对伊利亚·卡明斯基的片面印象
作者：胡悦然
“故土”是一把变形的钥匙。
我对其陌生，如对那些雪花——
它们拒绝在南方冷冽的艳阳下起舞。
你的眼镜和笑容
使我想起一个中国诗人。
我不敢说，我认识他，
只知道他很早就死了
（我想他是死于某种窒息。）
他用词语遏制四溅的墨水，
将苦难变轻，好将它紧握。
苦难或许降临
如城市背后的隐秘颤抖，
频率与拍打的鸟翼共振。
你在庭院里数鸟，并用眼睛
去听它们飞起——
“把我也数进去”
你或许会说。
胡悦然，学生。
partial impression of Ilya Kaminsky
translated by PLS
“homeland” is a distorted key.
I am unfamiliar with it, as with the snowflakes —
they refuse to dance in the cold blazing sun of the southern land.
your glasses and smile
remind me of a Chinese poet.
I dare not say, I know him well,
only know that he’s dead long ago
(I think he died of some kind of suffocation.)
he was trying to contain the splashing ink with words,
alleviate suffering, so that he could hold it tight.
suffering might happen
like the mysterious vibrations behind cities,
whose frequency resonates with the flapping wings of birds.
you were counting birds in the yard, and
listening to their flights with eyes —
“count me in too”
is perhaps what you would say.
Hu Yueran, a student.
Pagoda
For Asa
by Zoe Du
A pagoda, ivory white.
Elegant octagon, low-ripped wood.
I shall never forget how it stood for us
when we were little:
legs splayed under our dress, bare feet
touching stone, touching wood —
the flat, glossy steps that led us up the seven-storied pagoda.
On summer nights we huddled together, against
a wind-blown hole. On top of the zigzagging staircase,
a story passed between our tongues. Back then
we held each other in verse, in fits of diamonds and dragons.
Knees knocked by rain, we etched syllables into stone.
And where the marble bent under our nails,
the figments crawled through our fingers.
A pagoda is a palace for the deceased. A plum of secrets,
its sapped songs flowing onto the young girls’ lap.
Until we fell asleep, and the sculpted ceilings moved
beneath the shadows. The double-eaves fidgeted
where dust played on the crossbeams.
We slept till our limbs drove into the pedestals,
and the pedestals sank into our sleeves —
A pagoda is a house to home us.
In it we grew as children.
And under its arched doorways we counted our wishes
each time, before we left.
We stepped onto the silent earth, chanting hieroglyphs —
one by one — as we walked. Towards the rolling fields
and departed.
Zoe Du is a PhD student in Education. She writes poetry and prose in English.
塔
致Asa
翻译：诗验室
一座象牙白的塔。
优雅的六边形，衣衫褴褛的木头。
我应该永远不会忘记在我们幼小时
它是怎样保护我们：
双腿在我们的裙下迈开，赤着脚
踏着石头，踏着木头 ——
顺着平滑的楼梯我们爬至七层塔顶。
我们常在夏夜里拥在一起，顶着
一个被风吹开的洞。在蜿蜒的楼梯之巅，
用舌尖传递着一个故事。那时候
我们在词语里，在对钻石和龙的一阵阵描绘中彼此守护。
我们用膝盖顶着雨的敲打，将字母刻进石头里。
在指甲下方大理石凹陷之处，
幻想在我们的指尖流淌着。
一座塔是逝者的殿堂。一颗秘密之梅，
枯竭的歌淌至年轻姑娘的大腿上。
直到我们睡着，雕花的屋顶
在影子下移动。双层屋檐
在灰尘游于横梁四周时烦躁不安。
我们一直睡到肋骨开进基座，
睡到基座沉入袖中 ——
一座塔是一个我们称之为归宿的家。
我们从小在里面长大。
在拱门下我们每次都会
在离开前细数自己的愿望。
我们踏上沉默的地球，一边走着，一边吟诵着象形文字 ——
一个接着另一个。朝着翻腾的田地
互相道别。
Zoe Du 是一名教育学专业在读博士。她用英文撰写散文与诗。
白日盲途
作者：吴立松
在风的热力中我们透支了自己
被严厉的太阳狠狠地曝晒
基于道路和未来，什么也看不清了
那倏忽而逝的风景像一阵幻觉
田野衰微的绿流失着色彩的内容
树木挺立在一片无限的茂盛中
成群的白鹭飘越树枝间如同丧幡
于无数个光明的白日我注视太阳
太阳燃烧着我的视网膜，骄傲地发烫
谁告诉我，什么是什么，什么是应当
当这一切秩序被掀翻，我径直走着
在路上遇到很久没有见到的人
一个朝着我反方向走的人，你是谁
这里是哪里，再往前走要走到哪里去
我的双腿像丧失了活力，抽空了血液
甚至变得犹豫，像获得了思想的生命体
再也不能由我所控制，像倒塌的影子
像一片散开的污水抑郁的头脑攀附上我
渴望远我而去，此刻像从未有过
我像爬虫挤进时间和欲望，无能地幻想
什么该降临，什么该降临像一个奇迹
洗净我吧，将我肮脏的身体和灵魂洗净
从来都是，呼唤的从来都是脱离于卑微
这成堆的亵渎充满着去向的路途
神明像烈日阻扰着我内心骄傲的迸溅
怜悯我吧，像对自己孩子无能无力的妈妈
再借我一次生命？在这混乱的时代
头脑失控地旋转，我看见了什么，你又得到了什么
吴立松，自印有诗集四部，在深圳生活。
into the blinded bright
translated by PLS
in the heat of the wind we exhaust ourselves
scalded by the fierce sun
there’s very little to see in terms of roads and the future
the fleeting view is like an illusion
the frail green of the field losing content of colors
trees standing in a vast of lushness
egrets floating among twigs like mourning flags
on countless bright days I stare at the sun
the sun burning my retina, scorching with arrogance
someone please tell me, which is which, and what is mandatory
when all these orders are overthrown, I walk straight
coming across someone I haven’t seen in a long while
someone walking in the opposite direction of me, who are you
where is this, and where to if you carry on walking
my legs feel like they are out of strength, drained of blood
even turning hesitant, like a life form bestowed with thoughts
no longer under my control, like a crumbling shadow
depressions clinging to me like dispersing sewage
desire turning its head against me, as if I’ve never had it
I squeeze myself through time and desire like a crawler, fantasizing impotently about
what should happen, what should happen like a miracle
wash me clean, wash my dirty body and soul clean
it has always been, it has always been the shouting that is separated from frivolity
this heap of blasphemies and roads full of directions
gods obstructing the explosion of my inner arrogance like a blazing sun
have mercy on me, like a mother who doesn’t know how to deal with her kid
lend me a life one more time? in this turbulent time
head spinning without control, what have I seen, and what have you obtained
Wu Lisong lives in Shenzhen and has self-published four collections of poetry.
不语寸寸
作者：Nittin
在晨昏交替的止语里，
我是——
我是持续失败的人，
默默放低足音穿过蕊的丛林。
水位可以有多高，透明到
盖过呼吸的发顶，摇曳的，
是你不肯消融的发丝寸寸。
刺入我哀伤的深处，玛丽安，
凭借你最动人的眼神。怀抱我吧，
就像怀抱玻璃样碎裂的所有人。
不然，不然的话，
少了牧者的平原上，又将如何
雪白地生存？
今时不同往昔，是逝者不肯再入
我盈不住水的怀中，不肯再漫步着
游入我们霓虹的灵魂林。
花与叶撕扯，灰与火互焚，刀锋上
恰恰起飞一只红色的潜水艇
我爱你啊，这一切的一切，
请小心着地路过我脆弱的心。
路过我卑微的车前草的眼神。
安魂的一切，
本不应被梦来夜夜诵吟。
Nittin, 一个边缘人。
silence
translated by Nittin and PLS
in the silence between morning and dusk,
I was —
I was the one who kept failing,
silently lowering the sound of the footsteps through the jungle of stamens.
how high could the water rise, how transparent could it be
to cover the top of the breathing hairs, what’s swaying
was your hair refusing to melt.
pierce into the depth of my sorrow, Marianne,
with your most poignant eyes. Please hold me in your arms,
like those people who embrace the fragmentedness of the glass.
otherwise —
otherwise,
across the plain without any shepherd,
how could one survive as purely as snow?
yet things are different now, it’s the dead that are no longer willing to enter
my cup unable to hold any water, to take another stroll
and swim into our forest of neon souls.
flowers and leaves torn from each other, ashes and fires burning each other, over the blade
a crimson submarine has just taken off
I love you, all of you,
please tiptoe through my fragile heart with care,
through my humble eyes of plantain.
none of the requiem,
should have been chanted nightly by the dreams.
Nittin, a person on the margins.
相遇
作者：路边
一队蚂蚁正从我的脚面翻过
在倒塌的时间里
她的话被什么刮了起来
东一句，西一句
回应着眼前的男人
蚂蚁的队尾是蚂蚁
是地面仅有的声响
他一声不吭地佝偻着
自她不再注视后
连同他的眼神一起
朝某个方向瘦弱下去
他们
似乎都迫不及待地要看见
那个男人
走在越来越近的路上
对准他们的中心
苘麻，她的记忆
还有空虚的楼板房
他
在乱草里捉一种声音
然后大摇大摆
捧在她眼前
让她的额头比昨天更加明亮
男人唱歌
女人舞蹈
在嘈杂的火焰周围
一种透明的织物渐渐将他们隔开
没有谁的影子
没有野兽
鸽子踱步于广场
此刻，蚂蚁正翻过我的脚背
她开始一层一层向我呈现
用很多听不懂的话
勾勒一些往事
一些可有可无的边缘
路边，一个地下写作者。
encounter
translated by PLS
a troop of ants were climbing over my instep
in the collapsed time
her words blown off by something
some to the east, the other west,
responding to the man standing before her
the end of the troop was still ants
and the only sound of the ground
he had been stooping in silence
since her last glance
along with his expression
shrunken towards a certain direction
they
seemed to be in a great hurry to see
that man
walking on the road stretching shorter
aiming at the heart of them
velvetleaf, her memory
and the empty brick buildings
he was
catching a sound in the weeds
and then swaggering
to offer it to her —
her forehead brighter than yesterday
men singing
women dancing
around the chaotic flames
a type of transparent fabric slowly separates them
no shadows of any man
nor beasts
pigeons sauntering on the square
right now, ants were climbing over my instep
she started opening to me layer by layer
with a multitude of unintelligible languages
sketching out a few stories from the past
and a few dispensable edges
Lu Bian, an underground writer.
罗非鱼
作者：北竹
我不明白
为什么一个自己会做饭的人
会在厨房里流下眼泪
是灶台变成了炮台
还是油盐酱醋变成了诗酒茶花
其实是冤魂的呻吟
硕大的眼球如灯泡一般瞪着
在案板上倾泻一腔怨气
鳞片在手掌上闪闪发亮
脑袋剩了半个
ta的骨头我的刺
一条条抽出来
横列在案板上
丢弃在垃圾里
那屠夫的杀戮的河水的味道
那死去的毫无生命的古老的味道
冲进了鼻腔冲进了大脑让眼睛流泪
我厌恶地闭上了眼睛
听见油锅的声音滋啦滋啦
说到底，我与你一样的不自由
你不想成为我的盘中餐
我也不愿
以你的生命为我的养料
当万事万物被无聊的轮回循环到生命的终点
当无情的双手将人与物的命运操盘
在这河流世界
汹涌的巨浪令人无处可退
最终，也只剩下一声风的悲鸣
一个自己会做饭的人
为什么在自己的厨房里泪流满面
北竹，来自海南岛，喜欢读书写诗。
tilapia
translated by PLS
I don’t understand
why would someone who knows how to cook
tear up in the kitchen
is it because the stove becomes a turret
or the sauces a drink of leisurely fun
in fact it’s the groans of a wronged ghost --
wide eyes staring like a lightbulb
resentments bursting onto the chopping board
palms sparkling with scales
with half of the head remained
bones of theirs, spurs of mine
drawn out one after another
displayed across the board
thrown into a bin
the smell of that river slaughtered by the butcher
that ancient smell of the dead and of lifelessness
rushing through the nose to the brain causing one to tear up
I shut my eyes with disgust
listening to the sizzling of the frying pan
after all, I am as stuck as you
you don’t want to become my food
neither do I
to sacrifice your life for mine
when everything circles to the end through boring samsara
when ruthless hands keep everyone’s fate under control
in this world of rivers
raging waves leaving one no way out
in the end, there’s only a grieving sound of the wind left
why would someone who knows how to cook
have tears all over her face in the kitchen
Bei Zhu is from Hainan and likes to read and write poetry.
乱气流
—给YX
作者：李晚
我们暂时迫降到这里
布劳提根扣在桌上，像一顶
战败的印第安帐篷
跋涉，并不发生在彼岸
那些松爽土壤、蕨类植物
被车碾过后的回弹，而在
我们周围，正被妆点成
巧克力酱的泥泞俗气——
人们有多嗜甜，就有多少苦
得到证实，怀何种热情在
要求速度，就有同等的空虚
在背上冷凝成矿石
坏坐姿引发的炎症，越来越
难以容忍弯腰、向水面
抚摸光的瓷片
你到中国的咽喉，问
为什么有人听见“江南”
和换一个频道没什么区别
这让我想起宝塔高处写满
对地震的担忧，古老重门里
一直有人在营建汉语的国
中之国。
自救已如此可疑，我们
不能同他们一样自私
夜里为我们领航的，从前是月亮
后来是灯，现在，是永无止息的
进度条：疾驰的电波要我回答
是否悬空就是真正的飞行
李晚，现年二十三岁。
turbulence
— to YX
translated by PLS
we are forced to land here for now
Brautigan on the table, like a
defeated Indian tent
trekking doesn’t take place on the other shore
those mellow soils, ferns
the rebounds after being rolled over by cars, yet
around us, the muddy vulgarity
embellished into chocolate paste —
the more obsession people have with sweetness, the more
bitterness proven, the more speed they demand, the more emptiness
congealed into ores on the back
inflammations from bad postures, increasingly
intolerant to stooping, touching the porcelain of
light over water
the throat you bring to China, asking
why there’s no difference between
someone hearing “Jiangnan”
and changing channels
this reminds me of the concerns about earthquakes
inscribed all over the top of the pagoda, inside ancient gates
there’s always people building a country of a country
in Mandarin.
self-salvations already so suspicious as this, we
can’t be as selfish as them
it used to be the moon leading us through the night,
then lamps, now, it’s the non-stop
progress bars: galloping radio waves want me to figure out
whether suspension is a read flight
Li Wan is now 23 years old.
渡河
作者：白昕沄
任那过长的河流，而你去看
不再执着于蝴蝶，不再
畏惧于望远镜中倒刺的光
灼身的，仍是未磨平的石砂，仍是
桥头站立又弯曲的身体
颠仆，反射，碎裂进岸与岸间
呐喊的、蜷曲的茧壳
“公无渡河！” 而你已在彼岸
因为一缕擦肩的相似喜悦，又被
相同与相异的交媾塑成了
一座带血的像
“公竟渡河！” 而你被允许种花
用橙红的瓣叶、用染墨的手去喂
一群吠着吠着便成了暴雨的狗
至少，这一夜依然可塑，依然
温柔得准许一次梦游
“其奈公何！”
尽头是过路人的断鸣
而你总因此而哭
哭一条过长、过暗、过盛却缄言的河
白昕沄，时常胡思乱想，偶尔接搞翻译。
crossing the river
translated by PLS
leave the river too long, then you try to look
no longer obsessed with butterflies, no longer
afraid of the blinding reflected light of the telescope
what’s burning is still the rubbles untamed, still
the arched body standing at the head of the bridge
trembling, reflecting, crushed between the banks
screaming, curling shells of cocoon
“You shouldn’t cross the river!” yet you are already on the other shore
because of a similar joy from brushing past each other, again sculpted into
a blood-stained statue by the fornication
of similarities and differences
“how could you cross the river” yet you are allowed to plant flowers
using orange leaves and inked hands to feed
a squad of dogs turned into a storm rain from continuous barking
at least, this evening is still sculptable, still
gentle enough to grant one sleep walk
“what can I do about you”
at the end it’s the intermittent groans of passersby
yet because of this you always wail
wail over a river too long, too dark, too wild but silent
Bai Xinyun often wanders in her thoughts and sometimes translates.
Libra Season
by Lauren Elizabeth
be wary of the man whose scheme
against the cosmic seasons
lies unaccompanied
in fallacious mind,
for one day, he may find
some more readily refurbished
than those upholstered in fermented regret.
and should he engage in nocturnal affairs
between charcoal lipped marshmallows
and the dampened piles of promises
swept round your ravenous flames,
may you understand the difference
between a man made of ethanol
and a bedside glass of water
swilled under a moonless sky.
Lauren Elizabeth is a Beijing-based teacher and aspiring poet.
天秤座
翻译：诗验室
对那个妄想中
只容下密谋攻击
宇宙季的男人保持戒备。
因为有一天，他可能会觉得
其中一些诡计会比那些
由发酵的后悔支撑的诡计有着更明显的修饰痕迹。
他应该在黑边的棉花糖
与被旋至你贪婪的火焰周围
一堆潮湿的承诺之间
多参与一些夜行
希望你能理解乙醇制成的男人
与无月之空下被一饮而尽的那杯水
之间的区别
Lauren Elizabeth 是一名居住在北京的教师兼诗人。
家庭聚餐
作者：青
番石榴和老虎机
以及你眼底转动的玻璃子弹
把命运同其他令人眩晕的宝石放进五光十色的迷宫中
那些剩下的踩着你的脚印
列队穿行于旷野的魔鬼也可以如此轻易被捕获
而那把来自花丛最昏暗的时刻，夜空中漂浮的无名阴影的眉间尺之剑
纤细的躯体将在与牛头人的搏斗中引起一阵阵美好剧烈的震颤
美好剧烈仿佛摔落于暮色下生长的高大蓬草
其中沸腾着无需饮用的烈酒
比第一个恋人的复仇更神秘残酷
遗弃的旅鞋 晶体的歌声 漂浮灾难的黢黑大河与穿透银色摩天楼的管道
无理的影子在眼白的倒影上彼此粉碎 永不结合
蝇飞蜂舞如同仰望一对对马蹄飞驰而过
是的，你的敌人是马背上的魂灵
一切自然规律与自称规律的物质
他们的双唇也曾浮现探戈舞者双腿的轨迹
如今在风尘仆仆的死城迷失目光的去向
谎言僵化自被庸常占领的话语
为之俘获的是燃烧着金子的宴席上的梦游者
世间的可悲
在于将死的时刻 也自动奏响一首关于将死的歌
死去的番石榴盛开在
老虎机输光了玻璃子弹时放射的冰冷烈日之下
头发是火红色，眼在灼热中精光闪烁，双耳被一对羽毛带向升起黄烟的洞窟深处
飞驰、蹦跳、搏斗的幻影、行使谋杀的荣誉集体
连同世界上被举起的全部酒杯相互碰撞的协奏
从此停止了飞旋或倾撒火与雾
一如它们自电极正负间幻化的骚动
面孔对面孔的解读
一切静止之物的谵妄
与神经倒错中产生的运动
青，是一个经常害怕失语的人，有时候因为喉炎或者神经紧张，更多时候不知道因为什么。
Family Gathering
translated by PLS
pomegranates and slot machines
and the glass bullets rolling in your eyes
placing fate and other dazzling gemstones in a colorful maze
those left behind tracing your footsteps
devils marching across the wilderness can also be captured so easily
and the sword of Mei Jian Chi from the darkest moment of flowers and the nameless shadow floating in the evening sky
the slim body will generate beautiful and violent tremors in her fight against the Tauren
this violent beauty as if falling into the giant horse-weeds blooming in the dusk
in which the spirit that need not be drunk boiling
more mysterious and cruel than the revenge of the first lover
abandoned sneakers, voice of crystals, pitch-black rivers of floating disasters and pipes piercing through silver skyscrapers
irrational shadows crushing each other in the reflection over the whites of the eye, never coming together
dancing flies and bees as if watching pair after pair of horses galloping away
yes, your enemy is the souls on the horseback
all natural laws and self-claimed matters of orders
whose lips once had the traces of tango dancers’ moves too
but now losing the direction of eyesight in the bustling dead city
lies petrified from speeches occupied by banality
who keeps the sleepwalker at a gold-burning dinner captive
the saddest thing about life
is to automatically play a song about dying when dying
dead pomegranates blooming
under the cold blazing sun where slot machines have gambled away all their glass bullets
hairs flaming red, eyes blinking in the heat, ears led to the depth of the cave with rising yellow smoke
by a pair of feathers
galloping, hopping, wrestling phantoms, an honorable collective executing the act of murder
along with the concerto of the clinking sounds of all wine glasses raised in the world
from now on swirling or scattering fire and mist have stopped
like their commotions fantasized from the negative and positive electrodes
readings from face to face
movements from the delirium of all still things
and mental disorders
Qing is an aphasia-phobic, sometimes it’s because of laryngitis or nervousness, more often it’s because she doesn’t know what to say.
Pour and pour and pour
-- Summer in Shymkent
by Katie Esmée
Plov is meant for the heart,
breaking bread the day.
Spices spy dry eyes and coat hoarse throats
heavy, a summer blanket served
with cross-legged conversations.
Burning colors of inked seat cushions
and zelenny chay simmering atop whole thoughts
pour and pour and pour. When empty chashka
yawn lipped in gold leaf, eat until all meat is
consumed. Our mothers told us
the sun thinks the same –
mooring on our skin until we've pruned.
Spasiba slips to table among sleepy napkins
while friends carry the bill and each other.
Katie Esmée is a Bachata lover, yogi, and poet.
倒啊倒啊倒
— 奇姆肯特的夏天
翻译：诗验室
抓饭是心之所归，
与大家分享日子的滋味。
香料监视干枯的眼，让沙哑的喉咙
变沉，一条夏毯裹着
促膝闲谈上菜。
墨色坐垫燃烧的颜色
绿茶在完整的思想上沸腾着
倒啊倒啊倒。当空杯
以金叶之唇打呵欠时，一直吃到所有的肉
都已耗光。母亲曾经告诉我们
太阳也持有相同的看法 ——
它会在我们的肌上一直待到我们变瘦为止。
感谢的话在睡意十足的餐巾间溜到桌上
而朋友们则拿着账单相互搀扶。
Katie Esmée 是一名巴查塔舞爱好者、瑜伽师兼诗人。
Cover Image copyright © 离耳
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