秦晓宇:共此诗歌时刻(第44届鹿特丹国际诗歌节汉语诗选前记)

共此诗歌时刻
          

秦晓宇


     2013年6月11日至15日，北京文艺网艺术总监杨炼、香港诗人廖伟棠和我将赴荷兰，参加第44届鹿特丹国际诗歌节。本届诗歌节不同以往，它将以当代中文诗为主题，在诗歌节期间每天会以特定方式推出当代中文诗节目。其中尤其令人期待的，是在6月14日举行的“鹿特丹——北京文艺网国际同步诗歌节”。对此，鹿特丹诗歌节和北京文艺网诗歌奖组委会都认为，这不仅对于鹿特丹方面是一次意义非凡的开拓，同时也将是中外诗歌交流史上的一个创举、一次盛事。具体来说，就是以鹿特丹诗歌节官网和北京文艺网为主要平台，将参加鹿特丹诗歌节的各国诗人的作品选译成中文发布，在翻译人员的协助下，让前者跟中国的诗人和读者进行交流，一起品诗论文，并及时上传诗歌节的影像及文字资料，使其“同步”于中国。与此同时，从北京文艺网国际华文诗歌奖的投稿者中选择部分诗人，将其作品译成英文，连同个人简介、本人近照及原声朗诵音频一并发布到网上，这个在线诗歌朗诵会将成为鹿特丹诗歌节的重要活动之一。于是一些在工棚里写作的诗人、一些作品精彩却默默无闻的民间诗人，将通过这种特别的方式参与到一个历史最悠久、最具国际影响力的诗歌节当中，与中外读者直接互动。在我看来，这项活动本身就是一首充满想象力的抒情史诗。

    由于还要在较短时间内将作品译成英文，因此只能从数以千计的投稿者中选出极少数诗人。我们希望经由这些诗人诗作，展示中文诗创作者的不同类型，呈现写作形态的多样性，为国际诗坛大致勾勒当代中文诗的总体活力。

    经过讨论，我们最终确定了二十位诗人。这份名单基于多方面的考虑。譬如零零后小诗人朱夏妮代表了中国诗歌的最新生力量，她投稿“第一部诗集奖”的作品中不乏佳作，曾在投稿论坛掀起了一个讨论的小高潮，她朗诵的《耶稣》让我想到俄罗斯圣彼得堡一家博物馆收藏的耶稣画像，据说这幅禁止展出的画像能让人的大脑产生高频振动。我们希望小夏妮的写作像耶稣“笑容的角度”一样“不断变化”，让那些纷纭杂乱的“拖鞋没办法阻止”。廖慧堪称中国最优秀的女诗人之一，却从未获得批评界应有的关注。其造语不今不古，风韵泠然；其运思天马行空，奇险俊逸。她这次带来一首名为“不是”的“玄言诗”，而这首诗未必不是一首元诗性的作品。“关于‘不是’，我了解甚少”，“指间半音变幻，/对境起心或之前之后”，“不是风推动云朵任意地吹”，“弥漫在‘确定’的轮廓之外”，“‘不是’甚至不是‘不是’本身”，“‘不是’在虚空中望着我们”，等等，均可读作关乎诗本身的某种表达。新诗百年，一直处于一种复杂的论辩结构当中，古典传统、他山之石、社会历史、大众文化……给人的感觉，新诗就是与这一切辩论，一百年了，还没有稳定下来，澄清自身，却也因此始终充满能量。而一些热爱新诗的人士，诗人也好，批评家理论家也罢，总是“急于”给予新诗一个指认、一种确定，仿佛非如此不能安身立命。然而正所谓“反者道之动”（《道德经》），新诗自由创造的活力与无限的可能性，或许就“弥漫在‘确定’的轮廓之外”；但另一方面，“‘不是’甚至不是‘不是’本身”，新诗毕竟是一门严肃的艺术，而不是一场肆意妄为的否定游戏。当然，我对这首《不是》的理解可能也是片面的，本诗已然预先反对了任何确定的解读。

    陈家坪是中国学术论坛网的创办者，长期致力于推动民间思想事业；他也是中国新公民运动最积极的实践者之一，近几年他为取消异地高考限制、争取教育公平付出了大量心血，也取得了不小的进展。他的《天安门广场》既可以读出他作为思想者的一面，也可以读出他那行动者的一面，该诗以轻灵的“鸟儿”寄寓对历史与现实的沉重思考，以拒绝“飞走”强调在地的行动力，抒发“我以我血荐轩辕”的豪情。土家族诗人湘西刁民大概会让鹿特丹这座港口城市的人民感到亲切。出生于水手世家，并做过多年的水手和轮机员，后来又陆续从事过装卸工、保安、司机等职业，三十年来他始终是一个自由即兴的劳动者，似乎从未打算在某一职业固定下来。在筹办同步诗歌节的过程中，他是我联系起来最为麻烦的一位诗人，目前他在杭州当搬运工，每天要工作到夜里十一点甚至更晚，只能早晨去网吧发资料或请人代发。他告诉我天气越来越热，这活儿干得有点难受，过一阵他打算去海边找份活计，顺便玩玩。可没几天我又得知他的肋骨受了伤，拎一壶水都吃力，海边计划看来无法成行了。坦白地讲，对于他的诗歌我并非没有一定的看法，但那又如何？三十年来，这位自由即兴的劳动者也是一位探索现代汉语诗歌格律的游吟诗人，在繁重的体力劳动之余创作了七百余首十四行诗，以及大量其他类型的新格律诗。在诗中他对话经典，追寻古诗的音乐境界；他抨击时弊，为遇见的“死去的穷人”立言。不管生活多么动荡或艰辛，始终笔耕不辍、格律到底，这种偏与执本身就是一种强悍的诗意。

    如果说湘西刁民是四海游击的打工诗人，那么冲动的钻石便是一位寄居他乡的蓝领诗人，一个于工业园中眺望田园的抒情诗人，一个不无幽默感的哀歌诗人。他的《纸上还乡》涉及三年前震惊中外的富士康十三跳事件，作为这家工厂的员工，他在第十三跳发生后负责封装防跳网。“纸上还乡”已被人用得有点滥俗，不过冲动的钻石并非仅在该词通常所指的乡愁诗的意义上来使用它，这里“纸”大概有命比纸薄的意味，亦指与祭悼有关的烧纸，用诗中的话说，“白白的骨灰，轻轻的白，坐着火车回家”。这句诗看似简单，其实颇有点匠心。“白白”，让人想到又一个少年就这样白白死去；“轻轻”，轻生之轻，当它修饰“白”时也透出清白之意，正如黛玉的《葬花吟》“质本洁来还洁去”。这些都是妙笔。然而在一个残酷而又轻浮的时代，一名抒情诗人首先得是一个好的叙事诗人——有时抒发即弱化，表白即毁损。为一家接连发生十三起员工跳楼事件的跳梁工厂安装防跳网，这是一种多么痛苦、珍贵的经验，像这样的经验本应得到更充沛的书写，却被一笔带过。而本诗更有力量、更耐人寻味的抒情，不是类似“它不关心米的白，荻花的白/母亲的白/霜降的白”这样很抒情的句子，反而是结尾那句陈述语：
  
    除了米，你的未婚妻
    很少有人提及你在这栋楼的701
    占过一个床位
    吃过东莞米粉。

冲动的钻石在简介中说自己从未发表过作品，接触北京文艺网诗歌奖论坛后开始“狂热的诗歌写作”。诗之道贵在修远，希望他将这份狂热保持下去，希望他的诗歌能够像钻石那样，来自于地层深处高温高压的复杂环境，完成于出色的工艺，既有本质的硬度，又能让天下有情人为之心醉。

    《纸上还乡》“地球，比龙华镇略大，迎面撞来”，阎逸《火车安魂曲》“让它把所有的笔划都拆开，/然后，埋入沉默的大地”，而草树的《玩沙子的孩子》煞尾于“那一声令大地为之一震的砰”。这是一些不肯背离现实而歌吟的诗人，在他们笔下，人，诗性地栖居在大地之上，但也残酷地毁灭于、归于大地。阎逸是一名古典音乐评论者，他这支纪念723动车事故遇难者的《安魂曲》，写出了安魂曲必不可少的那种“震怒之日”的感受。他要求“扔掉手机，扔掉公文，/甚至连报纸头题也扔掉”，惟愿死者安息——但是生者呢？只会在他的《安魂曲》里更加不安。《玩沙子的孩子》是一首带有魔幻现实主义色彩的小叙事诗。生命之渺小在这首诗中暴露无遗，其转瞬即逝如沙子“从指缝漏下”，“玩沙子的孩子”本身就是一粒沙子。但另一方面，草树又自相矛盾地说：“轻盈，但沙子/多么沉重……一沙一世界”，他力图文约而事丰地创造一个孩子死后的生活世界。那么，这场悲剧究竟是如何造成的？孩子淘气贪玩？母亲粗心大意？工地疏于管理？还是？诗人对此讳莫如深，让读者去反思这样的社会问题，这本身就是一种批判。

    诗歌是一把“可变的钥匙”，亦重亦轻，正如草树所写。但草树的诗总体来说是重的，常有“令大地为之一震”的效果，即使写轻，也是“蝉翼为重”的写法。他工科出身，先后在多个领域从事技术、管理与行政工作，这样的经历帮助他形成了一种极具现实世界性和社会学内涵的及物风格。与草树不同，卓美辉绝少书写社会事件与公共题材，他的诗有种强烈的私人属性，他投稿诗歌奖的一组短诗有个总题，就叫作“乱世藏私情”。上世纪中叶以来，连轴转的政治运动几乎废黜了私人生活，公而忘私、大公无私的共产主义教育要求“狠斗私字一闪念”，所谓私情简直无处藏身。而近二十年来，被压抑的私字又恶性膨胀，蔚为大观。环境灾难、食品安全、诚信危机、物欲横流……在在印证着一种以邻为壑、粗鄙不堪的自私自利的完胜。也许我们应该从陶渊明，从《红楼梦》，从《影梅庵忆语》重新学习私人生活的艺术；也许我们应该重新理解杜甫草堂时期创作的伟大意义，我们的诗圣亦有极其动人、恬美、春光无限的私生活，这一面使得他那些忧生念乱、艰难苦恨的诗史之作更加真实，也更加悲怆。而卓美辉正是一位书写私人生活的高手。和我们这个新游牧时代里的绝大多数诗人不同，他一直生活在家乡马尾，一座缓慢的古镇。读他的诗你能感受到一种对故乡风物的深深浸润，而就在这深深的浸润中，竟然升起了某种乡愁之感，仿佛现实中的家乡风物只能用追忆和幻想的恍惚方式去把握，于幽微处显影（正如其《马尾街》所表达的那样，“唯有你，还暗藏着/一小片雕花玻璃”），并被一种庄生梦蝶的口吻悠悠道出。卓美辉的“私昵性写作”也将一种轻逸的品质发挥得淋漓尽致。卡尔维诺曾经说过，当人类的王国不可避免变得沉重之时，但愿各种轻的形象不会在现在和未来的现实生活中必然消失。卓美辉想必会让卡尔维诺感到欣慰，他的诗里充斥着各种迷人的轻的形象，比如这只《会呼吸的枕头》。枕头乃私昵之物，密切于肉身、情感、梦境，理所当然地成为一首情诗的核心意象。本诗开篇写道：“晨曦微露时，你要/把它推开”，结尾以“恳求你，暂且/把它推开”返回开头，联系“我们醒于同一场梦”等诗句，整首诗隐隐构成了一个梦与醒的循环世界。有些读者可能会问，为什么要“把它推开”？或许因为诗中的“我”有些嫉妒“你”与枕头的亲密。这是一种典型的恋人私语。而我想说的是，其实每个人都希望耽溺于这样一只有着私情和絮语、春雨和鸟鸣、往事与梦境的“会呼吸的枕头”，从而把那种种可憎或无趣的“它”一一推开。

    然而马尾小镇终究不可能遗世独立于当代中国，持守其古老的风貌、韵味、节奏，卓美辉的乡愁多少来自于此。而新疆诗人笨水的《寥廓记》则唤起了我们对宇宙性家宅的乡愁。我在《玉梯》一书中曾说过，所谓宇宙性家宅的乡愁指的是一个孤独的个体在茫茫宇宙中何以家为，用海德格尔的话说，那是一种“把世界蕴含到更原初地适于栖居之乡的乡愁”（《思的经验》）；换成笨水的诗句就是“无迷途之耀眼”，就是“乡村静寞，远山更远”——呼应“寥廓”的“静寞”乃是一精彩的自造词，体现了诗人的炼字之精。“寥廓”一词在中国的诗歌传统中涉及一种虚寂空阔的宇宙意识，如屈原《远游》“下峥嵘而无地兮，上寥廓而无天”，韦应物《仙人祠》“千载去寥廓，白云遗旧踪”，等等。在《暂使下都夜发新林至京邑赠西府同僚》一诗中，谢眺更是将这种宇宙意识（“寥廓已高翔”）同乡愁（“大江流日夜，客心悲未央。徒念关山近，终知返路长”）紧紧联系在一起。现在，又有一位诗人“与寥廓摩擦”，为其奉上了一首新诗。

    短诗有时还是一种闲情雅致，一种生活的调剂；长诗却一定是一项艰苦卓绝、旷日持久的工作。它并非为长而长，而是出于对人类生存的普遍境遇和重大精神命题的回应与揭示，才呈现为一派宏伟的语言景观。然而它能给予诗人的现实回报，和诗人为之付出的时间心血完全不成比例，我本以为这种费力不讨好的诗体已然式微，各种诗歌刊物与诗歌选本似乎也印证了这一点。但就在诗歌奖投稿论坛，诗人们用一件又一件出色的长诗作品纠正了我的看法。拿参加同步诗歌节的这二十位诗人来说，近一半都投来长诗佳作，这其中，上官南华和孟冲之的长诗更是有着一部书的结构与规模。上官南华的《R城寓言》用超现实的图景揭示一座城市诡谲残酷的历史和现实，以“染上魔症”的狂欢化的语言抒写世界的挽歌，以此隐喻人类持续末日的命运。而旅居加拿大的孟冲之取径古典，其《玉溪拼图》以学者的谨严、精神分析师的洞察力以及诗人的想象力，对话唐代唯美主义大诗人李商隐，探入后者深邃如谜的精神世界，从多个角度书写诗人亘古不变的悲剧人生。两位诗人所朗诵的《风暴眼》、《安定城楼》均选自上述长诗，单独来看，也都是相当精彩的作品。在《R城寓言》中，“你”一一指称了众多的人物，这些人物大都有其现实原型，而“我”主要是一个幽灵般无所不在的叙述者。不过《风暴眼》中的“我”似乎是诗人的本色抒情，如果说R城是一片风暴，那么诗人本人就置身于这语言与现实的“风暴眼”，一个迷人而可怕的所在。《安定城楼》由李商隐的同题诗而及王粲的《登楼赋》、陈子昂的《登幽州台歌》，处理中国登高诗的传统。孟冲之敏锐地发现了登高这一行动与仪式的诗意所在，那就是局限于尘世苦海的“自我”将在登高的过程中，与历史长河中的“他我”相遇，并进而生发出“宇宙之我”：

           从此刻回首：在春风吹拂的楼阁的醉眼中
        拆开自己的王粲；在幽州台上突然发现自己
        就是全人类，就是时空唯一拥有者的
        陈子昂，莫不是我的另一生，另一个梦幻泡影

        而众我之上的我，无声地坐在蔚蓝深处
        我漫长的痛苦，只是他几未觉察的一次心悸

我要补充说明的是，“幽州台”其实是一座纯粹语言的建筑物。陈子昂那传诵千古的名句最早见于其好友卢藏用的《陈氏别传》，后者只是说陈子昂“泫然流涕而歌曰”，并未给出这“歌”的题目；明代以前，这“歌”也并未收录于陈子昂的诗集或其他选集中。事实上检索四库，你会发现在明朝杨慎之前从未有过“幽州”与“台”连用的情况，而我们能找到的最早的“幽州台”正是在杨慎的《升庵集》中，他称陈子昂那四句诗为《登幽州台歌》。《四库提要》指出杨慎“论说考证……不及检核原书，致多疏舛。又恃气求胜，每说有窒碍，辄造古书以实之”，那么极有可能，“登幽州台歌”乃是杨慎擅取。但另一方面，这又是一个切而不黏的绝妙好题，与诗作本身密切应和，相互生发，为该诗增色不少。幽州台纯属虚构，这岂非更意味深长？登高于一座语言的幽州台，让“自我”、“他我”与“宇宙之我”在情景混溶、时空苍茫中成为“三位一体”的统一，这个形象不正是古今中外一切诗人的原型吗？！

    诗各行其是，各显神通。摆摊度日的凉菜师罗傲鹰诗作不多，却出手不凡，其为文讲求慢工细活，具有强烈的现实襟怀。钢克诗龄近四十年，功力深厚，“月神”在他笔下流露出死神的意味，与中国传统咏月诗形成了差异与错位。张成德的《钓鱼岛》将一座无人的岛屿变成一出荒诞戏剧的道具和舞台。王东东是八零后诗人中的佼佼者，他的《小堡村》用一根高压线引出了北京宋庄小堡村的前世今生，引出了环境与人、艺术与政治、自我与他者、本地与世界等一系列问题，它们彼此借重、龌龊、共谋、冲突，构成吊诡的现实，“这里教会我们如何思想”，“也可能，未完成的思想构成了现实”，而本诗的确较好地做到了思与诗的融会贯通。薛舟的《父亲，点灯》有着灯台或坟茔的形式感，以此呼应该诗的主题，这位生长于山东农村的诗人为我们点燃了一盏幽明的亲情之灯，温暖中夹杂着与乡土有关的隐痛。相近的主题与情怀也表现在蟋蟀《这宽限的日子》里。正如我们在旷野能听到蟋蟀的歌吟却不知它身在何方，诗人蟋蟀同样大隐隐于网。网上多见灌水帖与不负责任的“马甲曰”，而他在投稿论坛的回帖非常认真，也颇有见地和分寸，随便挑出一帖便是一则诗话。他投来的诗集更是让我品读再三，使我一度怀疑这是某位著名诗人的匿名投稿，作为对评委及自己作品的双重考验。我相信许多人和我一样，对这只神秘的蟋蟀怀有好奇。我们的好奇心将在这次同步诗歌节上得到满足，而他再也无法享受匿名的乐趣了。在权–利横行、诗歌日益边缘化的当代中国，所有这些诗人都是一座座“幽州台”，他们以各自的方式寻求诗歌建筑的传统与新变，在烽火连天的大地上幽然地工作着，守望万古诗心。甚至，在一个资本全球化的时代，又有哪种语言的诗人不是“幽州台”？当我们彼此眺望，跨越语言和时空的界限相互唱和，这，就是诗歌的节日。

笨水


笨水，或者新疆笨水，上世纪七十年代出生于湖南，作品发表于《诗刊》《诗选刊》《绿风》《中国诗歌》《特区文学》《诗歌月刊》等，入选《中国年度诗歌》《中国新诗年鉴》等选本。现居新疆乌鲁木齐。

Ben Shui (pen name meaning “clumsy water”), also known as Xinjiang Ben Shui, was born in the 1970’s in Hunan province. His poems have been published in Poetry Periodical, Selected Poetry, Green Breeze, Chinese Poetry, SEZ Literature and Poetry Monthly, and been anthologized in collections like Chinese Poetry Annually, A Year of New Poetry, and others. He lives in Urumqi, Xinjiang province.



寥廓记


小山的坟堆在雪下，起伏
乡村静寞，远山更远

无行人
无迷途之耀眼

麻雀时飞，时落
都是被自己惊了
它们中一些停在树枝上
一些在碑石上写下潦草的名字

远钟与寥廓摩擦
圆润，如石子

我如一口水井，在村前
冒着热气，不躲避，不回响


On the Expanse

The burial mounds on the hill roll the snow over their backs
the countryside is quiet, far mountains even farther

no travelers
none of the dazzle of being lost

Sparrows fly, or rest
only ever scaring themselves
some alight on tree branches, others
scrawl their names on gravestones

a distant bell-tolling rubs against the expanse
smooth and round, a river stone

I am like a well in front of the village
steaming, making no attempt to hide, or reply









罗傲鹰


原名罗佳林，七三年生人，性格倔强，嗜书如命，未在任何有影响的刊物上发表力作，凉菜师，现正写作长篇《商纣王的最后一夜》和《极乐》，以及长诗《紫禁城》。无政治信仰，信佛。

Luo Aoying is the pen name of Luo Jialin. Born in 1973, he sells pickled cold vegetables for a living. He has an obdurate personality and a passion for reading. His work has never been published in any influential periodical. He is currently working on two novels, The Last Shang Emperor’s Final Night and Euphoria, as well as the long poem The Forbidden City. A Buddhist, he has no political beliefs.



凋谢的野蒲菊
        ---致倒地的蓝T恤女孩


树挥舞手臂 抓不住
浓雾中清脆得发出绿光的一声鸟鸣
你是不受万有引力支配的一次飞行 描画在老僧脸上
一道思春的胭脂 野蒲菊 你奔跑
累垮追逐你的整座山 嘲弄盾牌防波堤
危险来临 身后的海浪会揽你入怀
如此 谁能让你枯竭或单薄
要抓住你 就得囚禁海和她的管风琴

冬天出动成亿片雪 想折断你的白花瓣翅膀
拦截春天发来的短信：寒冬将会入狱
你是无法用文字铐住的一泓小念头
祭起空灵 视雪片为情书 以为枯木会在瞬间
长出肉身 靠近冰人 想引燃那不存在的脉搏
被击中 野蒲菊 你花蕊本可授粉 结实 播撒
繁衍子嗣的链条 被生生扯断

时间咽喉被什邡卡住而呛出的第一滴泪
善的杰作



A Spent Dandelion
                        for the fallen girl in the blue T-shirt


The tree waves its arms     can’t catch
bright greenlit birdcall carrying through the fog
You’re a flight undetermined by gravity    painted on an old monk’s face
a streak of aroused makeup    wild dandelion   you run
exhausting the mountain chasing you into collapse   laugh at the seawall
Danger approaches.  The waves at your back will embrace you
thus   who could dry you up or flatten you
but will have you   must imprison the ocean and her pipe organ  

Winter is deployed in a million snowflakes   that wish to break your white petal wings
intercept a text message from spring: midwinter going to jail
you’re a tide of notions unchainable by language
worship empty spirits   take snowflakes for love letters   assume dead wood will
grow flesh  approach icemen   imagine igniting that nonexistent vein
take a hit   dandelion   your stamens once held pollen  sturdy    sow
the chains that propagate your heirs      are broken off alive

Shifang City catches in Time’s throat, the first tear it chokes out
compassion’s masterpiece












湘西刁民


本名黄胜源，男，一九六五年生，祖籍湖南省湘西自治州保靖县，户籍所在地湘西泸溪县，土家族。初中毕业，自幼爱好文学，从少年时代起一直致力于现代汉语格律诗的研究和探索，擅长十四行诗的写作，迄今共创作十四行诗七百余首。历经内河水手、轮机员、业务员、装卸工、保安、司机等职业，现仍在浙江打工。


Xixiang Diaomin (meaning “The Hunan Rioter”) is the pen name of Huang Shengyuan. A member of the western Tujia minority, he was born in Luxi county in western Hunan province. A high school graduate, he has loved literature since he was a child, and spent many years experimenting with metered forms in Chinese poetry. He’s most adept at writing Chinese sonnets, of which he’s written over seven hundred so far. He has worked as a river boatman, steamboat sailor, longshoreman, construction worker, security guard and a driver. He continues in similar occupations in Zhejiang province.  


立秋的印象

正午的天空浮动耀眼的白云，
太阳光依旧是那么炽烈，
树枝上传来了声声蝉鸣……

西风尽管说不上强劲，
却使法国梧桐开始泛黄，
预示新的季节已悄然来临。

街道上满是熙来攘往的人群，
高楼大厦不停地将人流吞吐，
大小汽车扬起一阵阵灰尘……

摊贩的服饰布匹五彩缤纷，
江湖术士夸耀各种药散，
卧式冰箱赫然大书：冰淇淋！

西服革履的少年最先结束夏令，
十六七岁的姑娘已描眉涂唇，
褴褛的乞丐徘徊于宾馆的大门……

繁华的幕后衍生着种种劣行，
与之并起的还有合法的罪恶，
它们共同促成人性的沉沦。

光怪陆离的城市令人烦闷，
乌黑的护城河上空浓烟滚滚，
我不禁向往久别的山地风情……

这世界充满嘈杂和昏冥，
我渴望一道厉闪,裂帛般撕空，
带来惊天动地的隆隆雷声……



Impressions of the First Day of Autumn


Dazzling white clouds travel over the noon sky,
the sun still as unrelenting as it has been,
cicada rills fall in sequence from tree branches…

While you couldn’t call the west wind strong,
it’s enough to blow gold into the French parasol trees,
predict the quiet approach of the season

The avenues swarm with an endless crowd.
Skyscrapers ceaselessly swallow and spit them out
Automobiles turn up wave after wave of dust…

Hawkers are dressed in kaleidoscopic color
while snake-oil magicians shiver their potions and pills.
Vigorous letters on the display freezer announce: Ice Cream!

Young people in suits are the first to abandon summer
a sixteen-year-old girl has made herself up,
a beggar in tatters paces in front of a hotel…

The decorated curtain conceals all kinds of bent behavior,
and the legal sin that comes with it,
both compel the disintegration of humanity.

The bright carnival of the city is suffocating
heavy smoke boils over the black moat
and I can’t help but miss mountain scenes…

This world is full of static and troubling shadow,
I long for a brutal flash, like tearing cloth,
and earth-shattering crashes of thunder…










孟冲之


原名陈立平。湖南岳阳人，现居加拿大多伦多。1970年生，1991年毕业于湘潭大学中文系。1999年出版精神分析学中国本土化专著《黑狼笔记》。2001年与友人创办《回归诗歌论坛》及《回归诗刊》，提出“回归心灵、回归自然、回归传统”的诗歌主张。2012年出版《杜诗重构》。

Meng Chongzhi is the pen name of Chen Liping. He was born in 1970 in Yueyang, Hunan province, and graduated from the Chinese department of Xiangtan University in 1991. He now lives in Toronto. In 1999, he published a book on the localization of psychoanalysis in China called Notes of a Black Wolf. In 2001, he and his colleagues established the Nostos Poetry Forum and began publishing Nostos Magazine, which publishes poetry that “returns to the soul, returns to nature and returns to tradition.” In 2012, he published Reconstructing Du Fu’s Poetry.



《玉溪拼图@内传》之33：安定城楼


再高一点，我就能看到自身以外的事物吗
或再远一点，我就能看到此刻以外的事物吗

从此处俯瞰泾州城外：绿油油的春小麦
泾水汀洲上的一行行杨柳，远山中
被炊烟标明的村落，莫不反射着我的自身
它们，莫不是我自身局限性的一个部份

从此刻回首：在春风吹拂的楼阁的醉眼中
拆开自己的王粲；在幽州台上突然发现自己
就是全人类，就是时空唯一拥有者的
陈子昂，莫不是我的另一生，另一个梦幻泡影

而众我之上的我，无声地坐在蔚蓝深处
我漫长的痛苦，只是他几未觉察的一次心悸


The Puzzle of Jade Stream – Li Shangyin’s Private Life No. 33: The An-Ding Gate Tower

Could I see things beyond myself        from higher up
or things beyond this moment                from farther off

From here I look to the outskirts: a heady green of spring wheat,
rank and file of willows on the river isle, village in the mountains
signified by smoke; none but reflect myself; among them,
none but are a part of my limited nature

Looking back: through the drunk eyes of the tower licked by spring wind,
Wang Can pulled himself apart; Chen Zi’ang, standing on Youzhou Tower,
realized he was all humanity, sole possessor of the universe
They were nothing if not other lives of mine, other dream-shapes

While the I above the super-I sits in the azure,
my endless pain only a half-registered skip in his heart-beat












玉珍


本名罗玉珍，女，九零后，湖南株洲人，在《诗选刊》《山花》《红豆》《中外文艺》《山东文学》《散文诗》《湖南诗人》等期刊发表诗歌散文。诗歌入选《2012年中国诗歌精选》《当代新现实主义诗歌年选•2012卷》等。

Yu Zhen is the given name of Luo Yuzhen, a post-1990 poet whose work has been published in Selected Poetry, Mountain Flowers, Red Beans, Chinese and Foreign Literature, Shandong Literature, Prose Poetry, Hunan Poets as well as in other periodicals. She has been anthologized in Best Chinese Poetry of 2012 and Best New Realist Poems of 2012. She is from Zhuzhou, in Hunan province.



晚秋
　　

必将是一道萧瑟
悉数击落秋天路上的松果
　　
金黄遍地 掩埋白花和暗发的情愫
而孤独静坐成默然的风
在一整片枯黄的橡树林下
我清亮的感怀此刻更为羞怯
　　
你被多事之秋驱赶而来
脚步匆忙眼眶飘满落叶
一切都变得深沉而我一无所有
唯有燃烧童话驱赶雾霭
　　
但喜悦从未走远  比季节更替还要快
又如惊呼般火红的枫枝
让唯一的凉亭涂上暖色
你站在树下看见燃烧的天
　　
一切都静下来  狂风绕道而行
将时间化为词语阻挡悲凉来袭
秋天之前你梦见无数条被落叶阻挡的路
梦见被大雾笼盖的天空和故土
　　
该来的终将到来你要做好准备
总是记起的你就要统统深埋
而容易忘却的  那些晚来的秋色
你都该郑重地拾起

                写于2010年秋末


Late Autumn


One long whisper overhead
counts and kills the pine-cones over the road

Gold spread everywhere covers white flowers and dark longing
Seated solitude becomes a wordless wind
inside a yellowing oak forest
bright hopes become more bashful

You were driven here by a stressful season,
with hurried steps and falling leaves in your gaze
everything turned heavy, yet I was left with nothing,
had to light children’s fables to drive away smog

But joy never went far   faster than the seasons’ change
like the alarming scarlet of the maple leaves
that paint the lone pavilion a warm tone,
you stand under the trees, watching the burning sky

All becomes quiet   winds sidle around you
change time into words to block the advance of desolation
before autumn you dreamed of countless paths blocked by leaves
and sky and native land covered by fog

When that which is coming arrives you need to be ready
what preoccupies you must be buried deep
while what’s forgotten,   those late colors of autumn
you should respectfully retrieve










王东东

1983年阴历三月生于河南杞县。大学时读哲学，后转入中文系。现为北京大学中文系博士研究生。有诗歌、批评与翻译作品发表。

Born in 1983 in Qixian, Henan province. He began his undergraduate career studying philosophy, but later transferred to the Chinese Language and Literature Department. He is currently a doctoral student in Chinese Language and Literature at Peking University. He has published poetry, translations and works of criticism.



小堡村


如果不知道历史，会认为这里的村民懦弱：
听凭500KV高压线穿过家园。但事实是
高压线毁掉了麦田，留下一片空地，才允许建立了村庄。

虽然，高压的物质第一性不是村庄的意识第一性，
也不是我的意识第一性。有更多的能人行走在
高压线上空。隐形村长掌握这一切：反的，诡辩的镜像。

我忘了走过去，电磁波起跳的水边。一架机械趴在工地
围困的湖心。一只狼狗在栅栏无聊寻人。屋里的人
躺伏躲避高压电。垂直于电流睡觉。闲暇时用身体帮忙输电。

午餐。空旷的展厅。我们吃从天津带来的螃蟹，
手拿螯钳实施一种教育。安静。墙上的巨幅油画，异国
画家的签名突然颖悟：高压线下的艺术是软弱的艺术。

然而，一位画家会宣称他需要电塔，一个巨人模特
梳子似地梳着高压线。女画家的每一张画画的
几乎都是年轻的女画家。可年轻时她并不画画，而是写诗。

我们对女画家嚷嚷：“不要画花了，就画人。”
意思是她可以只画沉溺的自己。在返回时我产生
幻觉：高压线上挂满了乘人的缆车，一辆接着一辆。

“世界小堡”意谓只有世界，没有小堡；但更顽固的村民
笃定：只有小堡，没有世界。这里教会我们如何思想。
虽然只是思想的剩余品。也可能，未完成的思想构成了现实。

遗憾的是，我忘了看女画家从俄罗斯带来的无名大师的风景画。
我的一对朋友要到远方要孩子吗？
让小孩不会对车窗外的一片草场喊：“草原！”虽然那样也很好。

2013，3

附：北京宋庄的小堡村最早因建成高压走廊，始将其下的部分耕地改成“建设用地”，一些艺术家来此“买地”居住形成“艺术村”。



Xiaobao Village

Those who don’t know the history might think the peasants here cowardly,
letting a 500kv high tension line run through their backyards. Truth is,
the line ran through a wheat field, burned it out, then they built houses.

Even though the line’s material primacy isn’t the villager’s perceptive primacy,
nor mine. Many more talented people walk through the air above the line.
The invisible village head controls it all: the backwards, specious mirror image.

I forgot to go to the shore the electromagnetic ripples touch. A machine lies in the center
of the lake the worksite surrounds. A Rottweiler at the fence sniffs for footprints.
People inside lie flat to avoid the charge. Sleep suspended from the current. Volunteer
their bodies as conductors.

Lunch. Empty exhibition hall. We eat crabs brought back from Tianjin.
With shell pliers we administer an education. Quiet. Expansive oil painting on the
wall  the foreign painter’s signature suddenly intelligent: art beneath a wire is weak art.

Yet, an artist will proclaim he needs an electric tower, a giant model
combing the high tension line like hair. A female painter seems to paint nothing but
young female painters. When she was young she didn’t paint, she wrote poems.

We clamor at the female painter: “Don’t paint flowers, paint people.”
Which is to say, she can paint her drowned self. Going back, I see an
illusion: the high tension line hung with gondolas, one after another.

“The world’s Xiaobao,” means only the world, no Xiaobao; but the stubborn villagers
confirm: only Xiaobao, no world. This place teaches us how to think. Though it may only be the leftovers of thought. Perhaps, incomplete thought constitutes reality.

Unfortunately, I forgot to see the landscape the female painter brought back
by the famous Russian artist. Are two of my friends going abroad to have a child?
Train the child not to look at fields out the window and shout, “Grasslands!”
though that would be nice as well.







廖慧


廖慧，生于七十年代。十四岁以前在中国北方度过，后居住生活于成都。教过书，做过编辑，现供职于美术馆。少年时代开始喜欢诗，莫名所以写作至今。她对诗的看法每个时期都有点变化，直到把诗当作内在的心灵生活方式，才算进了“死胡同”。尝试中西文化视野在个体生命及写作中的自然交会，着迷于中国古代文化精神于现当代社会的灌注与新生。路越走越窄，挖掘却越来越起劲，希望有凿穿墙壁的一天。组织并参加过第四届（2009）、第五届（2011）珠江国际诗歌节成都分会场的活动，参加英国领事馆与白夜酒吧组织的“汉英之间——2011中英诗人成都交流朗诵会”，2012老书虫（英国）国际文学节活动。

Liao Hui was born in the seventies in northern China, but moved to Chengdu, Sichuan province when she was fourteen. She has been a teacher and an editor, and now works in an art museum. She has loved poetry since she was young, and has been writing it, for no explicable reason, to this day. Her understanding of poetry is constantly changing; she currently believes that to understand poetry purely as a spiritual exercise is the surest way to a dead end. She has tried integrating Chinese and Western perspectives into her own life and writing, and she is fascinated by the reiteration of ancient cultural beliefs in the modern world. Her road gets narrower the farther she travels, yet the process of study becomes more and more invigorating, and she hopes for a breakthrough at some point. She has organized and participated in the Zhujiang Poetry Festival, both in 2009 and 2011, and has been a guest at the British Council’s “Chinese-English Go-Between” poetry salon in 2011, and the Chengdu Bookworm Literary Festival in 2012.



不是  

关于“不是”，我了解甚少，
只知道它，不是想到的样子，
不是任何一个样子——

不是隔江零星灯火，
窗里灰烬般的生活，
遗忘在无名路的陈年旧物；

不是地平线上鸟雀移动，
指间半音变幻，
对境起心或之前之后；

不是风推动云朵任意地吹，
水涌出堤岸四处逃走，
不是你滑倒的每一个瞬间；

弥漫在“确定”的轮廓之外，
却没机会踩在边界线上，
“不是”甚至不是“不是”本身。

如果大喊，它出来了——
“不是”在虚空中望着我们！
……人们仰头，只见虚无。



What Is Not      


I understand too little "what is not",
except that it cannot be things I've thought,
nor any kind of thing at all—

Not the scattered lights across the river,
not ash-dull lives lived out behind closed windows,
nor ancient things forgotten on a nameless road;

Not the flight of birds on the horizon,
not the small bend of a tune's half note,
nor any struggle, nor before nor after;

Not the wind-blown rolling clouds
nor water overflowing far away;
not each time when you slip and fall.

The not surrounds the boundary of certainty,
and cannot cross that line;
Not might not be the not at all.

Cry out: it is released —
from out there where it watches;
when we look up, all that we see is nothing.






罗霄山


罗霄山，男，贵州省大方人，1982年生，有诗作刊发于《山花》、《中国诗人》、《中国诗歌》等刊，有诗作入选《漂泊的一代：中国80后诗歌》、《21世纪贵州诗歌档案》等。诗观：诗歌是喉内不得不拔除的骨刺。

Luo Xiaoshan comes from Dafang, Guizhou province. He was born in 1982. His poems have been published in magazines such as Mountain Flowers, Chinese Poets, and Chinese Poetry, and have been anthologized in The Floating Generation: Post-1980 Chinese Poets and 21st Century Guizhou Poetry. He believes that poems are fish bones that must be pulled from the throat.



钻骨取火


死人的骨头里还藏着火焰
要相信这个命题。
然后你会爱上一片蓝幽幽的乱坟岗。
我们所处的世界
远没有如此纯净的蓝。你要相信
我们怀念一个硬骨头的死人
最重要的一点是
他不曾对什么弯腰，死了也是。
我们怀着好奇打听他在冥界的生活习俗
揣测我们的结果。
如果你愿意，我可以钻骨取火
黑漆漆的世界覆盖内心
我可以做你的灯笼，或纵火的
那个罪犯。或者你也可这样。
互相照亮的人，遍布阴暗的角落。
因此你走在人群汹涌的街头
看到每个人的骨头，都闪耀愤怒的火苗
兄长，朋友。我们暗暗呐喊
——“烧起来了，烧起来了！”


Bone-drilling

Fire smolders in the bones of the dead.
You should believe this proposition.
You’ll fall in love with a battered twilight graveyard.
This world we’re in
has nothing close to such a pure blue. You should believe
that what we miss most about
a hardcore dead man
is that he never bowed to anyone, not even in death
We ask after his living habits in the underworld
and posit about our own ends.
If you want, I can bone-drill for fire
a lacquer-black world covers over the mind
I can be your lantern, or
that arsonist. Or you can do so for me.
People giving each other light fill all the dark corners
so when you walk down the crowd-busy streets
you see furious sparks glitter in everybody’s bones,
brothers, friends. We are all quietly cheering,
“It’s burning, it’s burning!”









窦凤晓


窦凤晓，女，1974年4月出生，山东省莒县人，现居日照。中国民主促进会会员，从业文化传媒。出版过诗集《天边的证词》、《山中》和诗合集《海边》，作品被收入多种选本。

Dou Fengxiao was born in 1974 in Juxian, Shandong province. She now lives east of there, in Rizhao on the coast. She is member of the China Association for Promoting Democracy. She works in the cultural media industry, and has published the individual collections Testimony at the Edge of the Sky, In The Mountains as well as a full collection entitled By The Sea. Her poems have been widely anthologized.




山中

山，用树形的寂寞
妨碍我们。细长的
瀑布自高处跃下
末梢处随风而散

危言无法劝慰
动态的情感生活，因为你我见得少，听得多，
审美容易被外物裹挟

对“我”来说，“你”根植原地
却令顽石受其成形——非你所愿，
如是我闻；

河流与芒种的关系媲美孤峰与谷雨
四十三年，望中犹记……你曾到达边界。
如今，我乐意说一些你从不知情的事

以指证命运中缓慢的远离；
但庄子言“吾丧我”，在春色向人们袒露捷径
的中途，你知音般随风赶来



In the Mountains

The mountain                uses a tree-shaped solitude
to obstruct us. A slender
waterfall leaps from a high place
Final tendrils evaporate in the wind

Wise words can’t counsel
the inconstant emotional life, because you and I see little, but hear much
our aesthetics easily carried off by external things

To “me,” “you” are rooted in this place
yet you force hard stones into their final forms – not your intention,
thus I have heard;

River current is to Bearded Wheat as lone mountain is to Grain Rain
Forty-three years, looking north, I still recall …you once reached the border.
Today, I’m happy to describe events you never heard of

to prove the slow separations in human fate;
yet Zhuangzi once ventured, “Ego without I,” and just as spring green reveals
to us her shortcuts, you, like a true friend, arrive.












张成德


张成德，男，一九六三年出生，书画评论人、鉴赏家。曾著有诗集《述说》《世纪末城市最后一夜》。在《中国作家》、《上海文学》、《钟山》、《大家》、《花城》、《十月》、《芙蓉》、《诗刊》发表作品百余首，曾获《诗歌月刊》2010—2011年度诗人奖。

Zhang Chengde is an art and calligraphy critic born in 1963. He has published individual collections of poetry entitled Narration and The City’s Last Night of This Century. He has published over a hundred poems in the magazines Chinese Authors, Shanghai Literature, Zhong Shan, Masters, October, Chrysanthemum and Poetry Periodical. He was awarded the Poetry Prize for 2010-2011 by Poetry Monthly.


钓鱼岛


人上年纪左耳总有汽笛穿过
驶向右耳
火车响个不停，连口水也跟着反击
我非“黑客”身份凭什么老让我搬道岔

即便我是一个善打“口水仗”者
现在，一副牙紧咬得也是死死的
说撂倒谁就是谁
（那是昨天的“假牙”作戏）

舞台之上演说家、政治家
把剑压在我这儿
谁信一口唾液能成钉
至少，“水淹七军”故事能惊动天下波涛
连日的波涛让电视呛进水

国家，乃一江春水向东流
而我等也是追随其步伐
尽可能挺胸抬头“正步走”
为一个金钢不坏的身
当一回“浪里白跳”肉身有何甘

昨日，深信的功法又找上门来
找我鹤的踪影
灯下晃着踉跄碎步
往返几次，试处都没找成

只好手转到东海那边
频道锁住那出水后的“土行孙”

这是一个人的专利，大到国家
小到草根和葱饼
我却有面杆壮天下的胆儿
与其网上呐喊
不如街头一站
至此，我忽生以这类“摄魂大法”
逼着两眼放电
对着冒泡中的水鬼打上它一杆子



The Diaoyu Islands

As you get older, steam whistles start to drone in your right ear
driving towards your left ear.
The train bellows incessantly, so even saliva fights back
I’m no “hacker,” why make me work the rail switch?

Even if I had been a “flame warrior,”
now, my teeth are clenched as hard as ever could be
I’ll take any one of them out at a word
(that was a the charade of yesterday’s “false teeth”)

The talking heads and politicos
press their swords onto me
Does anyone believe spit can turn into nails?
At least, the story of Guan Yu’s “Drowning the Seven Legions” still scares
the seven seas; wave after wave finally floods the television.

The nation is a spring river flowing east
while we are following its steps
doing our best to stay chin-up and walk a straight stride
A pleasure to use this indestructible body
to play the heroic diver in a rough ocean

Yesterday, my long-forgotten kung fu came back to me
with a crane’s shadow
took a few staggering steps back and forth
under the lamp light, but had no place to try it out

I can only turn my hand toward the East China Sea
The channel locks on the “Earth traveler demon” straight from the water

This a private patent, as big as a nation
small as a blade of grass or a scallion biscuit
I have a rolling pin that can give the world courage
better to stand on the street
than riot online
At which point, I exercise mind control
make my eyes blaze with blue light
and strike the water demon blowing bubbles with my rolling pin

草树


草树，本名唐举梁，1964年12月生，湖南邵东人，1985年毕业于湘潭大学，大学期间开始习诗。毕业以后从事技术、管理和行政工作。1992年下海，先后涉足化工、塑料、房地产等领域，中断写作。2005年重新拾笔，有作品见于《诗刊》、《文学界》、《诗江南》、《诗建设》、《诗选刊》等刊物，著有诗集《生活素描》（2000）、《勺子塘》（2009）、《马王堆的重构》（2013）三种。

Cao Shu (meaning “grasses and trees”) is the pen name of Tang Juliang. Born in December, 1964, he started writing poetry while an undergraduate at Xiangtan University. After graduating in 1985, he bounced between jobs in technology, management and administration. In 1992, he “went down to the coast” with other hopefuls, worked in the chemical, plastics and real estate industries, and stopped writing. He began again in 2005, and his work has been published in Poetry Periodical, Literatures, Southern Poetry, Poetry Construction, Selected Poetry and other periodicals. His published collections include Sketches of Life (2000), Spoon Pond (2009), and Rebuilding Mawangdui (2013).



玩沙子的孩子

一个孩子在建筑工地玩沙子。
他把沙子捧起来，让它们从指缝
漏下，感受着沙子的触摸和变幻。
柔软。有点痒。轻盈，但沙子
多么沉重——如果告诉他，一沙一世界，
他必瞪大眼睛望着你。有一天
他的母亲坐在井架下，一如往常
按下绿色的按钮。钢丝绳的绞盘上
发出了一声尖叫——
他不再跑动，也不叫喊，同水泥和沙子
一起住进了混泥土。他听见母亲
哭喊了好几天。眼睛肿大，衣衫凌乱
又坐回那个巨大的吊车下，按那个
死亡按钮。一片鸟翅扑动。然后是
瓦刀的咚咚声。刮子在他的皮肤上
抛光的哗哗声。一行人的耳语和脚步。
他很好奇，却动弹不得。四季
模糊了，他只能靠耳朵去判断不同的虫鸣。
夜晚他听见床垫叽叽叫，实在不像
虫叫——他想妈妈了，可外面再没有
妈妈的声音，也没有卷扬机启动
那一声令大地为之一震的砰。

           2011-11于长沙


The Boy Playing With Sand

At a construction site a boy plays with sand.
He lifts a pile, drains it through his fingers
to discover sand’s texture, and its changes.
Soft. Ticklish. Light, and yet
the pile so heavy. If you told him, each grain is a world,
he would look at you with wide eyes. One day, when
his mother sits in the lift, as she always does,
she hits the green button. The winch full of steel cable
screams, once—
He no longer runs around or calls out. He crawls under
a mud blanket with the sand and cement. He hears his mother
crying many days. Eyes swollen, clothing untidy,
she sits back down in the lift and keeps pressing
the fatal button. A flapping of birds’ wings, the chatter
of the mason’s cleaver, the finisher’s float swishing
polishing his skin. The whispers and footsteps of people.
He’s curious, but he can’t move. The four seasons
come unfocused, he has to listen for the calls of different insects.
At night, a skreeking mattress—it really doesn’t sound
like a cicada. He misses his mother, but her voice is lost
to the world, as is the engine on the hydraulic hoist
that starts with a great, earth-cowering pung.








冲动的钻石


本名郭金牛，男，出生于1966年9月，湖北省浠水县人。从1994年开始在广东深圳、东莞一带打工，摆过地摊，从事过建筑工，搬运工，工厂普工，仓管等工作，2012年7月接触北京文艺论坛，开始了狂热的诗歌写作，从未发表过作品。

“Impetuous Diamond” is the online pen name of Guo Jinniu, born in September, 1966 in Xishui, Hubei province. In 1994, he moved to the Shenzhen-Dongguan area, where he served as an unskilled laborer, street vendor, construction worker, mover, factory worker, and other similar vocations. In 2012, he discovered the ArtsBJ.com poetry forum, and began composing fervently. His work has never before been published.



纸上还乡

一

少年，在某个凌晨，从一楼数到十三楼。
数完就到了楼顶。
他。

飞啊飞。鸟的动作，不可模仿。
少年划出一道直线，那么快
一道闪电
只目击到，前半部份
地球，比龙华镇略大，迎面撞来

速度，领走了少年；米，领走了小小的白。

二

母亲的泪，从瓦的边缘跳下。
这是半年之中的第十三跳。之前，那十二个名字
微尘，刚刚落下。
秋风，连夜吹动母亲的荻花。

白白的骨灰，轻轻的白，坐着火车回家，它不关心米的白，荻花的白
母亲的白
霜降的白

那么大的白，埋住小小的白
就象母亲埋着女儿。

三

十三楼，防跳网正在封装，这是我的工作
为拿到一天的工钱
用力沿顺时针方向，将一颗螺丝逐步固紧，它在暗中挣扎和反抗
我越用力，危险越大

米，鱼香的嘴唇，小小的酒窝养着两滴露水。她还在担心

秋天的衣服
一天少一件。
纸上还乡的好兄弟，除了米，你的未婚妻
很少有人提及你在这栋楼的701
占过一个床位
吃过东莞米粉。



Gone Home on Paper

1.

The teenager     on a dark morning   counts from 1st floor to 13th
by the time he gets there, he’s on the roof.
Him.

Fly, fly. The motions of birds, inimitable.
The teenager draws a straight line, immediately
a line of lightning
could only see          the nearer half.

The Earth, a little larger than Longhua Town, rolls up to meet him

Speed   carried the teenager off;   rice       carried off a miniscule white.

2.

Mother’s tears        jump from the tiles’ edges.
This is the 13th jump in six months. In the past, those twelve names
dusts                just settled.
All night         autumn wind runs through Mother’s pearly everlasting

His whited ashes, frail whites                 heading home on the train
he’s unconcerned with rice white          pearly everlasting white
Mother’s white
Frostfall’s.

Such an enormous white buries a miniscule white
like Mother burying her daughter.

3.

On the 13th floor, a suicide net is closing up      this is my job
in order to make a day’s pay
I gradually turn down a screw                counter-sink it clockwise
it struggles and fights me in the dark
the harder I push, the greater the danger

Rice        lips of fresh water, tiny dimples hide two drops of dew, she is still worrying

Autumn loses
one set of clothes a day
My friend gone home on paper, besides rice, your fiancée,
rarely does anyone recall that in Room 701 of this building,
you occupied a bunk,
ate Dongguan rice noodles.










阎逸


阎逸，七零后诗人，古典音乐评论者，做过短暂的报社记者和杂志编辑，曾在南方多地漂泊近十年，现居黑龙江哈尔滨，著有诗文若干，散见于《山花》、《大家》、《花城》等刊物。

Yan Yi is a poet of the post-1970 generation. A classical music critic, he worked brief stints as a newspaper reporter and magazine editor. He moved around southern China for nearly ten years, and now lives in the northern city of Harbin, in Heilongjiang province. His poems have appeared in several magazines, including Mountain Flowers, Master, and Flower City.



火车安魂曲
          ——纪念723遇难者

              
火车在数字里奔驰。
像钟的指针往后轻轻一拨，
千里远的闪电在等待雷霆的一击。

你在地图上找不到地狱。
但所有的肉色花朵都开在里面。
一滴泪里的乘客
只流了一秒钟，火车
就开走了。哪怕下一站已无泪可流，
下一张车票迎着风奔跑。

挖掘吧！
这长满铁锈的火车考古学。
这在粉身碎骨里拼凑起来的形象。
这从众人中引申出的一个人。
这动了归乡之念的胎儿，
如今，止步于来世。

那么
对躯体说，来吧，机器，碾过吧。
对熄灭的灰烬说再燃烧一次吧。
对坟墓说石头你慢慢堆砌吧。
对心说重新成为一颗心吧。
只是别给它爱，也别给它梦想。
别给它听不见的阴影，
看不见的真理。
既然耳中的火车与眼中的火车
互为碑铭，既然黑暗比黑夜
更黑，更长久。

那么，就和七月一起离去吧。
扔掉手机，扔掉公文，
甚至连报纸头题也扔掉。
最好把一双手扔到火车这个词里，
让它把所有的笔划都拆开，
然后，埋入沉默的大地。

2011.8



Requiem for a Train
                for the victims of the 7/23 high-speed rail crash


The train races through numbers.
A needle like the second hand of a clock lifts backward,
lightning a thousand miles off waits for the thunder.

You won’t find Hell on any map, but
all the flesh-colored flowers are blooming there.
A passenger a tear
only flows for a second, and the train
is gone. Even if, by the next station, eyes are dry,
another ticket is sprinting into the wind.

Dig it up!
This rust-coated archeology of trains.
This form jigsawed together from blasted scraps of meat and bone.
This person deduced from many persons.
This foetus, which decided to go home,
and now pauses in its next life.

Say to the body: come on, machine, roll over it.
Say to the extinguished ashes, burn again.
Say to the tomb, stones, pile yourselves slowly together.
Say to the heart, become a heart once more.
Just don’t give it love, nor give it dreams.
Don’t give it inaudible shadows,
invisible truths.
Since the train of your ear and the train of your eye
have inscribed each other’s headstones, since darkness
is blacker than night, and longer.

So go ahead and leave with July.
Throw away your cell phone, your printed orders,
throw away the headlines in the newspapers.
Best to throw both hands into the word “train,”
pull all the jointed bars apart,
bury them in the silent earth.

                        August 2011








陈家坪

1970年4月生于重庆。2011年出版诗集《吊水浒》。中国学术论坛网主编，独立中文笔会会员，现居北京。

Chen Jiaping was born in April, 1970 in Chongqing. In 2011, he published the poetry collection Memorial to the Water Margin. He is Editor-in-Chief of the Chinese Academic Online Forum and a member of Chinese PEN. He lives in Beijing.  





天安门广场

这么多鸟儿在方砖上我从它们身边走过，
飞过，这么多鸟儿在广场上行走，
占据了小小的地面——一只鸟儿，
——比我们当中的谁，更加革命，
更像一只鸟儿——这么多鸟儿被看成人。

一个我这样的人看着这么多鸟儿四面八方，
它们和什么擦肩而过，跟我对待它们一样；
而我——只是一个路过的人鸟的一个比喻，
飞走了就飞走了——没有留下走过的痕迹，
还不如在此倒下看能抬走什么，埋葬什么？

——一只小小的鸟，不见肉体，全是羽毛。


Tian’anmen Square

All those birds on the stone tiles I walk past them,
fly past, all these birds milling around the square,
occupying their tiny territory—one bird
—more revolutionary than any of us,
more like a bird—so many birds being taken for people

A person like me staring at all these birds everywhere,
what do they pass by, as I do them;
while I—no more than a man/bird metaphor,
gone when I’m flown—leave no evidence of passing,
might do better to fall, find something to take with or bury?

—A little bird, no flesh to speak of, nothing but feathers.








薛舟


薛舟，诗人、翻译家，1976年生于山东莒县，诗作见于《诗刊》、《花城》、《上海文学》等杂志和《70后诗集》、《70诗歌档案》、《新世纪诗典》等选本，翻译有大量韩国文学作品，曾获第八届韩国文学翻译奖。

Xue Zhou is a poet and translator, born in Juxian, Shandong province in 1976. His poems have been published in Poetry Periodical, Flower City, Shanghai Literature and other periodicals, as well as the anthologies Collected Post-70 Poets, The Post-70 Poetry Files, New Century Poetry Canon and others. He has translated several works of fiction from Korean, and was the recipient of the 8th Translation Prize for Korean Literature.



父亲，点灯



夜
来了
猫睡了
家鼠翻腾
鸡飞上篱笆
距离天空还远
我看见点点寒星
我说的话有人在听

灯
点灯
父亲啊
点亮油灯
门槛边点灯
爷爷坟前点灯
有人沿着光回来
多么熟悉的夜归人

夜
深了
大喜鹊
满身是雪
乌鸦的哀鸣
沿着街巷蔓延
我们的夜归人啊
回家赶在除夕之夜

灯
如豆
墙壁上
人影幢幢
古老的祖先
掩饰不住慌张
寻找自己的位置
终于变得落落大方

灯
明灭
鸡打鸣
鞭炮声声
五更里做梦
惊醒家中幽灵
回来的神又走了
家谱里空空的身影



Father, Light Lamps

Night
Has come
The cat sleeps
Mice prance about
Chickens light the hedge
Still far under the sky
I see kernels of cold stars
Someone listens to what I say

Lamps
Light lamps
O, father,
Light oil lamps
lamps by the door
Light one at Grandpa’s tomb
Someone follows the light home
A night traveller, known to all

Night
Deepens
A magpie
Snow-white all over
crow’s mourning call
Spreads through streets and alleys
Oh, our lone night traveller
Only gets home by New Year’s Eve

Lamps
Like beans
On the wall
Human shadows
Ancient ancestors
can’t conceal their panic
Searching for their pedestals
But, settling, are calm, at ease

Lamps
Flicker
Chickens crow
Firecrackers
Dreams in the morning
Startle the local ghosts
Returned spirits leave again
Empty shadows on the family tree








卓美辉


卓美辉，1965年出生于福州马尾，现居马尾，自由职业。上世纪八十年代中期开始诗歌写作。作品散见于各刊物与选集，未结集。

Zhuo Meihui was born in 1965 in the town of Mawei, Fujian province, where he still lives today. He began writing poetry in the 1980s. His poems have been published in a handful of magazines as well as in anthologies, though he has not yet published an individual collection.




会呼吸的枕头


晨曦微露时，你要
把它推开。落到地面
一团雪白的无辜的
往事。渐渐失去知觉  

上个月初
在杨桃院子的露台上
我遇见过它

那时你
在北方。一个人
一团会呼吸的枕头
我们醒于同一场梦

窗外，有更多鸟鸣
加入，似乎在配合
你的来临

当彼此的呼吸
春雨般密集。我要
恳求你，暂且
把它推开

2011.05.28




The Breathing Pillow

At early light, you have to
push it away. It hits the floor
a ball of snowy, blameless
history. Gradually lose consciousness

Beginning of last month
on the balcony of the starfruit courtyard
I encountered it

Then, you were
in the North. One person
one breathing pillow
we awoke to the same dream

Outside, more birds began to sing
as if to herald
your arrival

Once our breathing is
indefinite as spring rain. I have
to plead with you, for now,
push it away.






上官南华

诞生于粤北韶关曹溪南华寺。祖籍贵州修文龙场驿。佛名释昌明。肉身，山东五莲县卧象山西麓小山村人，1965年出生。曾用笔名南歌子，白垩等。长诗《青藏诗章》获2007年度人民文学奖。家乡的河枯萎了，我的诗歌之河开始流淌。取向“回到事情本身”的诗歌写作。

The poet life Shangguan Nanhua was born in 1965 inside Nanhua Temple in Caoxi, Guangdong province. His ancestors hailed from Longchangyi in Guizhou, while his physical form was raised in Xilu Xiaoshan Village in Shandong. His Buddhist name is Shi Changming. He has written under the pen names Nan Gezi and Bai E. His long poem, “Cantos for Qinghai and Tibet,” won the People’s Literature Prize in 2007. When the river in my home town dried up, the river of my poetry started to flow. I write in the spirit of “returning to the thing itself.”



风暴眼
（选自长诗《R城寓言》）


哦，有一种深度
让我轻浮

有一种痛苦
让我挖出灵魂游戏

有一种孤独
像阳光照亮

山野的童年吗
穿过肉身向我呼唤

一切都太迟了
珠光宝气的秋天
另一个我在收拾白露

我已准备好了忧伤
倾听灵魂的呻吟涡旋出
贝质的花纹

海岸滚烫的礁石
夜汐冲击
又会有岩粒暴动

空虚比海豹还要凶猛
海雕的爪子，在风暴眼中抓得焦黄

而你的一生就是跟空虚交合
炽白，如氢环

哦，风暴眼



Eye of the Storm
(extract from the long poem “Allegory of R City”)


Oh, is there a kind of depth
that makes me shallow

a kind of anguish
that makes me uncover games for soul

a kind of solitude
that illuminates like sunlight

a childhood in the mountains
pierce the physical body cry out to me

Everything arrives late
in jewel-glittering autumn
another me is collecting dew

I’ve already prepared sadness
listen for the whirlpool of Soul’s moaning to produce
nacreous patterns

The boiling hot rocks at the seacoast
assaulted by the night tide
there will be an insurrection in the grain

Emptiness more fierce than a seal
the sea eagle’s talons strained yellow ochre in the heart of the storm

Yet you spend your whole life in the company of emptiness
white-hot, like a hydrogen ring

Oh, eye of the storm




朱夏妮


女，2000年出生在新疆，2010年10岁时开始写作并发表诗歌，现在广州读初二。诗作入选《2009-2010中国新诗年鉴》（杨克主编）、《2011中国诗歌年选读本》（霍俊明主编）、《2012中国最佳诗歌》（王蒙、宗仁发主编）、《中国新文学大系诗歌卷2001-2010》（何言宏主编）等。

Born in Xinjiang in 2000, Zhu Xiani began writing and publishing poetry at the age of ten. Her poems have been published in the collections New Chinese Poems 2009-10 (Ed. Yang Ke), Selected Chinese Poems from 2011 (Ed. Huo Junming), The Best Chinese Poems of 2012 (Eds. Wang Meng and Zong Renfa), and Survey of Chinese Literature 2001-2010: Poetry (Ed. He Yanhong). She is currently an 8th-grade student in Guangzhou.




耶稣

（2013年1月26日，星期六）

你的眼睛里
只有我向下望的双眼
布满血丝
重复的回答
在固定的时间
念珠生了绿色的锈
珠子在灯光下凸凹不平
我背对着
你双手张开的袖子
那里有冬天
床单的味道
画着你样子的塑料画
摸起来硌手  很冷
窗帘不让我关注外面
我的眼睛掉落在小小的
发光体上
拖鞋没办法阻止
袜子的脏和
在大拇趾的地方破的小洞
我的指甲缝里
有头上的东西
你笑容的角度不断变化
在黑色的夜
我看不见



Jesus

(January 26, 2013, Saturday)

In your eyes there are
only my downcast eyes
blood-shot
a repeated answer
at the appointed time
rosary beads grow a green rust
in the light, their  surfaces are pitted
I face away
from the sleeves of your open hands
winter is there
the smell of bedsheets
the plastic picture with your likeness
is rough to the touch     and cold
the curtain forbids me from looking outside
my eyes fall onto a tiny
shining object
sandals are powerless to prevent
the dirt of my socks or
the hollow sore on my big toe
Stuff from my head
is under my fingernails
the angle of your smile constantly changes
in the black night
I can’t see it




林柳彬（蟋蟀）

林柳彬，男，1974年生，湖北鄂州人。曾从事过种植、养殖、建筑、餐饮、地方杂志编辑等职业，现为某策划公司业务总监。有少量诗作散见于《大家》、《诗刊》等。

Lin Liubin, who writes under the pen name “Cricket,” was born in Ezhou, Hubei province in 1974. He’s worked in the planting, grafting, construction, and food service industries, and was briefly an editor for a local magazine. He is currently the operations manager for a private enterprise. A handful of his poems have been published in Everyone and Poetry Periodical.


这宽限的日子


公鸡在院子里踱着方步。
父亲，你刚刚放工回来
先到灶台边喝一碗凉粥。
而我只想一个人坐在枣树下
磨手里的玻璃球。

母亲，你还在河边锤打衣裳
听得见肥皂泡破裂的声音，
水面上你的影子
有一双翅膀在扇动。
而我只想一个人在水底流淌。

远方，还有一个你们。
父亲，你还会有一个儿子。
你还是那样严厉，暴躁——
但是对不起，我不在枣树下，
身上也没有伤痕。

我完整地睡在这里，跟你们隔着
一座坟墓的距离——
我有三十八个童年，每天醒来。
不要怕，母亲，我有三十八个坟墓
随便你住在更宽敞的那间

我走着舞步穿行。
带着荒草，每年添加一间。
窗户由里向外，父亲
你可以看见我。
你死去的那年我将停下脚步。

你死得越久住得越多。
我手里的玻璃球磨得越圆，越透明。
和那个远方的男孩相比
你抚摸过的额头
在我这里有着更为巨大的安宁。




This Borrowed Time

The rooster marches around the courtyard.
Father, you’ve just finished a day of labor,
you go to the kitchen for some cold congee.
But I just want to sit alone under the jujube tree,
roll the glass orbs I hold in my hands.

Mother, you’re still by the river beating the wash
I hear the sound of soap bubbles burst.
Your reflection in the water
carries a pair of wings that are waving
But I just want to flow, alone, along the river bottom.

Far off are another pair of you.
Father, you will have another son.
You’re every bit as strict, and violent—
but, excuse me, I’m not under the jujube tree,
nor are there wounds on my body.

I sleep here, complete, separated from you
by the space of one tomb—
I have thirty-eight childhoods, waking every day.
Don’t be afraid, Mother, I have thirty-eight tombs
You may choose whichever is more spacious.

I glide past, with a dancing step
bringing wild grasses, every year a new room.
Through the windows that look out, Father,
you can see me.
The year you die, I’ll halt my advance.

The longer you’re dead, the more you’ll inhabit
My glass orbs grow clearer as I rub them.
Compared to the other boy far-off
the forehead you touched back here
has an even greater quietude






钢克


男，1963年2月10日生于黑龙江省哈尔滨市，南（江苏苏北沭阳县）北（辽宁新民县）混血，血型O，水瓶座，独立作者，自由摄影师，1974年开始写作。


Male, born February 10, 1963 in Harbin, Heilongjiang province. A mix of southern (northern Jiangsu province) and northern (Xinmin, Liaoning province) Chinese. Blood type O, Aquarius. Independent writer, freelance photographer. Began writing in 1974.




月神


没有锦绣，当十指开出阿耳忒弥斯之莲
芸香在你双颊旋出海风，而心因你
于末世的晨昏间，永动不息

蝴蝶小而暖的旧居——我童真的摇篮降自
你亦凤亦凰的时光。当繁星
打着死者的哑语，你自无我间升起

你，每束磷火的七夕，寒光下，虚无间
重逢的孤婴，披上红白相生的嫁衣
给我左右孪生的清影也来一款，她们

以幽幽白蜡之脸浮现。你，月神
来世的避难所，故我之城，我扇动
小小婆婆丁之翼追随。无人就是

在人世的至亲，了无生息，他们以
一环又一环不可见之玫瑰，环绕我
慢慢渗出你那孤寡之身，迈向全黑的新家


2012. 6.13，21:41，初稿，
　　　　　　                 22:55，改定，
　　　　　　                 23:39，再定，
                       6.14， 6:48，完成，
　　　　　　                  9:28，终稿。


Moon Goddess

No finery. When ten fingers open into an Artemis flower
the rue on your cheeks turns out a sea breeze, while heart
continues restless for you, between dawn and dusk at age’s edge.

The small, warm home of a butterfly – my callow cradle, sent from
your time of fine and full. When the thousand stars
speak in the sign language of the dead, you rise from the non-self

You, every bouquet of phosphorescent Valentine’s, under cold light, amidst naught
familiar castaway, wrapped in a marriage gown of red and white
let’s have one each for the twin shadows beside me, their

pallid wax faces float into view. You, moon goddess,
haven of the next life, city of the old I;
flapping tiny dandelion wings, I chase you. Nobody is

the closest relation on Earth, utterly lifeless, they encircle me
in ring after ring of invisible roses, perspiring
the widow-orphan of your form, then set out toward a black, new home.

First draft 21:41, 6/13/2012
22:55, finished;
23:39, edited;
6:14, 6/14, second draft;
9:28, final.

杨炼

蝴蝶——柏林


父亲的墓地　 被更多墓地深深
盖住　 塌下来的石头像云
夯实的重量里一只薄翼意外析出

　 　 　 　 一跳一跳找到你　 当你还英俊
　 　 　 　 细长　 着迷于花朵摇荡的小扇子
　 　 　 　 公园中器官烫伤器官的吻

空气的阻力也得学
墙　 死死按住彩绘的肩膀
暮色垂落　 反衬小小明艳的一跃

　 　 　 　 当你的心惊觉这一瞬
　 　 　 　 一座城市已攥紧你绝命的籍贯
　 　 　 　 老　 没有词　 只有扼在咽喉下的呻吟

才懂得反叛越纤弱　 越极端
一种长出金黄斑点的力
推开水泥波浪　 只比世界高一寸

　 　 　 　 海蝴蝶　 不奢望迁徙出恐怖
　 　 　 　 飞啊　 塔玛拉和父亲*　 粼粼
　 　 　 　 扛着身体　 轻拍下一代流亡者入眠

灰烬的目录没有最远处
你栖在醒来　 就脱掉重量的住址上
树叶暗绿的灯罩挪近

　 　 　 　 当你　 不怕被一缕香撅住
　 　 　 　 成为那缕香　 遗物般递回一封信
　 　 　 　 打着海浪的邮戳：柏林


*塔玛拉：纳博科夫回忆录《说吧，记忆》中，纳氏为初恋女友杜撰的名字。纳博科夫的父亲1920年代在柏林被谋杀，埋在柏林施潘道俄国公墓。



Butterfly—Berlin


The father’s grave        sinks deeply into many more graves
Covered         stone crushing like cloud
A great weight tamping down         and surprisingly out from under it a thin wing

                 Leaping to find you        when you were still comely
                 Slender        captivated by the swaying flower fanning itself
                 In the park        one organ burning another, a kiss

The obstruction of the air must be learned
The wall        tightly pressing the colorful painted shoulder
The falling evening color        sets off a little shining leap

                  When your heart suddenly feels this moment
                  This city holds tightly your ancestral origin, your fated ending
                  Old age has no words                but only the choked back moan

Then to know                 the thinner betrayal is the more extreme
One kind of force driving the golden yellow eyespot to grow
Pushing open the concrete waves        floating above the world only by an inch

                   The sea butterfly         doesn’t dream of migrating far from Terror
                   Flying       Tamara and the father       flickering
                   Carrying bodies        lightly pat to sleep the next generation of exiles

The ashes’ contents have no horizon
You perch at the address         where upon waking you shrug off the weight of home
The leaves’ dark green lampshade moves closer

                  When you don’t fear                to be caught by a thread of fragrance
                  You yourself are becoming the fragrance         delivering back the letter the dead left
                  Bearing its stamp of ocean waves: Berlin

                                      
(Translated by Joshua Weiner and Yang Lian)






唐晓渡


五月的蔷薇
　　　——致R•Y
　　　　　　　　　

当然，这是一个秘密——
缠绵的藤蔓
怎样从荆棘丛中
一把抓住春天

却不知怎么打开
就这么暗暗攥着
整整一个冬天的蓄积
憋得血管发蓝

迎春开过，樱花开过
然后是桃花、杏花
压缩再压缩的热情
竟会有雪花的冷淡

慢。必须是慢！
忍耐缓解着忍耐的负担
这世上不会有过时的芳香
看那些在风中晃动的小拳头

——我的花事，一百万颗
瞬时齐爆的集束炸弹！

              

May Rose
(for R.Y.)

Of course, this is a secret –
how the trysting vines
have snatched the spring
from the armoured branches

but, not knowing how to undress it,
clutch it with a secret strength
this way, the winter through,
tense the vines of themselves to blue.

While snowdrops bloom, then the cherry,
in turn the peach, the apricot,
this fervour keeps, buried and buried
to the indifference of snow.

Slowly! It must come slowly.
Endurance eases the weight of endurance.
No true fragrance will be too late in this world.
Look at these little fists mobbing the wind –

my flower affair like a million bombs
bursting all at once, at once.


(Translated by Antony Dunn and Tang Xiaodu)









西川


皮肤颂


枕头的褶皱压在皮肤上。小虫子的小爪子在皮肤上留下印迹。拔火罐从皮肤之下拔出血点。有毒的血点。

皮肤。我寂静的表层。我这不曾遭受过酷刑的皮肤，幻想着酷刑，就进入了历史，就长出了寂静的庄稼：我这了无历史感的汗毛。

山水画在皮肤上。地图刺在皮肤上。纳粹的人皮灯罩。乔叟时代英格兰的图书封皮用少女乳房的皮肤制成。

沙发，以牛皮为自己的皮肤，却不具有那死去动物的灵魂。每一次从牛皮沙发上站起，我总是忍不住牛鸣三声。

她的皮肤遇到了花朵：杨玉环。她的皮肤遇到了冰：王昭君。那些我永远无法遇到的皮肤，我只是说说而已。

但当我注目我潜伏着血管的皮肤，我也就看见了你清凉在夏季的皮肤。但我还想看见你的骨头。

无耻的骨头，裹着雅洁的皮肤，遇到什么样的皮肤它就会瞬间变得像骨头一样无耻？只有面颊懂得害羞和尴尬。

放大镜下皮肤的纹理。穿衣镜中皮肤的灰暗。麻子、痦子、疣子、鸡皮疙瘩。皮肤只将命运表达给能够读懂命运的人。

我的皮肤内装着我的疾病、快乐和幽暗。我的幽暗是灯光不能照亮的。

永久的七窍。临时性伤口。疼的皮肤。藏起来的皮肤。长在里面的皮肤。失去神经末梢的皮肤。死人的皮肤。

据说鬼魂没有皮肤也东游西逛。

据说太空人用皮肤来思想。

你用皮肤向我靠近，或者我用皮肤感受你的颤抖。我说不准你是否想要揭下我的皮肤去披到狼或者羊的身上。



Ode to Skin


Pillow creases ¬on skin. The tiny feet of insects have left their prints – poisonous bloodspots medicinally sucked out.

Skin – my silent surface. This skin of mine has never experienced frenzied torture so it dreams of frenzied torture and thus slips into history. Then grows a silent crop: hairs without a sense of history.

Landscapes on skin. Maps with pins. A Nazi lampshade made of human skin. English books bound from girls’ breasts in Chaucer’s time.

A leather sofa doesn’t have the dead cow’s soul. But each time I get up from it I can’t help mooing three times.

Consort Yang Yuhuan’s skin touched flowers. Concubine Wang Zhaojun’s skin touched ice. I have never met these skins so can only talk about them.

When I stare at my skin with its buried veins I also see your skin in a cool summer but can’t see your bones.

Shameless bones coated with graceful skin. What makes graceful skin shameless as bones? Only cheeks get shy and embarrassed.

Skin lines under a magnifying glass. Skin’s greyness in the wardrobe mirror. Pockmarks, blackheads, freckles, goose bumps. Skin only speaks to those who read fortunes.

My skin contains my sickness, happiness and my darkness, which can’t be illuminated by any light.

I have seven perpetual gates and temporary wounds. Sore skin and dead skin without nerve tips, corpse-skin. It’s said that ghosts wander without skins. It’s said that aliens think with their skins.

You approach me with your skin, or my skin can feel yours shivering. I’m not sure whether you want to flay me and put my skin on a sheep or a wolf.


(Translated by Pascale Petit)








翟永明


菊花灯笼漂过来

菊花一点点漂过来
在黑夜 在周围的静
在河岸沉沉的童声里
菊花淡 淡出鸟影

儿童提着灯笼漂过来
他们浅浅的合唱里
没有恐惧 没有嬉戏 没有悲苦
只有菊花灯笼 菊花的淡
灯笼的红

小姐也提着灯笼漂过来
小姐和她的仆从
她们都挽着松松的髻
她们的华服盛装 不过是
丝绸 飘带和扣子
不过是走动时悉嗦乱响的
缨络 耳环 钗凤

小姐和小姐的乳娘
她们都是过来人
她们都从容地寻找
在夜半时面对月亮
小姐温柔 灯笼也温柔
她们漂呵漂
她们把平凡的夜
变成非凡的梦游

每天晚上
菊花灯笼漂过来
菊花灯笼的主人 浪迹天涯
他忽快忽慢的脚步
使人追不上
儿童们都跟着他成长

这就是沧海和灯笼的故事
如果我坐在地板上
我会害怕那一股力量
我会害怕那些菊影 光影 人影
我也会忽快忽慢
在房间里丁当作响

如果我坐在沙发或床头
我就会欣赏
我也会感到自已慢慢透明
慢慢变色
我也会终夜含烟 然后
离地而起




The Chrysanthemum Lantern Is Floating Over Me

A chrysanthemum lantern is floating towards me.
In the enveloping silence of pitch darkness –
a low murmur of children on the riverbank.
The lantern is so sheer a bird’s shadow shows through it.

The children’s chorus floats over with the lantern.
There’s no fear, no pain,
only the lantern, the lightness of chrysanthemums
and the red glow of its candle.

A young girl also floats over –
a girl and her maids,
their hair up,
their luxurious clothes nothing but
silk, ribbons and buttons,
nothing but tinkling tassels when they walk –
tassels, earrings, phoenix hairpins.

The young girl and her wet nurse
have known death.
They are both searching for something leisuredly.
They face the midnight moon.
The girl is gentle and the light soft.
They float towards me
transforming the ordinary night
into a somnambulist trance.

Every night
the lantern floats over me.
Its owner wanders to the end of heaven,
his pace sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
No one can catch up with him,
the children grow up with him.

This is the story of the changing world and of the lantern.

If I sit on the floor
the chrysanthemum’s shadow, the light’s shadow and the shadows of people
frighten me
and I sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly
make a silvery sound in my room.

If I sit on the bed
I can enjoy this sensation
while I gradually turn transparent,
gradually change colour.
All night I merge into mist
then rise into the air.



(Translated by Pascale Petit and Zhai Yongming)









杨小滨


信件•面包•书签（三首）


信件

午餐之前，你听见信封里的叫喊。
你把它打开：一封
寄自本埠的情书，落款是
小夜曲。

你坚持把它封死。就象
埋掉一只夜莺。你怕

那首歌。你把它扔回邮筒
直到第二天
它又在你的信箱里呻吟


面包

你用梳子切开面包。那里
有死者的发丝，娇嗔
烤热的爱。

面包越来越黑，碎屑
越来越理不清：

梳洗之前，你的脸已烧焦。
难以下咽的五官
带着美的饥饿。


书签

你打开一本尘封已久的书：
一只手
夹在书签的位置。

它不愿意离开，它死死地
抓住这个字
一个句号。

枯萎的手，书页上的化石
等待另一只手的掌声





Three Short Poems

1. The Letter

Before lunch, you heard a cry come from inside the envelope.
You opened it: a
love letter from across town, signed
“Serenade.”

You carefully resealed it, as though
burying a nightingale.  Such pure music

terrifies you.  You dropped it off at the post office
but the next day
you heard it in your mailbox again, weeping.


2. Bread

You sliced the loaf of bread with a comb,
finding inside it hairs of the dead, a squeamish voice,
and dry, warmed-over love.

The bread turned darker and darker, its crumbs
more and more seared and shriveled:

Before you could wash and dress, your face too was burnt:
your senses’ appetite for beauty
had become too hard to swallow.


3. The Bookmark

You opened a long neglected book:
A hand
was inserted in place of a bookmark.

Unwilling to let go, it held on tightly,
grasping at characters,
clinging to a period.

That poor shrunken hand, a relic on the page,
still waiting for another hand to clap with.


(Translated by John Gery with Yang Xiaobin)









秦晓宇


李白与杜甫


中国美术馆。
李白与杜甫踞肆于大厅之对角。

他们划定了界限，最远而又最相似，
就像另一个世界的南北极。

铜贴切于李白
仗剑、请缨、遍干诸侯的金钲生涯。

铸造如激情中冷却的诗艺，
以及根植于诗艺的芙蓉。

一件嶙峋、幽悁的金戈长袍，
如蜀道难、静夜思。

作为天空的知己，他挺立，头颅
微微昂起。胡子是一枝过于疏狂的毛笔。

而杜甫是木制的，敦厚、温奥、沉郁，
浑身迷宫般跌宕的细纹。

他悯默地坐着，
就像他诗中那匹硉兀的瘦马。

他的目光向下，结合最卑微的事物，
而这也是天边行，也是登高。

李白1977年铸就，
他的造型，象征了那个虚步蹑太清的时代。

杜甫雕刻于1963年，
等待他的，正是曾等待着他的丧乱。





Li Bai and Du Fu


The China National Art Museum.
Li Bai and Du Fu domineer at opposite corners of the lobby.

They have drawn a boundary, farthest away yet most alike,
the North Pole and South Pole of another world.

Copper suits Li Bai and his quick-bladed career,
the brazen war-bell that shone in the face of lords.

The metal cast like a poem cooled out of passion, like
something natural, exempt from carving and crafting.

High ridges and dark folds in his soldier’s robe
like “The Hard Road to Shu” and “Quiet Night Thoughts.”

Heaven’s confidant stands straight, his head
inclined gently. His beard a writing-brush combed wild.

Du Fu is made of wood—steadfast, solemn,
patient. Labyrinthine lines run madly over him.

He sits in silent sympathy,
like the raw-boned, tired horse of his poem.

His gaze is cast down, taking in all low things; this too
is a venturing to the high edges of the world.

Li Bai was cast in 1977; his figure symbolizes the generation
that thought it could walk on air.

Du Fu was carved in 1963; waiting for him is the same
luckless chaos that awaited him once before.


Trans. Canaan Morse  







姜涛


古猴部落


树林里落满果实，猩红的地毯
源于地质的变迁
水退了，老虎的剑齿烂了
我们围着空地商量未来
老的刚从进化里爬出，挥老拳
少的已按耐不住舌头，要第一个
去吃梅花鹿，移山的志向没有
倒可以涉水，南方北方的
田野只是一张餐桌
所谓共和闹哄哄
还是独裁之秋赶走蚊蝇
好在我们都直立着
可以观天象，徒手挣脱了食物链
但十月的劳动力
还是倾向剩余：不需要画皮，烹饪
肉身当木柴，只有公的继续
将母的掀翻，朗诵牠的美
但要说出“我爱你”
至少春花秋月的，还要两百万年

2003,5



TRIBE OF PALAEOPITHECUS

the forest was filled with fallen fruit, a scarlet carpet
whose origin lay in geological change
the waters had receded, the tiger’s sabre tooth was rotten
around the empty ground we discussed the future
the old ones had just crawled out from evolution, waving their old fists
the young ones could no longer hold their tongues, they’d got to be the first
to eat the sika deer: ambition to move a mountain lacking
though they could ford the river, north and south
the fields were just a dining table
the so-called republic too rumbustious
nevertheless autumn’s despotism drove off mosquitoes and flies
fortunately we were all standing upright
able to watch the stars, fight empty-handed to free ourselves from the food chain
but the October work force
still inclined towards surplus: no need to paint our skin, or to cook
with flesh for firewood, only the males kept on
up-ending the females, chanting the beauty of it
until to say ‘I love you’ out loud
at least with spring flowers and autumn moons, it still took two million years


(Translated  By Brian Holton)







臧棣


牵线人丛书

看什么，都必须要先转过脸去，
这就是她。假如是直接面对，
她会比地震中的一条狗还要紧张。
怎么看世界，都不如一只猫那样顺眼。

她有时会控制不住在人狗之间有一种比较。
她对待猫比对待狗更严肃。
她曾说服自己要像爱猫一样爱上一个人。
她的结论是，爱怎么比数学还难。

她苦于灵魂不愿被束缚，
与她为敌的事物里，有大学，地铁和电视。
电视里的野兽会从屏幕里跑出来，舔她的眉毛和耳环。
这样的事，好像不止发生过好几回。

于是，每一样需要接触的东西
最终都变成了一种需要克服的事情。
她对环境有特殊的敏感。她不断地换环境——
在一个地方待太久了，人就会变成废墟。

于是，她比任何人都更频繁地从废墟中走出来。
这似乎是她不可抗拒的规律。
她自己偶尔也能认识到这一点。
新欢中已有无人能意识到的瑕疵，

她受不了瑕疵。或者说，她受不了
别人也会有她身上的那些瑕疵。
不完全是需要缓和矛盾的问题，
记忆里，旧爱在缥缈中似乎稍好一点。

洗脑算什么。腰被洗了，
才是被洗彻底了。她知道这个世界上
存在着用腰思考的人。下面垫得再高点，
她也许会在最遥远的地方看见这首诗的尾巴。


A Puppeteer

When looking at something, you must first turn your head
and that's her.  If the gaze is direct
she will be jumpier than a dog in an earthquake.
There's no way to look at the world that's prettier than a single cat.

Sometimes she cannot suppress comparisons between people and dogs.
She treats cats in a much more serious way than she does dogs.
Once she convinced herself that she would love a person as much as cats.
Her conclusion was that loving something is more difficult than all math.

She will not have the suffering of her soul restrained,
among the objects that are her enemies are the university, subways, and TV.
The wild beasts in the TV can spring from the screen, lick her eyebrows and earrings.
This type of thing seems to have happened repeatedly, unceasingly.

So everything with which she comes into contact
finally becomes something to be overcome.
She has special sensitivity to her surroundings. She changes them constantly —
if she stays in a place too long, people become ruins.

So, with more frequency than anyone else, she sets forth from the ruins.
This seems to be her irresistible rule of self-discipline.
Sometimes she herself can acknowledge this to be true.
In new love there is already the blemish that nobody sees yet,

and she can't stand a blemish.  Or one could say that she can't stand
for anyone else to share the blemishes that are on her body.
It's not entirely a question of needing to soften the contradictions,
in memory, dimly viewed old loves seem a little bit nicer.

There's no point to brainwashing.  When the crotch has been washed,
that means that the washing is thorough.  She knows that in this world
there are those who think with their crotch. She'll aim a little higher next time,
and maybe from far afield, she'll be able to see the tail of this poem.



(Translated by Nicholas Admussen)




廖伟棠


錄鬼簿.海子
（死於1989年3月26日）

我死於死亡之前，洪水
提前分開了我，列車
只經過我的血跡，只帶走
我的饑餓，推向燦爛的湖面。

如今我就是大湖上栽種幻像的那人，
我就是把鐵軌一一引入水面的野花中
的那人。我滿目都是生命
像把臉埋入野花中的山羊。

洪水從山海關流漫到龍家營，
那是子夜一點。哦，黑夜
請原諒我的詩一點也不晦澀，
請原諒這身衣服，比黎明更藍。

如今我聽見七十天后的槍聲只是寂靜，
我看見二十年後的塗鴉只是潔淨。
那些攜帶我的死亡到處行走的人
他們是一隊蜻蜓。

那路上的青草盡枯！紅鏽
混入了泥土！我手捧一堆漢字：
一堆“生存”的同義詞，
在黎明的微寒中燒掉了紙做的衣服。

洪水從苜蓿地流漫到汐止門，
那是淩晨三點。哦，黑夜
請原諒我的詩一點也不悲傷，
請原諒這身衣服，比黎明更貴重。

                    2009.3.21.



Register of Ghosts: Hai Zi
(Died 26 March 1989)

I died before death, the flood
Separated me early, the train
Only passed over my bloodstains, only took
My starvation, pushed towards a glorious lake.

Today I am that person planting fantasies on the lake,
I am drawing the rails one by one into the wild flowers on the lake,
That person. Life is all around me
Like the mountain goat with its face buried in the wild flowers.

The water slowly floods from Shanhaiguan to Longjiaying,[1]
That was just after midnight. Oh, black night
Forgive the lack of subtly of my song,
Forgive the clothes on this body, bluer even than dawn.

Today I hear only the tranquility of gunshots seventy days later,[2]
I see only the purity before the sketches of the next twenty years.
Those people who carry my death around wherever they go,
They are dragonflies.

The green grass on the road is dry to the tip! The red rust
Blends into the soil! In both hands a pile of characters:
A pile of synonyms for "survival,"
In the gentle cold of dawn I burned paper clothing.

The water floods from Muxudi to Xizhimen,[3]
That was three in the morning. Oh, black night
Forgive the lack of sadness in my song,
Forgive the clothes on this body, more valuable even than dawn.

                    2009.3.21
(translated by Venus Lau & Robin Peckham)








于坚


啤酒瓶盖


    不知道叫它什么才好 刚才还位居宴会的高处
    一瓶黑啤酒的守护者 不可或缺 它有它的身份
    意味着一个黄昏的好心情 以及一杯泡沫的深度
    在晚餐开始时嘭地一声跳开了 那动作很像一只牛蛙
    侍者还以为它真的是 以为摆满熟物的餐桌上竟有什么复活
    他为他的错觉懊恼 立即去注意一根牙签了
    他是最后的一位 此后 世界就再也想不到它
    词典上不再有关于它的词条 不再有它的本义 引义和转义
    而那时原先屈居它下面的瓷盘 正意味着一组川味
    餐巾被一位将军的手使用着 玫瑰在盛开 暗喻出高贵
    它在一道奇怪的弧线中离开了这场合 这不是它的弧线
    啤酒厂 从未为一瓶啤酒设计过这样的线
    它现在和烟蒂 脚印 骨渣以及地板这些赃物在一起
    它们互不相干 一个即兴的图案 谁也不会对谁有用
    而它还更糟 一个烟蒂能使世界想起一个邋遢鬼
    一块骨渣意味着一只猫或狗 脚印当然暗示了某个人的一生
    它是废品 它的白色只是它的白色 它的形状只是它的形状
    它在我们的形容词所能触及的一切之外
    那时我尚未饮酒 是我把这瓶啤酒打开
    因而我得以看它那么陌生地一跳 那么简单地不在了
    我忽然也想象它那样“嘭”地一声 跳出去 但我不能
    身为一本诗集的作者和一具六十公斤的躯体
    我仅仅是弯下腰 把这个白色的小尤物拾起来
    它那坚硬的 齿状的边缘 划破了我的手指
    使我感受到某种与刀子无关的锋利




The Beer Bottle-top

unsure how to address it    it was still sitting at the head of the table only a moment ago
the custodian of a bottle of stout    absolutely indispensable    it has a sense of its own status
signifying conviviality as the sun goes down    and the depth of froth in a glass
opened with a pop at the start of the evening meal    the action strikingly similar to that of a bullfrog
the waiter even believes that it really is a frog    believes that something on this table covered with cooked food has unexpectedly been brought back to life
he is vexed by his misunderstanding    and immediately shifts his attention to a toothpick
he is the last one    after him     the world gives it no further thought
with no other entries on it in the dictionary    no original meanings extended meanings transferred meanings
but those dishes originally arranged in submission before it    signify nothing less than the flavours of Sichuan cuisine
the napkin is touched by the hand of a general    the roses in full bloom    an allusion to privilege
in an eccentric arc it exited this gathering    an arc not its own the brewery    never designed such a line for its product
it now lies on the floor with the cigarette butts    footprints    bones and other rubbish
an unrelated jumble    an impromptu design    of no use to anyone
but its plight is even more wretched     a butt reminds the world of a slob
a bone brings to mind a dog or a cat     and footprints of course allude to a human presence
it is waste    its whiteness being nothing more than its whiteness    and its shape nothing more than its shape
it falls beyond the reach of our adjectives
I wasn’t a drinker then     it was I who opened the bottle of beer
and for this reason I noticed its strange leap     its simple disappearance
I suddenly tried to imagine the pop it made     jumping out into space     but was unable to
mine was the body of an author of a collection of poetry and sixty kilograms of corporeal existence
all I did was bend down     and pick up this alluring small white object
it was hard     with a serrated rim     which cut into my finger
and made me feel a sharpness so unlike that of knives

重读了其中不少诗.....