Autumn '20 Issue | 2020 秋季刊
我们的时代空无一物
作者：萧潇
我们的时代空无一物
旧日园圃里的葡萄已经坠地
与火红果子的残骸
构成大地破碎的流彩
一阵酸涩在我的舌尖泛开
绿叶上，花蝴蝶褪去了甜蜜的悲哀
螳螂割开天空的肉体
春天生长 冬天毁灭
太阳下坐着黄昏的丰碑
我走进去 又走出
我是人间最闪耀的物质
雨水打在脸上，分散成甜味因子
昏沉的日光在藤蔓间躲藏
石阶上遗落着撕裂的红领巾
敲响十一级阶台的钟
枯叶开始绽放霜痕
我走进去 又走出
柳树下我看见孩子的梦
水池的皱纹记录着蜻蜓的相思
泪水穿透墙壁
喊声飞越窗沿
我记得我曾有母亲
她的鞋只 被烦恼拥在怀里
萧潇，河北秦皇岛人，喜欢用诗歌记录自己的情绪和生活。
Our Generation Has Nothing
translated by PLS
Our generation has nothing
Grapes from old vineyards have fallen
Together with the debris of flaming-red fruits
Constituting earth’s broken colours
A taste of sourness dancing on the tip of my tongue
On green leaves, butterflies with their sweet melancholy gone
Mantises cutting open the sky’s flesh
Spring sprouting; Winter withering
Under the sun sat the monument of dusk
I walked in, and out
I am the brightest substance in the world
Rain slapping on the face, dispersed into sweetness
Murky sunlight hiding in the vines
Over the steps, red scarves torn
Striking the bell of eleven steps
Dry leaves starting to show traces of frost
I walked in, and out
Under the willows I saw children’s dreams
Wrinkles in the pond recording a dragonfly’s lovesickness
Tears drilling through the wall
Screams flying over the windowsill
I remember I once had a mother
Her shoes, cradled by troubles
Xiao Xiao, from Qinhuangdao of Hebei province. He likes to use poetry to record his emotions and life.
LOSS
by Lily Jackson
Slowly, but easily, they slipped away
The names of things, the fundamental measure of each day.
Well-used, familiar words, I thought they were my friends
Companions from my childhood, deserters at the end.
Breakfast; blanket; songbird; snow.
Why did they disappear, where did they go?
Did I use them carelessly
And fill them with self-doubt?
Did I fail to cherish them,
Did they just … wear out?
Mother; father; daughter; son.
Even the most precious names now hesitant or gone.
And what shall I be when all of them are lost?
For without words, how can we love the things we value most.
Lily Jackson is a former teacher, now living in the Cotswolds. She writes for her own pleasure and that of her friends.
迷失
翻译：诗验室
渐渐地，却又轻而易举地，他们就这样溜走了
那些事物的名字，每一个日子的基本丈量。
那些熟练而恰当的词语，我曾以为他们是我的朋友
那些童年的伙伴们，到最后都不过是逃兵。
早餐、毛毯、鸣禽、雪。
他们为何都消失了，又都去了哪里？
我是不是对他们太过随意
让他们充满自我怀疑？
我是不是没有好好珍惜他们，
还是他们只是……累坏了？
母亲、父亲、女儿、儿子。
就连最珍贵的名字现在都变得迟疑或早已逝去。
那么当他们全都迷失的时候我又变成了什么呢？
而如果没有词语，我们又该如何去爱那些自己最珍惜的事物呢。
Lily Jackson 曾是一名教师，现在居住在英国的科茨沃尔德。写作是她的个人爱好，她的作品通常都是围绕朋友而写。
拿枪的孩子
作者：杜文辉
拿枪的孩子在瞄什么
枪里有没有子弹
我看见他们往里镶子弹
他们瞄树上的鸟
瞄鸟的歌唱、胸脯和
飞翔
他们互相瞄
在墙角、花树、 柱子背后
玻璃背后
轮胎背后
在人背后
分成两派、三派、几派
瞄对方的眼睛和头
杜文辉，甘肃静宁人，有文学作品集《树叶的心头》与《石头之轻》等。
Kids With a Gun
translated by PLS
Kids with a gun
What are they aiming at
There’s no bullet in the gun
I saw them loading it
They aim at birds on the tree
Birds’ tweets, chest and
Flight
They aim at each other
Behind street corners, flowers and columns
Behind windows
Behind tires
Behind people
Divided into two groups, three, or more
Aiming at each other’s eyes and heads
Du Wenhui is from Jingning county of Gansu province. His published literary collections include At the Heart of Leaves and Lightness of a Rock.
Strandbeest
by Kevin McGowan
when man is but a hieroglyph etched
into pocked walls of jungle skyscrapers
and nothing comes calling for the carrion
réveillon decomposing through a time
that no longer has hands with which to tick
they will rove by grey seas, these kinetic
seraphs, with the rhythms of all evolution
wheeling scuttling flapping maybe searching
fibrous limbs whispered to life by wind like
pawns traversing an unmanned chessboard
Kevin McGowan is a writer based in Stirling, Scotland. He has been published in: Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Inklings Anthology (Stryvling Press), Peeking Cat Poetry, Eunoia Review, Bandit Fiction, Plum Tree Tavern, Pendemic, Snakeskin, and Runcible Spoon. His short story, ‘God’s Shoulder’, was awarded Stirling University’s Research-Based Learning Prize.
风力仿生兽
翻译：诗验室
当人类不过是被刻入
摩天大楼群凹痕墙的一个象形文字
腐肉无人问津
酒宴腐烂 在一个
无针可转的时代
他们将在灰色的海边游走，这些活跃的
精灵们，带着所有进化的节奏
旋转疾跑摆动着，或许正在寻找
纤维状的肢体被风的细语唤醒，一如
兵卒穿越无人守护的棋盘
Kevin McGowan 是一名文字工作者，现居苏格兰斯特林。他的作品曾发表于《Fiction on the Web》、《Literally Stories》、《Inklings Anthology》（Stryvling Press 出版社）、《Peeking Cat Poetry》、《Eunoia Review》、《Plum Tree Tavern》等处。他的短篇小说《上帝的肩膀》获得斯特林大学研究性学习奖。
六月最后一颗杨梅
作者：袁婵
吃完最后一颗杨梅
六月就过去了
肉土在核儿的四周垮塌
释出未来的信号
——甜酸记忆终将改写
如此道别
我依然爱你
流水中的臃肿与苍老
踏上那片
你开始征费的海滩
看过的桃花谢了
开出人头
腥风淡在五星酒店巍峨的身体前
行走在小岛的人
曾看见过你的白眼睛
挂在树上，嵌在天边
那时你想烧死
矫饰的裙摆，泥泞的雨鞋
后来变成
树枝、礁石
深邃的大海、乱爬的螃蟹
我看见海神焦灼，向赫拉求情
——“神祇中谁也无法与你对抗”
火神赫法伊斯托斯你赢了
我看见塑料与土地牢牢粘黏
我看见艺术家的画被海浪冲走了
我知道有船
而你不与我渡海
八千个椰子能捕捉到什么
白色绳索坠下山谷
失修的教堂被众人推倒
黑蹄小羊失足
看夕阳的影子背后便是它的尸骸
海滩变作殷红色暗墟
杨梅晾晒脱落的肉土
成为罐头或酒？
——往事
我脚踩一粒一粒浑圆的硬核
独自于落潮时
离开六月
袁婵，香港大学文学博士，作者，翻译，作品散见于《星星诗刊》、《香港文学》、《声韵诗刊》（香港）、《秋水诗刊》（台湾）、《台客诗刊》等。
Last Waxberry of June
translated by PLS
After swallowing the last waxberry
June will be gone
Its flesh crumbling around the kernel
releasing signals from the future
— memories of sweet and sour will eventually be rewritten
Such a goodbye
I am still in love with you
bloating and ageing through flowing water
stepping on
the beach you started taxing
The peach flowers I saw have withered
budding with people’s heads
A reign of terror diluting before the grand figure of a five star hotel
Those who are walking on the islet
once saw your pale eyes
hanging on a tree, decorating the sky
You wanted to burn
the feigning hemlines, muddy rain boots
which then turned into
twigs and reefs
deep oceans and aimless crabs
I see Poseidon getting anxious, pleading for Hera —
“There’s no god who can compete against you”
Hephaestus you have won
I see an adhesion between plastics and the ground
I see artists’ paintings being washed away by waves
I know there’s a boat
But you won’t ride with me
What can eight thousand coconuts capture
White ropes falling into a valley
Chapels fallen into disrepair destroyed by the people
A lamb with black hooves slipped
Behind the shadow of sunset lies his carcass
The beach turned into darkish-red ruins
Waxberries drying its detached flesh
to become fruit tins or wine?
— history
I stepped on each perfectly round kernel
Alone when the tides were ebbing
Leaving June
Yuan Chan, writer and translator, her works have been published in The Stars Poetry, Hong Kong Literature, Voice & Verse poetry magazine, Qiushui poetry magazine, and Taiwan Hakka poetry magazine.
This Thing Writes Itself | 行走的文字*
by Maxwell Owen Clark | 翻译：诗验室
.
Personal companion 私之伴兮，
Meat stew 肉之烩兮，
Or whatever. 或任其之。
.
I love the wild birds 我怜野鸟，
And feel better 玲珑其声，
When they sing. 闻之甚喜。
.
Two languages 双语相会，
Playing at the edges 如天之极，
Like clouds. 如云之悠。
.
My hair 有须之直，
Straight, 修如厚帛。
Thick silk.
.
Abstract 有手之语，
Sign 可以迷离。
Language.
.
***
***
.
How goes 子之园艺，
Your gardening 今之何如？
Today?
.
Hurry up! 子且快焉。
Eep! Eep! 咿呀其声。
Run! Run! 去兮！去兮！
.
I like this one, 斯之乐我，
But not that one; 莫之彼也。
Agreed? 然否？
Maxwell Owen Clark is a poet, painter, and musician living in Portland, Maine, USA. His first book, entitled (((...))), or 'Triple Parenthesis Ellipsis', was published by NYC's Roof Books in 2017.
Maxwell Owen Clark 是一位居住在美国缅因州波特兰市的诗人、画家兼音乐人。他的处女作《(((…)))》或《三重括弧省略号》于2017年由Roof Books出版。
*注：此诗应原作者意思，按诗经风格翻译。
听觉之外
希洛
火车上，脸贴着窗。
嘈杂若隐若现