork.
Her brain is taken over by the gears, what coincidence
that a woman’s path in history almost seems as disjointed.
In a way time is flowing backwards, as if
the simple pleasure of the Middle Ages has caught up with us.
We applaud, we cheer, and yell,
the way our brains work now is ticking loudly.
Happiness does not expand in the steam engine era or the electrical age.
There wasn’t a 4G or 5G button,
but a small music box seemed enough to hold
all the laughter in the world.
The music box is all but gone, of course, it makes sense,
after all, its sound is not all that rich.
On the other hand, in this era, so much
information is overly rich, and horrifying.

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/cWXZXvQgYZyE0ZipSb7UUw

八音盒美术馆

黄亚洲

八音盒里面的小人，现在，就由真人来表演
肘关节与膝关节，走成钟表的机械
大脑被齿轮接管
这个女人与磕磕绊绊的历史，是这么的默契
时光就这样开始倒流，就这样
中世纪简单的欢乐，俘虏了我们所有的人
鼓掌、欢呼、吆喝
我们的大脑，现在，只会嘀嗒作响
快乐并不随着蒸汽机时代与电气时代一起膨胀
更没有4G与5G的按钮
一只小小的八音盒，足以装满
人间所有的欢笑
八音盒现在淘汰了，当然，淘汰得有理
毕竟，音色不怎么丰富
但是反过来说，现在这个时代，许多
信息量很丰富的东西，只叫人恐怖
许多的嘀嗒作响
是定时炸弹

FATHER’S FLOCK OF BIRDS

by Jia Xiang

Father took me home, light rain on the way.
The motorcycle stalled. Greenswards left and right
jested at us as the distant hills
disappeared into the mist.
All we could do was walk. Rain, timorous rain,
you looked at her with squinted eyes, but she said: I am not here.
Father’s pink ears stood out from his white T-shirt,
exploring the sounds.
Knowing it’s safe, the rain summoned all her companions
hidden in the clouds. Now a flash mob
struck on Father: pouring rain. A small task to hide in the wild,
I immediately opened the umbrella and said:
I am not here.
Only Father and the boreal temperate flora were left,
naked in the rain, as the translucid flock of birds landed on his shoulders.
What marvelous rain. But the 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, whom classic tongue likes to mock,
and even Zhuangzi ruled them to be short-sighted,
are sitting, cooing on twigs of an oak tree.
For the longest time, I haven’t seen
turtledoves looking so grand,
seemingly they needn't dodge bullets nor arrows;
life has become posh.
Watching these birds' short flight and wobble
between shrubs, oak trees, and cinnamon trees
as if that were the limit of their world,
it triggers in me, a dispirited middle-aged man
in the gloomy woods, a renewed cheerfulness in my steps.
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/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

THE MIRACLE

by Jian Nan

On the foundation of a collapsed old house,
in the cracks of broken bricks, new grass grows,
and a sapling has rooted on a piece of rotten wood.
This is not the miracle,
the miracle is their growth rate.
It was only a negligible spring rain,
but before we could tidy up the old bricks, beams, tiles,
nails and other things,
life has blanketed the whole ruin.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-04-09/13174106.shtml

奇迹

剑男

在倒塌的旧屋地基上
废旧的砖瓦缝隙中又长出了草
一截腐朽的木头上也长出一棵小树苗
这并不是奇迹
奇迹是它生长的速度
仅仅隔着一场并不大的春雨
我们还来不及清理残砖、椽木、瓦片
以及各种器皿和钉子
它们就齐刷刷地占领了整个废墟

IN YANJIAO

by Jiang Bohan

Yanjiao residents go to Beijing to work;
those who don't have regular jobs sell houses.
New college graduates say they haven’t made a sale in three months,
hit by a new policy that discourages property speculation.
I live in Yanjiao on a tree-lined boulevard,
own a house, don't go to work, no children to look after.
Here I read and write and cultivate a small plot of land
for Yanjiao's present and future—
anticipating when I’ll become a Beijing resident.
For now, everyone drives a Mercedes or a BMW,
hoping to pick up commuters rushing to work.
Ten yuan to Caofang or International Trade Center.
Once the car crosses Sanyuan Bridge to arrive at Zhongguancun
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 to Yanjiao work from dawn till dusk,
mapping out a bright future for their family.
Once Beijing incorporates the three northern counties,
their children will be registered as Beijingers,
that will be a dream come true, therefore for now
the road from Yanjiao to Beijing does not seem that long.
—Yanjiao is its suburb after all.
The loud, gurgling Chaobai River flows by.
The Xuyin Road Bridge connects Yanjiao and Songzhuang art colony in Tongzhou.
Left Bank Road and Right Bank Road stretch out
as if they are Beijing’s left and right arm.
I often cross the river to Songzhuang to look at arts.
There are so many painters there, all men, and naturally
some poetesses moved there later.
Different genres of arts come from all over the country.
The landlady cannot cope with the them but to raise the rent.
I look on, don't know what to say,
can’t stand the scene. Unable to get a bargain,
like with all those expensive paintings,
I say “Come to Yanjiao soon,”
“this is the last fertile ground.”

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/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,
wandering outside your door.
The road winds and turns,
so it rolls its eyes,
going around numerous objects
to come to push on your door.
It is there all night
outside your door knocking,
curious about what’s behind the door.
It makes a creaking sound that you can hear.
It has no companion.
It comes because it’s hungry.
It wakes you up,
and you feel the urge to open the door.
As if home is behind the door,
as if it belongs to a dream
and wants to know if the sleeper is real or not.
Outside of your door,
a hedgehog
is making your door creak.
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

THOUGHTS OF FEBRUARY

by Jiang Shuting

February pales in comparison to the imperial canons and edicts.
It lacks the fire to rekindle a dead lamp deep in the mountain.
Without a word the emperor left the mountain for the bamboo grove to find his true self.
He bestows his kingdom to the fox, the fox to the badger, and the badger to the river, so the story goes.
But February is not March, we are not enticed to say flowery words as when Spring deepens.
Only small beads of light accompany those mending mottled garments as the east wind blows,
and young hallway swallows remind people of a forgotten past.
February lacks zest, its waters are no match to a crow’s bright daring
calls; only the orioles are intrigued by its infinite possibilities.
The thin frost lies low, the calligraphy continues to pile up, and the fallen petals are gone with last year’s poems,
songs become muddled like horse hooves splattering mud,
and the ancient road instigates unrest to remote villages.
The sky looks flat, lanterns on the cliff illuminate mountains faraway,
but make water nearby look darker.
Believe it or not, February looks forlorn, like an orphan eagle roaming barefoot
February perplexes us, there’re longings in the flute's melody.
A drifting leaf won’t let go of its desolate homeland,
and there is the pain etched on by truthful drunken words,
haunting like crickets and tides of time past.
The courtyard trapped our years as youth vanished under the roof.
My love’s Facebook page reads like a couplet in a dismal Spring, a mirror of us,
unreachable are you at the unfathomable night,
your sorrows because of my loneliness, amplified by the chill.
Oh February.
The years pass, February brings uncertain news.
As I write, I guess the time you wake up,
the time of your return past the midnight hour.
Yearning to hear your footsteps as if longing for lush green,
eyes hurt in their long gaze. What drives you to exile?
Oh, February, you are heavy snow, but will be a peerless beauty in time.
Amid unfulfilled dreams, I will be steadfast, reaching the unreachable. Let me sigh,
let me remember how water bends, how boulders make hollow sounds,
how March brings rain to earth. Heaven will be kind.

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

二月书

江书廷

二月平胸。不及皇家的制度、典章
它的内涵点不燃锦绣山后的一盏枯灯
无言的皇帝下山去了，在一棵青条上还原他真实的身份
他把江山留给狐，狐留给獾，獾让给了流水的情节
可是，二月不是三月，不是春深时的词浓情堪
它只是星星点灯，东风补漏斑驳的缕衣，雏燕托出穿堂的旧问

二月尝浅，它的流水不敌鸦声的浩瀚
也不及它的清亮。无限的可能是一只流莺的猜测
薄霜犹低，碑帖甚深，轻花拾不回去春的诗函
马蹄踏溅着泥泞的歌谣，古道策反了疏淡的村庄
天空简单，巉岩挂起的灯笼照亮了远山，却让近水更黑
你无法相信，二月是赤脚行走的流浪的孤鹰

二月是被折分的情怀，一半是长笛追赶的挂念
像飘飞的叶，依然回望故土的苍茫
一半是酒话钉入肉身的疼痛，牵扯出它年的蟋蟀与潮声
井栏围攻了岁月。屋檐渡远了年华。
爱人的脸书是减春的对联，两两相近
我苦着你的三更的远，你渡着我的孤单的寒，二月啊

年来年去，二月是踪影不定的消息
指尖凝芳，推敲你的午夜的觉醒，凌晨的返回
足音葱茏，碰伤山冈上的瞰望，鞭梢上的流放
二月啊，你是我的身前的大雪，身后的惊鸿
志向不酬，孤怀独运的坚守与辽阔。长空一叹
我记取了水的弯腰、石的深喘，以及地长清明雨，天弄小乔船

SENSE OF PLACE

by Jiang Ting

How do you know you are at the right place,
and exactly what does that means?
Whoever complains about these times,
well then, that's a telling sign that he has come to
the entrance of the park, and saw on the square
those old people who dip in ink to write,
those calligraphy enthusiasts.
“Hazy blue mountains and faraway waters,”
are you saying there is no connection
between these Chinese characters and time?
Quick! Take a look, look at the
things that are fading right before your eyes.
You suddenly catch a trembling ray of light.
How amazing that these amiable elders
are tearing down the face of the earth.
Try to stand firm where you are,
as if not knowing your feet are hovering in midair.
A herd of dainty elephants trample across the water’s surface
as if they have faith in all things,
while looking into a bright clear mirror.
But since we don’t live in portraits,
these are only relics of the past,
like those fading pools of Chinese characters.
They are the body, we are the soul.
We can only wonder about ourselves in introspection.
I walk through the square, trying to identify
what remains in calligraphy before they disappear.
Reciting poems, the last gasp of time,
I must try to understand their context.

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/XLBZVi-osn2ZYskdDW7Gag

位置感

江汀

谁能知道，一种正确的位置
究竟意味着什么？
如果谁对这个时代有所抱怨，
那么，这意味着他已经
来到公园门口，在广场上
遇见那些蘸水写字的老人，
那些书法爱好者。
“青山隐隐水迢迢”，
难道这些汉字与时间无关？
赶快凝视它们，那些
正在消逝的事物，
你猝然察觉光线的抖动。
多么奇异，谦和的老人们
正在拆卸地面。
努力站稳自己的位置，
仿佛不知道脚下的悬空。
一群轻盈的大象踏过水面，
仿佛它们已经信任一切，
正在揽起一扇光洁的镜子。
而我们，既然没有生活在画像中，
也许可能只是古代的残余物，
就像那一摊已经模糊的汉字。
它们是躯体，我们是灵魂，
我们只能用推测来自省。
我走遍广场，辨认一切
尚未消失的书法痕迹。
诵读，是时代在抽搐。
我得试着去理解它们的语境。

A PRAYER

by Jiang Xuefeng

Ah, snowy mountains,
don't let them
all come up.
Leave a peak for the gods,
a rounded cushioned seat!
Poets,
learn from trees secreting tree sap,
to write poetry like that.
Ah, long nights,
please lessen our burdens,
let the rickshaw pullers sleep.
Ah, people,
your endless blessings,
your endless hardships,
bestow them all
to our children as food!
Ah, Futian Flat,
bring me back
to the hard times
with cooking fire, grandma, and the sugarcane field!
The fellow who planted oats
until his last breath
is gone with a white cloud,
but his horse, with him since a colt, is still waiting for him.
Ah, lover, Ah, enemy,
are you the same person?
Excuse me,
please do not block
my sunlight from the sky.
Oh God, please help me,
let me give myself to the day,
but also regain myself.

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/zSIgqAspwKy0eflZRAL_OA

祈祷

蒋雪峰

雪山啊
别让他们
都上来了
给神留一座
做蒲团吧
诗人啊
像树分泌出树脂
那样写诗吧
长夜啊
卸下重负
让拉车的人睡一会儿吧
人们啊
享不完的福
吃不完的苦
都留下来
做继往者的口粮吧
福田坝啊
让我回到
有炊烟有外婆有甘蔗林的
穷日子吧！
就是死也要种下燕麦的人
骑着一朵白云走了
他养大的马还在等他
爱人啊仇人啊
是一个人吗？
请让一让
你们挡住了
从天而降的阳光
神啊请您帮助我
让我把自己交给日子
同时也能领回自己

FOUR PEACH BLOSSOMS

by Jiang Zhiwu

Four peach blossoms get together, all on one bough,
crimson, very delicate and very tender.
A bee rolls on the pistils, pressing
its every bristle. Under the peach tree, my passion
is also red, and my body slowly hold tight.
Red is the color of my soul.
New buds are for spring, and red flames will soon
erupt on the wall of ivy.
A true poet does what the flowers do too —
dreamy in the spring, and pours all energy to produce a burgeoning fruit afterwards.
I love depth and darkness, but also a beautiful exterior.
When four peach flowers bloom together,
it’s the metalic earth playing a symphony,
with four dreams, while the music passes through our elastic mantle
to the palisade underneath.

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/XTtQc5bkzAxcW_19hUHhEw

四朵桃花

蒋志武

四朵桃花在一个枝头上，紧挨着
褐红色，看上去十分轻柔
蜜蜂在花蕊中滚动，它将全身的针
扎在了这里，在桃树下，我有红色的欲望
并将身体慢慢缩紧
红色，就是我灵魂的色彩
在春天的新生事物中，时间喷发出来的火焰
正撞击着蔓藤爬升的围墙
而真正的诗人都是一朵桃花
在春天造梦，日夜兼程赶往果实的肉身
我爱一切幽暗，也爱绚丽的外表
当四朵桃花同时开放
就会有四个梦带着土地的青铜
演奏，并穿过富有弹性的地面找到它们
深埋于地下的栅栏

THE STONE MILL

by Jiazhu Buha

Too scummy to turn, the stone mill
lies idle, no longer making oafish sounds,
or spinning out women’s sighs and coarse grain.
It has ground itself to two featureless stones.
Deep in memory are grandma’s loving face and a warm resin lamp.
Her hands pushed the stone mill as the mill pushed her along,
grinding out destiny’s grinning face.
The stone mill was her dowry, a force of life for decades,
and has finally nudged her into the winter of life, finally
ground itself to two flat stones, pleased to be at rest.
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/83fdzxZp80g1-jIr5d_tlg

石磨

加主布哈

那台石磨已经锈得转不动了
现在，它躺在那里，不再发出拙劣的声响
不再磨出女人的叹息，和粗劣的粮食
它终于把自己磨成了两块普通的石头
记忆深处，松脂灯下的祖母面容祥和
她推着石磨，石磨推着她
磨出命运阴险的笑脸
石磨是祖母的嫁妆，它推着祖母走了几十年
终于把祖母推到耄耋之际，终于
把自己磨成了两块喜欢安静的石头

TO A WHITE EGRET

By Jin Lingzi

White Egret, me and you are not alike, I’m very dark,
wearing black clothes
like a crow, incompatible with a snowy field. Like the black ink,
dripping onto white bound-scriptures,
that will fade with time. White Egret, you are very white,
whiter than me.
I have only one white garment
and it is worn and torn through longing, becoming threadbare.
White Egret, you are snow white; the kind of pure white
that whenever I think of my love, I see
a pear tree in white bloom, as white as my father’s hair
and the 10,000 taels of silver that he saved up for me,
as if the weight of love,
in an instant, colored the great earth with white,
made it white all over again.

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/b3EJwLPS6d6eY0Vem0iC6Q

致白鹭

金铃子

白鹭，我与你不同，我很黑
穿着黑衣服
像乌鸦，同雪地格格不入。像墨水
滴在白皮经典中
也成不了千古。白鹭，你很白
白过了我
仅有的一件白衬衣
它被相思穿旧了，被苦难磨出了孔
白鹭，你雪白，白得我
一旦想起我的爱人
就看见，一树父亲一样的白梨花
就看见他为我积蓄下来的万两银子
如同沉重的爱情
瞬间，把大地染了一遍
白了一遍。

LEAVING THE STATION LATE AT NIGHT

by Jin Wenyu

Leaving the station late at night
and chased off by a stray dog woofing loudly,
but there's something homely in its folksy yaps
that warmed 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 you usually dream of
are asleep in their own dreams,
except this grimy scruffy dog
who actually sniffed out your sheepish contrition.
Translated by Meifu Wang（Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/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

FAREWELL

by Jinzhong Xilu (Xi Lu of Shanxi Province)

1
Not a tree for magpies to rest, a heartache
to see a terraced hill so clean, so spotless.
The blue sky is being wrenched dry,
in the end, only a few drops fall on the leaves.
Wintry wind, from the west. A short trip home
is but a pause before a longer journey.
Neighbor and son. He sees him off at the open field;
as the son leaves the village, the father waves and waves and waves.
The way he gulps down water reminds me of Jing Ke,
the way of a martyr at the point of no return.
2.
The magpies and I, once we were not so different,
scavenging for residual plants in the mountains.
First we found a patch of short grass,
trembling and recounting its miserable fate.
Then we saw a branchlet, at midseason
its initial vigor is slowly withering away.
Finally, we came to a stone the size of a fist,
at rest after days of rolling and rolling.
Alone now, I look up at the sky. Sparrows
dive down from where my vision reaches.
Lost touch from each other, we still share a destiny:
our days are numbered, and far too few to rejoice.
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/_qIMLgtb7Tv9dlRlpsNkxg

别离辞

晋中西陆

1.
喜鹊无树可歇，梯田
干净到让人心疼
成片的蓝，正在被天空收紧
遗留的部分，掉落在几片树叶上
西风凛冽。短暂回来
也是为了更远的出走
我邻居的孩子。送到旷野，就该出村了
父亲使劲朝他挥手
大口喝水的他，让人想起荆轲
离别前，有大义凛然的样子
2.
我和喜鹊，曾经是一伙
在山中寻找幸免于难的草木
最先找到的，是小草
颤抖着叙述多舛的命途
然后是一根枝条，关于
半辈子的昂扬和凋零
最后，是历经迁徙
一颗拳头般大小的石头
现在，我一个人仰望天空。麻雀们
从我仰望的地方，向下俯冲
失散多年，依旧有同样的命运
我们没有更多的余生，用来欢度

WORDS AND THEIR OBJECTS

by Ju Mang

It will be here soon. Make room for it in this crowded space.
Go through the punch cards
for the records of your coming and going.
Next page. The bell tolls,
the mix of the city noises beat you on the head.
A fist waving fiercely at the universe,
defending his heart.
Serenity, home of poetry. After all the noises subsided,
life force returns,
rising to proclaim oneself,
empowered to speak in oracles.
The pen lies, and waits, for words to recognize their minds,
to grow willfully dark to penetrate the paper.
All is quiet after the thunder, the phone dares not ring.
Inside the paper shredder, disjointed words and phrases regroup.
What heretic writings!
Ore absorbs sunlight for a golden glow,
a forest of trees speaks with light and shadows,
conifers are dripping sweet sap, insects captured in amber.

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/ClArzknWuOuYEceiGa4gjw

词与物

句芒

它将来临。拥挤的房间腾开地方
订书机蹄铁
敲着记忆报到册。
翻过一页。现在是钟，嘈杂的
市声之钟敲着脑袋，
心灵方寸的拳头挥舞宇宙
与之对抗。
宁静是诗的处所。喧嚣退潮后
一切开始具有活力。
飘浮起来宣读自身的文件
像圣谕说道权力。
笔躺着，躺着，文字获得独立
黑色意志力透纸背。
雷霆已歇，电话机温驯地睡卧。
碎纸机里语词破絮沉淀。
充满谬误的书写！
蓄积阳光的金色矿苗奋力生长
森林众树拿光影说事
松柏淌甘甜的树脂。昆虫琥珀。

THE SNAKE

By Kang Wei

I was barely six when I saw the snake,
conceivably younger than it.
It was startled awake in the grass I was trimming,
and moved at an imperceptible speed
to the middle of the road.
To this day I remember its panic,
and for the first time I understood fate:
Life began, life frightened me.
And as my sickle slowly rusted,
the snake shed its skin, dry but retaining old markings.
I fled, and, for a moment, lost my dignity.
By then, I already amassed enough venom
but was still afraid. If it really reappeared,
hissing at me with its long, forked tongue,
I wouldn’t have known what to do.

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

蛇

康伟

看到那条蛇时我刚刚六岁
或者比它还要年幼
它从我正在割的青草中惊醒
并且以很难觉察的速度来到路中央
至今我都记得它的慌张
记得通过它的慌张我目睹了命运：
生活开始了，生活惊动了我
当那割草的镰刀开始生锈
蛇蜕下干枯但有着神秘纹路的皮
我夺路而逃，顷刻间丧失了尊严
此刻，我已经储存了足够的毒液
但却害怕它重新出现在面前
朝我吐出长长的信子
让我不知所措

ONE AMONG US

by Kang Yuchen

I would love to drink and chat with you in a diner,
bragging about my new poems with a slap on the leg.
The earth spun only twelve hours overnight, no chance
that our melodramatic world could have rid of its ills.
Instead I am in a fancy auditorium, on a student ticket,
listening to a group of cantabile singers, dressed up in purple or pink,
going round and round feigning and glamorizing
love and infatuations, for sure an official Italian transplant.
Suddenly I recalled The Unexpected Tales from the Ming Dynasty,
an archaic literature, always with a moral, such as the story of
The Regain of the Pearl Gown, do you or don’t you care about it?
It’s full of life’s banal details, so banal that it is sublime.
Ten hours of studying, four thousand words of writing every day,
this small coding machine yearns for a bloody real life.
Staring at the pin-up vintage posters jazzes me up,
there’s tenderness in them, like the sweet aftertaste of Hatamen cigarettes.
Being well-educated means legitimacy, this is not elitism,
a learned fool will always be loved, the others are
a little more complicated, and mindful of the cruel realities of
our society, and the need to work out the calculus of marriage and love.
I fall in the middle range, not too stupid nor venomous, never do all-night chat
more than once or twice in a semester, and cherish genuine friendship
more than the thesis. All it takes is someone to share
some feminine thoughts, to rejoice and grieve the small things in life.
All the artsy lads and lasses think Camus is goddamn handsome,
go check out your online and real circle of friends, count the
promising youngsters who use his headshot as profile photo, Camus, Oh, Camus,
the important part is that you got involved in the lives of 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?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

局内人

康宇辰

多想在小饭馆和你就着酒神聊，
一拍大腿讲我又写了多少得意诗篇，
地球自转十二小时，这庸人舞台
怎么能把坏的一夜之间都拿走。
但我是坐在高贵的百讲，买学生票
看一队美声歌唱家轮番倾吐衷肠。
他们姹紫又嫣红，扮情种争风吃醋时
有官家移栽自意大利的风情万种。
我突然就想起了那些明代拍案惊奇，
古代文学教养一声叮铃，蒋兴哥
重会珍珠衫的故事你还听不听?
那些世俗生活俗到高处成为神奇。
一天十小时学问，一天四千字成品，
小霸王码字机渴望血淋淋的生活。
我看着那些美女月份牌感到活着，
温柔恰似哈德门香烟的回甜生津。
但学问即正义，这不是一句高调，
有学问的傻瓜有人爱，那其余的
思想略为复杂，预感到残羹冷炙
的社会相，还有婚恋微积分要解。
我是不傻不坏的大多数，彻夜聊天
一学期也就一两次，所以真金友谊
看得比论文贵重。那女生隐私话题
能有人讲，生活的旮旯我悲欣交集。
文艺青年男女，都觉加缪帅得正义，
你数数你的豆瓣或朋友圈，有多少
大好青年顶着这张头像，加缪啊加缪，
对他人的生活，你多么重在参与。

SPRINGTIME

by Ke Xiuxian

If a bird song lands here
as the sun slowly sets westward,
and I happen to push the door open,
the host may be in, maybe not…
An ink-wash painting is all it takes to feel the wind, to hear the cicadas.
The earthen wall is obviously unique,
but something is being chipped away by time.
Look, the mountain range meanders, the landscape is serene,
let me not ponder about the shadows coming and going
or where the water flowed to.
At this moment, the grass is green, the basjoo leaves swaying,
the dewdrops and the dripping rain are
time’s artful strokes,
I can not bear to say what a weathered world, but put down:
Looking in or looking out, springtime is here and there.
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

PRESENTLY

by Kong Gejian

There is only one secret in the wilderness:
each time it snows, a stone will get lost.
As if having a broken rib, after the snow melts,
the wilderness looks ghastly pale.
But it doesn’t groan, and the wind blows earnestly.
It has been a while since the wind delivered its last letter.
The wind itself is an old message with moldy stains.
——Presently the wind feels like a spring breeze, a butterfly.
Right now, the wilderness gives us a few flowers,
and an afternoon without trespassers.
Right now, the wilderness looks undoubtably spacious.

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/cwVrFfonJL39Fa0z0WKMZw

现在

空格键

旷野只有一个秘密：
只要下雪，就会走失一块石头。
如同断了一根肋骨，雪融之后的旷野
总是脸色铁青。
但它忍住了呻吟，
郑重其事地吹风。
风已经很久不送信了。
风本身就是一封长满霉点的旧信。
——现在的风是春风，也是一只蝴蝶。
现在，旷野送上几朵花，
和一个无人经过的午后。
现在旷野有着不容置疑的容积。

THE NIGHT WATCHES THE FLOCK FOR ME

by Kou Junjian

The night watches the flock for me.
He watches it anonymously, faithfully like a sheep dog,
quietly watches it from above the vast sky,
from deep in the mountains, under the rugged twilight.
Dark night keeps the flock, but memories are mine to guard.
My morin khuur breaks free from the wind’s tug, dashing off
towards the end of time.
Hills, in an endless range, stretch over stillness.
Day and Night watch over the streams and over us,
and over the life-sustaining snow.
To the night, darkness is the nature of the sky;
moonlight, butter lamps, inner lines are all illusionary,
the grassland’s offerings to the flock.
The flock, it is kept safe by the night,
done without my consent.
In a similar fashion, the morning dew becomes a river
to tell stories to the lonely and magnificent meadow.
Every oxbow lake stays quiet, each offers a path
to the dark night.
The night watches over the flock for me,
in return I don the sky its turquoise blue.
The numerous stars enable me to talk to the untouchable sky.
They enter my eyes,
allowing me a peek into the secrets of the universe.

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/uAmbZw5GWce3Q5pmGSOmZA

黑夜替我看管羊群

寇钧剑

黑夜替我看管羊群
隐姓埋名，忠实地像一只牧羊犬
在茫茫天际，一声不吭
沉入远山和崎岖不平的暮色
黑夜看管羊群，记忆交我保管
马头琴挣脱风的管束，一路狂奔
冲向时光的尽头
山冈，无穷无尽，绵延于静寂之上
日夜看护着溪流以及我们
赖以生存的白雪
于黑夜而言，漆黑是天空的本质
月光、酥油灯、内心的直线是假象
是草原献给羊群的祭台
羊群，由黑夜看管
不必事事经过我的允许
譬如朝露，以河流的身份
讲述孤独和波澜壮阔的沼泽湿地
牛轭湖集体沉默，成为
通往黑夜的众多路径
黑夜替我看管羊群
我报之以瓦蓝，用满天繁星
与可望不可及的苍穹对话
它们装得下我的眼
对秘密的窥视

TWIGHT KEEPS DEEPENING

by Lei Dao

Some ambiance lured me to go. To somewhere unknown.
This is my beloved hour of the day, twilight at dusk.
We met and talked here once, with
the wind tugging our clothes, and didn’t care where to go.
Everything points to you. That means
all of my memories. All of my dreams
have your image in them. And spring,
such a brief spring, is gone before I finish reading a book.
Time is less and less golden. Tedious worldly cares multiply.
Springtime, oh springtime, you are only good for our laments.
We met and we crossed path. A letter
launched at some point in time will have to return to the timeline.
The shades of twilight continue to deepen.
Those in love, their melancholies continue to deepen.

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/mfRZXCZg2IxEggtzQh8E5w

黄昏不断加深

雷岛

一种气息牵引着我。不知往哪里去
这是黄昏，我热爱的时刻
我曾经在这里与你相遇，交谈
风扯着我们的衣角，没有一个固定的方向
总是会通向你的。所有的回忆
都是如此。所有的梦
都无法摆脱你的影子。而春天
总是短到来不及从书页里抬起头来
金子越来越少。俗事越来越多
春光啊春光，只用来感叹
我们相遇又错过。一封信
从时光里出发，终究还要回到时光里去
黄昏不断加深着自己的颜色
相爱的人，总是不断加深着各自的顾虑

EUCALYPTUS, for Chen Liu*

by Lei Pingyang

The days when the world forgets me
are days to forget. The clock stop ticking, ghostly birds
with fuzzy faces steal away,
leaving their indiscernible, indecipherable calls behind. For sure
this abeyance is only normal, so I march
directly into its depth. The torso of the eucalyptus
twists up, like an old dancer doing a wild spin,
entertaining the greeneries around—a quiet space
thus opens up before me: a new world
with past years’ grass on the heaving ground,
and the remnants of old bristles on the vines
between this eucalyptus and that eucalyptus add an artistic touch.
The lit-up space is imbued with a cold metallic mist,
with a new pulse felt through the gray foliage in this quiet interval.
I am struck by the rays of lights tempered by cold science, but also
see the quiet indomitable hope in the mastery of spectroscopy
——Now is the time to unleash my savage imagination: a storm
sweeps away a lion but leaves its strong muscles intact,
same as this eucalyptus, shapeless in the hands of its maker,
but looks divine on the hillside for all to see.
It’s a tree unknown to many, yearning for the sky,
with clouds rising from its arms, and a spool of moonlight
bursting out millions of rays as silence gradually deepens.
Let me confess, when this eucalyptus, in its tangible
or abstract form, graces me
and rescues me from this early-winter afternoon,
I see with my naked eyes silence in its own shell, complete with
form, essence and significance. Who cares if this hallucination
also transfixes me, and drives me to call a wooden pole in the seabed
an eucalyptus, and call this eucalyptus on the canvas
a ladder to heaven or a crystal bridge. As a thing reinvents
itself internally, as we capture “the thing” in a void
while it hides amid nothing and everything in a boundless space,
should we pucker our lips and whistle
a bright tune? Let us be gleeful as the world revives itself
——until all plants yet unseen are called eucalyptus.
Translator's Note:
* Chen Liu, contemporary Chinese artist, the painter of an artwork titled "EUCALYPTUS".
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/zAO2kXXfbFnt3HuJbfHCeQ

桉树，致陈流

雷平阳

无人查找自己的日子已经
归类于遗忘。钟表停顿，隐迹的飞鸟
长着幽灵迅捷的翅膀，模糊的脸
它们的对话无法翻译、聆听。我确信
这是一种普通的寂静，而且开始朝向
寂静的深处迈步。桉树扭结着躯干
曲折向上，像苍老的舞者在激烈的旋转中
没有放弃盘绕在四周的绿色枝叶并应许它们
春天的观众的身份——隐秘的寂静空间
因此向我敞开：一个新的世界
必有陈旧的青草为之妆点隆起的
地面，也必有没有到来的美学提前在
桉树与桉树之间的细藤上露出芒刺
透亮的空气里存在着金属的冷雾，静止的时间
通过泛灰的叶片传达陌生的心跳
我被理论无情遮掩的光束所惊骇但又
从光束的理论中看到无处不在的沉默的希望
——此刻，你得调遣所有暴力的想象：这是风暴
卷走了狮子，但留下了狮子绵密的肌肉组织
这是造物主收回了真实的桉树外形
但把神的影子安顿在斜坡上供人类辨认
这还是一种不为人知的植物，它想去天空生长
它那枝条内向外升起的云朵，就像月光的线团
即将在更加寂静之时猛然散开它众多的端头
我得坦白，当这些桉树既是桉树
又不是人们观念中的桉树，它的造访
令我在初冬的这个下午如获援助
在深入寂静时肉眼看到了寂静本身的形状
品质，象征。尽管幻觉也会将我
领至别的什么地方，教导我把海底插着的橹片
也叫着桉树。同时又将画布上的桉树
叫做云梯或者玻璃栈道。在此物中
又一次发明此物，在无物的空间内获取
无物之中藏身于万有与万无边界上的“某物”
我们是不是该嘬起嘴唇，吹一吹
响亮的口哨？得意忘形直至万物复苏
——直至我们没有看见的植物都统称为桉树

MAIJI MOUNTAIN

by Lei Pingyang

A Buddhist statue acquired its shape
because a Bodhisattva intended for a copy of himself
on the stone at a comfortable height to look out at the world.
Some people talked about the devotion and endurance
of ancient sculptors; the Bodhisattvas listened,
some smiled,
some glared,
some stayed silent,
some fell apart, turned to nothingness.
A Bodhisattva enlightens through compassion,
but very few comprehend it, even though many come to worship,
prostrating under the statues with bleeding heads.
I am one of those dull minds in this senseless world,
climbing an iron ladder to go up Maiji Mountain,
spirally upward
to be with Buddha,
to stand next to him for just a little while.
But putting myself in a cold place like this is also
for a glimpse of Qinling Mountain in early winter and
for a glimpse of the stupendous illusory fog.

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/ESGog6EgVczuKx5NoR-ddg

麦积山

雷平阳

菩萨的塑像
是菩萨有意将自己的体貌
凿在石壁上，留在可以远眺人世的高度
人们谈论着古人造像时的
虔诚与艰辛，菩萨静静地听着
有的微笑
有的怒目
有的静默
有的碎裂了，消失了，无形了
菩萨在用人的表情和命数启醒人们
却鲜有领悟者，尽管人们在礼拜的时候，
用带血的头颅频频敲击着塑像下坚硬的泥土
我也是茫茫人世间的愚钝者之一
沿着麦积山的铁梯子
螺旋式地向上攀登
站到了菩萨的身边
只是为了在菩萨身边站一会儿
置身如此清凉的地方，也只是为了
顺便看一眼秦岭初冬
幻变无常的大雾。

THE HOSTILITY IN THE SNOW

by Lei Xiaoyu

Snowy night, Father and I walk home side by side.
An umbrella isn’t needed for the snow, I am secretly glad
that our generational hostility can flow freely,
although it has softened since birth.
In the reflection of the field of snow, I saw
fresh snow falling down, and wind gusts from the north.
The imposing mountain range looks like a stern portrait.
Suddenly I feel sad.
At the end of the road, Mother has prepared
a coarse meal for us. We both look forward to
being cheered up, even the physical space mimics
our unspoken understanding in silence. Father and I
walk in the snow, each snowflake weighs a day, a year,
even a lifetime. They fall on my end of the road, opposite from father’s.
Years have gone by, and Father is now
old and horribly gray, and sick
and temperamental, all but lost his bearing.
I am in my 30s, but already resigned
from life’s numerous lessons. The frost and snow befalling Father
now come down on my head. His demeanor
mirrors the image of a child thirty-some years back:
humiliated for being mocked and self pity for being
brutally punished. The north wind blows and blows. Winter is over,
I know, but there is frost between Father and me
that won’t ever dissipate. Maybe it will eventually fall down
on the other side of a blizzard.
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

雪中的敌意

雷晓宇

雪夜。我和父亲并肩走在回家的路上
雪不大，我暗自庆幸没有雨伞从中作梗
让一脉相传的对峙得以保存
但与生俱来的敌意，略有消融
从积雪的反光里，我看到
白雪垂直落下，北风忽左忽右。
群山像墙上正襟危坐的画像一样陷入孤立
忽然为此感到悲伤
在路的尽头，母亲为我们准备了
一份清贫的晚餐。我们都在
奔赴那欢愉的时刻，我们都在会心沉默
那时，四野的寂静如有默契。我和父亲
走在雪中，每一片雪花都是一天、一年
甚至一生。落在我和父亲南辕北辙的路上
一晃很多年过去了，父亲已经
苍老得不像样子，他仍然多病
容易暴怒，完全没有老成持重的样子。
我也过了而立之年。早就在生活的调教之下
变得俯首帖耳。落在他身上的霜雪
正在一点点强加到我的头上。有时看到他
就像站在三十年后的镜子前
一种被嘲弄的羞辱和被痛殴的自怜
在心中交织，窗外北风四起。冬天过去了
我知道，我和父亲之间隔着一场薄雪
但它永不降临。也许还隔着一场白茫茫的大雪
它终将落下

VISITING SOMEONE IN BIG SNOW

by Li Dong

Visiting someone in big snow, surely
you are dying for a white head.
The wind blows across the icy lake,
brittle and thin, just like this world.
Untaken cattails shake their heads incessantly,
sometimes with a sigh.
If you pause midway
and hear the lake squeeze-freeze,
would you hesitate to move on?
Would you catch the almost perfect sun
setting on the other shore? If
the recluse doesn’t want to be disturbed,
snow would be covering her fence.
In case she is full of sorrows,
please bring dark-colored opals
to adorn the new snowman with bright eyes.

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/pjwc8GtAn8koFXJCBkJ72w

大雪中去见一个人

李栋

大雪中去见一个人
一定是有白头的向往
风从湖面吹过
尘世薄凉
未收割的蒲草不断地摇头
有时是一声叹息
如果你中途停下来
听一听湖水结冰的声音
会不会因此踌躇不前
会不会看到坠向彼岸的落日
已渐趋圆满。如果
幽居的人不希望被打扰
她的窗前，雪会覆满栅栏
如果她满怀忧伤
请带上幽深的猫眼石
为新堆的雪人装上眼睛

EVEN THE BIGGEST SNOW IS ONLY A BLUFF

by Li Hao

Some things have no real way
of sustaining themselves, such as snow
in the presence of a magnificent turning
and faced with unflinching spring, one dream after another,
its thoughts meander and words missing target,
like an empty-headed slippery mudfish
that has left no tracks at all.
Even the biggest snow is only a bluff.
Not all snow lovers are debauched
in their laughter, but can hide an irenic rapier
beneath a whitewashed hilt,
but I am sentimentally irrational,
not believing in self-fulfilling prophesies,
neither in snow as it actually serves to cover up the dirt.
In our floating world, not one snowflake is pure.
There is no need for a big show of force;
if a snowflake is picked out of a snow berm,
most likely it would have had a tearful past,
some sorrow hidden under its beauty.
Big roads blaze up towards heaven,
but gullies may prefer a demure stature.
Fresh flowers are no longer into fame and fortune,
unenvious of a fertile soiled ground.
There is no daylight between loud crowing and angry barks.
Things that appear bright are actually stained.
Believe in your intuition.
The north wind that you endure each year
has a brutal past.
It whistles a merry tune,
which doesn’t necessarily speak its mind.
No need to complain or hold a grudge,
in time the howling wind will be replaced by the east wind.
Someday the snowflakes will turn to muddy water.
No matter how loud it howls, wails,
and divides, the big heavy snow is, for you and me,
by far winter’s best pastime.

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/NDGFlg57EMrZXlko2yt7UA

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

FORGIVENESS

by Li Hen

Forgive my ragged clothes,
forgive my muddy shoes,
forgive my callused hands,
forgive my dirty hair, my ashen face.
Forgive my indifference and my fear of you, my love.
Forgive me for revealing your debased humanity, my friend.
Buddha, please forgive me, too,
because I kill, I lust, I drink too much.
Forgive me for deviating from the right path
and wash my face with tears too often.
Father, Mother, my children, my grandchildren,
forgive me for being frail like a straw,
and finishing like a grain of sand.

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/Arw9XhoDX5uRuOsC_BML6g

原谅

犁痕

原谅我衣身上的草屑
原谅我鞋子上的泥浆
原谅我手掌上不肯脱落的老茧
原谅我发间土，脸上灰
原谅我对你的冷漠和畏惧
我的爱人
原谅我揭示了你人性的肮脏我的朋友
佛祖也原谅我吧我杀生，我近色，我贪酒
原谅我迷途不返
却经常泪流满面
我父，我母，我子，我孙原谅我生如一株枯草
死如一粒黄沙

GALE

by Li Jiefu

On the way to you is a blockade of 10-ton gale,
while my lifeline and skinny shadow don’t even add up to 0.1 ton.
Turning left at the Gymnasium Ave overpass, the long road continues on.
At a crossroad I saw three big trees taken down by a gust,
but the wind did not push any pedestrians down.
The gale wants to blow me away.
It wants to blow me to the mountainside,
but I know it won’t do that.
It comes to announce the season and blow my loneliness away.
I long to know where the wind is coming and going,
but I find no answers. No one else knows, either.
In my brief lifetime all that I see are silhouettes ahead and behind.
It is useless trying to beat the wind on its own game.
Voiceless lightning flashes ahead,
behind the wind are other winds.
When the winds die down, new faces will appear on the clean streets.

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/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

THE STOA

by Li Luo

The sound of running water. Sunlight penetrating treetops. It's midday.
You are mired in a world of whiteness, surrounded by small animals coming and going.
I shall not wake you. Perhaps you prefer to float away with the water.
Baby roses look very pretty on the top of the wall.
I envy their ability to undo barriers, to help you up.
There is water between us, and only tenacious flowers can reach the other shore.
Listen. Birds are chirping again, shattering my burnt-up cigarette.
The lump in my throat seems a little lighter now,
as if wanting to turn into fireflies, to wake the ten thousand mountains around,
as if hoping to light up an image of you.
Days are stretching thinner, and all I want is to learn to weave a wreath,
to ask the portico for a view of you as you leave. But, all it does is casting a chilly glow on the floor.

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/d2N1vWmOGwxOARp7LbNUuw

长廊

黎落

我听见流水声。正午的阳光从树梢下来
你陷在一片白里，小兽四周出没
但不叫醒你。或者，你更愿意随流水漂远
蔷薇花真好看，爬在墙头
我羡慕它们能穿透篱墙，扶你起身
隔开的这段水路，只有花朵的坚持才能抵达
你听。鸟鸣又起了，震落一截烟灰
我喉管里的石头轻了几分
它想变成飞萤，唤醒十万座大山
想，替我照亮你
日子越过越薄，我该学习编织花环
向长廊索求你的背影。但它，只投下一地清凉！

THE MONARCH BUTTERFLY

by Li Manqiang

In my younger years,
I raised a tiger, a feral wolf and lion.
I thought they were a bolt of lightning, a knife, and a path forward.
As I grow older and less agitable, I preferred to raise
a butterfly. It had a frail torso,
yet could traverse more than 3,000 kilometers of sky through storms.
On the long migratory journey, their
thin antenna, guided at each moment
by the sun.
At one point when despair descends, I look up:
monarch butterflies are crossing the Americas
like a messenger from God.

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/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

TINY ADOBE

by Li Pin

Through window panes I study clouds and rain.
Autumn is almost here
Days are hung up to dry on the drenched balconies,
letting memories be marred or bleached.
Under a lamp, I go through names not written on paper.
When the wind blows over the wildness,
leaves are free to whirl and swirl. Trees, untalkative,
burn for a human world prone to icy ailments.
Even the autumn insects can be prone to the seasons,
let them hug the earth, let them cry through the night.
Verses sprout wings on daily chores.
Bitter and hot spices join for a quick stir over a big fire,
and the sour and the salt simmer together,
let them open a new world for our taste buds.
Use the rest of the time to serve the dreamers
a dish that offers a mystifying sweet aftertaste.
Open the windows, take in the depth of view and serenity —
Where thoughts end, a goshawk takes off from the ragged cliff
for a farther mountain, and the sunset,
like a prehistoric fruit, stands like an emblem
in the wind.

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/Pa9hXmzlI33L5DjXqHmv3w

蜗居

李品

在玻璃上，读阴天和雨讯。
当秋日降临。泡过水的日子晾在阳台上
允许它们带着回忆，褶皱，泛黄
在灯火里，读那些没有写下的名字。
秋风的荒原，允许叶子
忍住眩晕。树木沉默，在低温症的人间烧灼
允许秋虫想起一生。伏地，彻夜喊疼
在柴米中，读所有长出翅膀的诗句。
允许苦辣用大火快速翻炒，允许酸咸
在文火上慢慢熬煮。允许味蕾
打开一切。剩下时间
给筑梦者的餐盘摆上经霜后，甜蜜的奥义
在敞开的纸扉，读远方和宁静——
思想的崖岸，峻峰林立。允许苍鹰
向更远的山巅遨游，而夕阳
这枚古老的桨果，在秋风上立起一个陡峭的暗喻

LIMITATIONS

by Li Qi

So sad— to be deeply attracted to a place,
but with no way of getting near even though the heart is willing.
My face turns pale, lips turn purple, death awaits.
"What you have is a bout of altitude sickness."
Here I am, a wretched creature from the lowland.
A body weighed down by clumsiness
—a metaphor itself or a reminder that
heaven and earth are indeed grandiose,
unlike my deplorable state,
laboring to breathe as I lay dying.
These snow-capped mountains and lakes,
this is where nature’s soul resides,
with hidden power and magic to enchant and hypnotize,
but now, all of them are gradually taken away from me.
What was a lofty plateau earlier is now a wet chrysanthemum,
looking grimmer and grimmer, unfurling a steely chilliness.
A transient only, but I have visited and revisited this place,
still, all that I picked up were fragments of illumination,
and the constant reminder of my limitations.
This dizziness is giving away clues,
here let me give you one: better to desire in small proportions.
Look, the meadow sparkles with children playing with yaks,
a sign that everything fits together naturally.
A child running with open arms
can take off any time now, and he may turn into a cloud or a star.
In the distance, a herd of handsome gazelles
hear something, freeze as if in a trance before swiftly turning around.
Look at the beautiful outline of their skulls.
They pause before dashing off again.
Did something just enlighten them?
They look like fairies
floating gracefully through the air.

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/D66T23m5WRSeNLinbj95Jg

局限

李琦

真是悲哀，被深深吸引的地方
我又一次力不从心
面色苍白，嘴唇乌青
几乎奄奄一息。“你这是高原反应”
我这可怜的、来自低处的人

肉身的尴尬和沉重
本身已形成隐喻或者提醒
天地大美，我却如此不堪
连呼吸都开始困难，如弥留之际

绝美的雪山和湖水
大自然最为幽微神奇的地方
那些魂魄之处，必有玄妙和暗藏的机密
而此刻，这一切正逐渐对我关闭
高原，这个词是泡开的雪菊
颜色渐深，缓慢散发着清冽的凉意

我是过客，即便来过数次
也只能是拾取领悟的碎屑
更为懂得，什么是局限
有些暗示，竟是从晕眩中获得
比如，什么叫作——适可而止

你看，那和牦牛在草地上玩耍的孩子
简直金光闪闪！那是默契的光芒
那个孩子，他张着两臂奔跑
随时都会飞起来，变成云朵或者星宿

远处，一群矫健的小羚羊
听到动静，忽然怔住，蓦然转身
头颅的轮廓，那么优美
停顿一秒，而后，它们似有所悟
继续奔跑，轻盈的身姿
飘逸如幻觉

AT THE OUTER EDGE

by Li Qingsong

I'm determined to stay here at the margins, on the outer edges,
wandering off the mainstream, thrown into uncertainty,
in exile like the restless clouds
that have retreated from the sky, paths and fields.
All that remain are ruins, weathered landscape, and deserted mines.
Boundless silence in the wilderness,
through the dying sun the hawk's watchful eyes.
The first snow can’t rein in the adolescent or the cubs.
Their tender looks float out of the mountain pass.
Snowflakes twinkle on their eyelashes, warm blood raging and flowing.
Even the overnight blizzard will find its home ground.
On their animated faces, each permanent tooth will have its day to take place.
Some things are buried, so are names,
until they reveal their original essence.
An air so clear and unique to land’s end
blows on me until I feel like an elf or sprite!
I house a ferocious drive and a tender heart,
with milk replenished by winds and blizzards,
I nurture the beasts and the weaklings in me.
The eagles take the world to a new cliff,
the snow lotus raises me to a new height.
That untouchable place! I speak through a shaman—
There have been thirty-nine blizzards, I was reborn after each snow.

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/yhtHMtGHWgZbp9Mhj8eZVA

边地之边

李轻松

我执着于这边地之边，界限之限
那偏离了主流的航道，那乱了的阵脚
那些流亡的人、那些流云
从天空、从小径、从稻田里溃退
剩下的是山川遗址、矿里废墟
一片旷野里的千里寂静
一团残阳里的猛禽之眼

原雪收不住少年与幼崽
他们新鲜的模样，浮出脸庞的山口
雪花扑闪着眼睫。一条河保鲜了血脉与血性
让一夜的大风雪找到自己的宿主
面孔生动，每一颗恒牙都有新的生辰

一些事物埋了土，一些人埋了名
都具有了原始的生存气质
一种边地的透明空气——
吹得我如妖似仙！
我空有虎狼之心，流水之意
我被风雪灌满的乳汁
喂养那凶猛的野兽，也喂养那柔弱的动物

山鹰提升了这世界的悬崖，雪莲提升了我的高度
那孤绝之境！用通灵者的嘴唇说出——
那三十九场大雪，将我生于每一场雪后……

CARRYING SHEAVES

by Li Ruguo

He needs to run ahead of the heavy rain
to carry home some dozen sheaves of new wheat.
A mountain of dark clouds
is coming down lower and lower.
He is like an ant in a hot pan,
hurriedly hauling the grain,
each sheaf three or four times his own size.
As the little mound of grain inches forward,
his back bends,
until it can bend no more,
then the little mound carries him forward.
From early on he has grown accustomed to heavy burdens,
Each sheaf is a tremendous load
with a very small comestible part,
the bulk is the useless stack of rottingstalks.
Still he perseveres and endures;
he is accustomed to the thought that whatever the burdens are,
they will pass if only he carries on.

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/Ax61APwd7ppXGa1bRihVDQ

背麦

李如国

他得赶在暴雨之前
将刚割完的几十捆麦背回家

大块的乌云
黑压压地压过来
他像麦田大热锅里的蚂蚁
匆忙地搬运着
体积超过自己三四倍的麦的小山

麦的小山每移动一步
他的腰就弯一分
当他的腰弯得不能再弯的时候
麦的小山便携带着他走

生活中的重量他早已习惯了
在这巨大的重量里
虽然属于粮食的成分只是很少很少的部分
而更大的一部分是
一堆毫无用处的烂麦草
但他还是坚持挺住他总认为
不管什么事挺一挺就过去了

MIDLIFE

by Li Shangyu

The clock is a star, hanging constant 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 alleys 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,
when we talked about memories, we were in fact
professing midlife. Ah well, in middle school
a raindrop splashed on the desk, it’s wiped off.
In middle school, a raindrop splashed on the textbook,
it’s wiped off, 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
scenery, this silence, this attachment and liberty,
only the pine trees are worthy of our 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

WEST HILL, THERE AND NOT THERE*

by Li Shaojun

Winter always comes on time, frosting our clothes.
Skeletal trees depict the mountain's stately profile.
All is indolent, no one and nothing expects anything.
So am I, staying in every day,
sipping tea reading poetry, no other diversions.
A few sparrows hop on the barren twigs outside,
as for me, I am ever content with the way things are;
not jittered at all if forgotten by the world.
Once in a while, I do keep a little secret,
for example, my choice existence is to be the West Hill,
that serene, zen-like hermit in Beijing’s Winter,
patiently awaiting in one corner for every friend to visit
and leave with the satisfaction of having braved the elements to come.
Translator’s note: West Hill or Xishan (西山） is a mountain range to the west of Beijing.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

西山如隐

李少君

寒冬如期而至，风霜沾染衣裳
清冷的疏影勾勒山之肃静轮廓
万物无所事事，也无所期盼
我亦如此，每日里宅在家中
饮茶读诗，也没别的消遣
看三两小雀在窗外枯枝上跳跃
但我啊，从来就安于现状
也从不担心被世间忽略存在感
偶尔，我也暗藏一丁点小秘密
比如，若可选择，我愿意成为西山
这个北京冬天里最清静无为的隐修士
端坐一方，静候每一位前来探访的友人
让他们感到冒着风寒专程赶来是值得的

OAK

by Li Shuxia

The most alluring thing about oak trees
is when they bloom in spring.
No one pays attention to their leaves,
green, thick, oily, surprising for those butterflies that slip,
not something to praise, though.
But in the autumn, when surrounded by peace,
it scuds into a more secret place,
shaped like a bullet.
So quiet is this bullet
that it doesn’t startle a single rabbit in the woods.

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/JUvWH8uIY4siC9BXWXAcUw

橡树

李树侠

橡树最好看的样子
是在春天开花
其实没有人注意叶子
油绿而厚实滑倒好几只蝴蝶
然而这并不值得赞美
只是在秋天万物安宁
它以一发子弹的形式
把自己射进更隐秘的地方
动静那么小
没有惊动林子里任何一只野兔

FORMER RESIDENCE

by Li Tianjing

The doors are light on the passage of time—
lift a foot, you can easily 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 gone back
in time, the reflections on the water
are as fresh as today’s flowers.
But images are mirages,
and a stranger in a strange place
cannot be heard knocking at doors.

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/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

SPEAKING LOUDLY TO MY MOTHER

by Li Wenming

My 73-year-old mother
told me on the phone
to get the shroud, the incense, the funeral suits in place.
She repeated the location for these items.
I mentioned something about myself.
Mother said she didn’t hear it clearly.
I raised my voice by an octave,
Mother still didn’t hear it well.
so I raised my voice a few decibels.
My voice kept getting louder
when talking to Mother,
and each time I raised my voice,
I felt a deeper void in my heart.

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/sqww7cxymhE7aHqI2glBDA

和母亲大声说话

李文明

七十三岁老母亲
电话里告知
寿衣、香烛、孝服都备好了
重复细说存放的地点

接话说了我自己的事
母亲说没有听清
我把嗓门调高八度
母亲说还是没有听清
只好把嗓门又调高八度

与母亲说话
嗓门越来越大
每说一次
我的心就虚一次

A LETTER TO SOMEONE ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

by Li Xing

“Springtime, the sky wears a blue silk coat,
bejeweled with stars at night. "
"The flowers will soon wither. But if you come,
we will be in for the beauty of falling petals. "
"Although waves have abated in the looping river,
I will open the lock for the glitters to flow through. "
"Cooking smoke has ceased to be. But I’ll ask
the old scholar tree for some leafy twigs to restart a fire. "
. . .This imperfect letter, scented with scholar flowers,
is folded into wings and enclosed in a wooden veneer.
While still warm in my hand, I’ll give it to
the postman, and instruct and command him and request:
"Let the messenger horse trot, down the blue marble pavement,
give this to the person, the other me on the edge of the world.”

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/mfRZXCZg2IxEggtzQh8E5w

给一个远在天边的人写信

李星

“春天了，天空像蓝色的丝绸大衣，
夜晚给她镶上了星星的宝石。”
“花儿开了，又要谢了。如果你来，
还能赶上，最美的花落。”
“那条环绕的河虽然熄灭了波澜，
但我会打开圆形的缺口，让白银继续流淌。”
“炊烟早已改道。不过我还是会用，
老槐树的枝叶，升起久违的烟火。”
……意犹未尽的信笺，夹带槐花的香气，
折叠成翅膀，外加一个木质封皮。
我要亲手交给邮差，带着掌心里的
温度，我要一遍一遍地叮嘱他：
“要有细碎的马蹄，和叩在青石板上的回声，
要亲手交给，那个远在天边的自己。”

MORNING MIST

by Li Yang

So it turns out that morning mist is an ambience
to mend the rift between sky and lake.
People get to stroll in this atmosphere,
or should we say, in make-believe consolations.
That’s why someone will emerge from the morning mist,
clear his throat, and again return to more morning mist.
Any incidental train whistle is a threaded needle,
jabbing the morning mist. Unlike a cattail fan;
unlike falling leaves; unlike the word “mama”,
unlike water ripples or tree rings or stories
that spread in the morning mist. Spilled water can’t be gathered –
Ah, it is so. Through the soft and gentle mist, I see decline and decay,
I see a long bridge, a wound to be afraid of.
In the end, life is tinted with many mists,
and the imaginary lake cannot carry
the single, solitary boater.
White shore birds, what heavens’ void you bring in passing
that you cast no shadow in the morning mist,
I adore you, like my reverence for a twinkling star.

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/yDLyHaEppPJlorCebXUvfA

晨雾

立扬

原来晨雾是一种氛围，
以弥补天空与湖水的巨大分歧。
人们得以在这氛围里漫步，
或者说，漫步于假想的安慰。
所以常常有人从晨雾中钻出，
清清嗓子，又钻进更多的晨雾。

任何偶然的汽笛皆是引线而穿的
针，给晨雾带来痛感。不像蒲扇；
不像飞叶；不像一声“妈妈”，
波纹一样年轮一样故事一样
在晨雾中扩散。覆水难收啊——
是的。于温柔里我看到颓败和衰老，
看到大桥，一条恐惧的伤疤。

最终，存在有了多种朦胧的方式。
于是这印象的湖水再不能承载
孤独的泛舟者了。

白色水鸟啊，你是捎带了多少天空的虚无，
才不会在晨雾里投下半点阴影。
我崇尚你，像崇尚一颗闪烁的星。

NORTHERN NARRATIVES

by Li Yongcai

In deep autumn, up north,
wherever you go, to be alone,
there is a sense of returning home.
No matter which way the wind blows,
the water does not glitter as much as before.
Then the wind stops howling, and the fallen leaves fall silent,
piles of them, held in autumn's embrace.
They look like discarded banknotes
to witness the innocence of our world.
Hiding is one way to go.
But, if you hang out with those people on the road,
be ready to live by your wits and the biting cold.
In desolation, you will be the only one
to know it takes creativity
to return to simplicity and monotony.
Like a Phoenix hiding in the sky,
despite the alluring calls of the world,
there is no trace of it on Phoenix Mountain.
Mountains and rivers, the setting sun
over the persimmon trees, and persimmons
weave a traditional narrative.
The fine afternoon is receding, replaced by an empty
silent space. What draws me closer to it,
to merge with the fade-away ambiance,
is not the soft sadness of a persimmon,
but the bass guitar on the wall, leaning back.
Its posture resembles a pear almost,
strumming autumn.

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/6xdJCeV9vArVNSCeEVHWyw

北方叙事

李永才

在深秋的北方，你躲进哪里
都有一种故园的感觉
无论风怎样吹
流水都没有从前那样的亮色
风声过后，落叶沉默
一堆又一堆，被秋天抱在怀里
这些人间丢弃的纸币
足以见证，万物的清白

躲是一种姿态。混迹于江湖
总会邂逅一些炎凉的事物
而躲进荒芜
谁也不知道，单调和乏味
是你的一种创造
就像一只凤凰，躲进了天空
无论怎么引诱
在凤凰岭，都寻不见它的踪影

山河，柿子和柿子树上
一枚没落的太阳
构成了一种传统的叙事
天朗风清的下午消逝。空荡的
寂静中，陷入情景交融的
不是一枚柿子美好的忧伤
而是墙上的贝司，以斜躺的
姿势，近乎一个梨儿，
弹奏的这个秋天。

OVER THE NORTHERN REEF OF PARACEL ISLANDS

by Li Yuansheng

The airplane slows down, and I see an emerald island,
a half-translucent island.
I see the darkened sea.
It reminds me of
the color of ink, my lifeline for decades,
but gone in the years of air travel.
The deep color that traced our thoughts
looked the same as
the sea trenches that run between the coral reefs.
These days I click on a keyboard at night,
no longer immerse in the sea.
A big dream stays imprisoned
in the forgotten ink bottle,
and I retain an itsybitsy of
what has spilled out from it.
Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists

Notes:
*Yantai (lit: “Smoking Watchtower”) is a headland city in Shandong Peninsula, eastern China.
** Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty (569 – 618 CE)

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/oZ0-h9rNQgrqm9F0CE1jlw

过三沙北礁

李元胜

飞机在减速，我看见翡翠的岛
看见了它的半透明
我看见了颜色很深的海水
我想起
依赖了几十年的墨水
在我们的飞行中，早已不知所终
那颜色很深的，带着我们思想纹路
以及
下面的珊瑚礁和海沟的
在深夜敲打着键盘的我
只不过是一个丢失了大海的人
一场大梦仍旧囚禁于
我们遗忘的墨水瓶中
我不过是一点点
它溢出的部分

A MOUNTAINFUL OF PINE NEEDLES

by Li Yun

Squirrels and birds are probably experts at counting them,
but counting them with ten fingers won’t be the way to go.
Too many pine needles to count.
Pine needles fly along nature's thread,
sewing the misty mountain scenery,
embroider a screen of resplendent brocade.
Heaven and earth in fine stitches.
Collect pine needles by hand
or rake them into a basket
and return home assured of fires.
They're much needed in an ordinary life.
Insert one needle deeply into a numb acupoint
to activate a passion,
to revive a kind of courage.
I am clueless to the change of pine needles.
I hear their silent falling
in a moonlit night, while I dream;
drizzle falls that way, amid rustles outside the window.
Glorious is the golden needle, but the wait is long,
and soon the mountain will be dense with old-growth pines,
Mt. Nanshan, I beg you to invoke the pine needles with magic
to raise me above the middle-aged muddles.

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/-7QXVs8DidRNFzYj-gcyog

松针无数

李云

松鼠和鸟可能会数得清楚
用十指肯定是数不过来
松针无数
飞针走线
缝补山色溟濛
绣出一屏锦绣
天地间细针密缕
拾一枚松针在手
或用竹扒搂集入筐
回家盛火
庸常的生活需要松针
深扎麻木的穴位
激活一种激情
生存一种勇气
松针何时在悄悄地生长我不知道
松针无声的落我会听见
月夜梦里
牛毛细雨般地下窸窣窗外
所谓金针度人
我不会等到
望满山苍松如盖似伞
南山恳请让松针度我
走出焦虑的中年困境

THE NECTAR

by Li Yun

The heart of a carpel only accepts the probe
of a needle. An apical treasure in a thick riverbed,
similar to the formation of amber.
Flower fairies dance together in thousands,
fanning honey, giving it the clarity of a child’s eyes.
How their golden wingbeats arouse feverish dreams—
a golden atrium filled with silky golden rays.
Watch that golden swarm roll from flowers to flowers,
count the teary eyes who romance flowers up close.
A beekeeper is hooked on the venom of flowers.
I guard my spoonful of gold,
without a word, heeding the loud buzz on my windowpane,
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……

CROSSING THE CITY AT NIGHT

by Li Yunlu

Light is misused, and many other things
were also dragged down from the altar.
Countless shadows on the ground,
making this crowded world
even more obscure.
They have variable shades,
these flashing neon lights
can't, they can’t accurately show you the core.
They are the city drifters at night,
a dime a dozen.
If some wishes to be different, or to be linked
with something else, the light can rotate fast, too,
and clear out old connections.
It's gone, fast like ice.
Light and ice, both piercing and cold.
I cross the city alone, in one slim shadow I trust,
and evade all other suitors at my feet.

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/Wrx_--f5ODvyPRLb8sUeeA

夜晚穿过城市

李昀璐

光被滥用，还有很多东西
被我们拉下了神坛
地面生出很多影子
本就拥挤不堪的人间
更加难以捉摸
它们拥有不同的颜色
变幻的霓虹灯
并不能，准确描述灵魂
它们是城市夜游的流浪者
庞大的数量，让它们变得廉价
如果渴望不同，或者渴望与其他的
事物连接在一起，光也会很快地转动
分开所有牵连
消亡的速度太快了，像冰一样
光也像冰一样，透彻、寒冷
我孤身穿过城市，始终依靠着狭窄的阴影
避开了脚下所有的追求者

THE LAMP

By Li Zhiyong

The flame is similar to a mountain, whose precipice is also blue.
Perhaps snow and boulders sit on the ridge of the mountain, reflecting light.
Someone may even be standing on it, looking at the edge of the sky.
The sun continues to rise and dip, dip and rise.
The lamp seems to be there specifically to forge something.
A stove, in the middle of the night, a silhouette busy by its side.
An excavator, a refugee, a writer, each huddles by the lamp.
It burns for their imaginings until the break of dawn.
The lamp carries the weight of its light, standing quietly on the table.
Every drop of oil takes part in fueling the flame.
When all is used up, things will take on a different look,
but it will be recognizable with the help of the lamp.
Because of the lamp, things cast shadows on the wall, even the lamp itself
casts a shadow. There is light,
therefore lamp walks out of the room, finding its way to the mountaintop.
It also finds its way to the sea.
As it glows, it hopes that the sea will dry up,
it hopes that the water will stay calm and stay cold.

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/2018-11-30/7828308.shtml

灯

李志勇

灯焰就像山峦，顶峰处也是蓝色的。在那山脊上
也许也有积雪，有一些岩石，散发着光芒
在那山脊上可能也有人站着，远眺着天空的边际
太阳还在很远的地方升起落下，落下升起
灯更像是专门为了锻造什么而生起的
炉火，深夜中，一个身影一直在它旁边忙碌着
挖掘的人、逃生的人、写作的人，都在灯边
灯能为所有幻想燃烧到天亮
灯担负着自己光的重量，静立在桌上
在灯焰中，几乎所有的油都燃烧着
当它耗尽，一切也许就会呈现另外一种面目
但那，仍然还得通过灯来辨认
通过灯，事物把影子留在墙上，甚至灯自身
都会有一道影子，因为光的存在
灯走出屋子。灯上到高山之巅。灯来到了海上
闪耀着，也渴望大海枯去，渴望着水的宁静和冰凉

AN ISLAND ALONE

by Li Zirui

There was once an inferno on this island
that was able to burn down everything, and
with its rolling flares
licked the waves blood-red.
The stele in the middle of the island is weathered,
the text that bears witness to time now unrecognizable.
The sea winds blows ceaselessly, the coconuts
on the tallest tree clunk softly together like silent bells.
Lynxes often appear and gaze at the azure distance
over the surging waves of the deep blue sea.
As for me, I stand above the wind, looking towards another island,
—in your direction, I look, and look...
Maybe tomorrow morning,
a mast will point towards the sun.
The wind will open her white sail,
and I will wade the distance alone
even if only for you.

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/UCQ3HyH-ioQUnXwPMJ0TPw

孤岛

李子锐

这座岛上，曾有过一场
能够焚毁一切的大火，那时
在滚滚翻腾的火舌中，
连海浪也被染成血色
如今，岛中央的石碑业已磨损
见证时间的文字变得无法辨认
海风阵阵，最高的那棵椰子树上
喑哑的铃铛凭空相撞
山猫们常朝着奔涌的海平面
凝视湛蓝的远方
我站上风的肩膀，向另一座孤岛——
你的方向，眺望，眺望……
也许明日清晨
一根桅杆射向太阳
风张开她洁白的屏障
我会独自涉水前往
哪怕只为你一人也好

AN INVENTD MOMENT

by Lian Shu
1
I saw things at rest,
a sparrow on a net, water locked in ice.
I got on the train, just pulling out of Binxinan Station.
2
This morning is a lonely morning,
smell of asphalt and coal.
I should bury myself in infinite prayers.
3
Almost yearend, I still cannot grasp
the bleary inner work
of recurring events, head to toe, dawn to dusk,
to the loess reappearing in my mind, to trees,
to Hajin Terrace, each is made brand new each time.
4
The plainest manifestation of God is fire,
the one thing that can be witnessed
but not reached,
white-hot
like a disease.
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

In the sky over Alxa League on the Mongolian plateau, an eagle flies,
carrying on its wings an enormous amount of silence.
It circles, it dives, it tilts,
suddenly it lets out a screech,
as focused as when we miss someone,
as penetrating as our sorrows,
as willful as when we reject the world.
A double-humped camel walks out from the desert,
head high, aloof, on a mission to convey my coolness,
looking at the eagle,
looking at the grain of relic buried in the sun.
Tell them, Baghatur, or the herder called Buren Menghe,
what is it that I like—
from the Left Banner to the Right Banner,
with five hundred plus kilometers in between,
there's the one as fiery as some sixty-eight-proof spirits—
a flower, in red,
a red flower.
The eagle takes after the sun, the sun,
an eagle.

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/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。

TIME DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHENGDU AND PARIS

by Liang Ping

Seven hours of confusing night and day.
Night at Paris, I count stars on the balcony,
losing count after 100.
They're stars or maybe only lookalikes,
in shifting positions, the Big Dipper is not the Big Dipper,
and Sirius is not Sirius.
The only graceful one is Vega, the Weaver Maiden,
leaving the subway tunnel with Altair, her cowboy sweetheart.
They ascend quickly, and I can't help
but follow them, as if possessed.
Then I nodded with the Weaver Maiden,
such elegance and manner,
I can’t tell which gate of the Milky Way that was.
Turning around and looking down, behold: Sunshine Chengdu,
so bright and totally open.
Funan River* and the Milky Way are one and the same.
The glittering waves are also the shimmering stars.
I see another me, toasting with the elderly poet Du Fu
by the river, having a rose-tinted view of
the glitzy and wet Mandarin Brocade Town.**
Notes:
*Funan River is Jinjiang River (lit: "Brocade River”), which flows through Chengdu.
**Mandarin Brocade Town, or Jinguancheng (lit: “City of Brocade Mandarins”), was once the residence of the officials in charge of brocade production in imperial China. The name became synonymous with the city of Chengdu.

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/a6JdcU80kpfNt40hSF1T3Q

成都与巴黎的时差

梁平

七个小时颠倒黑白，
巴黎的夜，我站在阳台数星星，
数满了三位数就开始错乱。
那些似是而非的星星，
形迹可疑，北斗不是北斗，
天狼不是天狼。
只有织女素颜姣好，
与牛郎一起从地铁口出来，
扶摇直上。我鬼使神差，
一直尾随其后，行为有些诡异。
也不知是银河的哪一个入口，
我与织女打了照面，
优雅，彬彬有礼。
转身往下一看，艳阳成都，
灿烂得坦坦荡荡。
府南河与银河一个身段，
波光粼粼，也是繁星闪烁。
我看见另一个我，在河边，
与杜甫老先生把盏，醉眼迷离，
红，湿了锦官城。

WEISHAN VISTA*

by Liao Zhili

Hollow bamboo sways, emitting an air of nothingness.
Persimmon makes lanterns, to decorate a festive world.

The rain tarries,
but a cool breeze has arrived.

My hands are empty,
my eyebrows lowered, my fists inward.

The theory of a mulberry leaf:
life will wither, life will fade. . .
Translator's note:
* Weishan, place name in Hunan Province
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-04-09/13174106.shtml

见维山

廖志理

竹子以空心摇出虚无
柿子以灯笼摆作喜宴
雨水未来
清风已至
我二手空空
低眉敛手
只以一片构树的叶子
论一论此世的枯与黄……

A HEAVY STONE HANGING OVER MIDLIFE

by Li Hao (of Jiangxi Province)

Must leave the dark clouds behind to outrun the rain.
The bird darting through the rain
must be carrying a bug back to its nest far away,
where baby chicks stretch their necks to feed.
The big umbrella by the roadside BBQ stand
sways side to side in the wind;
the rain drenched the charcoal fire on the left corner,
but the vendor fans it alive again on the other corner.
A bro, forty something,
stuffed a few crackers in his mouth, then washed them down
with a gulp of water without chewing.
He presses down the gas pedal, heading out
towards someone else’s destination.
The windshield wipers
sweep away water mixed with tears.
The rain continues to fall.
Those birds and those people,
they must run past midlife to outrun the rain.

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/pWDFkrqvBC8HzocJDaP7aQ

巨石压顶的中年人

江西李皓

必须跑过乌云才能跑过雨
冒雨疾飞的鸟
嘴里一定衔着一只小虫儿
远处的鸟巢里，一只只嗷嗷待哺的鸟
伸长了嘴巴
街边烧烤炉外的一把大伞被风吹得
左摇右摆
炉里的炭火，左边被雨浇湿
右边又被摊主烧旺
一位四十开外的的哥
连塞几片饼干在嘴里，还没完全嚼碎
便猛喝一口水
然后踩下油门，奔往别人的目的地
雨刮器替他
抹着泪
雨，还在下
那些鸟、那些人
得跑过中年，才能跑过雨

ORDER

by Lin Donglin

All afternoon, I’ve been rearranging the living room,
moving the abandoned table to the balcony,
pushing two wooden sofas against the wall,
tucking the little tea table between them,
placing the fabric sofa opposite them,
laying a rug between the wood and the fabric sofas.
In the remaining open space,
I got potted plants for the corner and the tea table,
then walked around the living room
fine-tuning the gaps between them.
Twilight spilled in through the window,
giving every object its best original look.
I look at what’s in front of me with satisfaction.
They resonate with a certain order in the depth of my heart.
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

秩序

林东林

一整个下午我都在归置客厅
我把那张废弃的桌子移到阳台上
把两只木头沙发靠墙摆着
把小茶几摆在它们中间
把布艺沙发摆在它们对面
把地毯铺在木头沙发和布艺沙发
之间的一小块空地中央
把几盆绿植摆在墙角和茶几上
我在客厅里走过来走过去
微调着它们之间的间距和空隙
傍晚的光线从窗外洒进来
让它们呈现出了它们该有的样子
我满意地看着眼前的一切
它们对应着我内心深处的某种秩序

RIVER BAHE

by Lin Li

River Bahe, I have seen it, one November,
in heavy rain. Ashen blue raindrops joined the flow,
first skirting around the bushes, then, voila, rolling out from the wilderness.
I used to dream of walking along River Bahe, alone without a word,
only to follow the free-spirited gliding egrets;
or, sitting on the riverbank
to write a letter to a long-parted friend,
and, going with the flow of the river,
in the tapping of cold rain,
to reach the already-withered lives.
I also imagine coming across the lad
by the mulberry tree, his cheeks burning
in feverish pursuit of chivalry and high ideals.
What marvelous times they were!
The egrets glided over the water in a V-formation.
Mulberry’s golden leaves set the dead winter on fire.
River Bahe took over River Bahe,
“churning up cold ripples still trembling ..."
In fact, it was only after a very long time
that I finally found words for Bahe
when lost in memories,
and cocooned in exhilarating loneliness
and griefs.
Time and time again, the new rain joined the old river
to pour through every pore and every crevice of me
for a run to the deep.
As I sit alone, in silence, the memories of
that November return again, in heavy rain,
and River Bahe, destined from eternity to eternity,
shows up outside my car window
in a flash.

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/Hfp2VZDs0UzSgd1y9MfgFQ

巴河

林莉 (笔名：小熊）

我曾见过巴河，在十一月
大雨中。那些青灰的雨点和流水
从旷野里，构树丛旁急急滚动
我曾想沿着巴河静静走一走
跟随一群白鹭，在水面自由自在飞
或者，在岸边坐下来
给久违的人们写一封信
感受到那些奔流不息的河水
和着清冷的雨，已经
滴落到枯萎的生命中
我还假设，我和那个勇敢的少年
在构树下擦肩而过
面颊温暖，空有一身侠骨和抱负
那是一个多么伟大的时代
白鹭贴着水面飞出了人字形的队列
构树金黄的叶片点燃肃穆的冬天
巴河流过了巴河
“翻卷着颤栗般的波纹和冷……”
事实上，只有
事隔多时，我才能描述出巴河
才能在回忆中再一次
陷入一种充满兴奋感的孤独
和遗憾中
很久很久了
雨以及河水从各个毛孔、缝隙
深入到这里面来
当我一个人沉默着回想
那时，十一月，大雨里
我见过巴河，在古老的时间和流逝中
从车窗外一闪

AWE

by Lin Mang

With a gunshot,
a puff of dusty smoke appeared on the hillside.
Sideways hopped a few steps,
a small ochre-colored fox, unharmed, turned his head to look back at us.
The old bronze-faced driver shouted a few words in Tibetan.
The passenger put away his gun.
On that day, we were fortunate to visit the sky-burial platform with a skull-wall
on the upper reach of the Nu River.
We hurried through the muddy, steep and treacherous canyon road
ahead of a sudden heavy rainstorm.
Ah, let us be grateful to heavens and gods, who have been looking down
and guiding us.
After many years, I reflected upon the way we were, still youthful then,
driving a thousand miles across a summery plateau,
like those who risk death to climb a sacred mountain,
we were rash, so ignorant, and rude to those lonely pious souls.
See those snowy mountains under the clear sky,
towering, forbidding, evoking a feeling of awe.
Oh, looking ahead, I can’t count the things I am still in the dark,
the things I need to be ready for enlightenment, to repent.

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/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

OUR SUMMER

by Lin Shan

Early morning, I sat inert by the river for a long time.
The ardent chirps of the cicadas surge around me.
It all feels like a big nothingness, but I shall endure.
I don’t knowwhy the falling leaves of the Sophora trees should look so beautiful,
but where will the river take them?
The rain is running deep in the river now.
I dream of our summer,
bright hibiscus and tiny purple roses in bloom.
In the far sky cumulus clouds wait for the last thunderclap.
Sheep from asparse flock vanish in the shadow of the grass.
I don’t know why you should show up, standing there,
wearing a cloud-white shirt
with a dusty face and clear eyes.
I don’t knowwhy your arms that embraced me
would suddenly let go.
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

我们的夏天

林珊

我在清晨的河边，枯坐很久
热烈的蝉声向我涌来
我在巨大的空茫中，保持一种忍耐
我不知道，黄花槐凋落的叶子竟是那么美
而河水又将把它们带往何处
雨已经深陷其中。我梦见
我们的夏天
开满灼灼的木槿和紫薇
积雨云在天边等待最后一声惊雷
稀疏的羊群陷入青草的暗影
我不知道你为什么会站在那里
穿着云朵般的白衬衣
尘土满面，眼神清澈
我不知道你拥抱我的双手
为什么突然松开

MATTERS OF REGRET

by Ling Lan

Too bad, Ah, Sei Shōnagon
wrote about four seasons’ delights1,
but she certainly didn't see
the midnight summer rain, or the twilight
that raises the face of every tear-filled rose;
on a low wall, the cuckoos’ impatient calling.
She also didn't see that person, in dim light,
wrote out a name repeatedly on a notepaper,
like a moth drawn to a flame.
When I hear the cuckoos call
and know the barn is empty,
only a few pellets of popped wheat left in my hand.
This season burns like fire.
An even-tempered bookish man engrossed a dictionary.
In the open field musk thistle and red thatch grass are blooming,
seed staking shape.
Note:
1. The Pillow Book2 gave examples of season's delight: Spring daybreaks; Moonlit summer nights, or dark nights with dancing fireflies; Fall, sunset clouds towards the evening and red maples; Winter days, early dusk.
2. An essay collection written and completed in 1002 CE by Japanese poet and essayist Sei Shōnagon.

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/n3SNCmrQ47J7qYojhV5xaQ

憾事

铃兰

多遗憾呀，写下四时之趣①的
清少纳言肯定没见过
夏日夜半落雨，清晨旭日升，那光芒
恰恰好托起一朵朵含泪的蔷薇
矮墙上布谷鸟叫声急促

你也没见过灰暗的灯光里，便笺上
重复了无数遍的名字
像飞蛾扑向灯火

当我听到布谷鸟叫时
粮仓空空
手心里只有几粒炒熟的麦子
时令如火烧。
好脾气的书生在读词典
田野里飞廉和红茅草开花，正在结籽

注①：《枕草子》写四时之趣，是指春天破
晓，夏日月夜或暗夜流萤飞舞，秋天傍晚晚霞
红枫，冬日早晨。

RUMINATIVE TWELVE LINES

by Ling Lan

If a bird calls now,
it would outdo the buzzing air conditioner.
Waking way too early. No traces of dreams, or
I didn't dream.
The tea stains inside the walls of the cups
prove that friends were here
and there were actions last night.
The bedtime poem I wrote is being deleted line by line.
In half an hour, I’ll go to a restaurant,
choose a well-lit table, and some strangers will come.
We will be sweet with one another, and leave
anonymous kisses on the milk cups.
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

抒情十二行

阿蘅 (铃兰)

假如有一只鸟在叫
那我将听不见冷气机的蜂鸣
这么早醒来。梦荡然无存，或者
我就没有梦到什么
杯子内壁留下深浅不一的茶渍
昨天晚上确实有朋友来过
确实有什么事情发生。
临睡前写的几行，我在逐一删除。
半个小时后，我将去往餐厅。
找一个光线好的餐桌，将有陌生者坐过来
我们互为亲爱的，并在牛奶杯上，留下
陌生的唇吻

CATTAIL SHALLOW

by Ling Xie

Let us go down the gentle slope.
In a cattail shallow, a flock of diving ducks
overlaps the lake. The air slightly intoxicates.
The sky drapes down, almost touching your bright orange skirt.
At the tip of a twig, two mulberries flush
like a pair of delicate lips. The wind is pushing into the mountain.
A crooked-neck tree bends over to kiss the lake’s reflection.
I try to do the same to you.
Soon, a kite tugs our gaze high
into the sky until sunset graces the mountain brow
with a touch of blackish brown, then all becomes quiet.
At dusk, two worn silhouettes accompany each other.
The rail tracks, going who-knows-where, have a metallic pulse
with a kind of murmur, always keep to themselves.
After a light rain, the electrified atmosphere warms up.
You puff out a breath into the cold air, mist turns to dew.
This bestirring season opens the old wounds
wider and wider, and injects a new vitality to the interlaced world.

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/AZv0i-Hkp_BHPzvfcS7ldA

芦花荡

陵邪

走下徐缓的斜坡。
芦花荡，一群泅水的野鸭
折叠在湖面。空气微醺，
天色已贴近你新鲜的橘色裙摆。
在枝头，两枚桑葚如微薄的唇瓣
泛着低烧。山风越走越近，
一棵歪脖树垂下身姿，倚吻湖光。
我也试图用这样的方式接近你。
须臾间，我们的目光被高空的纸鸢
牵扯，直至落霞在远山的眉黛
轻描淡写地纹上一笔，四野阒然。
两个疲惫的侧影，在傍晚彼此相对。
一直无从得知车轨的去向，铁质
的音律似乎潜藏某种情绪，拒人千里。
小雨过后，空气带着电流的回温。
你哈出一口冷气，薄雾晾成露水。
这纷扰纠缠的时令，将旧伤口
不断豁开，注入人间的新生。

THE CAMEL PULLER

by Liu Dawei

To counter hallucination, you trek this alien country,
welcoming the howling sand as good news
— the great beauty and terror of this desolate place
are greeted by one person alone.
Then the sun funnels in through the camel’s twin peaks,
an animal lead on the reins as if by a nymph.
You raise a huntsman’s flag
after emptying out every worldly impurity.
Obstinate, frail, and thirsty,
you have falled in deep for it.

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/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 dummies of metal hide their sheen on the factory platform.
Layer upon layer, what comes to light is not their hardness,
but, in fact, inner weakness and softness.
Cast. Cut. File. Grind. There will be an end to all the work somewhere.
A well-calibrated blueprint does not indulge,
expressionless and raising no voices,
more like god’s hand of restraint and sobriety.
The hustle and bustle of rush orders. Inspections meticulous.
Invoices neatly stacked in order.
I don’t know where these products are going,
like myself, my destiny is unclear. I can see:
us and them, both are gleaming with beads of sweat,
the same kind of shine.

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/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

BEDTIME READING

by Liu Liyun

"The car came to a stop as the great sleepwalker spoke her last words.
The trees along the Hindenburg Alley stood at regular intervals, green and Prussian.
We climbed out of the car, Bebra told the driver to wait;
I didn't want to go to Café Four Seasons, my foggy brain
needed fresh air. So we strolled to Steffen Park:
Bebra on my right, Roswitha on my left...."
Flipping open "Tin Drum", a war novel by Günther Grass,
by the page number at the lower right corner,
I know it's the second paragraph of page 351
of the translation by Mr. Hu Qiding, published by Lijiang Books.
Who is the "I" here? Where is Hindenburg Alley?
In what German city? The sleepwalker, who speaks like a prophet,
Is she Bebra, or Roswitha?
Then, who is "I" to Bebra and to Roswitha? Are they siblings
or lovers? Or one a sibling, and the other one a lover?
But why should I know about all these? What have they
got to do with me? Does it affect my sleep tonight?
You see, I am an illogical reader.
The way I read before bed is a miss-match,
I flip and read. In fact, I need to be hypnotized by books, not questioning the to-and-from
of the personae in the book. Therefore, I like Günther Grass.
I like his chatter, the monologues
steeped in modern philosophy, which are
lethal poison; as you read, your head drops to the other side.
As I was reading “…A little pompous, as a captain
and the director of the Theater of the Front,
Bebra said to me what sounded like a proposal: "Join us,
young man, drum, sing-shatter beer glasses and light bulbs!",
my head tilted to the side and I fell asleep
in the middle of a grunt: how can it be,
how do you sing-shatter beer glasses and light bulbs?
Suddenly the void opened up below me, and I fell
ten thousand miles into the abyss.

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/IJskEMA3SaQsu17xwe_eOA

睡眠前的阅读

刘立云

“这位伟大的梦游女话音刚落，汽车就
停了下来。兴登堡林阴大道的树
绿色，普鲁士风，间距一律。我们下车，
贝布拉让司机等着
我不想进四季咖啡馆，我的脑子有点乱，需要
新鲜空气。于是我们就到斯特芬公园去散步
贝布拉在我右边，罗丝维塔在我左边……”
打开君特·格拉斯的战争小说《铁皮鼓》
右下角随意翻到的页码告诉我
此处位于胡其鼎先生翻译，由漓江出版社出版的
这本书的第351页的，第二自然段
而“我”是谁？兴登堡林阴大道在德国的
哪座城市？那位仿佛先知先觉的梦游女
是书里提到的贝布拉，还是罗丝维塔？
再就是，“我”与贝布拉和罗丝维塔，是亲人
还是情人？抑或一个亲人、一个情人？
但我为什么要知道这些？它们
与我有关吗？与我今天晚上的睡眠有关吗？
你看出来了，我是一个不讲道理的读者
我睡前读书的方式属于乱点鸳鸯谱
翻到哪读哪。其实我是在用书催眠，不问书里的人从哪里来
要到哪里去。为此，我喜欢上了君特·格拉斯
喜欢上了他的絮絮叨叨，他那些浸泡
现代哲学语境的自言自语
像一剂毒药，读着读着，头便歪向一边
我是在读到：“贝布拉打着官腔，摆出前线剧团团长
和上尉的架势，向我提议说：‘请您加入到
我们中间来吧，年轻人，擂鼓
唱碎啤酒杯和电灯泡！’”时，歪头睡过去的
当时我还在嘀咕：啤酒杯和电灯泡
怎么可能唱碎呢？忽然一脚踏空，坠入万丈深渊

TO CHONGQING

by Liu Ting

The river swells like a man’s belly at midlife,
but its roaring waves cannot suppress the urban rumpus,
first a short cry, then a long howl, followed by a hoot
that comes with a wanderer with a head of ruffled hair.
A teensy-weensy bit out of a lifetime
to pass on to the tobacco-puffing riverfront drudge,
carrying two basketful of duckweed on a shoulder pole,
while the only weight on us is the ferry ticket in hand.
In the human world, some sentiments live through time
while the other dissolved in the evening rain.
It is said, go to Chongqing if you feel sad,
the hot pot there is the last romance for us 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

ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE

by Liu Weixiong

Even though the light has fallen asleep,
the way the sheep move on the green hill
still lends us a window into its lively past.
Living memories like them are a miracle
same as daffodils lasting for a hundred years.
Perhaps nostalgia spawns mottled rust,
but the sea churns beneath the clouds of memories.
The lighthouse with its painful past,
still sits in the sun, still battered by winds and waves.
See the sky and earth become one. The wind is blowing
into the strait, to where the sea meets the sky.

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/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

洋屿灯塔

刘伟雄

尽管灯火已随历史沉睡
那些羊在草坡上的动作
还是让我们看到了生动的景致
这些活着的记忆　就像
满坡的水仙花从百年前
一直开放到今天的奇迹
也许怀古会让锈迹斑驳
海浪却蒙着记忆的云翳
在今天阳光照耀下的灯塔
痛苦的往事正被风吹浪打
望茫茫的海天海峡风
吹在浩荡的天际

GROWING INSPIRATIONS

by Liu Yanghe

After dinner, I go out for ice latte
with friends. We drink while planting
cigarette butts in a mini-pot filled with
coffee grounds, one section after another—
We plant our contemporaries into the history of literature,
between puffs, we recount the air crashes
when modern poetry took off. Every time we swallow a piece of
cheese or salad, we grumble about
an unsavory or a sweet event. Eventually we got
tired of the sad stories, too many tribal
feelings and feuds, and internal conflicts.
In-between, there are inevitable
pauses and silence while the cheery laughter
from our next table spills over, sort of melodramatic,
touching on the absurdity of everyday life:
We will continue to plant, to cultivate
our spent curiosity about history; we have no reason not to
plant Li Jinfa’s Light Rain* into the Drum Tower,
to mix with the bell chime; the calamitous years need to be there, too.
We plant and plant, until all spaces are occupied.
Fortunately, I planted these
somewhat interesting words, or perhaps they are only 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

STONE DRUM'S REPLY TO A LETTER

by Lonely Changsha

Dear Bro Qianzhi, it’s the season of falling flowers, a deeply grievous season.
After my trip to Lushan, besides knowing how to chop wood and water the farm,
I did not actually learn the art of walking through walls
or even breaking up big rocks with my chest.
The continuous drizzle in recent months was wasted, running off like a river.
Those aura-detecting people, cloud-catchers, fishermen,
and those wishing to drown themselves all gravitate here.
The entire afternoon, they practice being desperate, and look like deep in thought.
The vegetation is lush by the river as mid-summer approaches quietly.
But, my brother, please do not ask me about my future plans.
Since I failed the scholar’s exam, I do not study any more.
I spend my days planting onions and garlic in the yard,
painting chrysanthemums, and making fish stew.
If I had sufficient travel money, I would go to the provincial capital
to study traditional medicine,
but forget it, Sun Yat-sen and Lu Xun both tried doing that, too.
Recently, I floated down the Three Gorges, and fell for a woman,
but her father resented me as vulgar, and, like a tiger or eagle,
keeps me away from her, alas, what can I do?
More and more days painfully fly by, and the future does not look promising.
After Wang Baogai left for the Yangze River Delta, Yancheng, our town, feels like an empty nest.
Summer solstice is near, now that Grain-in-Ear has past.
How are things with you up in the mountains?
Looking forward to your return. Please hand
my best to Bro Zhiqiu.

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/LE8bWbWo0wx--mcJI7bgqg

石鼓回信

独孤长沙

潜之兄，落花时节，又是一番肝肠寸断
崂山归来，除了砍柴浇地
我并未练就真正的穿墙之术
甚至胸口碎大石，也不会了
接连三个月的细雨，被浪费成一条河流
望气者，拿云者，垂钓者，投江者在此云集
整个下午，他们都在练习忧愁，表演深沉
临江草木葳蕤，不觉已是盛夏
但潜之兄，千万莫要问起前程
自早年乡试落第，我便不再读书
终日在庭院种葱蒜，写菊花，炖杂鱼
如若盘缠充足，我想去趟省城，研习岐黄
罢了！逸仙，树人或早有此想
近来泛舟于三峡，得见一女子
其父嫌我粗鄙，常做虎豹状，鹰隼状
终不得近身，为之奈何？
去日苦多，来日更是不甚唏嘘
王宝盖远走江浙后，雁城已如空巢
芒种过后是夏至，不知山中岁月几何
盼归。向知秋兄带好

DROMEDARY

by Long Lingqiong

After careful consideration, I concluded that when my world
turns into a wasteland, I would like to be a dromedary.
Only sand and water will be kept as ideals.
Without the need to ponder or worry,
the head can shrink,
but walking is a must, so the feet had better be large.
Since sighing won’t do any good any more, it’s best the neck grows thick for
breathing—
I know a veiled animal tamer, let her be my mother, but without the expectation 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 from chimneys,
there was superior industry.
Nowadays, many plants changed the ways they produce steam;
some use natural gas, some use electric boiler;
exhaust from natural gas is fully 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, we used directional implosion;
I heard a thunder, and 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 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

IN THE FLOATING WORLD

by Lu Shan

It's great to be in the sun again, basking on the balcony in winter.
I'm drying my wife's sweater. The night's wind sways her shadow,
I feel like I have tasted the sweet life once again.
I just graduated from a sanatorium
with a PhD on the ways of the floating world.
First winter tidings, the snow is not far away. Maladies led
to a traffic accident with sleet everywhere.
The breeze kicks up dust at day’s end,
the evening trees close in on themselves.
A pot of baby daisies sit next to my medical chart,
like an alluring traditional doctor in her prime.

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/KHE1s3ROzuvmFi9D2L1p4A

在尘世

卢山

再次沐浴到阳光真好，冬日的阳台上
晾晒着妻子的毛衣。晚风摇曳着她的影子
我仿佛重新品尝了活着的味道。
我刚刚从疾病的修道院里毕业，
拿到了一张关于人情世故的哲学学位证。

大雪不远，立冬为证。疾病制造了
一场泥泞的交通事故。
晚风扬起一日的浮尘，树木从黄昏里折回藤蔓。
我的病历本旁边端坐着一盆雏菊，
俨然一位风华正茂的年轻中医。

THE END OF THE ROAD

by Lu Ye

No one waits for me in this little town,
no shadow of that person in that stone alley.
Stone walls on both sides stand tall.
Looking up, you see a drizzling narrow sky,
the same sky that allocates time to every earthling.
Every cloud is predestined to be there.
Ferns hang on the edge of the wall,
lush, lavishing, their best quality.
Slates upon slates, filled with age-old murmurs,
going through this long and curved alley, you will hear a sigh.
When a road ends, the world also stops, isn’t that so?
The old courtyard dare to let go and crumble,
like a great beauty carrying an unbearable load,
still holding on to a reality that cannot be,
as if having something to say, but in the end did not say it.
This spirit of this town is tired of its flesh.
The past is always where we are not.
Rivers surround this little town,
they have ten thousand reasons to keep flowing.
No one can say when the last ferry will come.
The distant traveler doesn’t know his final destination.

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/4MUIe9H04qodsEBiMehZdQ

尽头

路也

无人在这个小镇上等我
那条石巷中也没有那人的影子
两旁石墙，高高竖立
抬头可望见落着小雨的长条状的天空
天空为大地上每个人分配着光阴
每一朵云都属于命中注定
墙头的蕨类
总是有葱茏的品德
岩片层叠，塞满久远的絮语
巷子长而弯，一直穿过去，就是一声感慨
哪条道路的尽头，不是世界尽头？
旧时门庭有朽坏下去的勇气
有不堪重负的美
守候并不存在的现实
总感有话要说，终于什么也没说
小镇的灵魂已然厌倦了它自己的肉体
往昔总在我们不在的地方
江水环绕小镇
江水有一万个理由不停地流淌
没有人说得出末班船何时抵达
远行的人不知道哪里才是最后一站

ALL THE GRAINS GATHER

by Lu You

—Written on the Eve of The "Laba" Festival*

On this day all the grains gather
in a pot. Mother lines them up together
like us seven little siblings in your younger days
on a little heated brick bed, seven china dolls from one kiln,
faces chapped, mama bathed us one by one until clean,
just like she washes the grains. This is the day
they reunite across four cold and warm seasons,
in one boiling pot minus the black beans.
No black beans this harvest, we planted other crops for younger brother;
he can’t come home, like last year.
Notes
*The Laba Festival is celebrated on the 8th day of the 12th lunar month, when rice gruel or congee is eaten. The Festival is also called The End of the Year Offering of Meat Festival, a name which has its origins in hunting game that was cooked as sacrificial meat and then served at a family or communal gathering.

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/xZLXxCSHkGqwmiXxLprX0g

所有的五谷都在这一天集合

吕游

——写在腊八节前夜

所有的五谷都在这一天集合
在锅里，母亲把它们放在一起
像小时候，把我们姐弟七个
放在小小的炕上，七个出窑的瓷器
脸皴着，妈妈一个个洗干净
像洗这些五谷杂粮，只有这一天
四季是团聚的，冷和暖
在一个锅里沸腾，只是少了黑豆

弟弟代替黑豆种在地里
今年，还是不能回家

A LETTER FROM TANG DYNASTY

by Luo Guoxiong

Tonight, a gravel-mine river rumbles a distance away,
splashing and giving the shore a touch of frost.
A whale-rider soars in and out of the stratosphere
to deliver a letter to me—from a swordsman, who
wouldn’t have cared if a bandit ran off with his homesickness.
A drunk genius, on a unceasing journey,
writes by a boat lantern about the frontier. Poet Li Bai is
far away from home, his countenance unearthly and passion untamed.
Awakened by an unexpected long sigh, I rise up to see
who’s knocking on the door, ah, only the moonlight. Looking out,
I see cool Mount Emei and sparkling Minjiang River.
A slim horse, tottering on the ancient road, the wind from the west,
rhymes or no rhymes, let us go home—
Millennial snow goes back to be only water drops.
The moon over Mount Emei, me in the mirror, thoughts of my forebearer,
a gray-haired poet, childlike,
drunk with snow, reaching for the moon to calm the soul——
A teardrop hangs on the electric wire, or is it dew?
I am drunk. But as long as hopes are not all shattered,
there will be dreams, serene mountains and rivers, starry sky,
roaring waves, on the brink of drowning. The night is deep,
the dreams on paper bring out a new dream: moon in the sky,
let the night be forever young,
so that both the letter sender and the recipient
can safe keep their hopes in the deep of the heart.
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

唐朝来信

罗国雄

今夜，远方采石江翻涌的声音，
溢出来的一点点，都化成了地上霜。
骑鲸的飞仙，变身邮差，
扶摇直上三千里。剑客，
不怕匪患打劫乡愁。
酒鬼天生有材，披星戴月。
蘸着渔火写巴和蜀。李白辞亲远游，
天容道貌，心仍滚烫如初

突然一声长叹，惊醒了我，
月光敲门。窗外峨眉清冷，
岷江，像泼出去的水，
虚构的西风瘦马，古道上踉跄，
押韵或不押韵地再走归途——
下了一千多年的雪回到源头。
峨眉山月，高堂明镜，
望一眼，悲白发的诗人竟像个孩子，
以雪为酒，捉月安魂——

挂在电线上的一滴，是露是泪？
也已经醉了。只要还没碎，
就会有梦，枕岷峨，看满天繁星，
在一江波澜里碰瓷。夜深了，纸上的梦
生成一个新梦：月光下，
如果夜还没有熄灭，
写信和收信的人，就还能，
都拥有一颗等待深埋的心。

HOMETOWN BEARER

by Luo Zhenya

Under the city’s autumn sun, I stand empty-handed,
but the idea of hometown feels weighty.
My scrawny shoulders simply can’t carry it.
I can only be a bearer,
delivering it bit by bit from far away.
In January, firecrackers sound out New Year wishes,
as the red banners do on the doorways,
followed by February, when families go around to greet relatives.
Then comes March, and old ox cart is busy hauling manure.
In April, cuckoos urge people to sow.
Folks tilling or watering shout May into green.
In general, the wheat field makes waves in June.
In full-blooming July, Father inspects all with hands on his back.
August is heading time for rice crop regardless.
The heap of new-harvested corn glistens in the September courtyard.
We squint at the blue October sky.
In November, young and old learn to winter like cats.
In December, the village yearns for a good blanket of snow.
The idea of hometown can be light, too,
so light your whole body feel crisp,
so light you don’t dare speak aloud its name.

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/CXK2Y-eBQtQYfggIDeb3lw

故乡的搬运工

罗振亚

站在城市的秋阳下两手空空
可是故乡这个词根实在太重
瘦弱的肩膀根本扛不起来
我只能做它的搬运工人
从远方将零散物件一样样递出
一月里爆竹读着门上的春联
牵动二月手拎肩背走亲戚
老牛车在三月忙于送粪
布谷声声催人四月快下种
锄头和浇水乡亲把五月吵绿
一般说来大片麦浪起伏在六月
万物生长时父亲背手巡视七月
稻谷抽穗不问黑白八月
场院的玉米垛九月瞧新生
天空蓝得十月害怕睁眼
进十一月男女老少学猫冬
十二月村庄渴望被大雪覆盖
故乡这个词根有时又很轻
轻得你浑身上下清爽
轻得你不敢大声念出它的名字

I KNOW HE WILL EVENTUALLY FORGIVE ME

by Lv Da

An endless afternoon.
No more shadows at last, let me pray
in the dark for the irretrievable days.
A nibbler snake frolics under the clouds,
taking us, a submissive herd, into its iron belly.
After the strong wind earlier, the sky looks so blue
that it almost tempts me to make a sacrifice for it,
but it won’t cut its mirth short because of my euphoria.
Life is the annals of sufferings with happy intermissions,
no exceptions. I know
the Almighty has laid out a course for every one,
and even if we stray,
the sun still hangs high in the sky,
and there will be millions of adorable people out there,
too many for me to love them all.
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

我知道他终将原谅我

吕达

漫长的下午
阴影退去，我躲在暗中
祈祷无可追忆的日子

贪吃蛇在云层下欢快地奔跑
我们温顺地被吃进它的铁肚子
今天刮过风了，天蓝得让人想要
为它牺牲点什么，但它不会
因为我的狂喜而放弃自己的欢娱

人生是由快乐连结起来的苦难史
没有例外，我知道
上帝为我们每个人安排了一种生活
就算它被我们过成了别的样子
太阳仍挂在天空
迷人的人会有千万个
让我爱也爱不过来。

CONFESSION

by Ma Huicong

I am staying here in my world,
under a vaulted sky, above the horizon.
Every day I worry about many things,
such as nuclear warheads, water,
black holes, stars in the infinite sky.
What worries me basically
has nothing to do with my life.
I am not a good drunk,
and once in a while, total blackout occurs,
another me is let out,
to give myself a lecture.
I fear heights, I am gluttonous, timid.
I use stuttering as an antidote
to a hundred poisons.

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://zgshige.cn/c/2019-10-10/10893192.shtml

坦白书

马慧聪

我守着我的世界
天圆地方
我每天都在操心很多事情
比如核弹头、水、黑洞、满天星斗
我所操心的事情
基本与我的生活无关
我酒风也不好。每隔一段时间
我都会断片一次
把另一个自己放出来
教训一下自己
我恐高，我贪吃，我胆小
我用结结巴巴
来代替百毒不侵

I AM

by Ma Si

A deciduous woods in the fir forest, a withdrawn
hedgehog, alone, a weightless nocturnal being,
fighting relentlessly against time. But I let tenderness grow,
and detach from the world,
to prepare myself for an autumn day
with Father, in the clear without even a hint of fog between us.
Translated by Meifu Wang（Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/T2fN3t4ZOT0yoe6Ea6GHEw

我是

马嘶

冷杉林里的无边落木，蜷缩如猬的
个体户，通宵未眠的悬浮者
一直克服时间。以恻隐
以浅辙
为了某个秋日
与父空坐，之间不再隔着薄雾茫茫

IF

by Ma Zeping

People move firewood, grain, and tombstones out of the mountains.
People keep the graveness of the earlier days,
so I start to worry about your current situations,
and poverty is part of it.
I asked someone to bring you a parka and send my greetings,
also to return all the grievances to you, not one missing,
and tell you: the river will be churning, and I will be forgetting you.

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/eBxfjiaLtfYVDi3KecGBGA

假如

马泽平

人们从山里运出干柴、粮食和墓碑
人们保留住前些时候的肃穆
于是我开始担忧你的近况，贫寒是其中一种
我托人们给你棉衣，向你问好
我叮嘱人们把缺憾还给你，一样也不能少
并告诉你：河水就要卷起浪花，我就要忘掉你

A MONOLOGUE OR ASIDE

by Ma Zeping

After you are gone, I don’t want to see anyone any more;
It won’t do me any good anyway.
All I wish is to recount the touching stories one more time
just for you.
The gardenias have past bloom, snow falls on the white birch, and the train is about to leave for Nanjing.
Perhaps this is love at its best:
two people who endure it all and have next to nothing,
wake up in the morning, and
find no hatred in our hearts.
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

独白或者其他

无字碑 (马泽平)

你之后我不想再遇见什么人了
遇见谁也没有用
我只愿意把感动过的故事再讲一遍
给你听。
栀子花落了，白桦林下雪了，火车就要开往南京了
可能这就是最美好的爱情
两个受够清苦的人
早晨醒来，发现再也没有什么，值得我们去恨。

FATHER

by Maling Gudao (Horse Mountain Ancient Road)

Roaming around, north from northern Heilongjiang
to the southernmost island of Hainan,
from Shanghai the metropolis to the tiniest villages,
he came to settle in a little town by the Fuchun River
for more than forty years.
All those years he didn’t know there was also someone else
from another place who came to live by the same river.
He didn’t know this man was a celebrity in history,
who often fished in this river. He didn’t know that,
nor was he aware that many famous people came to visit his neighbor.
He only knew there were mountains, rivers, and factories,
and a steady wage to raise a family.
He couldn’t do as his neighbor did, devoting his life
to this renown mountain and river.
When he could no longer wander around,
old, frail, he returned
to a little river in his native home,
to a small hill,
and found a graveyard
on an old tea mountain, and said,
this would be my soul’s resting place.
There is an unknown river,
some hills without names,
and an unknown county road and many unknown travelers,
who, like my father,
run around with souls that have found no peace.
Among them, some will return to their hometown villages,
others continue to roam distant lands.
But my father is happy, he has,
at the last moment, placed his restless soul
on a quiet hill.
Here, surrounded by nameless tea plants,
I hear many tea leaves saying:
this is my 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/x3iPYBDX8SgyRU3-Yt3kEg

父亲

马岭古道

到处漂泊，从最北的黑龙江
到最南的海南岛
从最大城市上海到最小的乡村
因为生活，在富春江边的小镇
居住了四十多年
他当时并不知道边上有一个人
也从其它地方来到富春江边居住
他不知道此人历史上顶顶有名
常在富春江边钓鱼，他不知道
许多名人常来看他的邻居
他只知道，这里有山有水有工厂
有养家糊口的固定工资
他不能和这位邻居一样，把一生
交给这座名山，这条名江
他不能到处流浪
老了，老了，他回到了
家乡的小河，家乡的小山
在曾是茶山的山上
找了一个墓地，说道
这才是我安放灵魂的地方
它的对面，有一条无名的小河
一些无名的小山
还有一条无名的县道走着许多无名的人
他们都和我父亲一样
怀揣着不安的灵魂东奔西跑
只是，有的回到了故乡
有的一生都在外地流浪
而我的父亲是幸福的，他在
最后时刻，把不安的灵魂
放在了寂静的山上
这里，开满了无名的茶花
我听到许多茶叶在说
这是我的父亲

EACH HAS HIS OWN MUSEUM

by Ah Mao

Dark hair on the left, white head on the right,
stones in the middle.
In your room, there’re King Goujian, musical bells,
swords, needles, a woeful face and honey,
an hourglass, bamboo and sheepskin scrolls,
a compass, gunpowder,
a wine jug on your chest, horses,
grievance, xsun and moon, mountain gullies and dust,
a heart, and a white skull,
butterflie sin frames, a sunless room,
a searchlight in the name of peace,
the dentures
that have chewed away territories and landmarks.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: 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/i_zYrGies_I-Cfi5RfPijQ

每个人都有一座博物馆

阿毛

左边的青丝,右边的白发
和中间的石子

你的室内有勾践、编钟
刀剑、针具、苦脸和蜜

有沙漏、竹简、羊皮卷
指南针和火药

你的胸中有酒樽、马匹
块垒、日月、山川和灰

有心脏和白色骷髅
有蝴蝶标本和黑暗居室

伪和平的射灯照着
啃过疆域、咬过界石的

牙齿

BODU CANAL IN THE SPRING

by Ah Mao

A rally of canola flowers, cherry and pear blossoms, sea bream
march up the banks of the Bodu Canal.
Around Lake of Three-Sobs, double-flowered cherry,
marigold bush, and scarlet firethorn spread out.
But some flowers do not flow,
for example, this cousin of golden canola,
called purple February or violet cress,
covers the hill with purple or violet, a muted shade.
It quietly watches the river flow,
same as the poets in robes and scarves.
The ripples from stone skimming when they leave
harmonize with The Song of Five Laments and Three Sighs.
For fear of meeting the gaze of spring’s innocent soul,
I quickly put on my dark shades.

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/Arw9XhoDX5uRuOsC_BML6g

春天的伯渎河岸

阿毛

油菜花拥着樱花、梨花、海棠
站在伯渎河的两岸
三叹荡的重瓣郁李、棣棠、火棘
蔓延而来
也有花朵不会顺流而下
比如这金黄油菜花的表亲
这满坡的二月蓝，或曰诸葛菜
开着低调的蓝紫
安静地看着流水
恰如河畔诗人的长袍和围巾
他们离开时打起的水漂
是五噫歌或三叹的复调
为了避免眼神碰撞春天的真性情
我迅速戴上了墨镜

DESOLATION

by Maolin Qingcha

Walking alone in the Gobi Desert,
rays climbing higher nudge me from behind,
and double their brilliance in front of my eyes.
The wind blows, and blows…
but I hardly know it’s there
until it resonates through my body.
But I am just another in the desert,
inhaling the empty,
carrying the silence,
trudging on ever so slow.

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/y34stmT4B7eNwprn1_V7ng

荒凉

茅林清茶

我一个人走在戈壁
越来越多的光芒在我身后推着我
越来越多的光芒在眼前复制
风，吹拂，吹拂……
如果不是吹响了我身体的乐器
我几乎不知道这就是，风
只不过我和戈壁上的任何事物一样
都呼吸着这空
都搬运着这静
我们是如此的缓慢

IN REVERSE

by Meng Xingshi

The beauty of a utensil lies in the craft —
sifting, wheeling and pulling, painting, engraving, sintering.
The beauty of black pottery lies in the art of hollowing out
so as to light up the inside of the secluded heart.
At half-life, the best quality is transparency,
welcoming all kinds of weather, welcoming nesting swallows.
For my remaining days, I would reverse the course—
extinguish the fire, smooth out the nicks, wipe off the traces,
stop casting, no more panning or sifting,
step by step, returning the black pottery to clay,
burying it with white bones in the old Yellow-River bed.
There is you in me, and me in you.

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/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

FULFILLMENT

by Meng Xingshi

After the rain, I walk around Shangzhuang Township.
The evening breeze blows on, and I feel
like a porcelain, soothingly cold before being unearthed.
In my earlier years, when seeing a slender wine jug, if empty,
I would have the urge to fill it with a strong spirit.
Now, I am able to leave it untouched.
Time is short, but I would still wait
to see plum blossoms, to walk in heavy snow
and see that it doesn't break a twig.
In love, the lovers — two empty jugs —
try their best not to break each other as they come together.
Later on, the earth will pour in and fill the vessels.
You are apart from me, but we can still fulfill each other.
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

充盈

孟醒石

雨后，走在上庄镇的夜色中
风吹过我，身体感受到
瓷器出土之前的沁凉
年少时，见到空空的梅瓶
总有一种往里面灌入烈酒的冲动
而今，见到空，就空着吧
时间已经不多了，可我还是愿意等
等梅花盛开，等大雪压下来
我们在雪中散步，不折一枝
两个相爱的人，两种空，碰到一起
都会全力避免对方破碎
等黄土压下来，灌入心腹中
我们毫不相干，又彼此充盈

ABOUT AUGUST

by Black Camel

Further south is endless lands, enveloped by a blanket of impenetrable
mist. Now we are in August,
my curiosity has overcome fears, greater than the loftiness and bleakness
of the wild west.
Let’s go further north…
Oh, please, stop soaring, fold in your wings.
Don’t be resentful, don’t exasperate, don’t blind yourself,
take a closer look, there is a good story before us, too.
Someone on the first floor is rinsing vegetables.
Someone on the second floor is washing dishes.
Someone on the third floor is doing laundry.
Someone on the fourth floor is taking a shower.
Someone on the fifth floor is drying her hair.
Now let us go further up, you’ll see people on the open roof;
they are lying there, watching clouds
or listening to the wind,
free of possessions, free of
thoughts.

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/14WSs9I1fnMvaNSSE1QxFQ

八月史

黑骆驼

再往南的大片疆域，任何人撕不破的一片烟雨之网
还在继续把它笼罩。进入八月以后
好奇之心逐渐高于畏惧，甚至高于西部无尽的浑厚与苍凉
再往北……

哎哎，我们还是把翅膀收回吧
不要愤恨，不要沸腾，也不要自闭
你仔细看，摆在我们眼前的，是一个好故事
一楼在洗菜。
二楼洗碗碟。
三楼洗衣服。
四楼洗身体。
五楼的人，在吹湿头发。
再往上看，就看到楼顶的人。
他们默默地躺在那里，或者看云
或者听风
他们身无一物。体内
空空

DAISY IN THE SPRING

by Mowo Er

Who knows if the Milky Way has seasons
and their stars tend to stray off in the spring
to cascade on Earth.
Is that why she encounters a small cosmic force
when catching Line 10
at Chastity Gate Tube Station^?
Holding a bunch of daisies she just bought,
next to a friend who has the flashier peonies,
side by side they stand on the escalator.
Side by side too when they were school girls
some twenty years ago.
Their bicycles gently glided over the horizon
as wildflowers spread around their wide skirts.
Nothing captured their heart like Italy then,
a web radiating out from the Mediterranean Sea,
but now, Lancôme is on the billboard,
a pair of red lips—oh, what curvature, how irresistible—
as if urging her to break away from old bondages.
Of course, the names Daisy, Aster, or Marguerite de Valois
evoke more than the names of the seasons.
At the tube station,
their newly awakened bodies
wait for the carriages to come to a stop.
Maybe this time the right door will open,
and unlock a secret world for them.

Note: ^Anzhenmen Tube Station

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/bC5fyrddjNlrgGHweKcBeA

雏菊

莫卧儿

银河里的星星在春天
时常因为决堤改道
奔流到地球上来
地铁十号线安贞门站口
她遭遇了一场小规模瀑布
怀抱刚买的雏菊
和怀抱洋牡丹的女友
肩并肩站在电梯上
轻松倒带回二十年前
高中生的单车
摩擦着地平线的睫毛
小野花雾气一般弥漫在大裙摆间
再没有比意大利做经线
地中海做纬线更诱惑的网了
面前Lancome广告牌红唇的弧度微妙
泄露是否需要挣脱网绳
成为这个时代的悬念
而春菊、延命菊、玛格丽特之花
这些孪生名片听起来
比季节更有说服力
地铁站里的她们
有着刚刚觉醒的胴体
只等一节呼啸而来的车厢
插入锁孔，咔哒一声
秘密机关洞开

THE RUMBLE OF THUNDER, OR A METAPHOR

by Nan Qiu

No sign of heavy rain despite the incessant rumble of thunder.
A premonition that I better heed.
At least I should be fully attentive
to analyzing the source.
A lot like someone crying a long cry without tears.
A lot like a long rehearsal without saying a line on stage.
A lot like a mansion with open doors but no one comes and goes.
A lot like a Taoist monk reciting incantations
but no relatives are present.
A lot like a protagonist in an epic novel who has yet to appear.
Perhaps this world is an illusion,
only the rumble of thunder is real.
It strikes a contrary note
that thunder rumbles high and far but is incapable of human pathos.
Perhaps thunder struggles to communicate,
and we are far too preoccupied with other things.

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/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-AND-HATE RELATIONSHIP WITH MT. QINLING

by Nan Shutang

The reason why I hate this mountain
is because it blocks my view, presumptuous
to be the edge of the world. Still, it serves
as a jail door to keep away people and things
I love to hate but dare not hate.
I take it all out on Mt.Qinling,
so when I hate you, and you, and you, once, twice, and thrice,
I pile my hatred mountain high;
surely one of Qinling’s peaks is the result of my work.
Hear the rainless thunder from the mountain,
hear its echoes spreading hatred.
But I love it, too, for mysterious reasons,
the way birds sing their praises
or peach blossoms speak of ardent love.
The craggy headstone and hardy grass
around my father’s grave also speak for my constant love,
which I simply write down as a list of words
and arrange them with a secret formula
(just like a pharmacist's prescription),
and feed them to the spring breeze and autumn wind.
The mountain is said to be growing at two millimeters each year.
Does that growth partly come from the power of my love?
Nowadays I am more nonchalant,
very little love or hatred in heart,
and the mountain seems to treat me about the same way,
listening to me calmly
without revealing a trace of joy or sadness.
Now I can sit down snugly with it
and strike up a conversation.
If I could recover my past love and hatred,
I would use that love to backfill the cavities
at one time undermined by hatred, so that we will see,
between the steep cliff-faces and the deep trenches,
some gentler landforms worthy of our trust.

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/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

ALONE AT LUZHOU, WATCHING THE YANGTZE RIVER

by Nian Weiyang

The cool and magnificent river raps the embankment.
Outside the East Gate, the hour returns
as it has done every day for eons. Sunset becomes twilight,
twilight fades. Here a few families are survived by their names only;
the memory of a poet has also stayed, in vying for a Mandarin's post,
he traded his native home for the emperor's court. Boats return to moor,
but slow to light up, at this late hour, the old ferry landing
butts up against a new expansive harbor, a foreboding
sight. If you happen to be here, at the Yangtze River,
try not to look too far: wars frequented the upstream areas,
and old dynasties' ruins lie downstream, only this section
has surrendered its ambitions and now looks like a despondent youth.
Here, by the Yangtze River, men share the fate with the water of no return,
but find solace among kinsmen—-the river
has traveled far and traveled long, gouging and smoothing
the mountains, making for us a picturesque world.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

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

一个人在泸州望长江

年微漾

江水浩荡、清冷，在堤岸上发出响声
东门外此刻的时辰，正是千年间
用旧的时辰。云霞朝傍晚飞去
天色渐暗，一些家族覆灭但姓氏仍在
一个诗人以诗歌窥探仕途，终究又沦为
仕途中的不归人。船只安稳停泊
并不急于亮灯，在这入夜时分
脚下的渡口拓宽成码头，看起来
形同某种训诫。一个人站在长江边
不可极目远眺：上游布满战事
下游埋葬着旧朝，唯此身前的一段
收起野心与绝望如少年。一个人
站在长江边，就像回不去的水
接受同类的安慰——江水流了
那么久，也那么远，没有未被皴法
所驯服的山峰，在尘世的画图中

OH, WIND

by Pan Miaobin

A river flows out from antiquity,
flanked by bamboo, for dozens of winding miles.
Abruptly the road goes uphill, winding more, getting windy.
Where the bamboo sways and bends low,
a bridge appears on the hillside, how terribly charming.
Across the bridge, it is another county.
The river is now flanked by houses, up on the hillside, down by the water.
The downhill road curves, with sinuous bamboo in the wind.
I recall a young man's fierce dash, his slender waist like a jackal's,
a flash,
gone forever.
Oh, how the river twists and turns, how the wind brushes the bamboo,
what beautiful farm fields, cottages, ponds, and orange groves,
what distant blue mountains leaping in the white light.
Suddenly, beauty has grown tall,
with delightful curves, curvy hillside, curvy river, curvy bamboo, curvy wind.
We asked a middle-school girl for directions:
how bright her 15-year-old eyes are, how innocent.
Then she left, with the elegance of bamboo, the air of bamboo.
The beauty here is not for bragging, but one doesn't leave without a sense of longing.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-04-09/13174106.shtml

几多风

盘妙彬

河流从古代出来
两岸竹子一路相随，蜿蜒数十里
突然公路上坡，坡上又有弯，有风
摇曳的竹林低头之时
山腰间露出一座桥梁，甚是妩媚
桥上过去，是另一个县
沿桥头两侧向下，房屋顺山而筑，临水而建
倾斜的街道又有弯，又有竹子的腰，又有风
我忆起一个少年俯冲奔跑的力量，一只小豺的腰
一闪
一去不复还
这里的河水几多弯，竹林的梢头几多风
其间几多田亩，几多村舍，几多池塘，几多橘子的果园
雪白的阳光下淡蓝的远山在跑马
倏地，美有了高度
美有了一个好看的腰，山之腰，水之腰，竹之腰，风之腰
问路一个初中女生
她十五岁的眼里几多秋水，几多未知
她走开时留下竹子的婀娜，竹子的风
这里几多美不足为外人道，过路人几多惆怅

IS THERE A SPRING NOT BORN OUT OF A DESPERATE FIGHT?

by Pan Xichen

After trying to coalesce spell after spell,
the snow finally fell,
covering up my mother
and the entire
magnificent north.
Now, even in a separate
kingdom, sunny and bright
with a temperature climb of 50 degrees,
I can still feel
the fierce, piercing,
unforgiving cold.
Only the dopy lazybones
would say: Winter is here,
spring can't be that far away.
Can anyone imagine that winter would voluntarily leave?
Can anyone tell me
there was ever a spring
that didn't go through a survival fight,
or there was ever a spring
that wasn't a rebirth from near-death!

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/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 worker from the nearby factory,
with all the giveaways of an out-of-towner
— a little untidy, but strong complexion,
hair soaking wet (probably just after a shower),
she came out from the afternoon market
holding a plastic bag stuffed with vegetables.
I walk a few feet behind her
on a crowded street ―
The weather has recently warmed up, making the wind
feel balmy, I suddenly realize it's March ―
People are catching up from behind,
causing me to almost stumble.
With passersby between us,
I can still feel her strong and steamy body.
I also feel the night sky, so deep and so blue, under 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 waterway,
she slowly walks away from me, and her silhouette
evokes, 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。

EVENING STROLL

by Peng Jie

Winter. We swept the fallen leaves into the hearth,
carried the threshed grain into the cellar,
and hung big red lanterns on the pergola.
That was three years ago, around the time
Ma Deming’s mother passed away, and
I was in the middle of writing a novel.
Past dinnertime, if no one came around to visit
and Ma Deming was not called back to the iron mill
for overtime, we would take a walk
outside the village. Down a narrow road,
past a black gleaming lake, we would arrive
where there were trees. Nary a lantern nor a soul,
only the moonlight shone us the way
to the higher ground, where we
tooted our flutes, sending melodies
to leap between bare branches
from twilight until daybreak.

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/luvzV2uQ37XzimMWNyyNmg

夜晚的散步

彭杰

冬天到了。我们把落叶扫进炉膛
粮食打好后运进地窖，把大红的灯笼
挂在高高的木架上。那是在三年前
马德明的母亲刚去世不久
我正在写一部长篇小说。
吃过晚饭后，如果没有人串门
马德明没有去镇上的铁厂加班
我们就去村外散步。沿着小路走下去
经过水光晦暗的湖泊，
一直到有树的地方。那里没有什么人
也没有什么灯，我们沿着月光
顺势攀往高处，成为那些
呜呜作响的手风琴，
在光秃秃的树枝上常常响到天亮。

THE LOST VILLAGE

by Peng Yunxia

The field looks more deserted than a human heart, even the last scarecrow
has decided to bend with the wind. The river matches the sky's clarity at headwater,
but shows more pragmatism downstream, laying out a bridge
for the convenience of men, tigers, and flies.
Sprouting wheat and wildflowers have been left unattended since the turn of the century.
These days Father's barn is visited only by sunset, insects, and wild partridges.
Fallen leaves churn in the old brick house, cold ashes lie in the stove.
Before yearend, grandma has turned into a banyan tree at the village entrance,
guarding the decaying shrine and giving townsfolks a sense of home.
God shows up as a bunch of children, away from the concrete jungles,
sometimes as scattered sunflowers, sometimes as a flock of doves.
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

失落的村庄

彭云霞

田野比人心荒芜，最后一个稻草人
随风改变立场。河流带走天空的洁白
浮出现实主义的牙齿，它将在下游
变成桥梁，让老虎和苍蝇先行
麦苗和野花，留在世纪末
父亲的谷仓，装满夕照、虫鸣和鹧鸪的呼唤
落叶在旧砖房里来来去去，灶膛的火熄了
等不及春天，老祖母变成村口的榕树
护着倾坍的神社，和亲人的归宿感
神是一群小孩，跑出了水泥森林
有时是几棵葵花，有时是一群白鸽。

THE WISH MUSEUM

by Pu Er

Coming out from the Natural History Museum,
lurking in me is the wish to become
a plate of green algae
to survive the Cambrian Period,
or a lion
to prowl through the entire grassland,
or a horse
to collect inspirations from a thousand mile radius,
or a bat
to start an underground mob,
or a leaping reindeer
to recapture some poetic beauty,
or a cheetah
to peer with lightning,
or I should choose to be a tiger
and together pick a darkest adversary,
or to be a dolphin
with a virtue to correct for wandering,
or help to heal a wounded owl
and to receive its blessings afterwards.
I also fancy to be a mole
for its ability to hide at will.
Or, give me an African elephant,
a preferred tyrant to coexist,
or an eagle to be tamed
to tether my freedom afterwards,
or a flounder
to learn to tolerate stubborn prejudices,
or a monkey
to play a one-man comedy show,
or a dancing bee
to get infinitely close to nature’s laws,
or just turn me into an ant
to do only one thing in a lifetime.

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

愿望博物馆

朴耳

从自然博物馆出来，我开始许愿：
给我一盆绿藻
就有了通行证穿越寒武纪
我要一头狮子以及覆盖草原的权力
养一匹马
灵感来自方圆千里
捕获一只蝙蝠
就拥有一支黑帮
我喜欢驯鹿
它们跳跃时能还原诗意
还是豢养猎豹吧
我要控制闪电
我选择老虎
同时选择心腹之患
我的愿望是得到一只海豚
美德令迷航无力反驳
为猫头鹰疗伤
然后接受它的祝福
我看中了鼹鼠
我想要随意躲藏的能力
不如给我一头非洲象
我宁愿与暴君共处
让我驯服一只鹰
之后驯服自由
养一只比目鱼
容忍矫正不了的偏见
我想要一只猴子
请它演出孤独的喜剧
是不是学会了蜜蜂的舞蹈
就等于无限接近神旨
把我变成蚂蚁好了
一生只做一件事

Tonight is So Very Cold

by Qi Muge

It must have to do with the snow,
and with the mood of waiting.
In the lamplight, she tosses the medley of words
out of the window, into the wind.
With a shiver,
they soon disappear
in the shade of the night.
Her loneliness grows, her hands withdraw from the aging autumn,
as the words fall and break as if in a ritual.
From her fingertips, the cold surges to every stream and every hill of her body.
She closes the windows, crosses her arms,
only then does she realize the transient snow
has taken root in her forehead.
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

这个夜晚格外冷

其木格

和一场雪有关
和一直等待的心情有关
灯光下，她把拼凑的词语
扔给窗外的风

它们在夜色里
打了一个寒噤之后
消失不见

她把孤独放大，从深秋抽出手
仪式感落下破碎
指尖寒凉，席卷全身山川沟壑
关好窗门，抱紧双肩
才发现，那场还在路上的雪
早已在额上，生根

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

by Qi Yuqin

When the cooking fire returns to a house, there's no doubt about it,
and every plant can trace its lineage
to some mountain or field,
but the return of a native can be met with suspicious eyes.
An ID card lists one place as origin, another place as hometown,
another place as ancestral home, yet another place as birthplace,
but former residences were condemned and demolished,
therefore house number, street and village names were altered
beyond recognition.
Those wanting to return to their roots,
in lifting the vestige of their footprints from other places,
those thinking they've come home
are labeled “no such person, package undeliverable, return to the sender”:
new address not updated, old address outdated, neither is verifiable ...

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

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

还乡

漆宇勤

烟火若还乡，才是真还乡
所有草木都来自山野
有着固定的族谱
而人的还乡形迹可疑
纸上的籍贯与故乡，祖籍，生养之所
一次次拆迁后，某街某号，某村某组
全部细节已面目全非
归根的人，收拾脚印的人，还乡的人
都被邮差打包退回：
搬迁新址不明、原写地址不详，查无此地址……

TUMBLEWEED

by Qi Zi

Tumbleweeds, adrift in the valley, the fields, by the water,
I would rather borrow from the classics
to say something poetic about them,
for example, “wild, humble brambles, to be harvested…”.
But I have, truth be told, chopped the dead tuffs of grass,
bundled them and took back to the village for firewood.
I also once pried open its thickets to look for a lovely little bird
— some kind of thrush, nesting deep in wild grasses.
Out in the plains, you can hear it calling,
indeed a happy chance encounter.
Dried and disheveled, lashed by autumn winds,
tumbleweeds look dismal, much like many of life’s true stories,
little can be embellished about them.
Adrift in the valley, the fields, and by the water,
trembling, forlorn, the embodiment of loneliness.
Here comes the tumbleweeds rolling, tumbling
from the ancient mountains and rivers.

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/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

by Qi Zi

A big rig can carry twenty tons of coal,
that’s how tonight feels, pitch black, a full load of
dark matter on the move, only the ears can hear it,
and the feet feel the vibration.
It’s as if everything will end tonight
soon after the big mountain is moved.
How many times have I envisioned this:
With ideas, civilization takes shape, and people line up to borrow it
to light up the dawn sky, traveling on heavy trucks
through my village to honor the philosophers.
But I am wrong, folks prefer jest and jeer,
are forever ravenous for salacious news…
All those soot-covered books,
that’s how tonight feels. The earth is shaking,
nothing ethereal is being moved on the road 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

MOONLIGHT

by Qian Lina

Think of me as a leaf,
a road in a past life
that's rolling out in your heart.
Move your lips closer to the leaf
and blow out a tune.
Each time the leaf trembles,
a note is born, wrapping
around itself and beginning to
grow into a house, a table, chairs and beds,
which you call HOME.
It also churns out fleeing clouds,
and squeezes out a rain storm.
Before thunder and lightning shatter everything,
we bathe in the moonlight as in a lodge,
as in a paradise, no sooner was it regained
than lost.

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/s8Bld5vwB6agE96F1z-VxQ

月光

钱利娜

把我当成一片叶子
像前世的一条道路
在你心中卷起
把你的嘴唇放在上面
吹出一个曲子
叶片的每一次颤抖
就长出一个音符，音符
是她自身的囚徒
长出房屋、桌椅和床榻
你称之为家园
也长出退缩的云
拧出暴风雨
在雷电撕裂伤口之前，沐浴我们的月光
是一间临时出租屋
仿佛重拾的天堂
还没来得及破碎

THE MAST VILLAGE

by Qiang Renliu

Each person has his own village.
As a son of the Mast Village, sometimes
I feel I am something outside of myself,
as if there is a magical force
perching on every corner of my village,
and I am a crop in the field,
the stream in front of a house, or a tree.
When I raise my arms, I may even see
glittering feathers.
Sometimes I peep like nesting chicks,
or feel like a block of moonlight, a grain,
Grandma’s aching tailbone, a saw,
or a thud when something suddenly breaks.
— I watch my village quietly, imagine
its mind and ethos, and wait eagerly
for another transformation, as futile as it may be.
Sooner or later I will age, grow wrinkles and scales,
molt the human shape, and embrace other lives:
under the soil of the Mast Village.

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, Beijing, China）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/m9b-721XvVzV_Za3CH5BfQ

桅杆村

羌人六

一个人有一个人的村庄
作为桅杆村的子民，偶尔
我会变得跟自己毫无瓜葛
似乎拥有幻形的魔力
蛰伏在桅杆村的角角落落
有时，我是地里的一茬庄稼，
家门前那条河，或者一棵树
有时我张开双臂，看见
一副亮闪闪的翅膀
有时，我嘴里含着一窝鸟叫，
一块月光，一粒麦子，
外婆腰椎上的疼，一把锯子
忽然断裂的空响
——我秘密观察着村庄
全部的感情和思想，也热衷
这徒劳无功的替换，早晚
我会衰老，长出皱纹和鳞
脱掉人形，与它们抱作一团：
在桅杆村的土里面。

AND I WON"T GIVE UP THE WORLD

by Qing Ling

Your arrival was a mystery,
so was your leaving,
as if only to deliver a pathway
for me to fall in love with grief.
Wrinkles spread across the mirror,
no sight of you in the sun,
the moon is shattered,
stars scatter everywhere.
You let me toss the road upwards.
It becomes a ladder,
connecting to another road at the rooftop.
Can it go any further?
Any higher and it will end up in the sky
The world is dark.
Stars do fall.
Someone makes a wish, but not me.
I know you won't give up the sky for me,
and l won’t give up the world that I have loved for so long.

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/VT9okWwePY2asx3fi_0cMw

我也不会放弃爱了许久的人间

青铃

你来得莫明其妙
走得也莫明其妙
仿佛只是来送一条小路
让我莫名其妙地爱上忧伤
镜子爬满了皱纹
阳光下找不到你的影子
月亮被打碎
星星撒得到处都是
你让我把路竖起来
竖成梯子
梯子竖到房顶是另一条路
还能再高吗
再高就是天空
人间很黑
有星星落下来
有人许愿但我不会
我知道你不会为我放弃天空
我也不会放弃爱了许久的人间

PASSING SOUTH LAKE BY NIGHT

by Qing Xiaoyi

Little by little, the moon looks smaller, and eventually falls
in the lake, gone without a splash.
The fog rises. There’s always something rising
and something falling, as expected in this world.
A cabin by the lake emanates a warm light,
unlike anything in this world. I dare not approach.
Two pairs of shoes, soaked with dew,
walk with each other until finally losing their way.

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/zaoYuG29sVm61CzyqImnYQ

夜过南湖

青小衣

月亮越来越小，掉进湖里
没有溅起一朵水花，就不见了

雾气升起来。这世上
有东西往下走，就有东西往上走

湖边的小房子，灯火温暖
仿佛不是人间。我不敢靠得太近

露水打湿了两双鞋
它们互相走路，走着走着就走失了

NOTES FROM A HOSPITAL WARD

by Qiu Shui

One keeps watch, the other is watched.
Between Mother and me, there is a thickening fog.
We can no longer look and recognize each other.
The fog keeps a distance between us,
it hides us from each other,
but also brings us closer more than ever.
In fact we need it,
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——

SPUTTERS OF FIRES

by Qu Rui

It always has something to say, and I only answer
with silence; for instance, one winter we were away from home
and lit the year-end fireworks in celebration, another time
we burned paper money at the graveyard.
Something compels us to sit before a fire.
It blurts out futile shouts,
meanwhile we listen to each ghost
returning to our world in the shape of a fire.
One Saturday I paid my mother a visit, and told her
about the dead appearing sad in my dream.
“Dreams will be gone, you must write them down."
She thought long before advising me.
We can't make a long-legged dream stay,
nor ask a burning fire to shelter us
as it morphs as if to mock as if to affirm
that we are deemed to miss out —
Every flame releases one last hope.
But it grows into a wild horse, leaving
the wilderness by itself, only the sputtering of fire
remains: seeing off lives already in decline.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: 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。

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS AND BLOWS

By Ren Huaiqiang

I don’t plan to settle here.
When the north window opens, looking out over the garden,
my dreams fly to the sea of clouds.
The old scholar in me will play music again,
evoking a sense of emptiness, or vastness,
the sounds of trickling water and drifting clouds at my fingertips.
Deep in the nebulas, who would think
out in the galaxy——a wordbook without pagination,
surrounded by pearl-like suns,
there would be a hermit under the tree
waiting for someone to return with wine.
But before showing his smile,
he carelessly trips on a parcel of white cloud,
and falls instantly into oblivion.
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

一阵阵风吹过了

任怀强

我不会停留于此
面向花园的北窗一开
我的心愿便向云海茫茫中
逃禅的人又重新操琴
到处触碰到空寂、辽阔
手势流水声声，白云苍狗
你在深处，谁会想到
星空――一部没有页码的字典
一粒粒明珠般的太阳
仍旧一个人在树下隐逸
等候另一个人沽酒归来
没等露出笑容
却在一块白云上失足
瞬间没于苍茫之中

RELIVING

by Rong Rong

Now old and deranged, my reminiscences
consist of too many myths and add-ons.
People and things I commingled or leafed through,
the monotonic or flamboyant friendships,
the melancholy or quandary I alone know,
how reliving them is useless but indispensable.
To someone like me, a deluded nostalgic case,
the frail inner castle is held up only by memories.
As at this moment, I am missing an old friend,
missing him like watching the water and earth of my ailing kingdom
rapidly eroding but cannot stop the runoff.
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

CONTEMPLATION: AT THE STONEHENGE

by San Pi

I can’t understand their tongue.
There’s something that easily segregates us.
On the way here, I didn’t understand
the driver's animated introduction.
At the site of the Stonehenge, I am lost to
the deep whispers that echo among the stones.
I can only feel the world with my eyes.
Although here the sun moves the same way as in China
and the wind blows the same way as back home,
when the rain falls on Salisbury’s
soil and stones, it makes a rhythm
unknown to me, as if an old ritual in a foreign land.
An English maiden looks back and smiles, as I look at
the stones and adore.
The open fields effuse a green radiance.

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/4-p_hodVMd_RAonuUrFTPQ

沉思：在巨石阵

散皮

我无法听懂他们的语言
有一种物体，把我们简单的隔离
来途上，我听不懂
司机抑扬顿挫的解说
石阵前，我听不懂
石头里回荡的深沉的低语
我只能用眼睛抚摸世界
虽然阳光的移动，和中国的一样
虽然平原的风，和家乡的一样
但雨落在索尔兹伯里的
土地，石头，敲打着雨
那是异域的密码，久远的仪式
英格兰少女回头微笑，我的仰望
驻留在石头上
广袤的田野泛起绿色的光辉

THE BIRD AND THE PISTIL

by San Pi

North of the Bird Mountain, there are no more mountains. Almost a badge of honor:
from here on, it‘s the Northern Plain for as far as the eye can see.
An ancient medicine man lived here, known as Doctor Bird;
whether he liked it or not, his fame was tied to the Bird Mountain.
South of the Bird Mountain, the Pistil Mountain rises from the flatlands,
dueling the onliest Bird Mountain across the Yellow River.
Its vertical jagged rocks resemble powerful sinews on a climb;
an angular figure, ready for a leap.
Once upon a time, a lotus pond kept the moon and the twin mountains at home.
The Pistil Mountain swayed with the ripples;
flowering reeds fringed the Yellow River across from other autumn colors;
just then, the misty air far and near
added nostalgia to the landscape, as in the painting of The Bird and The Pistil Mountains.
Alone, atop the Pistil Mountain,
out of the vast nothingness, I saw a flash —-
the rambling Yellow River, like a bolt of lightning,
divided the Bird Mountain from the Pistil Mountain.
This Taiji configuration, a summit on each side,
presides over the vicissitudes of life, there but not there.
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/d8KyOPiB2zw3PnBM2K3ibA

鹊华之诗

散皮

鹊山之北再无山。好像一个骄傲的宣言：
极目望去，华北平原沃野千里
不管扁鹊是否同意
山的名字是跟他分不开了
鹊山之南，华不注山拔地而起
隔着黄河眺望鹊山的孤寂
嶙峋的石头如同向上攀登的肌肉
陡削的身形，即将一跃而起
曾经，荷塘把月色与山形藏于水中
华不注山随波摇摆
荻花与秋色分列黄河岸边
斯其时也，齐烟韵远
把一拢乡愁皴染《鹊华秋色图》
一个人站在华不注山顶
陡然从苍茫中，走出一幅景象
黄河如同一条闪电
把鹊山与华不注山
分置在大河两岸，这巨大的太极图
让遥远的沧桑，时隐时现。

HAND IN HAND

by Sang Mei

Now I sit down.
We sit down.
Amid old wooden tables, old bamboo chairs and strangers,
the gray turtledove looks more at ease than the masters and the pilgrims.
In the hot sun, a lotus holds up an umbrella outside the temple.
Unoccupied tables and chairs pile up like a pyramid in the corner.
The lids for our two bowls of tea also overlap.
What about the cool token in your bosom? Will you let it boil like water?
All doors in the attic are closed.
Robes hanging to dry faintly outline their masters’ shapes.
They are people sent to this world from another world,
flesh occupied by light breeze and white clouds.
I remember it, I was once preoccupied with clouds and breeze, too,
but when we poured out the last drops of tea and bowed to say goodbye,
he quietly picked up my hand,
as if I was a cliff cypress,
as if we would never be separated.

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/GrlgqFJs-3NG09q_YtrSIQ

执手

桑眉

现在我坐下来
我们坐下来
夹杂在旧木桌、旧竹椅和陌生人之间
那只灰斑鸠比师父和香客还自在
烈日炎炎，碧荷在殿外举着伞柄
无人落座的桌椅在廊角叠罗汉
我们那两个盖碗茶盖也交叠在一起
怀中清凉信物呢？可否交付沸水
阁楼上所有房门都紧闭
晾晒的僧袍隐约勾勒主人形态
他们是另一个世界派到这个世界的人
肉身装着轻风和白云
记起来，不久前也曾生出浮云意
可当我们泼茶揖别，他却悄然拾起我的手
仿佛我是一粒崖柏
仿佛我们永远不会失散

BARREN HILL

by Sasa Lialia

A daily climb or a sporadic climb
after a long break, the experience
is surprisingly similar. The barren hill is my body and soul,
with tree-branch fingers, tree-trunk legs,
every path an arm, each leaf an eye.
At the top of the hill, I walk into the pavilion
as if entering my own head and mind.
A rain rinses me clean, head to toe,
but can’t wash away my internal grime
or the sins let out when alone.
Of course, I am kind as well. When it’s ill,
I guard the barren hill with a doctor’s honor,
and cherish its predestined elevation.
Because when I return from the barren hill
to the even more barren human world,
happiness is always short-lived,
my preferred world is always ridiculously remote.
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

荒丘

仨仨俩俩

几乎每天攀登和间隔很长一段时间
才有的一次攀登，感觉竟然
惊奇的相同。荒丘是我的身体和灵魂
树枝的手指，树干的双腿
小路的胳膊，每一枚树叶的眼睛
我走进山顶的亭子
就走进了我的头颅和思想
一场雨冲洗我，从头到脚
但冲不走我藏掖在五脏六腑的污浊
和孤独时暴露出来的罪恶
当然，我也善良。生病的时候
我就用医生的精神守护这座荒丘
守护这被命运托举的高度
因为每当我从荒丘走回更加荒芜的人间
快乐的时间总是非常短暂
属于我的世界总是无缘由地离我很远

A HEART SWIMMING IN SOLITUDE

by Sea of July

A drowned man returned from the night
to touch her fingers, to teach her to play
the river that was not there.
Eyes float in the dark,
while the heart swims in solitude.
She wants to cry for the water’s sorrows,
and laugh for its happiness.
“I can no longer keep up
with the white goddess, let me submit to my own magic.”
A voice digs deep into her.
She takes his place and looks out the window
where the moon rises, plain like a white dot.
The river’s waves are meaningless, too, hardly a eulogy.
All night she couldn't leave the dark spell,
but she loves the water’s lacework
more than the snake deep in the river.
—How beautiful and how quiet it is!
When cast ashore like a big fish,
she continues to search for the mysterious water.

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）

一颗心在孤独里游泳

七月的海

溺死的人从黑夜中返回
又一次牵动她的手指，去弹奏
那条乌有的河流
一个人的眼睛
在黑夜里浮动，一颗心在孤独里游泳
她想替水哭，替水笑
“我再也无法追上
那白色的神像了，我只能屈从于自身的魔力”
一个声音洞穿了她
她替他忧伤地看着窗外
而此刻，月亮只是一个白点
浪花更是无用的悼词
整个夜晚，她都在魔障里转圈
但她爱锯齿状的花边
胜过那条藏于水底的蛇
——多么寂静而美好啊
当她突然像一条大鱼
被抛到岸上，她还在寻找那些秘密的水

MY BRO LAO HEH

by Sha Ma

One day I went to my bro Lao Heh’s house. His house sits in
a deep alley behind thick groves of trees.
After his divorce, he simply stayed in this hard-to-see house.
Each time I knocked on his door, it spooked some birds from the trees.
Each time he looked as if he wandered out of a dream.
This time he said he was very busy; I asked busy with what?
He said he wanted to find every word of wine
embedded in Tang poetry and do a character count.
Heh said Tang Dynasty was a wine dynasty
as all its poems had a wine flavor.
I guffawed ! Soon he brought out a plate of peanuts in shell
and a bottle of aged Beijing vodka,
opened the anthology “The Complete Tang Poetry”,
and pointed out to me, one by one,
every “wine” word
that he had circled with a red brush.

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）

朋友老何

沙马

一天去朋友老何家，他的家在
一个很深的巷口，一大片
树林遮住了他的房子，老何离婚后
就一直住在这个别人难以
看见的房子里。我每次敲他的门
都会惊飞树林里一些鸟儿
每次老何都像是刚刚从梦游里
走出来。他说他很忙，
我问忙什么呢？他说他要在
《全唐诗》里把“酒”字
都找出来，再统计一下看看
有多少。他说那是一个
“酒”的年代，诗歌里都有酒味
我嘿嘿地笑着。不一会老何
拿出一碟花生米，一瓶老白干
然后打开《全唐诗》把他用红笔
圈过的“酒”字，一个一个地指给我看

SPRINGTIME CANOLA FIELD IN BLOOM

by Sha Yan

When it’s completely saturated,
I’d jump in head first, into its bosom.
Spring in action.
He runs a marathon across the pastoral countryside.
The tides of Spring.
Wave after wave, his love gushes up like a fountain.
The beast of Spring.
Primal and adorable, he conquers and occupies.
It is yellow. It looks as if the migratory birds have returned,
one, two, three, more indeed,
laying out a splendid golden carpet.
I love it, my splendid landscape.
The white butterflies are bewitched,
little bees with their angel wings happily slave away.
Seeing it is to fall for it, closing the eyes is to yearn for it.
Oh, my eyes!
where should I lay them?
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

油菜花的春天

沙雁

浓得化不开的时候
我便一头扎进去，撞他个满怀
动词的春天。
路过山水田园，他长途奔跑
潮水的春天。
一波压过一波，他爱如泉涌
野兽的春天。
原始而可爱，他突围并占领
黄色。仿佛回归的候鸟
一只、两只、三只，其实更多
金子般铺陈一片锦绣
我爱，我的江山
白蝴蝶们已然招安
背着天使翅膀的小蜜蜂纷纷做了奴隶
睁开即是沦陷，闭上却是渴望
我的眼睛啊！
该往哪里安放？

AUTUMN: IN YANG LANG

by Shan Yongzhen

Over the Great Wall of Qin is Yang Lang,
brightly lit on this side,
quiet on the other side, like an idling ancient book.
Two outdated craftsmen, looking almost moldy,
each holds a cup of wine.
Slurp, half a cup is gone,
slurp again, the moonlight
went down with the remaining wine
in one gulp.
Two outdated craftsmen
glanced at each other, and refilled their cups
as if to keep the lifelong
bottled-up words
suppressed.
Outside the Great Wall of Qin, the millet is yellow,
looking golden, looking shiny in the wind.
The wine barrel bellows in the wind.
The two craftsmen walk in the moonlight,
teether,
totter,
counting the distance from home.

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/O5ByV19JI5_M_FvP20x7lA

秋：在杨郎

单永珍

翻过秦长城，就是杨郎
一边灯火通明
一边静得如一本闲置的古书
两个古旧得有点发霉的匠人
各自端着一杯酒
滋溜，半杯下去
再滋溜，似乎把月光
连同半杯残酒
一气咽下
两个手艺过时的匠人
相互看了一眼，继续斟满
好像把半辈子
要说的话
压在杯底
秦长城西侧，糜子黄了
风把糜子吹得金黄金黄
风把酿酒的缸，吹得呜呜发响
两个匠人，在月光下
深一脚
浅一脚
测量回家的路程

THAT YEAR

by Shang Lue

That year we ventured out in the blizzard
to our whistle-stop station,
to catch up with the departing soul.
The silence on the road
was as deep as the snow,
we sank our feet in it
knowing new snowflakes will fill the voids.
Likewise the traces
of our lives will be erased in time,
therefore we must at least try
to give the departed a dignified farewell.
We gazed through the falling snow
at a vanishing face,
the silent snowflakes felt like
a throwback to the gentler older days.
The silence was deep,
the silece was complete,
and it impressed us
as a memory preserved in ice.

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

那年

商略

那年冒大雪
前往小镇车站
为了追上将要离去的灵魂
路上的寂静
可以用积雪的厚度来衡量
我们踩出脚印
为了让更多雪花填满
像人走了以后
时光终会抹去他生活的痕迹
所以我们要有一个
像样的告别
在大雪中彼此端详
一张再也看不到的脸
寂静的大雪
有古意，也有仁慈
因为太寂静
再也装不下其他寂静
所以我们记得住
像记忆贮存了一块冰

AT GOLDEN BOWL*

by Shang Lue

The old bleached wooden pavilion was
rusty red to begin.
The bleached bamboo chairs once had a green sheen,
a green sheath with a frost-white finish.
A few nonnative children
hang out near the clothes-drying rods,
laughing at something not obvious to us,
their sleeves flowing in the wind.
We sit in the pavilion, our hands
on its bleached, relic paint,
unsure about mingling with the children.
Even in a moment like this, our in-cognition
is staggering.
We had better sit like this.
In the afterglow of a winter day,
we blend with the pale pavilion and the bamboo chairs,
in the sound of children’s laughter.
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

在金岙

商略

发白的旧木亭
原先是铁锈的红色
发白的竹椅，曾经有青皮
青皮笼着一层清霜
几个异乡孩子
在晾衣竿边
为着一件我们未知的事情大笑
他们的衣袖飘在风里
我们坐在亭子里
摸着那发白的，枯涩的漆水
不敢走到孩子们中间
仅仅是现在，未知的事情
已经越来越多了
我们应该这样坐着
在冬日晚照里
和木亭、竹椅一起变白，变枯涩
并听着孩子们的笑声

ADAPTATION

by Shang Shui

Suddenly it is sunset
even though the sun seems not to have appeared in the sky.
That kind of peacefulness
is not for me to understand, but for me to adapt—-
to follow the sun, to disappear head to toe.
I wonder if I was ever illuminated.
Next time when the sun shines again, I will check
to see if my dark parts are still there.
Right now, I can feel my body tremble.
How amazing: the mood that is both dark and bright.

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/YRHxkLIBTJ4aKZi0-voaMA

适应

伤水

蓦然间就日落了
好像太阳从没有在天幕出现过
那种平静
不是教我明白，而是让我适应——
附和自头到脚的消失
我怀疑我曾经被照亮过
再有阳光时，我将仔细查看
晦暗的部位是否依然
此时，身体颤了一下
多么奇异：又暗又亮的心境

MOON SONG

by Shao Bing

Last night I went to the lake to fetch water,
then walked with Mother, moon in the bucket,
to water the vegetable patch. From under the luffa trellis
I got up, and felt a jab, twice,
one by a bamboo spike,
the other by Mother’s sobs, as she hunched up
by the bucket. She cried not because the moon wasn’t
a pretty full moon, but because she recalled the summer
when her only daughter died. I emptied the bucket,
walked back to the lake, and released the moon.
Oh, the moon was only a moon,
no one’s daughter, no one’s sister.
Ah, she knew no sorrows,
dreaded no partings. How beautiful she was, how perfect she was!
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

月亮诗

哨兵

昨夜我下湖汲水
捧着一桶月亮陪母亲
浇菜地。从丝瓜架底下直起腰
有什么东西扎了我两次
一次是这根尖锐的荆竹
一次是母亲蹲在桶边
啜泣。她没哭月亮
在水里圆缺。她又想起那个夏天
过世的独女。我倒空这只桶
朝湖泊走去。我放跑月亮
哎哟，月亮只是月亮
月亮没有母亲，月亮没有妹妹
哎哟，月亮从不悲欢
月亮也无离合。多么美，多么好

STRONG TEA OR FATHER

by Shao Qian

I am homebound with hunger,
unsure which came first — hunger or homesickness.
Soon I will have tea with my father,
a strong cup of tea as usual,
but the eddies in the tea cup will twist my sense of time: am I still five years old
or actually twenty-five years old? Has Father ever grown old? Have I ever grown up?
Father is slow with words, keeping to himself most of the time.
In his smoking days, cigarettes spoke for his mood.
I may banter with him at dinner time,
saying how he’s still unskillful with cooking,
just like my continuous resistance to strong tea.
The bitter taste of tea was amplified
by my childhood palate, like many other life’s intrigues.
I have kept to myself these years, and still cannot figure out
how to forgive myself like a father would, or
how to understand my father by looking into myself.

Translated by Meifu Wang (Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/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 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 glum.
Sadness in sleep,
alas, is probably true sorrow.
I can take part in her life during the day,
but not let into her sad sleep.
Wakefully I witness her sadness
but can’t understand the reasons.
Something happens in the dark of the soul,
but 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

ENLIGHTENMENT

by Shen He

Outside all’s quiet. I asked my wife
what her predominant daily thought was.
She reflected and replied: to write well.
An excellent teacher but nervous about writing,
perhaps her answer was genuine,
but not what I longed to hear.
It’s in fact a question for myself,
and I would like to answer it this way: day in and day out
most often I think about
the journey to truth. How to trudge through life
in the footsteps of ancient sages,
to be a man in the light.
She bursts into laughter, stirring up a tiny leaf
on an avenue tree. In the dark
there she is like a candle, but my heart is
also a wide open country.

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/AZv0i-Hkp_BHPzvfcS7ldA

悟道

沉河

万籁俱寂。和爱人一起讨论
每日所思最多之事
她稍思索，答曰：写好文章
教书很好的她害怕著文
或许这是她最真实的回答
却不是我要的答案

我所问只是反求诸己
我想回答：我每日
所思最多之事是
悟道。是如何让自己在苟活中
遵循古代圣贤教导
成为一得道之人

她“扑哧”笑出声，带动了路旁
一片小树叶飘动。黑暗中
我看她是明亮的，而我内心
也有着空旷

BOOK OF SONGS

by Shen Mujin

How many years have we not heard the birds?
It is as if
in a twinkle
Earth’s power grid is turned off,
and suddenly you hear
a voice, and a voice.
Our ancestors’ poems,
every sound, every word re-emerges,
full of emotions, half-choked,
caught in your throat.

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/KUQ8-xP3w-IA1xRm5pe9jg

诗经

沈木槿

有多少年没听见鸟声了呢？

好比置身于
一颗瞬间
拉掉了电闸的星球
忽然你听见了

一声，又一声

声声句句
都像是哽在，挣扎在
你嗓子眼里的
祖先们的诗

Baby Ivy

by Shi Bin

Ivy has a new foot on the fence.
Prior to that, a gentle probe up the soil,
pestered by insects, it tirelessly
grew tiny leaves to build a ladder.
“I’ve got to live where the sun shines."
It never hides its intention, and
won’t allow hesitation for it knows
the laws in the plant kingdom don't house mercy.
Guided by its free will, the ivy climbs ever higher.
Its supple tentacles understand the
obstinate crushing power of the barriers.
A new home for the young ivy over the fence,
its hidden claws
cast a greenish net,
and soon will reach every corner of the world.

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/OeyYnMSHeZQNXFi5UGa4pQ

小青藤

世宾

到了篱笆上，小青藤有了根据地
之前它小心翼翼，从泥土里探头
忍受昆虫的噬咬，艰难地
用几片嫩芽搭起了梯子
“只有阳光照耀的地方才值得活”
它从不掩饰自己的想法，它
甚至不能有丝毫的犹豫
因为怜悯从未在丛林的法则中产生
它被自由的意志带向了高处
柔软的触须最清楚四周的障碍，因为
它周围的否定力量具有高高在上的傲慢
小青藤攀上了篱笆，就拥有一片新天地
它看不见的脚爪，很快
就把那张绿色的大网
铺向所有的角落

THE MOON

by Shi Bin

The moon shines on the hills and woods,
and on a mottled shadowy world.
Life will end, all traces erased,
but the moon that shined on him remains in the sky.
If a new life
carries on the wishes of the deceased,
things will change.
The earth in the dark night
is as dark as the sky, making it harder
to see what’s black and what’s white.
What’s real and what’s unreal
are also not discretely different.
The moon still rises,
casting shadows on the concrete objects,
as to the mirage, having no shadow,
it is like a bad debt with no one accountable for it.

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/AZv0i-Hkp_BHPzvfcS7ldA

月亮

世宾

月亮照着山冈、树林
也照着或明或暗的人世
一个人走了，世上不再有他的痕迹
照耀过他的月亮，还在天上
如果另一个人
继承了他的意愿
一切就都有了变化
黑夜笼罩下的大地
相同的黑，使原本的黑白
都难以辨别彼此
虚与实之间，也因此
失去界线
月亮还是要升起来
它只为实物制造了阴影
而虚无之物，因为无影
而成为一笔没有债主的烂债

OFTEN WHEN I FIND MYSELF SPELLBOUND

by Shi Maosheng

Often when I find myself spellbound, as if coming to life’s end,
as if seeing a path to an unknown world,
and how I fear that life has been received in vain,
fear that precious time was wasted,
fear that my candle is burned up, at both ends.
Now, every twig is sunbathing as twigs should,
and the leaves expand into expected pensive colors.
The lake fluctuates within its own limits,
and seems soothed by last night’s twinkling sparkles.
Maybe the grand lesson here is emotive, which one must experience
to reach the next best thing. At this place,
the deity is given a praiseworthy personality,
the grass below the hill has a wild darker tone,
the air over the lake turns into a whirlwind.
I have seen people stroll into sunset in this park,
eased by old memories, comforted by spring breeze.
Each is almost like me, blessed with many good years,
and the so-called time is just about done with its lessons.

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/0p5yR-qAVu4Ctof4puvFNA

常常在出神的一刻……

施茂盛

常常在出神的一刻我意识到一种大限
像要从现实的版图获得通幽的曲径
我怕生命被无辜接受，辜负了每一寸春光
又怕这春光终将暗淡下来，如入尘埃
现在，每根枝条如有所需般饱蘸阳光
宽阔的叶子带着思虑的色泽如期抵达
湖面自我律动，受节制而露出边界
似乎昨日一夜烟花已然令它有所慰藉
或许一切都要经受一种伟大的情感教育
才会在它那里得以重现。在它那里
神的结构被赋予更多值得称颂的人格
下降的坪坡因它而加深蒙昧的草色
上方那根气柱也在它加持下螺旋状自转着
在这座公园，我见过散步者跨进晚霞
用回忆缓解自己，留待那时的春风眷顾
他几乎与我如出一辙，受岁月恩惠
而所谓的时光也正刚刚完成它的功课

ABOUT TOMORROW

by Shi Zhaotao

It's customary for me to bow my head when talking about tomorrow.
Some regrets are buried under the plum tree,
the rest locked away in the drawer.
Those who can’t open up are not up to talking about tomorrow,
let’s ramble on smog or the geese journeying south instead.
We look at each other across the long table while sipping tea.
You took the key point of my story out of its context.
About tomorrow or the future,
no one can get closer to their truth than a river can.
The cigarette butts are left on the edge of the table,
crushed before their last puff,
every cloud of fog feels like this morning’s rain,
prattling on about being cold.
Yet all I can do is
adding an extra padding of clothing
and lead a life steaming hot like porridge.

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/ilY2CAn2DbOnSVupsc0cow

关于明天

时兆涛

谈及明天，我习惯性地低下头
一部分憾事被埋到梅花树下
而剩下的被锁进抽屉
无法摊开自我的人怎配谈论明天
谈霾，谈南飞的雁

放下茶杯，你我在长桌两头对视
故事最关键的一句被你擅自剥离
关于明天，或者说未来
没有谁能比一条河流更接近真理

你遗忘在桌沿的烟头
未燃尽前被捻灭
而每一团雾都像今早的雨
喋喋不休地说冷

但我所能做的
只是添一件厚衣服
过粥一般热气腾腾的生活

A PERFECT AUTUMN DAY

by Shiwu Lan

A perfect autumn day
is when I see persimmon trees standing on a hillside,
their creamy fruit dangling, orange like lamplights.
A perfect autumn day is to meet an old friend on the road;
seeing each other is like looking in the mirror:
with the same markings of the century, talk the same talk,
all those years gone by without us knowing.
A perfect autumn day is to be on the mountain in the morning
and by the water in the afternoon.
Autumn’s silhouette masks the hills.
A mother gave birth to many children,
naming each after a baby animal;
they have returned as constellations.

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/6v-uaeuWJqKgPgwvy5JLsg

理想的秋天

十五岚

是看见柿子树，站在山坡
为我们点灯，那些橘黄色，带有一点点奶油味
理想的秋天，是在路上遇见故人
看见他等于看见一面镜子
我们是时光的斑点
彼此呼应，怎么一下子度过了这些年
理想的秋天，是上午看山
下午看水
秋天的轮廓低垂于山冈
一个母亲诞生的孩子
是群星，背负着幼兽之名
又回归这里

FRESH GREEN

by Shizhi Mengren

Every year I go, to my father’s grave, to see the same grass grow taller,
and a few new small mounds nearby tucked into the mountainside.
A few raindrops seep into the headstone, nothing remarkable,
but we like to call them tears because of our sadness.
Paper ash flies in the wind,
carrying with it sobbing and weeping,
only a few floating clouds remain in the sky.
Under these clouds, with swollen eyes, we turn our face towards the village,
where one person is no longer there, where white pear flowers are blooming.
Pear blossoms, really, so white, so fine, but I won’t be tempted by you
to mourn the restless souls —-
The season now is fresh and green, a mirror washed clean by the rain,
in which we turn into wild mountains and cool shades for ourselves.

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/OzZshIO49IRxKqruvkDL-w

清明

诗之梦人

年年去父亲坟头看一样的青草长高，
又看到周围鼓起几个掖在山腰的小包包。
几滴雨落入石碑的痕迹，说明不了什么，
只是我们非要拿它唤作一种悲伤。
烧过的纸灰任风吹起，还有泣声也随风吹远，
惟独头顶的天空，照旧飘荡几朵浮云，
浮云下，我们哭肿的脸总面朝来时的村庄
少了一个人身影的村口，梨花正白。
纯白的梨花哟，真的，我不想借你的名义
再去凭吊游离的亡魂——
清明，算是一次被雨水洗净后的镜子
我们都成了镜子里装饰自己的野山和树荫。

NIGHT TRIP

by Shu Dandan

Like a beetle, the car crawls on the misty intercity highway,
a confounding impenetrable world.
Through the headphones, she hears a male voice singing the blues:
“Hush, bird, rest your weary head,
your stars will be rising soon.”
A simple song changes the sky like autumn rain.
We cannot help but be enchanted by the magic
out of nowhere, the same way
we keep on slipping back into familiar memories.
It’s as if some things we cannot defy,
such as the weed that survives being pulled out thrice,
let it be, we should yield to its mysterious will
even if it belongs to the little barnyard grass.
Much has already happened that cannot be
mended, but to forget is also impossible.
Bitter adversity twists the mind
the way a dry pomegranate breaks inside out...
What else can counter our ennui?
In my journey this bleak night,
the moon moves, so do I,
and try my best to retain the last of innocence.

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/ZreOHCAiBC6DqXcdRyBsCA

夜行

舒丹丹

像只铁甲虫，汽车在迷蒙的城际公路穿行
一个无法剥离的混沌世界
塞着耳机，听一个沧桑的男声唱着
“关住你的忧郁之鸟，你仰望的星光正在降临”

一曲歌诗就能唤来一场漫天秋雨
我们如此信赖，这看似虚无的
精神的魔力，像执著于
某些难以飘散的旧心情

假如这也是不可抗拒的人生——
田地里拔过三次仍不能除根的草
就该让它自由生长，遵从那神秘的意志
哪怕一株不结实的稗子？
那么多不可思议的事已在这生命里发生
弥补已不可能，遗忘，也不可能
苦厄让心灵变得多么不知所措
仿佛一只先从内部碎裂的枯石榴……

还有什么能对抗人生的厌倦？
在这荒凉的夜的旅途
月亮走，我也走
竭力保持最后一点天真

MARRIAGE

by Song Qiyuan

Crags everywhere, as if in a dream.
You hop between crags (or something like crags), into the light.
The light shows a cliff’s silhouette but not its depth.
With each jump, you rise from the valley,
and continue to jump, changing postures, here and there.
Although it can be very frightening, just like the night
when you lost your virginity, but no one dies from it.
In the real world, it doesn’t work that way—
you would be trembling with fear to jump down a floor.
Vertigo is very real to us small creatures. Some didn’t believe it and jumped off the bridge,
off a tree, or off a roof and died, I feel sorry for these deaths. So sad.
It is pointless to compare dreams to reality. In dream things do not have dimensions,
still it may be necessary to discuss what a foot is, or three feet, or six feet.
Relatively speaking, I prefer unattached objects. You have sorrows, so do I.
Sadness can suddenly appear, just like happiness
can suddenly enter a pure waking world. Early morning in November,
the most significant crags are those in my inner world;
they rise straight up, fragrant. Now, we sit together,
but don’t talk much. We are crag hoppers in the eyes of wild beasts.

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/p5_9dTR96iNGFCZJL72isA

婚姻

宋憩园

像梦里，悬崖到处都是。
你不断跳悬崖（或类似悬崖），跳入光亮。
它有轮廓，因为亮着，不能确定其深度。
每次跳完，你又从里面升上来
继续跳，变换姿势跳。跳过来跳过去，
死不了，跳崖的恐惧明显如初夜。
现实中，你不该这样操作，即便二楼，你都颤抖
如某种临危的小动物。有人不信，在桥上，在楼顶
在树上，跳下去，死了，我为这些死难过。那么难过。
比较梦境和现实是没意义的。它们没尺寸，可是
谈论一尺、三尺、六尺却是有必要的。
相较而言，我喜欢游离之物。你有忧伤，我也有。
忧伤突然显现，像感到幸福那样
进入醒着的洁白。在十一月初的清晨，我感受最多的
是内心的悬崖。陡峭而且芬芳。现在，我们坐在这里。
并不多话。在野兽的眼里跳过来跳过去。

THE SEASON OF BIG SNOW

by Su Ding

Passersby rushed through the woods —
a restful place few and far between. Trees
stretch their bare hands upwards,
ferrying cold air across the sky.
“Sea breeze fills deep gorges, snow breaks silence in the forest.”
The season of big snow rejoins this classical poem, just as
the mountain hermit hears twigs cracking
under feathery snow and clouds gather before the mountain.
He heats up a jug of wine, drink with the angels
all around, and welcomes the clouds to the door.
A hundred thousands of white notes descend from the sky, one after another,
each a fabulous snow memo, gone before being smoothed out for a read.
What airy-fairy snow, what transient life,
an airy-fairy scholar, a buoyant heart.
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

大雪时节

苏鼎

路过的人，匆匆穿过树林——
难得的休闲地带。树木
张开裸露的手掌伸向天空
泅渡寒风
“海风接大壑，天雪响空林。”
源于一句汉诗的接引，大雪普降的
时刻，山中隐士听到响声
鹅毛压折枝条，白云拥塞山前
烫一壶酒，与遍野的天使
共饮，云朵应邀而至
万千张白纸反复叠加
上好的雪花笺，不容抚平就已翻过
纸上谈兵的雪花，路过人生
纸上谈兵的书生，心怀期待

POET'S ENTREAT

by Su Qifei

Subject your pride to spinal injury,
like a twig of winter plum breaks in a loving hand.
A metaphor’s fragrance is subtle,
its nobility kept under the beauty of humility.
Those fat cats are staging a farce today,
but their props will be stripped off tomorrow,
gone with the hazardous dust behind their fat horses.
A fervent heart meets an icy glance,
still wags its tongue to sway a heart,
a poet is masterful in both.
As if running with a tight rein on,
the body arches up, distorting
to the point of breaking: partly to satirize,
partly to praise.
To offer a poem is to skip a stone, you wait and wait and wait,
then a plop is heard in the middle of the mirror lake.
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

干谒之诗

苏奇飞

傲骨摔断了，
像一枝雪梅折断于一只爱花的手。
暗喻的幽香含而不露，
狂狷乞怜于谦卑之美。
富儿门是滑稽剧舞台上
即将撤下的道具，
肥马尘被证明是肺结核的元凶。
用热心肠炒冷炙是一种技艺，
把握语言的分寸是另一种技艺，
你都精湛于此。
一根缰绳蓄满援引的张力，
把自我拉得变了形，
就要掰成两半：一半惯于嘲讽，
另一半刚学会赞美。
投诗如石，你久久等待
寂静湖面传来咚的一声。

LET IT BE

by Su Ruoxi

No need to see to know
the sweet Osmanthi have blossomed
with their muted sorrows.
Where you don’t go,
a hundred larks flutter between the flowers.
Once they fly away, you remember your lost love.
Music can grow body and wings,
still I can't place myself between
the timid paper
and the dried ink pen.
Nothing ever happens, not even an embrace.
On the map is an unobtainable place,
which I have tried to reach all my life.

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/tsG45Z7a9661eg9PCS7LEg

无为

苏若兮

不用看见，就知道桂花开了
那么幽怨
在没有你的地方
百灵在花枝间跳跃
一旦飞走，就扯到了爱情

虽然，曲谱也能生出肉身和翅膀
但我不能介入
那些受惊的纸张
和一支无墨之笔
连拥抱，都不曾有

就装着远远不能到达的地理
试着走上一辈子

AUTUMN RECLUSE

by Su Xiaoqing

Clearly autumn is here, but no sight of you.
All the geese are gone, flying south with my longings.
I am slowly drying up in the plain; without water,
the soil hardens; you are not here, gone with the rain perhaps.
I detected your scent, and the scent of
pens and ink in the study, of the tea table soused in meditation,
of the window sills in the shade — until all smells are gone.
It’s mid-autumn, presaged by the dwindling shrimps and crabs.
The one and only orange harvest moon,
forever bright and unadorned, answers to no one.
I have stopped counting the years,
something in the air is compelling me to age.
My curtains give me away: a hermitess in a chic neighborhood——
weeding, floriculture, picking fruits, feeding cats.
Nightfall again, I take my low flight
without fears of crashing. The bottom of autumn is your hand.
Translated by Meifu Wang (Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/z9KsBRsPXe97EhABXUhsMw

秋隐

苏小青

说是秋天了，却未见你归
雁子南去，捎走一声问
我在平原逐渐干枯，失去水分后
泥土开始板结；你消失，许是被雨滴带走
我嗅闻你的味道
书房笔墨的味道，茶案凝思的味道
窗台疏影的味道——直到没有任何味道
中秋，被偃旗息鼓的虾蟹预告
橙黄色的圆月无可替代
这明喻穿越千载，别无它用
我已不再计算年龄
这魔咒令我逐渐苍老
窗帘公开我最新的身份：一个高尚社区的女隐士——
锄草，种花，摘果，喂猫
说是夜晚又深了，我低低地飞
总也落不到底。秋的底部是你手心

WEST LAKE BRIDGE

by Sun Huifeng

No one came here today, the underwater steps
and my letter amourette, my Lady Snake*, have both ignored me.
Today’s sunrise and sunset came and went,
night is longer than day.
So many people take the evening to the market,
but I am here, leaning, more than the broken bridge railing.
A day here is like three days of butterfly hovering**;
butterflies hover endlessly,
like the thoughts raging in my head, lapping over the steps.
It didn’t rain, sentiments mixed in vain.
Up turns the umbrella, spring flowers in succession.
Thin out thoughts, decant realgar wine*,
quit crabs and poached poetry,
ditch the wind that I cannot stand.
A day like this, people are listening to the stories
about West Lake, pricking up their ears.
I am alone by the river,
Lady White Snake whispers from ancient times.
Notes:

West Lake in Hangzhou has three bridges and four legendary love stories, among them:
* The Legend of Lady White Snake: immortal Bai Suzhen and mortal Xu Xian fell in love under his umbrella on a broken bridge at West Lake. During the dragon boat festival, she drank the traditional realgar wine, which revealed that she was a large white snake, and her husband left home. Lady snake went under the lake to challenge her fate, and caused a tempest.
** The legend of Butterfly Lovers: a tragic love story of a pair of lovers, Liang Shanbo, a poor scholar, and Zhu Yingtai, the daughter of a prosperous family at West Lake.

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/SD4owx13sfw0IMaE6is02A

西湖桥边

孙慧峰

这一日无人前来，水中的台阶
和书信中的白素贞都回避了我。
这一日朝飞暮卷，日光比灯光更短。
那么多人带着夜晚去了集市，我比桥栏倾斜。
这一日相当于蝴蝶盘旋的三日，蝴蝶盘旋
那么多想法瞬间漫过台阶。
雨没有下起，一场百感交集只是虚设。
伞面朝上，春天里的花草大多步伐一致
甩掉一些杂念和雄黄酒
甩掉螃蟹和抄袭来的腹诽。
甩掉几乎站不住的风
这一日，听西湖故事的人伸长双耳
我在河边孤独，白蛇在古代低语。

TREETOP LODGE

by Sun Songming

Like a fragrant autumn fruit, like a lost
kite, but not the same as a bird's nest, or themoon.
At that height, it will need a forked branch tohold it;
and that branch also hooks away my heart.
A treetop lodge is more beautiful than a claypot.
At that height, it can only be approached by
a soft gaze, caressed from below, nudged by
a tender thought in awe of its precipitous danger.
The stars send down their rescuing ropes; themoon
urgently sails by. In the moonlight,
those black dots of bees, inside and out,
still buzz around to keep their house in order,
not bothered by the heavy frost. The wind picks up.
I tiptoed forward naturally, as if my action
could save it from being blown away.
The sky reigns over the treetop,
but not the wish of a family to stay safe together.
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

结在树顶的房子

孙松铭

似秋天结的香果，像迷路的
风筝，却不同于鸟巢，更不是月亮
建筑之高，需要一根枝丫提住
而枝丫，一下子把我的心也提了去
结在树上的房子，比陶罐美
美，总是在高处，我只能用柔软的
目光，从低处抚摸，并用担心
轻敲，以提醒它的高危
星星们系下了待援的绳索，月亮船
也紧急划过去了。月光下
那些黑点点的蜂，仍在里里外外
飞快地移动，居家劳作
却不问霜重。起风了
我不自觉向前又挪了挪，似乎这样
就能替它抵挡住可能飞来的横祸
天空高过树顶
却高不过一家人偏身于安居的心

SPEAKING OF COCONUT TREES

by Sun Wenbo

…Coconuts, they don’t fall and smash people’s skulls.
But with the wind they will roll as fast as a football.
The sea is the home they return to.
Floating in the ocean, they still behave like a football;
the waves kick them, as if the ocean has sent out
who-knows-what ghosts to defend its amazing gates.
—One may ask, Isn’t this some fantasy?
Of course it is—but not without the facts.
It comes from folk tales.
My reliable source says that no one was ever smashed by a coconut.
I am not even slightly worried when walking in a coconut grove and
watching the coconuts suspended from the treetops.
On the contrary, it’s marvelous the way they rise up entangled
in unique shapes—truly too unique —even unique for trees
in their appearances; a ring above a ring around the tree trunk shows its age.
Generally they are perfectly straight like natural flag poles. I like to
watch them sway left and right in a hurricane —like ballerinas—Pink Girl Trees.
Yang Xiaobin has a knack for giving these kinds of names. Corresponding to the giant tree we call Fir,
which we consider a masculine name—it’s settled then—don’t you agree
that it makes your heart tingle with tenderness—
though the sentiment is possibly an indulgence.
So be it, let us indulge. This is like after we drinkcoconut juice,
we still want to eat its thick sweet meat. That’s one way to put it, how endearing this is—
especially as the sun is setting west,
and you are sitting under the palm trees in a reclining chair,
facing the ocean—no blossoms around,
but my heart is still filled with the sweet fragrance of my courtyard.
Notes:
*Yang Xiaobin, poet, author, Professor Yang Xiaobin , born Shanghai,1963, teaches Chinese linguistics in the United States.

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/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。

THE LASKESHORE ERA

by Tai Ah

Season of Cold Dew: in the lake
a sharp mountain contrasts a clear sky,
my wakeful body is alert like the yellow chrysanthemums,
and cicadas still sing, improvising their last gig.
Recent ramblers stop at the mountaintop or the edge of the lake,
after moonrise dewdrops turn into frost,
and the eager osmanthus flowers sparkle in the vase.
We cannot make this world go away—
swan geese will come to visit, the flowers will wilt,
the wind will blow, the leaves will fall,
and the fish will leap, done with the summer heat.
All transgressions are old, the present is for love,
best if unfathomable, unlike a lake admired for its clarity.
This paradise is for every one, cool autumn, open sky,
chrysanthemum wine, brewing under red leaves.
For the first time my heart’s lake is full,
all agitations sink to the bottom, only poetry stays—
Long ago, this was an ancient city.

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/-1Hloch7g9VxLpRnoRfABA

湖畔时代

太阿

今日寒露，天空把山影清晰地倒向湖水，
身体的苏醒与菊花黄同步，
蝉鸣仍在耳畔，不断修订最后旅程。
独步不超过山峰，行走不逾越湖水，
露水在月光中寒成霜，
早就准备好的桂花为满天星星插进瓷瓶。
我们无法把这个世界变为乌有——
但可预见鸿雁来宾，窗前花落，风摇玉坠，
度过苦夏的鱼儿重新开始活跃，
所有冒犯皆属过往，万般钟情归于现在，
对爱保持晦隐，就像对湖水保持清明，
每个人都有自己的湖畔和秋水长天，
都有菊花酒，在红叶下酿就。
而我的心第一次拥有整片湖水，
诗篇留下，焦虑沉眠至水底——
很多年前，是一座古城。

JOURNEY THROUGH THE NIGHT

by Tan Xiao

Father bundled up the spruce barks,
that will be the best torch. He walks in the dark
with the burning barks, and squeezes the barks
to trim the light whenever the flames get too wild,
perhaps the long dark road doesn’t need a light overly bright.
Along the way, Father continues to control the pace of the burning
to lead us through the night with the barks in his hand.
Along the way, we talked quite a lot,
in low voices, and our footsteps are also very light,
like a few shadows with blurry faces.
And the torch can always reignite itself,
when it becomes dim, there are still sparkles twinkling amid the ashes;
finally it’s lit more steadily, and we’re almost home.
Father shakes his wrist, the night breeze blows away the ashes,
no need to save the fuel anymore, no more midnight
dreary journey as if on a road of no return, the torch is afire,
illuminating the last stretch beautifully,
we look bright, too, as if walking out from a huge light.

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, 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。

CAMPHOR TREE

by Tan Yali

He produces black seeds in the dark, which is what I like.
When the cold wave comes, a pair of big warm hands
touch my little cold hands, which is what I like.
I stand under the tree, and look up at the tree’s dancing shadows:
he is not luminous, but seems sadly bright, sadly dark,
something I really like. He is not the dawn redwood by my window
that lost all fronds overnight; his gentleness comes
in the sound of leaves that strikes my heart, something I really like.
One day when I was young, with a group of friends,
we passed by a forest, one dark-haired boy pointed at the biggest camphor tree,
and jollily said, "This tree belongs to me——"
The swaying tree looked back at me with a twinkle, my soul felt close to him.
The wind blows and rustles —
The speed of time is measured by light,
but this is the moment I especially like......
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

香樟树

谈雅丽

他暗中结出乌黑的籽，是我喜欢的
寒潮来时，一双温暖的大手
摸到我冰凉的小手，这是我喜欢的
当我站在树下，仰望树影婆娑的光芒
他没有足够的明澈，但似明似暗的忧伤
是我喜欢的。他不似我窗头的水杉
一夜之间就掉光了羽毛，他的轻柔是
树叶碰撞心的响动，这是我所喜欢的
年少时某一天，和一群朋友经过
一片树林，那乌发少年指着最大的香樟树
欢笑着说：“这棵是属于我的——”
他含笑望了望我，我感到灵魂都贴近这棵飞舞的树
风沙沙地吹起——
时间的速度要用光来计算
但这一刻，是我特别喜欢的……

WHAT DO YOU THINK

by Tang Li

Board a horse in a stiletto shoe, what do you think?
Keep evil alive in the ax, or
rather, raise the ax in an evil house, what do you think?
Tend to the sore in the wound, what do you think?
Nourish the birthing cry with the crimson umbilical cord, what do you think?
Oh God, oh my goodness, raise the sky to the vacuous vault, what do you say?
Enclose time behind the wrinkles, what do you say?
Keep death in the tombstone, what do you say?
Keep the tombstone inside of you, never to separate,
till death do us part, what do you say?
Grow tears in your eyes, let the unseeing sea
rest in the alcove of dawn, what do you think?
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

你看如何

唐力

把一匹马养在高跟鞋里，你看如何
把恶养在一把斧子里，或者
相反，把斧子养在恶里，你看如何
把痛苦养在伤口里，你看如何
把生的啼哭养在带血的脐带里，你看如何
天，天啊，把天养在空空的空里，你看如何
把时间养在皱纹的栅栏里，你看如何
把死亡养在墓碑里，你看如何
把墓碑养在身体里，一生跟随
永不相离，你看如何
把泪养在眼里，把失明的大海
养在黎明的眼眶里，你看如何

THE REBUILT HANDS AND FEET

by Tang Yangzong

Forty years past, watch, the world must cope with it again.
The eagle returns to nest on the cliff, taking 150 days
to remodel a body, first by hacking on the rock
and chipping off the overly bent, useless old beak,
then pecking off the aging toenails with its pristine new beak.
With brand new claws, it pulls off each ruffled feather on the wings.
“Unthinkable that one should manhandle oneself this way.”
The cliff that says this was upside down, its inside rearranged…
Well, everything is brand new, so new
that the same neck that once discovered the world is now shorter.
Nothing is that new or remarkable, but is a reminder
that this once ancient body is now a paradise regained.

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/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

Dongwu Sound

by Tang Yangzong

Dongwu Sound is a stretch of sea,
an inland sea.
It is my forebearers' sea.
People live on it,
wrap themselves around the impartial sea,
the ants, the banyan trees, the little streams and bays all do the same.
And every home opens to the sea
as if the ocean would respond
to their every word,
like a pillow mate or a dinner buddy who knows your innermost tales.
There are also fish at the seabed
living evenly with other lives, even though they might complain when the sea turns
rough, but more often
they tell tales to each other under the moon,
believing the vast sea
raises not only the most predatory fish
but also the smallest things. Life and Death
is overseen by God on high. No one
gets lost here; getting lost is the same as crawling onshore.
God looks at Dongwu Sound and He is pleased:
Good people onshore,
good fish in the water.
The rest are the jetsam and flotsam of the tides. They are my moods,
loud or passionate, now and then,
when there is something to proclaim.

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?__biz=MzAxNDM5NTIzNg

东吾洋

汤养宗

东吾洋是一片海。内陆海。我家乡的海
依靠东吾洋活着的人平等活着，围着这面海
居住，连同岸边的蚂蚁也是，榕树也是
众多入海的溪流也是
各家各户的门都爱朝着海面打开
好像是，每说一句话，大海就会应答
像枕边的人，同桌吃饭的人，知道底细的人
平等的还有海底的鱼，海暴来时
会叫几声苦，更多的时候
月光下相互说故事，说空空荡荡的洋面
既养最霸道的鱼，又养小虾苗
生死都由一个至高的神看管着。在海里
谁都不会迷路，迷路就是上岸
上苍只给东吾洋一种赞许：岸上都是好人
水里都是好鱼。其余的
大潮小潮，像我的心事，澎湃、喧响、享有好主张

BEGINNING OF WINTER

by A Thousand Cranes

Folks out searching for gold will be returning.
The road is quiet. It has received many yearning gazes,
but will soon be swallowed by frozen dew.
Youngsters, studying out of town, will be returning.
Though roosters are still hopping without care,
knives are being sharpened with a wet stone.
Farmers can finally sit for tea, songs, and mahjong.
The ground will soon turn into hard stone,
and streams will trickle down like the moonlight.
Upon the hill, the wild and the lonesome north wind
is frantically scouting a way for snow to return.
The sky has grown darker.
I begin examining the things hidden in my dreamlands,
and see flowers in the pastures
meeting their end with a smile.

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/6FFmFVIqSPBD3Kq1rgib1A

立冬日

千纸鹤

出去淘金的人就快回来了
沉默寡言的小路拾到许多热切的目光
又被一层层白霜咽下
出去念书的人也快回来了
不下蛋的鸡还不知愁地蹦跳着
刀锋正在磨石上就着冷水折腾
种地的人终于有时间喝茶、听小曲、打麻将了
泥土将露出石头的面目
溪流一退再退，退成月亮的眼泪
站在高岗上，看北风在天地间奔跑
这孤独的狂欢在为回娘家的雪花探路
天空的脸色又暗了几分
我开始细数内心藏下的一道道风景
它们如草原盛开的花朵
习惯了以微笑面对死亡

ZHANG XIAOJING’S AUTUMN

by Tian Fa

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists*

A busy time for Zhang Xiaojing in the autumn.
Even before her crowfeet can relax,
she has to be in the field for the day’s work.
The grapes are ripe. As her husband,
I can only afford to come home now and then.
Therefore when my neighbors see me, they are all smiles:
“you are here to lend a hand.”
It seems as if Autumn is hers only,
and dreamlike I have been left out.
For Zhang Xiaojing, Autumn is here,
and I'm more like one of her hired hands.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of 4 devoted poetry lovers: Meifu Wang, Peter Micic, 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/6FFmFVIqSPBD3Kq1rgib1A

张晓静的秋天

作者：田法

张晓静的秋天是忙碌的
连眼角的鱼尾纹
也顾不上舒展
就要去地里干活
葡萄熟了。而作为她的男人
我只是隔三差五才能回来一趟
以至邻居见了我，都笑着说
回来帮忙来了
仿佛，秋天只是她一个人的
潜意识已把我
忽略。张晓静的秋天
我更像她的一个雇工

THE PARASOL TREE

by Tian Jie

There is in the south a bird, it doesn’t rest but on a parasol tree.
—Cool Autumn, by Zhuangzi
If I build a platform on the cliff, will you come
If I fix up a cottage in the countryside, will you come
Now I have freed up an old dwelling
in my steadily aging body, will you come
A tree grows out of a crag, perched free over death,
as always fireworks vanish in flying colors.
Ah, but how I wish to see miracles. Time has a mystery door
that opens for the heart patiently waits. Dreams may come true—
even if vines have taken over the body. I have horns on my head
and am predestined to carry millstones,
it’s but a test of nerve to break away from this web.
What do I have to lose? This blissful and unkempt midlife.
Note 1: it is said that Buddha once said: as long as you build the platform, I will come.

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

梧桐

天界

——南方有鸟，非梧桐不止
庄子《秋水》

在危崖搭建一座高台，你来不来①
在乡野修整一所木屋，你来不来
如今我在自己渐将老去的身体里
腾出一间旧房，你来不来
大树破壁凌空，向死而生
烟花始终惊艳中与世界告别
可我想见证奇迹啊。时间有一扇玄幻之门
看谁更耐心。谁能把梦境变成现实——
身体早已爬满藤条。我长有犄角
搬运磨盘一样的天命
挣破一张网，需要多大勇气
可我还有什么呢。这幸福而潦草的中年
注①：佛祖说：只要你搭好高台，我便来说法。

SONG OF THE LASTING WIND

by Tian Lan

The long wind blows through me, through you,
through the northern pines darkly,
through the blue flames of the sea.
The wind doesn’t die, as I push on with my journey,
lost in the long shadows of Mount West.
A moment like this, I believe in gifts —
the natural ability
to hear the call of a baby sea snail,
to hear the quietest birdsong on a chilly night.
I also believe in fateful meetings.
The long wind will one day
take me away from these mountains,
but at sea I’ll raise my glass and hobnob with dear friends.
Snow falls in the deep of the night,
sealing off starlight, sealing off love.
The sea doesn’t sleep.
The wind carries the disillusion and the rebirth of the dreamer.

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/h1Js8xtue390bu9_MGU20g

长风歌

天岚

长风吹过我，也吹过你
吹过北方幽暗的松林
也吹过大海的蓝焰
长风不息，我也赶路
走失在西山长长的阴影里
此时，我相信天才
他有天生的本领
从幼螺里领取召唤
在寒夜听懂最喑哑的鸟鸣
我也相信缘分
有一天，长风定会把我
再次带出群山
在海上与朋友举酒言欢
雪落在后半夜
封死星光，也封死爱情
大海一刻也不停
风声中幻听者幻灭又重生

THE MOON HESITATES

by Tian Xiang

A sickle moon. So deep is the night,
I linger in front of your house, unsure ——
should I push open your door, or 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
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

SUMMER: IN TWO CITIES

by Tian Yuan

In the past, summer signaled its arrival
through the Banyan trees’ silky aerial roots.
Monsoon came onshore the Indian Ocean,
and we only need to perk up our ears to hear a symphony.
I steped outside and immersed myself in the aroma of Banyans,
and learned a lesson aboout herbal brew from this medicinal plant;
both my rain boots and the red cotton flowers were great soup bowls.
In the tropical forest by the library
occasionally a twig would fall on my umbrella,
the sound struck me the same way a little monk was awaken by
his master knocking on his head, with the words:
just a quick shut-eye, ah, summer is here.
Is it already summer?
China Rose puts on bright new colors,
irises and plantain lilies are a head above all others.
The office air-conditioner reads 18 C,
the same number as when I was in Guangdong eight years ago.
With a hint of heat, we would dial it to the coldest;
and when it got really hot, the reading calmly settled at 26,
same as in Beijing, where I am now.
The southerly travels up through Baoding, Xingtai, and Shijiazhuang,
sending dense catkins with a mix of dust in the air.
It’s like watching an old TV. The fresh strawberries
are the only cure for sore eyes.
Beijing’s metabolism has accelerated,
earthy atmosphere, fervent commentaries, and clinging catkins
all have only a few days to live.
Summer is untenable, he
works up a sweat hopping up north from the south,
carrying me from a water city to a city built with mud.

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/s5cbIkrL9i892w0WpBLG0Q

双城之夏

天元

以前提醒我夏天到了的
是榕须
南风吹来印度洋
我们打开耳朵就是音乐节
走出家门就学会了煲汤
榕树散发出高级药材的香气
雨鞋和木棉都用来盛汤
图书馆旁的密林里
偶有碎枝落下打在伞上
就会让我忽然看到一个被师父敲头
将将惊醒的小和尚，他说：
才眯了这一小会儿，就到夏天了啊
就到夏天了吗？
月季堆叠出新的鲜艳
鸢尾、玉簪出落得知性不凡
办公室的空调面板开始有了数字，18
这也是八年前我在广东的数字
初热的时候，调到最冷的一档
等到至热之时，面板亮起权衡而冷静的26
我在北京，我现在的数字
南风刮来保定邢台石家庄
天空里柳絮密织着灰尘
让人像在看旧电视——新上市的草莓
是视觉唯一的疗救
北京的代谢变得更快了一些
土味的天气、热烈的文章以及缠人的柳絮
去留也不过是几天的事情
夏天是立不住的，他
从南到北汗流浃背地跳来跳去
将我从水做的城市带到了泥做的城市

THREE ENCOUNTERS WITH FATHER

by Tong Yusheng

My first encounter with my father
was before I formed the concept of father.
From my mother's chest of keepsakes
I took a dozen or so star-shaped medals
and pinned every single one to my chest.
Mother dragged me home from the street and spanked me,
removing all the stars, one star, then another star,
and fastened them all on a sheet of flannel,
and locked the chest.
The second time,
I finally knew which one was my father in a monochrome photograph.
I looked at it
while Mother told stories about him.
Later on, whatever kid on the street should ask: "Who was your dad?",
I would take him home to see that photograph.
It was only when I turned nineteen,
Mother pulled out from the bottom of her buckled-up box a vest with a badge, and said:
"Now you've grown up,
put this on."
The third encounter with Father
was when grandfather passed away.
My sister and I went to an earthen ditch
to try to dig up our father's bones.
My sister lifted up a skull from the pit and said:
"this is your old man's head",
next, the arms and the legs were unearthed
with fingers and toes missing.
While he was re-buried, our folks couldn't find him a head cushion,
and took a chunk of clay;
Dongyu, our dear brother, rest in peace, on this pillow of mud.

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/3yQPXS5gGg3HynH7jbp_ng

我与父亲的三次接触

桐雨生

第一次
我还不知道父亲是什么
我从母亲的扣箱里
翻出十几枚五角星奖章
全部别在胸前
母亲从大街上将我抓回臭揍
一颗星一颗星摘下
整整齐齐别在一块绒布上
为扣箱加锁
第二次
我终于从黑白照片里找到父亲
我看着照片
听母亲讲父亲生前的故事
此后街上每有孩子问我谁是你爹时
我就拉着他去看照片
直到十九岁
母亲从扣箱底翻出一件奖字背心说
你长大成人了
把这件背心穿上吧
第三次
爷爷过世了
我和姐姐在一条土沟的水渠边
挖出父亲的骨尘
姐姐从土坑里举着骷髅头说
这是咱老子的脑袋
然后又从土里翻出胳膊腿
手指和脚趾找不全了
再入殓时乡亲找不到枕头
抱了一块土圪垃说
冬玉哥枕一圪塔土圪垃吧！

EVERY LEAF IN MY LIFE

by Under the Light

Springtime, when the leaves are tender,
I would chop up some elm green for a meal.
make toon-sprout scrambled eggs,
wrap a batch of mustard-leaf dumplings,
and cut a bundle of baby wheat for the twin lambs;
it gives me fresh hopes to hear them bleat.
Summer, when the leaves become profuse,
I would wave my cattail fan under a shady tree.
try to drive away mosquitoes, flies, and my own somnolence,
roll a tobacco leaf from the basket for a smoke, sip green tea,
tell stories spanning five thousand years, back and forth,
not to brag, or to boast.
Autumn, the leaves all have wings.
I’d catch them one at a time,
no moaning, groaning, or sighing,
but to collect those square, round, flat, triangular, diamond
or heart-shape leaves, etcetera, etcetera…
and press them into specimens to put in my favorite poetry books,
then write a poem for each leaf saved.
Wintertime, fallen leaves melt into mud,
then buried under snow, all ventures and stories
will become imprints on the empty sheet of the land.
I write with my feet, with my squeaky footprints,
see all flowers and their fragrances,
all flesh and bones and their souls return to their roots.

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/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

我生命里的每一片叶子

夜里灯下

如果春天来了，所有的叶子嫩黄
我就做顿榆钱儿饭
掐一把香椿芽儿炒鸡蛋
包一顿荠菜饺子
割一拢新鲜的麦苗儿给那两只小山羊
听她俩咩咩叫，这就是最清脆的希望
如果夏天来了，叶子苍翠
我就在树荫下悠闲的摇一摇蒲扇
赶一赶蚊蝇，也赶一赶疲惫
抽一担旱烟，喝一口绿茶
念念五千年以前，叨叨五千年以后
不说功成，也不说名就
如果秋天来了，落叶纷飞
我就一片片捡拾起来
不长吁，也不短叹
把那方的，圆的，扁的，三角的，菱形的
还有心形的……
制作成一个个标本，夹在我喜欢的诗集里
捡一片树叶就写一首诗
如果冬天来了，落叶成泥
一场大雪覆盖，一切经历，一切故事
都会深深地印在土地这张纯白的纸上
我用我咯吱咯吱的脚印书写
把所有的花朵和芳香
所有的骨血和灵魂，都叶落归根

MAGNETIC FIELD

by Wang Changting

Let me settle here like an outcast, and sharpen knives,
using moonlight for water. Heroes come and go,
they fall, one after another, as youth disappoints.
Charred red soil, broken shards of pottery,
offering scorching hot sorrow.
Sediment gathers under the water,
the winds round up the clouds and the stars.
Give me a fire or an ice mountain
to make a north pole and a south pole, aligning all hearts
and traces of tears to journey homeward.
A magnet unveils the warmth of the earth,
like a mother's hands peeling open a sweet red potato,
peeling open the loneliness of this mortal world.
They bend down to make fire, roast eternity, melt the years,
bones snap with a radiant smile.
Water and mud ensnared in the scorching fire, that’s our world.
All that is left are the inscription on the porcelain.
It's a secret, a belief, the soul's magnetic field,
attracting the mortal world that glows for an instant
and the soaring hearts that skirt around it.

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/dS1ZLLssa2uBrz0QdZMhzQ

磁场

王常婷

让我在此处落草吧，蘸上月光
把刀磨快，过往的英雄
纷纷倒下，青春变凉
烧过的红土壤，碎了一地的陶片
祭出滚烫的忧伤
泥沙在水面下聚拢
风卷住了所有的流云还有繁星
再给我一把火，或者给我一座冰山
造一个北极和南极，让所有的心
所有的泪痕，都朝着家的方向
一片磁揭秘了泥土的温暖
像母亲的手剥开烤焦的红薯
还有尘世的孤独
他们弯腰取火，烧烤永恒，熔化岁月
灿然一笑，裂出骨头的纹理
水与泥在烈火中纠缠着，是尘世
只剩下，这些瓷器写下的文字
是秘密，更是信仰，是心灵的磁场
吸引住了转眼即离开的俗世
还有缠绕其上飞翔的心

BEFORE BUDDHA

by Wang Dongdong

I sit before Buddha to avoid the scorching sun
in a shady spot by the grotto.
A stick insect detects my breaths
and pretends death, the path to bodhisattva by reincarnation.
Someone from our group went back to the gate
to look for a guided tour. Buddha stays silent.
I reach out to touch him, but hear
a chime, as if a call for awareness from the temple,
and look back with unease: it’s an empty river
without the shadow of a boat; but
a train passes peacefully on the other side,
alluding that life’s bitter sea is not that hard to cross.
Here comes the tour guide, enthralling us with stories.
The Third Buddha’s face is partly vague because
a new emperor halted carving, to the angst of the craftsmen.
On the rock under a mulberry tree, peonies are blooming.
Versus that, another Buddha has long ears and a vivid face,
being connected to an ambitious woman.
Even after she lost power, her Buddha statue continues to receive admirers.
A female Buddha, perhaps she even entered Laozi’s dreams.
Dusk settles across the river, we left on a tour bus,
meanwhile the big Buddha feels even closer on the other shore.
But I vow to have it near my heart. "Goodbye, big Buddha."
Tomorrow’s first beam of light will come upon you.
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/gQAA9w7lTQSlovYYUzY9DQ

在佛前

王东东

我坐在佛前，避开毒日，
在石窟旁边的阴影里休息。
一只竹节虫嗅到我的鼻息
在我眼里假死，生彼世为佛。
同行中一人返回入口
寻找导游解说。佛像沉默。
我伸出手想要触摸，听到
了悟的钟声，仿佛在寺庙里
不禁焦急地回头：河面上并无
船的影子；横越河流，
但火车在远方缓慢通过。
让人以为普度众生并没有那么难。
导游来了，让人沉浸于故事。
三世佛的脸逐渐模糊，由于
朝廷更迭而停歇，让工匠惋惜。
构树下的石头，长出了牡丹花。
而那尊长耳的佛，面容愈加清晰
接近一个必然掌握权力的女人。
当她失势，它还在接受景仰
一个女佛，老聃也许梦到过。
隔河的黄昏，我们乘游览车离开，
大佛在对面离我们更近。
在此世我将离佛更近。“再见，大佛。”
明晨的第一道光将照在你身上。

OLD THINGS

by Wang Erdong

All have become relics since you’re gone.
Some clothes were never worn, now reduced to ashes.
Food not eaten was offered to ancestors with incense.
Your new grave sits on the old earth
where you used to kneel and refuse to leave.
It’s your bed now.
You may be waiting for reincarnation,
but I don’t believe in meeting in the afterlife.
In any case we won’t recognize each other.
You have become a relic of eternity.
The wind will blow away the dust collected on the window sills
while you stood there dreaming of liberty.
The window frames were painted red over and over,
but peeling will accelerate with time.
After you left, I have decided
not to love love’s past.

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/GM5HXxrgwZsxHME-TJHYBg

旧物

王二冬

你走之后，所有事物都成了旧的
没穿的新衣，一把火就成了灰烬
没咽的饭菜，一炷香就成了祭品
就连新坟上的土也是旧的
这一次，你终于躺在了年轻时
长跪不起的地方，等待来世
来世，你或许会再次成为新的
我是等不到了，就算再见
我们也不会相识。在我的生命中
你是旧的永恒，吹过窗台的风
也会蒙上你渴望自由的灰尘
旧的窗棂，红漆刷得越多
时光脱落得越快，你走之后
我决定，爱过的就不再去爱了

THE TEARS WON'T STOP

by Wang Fei

No more old folks swinging and kicking by the outdoor fitness equipment.
The only thing that rolls around in the ball field are feathers,
but you can almost hear children’s laughter on the slide.
The wind occasionally carries a cat’s meow or a dog’s bark.
Our neighborhood is deserted.
I walked alone with a face mask on.
Fromthe high-rise window comes a sizzling sound
of food being deep fried in the oil,
which, complete with smoke and fire, is most pleasing to the ears.
We have held back too much for too long.
Right now, only tears succeed in rushing throughthe floodgate.
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

不止是泪水

王妃

健身器械旁没有了甩臂蹬腿的老人
球场上只剩下翻飞的羽毛
滑梯似乎还回响着孩子的笑声
风偶尔送来猫狗的呜咽
小区里空荡荡的
我戴着口罩踽踽而行
有楼层高处的窗口传来刺啦一声
那里正在油爆食物
这饱含烟火的声音如此动听
我们忍住的东西太多太久
此刻，只有泪水成功冲出眼眶

FLOWERING STONE

by Wang Feng

Like a rock sleeping at the foothills,
letting paltry water drip into the fissures,
the shade of emerald green is thus kept anew.
It smiles in the breeze
and watches his love from the past life walking up today’s steps.
The golden rays of light
pour on her face.
There is room to forget, even when in love.
When you wake, the dream has ended.
Eternity is only found in the moment.
Life's fires
burn a gorgeous flame at both ends
—-sunrise, sunset
hand in hand, walk into the flowering stone.

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/yrzy0yic7BZm2JVur4bdiQ

开花的石头

王峰

就像睡在山脚下的岩礁
让缝隙里贫苦的水滴
养活着自己的深绿
在吹拂中微笑
看前世的情人踏过今世的台阶
把金色的光芒
都收拢在她的脸上
相忘，在相爱时就已做了留白
醒来就结束的梦
永恒总在须臾之间
岁月的炉火啊
把两端烘托得那么美好
——日出，日落
手牵着手，走进开花的石头

AN HOUR OF REST IN THE LEASURE AREA

by Wang Feng

Yawning, I sat by the roots of some orchids for an hour or more.
Their stalks, be it a leaf or an array of leaves, do nothing but look green and daydream.
Just as the small hoe against the wall may curiously grow into an orchid.
Naturally I can also sit here for an hour or longer. Eyes closed,
let the sun diffuse the excessive knolls inside of me, wholeheartedly.
The music’s tempo is too fast for our tears: there’s a sense of urgency in it, more than the seeds in the soil
to outgrow the rotting roots and stalks, without doubt to become an orchid,
poised and self-possessed.
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 visit the north country,
a passionate young poet, a little melancholy,
came to a small stingy inn that sells home brew,
looking to buy the best imported liquor.
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 girl
he once spent time with under the stars. He says:
more snowflakes now than the stars we counted.
But he is a failed mathematics professor,
a millionaire, but this little inn
offers no silky sweet wine, only coarse home brew.

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/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

SULDE

by Wang Fugang

A proud poet comes to Ordos.
In a tent in the vast thirty million square kilometers,
a single lamp shines; the poet comes to Ordos,
before a portrait on animal hide,
he lost his confidence—the figure in the portrait,
the War God who conquered seven seas
forged the psalm of the battlefield
into a sulde: without horses, what will
the loveless grassland do; without battles,
this land of iron and blood won’t be big enough
to need a mantle—the proud poet
comes to Ordos; he is the proof of failed
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

苏勒定

王夫刚

骄傲的诗人来到鄂尔多斯
三千万平方公里的帐篷里
只亮着一盏灯；骄傲的诗人来到鄂尔多斯
在一幅牛皮画像前失去
信心——画像的主人
拥有海洋四方的常胜战神
把自己吟诵的诗篇铸成了旗帜上的
苏勒定：没有马匹
草原就会失恋；没有战争
铁血疆域就不会大得
用布遮盖起来——骄傲的诗人
来到鄂尔多斯证明失败的
抒情，但失败的抒情也设置了门槛

BIG BENDS

by Wang Fugang

The Yellow River decided to loop around
without telling us why; the county chiefs of Zoige Grasslands
decided to build an escalator
to take us to a tourist platform higher up —
to scream and applaud for the river,
to shout and cheer in front of it
for a complete experience. The Yellow River decided to loop around
without telling us why, but it is relaxed as we stand on the viewing platform
and comment on the landscape: look at those temples,
look at the grassland, look at the snowy mountains far away,
and so on, ans so forth...The Yellow River decided to loop around
without telling us why, but we gave up all our bad behaviors
on the escalator built for the Yellow River —
such a far-fetched idea, such a useless game
that serves no purpose for the river —
all we feel is a sense of total frustration.
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/-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

LETTER TO MYSELF

by Wang Huailing

Allow daydreaming, dream of the one I miss, let dreams come true.
Allow the sky to be gray, or even grayer, but let my ardor match its height.
Allow the night to review the day, like reading an autobiography
with sorrows and false prophesies in every page,
yesterday’s storyline joining today’s.
Allow the rain to wake up as dew, dew to turn frost,
frost to discolor my temples.
Allow homegrown worms to be venomous, for my consumption alone.
Let people stay quiet, let the birds sing.
Let tea be perfume-free, let flowers be fragrant.
Let the midnight owl be blind, be deaf,
but keep his mind lucid
—not to be terrorized by the roaring waves.
It’s now late autumn, the affairs of the world look bleak.
"The lights went out, where are you?"
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

与己书

王怀凌

允许白日做梦，梦见所思之人，成全所想之事
允许天空一灰再灰，我的脸色和它保持高度一致
允许黑夜把白昼翻过，像翻一册个人自传
每一页都是悲情，每一页都在打脸
日子与日子之间无缝连接
允许雨滴成露，露珠成霜
霜染双鬓
允许亲手种下的蛊，结出毒，独自吞咽
人不语，鸟语
茶不香，花香
允许熬油点灯的人，双目失明，双耳失聪，
却心如明镜
——大海波澜不惊
秋天已深，世事微凉
“灯光转暗，你在何方？”
——我已在黄昏走出家门好远，好远！

POST OFFICE

by Wang Jian

I walked across half of the city
before seeing a post office
in an obscured alleyway.
I would like to own my address again,
the address that I once left
in a post office
—that outdated dwarfish green building.
I wrote a very long letter
to send to an old-world old friend.
I still try to be eloquent with words and elaborate my thoughts,
and know you will be delighted by the hieroglyphs
that evoke images of things
between the flowing of the ink.
This letter will fly across the sea
to deliver news of the new times. For example,
mankind has battled canine robots three times.
(Ultimately, mankind was defeated.) For example,
some people have fallen in love with robots.
(Surprisingly, many bystanders rooted for them.) For example,
some people have discovered a way
not to die. . .
The human race has grown up and begun to multiply its desires exponentially.
But we know we are going to die,
just like we know the seasons will cycle on
and the sun and the moon will rise in sequence.
A finale can be a great restart,
but I am convinced that
this post office
will eventually lose its address
and never to recover it again.

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/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

DECEMBER SNOW

by Wang Jian

This wild snow has the unlikely passion of a burning fire;
it penetrates the last barrier to enter a secret room,
and lights up a boudoir of imagination
as despair and hope jostle each other
down on the hallway;
unresolved thoughts hang high for a thrashing.
But snow faces the world with constancy: it falls steadily,
entering the living room through a secret entry, into the teapot,
during New Year celebration.
Eventually, snow will cover the heads
of unlearned scholars, to enlighten them with
the humble truths.
Snow falls on earth like gods descend from sky,
everyone turns speechless, everyone is in awe,
leaning over to listen to the world’s quietest sound.
The best thing to do, if possible,
is to be in the inner circle of the snowflakes, to listen
to their impenetrable tango steps.
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

十二月的雪

王键

这雪下得像火一样热烈
进入密室的最后一扇门
想象的空间被雪照亮
失望和希望在走廊里
扭打在一起
事物的悬念被吊起来抽打
唯有雪，用不停的下降回答着一切
从密室进入客厅，进入煮茶人的水中
进入新年献辞的祝福之中
最终，雪会掩盖思想者的
浅薄和苍白，并使之学会
谦卑的真理
雪的降落过程犹如神临
万物失语，众生屏息
世界俯身倾听雪的低语
如果可能，这时最好的办法是
进入雪的内部，倾听
那秘密脚踪的踢踏之舞

AT THE KEBAB STAND

by Wang Jiangping

Before you came, the weather had changed,
but no matter, we walked down the alley, into
a germ storm cooked up by the heat wave.
Come to think of it— we hadn't met for years, some choice dishes
would pile up between you and me. We would eat them loudly,
an unspoken way of showing past regrets and joy.
Sharing a meal, the thing best friends do. I also noticed
you're getting teary-eyed — I probably did, too.
We used to ping-pong things, until thin clouds turned thick clouds
and became a rainstorm, shrouding us.
The rain rattled everything, and a snort came from a disgruntled, middle-aged person:
"How terrible!" Can't believe it, an entire afternoon
ruined, like shredded paper strewn in the wind. The streets were left with chipped
plates and broken glasses, subtropical plants conquered the chair where you once sat.
That's all I roughly remember, that and the loud drone of the cicadas, as if out of control,
crying sky high: Zhiwu, soul mate, my mate....

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/SyleKMVh65zXYnjdwCI_GA

烧烤摊

王江平

你到来时，天气已发生微妙的变化
但不妨碍，我们穿过小巷，转身投入
热浪卷起的巨大菌尘中
想来——我们已多年不见，必不可少的食物
会层层地筑起在你我之间。我们把想说的
冷暖好坏，都默认在里面，并嘎嘣嘎嘣吃出响声
吃，只是我们推心置腹的一部分。我还留意到
你悄悄从眼角，释放的几朵白云——可能我也有
我们曾经交换或者递来递去，直到天上的云层
足够厚，足以发动一场大雨，笼罩在我们的四周
雨里，有人在他闷闷的中年打出鼾声？
“多么恐怖！”这不，我们的整个下午
像纸屑一样，被乱风卷走。只有散尽的街道中
杯盘已碎，亚热带植物，迅速长满你坐过的空椅子
这是我此后大致记得的模样，还有知了，失控地
叫响着洗净的天空：知吾……知吾……知吾……

FAREWELL

by Wang Jiaxin

Last night, for the last time I went to the grave
where my parents were buried in the mountain.
(They are together again finally.)
This morning, before leaving, I visited my mother’s second sister again.
Now, the plane roars and lifts off from a mothership-sized airport
in the mountainous northwestern part of Hubei Province,
heading to Shanghai.
It seems like a relief,
really, it seems a lot was unloaded suddenly.
Under the airplane’s wings is hometown's barren mountain range
with remnants of snow still on the shady sides.
(The sunny sides are all clear.)
Then I see a bare spot, a quarry (like a gouging wound),
then a blue reservoir, glistening like a tear drop…
These are the mountain-and-gully terrain and hearth smokes I am familiar with —
including Father's white forehead, Mother's many wrinkles...
including an uphill winding road to my childhood school.
This land has absorbed my youth and my folks…
But right now, for the first time, I see it from the air.
The airplane is still climbing, and I am still trying
to identify things below, to recognize…
I wish I were the boy on a flying goose as in the story,
so I could wipe off my tears one last time
and start a new life.

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/SqoTbWfty26UPQsRp0rI2w

告别

王家新

昨晚，给在山上合葬的父母
最后一次上了坟
（他们最终又在一起了）
今晨走之前，又去看望了二姨
现在，飞机轰鸣着起飞，从鄂西北山区
一个新建的航母般大小的机场
飞向上海

好像是如释重负
好像真的一下子卸下了很多
机翼下，是故乡贫寒的重重山岭
是沟壑里、背阴处残留的点点积雪
（向阳的一面雪都化了）
是山体上裸露的采石场（犹如剜出的伤口）
是青色的水库，好像还带着泪光……

是我熟悉的山川和炊烟——
父亲披雪的额头，母亲密密的皱纹……
是一个少年上学时的盘山路，
是埋葬了我的童年和一个个亲人的土地……
但此刻，我是第一次从空中看到它
我的飞机在升高，而我还在
向下辨认，辨认……
但愿我像那个骑鹅旅行记中的少年
最后一次揉揉带泪的眼睛
并开始他新的生命

DIARY ON A TRIP THROUGH SNOWSTORM

by Wang Jiaxin

Driving sixty kilometers —
through city streets with scattered snowflakes,
then on Beijing-Chengde Freeway, but we had to turn back
at a roadblock as the road was closed for black ice,
so we took a rural dirt road and drove halfway up the mountain,
only to have a glimpse of you, the northern mountains draped in snow!
This is the first blizzard in who-knows how many years,
we ought to be thrilled, but there was
only silence, the boulders turned ashen and hills darken
amid sweeping snow and sniping cold,
each snow-covered mountain a gigantic demon,
presiding over a gloomy array of smaller hills and beacon towers,
slowly retreating into an even-bleaker atmosphere…
At that very moment, I saw DuoDuo — a poet traveling with us,
nearly in his 70s — face covered with snowflakes,
in tears, the way of a child...

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/M9n7csEmBYhiUhES4dFzhg

记一次风雪行

王家新

驱车六十公里——
穿过飘着稀疏雪花的城区，
上京承高速，在因结冰而封路的路障前调头，
拐进乡村土路，再攀上半山腰，
就为了看你一眼，北方披雪的山岭！
多少年未见这纷纷扬扬的大雪了，
我们本应欢呼，却一个个
静默下来，在急速的飞雪
和逼人的寒气中，但见岩石惨白、山色变暗，
一座座雪岭像变容的巨灵，带着
满山昏溟和山头隐约的烽火台，
隐入更苍茫的大气中……
在那一瞬，我看见同行的多多——
一位年近七旬、满脸雪片的诗人，
竟像一个孩子流出泪来……

MY INEPT LOVE FOR THIS WORLD

by Wang Jibing

The old sofa given by our neighbor
made my wife very happy.
She talked excitedly about the plan
to find a proper coffee table to match 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
to come out with a fresh new smile.
All these years
I have been sweating in the sun,
laboring to squeeze out the juice of life,
but still cannot turn it into a gem.
In my own clumsy way, I have loved this world,
and loved the one who loves me
for almost thirty years now, but how unprepared I am
to let tears flow in front of her.
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 （Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/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。

AUTUMN EXCURSION TO LUREN VILLAGE

by Wang Qi

Post golden years, no longer prone to sweet persuasions,
and lovely memories grow in number.
The bygone days left a crevasse in our landscape
a distance away, like a permanent scar,
but the future beckons to us
to return to a wondrous journey after a long detour.
Along the way, flowers and trees abound.
Our chaperon has a dark tanned face,
a botanical fragrance, with a hint of berries.
With each breath I take, my heart quivers
as if to suggest love can be reincarnated.
Things are their splendid selves again after the rain,
not for anyone to uproot or remove.
A cool breeze and a hillside of wild flowers
lay out a pretext of love and beauty, to lure us
into a chance encounter, only in this lifetime.

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/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

秋日，过鹿仁寨

王琪

已过不惑之年
值得怀恋的事物越来越多
时间的沟壑，是留在远处
一道遮不住的伤疤
而横现眼前的，像久别重逢的一段奇缘
一路上，花木扶疏
陪伴我们的，是幽暗深色的面孔
你身上散发的气息，有浆果的味道
我每深呼吸一口，心底就微微颤抖一次
像提示着我们之间轮回的爱
被雨水漂洗过的事物回归原位
没有什么能搬动它们
只有微凉的风、遍地的山花
为我们仅此一生的机遇，布设下
无处不在的美，和爱的陷阱

I WISH

by Wang Qi

Send me your news—when you wake up in the morning and look up at the Helan Mountain.
Remember also to send news about the Stone Mountain and Shapotou:
how sun rays hit the bluff crackling;
this tree, that tree, and all trees anticipate autumn;
thousands of acres of grapes turn into wine,
and red goji raisins fill the barns.
It’s getting colder every day, remember to put on extra clothes.
Please send me news of the plants in winter frost.
Also let me remember
hometown’s blizzards and the howling winds
that gallop five hundred miles to the Silk Road outpost.
Let me have a river from its headwater to the river mouth,
its past and future,
and all the ripples and undulations in it.
When your luminous glass is drown in the music of the frontier,
remember to fill it with moonlight and twilight, dusk to dawn.
Remember we shall meet again, wherever and whenever we can.
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

愿望

王琪

给我你的消息——当你晨起眺望贺兰山麓
记得给我石头山、沙坡头的消息
塬上阳光噼啪作响
一树一树的秋色等待未来
十万亩葡萄酿成了醇酒
黑色的红色的枸杞风干归仓
气温一日低于一日，记得添衣
给我草木开始落霜的消息
也要记得
西海固的罡风扬起暴雪
八百里快骑卷过丝路驿站
给我一条河从上游到下游
过去与未来
全部的波纹和晃动
当你夜光杯中斟满塞上曲
记得保留月光，暮色，和晨曦
记得给我重逢，无论哪里，何时

SUNSET ON YABULAI ROAD

by Wang Qi

Red clouds in the sunset sky,
red shimmers on Yabulai Road in Alxa League.
It seems to take something round and enormous
to unveil the light of divinity.
In this great land, where grass, mountain range and free spirits perch untouched for years,
the afterglow of the setting sun will give rest
to my portly body.
One direction leads to the Silk Road west,
the other end is our old capital Chang'an.
It seems only the sunset on Yabulai Road
can seduce me to spill words about
the joyful encounters and parting sorrows on my overlong journey.
It has been so long, while the wind and rolling sand
amplify the car's rumble,
those in decay continue to decay, and the reborn look forward to reliving.
On Yabulai Road, under the golden rays,
someone is going to fall into a deep dream tonight,
but who will be able to predict?

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

雅不赖路上的落日

王琪

晚霞映红天边
映红阿拉善右旗的雅不赖路
似乎只有浑圆、硕大
才能揭秘神性之光
阔远之地，搁置了经年的荒草、群山和魂魄
还将在落日余晖中，搁置
我这满身赘肉
一头通往西域
一头连接长安
恐怕唯有雅不赖路的落日
能替我道出
漫漫长途上，数不清的相见欢，与离别情
很久了，风沙滚动
与汽车混杂的声音响个不停
消亡的继续消亡，重生的期待重生
落满金辉的雅不赖路
谁今夜就要陷入一场深深的梦境
而不可预测？

THE SUNFLOWERS

by Wang Shaoyong

A sunflower is enough to melt my heart,
now it’s a crowd!
In the valley, a group of orphans
lift their tiny golden faces.
They gaze longingly all day,
and I too was there with them the whole day.
Now the sun is dipping over the mountain.
The sheep and cattle shimmer in the sunset,
a glow as if from within.
Two barefoot children run home.
The cooking smoke is calling them,
and I, the stranger,
squat down by a boulder,
and try to slice the sun in my body
into a thousand tiny pieces.

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/dn-sPn4TASqLF-3215fNxQ

向日葵

王少勇

一株向日葵就足够让我心疼
现在是一群
山谷里，一群无人认领的孤儿
仰起金黄的小脸
他们一整天都眼巴巴望着
我也陪了他们一整天
现在太阳要落到山那边了
山坡上的牛羊泛着微光
这光似乎发自体内
两个光脚的孩子向家跑去
炊烟在召唤他们
而我，这个异乡人
正在石头旁蹲下来
试着把身体里的太阳
切成几千份

SEWEED IN A HOUSE CORNER

by Wang Xiaoji

These wrinkled fabric looks derelict,
even more so after being wind dried.
The grains of salt on it, the relics despoiled from the sun,
are dainty about whom they bond with.
I hold a bunch in my hand,
and feel the salt as it falls to the ground.
There is more salt here than all that in a churning river.
Bundled up, stashed in a corner of the house,
its soul is swiftly retained, dormant through daily humdrum
until one day, shaken loose
over its native water, it fiercely multiplies and expands.
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 driving into the Aojiang River*…
Translator’s note:
Aojiang River enters the Eastern Sea in Fujian Province.
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

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 FROM DELINGHA

by Wang Xiaoni

Everyone is waiting for the wine.
Other than being gladly drunk,
everything is as we like it.
The wine courier scuttles past the skeletal cypress
ahead of a tempest lit with lightning.
The arid wilderness quickly darkens,
but in their beer-goggled stare,
they see only a high-neck bottle flickering in someone’s bosom.
Frankly, wine is not what they are waiting for;
tonight, they feel the urge to talk,
but need courage to wag their tongues
under a sky raging with cracking whips.
Rushing through the door is the courier holding the bottle.
Dear me, the door slams shut,
at last they can open up,
but before raising hell, let’s raise the glasses.

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/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。

ANTIC NIGHT MARKET

by Wang Yiping

If this is your first time here, you have no way
of getting into the heart of it.
Going alone won’t let you see what’s what.
Two people are ideal.
A group of three looks inauthentic.
One place 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 cast out,
may be reburied or return to the dark.
Red lipsticks, long hair of the deceased,
weapons and wine cups, every item kneeling on the ground.
A private collection is being touched on the face by everyone,
on one of the journeys her beauty began to fade,
quite like the one coming, busy losing his helmet and armor.

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://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 anticipated lightning didn’t come, for now I am whole,
head to toe, inside and out.
I hear the wind rolling-howling across the wild north,
wham, wham, throwing its weight.
Sooner than later the nervy dusky sky will disrobe and turn in,
while the ants, glummer than me, hustle on en mass,
even attempting to flit their oversized fate.
Slowly withering over the years — the rain couldn’t help —
I now look more and more like a bum,
swamped by the old straw hat,
but never contemplated doing without it.
The unchanging sunshine on the highland comes and goes.
The anticipated lightning flashed just once,
but punctured the silence, and emptied the age-old ashes.
Translated by Meifu Wang (Reviewed by Michael Soper 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/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 MEMORY OF A SNOWMAN IN WHITE HORSE FOREST

by Wang Zijun

In a huge timberland, all was still, except
the moderate snow that came around every five years.
Someone said we might be lucky enough to see
last year's wild jujube berries.
... to make a snowman, moderate snow
was the best. Randomly slapped together, unclothed,
his heart had already gone cold,
a body without a soul, he must have died from despair.
We found some pine twigs and berries to prop up
his saggy frame.
He opened his eyes and exhaled.
Suddenly he had a soul, like the tiny grove nearby with a partridge chirping 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。

SPRING ON THE ROAD

by Wei Bo

1
As I wrote the word “spring”,
day turned to dusk.
I wrote on another piece of paper “day”,
spring emerged as a beauty.
This is spring, from head to toe,
disappearing into the misty vastness.
2
It is that time again: the Waking of Insects*.
Snakes must have left their caves.
Spider webs dip skew from a skeletal house,
its broken roof tears us from our nostalgia.
A family shrine, latched up on the side door,
safeguards our ancestors’ living days and beyond.
*An annual climate interval, when hibernating insects
are awakened by thunders, followed by warmer weather.
3
There are cold winds that churn up gustier winds.
I am the one standing in the wind.
There is rain that erupts into stormier rain,
I am the one waging on in the rain.
There are butterflies that convene more butterflies.
I am the admirer, sighing for the butterflies.
4
Setting out in March, when rapeseeds are in bloom,
once again I trek deep in the gilded quagmire.
In a perfect dream, new leaves cover the scars of dry wood,
wild grass raises the far corners of the world.
On the road in spring,
my awaken heart wades through the changing climate.

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/otILhabMF3Bb-ds_lp9FVg

路上的春天

渭波

1
我在一张纸上写下:春
天就黑了

我在另一张纸上写下:天
春就媚了

这从上到下的春天
就隐入辽阔的墨影了

2
又是惊蛰
蛇已出洞

老屋的骨架斜挂蛛网
残存的瓦片割裂了乡愁

宗祠的侧门
闩住几代人的生死

3
总有一些风寒撕扯更多的风寒
我只是临风而寒的那个人

总有一些雨引爆更多的雨
我只是掮雨上路的那个人

总有一些蝶舞动更多的蝶
我只是望蝶长叹的那个人

4
从三月出发，油菜动了芳心
我又一次深陷镀金的泥泞

为圆一场梦，叶子包装了枯枝的伤口
野草抬高了土地的边角

在春天的路上
我一次次用心穿越多变的气候

ELEGANT PINES

by Wei Tianwu

Hidden pines, all hidden in the fog.
Mystifing fog, adrift in the mountains.
It's easy to imagine pine trees with elegance,
their shushing sounds, even see a boy
walking under the pines, with an imagined basket on his back;
the golden needles under his feet has the traditional medicine’s
psychedelic taste, like the fog in front of you.
How do you imagine things unseen: pines, all elegant?
A tunnel without an apparent end. Easy to imagine it
as a labyrinth of words. And to see a bridge
spanning midair with car wheels slowly rolling,
and a monotone old cat striding gracefully
on top of the mountains, staring at
things it cannot see.
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。

REFINING CLOUDS IN THE SKY

by Wei Yanxin

He smelted all the steel and refined all the oil he could,
and began to walk up the mountain.
On top of the mountain, he entered Ascension Pavilion
and sat there quietly,
allowing clouds to move in and out of his body.
He redeemed the ferocious lion and tiger in himself,
purifying everything, from
the tough bones, the rigid carcass, to
the blood and tears in the spinal cord.
Finally every old blob shaped up, and he could
discern different antagonisms from the world.
Seasons later, after many summer rains and winter storms,
in one of those pristine mornings and evenings,
he began to release nebulous creatures
to look for his family and friends who had become strangers.
For every person he loved,
a nebulous creature was sent down the mountain.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

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

炼化天上的云朵

韦廷信

在炼化完手上的钢铁和石油后
他开始往山顶走
山顶有一亭子曰修仙亭
他静坐亭中
任凭云朵进出身体
他把身体里的雄狮，猛虎
难啃的骨头，坚硬的兽壳
把那脊梁之上的血与泪
统统炼化。让身体对外部的敌意有更清晰的警觉
让难以言状的状变得掷地有声
冬雷夏雨后，在那些美好的清晨与夜晚
他掏出一只只云兽
去找那些已是陌路的人
曾有多少挚爱
此刻就有多少只云兽下山

THE MAN WHO CHASES THE GREEN TRAIN

by Jiji Qiucao (Lonesome Autumn Grass)

I
What did the green train take with it? In Kashgar,
desert poplars still grow,
Stone City still stands,
and Kashgar River flows amidst wind and sand.
Tianshan Mountain sits in Buddha's Gatha,
an elderly monk steps out from the monastery;
the hands that leafed through the Buddhist sutras
now plant wheat seedlings on the salty earth.
II
Sunshine paints the Pamir Plateau with a rusty silence,
coloring the rocks breaking away from the mountain,
coloring a monk's brown robe.
The unseen purity of Buddha
flows with the river. Far and near, there’s only the wind;
only the wind can convey the echoes of youth.
III
By Kashgar River, immersed in the clouds, an ewe
kneels before Tianshan Mountain, before Kunlun Mountains,
before Taklamakan Desert.
Done with the day's lessons, the old monk sits in the dusk,
his robe melds with the earth behind 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/giTR_FrqM8iWZyf4Xk9z-A

一个追绿皮火车的人

寂寂秋草

（一）

一辆绿皮火车带走了什么，在喀什噶尔
胡杨还在那里
石头城还在那里
喀什噶尔河立在风沙中

天山在佛偈中
一个年老的僧侣走岀庙门

用翻阅经卷的双手在盐渍的土地上栽种麦苗

（二）

阳光带着锈蚀的沉默涂在帕米尔
涂在逃岀山体的岩石
涂在褐色的僧袍

暗含的佛性的光洁
在一条河上。由远而近的只有风
也只有风，能带来年轻的回音

（三）

云端上的母羊，在喀什噶尔河
向天山下跪，向昆仑山下跪，向塔克拉玛干沙漠
下跪
做完一天功课的老人，坐在暮色中
僧袍与身后的土地融为了一体

MEETING A FLUTE PLAYER AT DUSK IN THE CYPRESS FOREST

by Wu Shaodong

A field of clovers in patches are blooming,
it is here that I was reminded of the futility of life.
A flock of birds sings and flies from one branch to another.
The same song echoes on every tree.
I hastened through this forest uncountable times,
never bothered to name plants or paused for the colorful spring.
Getting older, I have no desire to know new people,
am gradually avoiding some of my better-dressed friends.
Walking alone in the woods, I ignore those walking their dog
or those exercising their back against trees or those shouting out
over the river. Oftentimes I twist to give way, letting those
with a solemn face or smug look to fleet by with their shadows,
giving way to those rushing towards or chasing behind me.
I've also allowed myself to let things pass.
Then yesterday in a Cypress forest,
I met a bamboo flute* player sitting straight as a pole.
I stopped to talk with him, I mentioned
springs, mountain streams, and misty lakes.
He laughed, and barely moved an inch,
like a tree stump with branches removed. Sorrows
are sprouting new leaves tall and long.
Walking away, I thought of these years,
the verses that have accompanied me, and the incisions—
like the six or eight holes on a bamboo flute.
I hope I have retained the quality of bamboo.
Notes:
*The flute in the poem is called a xiao (箫), an end-blown bamboo flute heldvertically and blown across a v-shaped notch mouthpiece.

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/De-O47hlQBG9bxn8KNnXyQ

向晚过杉林遇吹箫人

吴少东

酢浆草的花，连片开了
我才发现中年的徒劳。
众鸟飞鸣，从一个枝头
到另一个枝头。每棵树
都停落过相同的鸟声

曾无数次快步穿过这片丛林
回避草木的命名与春天的艳俗。
老去的时光里，我不愿结识更多人
也渐渐疏离一些外表光鲜的故人。
独自在林中走，不理遛狗的人
也不理以背撞树的人和对着河流
大喊的人。常侧身让道，让过
表情端肃，或志得意满的短暂影子
让过迎面或背后走来的赶路者。
我让过我自己

直到昨天，在一片杉林中
我遇见枯坐如桩的吹箫人。
驻足与他攀谈，我说
流泉，山涧，空濛的湖面。
他笑，又笑，他一动不动，
像伐去枝干的树桩。忧伤
生出高高的新叶
转身后，想了想，这些年
我背负的诗句与切口——
六孔的、八孔的，像一管箫
竹的习性还在

NIGHT OUT TO SEA RIVER——dedicated to my travel companions

by Wu Yan

It’s something extra to fill in the day: a night out,
being pulled into the center of towering lights.
Don’t be distracted, a shoal of fish was heard
swimming against the current, like us, into a net,
and inside the new barrier, swishing their tails, bobbing.
Going forward is not necessarily a fall into the abyss.
That night when Hai River suddenly rippled,
the lonely shore resounded with a high tide,
together they made a new symphony.
With a conversation, the moment turned golden.
Amid all blemishes, opportunities abound,
don’t be afraid —of the rumors with innuendo:
Let us not take our meeting for granted,
see, how often do Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn appear in the same sky?
But three make a tiger, our six legs march on
until the night surrenders to us; parting
leads us to believe there is a mysterious hand at work,
we are destined to swim to the same place.

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/FuvWjvw1J_DGC_LHNdRd3w

海河夜游--兼赠同行小友

午言

本是一天的余兴：夜游，
被推向光阵的核心。
别分神，水声中逆行的鱼群
就像我们，涌进了网，
又在新的容器里摆尾、浮沉。
走下去未必是深渊，
当海河的水面顿起波纹，
孤岸就势返潮，澎湃出新的和鸣。
交谈，让此刻镀金。
斑点外生机密布，
别惧怕——那指涉隔断的谣言：
人生不相见，动如参与商？
但我们三人成虎，
六脚就将夜色踏平；分别
让人相信冥冥的助推，我们
注定要游到同一个地方去。

ELEGY FOR THE MELTING SNOW

by Wu Yiyi

When you sent over the mound of snow, I was dusting windows
and had black hands. Outside, the wintersweet plum looked ready to bloom.

Twilight fell. The snow had the look of a gorgeous grave,
someone must be buried in it, someone pure.
After the construction noise died down, the sky turned pitch-dark,
it’s time to light a lamp, to boil water and make tea. Just then, the snow suddenly began to melt.
It must have loved a mountain.
It must have loved someone deeply;
if not for that, why did it go back to be rain? Why did it
let go of its former existence before our eyes.

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/Hfp2VZDs0UzSgd1y9MfgFQ

融化帖

吴乙一

你送来一堆雪时，我正清扫窗户上的灰尘
双手沾着污垢。窗外，蜡梅将开未开

天色将暗未暗。你带来的雪像一座蓬勃的坟
里面埋着的，一定也是洁白的人

建筑工地停止喧嚣后，天就黑透了
点灯，煮水，泡茶。雪突然开始融化

它一定爱过一座山峰
一定深深迷恋过一个人

要不，它为什么重新变回雨水？为什么
要让我和你，同时看见它正在崩塌的前半生

WHITE FAIRY FOX

by Lao Si

I am late autumn, amid its crimson-red,
I am the somber atmosphere draping over the willows.
I am at the lake, that has no doors,
where a destitute girl is about to jump in.
I am the head peeping out from an office window,
I am in the elevator with the oily smell.
I am the kite's thread sinking into the sea.
I am the boiling point of a hot pot.
I am among the ashen faces of people,
I am with the migrant beggar by the stairway.
I am the porcelain bowl that holds money and fortune.
I am the night in your proximity.
I am a fox trotting by the lake,
then entering a building, entering a cooking pot,
slipping into the flowing time, into the worldly care
that puts a knife in the heart.
I watch myself in silence, in a field of white fluffiness.
As the most beautiful white fox in the world.
Metamorphosis is my fate.

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/4LDEvxPi_i9SKyp1XQdt1w

白狐

老四

我是暗红的深秋，是阴天挂在柳树上
我是湖水敞开大门，是风尘女小何正在投湖
我是写字楼窗户探出一颗脑袋，是电梯间机油味
我是海底捞风筝线，是火锅沸腾刹那
我是一群人木然的表情，是蹲在楼梯口乞讨的江西人
我是一口瓷碗，是碗里的钱或命运
我是此时方圆一公里内的夜
我是一只小狐狸，平坦穿过湖边
窜进一座楼里，窜进一口锅里，窜进时间里
那些流动的事物，牵挂心如刀割
我静静看着自己，这一平方公里的绒毛和雪白
作为最美的白狐，不断穿梭的姿势是我的命

COMPASSION

by Ah Hua

The moon is kind, the spring breeze is kind, they shine on
the mountains and caress the rivers as a Bodhisattva would do.
The trees and grass also possess Buddha’s nature,
they feel for
the birds above and the insects below.
About compassion, a layman returning from the Lotus Hill
is best qualified to speak:
“…newly coming down from the mountains, the heart is full of
compassion.”
“He sees everyone as a Bodhisattva, as a pitiful sentient being.”
The ant on the leaf also has something to say
about compassion:
“Sunshine in the eyes, warmth in the words.”

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/FHGYIu_HI5Kh4SIQua_y8g

慈悲

阿华

明月和春风都有菩萨心，它们照着
山川，也吹着河流
树木和荒草也有佛祖的胸怀
它们关心着
树上的鸟类，也关心地下的昆虫
关于慈悲，从莲花山归来的居士
最有发言权
“……刚下山那会儿，每个人
都是慈悲的”
“他们见谁都是菩萨，见谁也
都是苦难众生”
关于慈悲，树叶上的一只蚂蚁
也有话要说
“眼里住着阳光，话里透着温暖”

THE NAKED FIELD

by Ah Xin

A brutal wind blows across the naked field.
Loaded with heavy floating ice, the big river slows down.
On horseback,
Kampot and Tenzin the two brothers and I trek the riverbank,
ice crystals grow on our mustaches and eyelashes.
Who is ahead of us? Who is there waiting for us, steeping black tea?
Who has dragged us into this thangka painting?
A charcoal-black horse, a sunset-red horse, and the third is maroon with snowflakes.
The wind fills up our parkas, we tighten our belts.
Men and horses move quietly upwind, over the frozen naked earth.
Who is waiting for us ahead, steeping black tea?
Who has brought us the obituary, throwing us into this destiny,
fording upstream of a 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？

CONFUCIUS HALL OF KNOWLEDGE

by Ah Ya

White horses or birds, contemplative,
come in search of food,
either browsing, or lost, or just living.
A lawn touched by numerous thoughts,
unadorned, accompanied by blue stones.
Words of wisdom, to lead you out of the maze.
Words about the wind, to dispel the fog.
A journey through the books with a stroll in the Hall,
the knocking on the doors for answers
softens the sounds of rain and solitude.
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/4DkR6QJMwaYj0C0z1GQtew

问津书院

阿雅

有沉思的白马或鸟类
来这里寻找粮食
翻阅时光、迷途和人生
思绪散落在青草上
朴素，日夜为青石所旁观
记下答案，隐秘的出口
记下风，与雾抗衡
在书里旅行，在书院里环顾
唯有不断地叩问
安抚着雨声和沉寂

WUGONG IN THE WINTER

by Aming Dongbai

Wugong* in the winter,
no need for flamboyant fineries,
yellow suffices to reveal her golden virtue.
When the north wind howls
louder than 10,000 army horses could neigh:
snow turns to ice, but underneath it
Wei River, Qu River, and Qi River flow continuously.
Wugong in the winter,
children of Shennong continue to have big dreams:
to revive their forebearers' high minds,
inscribed on Maoling the Han tombs.
An exile's devotion lofty like the clouds,
Tang Dynasty's romantic charm,
the immortal love sacrificed,
all have seeped into the soil and sweetened it.
Wugong in the winter,
she doesn't fall for sweet bewitching talk.
Birches go straight up, paths criss-cross the fields,
similar to her noble heart and fresh look.
Wugong in the winter,
as plants speed up growing, we sleep soundly,
cozy and warm on heated beds, lovely dreams
wait to soar into Spring.
Wugong in the winter
is a beautiful woman preparing to bathe,
removing her clothes,
ravishing, exquisite,
be gone the great Northwest's
dust and storm and scorn!
Wugong in the winter,
in brilliant water blue, the color of Lantian Jade,
sun-carved, moon-polished, forever new.
The people are the unparalleled true genius.
Ah,
Wugong in the winter,
I won't lament for your seven thousand years of troubles,
but will be there in your new quest:
I shan't seek a dream-like fairyland;
but will pour every charm and effort into bringing forth a new era.
Note: Wugong, township in Shaanxi Province.

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/rGGblMxvHa23Bhu_uTb1vQ

冬日的武功

阿明东白

冬日的武功，
不需要五彩缤纷的装饰，
黄色就足以展示其纯金的价值。
北风呼号，
胜似千军万马在鸣嘶：
冰冻雪封，
看渭、沮、漆水在潜流不息。
冬日的武功，
神农的后裔依然稼穑梦想：
炎黄的子孙更把茂陵的大风高唱。
而云中的汉节，
大唐的神韵，
马嵬的遗爱，
早已化作原上泥土的芳香。
冬日的武功，
不喜欢花言巧语的迷惑，
挻挺的白杨、交错的阡陌，
就尽显她的高洁与鲜活。
冬日的武功，
在拔节中安睡，
暖暖坑头、离离梦想，
希望于立春前放飞。
冬日的武功，
是正入浴的美女，
脱去旧装、飘洒精美，
一洗大西北的尘垢与耻辱！
冬日的武功，
焕发蓝田玉的华彩，
日雕月琢、历久弥新，
人民是绝代的天才。
啊，
冬日的武功，
我不凭吊你七千年的苦难，
只为你今天全新的追求：
我也不寻觅那虚幻的仙山琼阁，
只来灌注创造新时代的神力。

IN CELEBRATION OF LINGAO*

by An Qi

Lingao: your coconut tree with bumpy stumps and big leaves,
I want to be strong and tall like it.
I invite you into my poetry the way you've welcomed me.
May is your best month —— romance in the air,
the aroma of white potatoes, sweet potatoes.
May is unfolding: a golden beetle is crossing
the marble floor of The Golden Sand Hotel
and conveniently ends up in my cell phone.
Lingao: you have beautiful scenery in all directions ——
grass lush green, as if in a fairytale;
trees ablaze with jackfruit from high up to their roots;
even a cane in the ground will re-bloom. Ah, Lingao,
the sea knows the mackerel and the ocean’s every ripple;
the sea knows the bullfrog's nightly call to the ox;
the sea knows the poets who try to catch a verse.
Someone casts a large white net
into the starry night, or perhaps at me,
but I won’t try to break free.
I'm the blue crescent moon
overlooking the world on the seventheenth day of May,
sleeping in your dream without your knowing.
*Note: Lingao, place name in Hainan Province, China

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/kSWIqz_pbXSSnJzMnCai-A

临高

安琪

临高：椰子树粗枝大叶
我要像椰子树茁壮成长
我要把你接进我的诗篇就像你迎我进
你的五月——
空气中都是热辣辣的情意
烤白薯的香
烤红薯的香。剥开五月
一只金龟子
匍匐在金沙滩酒店清凉的瓷砖地板上
被我顺便装进手机
临高！视野所及皆是风景
茅草茂盛
仿佛传说
菠萝蜜头顶着头从树根一溜儿
挂到树梢
插一根拐杖也能开花啊临高
海水了解秋刀鱼也了解海面上
每一道皱褶，海水了解夜晚牛蛙对牛的呼唤
也了解诗人们打捞诗句的心
一张白色的大网
撒向星空或者撒向我
我不会挣脱
我是5月17日蓝色临高的那枚
上弦月
秘密地酣睡在你们的梦里。

THE OLD CARPENTER

by An Qiaozi

Timber neatly stacked in the house,
waiting for the command of the carpenter,
who has an insight for each piece.
When drilling, a shrill seems to come
from him as if he’s the one been pierced,
as if the fear of old age has intensified.
He is seldom sloppy, precise in every move,
his overused hands still can chisel out the prettiest waves.
The scrapes have a residual life,
the others were delivered to the crematoriums.
Some shavings floated down,
already smelling of decay;
some saw dust stays on his head like snow
that wouldn’t be shaken off.
He studies and cross-examines every piece of wood;
each looks unique,
nicely textured, elegant and sleek.
The finished pieces lays aside, waiting for the final
adornment, for their bridal gowns.
Now, a few things are settled.
This time when the door opened,
someone absent from his life for thirty years appeared,
his adversary finally came after thirty years.
Already old, he handed him a cigarette
and lit 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”

I HAVE BEEN PRACTICING MY HOMETOWN DIALECT

by Bai Gongzhi

A tree from the countryside has only bare ribs left in the city,
its leafy twigs clipped away. New shoots do grow on
old wounds, but they swish and rustle as if in Mandarin.
I have been practicing my hometown dialect,
oftentimes in deep woods or on a cropland.
I hope to regain my mother's lilt and rhythm
that echoed in the mountains
when she called us home for dinner. I am an absent son
missing home-cooking, dreaming of
returning to my elderly father, to the sounds in Nature,
to be free like the handsome cornstalks; the wind
has carried my longings far, far away.
I have been practicing my hometown dialect,
for fear folks would treat me like an out-of-towner
should I go home again and should err in speech.
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

我一再练习方言

白公智

一棵树进城，被截去了枝叶
只剩下肋骨。从伤疤里萌发的新芽
开枝散叶的声音，都是普通话
我一再练习方言。面对
一片树林，一畦庄稼
重新找回方言的抑扬，和顿挫
让回音，再次从山谷荡出
母亲喊归的黄昏。让炊烟
再次牵回游子回家的脚步
父亲拄锄而立，聆听大地物语
如玉米长舞水袖，一阵风
就把乡情，送向远方以远
我一再练习方言。因为我怕
真的回到故乡，因为说错了一句话
乡亲们就把我当成了外乡人

THE DEFINITION

by Xi Chuan

The definition of letdown—
as an example, the ballroom door opens and a glamorous woman falls.
The meaning of setback—
for example, close to orgasm, an earthquake or fire occurs.
The definition of unfairness—
imagine every sunlight pouring on the person next to you.
What is gloom —
when two women quarrel under the scorching sun and both suffer heat stroke.
What is impossibility—
for example, the executioner sneezes with his axe in the air and the convict sneezes, too.
What is luck—
for example, a drunk lying on the road, but not a car comes.
The definition of jest—
think of a donkey growing wings, not for flying, but for showing off.
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

何谓

西川

何谓扫兴——
好比舞会的大门打开，盛装的女子摔倒。
何谓挫败——
好比就要高潮，忽然地震了或者着火了。
何谓不平——
好比阳光统统卸在了我身旁人的身上。
何谓悲催——
好比毒太阳下两个女人吵架却同时中暑。
何谓不可能——
好比刽子手举刀打喷嚏，受刑者也打喷嚏。
何谓运气——
好比醉汉躺倒在马路上，没有车子开来。
何谓不严肃——
好比驴长出翅膀，不为飞翔只为炫耀。

POET XIE LING’YUN

by Xi Du

I crossed the river alone;
my shadow did not follow.
My shadow is gone, only myself
to face the wind coming up the river and the sea.
My shadow stays in the mountains,
my longings for the past remain in town.
I open the windows on all sides
to let gusty winds blow my heart wild.
In the middle of this big river, emptiness abounds,
my heart, too, is vast and free.
Vast is the vista of tender grass in the pond.
Free are the songbirds roosting on weeping willows.
I no longer have use for a shadow,
this body, too, has no purpose in the least.
I offer my dying words: love scenery,
expand your spirit, let it be free.
Facing death is but this useless shell,
what will carry on are a few lines of poetry bestowed by fate.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: 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/2NTEk3ZHYO03P_ylzQgo-g

谢灵运

西渡

我独自渡过了江水
我的影子没有过江

我成为一个没有影子的人
独自面对江上的风和海上的风

我把影子留在山里
我把怀念留给斗城

我把四面的窗全部打开
我让八面的风把我的心吹乱

这是在江心，四面空阔
我的心也空阔

空，我就看见池塘生春草
阔，我就听见园柳变鸣禽

影子已经毫无用处了
身体也毫无用处了

我立下遗嘱，要热爱山水
造就辽阔的心灵

将要赴死的是一具毫无用处的皮囊
将要不朽的是命运赐予的两三诗行

WHITE DEW*

by Xi She

The next climate phase is pushing hard——
warmth is gone as we speak.
To work up a sweat,
we must now ride a good many miles,
choose a hilly route with bridges,
and welcome the headwinds,
and even walk a stretch on the way back.
Earlier, you could not buy coolness for a fortune;
comes White Dew, and cool becomes too much——
the setting sun drops like a horse shoe;
once it dips into the cold water of Xiao Mao Harbor,
it will be tempered and become thin and sharp.
In the distance, the high-speed train seems sharper even,
shearing the veil of twilight like a slitter.
Its whistles impatiently,
penetrating, brittle, unlike in summer——
the summer that was once so long and drawn out.
Crossing the river is a flock of birds,
looking like confetti cast in the wind ——
The chill is no longer purely in a touch.
Along a stretch of the breakwater,
an empty fishnet, left standing, is sifting time
into diamond shapes of sapphire blue.
Note:
*White Dew is an interval of the Chinese solar cycle which begins around early September.

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/aLvkgVLwaomiigXAi2HwwA

白露

西厍

节气的催逼是明摆着的——
天，说凉就凉了。
想出大汗得多骑好几里地，
得挑桥多的路段，得拼命上坡，得不惜逆风
走上一段回头路。
凉意曾千金难买。
一到白露，突然变得过剩——
落日的马蹄铁，
一经小泖港的凉水淬火，
很快变得又薄又锋利。
远处高铁像一把更加锋利的裁纸刀
裁开薄暮的生宣。
尖锐、发脆，
不容迟疑的声音迥异于夏日——
夏日曾经那么悠长。
此时过江的鸟群
看上去像一把随风而起的纸屑——
凉意已经不局限于触觉。
一张支棱在防波堤上的空洞罾网所筛过的
时间，
统一呈菱形，而且幽蓝。

PERSIMMON

by Xi She

The decorum for the tongue to take an autumn fruit
is sucking, not biting and chewing,
such as a persimmon, a great honey drop on a bare branch,
swelling with the best autumn can offer--
pure sweetness and an overt temptation.
It accepts your sucking, but refuses indignity
——no wanton pinching or squeezing or lewd puns,
which, to the one in the autumn wind,
the persimmon that has nothing but purest sweetness,
is considered an almost unforgivable malice;
the leering eyes of flattering glances
are not what a persimmon wants.
Almost bursting with sweetness, you adore
its voluptuousness with a heartfelt sip.
Even a sparrow's pecking
will help it realize itself, reciprocating
the goodness of the sun, the moon, heaven and earth.

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/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

Any questions or comments about the poem, please feel free to write to
editor@modernchinesepoetry.com

柿子

西厍

秋实之于口舌的的极致方式
是啜吸而非咬啮
比如柿子，秃枝上的一滴巨大蜂蜜
膨胀着秋天所能供给的
高纯度的甜与光明正大的诱惑
它接受你的啜吸，但拒绝羞辱
——由轻佻的拿捏所催生的鄙俗俚语
对一只在秋风中
盈满诚实甜汁的柿子而言
几乎是不可原宥的恶意
那些假审美之义肆意挑剔的目光
也非一只柿子所需
它无限膨胀几近爆破的甜
只需要你的倾心一啜——
即便是一只鸟雀的啄食
也将帮助它完成自己
完成对日月天地的以德报德

THE NIGHT HAS LOST A WHEEL

by Xi Yakou

Sometimes, we drive a car between Qinghai
and Gansu, crossing Qilian Mountains, a peak after a peak,
arriving home with what are the remaining tires.
“Sparks come from the imperfection in a diamond.”
No one pays any attention to
the lost lakes in the mountains.
“The one that quietly rolls past the Big Dipper
is Qinghai’s tall-wheel.”
The snowy mountain range is but a highway of frost heaves.
I can't tell where the cracks come from, but know Qinghai Lake
is the axis because it does not move.
In truth the yak’s horn has a curve that guides the arc in the sky.
High-rises, high-speed rail, the electricity pylons,
nothing can detach desolation from the northern land.
The long-secluded humanity
has acquired a rare nobility here, like liquid diamond.
Our car broke down at a mountain pass, like a bar-headed goose with useless wings
but has learned to ask for bread crumbs.
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

夜丢失一只轮胎

西衙口

有时，我们开一辆车，在青海
和甘肃之间，连续翻越祁连山
驾驶着仅剩的轮胎回到家里。
“火花依靠钻石中的瑕疵”。
没谁去注意峰峦之间
那些遗落的湖泊。
“从北斗星宫之侧悄然轧过者
是青海的高车”
雪山仅仅是一段翻浆的道路。
我不知道断裂来自哪里
我知道青海湖因为不动而构成了它的轴心。
实际上牦牛的角已经为天空的弯曲给予了角度。
高楼，高铁，供电塔
也不能让北方远离它的荒凉。
被长久抛掷的人性
像液态钻石，已经有了另一种高贵
汽车抛锚在垭口，像一只放弃了翅膀的斑头雁
但已经懂得索要面包屑。

TOMORROW

by Xi Yi

Tomorrow I am coming to see you, bringing a star.
Stars are metal scraps discarded,
same as me, an unwanted blacksmith in this world.
I will give myself away
for you to smelt, with these iron scraps,
to make a wieldy plow,
for brother Ashan, who's lost his land,
so he may remember me now and then,
and remember the land,
and his father, buried in the land.
Then, I’ll set off in the moonlight
to return to my blacksmith shop,
and feed whatever bits and pieces to the furnace,
and watch sparks splatter
like undying eyes.
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

明日

希亿

明日，我会捧着一颗星星见你
星星是被人家丢弃的铁皮
我是被人间放弃的铁匠
见你
请你把我一并铁皮熔化
并打造成一把好使的犁耙
送给失去土地的阿三兄弟
让他时时想起我
时时想起土地
以及被埋在土地里的他的父亲
然后，我会扛着夜色
重新回到铁匠铺
我会把一些不起眼的东西丢进火炉
让它们溅出火星来
当作一些人不死的眼睛

Springtime, the Window May Not Make a Sound

by Xian Ren

I left the harmonica on the window sill,
below, some spring snow has faded,
I feel I haven't done a thing, but perhaps have done everything.
This is a chromatic harmonica, its reed plate
I checked and found nothing wrong, but one hole tends to trap moisture.
I play and revive the harmonica, just like spring breeze
blows life into me. Every time a tune calls for the sticky key,
I simply skip it, giving it a silent beat,
but this adjustment comes back to hound me,
about things I tried to rescue but haven't rescued.
Playing the harmonica gives me the feeling of falling in love,
soon there is a sea opening up in my mind.
Once I got used to it, the adjustment becomes natural till the end.
Spring comes ashore, as I fall deeply in love.
I fall in love with the phrase Spring comes ashore, as I fall deeply in love.
The world is sending out new shoots, new flower buds ...
And once in a while, the wind blows on the window,
the window may not make a sound, perhaps me either, grounded indoors,
am almost silent, the original state of a basic unit of something larger.

Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper

Simultaneously broadcast in China via WeChat （微信） by our partner — China's Poetry Journal （诗刊）: http://www.zgshige.com/c/2020-04-09/13174106.shtml

春天，如果窗子是哑的

闲芢

那把琴搁在窗子下有些春雪淡去了，
我什么都没做又好像什么都已做过。
这是一把半音阶口琴我检查过
簧片没有错误，其中的一个孔爱黏膜。
我吹奏，像春日的风吹奏我
一样吹绿这把琴。每每遇到黏膜的孔
就逃避过去就哑了一个节奏
就感到莫名的矫正针对着我
做拯救但不曾拯救过的事情。
吹奏它仿佛我爱上了一个人，
脑海里发生了一片海，
一旦习惯，矫正就伴随着结束。
上岸的是春天，我爱上了一个人。
我爱上了“上岸的是春天，我爱上了一个人。”
外面的世界都开始抽芽，蓄花……
唯独有的时候，风吹着窗子，
要么窗子是哑的，要么我搁浅在屋内
趋近一个哑的原本的零部件。

CRYING

by Xiang Wuhua

By the river, a woman cries, her hollow voice
makes one wonder if she cries for any reason.
A man cries on the mountain, standing tall,
but suddenly kneels down, obviously feeling awkward.
He raises a china bowl and pours the wine on the ground.
If someone rushes down the street and cries, it must be some crisis.
Another one bursts into tears in the theater,
and looks embarrassed when the light turns on after the show.
The most moving thing is the fat butcher
crying while holding to the edge of the coffin for his skinny mother.
His sounds like a squealing pig.
Not everyone is able to cry.
The words “cry if you feel sad” can cause people to tear up,
but at fifty or older, when our faces become as hard as iron,
crying out loud gets harder and harder.
Sometimes, you feel like crying (I feel particularly embarrassed when I write this),
but end up going for a drink with someone at most,
and it can be difficult to find this someone.
You still want to cry. By the river, even if you cry out loud,
it sounds hollow, you don’t know why you cry.
Every passing ship has a motor that roars,
too intimidating for us to cry.

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/cRO7OGg55OcVn4sHz7kqkw

哭泣

向武华

在河边哭泣的女人，有点空洞
也许她的哭泣毫无理由。在山上哭泣的人
站得那么高，他明显感觉不妥
即时跪下来啦，并高举瓷碗，洒下烈酒
在街上边急走边哭泣，一定事发突然
有人在剧院里，泪流满面
散场灯打开，他是多么难堪
最让人动容的，是一脸横肉的屠夫
扶着棺材在哭，他瘦小的母亲在内面
他的哭像在杀一头猪
不是所有的人都哭得出来
最让人想哭的话是，心里难过就哭出来吧
过了五十岁后，没有人好意思哭
一张脸都成铁块啦
有时，你想哭(写这话时，我就觉得特别难为情)
你顶多去找一个人喝酒
这样的人也不是那么好找
你还是想哭。来到河边，你即使哭出来了
也是那么空洞，你不知道为什么要哭
每一条过往的船，它的马达声都像怒吼
你更加不好意思哭

YANGSHAN MOUNTAIN PASS

by Xiao Shui

When my grandmother was gravely ill, I returned from a long way away.
Supported, she leaned up against the bed, blue jacket, red trousers,
not one gray hair out of place. But her hands were limp, bearing many
needle marks. She secretly told me that I must find
a shaman to help her escort her spirit. That very evening, it was unusually cold
,
from our isolated village I watched the myriad of stars in the sky,
and the torches’ sparks following the wind around the mountain peak, rushing
into the canyon as if coming for my grandmother.

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/rZBeTuUuL-XniyZ_w-j3FQ

阳山关

肖水

那次祖母病重，我千里迢迢赶回去。她被扶起靠在床头，青衣红裤，
白发一丝不苟。但手是软绵绵的，留下不少针孔。她偷偷嘱咐我千万要去
找巫师帮她喊魂。当晚寒冷异常，我在瑶人的寨子里，看见繁星满天，
火把上的火星随着山巅的风，滚落到峡谷里，似乎很快就要到我祖母的面前。

PERSIAN SILK FLOWERS

by Xiao Xi

Opening the windows, vistas of silk trees abound.
Mostly pink flowers, only one tree yields yellow blossoms.
Under the tree a girl stands in her white skirt,
looking all the more striking.
Each breath a sweetness,
bestowed with a greater gift of imagination,
I walk up and embrace its waist. Its hand points into the distance—
Floating on the surface of the ocean a tiny hill,
with a daub of blue-green,
It commands a large sweep of the ocean's depths.

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/rH4hfAVJx6Hoioq2MrU8aA

合欢

小西

打开窗，都是合欢。
粉色的花居多，米黄色的只有一树
穿白裙子的女孩站在树下格外醒目。

每个人的呼吸，都被甜美
赋予更多的想象。
我走过去抱住它的腰，它的手正指向远处——
浮在海面上的是座极小的山
但一抹青翠
仍压住了大片不安的深蓝

I. EMPTY

by Xiao Xi

“Emptiness” is an unsteady thing,
sometimes we catch it for the purpose of
engraving on it, baking it in the kiln
and exhibiting it like a good-looking object.
This is hard.
We have no patience for such a difficult thing.
The moon is slender,
and our love can become slender, too.
A child sits on the stone steps
with a deflated balloon.
"Emptiness” all around her.
II. STILL EMPTY
The temple sits by a boundless water,
mosses on the walls.
Many have renounced life
behind the temple’s door of empty desires,
and no one knows how many leapt into the water.
All is null. All is void.—
the boatsman shouts out whenever he passes here.
Void. Void.—
the valley echoes with all its heart.

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/TZRKLSgdmO0GZS64E0YCOw

空

小西

“空”忽隐忽现
有时我们捉住它，想将其
刻上花纹，放在炉内烧制
做成好看的器物供奉起来
这很难。
我们没有耐心做这么难的事
月牙瘦小
爱也变得稀薄
一个孩子黯然坐在石阶上
拿着瘪掉的气球
“空”就站在她周围
***************
依然是空
寺庙紧邻着茫茫江水
墙壁生了青苔
数不清多少人遁入空门
又有多少人跃入水中
万事皆空啊——
船夫经过此地必喊。
空啊，空啊——
山谷认真地回答

THE ART OF BALANCE

by Xie Jianjian

After a long period of down time, I nudge myself to move.
Action versus stillness, I hop around the uneven
landscape of Zhejiang and practice the art of balance,
similar to twirling down after a discus throw, or
the heart quieting to a snare drum after intense love.
I come across Celan at Liangzhu, the Neolithic burial site, rarely do we
run into each other: with art I balance the classics and the modern.
I then share my unvarnished poetry with a friend,
and listen to him weighing and shifting words.
I revisit Celan, but evenings are saved for Li Shangyin,
a gulf between the two,
therefore I pile up pedantic diction on one side,
and re-rendered classical poetry into free verse on the other side.
In order to perfect the art of balance, one must
force one end of the seesaw to the ground, and wait for a rebound.
I choose the dangerous way of Descartes;
in the company of the moon, I feel almost like a star.
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

平衡术

谢健健

长久的沉寂后，我把身体进行挪移
对应着静而动，在浙江高矮不一的
山水间，我练习跳跃后的平衡术
像掷铁饼后的旋转渐息，像热烈地
爱过之后，心脏慢慢地恢复成小鼓
在良渚遇见策兰，两个较少联系的我们
碰撞到一起：我借助绘画平衡古典现代
我将草创的诗献给友人
听他往天平，哪一侧加重分量
我重读策兰，夜读李商隐
两者之间沟壑分明
我跳入其中，以文言堆起大厦
又以白话长句写古典汉诗
为了掌握好平衡术，必须
把翘板压到底部，等候反弹
我走在笛卡尔危险的路上
我因伴随月光，觉得自己也是星辰。

A FROG IN THE WELL

by Xie Jiong

Sometimes
I would like to be a frog in a well,
a lifetime spent on a square of blue-green mossy
earth, a lifetime spent staring at the tiny world above,
yearning for a white cloud
to shelter me from the piercing sunlight.
When you tell me that you have traveled the seven seas,
seen the highest mountains, the deepest canyons, and the farthest shorelines,
your face appears
in my ever-changing sky.
But all I want is to be a frog in a well,
in the deepest pool, head raised, taking
all of you in.

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/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

In a holy place,
sunrise and sunset
are all the same to the spectator:
a time when time is given a rest,
when everyone welcomes everyone.
God willing, at a chosen moment,
the hallway wind
that awakens the copper bells
will also lift 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

READING POETRY ON LANTERN FESTIVAL, 2019

by Xin Boping

A night of light reading, I wonder who else might be reading Xin Qiji’s classical poetry, too.
A festival noted by a poem,
a sorrow inherent in a rhyme,
lampions suddenly appear on the page, lighting up an obscure world,
the ancient crowd now has real faces.
I am used to finding the meaning of this life in words,
using one word to thwart another,
using one expression to right another.
The syntax comes from the temple, the dictionary is in the hands of children.
Leaving the restaurant, the children loudly chant “Green Jade Tune”
“Lone lights looming,” I can no longer catch up with the ancients,
but the all-devouring Time is stalking me
like a snake, like a shadow.

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/r-KQRgLMSqXnyOpPxAqkPA

己亥元夕读辛稼轩

辛泊平

闲散的功课，这一夜不知有多少人在读辛弃疾
从一首诗里确认节日，在一个韵脚中感受忧伤
纸上的灯火，在瞬间照亮暗淡的人生
让古老的人群有了现实的眉眼
我已经习惯在词语中寻找此生的意义
用一个词语抵挡另一个词语
用一种修辞修正另一种修辞
语法出自庙堂，词典在孩子手中
从饭店出来，孩子们大声背《青玉案》
“灯火阑珊”，我已无力追赶古人的脚步
而那个粉碎肉体的时间，蛇一般
紧贴着我，与影随行

MY RIVER

by Xiong Linqing

Before becoming the Yangtze River,
I would like to be the Black Creek, a fork
from a circuitous but clear source,
with an awesome yet gracious depth.
Before becoming Black Creek,
let me be its tributary stream,
call me the Nine-Twist Creek, or Blackboard Brook,
whatever, even Nameless Trickle will do.
Oozing from a clump of cattails under the boulder, or
from the roots of a chestnut tree deep in the mountain,
saving childhood and youthful joy in its heart,
how much silt can a creek take from its homeland?
Every statuesque boulder sends me a ripple,
every headland makes me linger,
under the cliff I decided to journey away from home,
but there is disconsolation in the elders’ eyes
when they look into the distance that I cannot carry with me.
Trickling down the mountain gullies, like tears flowing down
a wrinkled face, that’s the reason of my murky color.
I stain the Black Creek with my turbid flow,
I must also beg the Yangtze River for forgiveness, for
carving away its ancient crust.
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

我的河流

熊林清

在成为长江之前
我想先成为它旁边的黛溪
有曲折但清晰的来源
让人敬畏又不失亲切的深度
在成为黛溪之前
还是让我先成为它的一条支流
随便叫九盘河，或者公板溪
都行，甚至没有名字也行
从巨石下的一丛蒲草边，或者
深山里的一株栗树下出发
内心藏着童年和少年的欢笑
一段流水能带走故土多少泥沙
每一尊礁石都送我一道皱纹
每一处臂湾都让我徘徊留连
悬崖边我也有游子离乡的决绝
但每一座村庄，我都载不动那些老人
望向远方眼神的空茫
那些从沟壑般纵横的皱纹里
流下来的泪，汇成了我今天的浑浊
我以我的浑浊为黛溪染上斑驳
我还得请求长江，原谅我带它的沧桑

A FLASHY FOUNTAIN PEN

by Xiong Yan

Afterwards, I walked through the woods to go home,
with moonlight trailing me like my remaining boyhood.
Earlier that day, Father and I quarreled on the hill.
He scolded me, then angrily hoed the soil.
I confronted him, and whacked a bush with a sickle.
My mother couldn’t help us make peace, anxiously
dug out each potato and put it in the grain basket.
It’s already turning dark, the insects had started a symphony.
Our family bull broke free from its rein, and disappeared into the woods,
so I rushed off to chase it, and couldn't hold back the sorrows in my chest.
I was thirteen then, just finished the first year at the hometown middle school.
I wanted my father to buy me a shiny fountain pen.
He refused, and scolded me for being vain.
When I returned to school in September, it surprised me to find
a brand-new, burnished fountain pen in my travel bag.
My father and I, we never talked about it,
treating it as a silent oath between us.
Those days, away from home, I used that pen
to write many a homebound letter to Father,
meaning to share with him the moonlight and snow of a foreign land.
Later, the pen was gone,
like a dream that slowly diminished.
Now I am nearly forty, and my father in his seventieth,
we are in two worlds, but no longer write letters.
But the sky is high, the land is wide, and the taintless moon
always shine high between Father and me.
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

一支金光闪闪的钢笔

熊焱

后来，我穿过树林回到家里
月光跟在我的后面，就像一截少年的尾音
在之前，我和父亲在坡地上争吵
他训斥我，用锄头愤怒地刨土
我顶撞他，用镰刀挥砍着一丛树叶
我的母亲无法劝解我们，只能焦急地
把挖出来的土豆一个个地装进簸箕
天已傍晚，夜虫们陆陆续续地拉响琴弦
我家的牯牛挣脱了缰绳，隐入树林
我冲上去追赶它，再也压不住胸口起伏的悲啼
那一年我十三岁，刚在镇上的中学念完初一
我想要父亲给我买一支金光闪闪的钢笔
他拒绝了我，还怒斥我在攀比

九月开学的时候，我意外地发现
行囊里有一支崭新的、金光闪闪的钢笔
我和父亲，都对此绝口不提
那是一种无声的誓言
在那些离乡的日子，我用那支笔
给父亲写下一封封家书
仿佛是在给他，遥寄异乡的月光和雪
再后来，那支笔不见了
就像一个梦境，已缓缓走远
如今我年近不惑，父亲则年过古稀
我们分隔两地，却不再写信
而天高地阔，一轮明月如洗
始终悬在我和父亲之间

BLACKSMITH

by Xiongguan Mandao

Mr. Wang, the Blacksmith, forged iron all his life,
capable of turning the most impure block into useful tools.
Mr. Wang, the Blacksmith, believed that people could be forged like iron,
to this end, he produced a rod of discipline,
and began to use it on his son as early as three years old.
The initial ambitions were to make him an emperor, a prime minister, a marshal or general.
Later, the aim was lowered to county magistrate, constable or administrative officer.
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 the day that Mr. Wang passed, he found no peace.
He couldn’t see why there were blocks impossible to be shaped.

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/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

FIRST SNOW: FOR LOVE'S OBSESSION WITH PURITY

by Xu Junguo

No living thing is not a recipient of woes.
Impeccably clean is the season’s first snow.
The first encounter with something marvelous,
it's euphoria, like walking on clouds.
To love is to offer velvety blues
for the cold days, like a scarf to wrap around the neck.
All things are alone, deafening alone,
let me talk to the snowflakes.
Love me, but allow me to be obsessed with purity.
In this dismal world, please —-
let us wipe clean our minds’ space,
let us white out the world with a big fluffy snow.

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/AZv0i-Hkp_BHPzvfcS7ldA

初雪：致爱的洁癖

徐俊国

众生，皆苦。
第一场雪，如此干净。
初次发生好事那样。
喜悦过度，险些丧失觉悟。
爱我，就发明一种天鹅绒般的忧伤，
天冷，给我围在脖子上。
万物孤寂到聋哑，
我要对着雪花说话。
爱我，就忍受我的洁癖。
世界灰蒙蒙，请你——
心无杂念，
陪我下一场鹅毛大雪。

BETWEEN THE MOUNTAIN RANGES

By Xue Di

A mountain deer is in the meadow.
Lavender antlers lure visitors
with vague hopes to rise.
April is full of people with restless hearts.
In the distance, the rivers flow through the city
alone simultaneously—
The crowd follows the crowd, disappearing
into the rusty rainstorm.
The traveler has returned, bringing ironware and salt
gifted by the locals.
He tells stories as if they were trees, growing and growing.
A flock of birds take wing, fashioning a vast umbrella, over a distant beach.

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/KSRktsd-VsBWKm2cDGkYlA

群山之间

雪迪

山鹿在低地的绿草里。
鹿角的兰色请求客居人
带着模糊的心愿起身。
四月充满了想入非非的人。
远方，那些切开城市的河流
孤独地一起流动——
人群跟随人群，消失
在生锈的暴雨中。
旅行者返回。带着当地人
赠送的铁器和盐。
他叙述着像一棵树正在生长。
群鸟飞翔。像遥远的海滩上，一片伞。

GIFTS

by Xue Hudie

White cups have been received.
I am glad both are beautiful and in perfect condition.
The tea that came with them
steeps and expands, as if in an imaginary lake.
At night, the lake ripples on the ceiling.
I seem to be with a school of fish,
blowing out a small army of bubbles.
There are a few who willfully, carelessly,
love to go against the traffic.
But the cup is even smoother than described.
The moon fell in.
It became anxious, for
all night, it didn’t know how to climb out.

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/C5bAsKokY3vnxoU2MD5YrQ

礼物

雪蝴蝶

白色杯子已经收到
很庆幸两只都漂亮完整
随着一起来的茶
泡开，如我想象的湖水一般
晚上，湖水在天花板上绽放波纹
我仿佛置身在一群鱼中
吐出的泡泡是小军队
有几粒，偏偏毛手毛脚地爱上逆行
而杯子比描述的还要光滑
月亮掉进去
它愁坏了
整个晚上，不知道怎么爬出来

COLD DRIZZLE: GODDESS' DAZZLING HAIR

by Ya Shi

This season, call it white solitude, is the perfect time
to impersonate dark eyes to see the world.
The southern slope, still chilly, a film of ice remains
on the pond. The ice, so thin that it will break at touch.
From my home on the fourth floor, I easily bend over
and see the Magnolia below: still ashen gray, still wilted.
My wife’s boss, who just held a gleeful New Year celebration,
has a cunning design to cancel employee compensation.
A few days ago, I swept my parents’ tombs. Clouds are low,
and magnolia along the road spewed out white, neighing flowers.
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

萧萧发彩凉

哑石

这季节，白色的孤独，特别
适宜伪装成黑眼珠去观察别的事物。
南方山坡寒冷，水凼上，残留
一层修薄的冰。它们，似可一触即破。
居住在四楼，我非常适合俯身
观察小区玉兰：此刻，还铁灰似的枯。
老婆公司老板，春节过得火红，
竟狡黠，不打算兑现员工报酬的承诺。
几天前，为双亲扫墓。云低垂，
道旁玉兰，喷涌出白色、嘶鸣的花朵。

OVER THE MOON

by Yan Hen

The clear-pasta-sheet makers are the most incredible.
Around First Frost**, they appear for a few days, only at night.
Perhaps the wind blew them here,
or they came up with a whirlpool in the well.
One time, through a door crack, I saw them
sitting on a pile of sweet potatoes. The moon shone on their dark faces.
The moon roused the plains and hoarfrost.
At the first light of dawn. They hopped up the ridge,
and the sweet potatoes turned into fish scales.
Soon afterwards, the children were sent back to their villages one by one.
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

月亮之上

胭痕

最神奇的是制作粉皮工人
就在霜降那几天。他们只在夜间出现
或许被风吹来
又或许。循着井水旋涡而来。
有一次，我趴着门缝看见他们
坐在红薯堆上。月亮照着他们黑黝黝的脸
月亮惊动了平原和白霜
天一亮。他们就跳上山脊，红薯变成一地鱼鳞。
小孩，陆续被送回村庄

THE LAST FAREWELL

by Yan Huaqing

That year when you saw me off, at the door
you thought I would break the silence,
but I didn’t.
That year when you saw me off, inside
the door were soup mists and soft warm lights.
A step out, it was astonishingly cold.
Late at night, the hallway windows
open to a city of lights under a starry sky.
I rest head on the door,
and stand there for a long time.

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/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

终别

闫画晴

那年你把我送到门口，彼此无言
你以为我要开口说些什么
但我没有
那年你把我送到门口，身后有氤氲的汤
和暖黄色的烛火
出了门，骤然寒彻
入夜，走廊开着窗
顶楼望去，满城繁星与灯火
我把头靠在门上
立了许久

THE YANGTZE RIVER AT POINT ZERO: A DROP OF WATER

by Yang Jiao

Where will tomorrow flow, no way to tell,
but I won’t mention anything about yesterday.
Reborn as water, it runs downhill from here on,
it's about quieting your mind and getting closer and closer to the sea.
Dusk is too quiet, I try
to carve out a canyon in my heart, so the walkers
can hear the crashing sound of water.
A poem that keeps being written is the same as a man living the years in his life.
Looking forward, the young river will no longer have a dashing physique.
Looking back, the rock cliffs will have lost their set of gleaming teeth.
A drop of water, after traveling so far,
will return to zero.
A river has been there for a thousand years, each new day, a rebirth.
A poem that has reached this juncture,
pray that it restarts each day, like the sun
rising from the 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）: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/OIdrEQ3HxVsjUgZK00aYaw

长江零公里：一滴水

杨角

明天会流向哪里，无法预知
但对昨天，我绝口不提
投胎为水，一生就是一条下坡路
就是把心气放下来，一点点接近大海
黄昏太安静了，我试着
从心中取出一片峡谷，让所有散步的人
都能听到轰鸣的水声
一首诗写到这里就是一个人活到了这里
往前，一条年轻的江失去了好身板
往后，礁石林立的峡谷不再有一口好牙齿
作为一滴水，走过万里路
到这里都将归零
流水上千年，因早晨而获得重生
一首诗写到这个势头上
只求每天都有一次出发，都有一轮太阳
从江水中升起

EARLY-MORNING THOUGHTS

by Yang Jiao

Time to give Morning a new name,
how about Light Wind Wafts, we can
also rename the Sun: the Untouched Gong.
Earth wakes up in the mist again,
same way a village wakes up in the immense Southwest,
where early risers meet the sound of other footsteps.
This is my favorite village,
freshly renovated overnight with a golden sheen.
Some people call it The World,
but you can continue to call it a Village.
Being frugal all my life, after Mother left,
I treat every new day as a windfall.
As thrifty as one can, it’s time to offer Morning a new name,
along the line of Bird Song, Rising Sun,
or something related to the ancient concept of Thanksgiving.
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/YJeCV6rhCTfYF8XABd40NQ

早醒记

杨角

应该给早晨换个名字了
微风轻送，也可以
把太阳叫做无人敲响的铜钟
地球又一次在薄雾中醒来
像大西南的某个寨子
几个早行人出门遇见了脚步声
这是我喜欢的寨子
刚被金黄的颜色连夜装修过
有人叫它人间
也可以继续叫它乡村
一生节俭，自从母亲走后
我把每次醒来都视作赚来的
再节俭也该给早晨换个名字了
参照鸟鸣、旭日
参照人类古老的感恩

THE MIGHTY RIVER FLOWS EAST

By Yang Kang

The sun sinks in the west, the mighty river flows to the east. Yesteryears' boats
occasionally blow their ancient horn across the river.
The towering buildings and speeding cars
have decorated the present age. Neon lights leap and jump.
I lean on the balustrade, looking out into the distance, seeing the bougainvillea dazzling bright and red,
the fast-flowing river does not give me a moment to reminisce.
“Not a day passes by that I don’t miss you, though we share the water from the same river every day.”*
All I can do is wave off the river to a faraway place.
Forgive me if I don’t care about what’s washed away. Whatever the river wants to take,
let her take it without return. On my spot of the river, I live love and loneliness,
tinged with occasional loss and bursts of anger.
Watching my spot of the river, I will host all travelers who come to stay.
And ask them to take along a letter to my folks and not await a reply,
ofttimes I find myself alone by the river, watching waters churn around a boulder on the riverbed
before calmly surging off into the distance. Living is like flowing water.
The mighty river flows to the east, the river flows to the east.
Like the waters we endure the flow of our destiny.
Notes
*This line is taken from a poem titled Song of Divination (卜算子) by the Northern Song Dynasty poet Li Zhiyi (1035-1117CE).
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/due6lmA8zlMNGUvyv9K_qA

大江东去

杨康

落日西沉，大江东去。斑驳的船
偶尔发出古老的汽笛声在江面悠扬起伏
沿江而立的高楼，和飞驰的汽车
已经把这个时代装点一新。霓虹跳跃
凭栏远眺，三角梅开得那么鲜艳那么红
湍急的江水容不得我有片刻的怀旧
“日日思君不见君，共饮长江水”
只能送流水远去。这一生，我都不敢
坐船顺流而下。原谅我是一个没有远方
的人，流水带走的那就让它永远带走吧
守住一方水域，我经历着爱与孤独
经历着偶尔的失落和忽然的愤怒
守着我的这条江，一旦有来客落脚
我必定好生招待。并请他带一封
不需要给我回复的家书，经常一个人
在江边，看滔滔江水是如何与河床上
的一块顽石相互咬牙切齿，然后
又平静地奔赴远方。活着亦如同流水
大江东去啊，大江东去，我们必须
在此生的命运里学会隐忍

MY CHINA

by Yang Ke

Some like it sweet and sour, others hot and spicy, or the natural flavors.
Eight major cuisines conquer the hearts of China, each boasts the best of the land.
During a grand tour overseas, from Paris to New York,
the stomachs suffered under the reign of knives and forks,
but all taste buds are instantly reawakened
where foods are stir-fried, simmered, steamed, or glazed
into marvelous dishes. This is my motherland.
Some speak Cantonese or Peking Mandarin, others talk the southwestern parlance,
or with a Yangtze soft lilt, or the Manchurian full lungs
Ethnic tongues are even more varied,
and local dialects can be wildly different and mutually unintelligible.
Where pinyin phonetics are used, accompanied by written characters
with strokes going up and down, it is my motherland.
Where the deep blue sky is divided by airplanes
but patched up by goddess Nuwa, it is my motherland.
Where ships cut open the billowing waves,
and an angelic red-footed bird hovered to mend it, it is my motherland.
From where the sun rises to where Kuafu chases it all the way to
the western Yu Valley, that brilliant horizon is my motherland.
The moon rises over the westside window, where goddess Chang’er and her pet rabbit
visit with the familiar osmanthus scent, it is my motherland.
Rice dumplings in bamboo husks, tossed into the churning Miluo River,
where Parting Sorrows the heart-breaking political lament is celebrated, it is my motherland.
Where people offer moon cakes to heaven
when homesickness pervades in mid-autumn, it is my motherland.
Where every home and household exhibit their wits
with seven-word couplets, all one of its kind, it is my motherland.
Where people are jubilant and thankful for peaceful times, it is my motherland.
Where red lanterns are raised, firecrackers are lit,
and the new-year couplets are fiery red, it is my motherland..n
There’ll be running years of surpluses: fish, nuts, dates, pomegranates . . .
even the bat has become an auspicious totem.
Dragon, phoenix, turtle, unicorn bring in spectacular rain clouds.
Bamboo, orchid, chrysanthemum, and the four essentials for calligraphy are food for the soul in good times.
Even Pixiu, the one-horned winged lion, can ward off evil spirits.
Where magpies, cranes, deer, and the zodiac animals thrive, it is my motherland.
In the month of Insect Awakening: peach and Callery pear will bloom, followed by roses.
Around spring equinox, we admire crabapple flowers, then pear blossoms, then magnolias.
When cuckoos croon, it’s time to plant rice and reap winter wheat.
Around summer solstice, rice stalks turn emerald, wearing white flowers.
Where farmers go by twenty-four solar terms, it is my motherland.
Where stars belong to four groups: Green Dragon on the left, White Tiger on the right,
Red Finch in the front, and Sacred Tortoise towards the back,
where the philosophy of five elements, yin-yang, and twenty-eight constellation mansions endures, it is my motherland.
Climbing a mountain, I think of river god Gonggong’s furor when he crashed into giant massifs.
Taking the high-speed rail, I think of Lotus Prince Nezha’s fire wheels.
When Gods are revered in the churches and temples on this planet,
there is a land of many legendary heroes
who refused to yield to fate, this land is my motherland.
Other nations have sea eagle, golden lion, and double-headed eagle as their emblems,
the golden heads of grains and iron gears symbolize my motherland.
Though I admire Venus's disarmed statue and Mona Lisa’s smile,
I’m even more fascinated by the apsaras pipa player, and the flying white fox.
Listening to a symphony or the coloratura soprano in the concert hall,
I cannot dispel the Chinese aria Jasmine and the violin concerto Butterfly Lovers.
When admiring the polar bear and kangaroo at the zoo,
my heart is warmed by the childlike gentle panda from the country of silk, my motherland.
There are epic poems on the stones of European architecture,
in comparison, the courtyards of Yangtse River Delta house tall grass, birds, craggy stones, and fossil wood.
Then, there are General Guangong’s chivalry, Daiyu’s dreams in the Red Chamber,
the bitter happiness at Peony Pavilion, the romance in the Westside Chamber,
Li Bai’s moonlit Chang’an, Du Fu’s autumn melancholy,
calligraphy on the fans, freehand paintings on scrolls.
No matter how graceful the Blue Danube Waltz is,
what’s roaring in my heart is The Yellow River by Xian Xinghai.
The place that embraces the return of its prodigal sons is my motherland.
The pig-dragon jade artifacts from Hongshan and the writings on turtle shells
are the foundation of the modern high-rises in Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou.
Having seen the cutting-edge sciences in space and undersea,
I still carry in my bosom a tiny decaying village.
Ginkgo trees take time to grow, people watch them with heartaches and angst.
Both my temples have greyed, but my young heart still resonates with the May-Fourth movement.
The dream of a youthful China is always in my mind.

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/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

我的中国

杨克

有人酸甜，有人麻辣，有人喜原汁原味
八大菜系风靡神州，各不遑让
当周游列国，从巴黎到纽约
在刀叉下受虐一周的胃
所有人的味觉，瞬间全被唤醒
炒煮蒸烹的中餐佳肴就是我的祖国
有人粤语京腔，有人西南官话
吴侬软语与东北大嗓门
少数民族语音更是五花八门
各地方言千差万别，互相不一定能听懂
踏上拼音的国度，横竖撇捺方块字就是我的祖国
机翼划过蔚蓝的天空
补天的女娲是我的祖国
船舷剪开波涛的雪浪
填海的精卫是我的祖国
日升东方，见追日的夸父
禺谷在望，那一片辉煌是我的祖国
月落西窗，有玉兔嫦娥
记忆中那一阵桂花飘香是我的祖国
一颗竹叶裹的粽子
抛下去汨罗的万里惊涛
满腹柔肠翻滚的《离骚》是我的祖国
一枚枚月饼向天而拜
岁岁年年的怀乡与思归是我的祖国
万户千家俪采七字之偶，斗艳一句之奇
四海庆安澜万民怀大泽是我的祖国
张灯结彩、点响爆竹、对联红红火火是我的祖国
连年有鱼，花生、枣子、石榴……
连蝙蝠也成了吉祥的图腾
龙、凤、龟、麒麟，兴云致雨
太平盛世，竹、兰、菊和文房四宝福泽心灵
就是独角兽貔貅也能辟邪
喜鹊、鹤、鹿、十二生肖都是我的祖国
惊蛰，候桃花而棠梨而蔷薇
春分，望海棠而梨花而木兰
布谷布谷，种禾割麦
玉秧玉秧，稻花白练
有序多变的二十四节气是我的祖国
苍龙连蜷于左，白虎猛踞于右
朱雀奋翼于前，灵龟圈首于后
五行、八卦、二十八星宿还是我的祖国
攀崇山峻岭，想起头触巨峰的共工
乘飞驰高铁，踩风火轮的哪吒
在最高的神主宰教堂和寺庙的这颗星球
愚公、大禹和张弓搭箭的后羿
不屈服命运的神话就是我的祖国
看见海雕金狮双头鹰的国徽
金黄的谷穗和黑铁的齿轮是我的祖国
我倾倒维纳斯的断臂蒙娜丽莎的微笑
更迷恋反弹琵琶的飞天聊斋的白狐
在音乐厅听交响乐和花腔女高音
耳边盈绕《茉莉花》和小提琴《梁祝》
在动物园遇见北极熊和袋鼠
憨态和平的熊猫就是我丝绸柔软的祖国
欧洲建筑那石头上的史诗
江南庭院草长莺飞瘦石枯木
关公的忠义黛玉的痴恋
牡丹亭的悲欢西厢记的情色
李白长安一片月杜甫落木萧萧的秋兴
扇面上的书法，宣纸上的写意
哪怕随蓝色多瑙河圆舞曲轻盈曼舞
胸腔里轰鸣的是冼星海的黄河
浪子回头金不换是我的祖国
红山玉猪龙和殷墟的甲骨上
矗立北上广深簇新的高楼大厦
航天潜海，我依旧怀抱颓败的小小村落
银杏树缓慢生长，让人痛苦揪心
两鬓染霜，身体里流动青春五四的热血
念兹在兹我永远梦想的少年中国

RECALLING JIANGNAN, SOUTH OF YANGTZE

by Yang Qingci

Often reminiscing, the bright bamboos outside the window, and a drizzle,
a farmer playing a flute as he herded his ducks home,
a boat moored overnight on the riverbank,
sparse stars, and a new sickle moon.
Returning home
in a dream, lingering by a ragged cliff,
where father looked smaller and smaller
as he raised a silk lamp with painted orchids
to light the way for his daughter married off to another world.
But her longings are locked in,
how she envies the swallows, returning to home eves every spring,
making nests, singing, singing.
Spring’s clear water, breeze in the willows,
young women by the painted boats,
dainty-looking like wisps of clouds
and as refined as the crescent moon.
From the sky the raindrops fall, and take with them
the white sallow flowers to the ground, a pity to see.
Translator’s note:
This poem is a play on words of a poem titled “Remembering Parting Words By the Window”《临江仙长记碧纱窗外语》 by a Manchurian poet Nara Singde （纳兰性德）in Qing Dynasty.

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/gIshlF3B_Uu_FntCcRMczA

江南忆

杨清茨

常忆起，碧竹窗外细雨
有农人吹送归鸭
孤帆寄泊江岸
星儿疏疏，月儿初斜
归故乡
而梦却常挂在瘦骨嶙峋的悬崖
远去的父亲
用一只手绘的兰花绢灯
照亮了远嫁的女儿
相思被锁
常羡燕子，知春还家
可筑巢，可呢喃
春水，杨柳风
而轻霞般的少女
俏立画船
如淡淡的眉月
雨落下的时候
不小心打碎了一地忧伤的杨花

I THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE MY LIFE

by Yang Qingxiang

I used to walk after rain,
and on the trodden path.
Twin shells rest in the sand,
kissed by rolling waves.
I was going to build a home on it, to listen to
the wind in different seasons by the window.
To read books written afar at night, and wake
in the bell chime from across the water.
I cry and dry my tears.
I love, from the deepest of my tender heart.
I was going to write you a letter in the moonlight,
burying my thoughts in the ten thousand things at dusk.
Have children, and tell stories under a tree,
tend to the rice paddies, and keep the mountains green after I die.
I was prepared to do that, I thought:
—This would be my life.

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/j28X4smk-nQ4HfPNmtPY1w

我本来以为这就是我的一生

杨庆祥

我曾经踩过雨后的土地
以及土地上的脚印
双生贝躺在细沙里
浪花将它亲吻
我本来准备在上面盖一座房子
隔窗就能听到四季的风
在夜里读读远方的书
又有对岸的钟声把我叫醒
我哭过又擦干泪水
我爱过，在湖水的波心
我本来准备在月光下给你写一封长信
把心思，藏进傍晚的万物黄昏
我本来准备生儿育女，在树下讲故事
生前伺候稻田，死后湖山青青
我本来准备如此，本来以为
——这就是我的一生

TUYA'S STONES

by Yang Senjun

The amazing thing about stone enthusiasts is
they began by professing their love for stones,
in favor of this or that, then one day they became connoisseurs,
in favor of this or that, then they became true aficionados without knowing it.
Among the stone collectors was a middle-school teacher,
now retired, but when still a missy,
this Mongolian teacher, by the name of Tuya,
traveled places all over Yingen Sumu, Uliji, Chagan Zadege
to pick stones like men did.
She had a soft spot for yellow jasper,
loved an agate only if it’s spotless,
pure red or pure white.
She didn’t believe all jade needed polishing:
a true lover of stones
do no harm to stones.
She made her son
bring out a case and another case of stones
for us to choose,
not because she had outgrown them,
but because of money worries,
she must endure the parting pain.
I could sympathize with her.
Before we agreed to a deal,
she pondered our intention
as we pondered her agony of mind.
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 I feel laden.
I praised rain, wanting it to wash away
the murkiness in me; I praised snow
for I saw my own wasteland, hoping it would be dressed in white.
I was even tempted to praise you,
carrying your home in a briefcase
under the ominous moonlight in others’ hometown,
but, to praise exile
takes more bravado than to praise solitude.
Time backs away from us, awash with vague faces,
becoming lighter because of their lessening pull.
I often search at night for something light,
visiting breezes, going to lakes. Every time I look up,
I hope to see, there, because of years gone by,
the patina’d memories, shielding my sufferings,
will become sublime.
But oftentimes I only find yesteryears’ fallen leaves,
covered by a faded gilded sheen.
I am afraid to touch them
for fear that they may splinter,
unable to be picked up,
unable to be admired.

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/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

HEADWATER OF WHITE DRAGON RIVER

by Yang Yang

The headwater of White Dragon River
flows like slender pigtails.
This image comes to me after seeing the girls at the Tibetan school near the River.
Handsome girls, pretty braids,
in a twinkle, their lovely locks make the White Dragon River seem shy and delicate.
A black cloud floats by, followed by a shower.
Someone immediately sees a wizard sitting on the black cloud
within distinguishable facial features.
I think of the tractor driver I met yesterday and his two gold teeth.
He is not at all related to the wizard,
but I recall his smile, which gives the cloud a nice golden edge.
Crossing a stream, Gansu is to the left, and Sichuan to the right.
The little inn’s old mistress lets us pick vegetables in her fenced back yard,
gathering Gansu’s radishes and Sichuan’s cabbage all on one plate.
She also puts a fresh pot of chicken stew with wild mushrooms on the table.
Tomorrow at dawn, when her rooster doesn’t crow,
I may feel a bit of remorse.
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/eajiz_1ALkulXZatRoVEHA

白龙江源头

阳飏

白龙江源头水流细若发辫——
这个形象来自源头近处那所藏族学校的女孩子
好看的女孩子好看的发辫
一大群女孩子的发辫让白龙江瞬间变得妩媚娇羞
飘过一朵黑云洒下一阵骤雨
有人看见黑云上坐着五官模糊的巫师
我想起昨天遇见的那个露出两颗金牙的拖拉机手
他和巫师没有丝毫关系
只是莫名其妙想起他的笑，像是给黑云镶了一道金边
过一条小溪，左一脚甘肃右一脚四川
后院栅栏地里，小饭馆老板娘让我们自己去摘蔬菜
甘肃的萝卜四川的白菜，盛在一个盘子端上了桌
还有一大盆新鲜野蘑炖公鸡
明天早晨听不见这只鸡叫了，有点愧疚

COURTYARD IN THE WIND

by Yang Yong

This courtyard cannot take another tree.
New things seem unnecessary.
It’s complete.
The wind reaches every corner of the courtyard
with bird songs, dust, fallen leaves,
a house drenched in dew and fragrances.
The fenced-in garden feels like a prison,
days forgotten page after page
— your heart was once an ancient well.
A courtyard littered by fallen flowers,
treetops unreachable, streams distant
——a pond once graced the path.
Now another scene,
Now another crowd.
— grass proliferates, some climbs over the wall.
The moss on the edge calls out for friends, and the ants do, too.
The roaming wind eludes, but it is there.
The courtyard that sways in the wind looks unreal.
The wind blows, the garden is now empty.
Yesterday's stones are scattered in the wind today.
Green bamboo looks deliberately demure
— the past has yet to go up in smoke.
Gazebo peeks out through lush foliage.
Pomegranates roll down the pointed roof
— old friends never meet again.
The courtyard at night is dark,
with only an axe flashing cold sparks.
The axe bears the brunt,
it has to test the depths of the courtyard.

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/r3iiUj4SI8574iJfEd-ihA

风中的庭院

杨勇

这庭院再容不下一棵树
新的东西显得多余
它是满的
吹遍庭院的风
带着鸟鸣，尘土，落叶
露水的居所和香气
围墙仿如监禁
忘记了时日被一页页翻过
——你的心曾是一口古井
落英缤纷的庭院
忘记了树梢和远方的溪流
——小径下曾深埋着明亮的池塘
如今这里是另一番景象
另一拨人来到世上
——青草蔓延，有些爬上墙头
墙角的苔藓喜欢呼朋唤友，蚂蚁也是
漫游的风是虚幻的，但又真实存在
风中摇摆的庭院，仿如虚构
风吹过，庭院空了
昨日的石头散落在今天的风中
青竹有一种刻意的谦卑
——往事未能如烟
凉亭在绿叶中张望
石榴果从尖头檐角滚下
——故人再未曾谋面
夜晚的庭院漆黑
只有一把斧子闪着寒光
它首当其冲
要去试一试庭院的深浅

LESSER HEAT*

By Yang Zi

Under northern trees, there is still the trace of a cool breeze.
An eagle spreads its wings and circles.
The haystacks are all gone, leaving a few sparrows behind.
The garlic patch is brimming with little white flowers.
In the straw cage, crickets are chirping loud and bright.
A yellow dog lies at the doorway, tongue flexed, panting
The ox chews its cud, sparrows occasionally heard chirping in the fruit trees.
Magpies fly over the courtyard wall. The clouds seem to stir without moving.
Sitting on a step under the eaves in my small family courtyard,
I feel, at last, level like a vat of water, an indescribable feeling—
a cup of Pu'er tea, a bowl of noodles, a savory dish,
the scorching midday sun, a few simple words exchanged.
Note:
The lunar calendar divides a year into 24 climatological intervals; each interval is 15 days—from new moon to full moon or full moon to new moon. The interval of Lesser Heat is the eleventh interval of the year, starting on the new moon after Summer Solstice.

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/0Ekbf9oGd9_Kud8oUhpedg

小暑

杨梓

北方的树下还有一丝丝凉风
老鹰平展双翼，盘旋高空
地里已无麦垛，几只鸟雀飞来飞去
一畦韭菜开满白色的小花
麦秆笼里的蝈蝈，鸣叫更加响亮
一只黄狗趴在门口，伸出全部的舌头
牛在反刍，果树上的麻雀偶尔叽喳几声
喜鹊飞过院墙，云朵似动非动
在老家小院，坐在房檐下的台阶上
我第一次感到一缸水的平静，却难以言说
一杯砖茶，一碗长面，一碟小菜
一个炎热的正午，几句简单的对话

A WINTER TRIP TO WUDAHAI FOR A VIEW OF CHAOHU LAKE

by Ye Dan

In the fishing village Wudahai, that one time, I learned
two arts: listening and pining.
The winding mountain road seemed to remind me
that I had reached the end of my words.
A cove of the lake was a bow, filled with the fervors
of the earliest fishermen. Far away,
the roaring waves filled my ears,
throwing waves of white blades.
Looking south, through crisscrossing branches
over the lake, I saw trees swaying; were they
trembling in the cold wind
or because they feared the stars on patrol close by
had taken over the birds' nests?
So, dead branches littered the path to the lake,
crackling like firewood in the hearth when trod on,
“Dead branches, the price of reincarnation.”
Echoes linger, as ancient as a prayer
“No matter how you misread the beach,
it won’t dent the innocence of the waves. ”
At the bottom of the lake, there seemed to be a grindstone
churning out endless bubbles, like a giant
opening her scroll and spelling out matching moments,
one after another. "The diamond-specked waves
are the only words for saying goodbye,
as if they exist only to bid farewell. ”
In the end, twilight mingled for a pleasant conversation.
When we got up, we noticed the stars,
our ghostly host, and the scruffy scarecrows.
He commanded the stars to rise
as I returned alone to the stone cottage, before
chugging down memories.
He did not intend to teach me the magic words
until I proved that my devotion to nature was equal
to the lake that didn’t play for an audience.

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/u6aidl9vugJLlzPLQ4LYvg

冬日吴大海观巢湖

叶丹

那次在渔村吴大海，我学会了
两样本领：倾听和惋惜。
山路的曲折仿佛在提醒我们
可能来到了语言的边陲，
湖湾像一张弓，蓄满了拓荒者
投身渔业的激情。远远地，
耳道之中就被倾注了波浪
投掷过来的数不清的白刃。
向南望去，视线穿过树枝之网
落入湖面，树条摇曳，不知
是因寒风而生的颤栗还是
因为夜巡的矮星霸占了鸟窝。
所以通往湖边的小径满是枯枝，
踩得作响，像壁炉里柴火的
爆裂声。“枯枝，轮回的抵押物。”
响声持久，和祈祷一般古旧。
“无论你对沙滩的误解有多深，
都不会削减波浪的天真。”
湖底仿佛有个磨坊，浪托举着
不竭的泡沫，像个女巨人
翻开她的经卷，续写每个
何其相似的瞬间。“镶钻的浪花，
是一种离别时专用的语言，
仿佛告别是它唯一的使命。”
最后，暮色混入了愉快的交谈，
我们起身时，注意到了星辰
隐秘的主人，发髻散乱的稻草人
独自回到石砌小屋，饮下
一次追忆之前，他指挥群星升起，
他并不打算将口诀教授予我，
直到我寄身山水的执着赛过湖水
亿万次没有观众的表演。

TRAIN STATION WAITING ROOM

by Ye Hui

Early morning, the waiting room
of this deep terminal seems hypnotized.
Around me, many people
abruptly rose and left,
like saints summoned by an epistle.
Someone calls on the phone, another laces his shoes,
another says See you again (but maybe not).
Those items not allowed onboard—
certain objects, and dogs—
are quietly wheeled away in a cart.
Life is an illusion,
an older poet said,
(he just woke up from a doze.)
Right, on this cold rainy platform, you stand
holding a package that feels heavier and heavier
and as if it belongs to someone else.
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

候车室

叶辉

凌晨时分，候车室
深邃的大厅像一种睡意
在我身边，很多人
突然起身离开，仿佛一群隐匿的
听到密令的圣徒
有人打电话，有人系鞋带
有人说再见（也许不再）
那些不允许带走的
物件和狗
被小四轮车无声推走
生活就是一个幻觉
一位年长的诗人告诉我
（他刚刚在瞌睡中醒来）
就如同你在雨水冰冷的站台上
手里拎着越来越重的
总感觉是别人的一个包裹

Three Questions by the Lake

by Ye Juru

Asparagus spears break through the soil; reeds
refuse to fall, standing alongside asparagus,
are they shy and sad with existential gloom?
Fish and shrimp in the tidal flat are left for the birds.
When the fishermen fish, are they foreseeing
wing-weary birds after reaching the lake?
The birds have flown north, the lake seems forlorn.
Does the bird-watchers’ hide know
its loneliness today was my loneliness yesterday?
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/ffqOZdPSGCm8AG7FX0-vMA

湖畔三问

叶菊如

芦笋破土而出，芦苇
不肯倒伏——和芦笋站在一起
它惭愧过自己的多余吗
滩涂的鱼虾留给鸟吃
渔民捕捞时，知道
飞到湖边的翅膀已精疲力尽吗
候鸟北去，大湖惆怅
那座观鸟台，会相信
它的孤单曾经是我的孤单吗

GIRLS

by Ye Xiaoqing

They go together to Sacred Ox Ridge to collect forked fern.
These girls are all called Jiaopolei;
in my hometown, you say the word with an upswing lilt.
When girls are young, all parents call them by this name—
Jiao-po-lei, no big difference from the boys being called tumbling puppies.
In the old days, all the girls of my age,
five or six of us, were all called Jiaopolei.
The most interesting thing was, when dinner's ready,
folks would come to the grain-drying pad to call us home to eat:
someone from one family was calling “Jiaopolei”,
another one from another family was calling “Jiaopolei” ,
the whole village was calling “Jiaopolei” !
But the children’s ears were keen, they knew which calls were for whom,
after a while, even bystanders could tell.

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/6TwpUItRLb1n3PZ3yYUXkw

叫婆嘞

叶小青

她们结伴在牛神岗上割芦萁
她们都叫叫婆嘞，在故乡
叫读第二声，婆读第一声
小时候，她们都会被父母喊——
叫婆嘞。与喊男孩子“狗蛋”差不多
在村子里，与我差不多大的女孩子
五六个都叫叫婆嘞
最有趣的是饭熟后
家人站在晒坪上喊吃饭
东家喊叫婆嘞，西家也是喊叫婆嘞
一村子都在喊叫婆嘞
但孩子们分得清楚
久了，旁人也分得清楚

THE AURA OF GREEN MOUNTAINS

by Ye Yanbin

Clouds easily floated by from somewhere faraway,
a dream-like, incredible faraway place,
but in an instant the coy tenderness changed
to a fierce army crushing on the city.
The wind blows them here; the wind
also blows them away.
Gone are the clouds, and the
10,000 fine threads of raindrops.
Roaring, squalling, and blasting thunderbolts,
in the end only one dewdrop left
hanging on a blade of grass.
The rain sent it here; the rain
also sent it away.
What will not go are the moon and the countless stars.
The full moon, as with wings, is adored from a world apart.
We gaze at its halo
until it dissolves in the twilight.
The night sent it here, the night
also sent it away.
What will stay is the emerald-green of the mountains.
The wind comes; the green mountains embless the wind.
The rains come; the green mountains embless the rain,
and embless moonlight,
embless starlight —
Mountains are simply there, the gracious mountains,
with infinite exuberant green.

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/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……

SNOWED IN

by Ye Yu

It's hard to fathom, one can't dream it,
when Anna Akhmatova lined up to visit the prison camp, how bitter cold it was,
or the biting chill that finally knocked down Osip Mandelstam.
Russian snow, to be sure like all snow, is
hexagonal crystals.
Text is also snow, sheets and sheets of it
bundled over hundreds of years and finding me on a dreary winter day.
I open them, breathe out icicles on the page,
read about a blizzard that has blocked out the daylight,
blocked out doors, blocking out the dawn of the human civilization.
"It is easier for a century to topple than a squirrel to fall.”
Occasionally, in a den smaller than a squirrel’s,
I search for the piercing rhetoric that was once in my mother tongue,
but all has faded, too little fresh air for ice crystals to form,
not even “a frost in our souls.”

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/qL-suJig5fbXtD_iSG7ang

大雪封门

夜鱼

难以想象，也无法想象
阿赫马托娃排在探监队列里的冷
还有曼德尔斯塔姆倒下去的那种冷
俄罗斯的雪，明明也是
轻盈的六角形
文字也是雪，纷纷累积
积经年积百年，积到我在某个无聊的冬日
翻开他们，我在呵气成冰的纸页上
读到了漫天大雪，那么厚那么沉
大雪封门，封家门封人类之所以为人类之门
“世纪落下来比松鼠还容易”
我在比松鼠还小的蜗居里，偶尔探寻
我的母语里曾经有过的凛冽
都泛黄了，已找不到可供结晶的新鲜寒气
和来自“我们心灵的薄冰”

EARLY AUTUMN

by Ye Yu

The cement worker is encased in dust,
man and machine have become one.
The ashes erupt and cling to water vapor. This city
is oftentimes made of dust parcels.
After the impurities are burned out, the blue sky
lures us with the dream of eternity,
but work won’t stop, there will be
sweaty backs for another ten thousand years.
The clamor, the scorching sun,
the unending barrier fence shields and delays
the view of an end.
But all is not hopeless, if you miss
the smell of golden rice tassels in the windy field,
don’t wait for the sky to get dark,
or for the gale to churn up the lake,
all you need to do is close your eyes.

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/-1Hloch7g9VxLpRnoRfABA

初秋

夜鱼

切割水泥的人被关在灰尘里
和机器混为一体
灰尘喷发膨散，混合水汽。江城
经常由一坨坨灰雾组成
烧掉了杂质的天空，蓝得让人觉得
还可以活一万年
但工程永在，仍要有一万年的
汗流浃背
轰鸣配合阳光的热辣
无穷无尽的工地隔板，障碍着延缓着
终点的到来
也不是全无希望，更非全部的湖
要等到天黑，要等
一阵突起的大风
你闭上眼，就能嗅到田野上
涌动的稻穗

CONFRONTATION

by Yi Du

My entire life is tainted
with a bad habit of confrontation.
And today, all those I confronted
are ganging up on me.
See, this tombstone abhors silence,
no less than a lush pathway loathes sunset.
Between wonderfully lean and languishingly gaunt,
I weigh and measure words, dallying away time.
How can we tell what is ailing the svelte horse?
Though withering, should I turn like the grass to the seasons?

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/1vlf5EC6J9UDrCKUvX1FjA

对抗

一度

我的一生，都在积郁中
沾染对抗的坏习惯
如今，这些对抗过的事物
一起来反对我
就像墓碑反抗无言
没膝的小径反抗落日
瘦骨和枯死之间
选择合适的词，用于虚度
如何在瘦骨里找到病马？
在枯死中反对草木轮回？

THE RED-BRICK BUILDING

by Yi Hang

All day I kept looking back
on the color of the red brick building — rust,
cold, dark, the tone of my childhood.
Under the building’s shell,
we were malnourished, like shriveled nuts
growing in the shade.
The corridor was always damp, the stairs
smelled of bitter vinegar
as if some peanuts had caught mould,
Though unnoticeable from outside.
The mouse fled the fourth floor,
running to ground floor, being chased by children--
slapping, squealing, blood splashing
on the interior bricks, exposed after the lime peeled off.
Two shades of red overlapped
the exterior wall, too: cold evening,
the sunset veiled the red brick building.
At night, the searchlight on top of a sand mine
shone on the building, sometimes sweeping back and forth
as if to pinpoint something.
At that time, I would run up to the terrace,
trying to see the light source across the river.
After the sinking of the ship with more than
twenty people onboard, the entire mine
was shrouded in perpetual gloom.
At dawn, the sun slowly rose,
lighting up every brick
but didn’t impart any warmth.
Until the day I left, the brick building impressed me
with the color of congealed blood, too frigid to flow.

Translated by Duck Yard Lyricists, a group of devoted poetry lovers: 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/j9B1V0Vls8P3fFoqVp_y1A

红砖楼

一行

今天我只想念
红砖楼的颜色。——铁锈一样的颜色，
寒凉、深暗，构成了
我童年生活的主色调。
在它花生皮般的包裹中，
我们营养不良，像蔫掉的仁儿
往阴影里成长。
楼道永远是潮湿的，台阶
散发着苦醋似的气味，
像是花生内部的黄曲霉变，
从外面是嗅不到的。
老鼠从四楼逃到一楼，被孩子们
追打，尖叫着跳起，血溅到
剥落了白石灰的内墙砖头上——
而在外部，同样发生着
两种红色的重叠：这幢楼
变冷于幽深的暮光。
每个夜晚，矿上的探照灯
都要照向这里，有时会来回
扫射，像在辨认着什么。
那时我会从屋里跑到阳台上，
向远处江边的光源眺望。
自从那艘装载了二十余人的
运砂船沉没之后，整座砂矿
都被一层无法驱除的黑暗笼罩。
清晨，阳光一点点
将整幢楼的红砖铺满，
却没有带来些微的暖意。
直到我离开那里，那红砖楼的红
仍像凝固的血一样，不肯流动。

PERFECTLY ROUNDED SETTING SUN

by Yin Ma

Thirty years ago, deep in the mountains, the setting sun looked perfectly round.
I shouted out my own name
to reassure myself. The beasts in the woods knew my father only,
as for me, they sneered as if I were but a leaf.
They came out in the moonlight, but I thought they came after me.
The setting sun was smashingly round, setting off my migraine.
Thirty years later, in the name of fatherhood,
in an urban jungle, I carefully play the role of
a father. I feel all alone,
not a city leaf has the edge of
the mountain leaves. The setting sun, still a perfect circle, and the secluded moonlight
feels like a penniless woman
who dares not say a word about being loved by me.

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/02E1pGoLDz2W43iHe_e1Vw

落日浑圆

尹马

三十年前在深山，落日浑圆
我喊自己的名字
为自己壮胆。林间的兽，只认识我的父亲
它们，借一片树叶取笑我
借一捧月光追赶我
落日浑圆，落成我的偏头痛
三十年后我打着父亲的旗号
在城市的丛林里，小心翼翼地做一个
父亲。我那么孤独
没有一片树叶，像深山里的树叶
那么锋利。落日浑圆，一爿月光
像一个贫穷的女人
不敢提及被我爱过

THE FISH HERDERS

by Yu Bang

Through childhood memories darkly,
through a graveyard teeming with flowers,
into a moles’ hole we whisper low,
for fear the bones of the dead will be roused.
The oil has burned out, Haitong goes home
to receive the glory now inconsequential.
We, the fish herders, who can no longer
tell cattle from horses, launch out to the sea.
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

牧鱼者

育邦

从童年的幽影中走来
我们穿过花朵飞舞的墓地

鼹鼠的洞穴里，我们窃窃私语
生怕惊醒那些死人的骸骨

灯枯时，海桐回到故乡
领取属于他自己的陌生荣耀

秋水时至，我们这些牧鱼者
不再辨别牛马，径直奔向大海

WHITE DEER MOUNTAIN—Stopping by Hongqing Temple Grotto, Yima

by Yu Bang

At the foothill of White Deer Mountain, every day
feels like perpetual dusk.
Some fools from ancient times
still meditate in the grottos.
Heads gone, but their stumps roam
this impoverished part of human world.
Crowds of onlookers are gone,
not a soul can be seen in the village.
Only a grey dog naps in the sun,
savoring a feast in the dream.
People left town, but later returned,
in tempestuous times,
they disfigured the presumptuous false gods,
and left afterwards… with contempt.
These old stones, dreaming of deer abound,
listening to human’s hollow cries,
slowly turn to dust. Still, every generation returns
in the candlelight of May, to the perpetual dusk.
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

白鹿山 ——过义马鸿庆寺

育邦

白鹿山下，每一天
都如同黄昏
时间里的傻瓜
端坐到洞穴中修行
他们拖着没有头颅的身躯
在清贫的人间走来走去
围观的人群散去
村子，一个人也没有
灰狗在阳光下睡着了
正在品尝梦中的珍馐
人们出去，又回来
在暴风雨的驱使下，他们
摧毁自以为是的偶像
然后……嫌弃地走开
过去的石头，麋集的美梦
在一片虚无的呐喊声中
走向尘土，一代又一代人
在五月的烛光中，重回黄昏

ENCOUNTER WITH A BEEKEEPER, 2017

by Yu Changxiong

Bees have minds of their own,
they fly low, so low that the light that bounced off
their wings stays with the breathing grasses,
unllike the high waterfalls
or the silver pheasants that enter our lenses.
The beekeeper is quiet, quieter than
the trees in the mountain. What frightens me is that
when the bees leave their hives,
he becomes weightless, too,
with only his bright outline left.
But this floating light and shadow
is the epitome of nature’s stillness
and the clouds’ origin.
The beekeeper stops and goes, near and far.
He is always there, in a hidden valley
from the sweltering afternoon to the tipping dusk
under the silhouettes of birds.
He is larger than the well of a spring,
but smaller than the gentle breeze in the woods.
The bees rush home at nightfall, one by one,
their finely-weaved wings carry the big buzz.
On the mottled and heavy mountain,
the beekeeper is a lone light
while all around him the eternal darkness moves.

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/7BN6FWJ6Sw7HRzA-EV6msA

丁酉年登山偶遇放蜂人

俞昌雄

蜜蜂有自己的道路，不同于崖壁上的
瀑布，也不像瞄准器里的白鹇
它们飞得很低，低到翅膀的反光
几乎陷入草木的呼吸
放蜂人比山里任何一棵植物都要来得
安静。这让我感到害怕
每当成百上千的蜜蜂飞离蜂箱
他也随即变轻，轻到不需要肉身
只留下明亮的轮廓
可是，正是那样一片漂移的光影
让我觉察到了什么才是山水的静穆
什么才是浮云的根
放蜂人走走停停，忽远忽近
从微微发烫的晌午到倾斜的黄昏
他一直都在那里，在山涧迂回的地方
在飞鸟的侧影里
他比泉眼空阔，又小于林间的风
蜜蜂逐一飞回，赶在天黑之际
密密麻麻的翅膀携着那巨大的嗡嗡声
整块山地如此沉重而斑驳
放蜂人把自己浓缩为一盏孤灯
牢牢地，安插在那颤栗而不朽的黑暗里

THROWAWAYS

by Yu Jian

I rarely come here, as infrequent as trying to grasp the drooping hands of a corpse.
Here lies a pile of throwaways: an old box, outdated magazines, a twenty-year-old rag doll,
Grandma's black case. Some things we dare not throw out,
unsure of their insignificance, or being indecisive,
leaving them to a careless offspring to discard.
But they hang on to them too, stashing them away out-of-bounds under the staircase,
or in some former person’s tiny room. Behind the house, in a perpetual shady spot,
I discovered a tiny sapling at dusk, now up to my knees. Where did the seed come from?
The fading image on the old photo album, the pregnant woman, what was her name?
Is there anything that hasn't been planted?
Mossy green matted curls, covered with tiny sprouting leaves,
boast of youth, the spirited and gloomy youth—
I rarely come here. The piano has been silent for years,
the last player has forgotten to close the lid.

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/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

HIBISCUS

by Yu Xiaozhong

Now I believe all that appear in dreams
have taken a long, arduous journey,
and by chance come to our dreams to rest with us.
Much like those who left their old homes,
now antediluvian,
get acquainted with new neighbors.
Much like the pigeons in the glow of sunset,
circling near one another,
nudge even closer to whisper.
Much like hibiscus that blooms after autumn frost,
its name tells its borrowed status, predestined
to take an ambiguous role,
will do almost any task.

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/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

SMALL-TOWN SPIRIT

by Yuan Lun

A dainty clay jug, good for only a jot of wine,
leans on the red coal with a rounded belly,
corn whisky warming up inside.
It’s getting hotter, and steamy,
but the boil inside, with alcohol mixed with water,
is gentler and more deliberate. My laconic grandpa
cannot hear the babbling inside,
but lifts the jug close to his goatee.
The distilled mist gets on his mustache,
like rime ice on pine needles.
Townsmen know him for making whisky from mountain spring,
leading a life as pure as his spirits but not without hangovers.
Years later, it is I who is cooking up words with wine,
slowly absorbing the town’s atmosphere.
A hidden joy like this is worthy of any mortal risk.
He who gives up all ploys to drink from a dainty earless jug
brings the world to the lips, ah, it happens to be me.
The way it is done, one would say, is close to blasphemous.
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

在小镇煮酒

远伦

一个小巧的陶罐，盛得下二两酒的陶罐
腆着小肚腹躺在火炭旁边
玉米酿造的烈酒在陶罐里发热
升温，冒出热气
而那内部小小的沸腾，酒精和水的沸腾
温和而又内敛。沉默的祖父
也听不见丁点酒水的喧哗
他举起陶罐，山羊胡须上
慢慢积聚起蒸馏水的微粒
像是松针上，轻微悬垂的雾凇
他是镇子上用山泉水煮酒的饮者
一生清澈而又常常宿醉
多年后，我也在这里，用词语煮酒
慢慢地呼吸小镇的醇香
此中妙意，须得生死一品
那个放弃把柄，手执罐嘴
把全世界拉近的人，正是我啊
那样子，多像是对命运的冒犯

CATCHING LIGHTNING

by Yuan Wei

A drunken madman at the town’s end died in the rain.
Apart from the powerful train in his mouth,
nothing accompanied him to the afterlife.
He took shelter from the rain under an old locust tree, where calamity struck.
This story has been passed down by our grandparents,
and I dare not lie about it, not even a word. I totally respect
lightnings. During peak seasons of thunder and lightning,
I am especially careful not to utter a word of blasphemy
or make ridiculous remarks. When one is too bold,
words can create precarious situations,
instead I chose the shutter to capture the lightning. A giant blue dragon
was imprisoned on film, kept motionless.
Even so, at the moment of pressing the button,
I admit my guilt and beg for forgiveness.
I’m still afraid of lightnings, nerves of steel for me
is itself a lie.

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/60ayq0Lb6R-bIlFCqNhe_A

捉闪电

袁伟

村头的酒疯子死于雨天
除了嘴里时常马力十足的小火车
他再也没能带走其它的殉葬品
临时收留他避雨的老槐树，惨遭不幸
这个被祖辈反复讲起的故事
让我不敢说半句谎话，我对闪电
心怀敬畏。在雷电缠绵的季节
我尤为谨慎，生怕嘴巴不听使唤
说一些荒诞不经之词。胆子足够大了
遑论的地位就岌岌可危
我选择用快门来捕捉闪电。蓝色的巨龙
被囚禁于底片之上，动弹不得
即便如此，我还是在按键的刹那
承认自己的罪过并请求宽恕
我依然惧怕闪电，胆量对我来说
本身就是一句谎言

将要赴死的是一具毫无用处的皮囊
将要不朽的是命运赐予的两三诗行

RETURNING FROM TEMPLE OF GREAT AWAKENING

by Zang Di

Dusk, an unassuming ruin of the day,
an unprecedented break of
silence and presence in life’s routine;
halfway up the mountain, with the loveliest angle to look out and far,
it affords the view of every ridge and every trough,
but the softer transitions are well hidden, in space and in time;
there will be time when a human heart feels ethereal
and goes for the profound; then life flows instead of following impulses.
Still it will take a little extra something for the soul to transcend.
There, perhaps the horizonis more than just a portal;
Lend us the mountain's breeze, which brings with it relics of a distant past,
and bales out sorrows through a sieve, floating, far away.

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/IppJeoRnLOIsZWVkbwzCAA

大觉寺归来

臧棣

黄昏时分，一个废墟谦卑如
人生的空白还从来没有
在你面前如此安静过；

半山腰多娇一个自然的角度，
俯瞰交替远眺，乾坤的极限逃不过
有时，缓冲带在历史中藏得太深；

而人心一旦缥缈，自我难免会
投靠深奥；看上去，生动多于冲动，
但总差那么一点，才是灵魂出窍。

或者，地平线也不过是一道门槛；
借着山风，古老的遗风吹进来，
将巨人的悲伤过滤成沉浮太偏僻。

LEIJIA VILLAGE CHRONICLES

by Zeng Jihu

Now I see how it happened, in 1994,
I lugged a ragged wooden suitcase up the hill;
at that time, Li Fuming was, and still is, a legend there with a master’s degree;
but he is old now (he keeps saying that himself), gaining some weight;
a group of villagers strolled down from Leijia Village, the Eucalyptus next to the well (was it?)
shielded a large swath of the sky.
God tells the village’s future based on its wisdom and goodwill in the broken wing of a gray hen, but soon after,
a colleague, while we walked, tattled to me of an office romance with a married woman,
accompanied by the barking of dogs and the snorting of beasts.
I remember that night, the moonlight, sharp and futuristic,
which I turned into verse with a Latin American flair.
I needed to return to our village, grotesque under the sun.
More than once I revisited one of those dead restaurants, rows and rows of them,
and recalled a bizarre death at Fortune Hotel,
the death of one among us,
who drank cheap liquor in a shoddy place
to appease a certain group of people;
one of those nights, we pushed ourselves to flatter a ruthless group of people;
he was one among us.
The grass had only one more day to live before the arrival of the railroad tracks;
in the alleyways farmers stumbling home came across people taking a walk at night;
we walked all night, almost every day, how we felt exalted from those walks that cause brain hypoxia,
that heightened the sense of what set apart the south and the north;
a gloomy sky poured into the basin
but on top of the mountain, by the open-air ball room,
the moon overhead was a treasure compared to other crystalline gems.
It was winter 1994, I was 22 and weighed 51.5 kg.
I want to forget what has happened, can I not?
I want to trust sound reasoning, can I not?
I want to forget that I was trapped, stuck in a woeful web, can I not?
I want to intervene with my beloved intellect; and since I can, why don’t I?
Therefore, I can envision, on the edge of Leijia Village,
there is a floating fish bone,
a petty affair that will puff into smoke,
a white dog with black spots with a blue stripe,
an inadequate lover, husband, father; a teacher,
an inadequate son, soon a quinquagenarian, of a deceased couple.

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/umCU1lgLKU6n26e7uW0s5Q

雷家村纪事

曾纪虎

我从现在看到以前，1994年的时候
我拖着一个翻盖的破樟木箱爬到山上
那时硕士李伏明是这里的一个传奇人物，现在还是
不过他老了（他自己就是这么声称的），体重增加
一群人从雷家村穿梭下来，井口边上的（是吗？）樟树
占据了村子的一大半天色

老天从雷家村一只灰母鸡残缺的翅膀上
察看知识与善意的未来，但是不久，我与另一同事
在夜色中穿过，在一阵犬吠外加兽类零星的鼻息中
他谈到他与一个有夫之妇的办公室恋情
我记住了当夜的、尖锐感的、属于未来的，月光
我用一种拉美诗歌的夸张将它写入诗句
我还是要回到这个在白天无比丑陋的村落
回到一排排死去的各类小餐馆
回到财源大酒店某人的离奇死亡
我们就是某一个在小排档喝低端白酒讨好某一批人的酒客
就着这夜色，让我们再一次讨好这些无所畏惧的人，他就是
你身边的某一人
那些第二天将死去的草丛，看到了两条铁轨的到来
农夫们趔趄步履，在雷家村的巷道上，碰到了散步晚归的人
我们几乎彻夜散步，几乎，每天，让大脑缺氧的散步何其珍贵
加深了南方与北方的概念，还有
椭圆形的铁盘里倾倒了阴沉的天空
但是，在山顶上，露天舞场的旁边，头顶上的圆月如群冰中的瑰宝
那是1994年的冬天，我年满22岁，体重51.5公斤
我要忘记已发生的事，为什么不呢？
我要相信可靠的知识，为什么不呢？
我要忘记我被围住了，我陷在绝望的排列中，为什么不呢？
我要让深爱的精神活动汇聚为可以打量的潜流，既然我可以
——为什么不呢？

所以，我能想到，雷家村边上有某根浮起的鱼骨
有某一桩将变成气体的苟且恋情
有某条白底黑斑的土狗，它边上一道蓝色
有某个不够好的恋人、丈夫、父亲；某个教书的人
某对死去夫妇的不够好的年近五十的儿子

OLD TIMES

by Zhai Wenjie

A village lay low in the plain,
dotted with small humble old houses.
A stool in front of the old house,
my small mother sat on a short stool.
She stood next to the dwarf wheat,
the wind blew across the field, hugging the ground.
The wind brushed on the golden wheat,
Mother’s bean field, ripe in the wind.
Dwarfish wind climbed no mountains;
it slowly walked over the shallows.
Water in the shallows flowed beautifully in the wind,
the low-lying village swayed beautifully in the wind.
Mother sat in times past,
the lowly old times, a beautiful thing it is.

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/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

After two thirds of May, the weather is getting hotter —
The work on the mountains, on the farm, in the fields
is piling up. In the countryside, the straw hats are put to
their proper use— those straw-woven hats, yellow or gray,
smelling of sun and human sweat, in the granary or
long-untouched on the wall, are now grabbed
by men and solidly tied down
on their heads…
In these straw hats, they hoe, fertilize, reap, or
hatchet off the weedy brush or grass, sometimes
plough and till and plant and harvest
in the mud-strewing fields,
sun-tanned, clothes-rustling, as if all one;
—Toiling hard, silent for a long time, seen
from afar, it’s hard to tell who’s who—whose husband
or father. Anyone hurrying home and passing the field
wishes to greet their kin, yet is unsure of which one to call,
hesitates and hesitates and eventually remains quiet—
In fact, it makes no difference to shout or not— in summertime
in the countryside, the same father
under every straw hat.

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/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。

THE ROMANCE OF A PAINTER BAR TENDER

by Zhang Baimei

Hanging out on the river bank
one summer night along Songhua River*,
people watched the moon with their loved ones, eating assorted kebabs he made.
The discussion turned to soccer, growing vegetables, fine-brush painting,
and nine ways to slow-cook cutlassfish.
Love affairs are basically a matter of the mind.
On the other end of the phone, rain was pouring down.
The discussion turned lively:
which shop was cleaner;
what flowers to put in the room so it would feel romantic;
for the first rendez-vous, should it be in the boudoir or a cafe?
As they chatted, there stood Shanhai Mountain Pass**,
the rebel king had broken the defenses,
smoke signals were seen burning around Coal Hill
outside Beijing’s Xizhimen Gate****.
What do you say, shall we talk on the phone tonight?
You texted back, in-between selling beers: Sweetie, I won’t be home
before the soccer match ends at midnight.
On the banks of Songhua River, you and your friends got bored;
one of them, who’d die within two months,
said to everyone playfully:
after I leave tonight,
I won't be returning tomorrow nor the day after.
Never to return would be that moonlight tonight,
the dinner picture you painted for your girlfriend,
and the lovely smell of Dalie sourdough bread and Borscht soup in the kitchen.
In the moonlight of another city, your girlfriend read a story to her child.
A cozy, home-like scene?
Not everybody thought so.
The phone made a clanking sound,
hanging up on all love.
No reason, no warning sign,
the man who sold beer by the banks of Songhua River
fell into deep sleep; it's said he didn't have 100 yuan on him.
Notes:
*The Songhua River is over 1,400 kilometers long and flows from the Changbai Mountains on the China-North Korea border through Jilin and Heilongjiang provinces in China's northeast.
**Shanhai Pass is one of the major strategic passes along sections of the Great Wall of China, located in the northern province of Hebei.
***King Chuang is the exalted nickname for Li Zicheng (1605-1645), a rebel leader who dethroned Chongzhen, the last emperor of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644).
****The Emperor Chongzhen (r. 1628-1644) hanged himself from a tree on Coal Hill in Jingshan Park, a park located behind the northern gate of the Forbidden City. It was from the Gate of Military Prowess that the Emperor exited the northern gate and made his way to Coal Hill.

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/OmDz9uVH6xjMBkRtGgXVhQ

一个卖啤酒的画家的罗曼司

张白煤

在松花江畔游荡
在松花江畔看夏夜的月亮
在松花江畔和爱你的人
一起，吃他亲手烤的各种串儿

谈论着足球、蔬菜种植、工笔画和炖带鱼的九种方法
爱情都是形而上的
在电话的另一端大雨滂沱

兴致勃勃，讨论
应该去哪一家店比较干净
应该摆放什么样的花朵比较有情调
应该在床上，还是咖啡馆见第一面

在语言的中间，是山海关
闯王已经破城
西直门外的烽烟绕着煤山

请问你，今晚要不要打电话
你在卖啤酒的空档里回复：亲爱的，我要看完12点的足球才回家
在松花江畔，你和你的兄弟们闲的无聊
其中一个，会在两个月后死亡
并且顽皮地对大家说：
我走以后，
明天不会回来，后天也不会
再也不会回来的
是今夜的月光
是你为女朋友画的晚餐
厨房里，飘着大列巴和罗宋汤的浓香

在另一座城市的月光里，女朋友为她的小孩读一册儿童故事
那场景是温馨的么？
并不是人人都这么看
电话扑通一声
将所有的爱情挂断
没有理由，也没有征兆
一个卖啤酒的男人，在松花江畔
沉睡，据说他身上没有一百块钱

SMALL TOWN

by Zhang Ergun

Every small town has an old crank in faded army fatigues
with a tarnished 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.
The mistress in cheap rouge sits by a greasy window,
knitting and unraveling and knitting a sweater.
No one knows the reasons why she smiles or frowns.
Every small town was a stopover for some mysterious circus.
They hollered up and down the muddy street for their stunts:
spitting fire, swallowing swords, and balancing plates.
No one knows what they buried under the arched bridge,
where they stayed the night and cried.
In every little town, there are women who weep,
thieves who cry for pain, and lunatics who mumble-jumble.
In every little town, there are knees on the floor,
shoulder strembling, and shadows staggering on the street.
Every small town has a deity quietly keeping watch,
guarding certain mysteries from being revealed
and making sure they repeat 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。

PUSH AND SQUEEZE

by Zhang Fanxiu

Look up. See that bird nest, lovely size, on a high branch,
snug and safe, and will get even safer.
Thanks to the tree limbs, the nest is being squeezed and taking shape.
Above the nest
is the symmetrical sky,
unaffected by the work of pushing and squeezing,
still viewable from under our black roof and white wall.
We almost forgot these black roof and the white wall
of our house,
but recently construction workers squeezed the day-laborers’ market,
then came a wave of departure, yet another wave.
The making of a nest relies on the just-do-it spirit and superb craftsmanship.
The clouds drift east, the sun treks west. The mud and the grass strive
to maintain a balancing act. In the end, the outcome of the push and squeeze
may not depend only on the actual push and squeeze.
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

挤压

张凡修

仰视。看那鸟窝，大大的，挤得树梢
越来越安全
因为多了支撑，挤压就有了形状
鸟窝之上
天空是对称的
天空不因鸟窝的挤压而
阻止我们在白墙黑瓦的地方
仰视。白墙黑瓦
被忽略
近前，一群群泥瓦匠，挤压着短工市场
一拨离开，又一拨离开
鸟窝相信积极的锻造术
云朵往东，日头偏西。泥与草的衔连
紧密保持着
两个身体的均衡。所以，挤压的痕迹有可能
不取决于挤压

OUR BOAT——to Julie

by Zhang Hezhi

Your amorous body walked into November,
and paused.
There is always a day when life will stumble.
You said, there were many boats moored on your hand.
You faded in and out in the midst of great pain.
It’s autumn, and our room had been dusty for no reason,
as if taking part in a patiently-planned death.
You didn't believe we could survive
the bloody battle against codes.
You trusted only words, and the touch of skin.
By touching and writing, writing and touching,
you were convinced the ancient night would come,
you said our boat
remained loyal to the twilight.
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

船 ——给Julie

张何之

你多情的身体走进十一月
就顿住了
总有生命在日子上绊倒
你说，你的手掌中停满船只。
在难言的痛苦中你时隐时现
这是秋天，房间里总是无端布满尘埃
像一桩耐心计划的死事
你不相信，我们终于能从
信号的血海中杀出一条生路
你只信字，信皮肤
在反复地触摸与书写中
你说古老的夜会来，
你说，我们的船
依旧忠诚于微光

ON A HOLIDAY, LISTENING TO FATHER AND COUSIN CHATTING ABOUT FAMILY GRAVEYARD

by Zhang Hongbing

I can finally embrace such a topic,
no longer treating it as a festival taboo.
As to its location, they showed great enthusiasm,
rejoicing in the fengshui of the burial ground,
but worried about the traffic around the plots,
as if the difference between life and death is simply relocation:
the deceased still need to breathe, eat and drink,
still need to come and go, or, shall we say,
still need someone to breathe on their behalf, to eat
and drink for them, to go home for them after they left.
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

节日里听父亲和堂哥聊家族墓地

张红兵

我已经能接受这样的话题
我已不再将它看成节日里的禁忌
关于那样一个所在
他们表现出了极大的热忱
欣慰于葬身之地的风水
又忧虑于葬身之地的交通
仿佛生死只是由一处搬迁到另一处
仍需要呼吸，饮食
需要进出，或者说
仍然需要有人替他们呼吸
饮食，替他们一次次外出归来

CORNERS

by Zhang Hongbo

You thought the boundless grassland has no corners:
the night misty and rainy,
a place entangled with weeds,
and shiny puddles broken by horses’ swift hooves.
But what lies ahead is darkness like a giant boulder.
That is the next turn,
no matter how celebrated you were,
moving forward ahead, you will vanish into the distance.
But we don't pause to pray.
It’s not yet dawn when the dahlias come in bloom.
Let the horse's whip be heard across the field,
let us skip over the antlers in the riverbed,
and fling your backpack on the river bank.
Tonight, a rainy night, you are a god, a hero.
Like an arrow, you fly around the fortress’ corner like a gust of wind,
firing raindrops to the end of the sky.

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/Wshl_zHi1phLm00-t9le-A

拐角

张洪波

不要以为草原宽阔没有拐角
雨夜迷蒙
那个地方败草缠结
只有马蹄急转踏过水光
远方旷黑如巨石
那是下一个拐角
你无论曾经多么有英名
向前注定消失在远方
但是不能驻足祈祷
还未到早晨大丽花开
让马鞭声响遍大野
越过河床尖锐犄角
把行囊甩在堤坡
这个雨夜你是神是雄美
如箭你飙风般冲出故垒拐角
把雨滴射向天边

THE WAITING

by Zhang Jianchun

A motionless bird awaits, for the rain
to revive autumn. Next to its knees, the water lilies
hide the fish under their leaves, also waiting for rain
to replenish food and oxygen. The waiting has also given
the river an excuse for not flowing.
Then, autumn comes to stay, the birds touch down,
opening their wings for shade, the sunrays
warm the scent of Osmanthus, a lovely old chalet comes into view
that soothes my weary head. I can almost hear horses trotting
on the path traveled by ancient knights,
through weeds, through time’s passage, to the candleberry tree,
whose red leaves rub the door couplet, still intact,
in matching meter and rhyme, as if all just a game.
Unlike the fish, the inscription can’t survive on rainwater.
I can almost hear Cronus laughing, the art of
willful men, time after time, is no match to a bird or a fish,
who, under the rain band, are resurrected spontaneously.
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

等待

张建春

一只安静的鸟，在等待雨
救活秋天。身下的青莲
藏着鱼，也在等待雨
带来氧和食物。等待成为
一道河不再流动的借口
秋停下脚步，鸟停止飞翔
鸟的羽翼丢下阴凉，太阳
落在桂花的香气上，一个古旧的抒堡
炸开皱纹思考，马蹄声碎
剑戟走过的小路，游进
记忆的荒草，乌桕在一旁
红叶紧贴一副不朽的联句
对仗工整，似是一场游戏
铭刻绝非是鱼，雨救不活
时光在另一边发笑，千秋万代的固执
还不如一只鸟、一条鱼
雨在路上，它们都将在某一刻复活

THE GIST OF IT

by Zhang Lin

Some things are big from birth, like oceans.
Some things are small ’till death, like grass.
Still a few other things
were already old when we got acquainted, like this old family home.
I myself, am gradually passing from small to big,
through the journey of growing old and feeble.
—All my life
I am like a sprig of grass, thinking of the ocean, as if that is home.

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/dHc49m3VRxyVJ6aDOMguPg

大意如此

张琳

有些东西，生来就是大的，比如大海
有些东西，至死也是小的，比如小草

还有一些东西
我认识她时就老了，比如老家

我，正慢慢经历着
从小到大，再渐渐衰老的过程

——我的一生
就像一棵小草，想起大海，如临故乡

THE SOUTHERN PEAK, A MORNING IN THE FOG

by Zhang Muxing

The temple’s door opens. The fog twists to give way,
the wind does, too.
The squeak
sounds like a god might have just moved a mountain,
but in the fog, how can anyone tell
if the mountain is to the left of our hearts
or a little more to the right.
Possibly the mountain didn't move at all,
but silence was pushed out three feet by two hands,
no more than three feet.
The old master walks to the pine tree without a word.
What does he and the pine exchange?
Other than serenity, most likely these two old friends
do not exchange anything.
The master’s ochre robe, an earthy tone of human pathos,
looks like a mirror before
the wind and the fog,
who seem to want to open up
but keep mum.
No language is suitable for their discourse.

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/pWDFkrqvBC8HzocJDaP7aQ

南岳，有雾的早晨

张沐兴 (木头说话)

寺门开了。雾侧了一下身，
风也侧了一下身。
那声吱呀
像是神将一座山移动。
没人看得到，大雾里的山
是偏向我们心的左边多一点，
还是偏向我们心的右边多一点。
或者山根本没有动
只是寂静被一双手推开了三尺。
只有三尺。
走到松树下的老法师不说话
他与松树在交换什么。
除了安宁，这一对老朋友
大概也没有别的什么可以互换。
那僧袍的深黄色
多么具体而慈悲的色调，
风与雾面对这面黄铜的镜子
都一副倾诉的样子，
其实并不出声。
没有语言可以打开这种倾诉。

FAMILY HISTORY

by Zhang Qiaohui

A teenager stutters to describe his home:
downstream of Meiyang, a hamlet at the end of the ferry run,
a house, third floor unoccupied,
meant for him to save up to take a wife.
In the countryside, everyone is like that.
They work in a factory run by overseas Chinese, room and board provided,
and go home once a week. Less often, later on.
As we talk, the ferry has completed its journey.
The ferry carries those who want to leave,
and those who want to return home.
A dog waits at the door every weekend.
If you come back or not, it won’t move.
( I had a dog like that. It got seriously ill but still waited for me.
Our days and our dogs,
they faithfully accompany us till the end.)
Flying Cloud Lake runs along our car,
serene and open, like a mother
listening to her son's description dotted with excitement and shyness.
Crossing Zhaoshan Narrow, a large dam appears;
it neatly chokes off a creek,
placid before its steep fall over the spillway.
I did not ask the young man’s surname.
The fields of rapeseed flowers along the road
look every bit like him. The home that he described
is like my native home that has long disappeared.
These years, I have loved another place
the way I love my hometown.

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/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。

WHEN SCENERY IS LOOKED AT AS A SCENE

by Zhang Shuguang

Among so many things, only scenery remains constant.
I mean the word. Sometimes they are pictures.
But can it also be the projection of objects on the retina,
entering and merging with the consciousness? Or the opposite,
when the inner consciousness finds
external clues that meet all the criteria, like a detective on a case?
Holmes or Wittgenstein. But this morning
I am reading “Looking Awry” by Slavoj Zizek.
He is an observer. Observing instead of watching.
Sometimes he drags in a foreign film. He is like a crow,
quacking and flying over the playground. But he appears
more like a bear who broke into the kitchen. Licking honey.
We see the world through the eyes of others,
such as the ancestors in us, or some demonic possession.
Freud or Id. We are genuinely pleased with it.
What is born from a seed is not a tree but
a large forest. Many birds perch on it.
Birds’ white droppings fall on the grass. Manet was with his lover
and friends on a picnic there. In fact, they were just
sitting, each looking at
somewhere outside the screen. Were they watching
someone or a particular scenery? Did they know
they were also becoming a scene, seen by us. When disrobed,
they were simply men and women, just like us.
I no longer praise any scenery. When a scenery
is looked at as a scene, it is no longer at ease,
but observed, tailored and critiqued. But it cannot but put up with it,
allowing others’ consciousness to immerse; accepting that
it may enter certain people's eyes
or become a picture in a frame. Intentional or not, it has to live with it.

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/JcnrbM0wunpjCHRhssPIrA

当风景作为风景

张曙光

在诸多事物中，只有风景保持不变。
我是说这个词。有时是一些图片。
但它是某些客观物在视网膜上的投射
然后进入并形成意识？或是相反
是由内在的意识在外在的事物中寻找到
符合条件的一切，就像侦探破获一起案件？
福尔摩斯或维特根斯坦。但今天早上
我在读《斜目而视》，斯拉沃特·齐泽克著。
他是一个观察者。观察而不是观看。
有时他拉着洋片。他像一只乌鸦
聒噪着飞过游乐场。但他的模样
更像是一头闯进厨房的熊。舔着蜂蜜。
我们透过别人的眼睛看着世界。
比如身体里的祖先，比如附体的邪灵
弗洛伊德或伊德。对此我们由衷感到快慰。
在一粒种子中，孕育出的不是一棵树，而是
一大片森林。上面栖着很多鸟。
白色的鸟粪滴落草地。马奈带着情人
和朋友在上面午餐。事实上他们只是
坐在那里，各自把目光投向
画面以外的某个地方。他们是在看着
某个人，或某一片风景？是否知道
他们也正在成为风景，被我们看到。当脱掉
衣服，只是些男人和女人，和我们一样。
我不再赞美风景。而当风景作为风景
它已不再是自在的一切。它被观看
剪裁和评说着。但它必须忍受
让某些人的意识沉溺其中，同样
还要忍受它会进入某些人的眼睛
或取景框中。有意或无意，但必须忍受。

MISSING-PERSON POSTERS

by Zhang Xiaozhen

Missing-person posters are everywhere on Yangtze River Bridge.
We pass by it one misty afternoon.
Only angels without a home gently read the posters with a sigh.
The papers are already yellowed,
the same color as the water under our feet, with floating oil,
leaves, and dust.
See, she perches on the curled-up corner of the poster,
gently fluttering like an insect with translucent wings.
How amazing, no? We can’t find her.
We have dug canals for rainwater, mapped out power grids,
thawed out the northern permafrost,
and sent the southern wind to calm the great land.
We said Long Live . . . and ten thousand things live long.
We have planted seeds of ideas in steel,
and induced magnetic fields
to spy on homes of sulfur, on the valley of the shadow of death.
We have sent people to the balloon-like moon.
But we still cannot find her.
But we still drink the water, the murky water in the fog.
Raising our glasses, we tell ourselves
she might have reached Yangluo,
riding on the back of a great black whirlpool,
on the verge of triumph in the early morning.
Or maybe she reached Nanking, and took the big river
for the sea . . .
Laughing, we drank up our cups,
holding hands, saying hopeful words to lift our spirits.
Tomorrow will be a new day, we will surely find her
because all creatures are praying for us
with their inaudible sighs.
But how terrified we are by the thought of finding her!

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/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-shaped oven,
and arranges them to get snug and cozy along the oven's wall
in a circle, stretching, sweating,
just like poets. Aah! Aa! Ouch!
roasted over coals, they slowly turn soft, aromatic, sweet,
moans and sighs are now softer, giving steamy scents,
Mmm...
Before considering it done, he’d make sure
everyone is evenly roasted front and back
until he too becomes an ember-roasted sweet potato.
The red glow on his face and his coarse garment
has me awestruck,
so I huddle close to the oven and listen to his stories.
When he is flat out, I handle the money and change,
sharing his simple fare of strong tea and baked sesame bread.
It's dusk and I ride with him on his sweet-potato cart to go home.
Q: What do you do, my gray-haired big brother?
A: I write, paid by number of words, a few decades now.
He chuckles and says: "Far better to code sweet potatoes.
Change job, better to be a sweet, warm-hearted street pedlar..."

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/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 LITTLE BIGGER LOVE

by Zhang Xinying

Staying too long in one profession,
you can lose your sharpness
without knowing.
May as well step up to the balcony.
While without purpose, you’ll see the point of
smoking and drinking,
the changeable clouds in the sky,
the two rivers before your eyes,
the steamboats that whistle at night,
the anonymous birds that
fly by and away.
You may not make the world greater,
but you may love the world a little better
if you are content
to be an amateur in many other things.

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/mW4UGWqLAxovMM34TyDriA

更大一点的爱

张新颖

在专业领地待久了
你就变成了这个专业的外行
而不自知

还是到阳台上来吧
你会懂得无所事事时的香烟和啤酒
天空变幻的云

你眼睛看得见的两条河流
夜晚轮船的汽笛
叫不出名字的鸟飞过来又飞走

你或许得不到更大一点的世界
但能得到对更大一点的世界的爱
假如你愿意
做许多事物的业余选手

CHANCING UPON SNOW

by Zhang Zhan

Snow has the beautiful look of ashes.
It hides its shadow,
feigning lightness.
It doesn’t write,
but lays out a sheet of paper
for those who want to.
It pretends that it was never a fire,
or a tree
before a fire,
or a flower
before a tree.
It pretends that it was never water,
like a pearl
held between
someone’s soft lips.
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

遇雪

张战

雪有灰烬之美
它藏起自己的影子
假装自己轻
它什么都不写
铺好纸
让别人写
它假装自己不曾是火
火之前
不曾是树木
树木之前
不曾是花朵
它假装自己不曾是水
如珍珠
当那人用柔软的唇
将它含住

ODE TO SPRING

by Zhang Zhihao

My mother never wore a floral dress,
but does this mean
she was never happy?
Spring returns, but that last spring
when I carried her home on my back from the hospital,
on the small road behind our house,
she spoke next to my ears, in a soft and distant voice:
“Son, I won’t let you dream of me after I die
lest you should be afraid. I am content, I am happy. ”
It has been eighteen years, and whenever spring returns after winter,
I would remember that afternoon
when I carried my unfortunate mother.
On that road blooming with flowers,
I cried while I walked.

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/Qpp9Q01A_BVlvZmZEDD9jQ

咏春调

张执浩

我母亲从来没有穿过花衣服
这是不是意味着
她从来就没有快乐过？
春天来了，但是最后一个春天
我背着她从医院回家
在屋后的小路上
她曾附在我耳边幽幽地说道：
“儿啊，我死后一定不让你梦到我
免得你害怕。我很知足，我很幸福。”
十八年来，每当冬去春来
我都会想起那天下午
我背着不幸的母亲走
在开满鲜花的路上
一边走一边哭

1990, RUNNING WATER CAME TO THE VILLAGE

by Zhang Zuogeng

The upended water barrel was removed.
A damp circle was all that’s left, resetting time back to the beginning.
Water barrel, now a redundant worker,
was grabbed on the belly and dragged off.
Where's a good place for it?
—some younger and speedier servant will stand in.
Water pipe, not a line to lead you to the headwater
but runs underground, and tears open
an outlet at the faucet—
“This water, it smells of chlorine.”
“Oh, push buttons, valves and knobs everywhere.”
My elderly mother grumbles as she carries
clothes and vegetables to the pond to wash.
Cool running river, lichen sways on rocks,
as if water has grown a beard.
The evening after, Father removed the water barrel,
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 water barrel,
as bright as before, as if Father were still with us,
carrying water, bringing us everyday's
blissful news.

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

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？

PAINTINGS OF SPRING

by Zhang Zuogeng

Early morning, I push open the window.
You are there grinding an ink stone, and rolling out the paper for me to paint a bird song.
My heart flutters like a baby bird, and I say
—wait ‘till it sings, I can then paint
a real bird song.
The meadow is quiet in the afternoon, like an
after-hour bee house. Only the two of us still fly low,
hoping to find a twig on each other to perch.
You say, paint the sweetness of the world.
My heart burst open like a painter’s palette, I said
—when the palette is thawed by the spring breeze,
I can paint the life-like sweetness.
The lake fades into dusk – twilight touches the grass,
deepening the dark horizon. We get up,
walk towards a swaying boat,
thinking there is a roily whirlpool . . .
You mutter: hurry, paint a vortex of fear—
My heart pounds like a stone tossed into water,
I say, when the stone has turned to dust,
I can paint the real fear.
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

春之画

张作梗

早晨，推开窗户，
你研墨铺纸，要我画一幅鸟鸣。
我的心怦怦跳着如一只幼鸟，我说——
等它会叫了，我就能画出
真正的鸟鸣。
田野置于午后，寂静如一只打烊的
蜂桶。唯有我俩低飞着，
要在彼此身上找到停落的枝头。
你说，画出世界的甜蜜吧。
我的心哗啦展开如一个写生夹，
——我说，等画板被春风融化了，
我就能画出逼真的甜蜜。
黄昏推开湖水——天光落在草尖上，
加深了大地的幽暗。我们起身，
向一条战栗的小船走去，
仿佛那儿有一个疯狂的漩涡……
你喃喃道，快，画一幅涡流的恐惧——
我的心扑通如一块投水的石头，
我说，等石头化为了齑粉，
我就能画出真实的恐惧。

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 bud unaffected by the cold spell in spring…
The meteor shower
that slid by and caressed my cheeks,
the inexplicable
tiny
bristles of spring wheat that brushed against my heart…
—each of them a grain of sand that built the pagoda—
my humble and tenacious life.
Things infinitesimal,
smaller than a second,
but when I hold them all,
I feel larger than the universe.
When I gather all of their lightness,
I feel all the things that make up my life.
Therefore, I bend
like a sheaf of wheat.

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/jRqB8KxNlxbvgYfl366RhA

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。

NIGHTTRIP THROUGH BANGDONG

by Zhao Jiapeng

The Almighty has drawn his black curtain.
The forest hills stand above the world,
letting their pet mountain mist out to play.
Passing through Bangdong, embracing the night's wind,
a world not unlike the hollow of a skull,
we scurry like rats.
The omnipresent fog presses on us,
it hastens our steps like a dog's sudden barking,
plunging us into abject misery.
Below us is the mighty Mekong River,
it flows south with a determined focus, yet we want to believe
its current existence is but an illusion.
For an instant, I almost burst out crying:
the trees on the side of the road look so wooden,
much like my folks back home.
I want to embrace them, like holding on to what is good.

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/TrOUQ9tv5q8BOPOlMIhc5w

邦东夜行记

赵家鹏

上帝合上了他的黑帘布。山林岸然
放出豢养的白雾

此时，我们正怀抱风尘，穿过邦东之夜
世界像眼窟窿，我们像末路之鼠

一万顷浓雾压顶，更多时候它约等于一声犬吠
加快我们的渺小

脚下是浩阔的澜沧江，但我们更愿意相信：
执意向南的流水，
这时候不过是一种虚妄的存在

有那么一瞬间，我差点就哭出声来
路旁那些表情漠然的树木，他们多像我的亲人

我想抱住他们，就像抱住善良

BEDTIME LETTER --TO SHEN NIANJU

by Zhao Jun

A Pushkin for my adolescent years,
bound in a gold cover. To soothe
the puberty years. It didn't induce
that "young Werther" kind of sorrows but rather
saved a youth from the backwater country: in reciting
love poems, the rural-urban gap was bridged,
filling the gulf between hearts. These verses and
the chirping of summer insects at the edge of town
chimed together for evening prayers, allowing me
to calmly study the stylish girls even if they were
the captain’s daughters. I became the gentleman
in that book, prolonging a duel which would not exist.
What far-off memory now: A red thumbprint on
"A Hundred Years of Solitude"! By the weeping willows along Yingxi River,
I inhaled the sweet smell of romanticism. Like mud
pecked away by swallows, or the low eaves sent to
the iron gut of the excavator, those infinitely disappearing
rice paddies replaced by modern housing,
dense population stacked in dwelling cubes
until downtown youths no longer believed
in poetry from Russia, nor even talked kindly about
the adolescents dipped in Russian romanticism.
Some twenty years later, you, a Pushkin go-between
carried me from far away back home,
to those displaced, stowed-away pillows and blankets.
As my lips echoed the verse into local dialect, I was unaware
you were here, too, in your lonely adolescent years, without
even a similar comfort. You sat in a dimly-lit publishing house,
a ferryman who delivered that bright light to me.
This is a time for tears: the lonelier we are,
the more potent is poetry to enchant our bleak life,
to defy the thought that we're destined for mediocrity. In the cold, in exile,
you never extinguished the flames. And we,
in times when conformity rules, will be a swift sword, made of bronze,
bursting out a piercing shine, to guard against amnesia.

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/gF3d52YevQ2CupWE0U5YCw

枕边书——给沈念驹

赵俊

青葱岁月里的普希金。长着
金色的封面。在身边慰藉
被荷尔蒙毒害的岁月。这并非
少年维特之烦恼。这是山乡少年
一种新的救赎：只有背诵这些
爱情的诗句，才能弥合城乡差距
而皲裂的心谷。在小镇的边缘
这些诗句，和夏虫的鸣叫一起
制造着晚祷的钟声。让我平静地
看着时髦的少女。即便她们是
上尉的女儿。我也会在书中变成
真正的贵族。用鹅毛笔写下诗篇
然后，制造一场并不存在的冗长决斗
遥远的回想：沉睡的百年孤独被按上
红色的手印。我在英溪河的杨柳边
轻嗅浪漫主义的芬芳。像泥土被燕之喙
带进人居。而低矮的屋檐逐渐被送到
挖掘机的铁胃。那无限消失的稻田
和它们一起构筑新型的居住环境
那立体的房屋拉升着人口密度
却再也无法让小镇青年，相信来自
俄罗斯的诗歌。他们也不愿意以
善意的唇齿。接纳染上俄罗斯气息的少年
在二十年后，你作为普希金的摆渡者
重新让远在天涯的我。回到小镇居室
回到那已被乔迁封存的枕衾。在我用
地方口音抚摸诗句的时候，我并不知道
你也曾在故乡度过寂寥的青春期。你甚至
没有这样的安慰。你在昏暗的编审室
成为艄公，为我运送这样的明亮
这是落泪的时刻：我们有多孤独
就多么需要诗的妖娆，魅惑苍白的生活
不再相信自我注定平庸。在寒冷的流放地
他也不曾熄灭过火焰。而我们即便在
越来越雷同的时代，依然会拥有青铜的质地
闪耀着寒光，变成对抗遗忘的冷兵器

WHEN THE WIND SCOURS GUIYANG

by Zhao Weifeng

The spring wind scours Guiyang, as if staging a guerrilla war.
But all is fair.
For the love of beauty, it emulates
the plants by donning new outfits. The year before,
the moon even showed up to help.
If you can correctly judge who is more mischievous,
the wind or the moon, you’ll be able to predict
the winner in the battle between the faded memories and the fluid realities.
Spring wind hovers, and sweeps across the board—-across cities and villages,
across cutting boards, keyboards, and boards of developers, across you and me.
It goes where it wishes, most people
cannot see that the wind is going through phases,
from wild to violent, to feeble.
You say some winds have too many escapades.
You say some winds will have more to go through.
You say a few of them will
end in unsolved mysteries,
most will die young on the same old path.
You say a person, or more likely a faerie,
sneaked in at night with the wind
but stayed with you only briefly
before going back to the past,
to the sorrow-laden past.

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/-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 would last long enough
for me to walk with you to the kitchen, to see how you
set each dish at its special place, to see how you
recall everyone's tastes and appetites,
for the elderly, help them sail through the days;
for those weighed down, lighten things up a bit.
It hurts horribly waiting, and waiting for you to wake up,
and I feel most useless to see that you look different now,
but despite all that, even though my heart
has given me many reasons to cry,
I come to remember
that, without making special arrangements,
I visited your home, while having a sesame flat bread,
listening to you recounting the small events of the day,
with a bowl in my hands receiving warm soymilk from you.
Let us resume, if only our dreams would last long enough,
long enough.

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/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

THE LOST HORSE RETURNED HOME BY ITSELF

by Zhao Yadong

We cut grass on the rolling hills, green juice
drips down the blade. The soft sparkles from the distant river
illuminates Father's blade.
It is indeed great timing as when we arrive home with the grass,
the lost horse also returns to the sunflower-filled courtyard.
It has walked through a dark forest, went around a hill of barren grave site.
Now it is chewing the freshly-cut grass, a low reverberation comes from between its teeth.
That is the most moving sound in the world ...
My mother, keeping company with the horse, cannot stop sobbing.
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

丢失的马匹独自返回家中

赵亚东

我们在起伏的山冈上割草，绿色的草浆
在刀背上流淌。远处的河流闪着谦逊的光芒
刚好照亮了父亲的刀锋
的确是最好的时辰，当我们把青草运回家中
丢失的马匹独自回到长满向日葵的院落
它曾走过一条幽暗的林中小路，绕过山冈上的枯坟
现在它嚼着新铡的夜草，牙齿间发出深沉的回响
那是世间最动听的声音……
我的母亲，此刻守在它身旁，不停地哭

NOTES FROM EARLY SPRING

by Zheng Maoming

An empty truck rumbles through the alley behind the office building,
rattling all of its metal frame, clankety-clank.
Dazzling sunshine, sluggish spring, a groggy afternoon,
the truck passes and leaves behind a bit of quiet.
The trees have green halos; color of moss appears in a daydream;
an old chair tries to shine;
the desk files and reports never get moldy;
the phone rings, the door knocks, two waves of visitors without appointments;
that’s when the quiet ends,
as we chatter on and on about everything,
sprinkled with moments of boredom,
then I think of shaking the dirt from my shoes.
A tractor squeezes in, happily tooting along,
black smoke chugging out of its exhaust pipe,
belching soot like black flower petals.
Silence is gone again, and so is the noise.

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/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

Both the future and distant places mean very little to me now.
I have only been to Harbin a few times.
The first time was to see my son off to a school in the South.
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 30 minutes earlier.
My son waved to me from the security checkpoint, I said nothing,
sending him my farewell between travelers coming and going.
That was the first time he left us for a distant place.
Then the flight crew that had just landed walked by me,
pulling their luggage, looking spritely,
never stopped looking dashing and beautiful.
Every year I go into town a few times for business,
to buy seeds and fertilizers, once to exchange for a second-generation ID card,
the new head shot shows the years in-between.
Time has crushed this person,
now powdery, extraordinarily delicate and soft.
From a small village to a small town, what I have is
a little bit of a place. My courtyard,
at the end of February, still hardly feels warm,
still desolate, but I can detect
things are waking up: my grape vines
look shining as their roots in the soil
grasp tighter to the darkness.
You said: "Find the chance to get out more!"
I said: "Will do!" When young,
I wanted to go to Ireland, and walk
around the sad streets of Dublin,
with my hands in my pockets, like Bloom and Stephen.
At the time, I read James Joyce's
"Ulysses". I read Mr. Van Gogh,
and yearned for the wheat fields and crows in North Brabant.
"My dear Theo, if you were alive,
your brother would return your money ten folds."
Tiny Holland, rich with tulips and artists,
Rembrandt was obscured by Van Gogh's brilliance.
But, Amherst, you truly are so far!
Otherwise I really would like to go there for a few days. To your home,
which is turned into a Shell gas-station now.
Seeing your little desk, I'd sure be amazed,
did you really write the immortal poems at this small desk?
I'd be sitting in a small café in Amherst, seeing other
visitors, like me, come here to pay homage to you.
I imagine you in your lonely garden,
picking geraniums to make a flower specimen.
"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, it also has the Bronte Sisters.
It has Cambridge, football hooligans, gentlemen and paupers,
the simplicity of the countryside,
and islands that separate us...

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/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 see her bloom in the spring, tall and joyful among others,
ouh là là, but before spring, she bid us farewell,
leaving only a trace of fragrance. She said she didn’t feel belong.
Ouh là là, why did’t she stay, couldn’t she see that we were kind?
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 heavenly you and the frivolous you.
Oh, nice Sunday weather, and a little breezy, I think l need to have a talk.
What's the date after Sunday? I was still so very young yesterday.
Did good weather cause me to age? So many others are already dead.
Ouh là là, so many names were picked up by others, wiped clean with 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 the river.
For sure this river of mine doesn't need anything. Ouh là là, all birds are dead.
My river, I decided the shoreline must not have trees. Too many decisions to make.
Oh, we can't negate our responsibilities. The flowers are all gone.
The birds are gone, too. I hope you will sum up useful things, including those I had no words for,
to tell everyone. Oh, I’ve lit a cigarette. Don't knock on my door after I fall asleep.
Oh, I’m famished, but there’s no need to eat, I am already in bed, under the covers.

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 among the dark green woods,
oranges rolling
from one end of the conveyor belt
to the kingdom of freedom—
a continuous stream of
new arrivals.
We climb onto the roof of the orange factory,
looking out at the distant orange groves,
fruit abounds
like plump hens. .
Crouching as I am on the hillside,
I want to taste their flesh,
only then can I really drink the raindrops, sunlight
and the nectar of midnight's dew.
When our group left,
the oranges flew all over the sky,
shouting for joy,
we kept on looking back.
Those were happy moments two years ago.

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/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

MY THREE DAILY RETROSPECTIVES

by Zhou Suotong

Three meals now reduced to two;
three things to do, not a one got done;
sleepless till dawn even after saying good-night.
Missing the old days but easily forgetting names;
never was sure if I really locked the door;
out for a walk without bringing a house key.
Hoping to be offered a seat in a crammed bus or subway,
but annoyed that the school kid called me a grandpa;
meaning to walk faster, but seemed to always lag behind.
What? The innocent lamp kept the night dark again for me!

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/KU5681rd100_2nntMHWgIQ

吾日三省

周所同

三餐减为两餐
三件事没办成一件
道声晚安却一夜失眠
想念故旧常常忘了名字
老是疑心没锁门
散步回来却未带钥匙
挤公交或地铁期待有谁让座
小朋友喊大爷心里难受
想快些走，反而总是落在人后
怎么啦？无辜的灯又替我黑了一夜！

UP ON THE WHITE CLOUD PAVILION

by Zhou Xixi

Early spring, at 350 meters,
with a chilly nip in the air,
the White Cloud Pavilion sees very few visitors.
I come from the foothill,
each step a step closer to the sky.
Up here, the wind is hushed, white clouds slowly drift,
a few birds dash down, toward the human world.
The forest stays lush green, the lake shimmering, nothing
has changed except some folks are gone
from time’s precipice like a fallen stone.
The White Cloud Pavilion is a fixture here, wedged between the hard rocks of time,
shaped like an empty wine glass seen from below.
The sunset clouds are ablaze,
but butterflies seek oblivion in unseen niches,
this is not a place for doltish truth-seekers.
At Nanshan Temple, the unpruned ginkgo trees,
the unshaven monks, they witness time, but do not romanticize.
Bird songs are heard from the mountainside;
some go up, some go 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

SOUNDS FROM LOW ELEVATION

by Zhou Xixi

Some ten minutes ago, the last sunset flare died in the wind,
speargrass bent down, as if to go underground.
Grandfather washes his feet and comes onshore,
his cigarette lights up the narrow path overreached by crop;
He is counting the days to harvest,
but now the seedlings are still below the wind’s path,
the wind is softer than the shade of the night, and the shade of the night
lighter than the thickets near the ground.
The uneven footsteps emerge from the ground, beneath
the elevation of rheumatism and back strain and sprain.
There is still time before sunrise
to calm the stubborn cough,
to distill dewdrops from the night’s aches and pains.
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

低音区

周西西

十多分钟前，晚风吹熄残霞最后一朵火苗
茅草伏下身子，仿佛要钻进土地
祖父洗脚上岸
点燃一支香烟照亮禾叶掩盖的田埂
等待与镰刀秋后算账
而现在，禾苗低于风声
风声低于夜色，夜色低于草丛
草丛里的脚步声高低不平，低于
风湿和腰肌劳损
太阳升起之前，他有足够的时间
压低陈年的咳嗽
把露珠和疼痛，从黑夜里分拣出来

HOW MANY NIGHTS DO WE HAVE

by Zhou Yuchen

How many nights are there
for us to countenance the sudden visit of sorrows?
How many still, deep interims are there,
as docile as paper, which we can smooth out,
for our memories to soak up ink and take a free run on them.
If the spirit is an ocean,
how big and how deep is it? In the stirring moments
that cause the seagulls to leap up, can it
carry me—my dejected heart, through surfs and undertows
while it breathes out strings of bubbles, lurching as if aching?
Let it come. The old wound will ring our doorbell.
We know: tonight a heart will suffer,
scalded, burned by the memories of bygone days,
but the blisters will close for healing in the cold waking hours.
Let it come. A night like tonight,
a night like an unknown X, when the fullness of time
hangs likes the moon over the end of the sea.
Ah, wanderers! How many moons does the ocean see,
and us, how many nights do we have?
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

我们有多少夜

周雨辰

我们究竟有多少夜
能够耐受突如其来的悲哀？
有多少安静而深邃的时刻
乖顺地像白纸被我们抚平
任由回忆跳进墨水在上面奔跑
如果灵魂是一片海
我们有多少海水让许多惊飞的
海鸥一样的瞬间随洋流涌升
下沉——带着怅然的心灵
留下很多串气泡疼痛地摇晃？
让它来吧。当旧伤叩响门铃
我们知道：今夜必将有人
心脏被过期的时间烫出水泡
又在冰凉的清醒中化脓
让它来吧。像这样的晚上
未知数目的这样的晚上在未来
月亮般地挂在海面尽头
旅人呵！海洋能够拥有多少月
而我们，又能够拥有多少夜？

DRUNK AGAIN SEEING OFF A FRIEND TO SOUTHERN YUNNAN

by Zhu Ligen

This is how we usually wile away:
making innuendos, jesting and laughing.
Last year we sent off YQ, knowing
City of Dali would embrace him with its soothing nature and kiss him on the forehead.
The year before, we sent off WD,
to the delight of Shangri-La; its snow mountains and snow water
would wipe his face and eyes clean.
It’s winter now,
few leaves are still on the trees.
I thought the year was almost over,
but we will be seeing off TC today.
He is going to Banna, in the warmer southern Yunnan.
The jungle there, the Buddhist stupas, and the Dai women,
everyone will adopt him and care for him.
Let us bid him farewell with a glass of wine,
which suits Kunming in a cold day like this,
and suits our staggering swaying hungry hearts.
Only eastern Yunnan is still waiting for someone 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 northeast, towering over us,
heartless, merciless, he has been in Kunming all these years,
has been raising a glass towards northwest,
saying “Cheers!”
saying “I love you, Yunnan.”
saying “I love Yunnan, where no snow,
no snow ever came down like a hysteric, deathly rock-and-roll.

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/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

DISSECTING THE DEER

by Zhu Tao

For the whole trip, the couple did not exchange a word.
The woman was looking at the scenery,
the man was staring 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.
As a child, I often had shaggy goats asking about my age.
I would jest
"I am eighteen or thirty-five."
They would say, "Child, you should learn math.”
or “go see a doctor.”
Luckily, this journey turned a corner,
a deer appeared,
all eyes darted to the train windows into the wilderness
as if to dissect the deer, fresh as a peach.
Something is calling you, calling you.
Among mists everywhere and flowers in every corner,
you are a long-distance traveler through this world and one communing with the ghosts.

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/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

RETURNING HOME

by Zong Hai

We got talking about mountains, bridges over brooks,
and the snow-dotted fields. We spoke too of derelict rural mansions, dense gathering of pines,
and relatives walking up the narrow winding path.
Our talk turned to the looming yearend,
and the annual homecoming,
an army of migrants
similar to the wildebeest herds in Africa savanna.
The stations surely were overflowing with people.
The wavering corridor filled up with dialects and smells,
helpless suitcases
got pushed around, chaos everywhere,
.... all these anxieties
just for returning home earlier
to hang a string of lanterns
under the low lintel of their doorway.
—We sit in a tiny tavern,
Words spoken in hushed voices,
like two clay jugs humming lowly in the wind;
the both of us, our hometowns lost.

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/9ZJSCt8gvFevuzGZqyvvcw

回家

宗海

我们谈到了山脉，流水的小桥
和落雪的田野。谈到了破败的庄园
黑压压的松树林
以及羊肠小道上走来的亲人
谈到了即将到来的年关
谈到了每年
像非洲草原上成群迁徙的角马一样
返乡的大军
车站上肯定人满为患
摇晃的过道里充斥着方言和气味
无辜的行李
被推搡着，找不见北
……所有的焦灼
都只为早日在故乡低矮的门楣上
悬挂起
那一串串喜庆的灯笼
——我们坐在一家小酒馆里
言语低沉
像两只被风吹响的陶罐
我们是两个，丢失了故乡的人

A VESSEL

by Zong Xiaobai

It ain’t simple, cause and effect;
such as why boiling water looses steam
being poured into a cup,
or for instance, being alone for long,
one becomes a friendly neighbor
to one's alter ego,
the acute pain of not being needed
gets old and is no longer the cause of death.
Certainly Confucius couldn't contain his pain
after saying to his student that
“Man should be boundless, unlike a vessel.”
his pain was not the effect
of emptying out of the fire in his heart.
nor for the friendly compromise
between his ego and alter ego,
for I know a vessel’s sorrow
has nothing to do with water.

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/W2vS5IuMLApxdrvlPj2Zng

容器

宗小白

事物的因果关系让人费解
比如将水注入水杯
水就渐渐不再沸腾了

比如独自一人呆久了
就会习惯和另一个自己
和谐相处

就不会那么强烈的感受到
不被需要的痛苦了

我知道孔子对颜回说完
“君子不器”，这话之后
内心的痛苦也像满溢的水

但他的痛苦并不是因为
内心的沸腾不见了

也不是因为看着自己
和另一个自己和解了

我知道所有容器的悲伤
并不是因为水

LONELY MOUNTAIN

by Zong Yue

The first time I came, I recognized right away that
Lonely Mountain was a medicinal shop.
Wintersweet is one medicine, crane is another.
the classic way of greeting a lady is yet another,
so is the poetic rejoinder of calling a man a gentleman.
I think these medicines are designed for me,
prepared for my illnesses,
each herb pointing to a disease.
Because the correlation is not precise,
I’ll need certain ailments to make use of some medicines.
For example, the bells of Lingyin Temple,
I shall grow an illness for it.
For the subtle scent of floating snow on Lonely Mountain,
let me grow an illness, too.
For the enshrouding morning mist,
I must also grow an illness.
Ailments, what a recurring theme in life,
as long as time, body, and soul co-exist.
When I return to Lonely Mountain next time,
I will be an expert with these medicines,
and drink them down, together with the waves of West Lake.
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

孤山

宗月

第一次来，我就认出，孤山是一家药铺
梅是一味药，鹤是另一味
一声娘子，是一味药
半句公子，先生，是另一味
我认定它们，是专门为我准备好的
为我身体里的病，准备好的
一味，对应一种病
因为这不讲道理的对应关系
我的身体也要为另一些药，准备一场病
比如，为灵隐寺的钟声
生一场病
为孤山上漫天飞舞的雪的暗香
生一场病
为清晨氤氲的薄雾
生一场病
生病，已然是一个人无止境的事业
因为时间还在，灵魂与身体还在
当我又一次来到孤山
我会熟练地将这些药
一并，以西湖水的波涛，送服。