DAYLIGHT FOREVER
by Abdulmueed Balogun Adewale
These wounds in my frail chest distort the smoothness
Of my journey to the soothing land of elves every night.
Sometimes I jolt like a spring from my sleep as if possessed
By some unforgiving genies, other times I jerk into the world shouting
For aid that’s light-years away from the nearest offing. When I look then behold
Darkness replacing the light in the armpit of the sky, the moon claiming king of the sky
Only to be dethroned twelve hours later by dawn and dawn upturned after
A short reign by night — an endless cycle of war for supremacy—
My soul shrinks —its custom— to a frightening eyebrow while my heart collides
Against the walls of my chest clamouring for freedom from the confines
Of my thoracic cavity. I pray on the altar of my mind at the commencement of a new dawn:
May today mark the end of the ancient rift between the sun and the sky,
May daylight triumph over nightfall forever.
Abdulmueed Balogun Adewale is a black poet and an undergrad at the University of Ibadan. His poems have been published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Watershed Review, The Westchester Review, The Oakland Arts Review, Subnivean Magazine and elsewhere.
永远的白日
翻译：诗验室
卡在脆弱之胸的这些伤口使我
每晚进入精灵之催眠国度的旅程变形。
有时候我从睡梦中像春天一样惊醒仿佛被
不近人情的神妖附身，其他时候我则呼着救猝然
进入距离最近的海岸几光年之远的世界。那时我看到
黑暗在天空之腋下替换光明，月亮自诩天空之王
只为十二个小时后被黎明废除而后黎明被推翻
短暂的夜之统治 —— 为至尊而战的无限循环 ——
我的灵魂收缩 —— 习惯性地 —— 成吓人的眉而我的心撞上
为逃离胸腔的束缚而发着
巨响的胸墙。新的黎明降临时我在思想圣坛前祈祷：
愿今日是太阳与天空间古老之战的终结，
愿白日永远战胜夜。
Abdulmueed Balogun Adewale 是一名黑人诗人，现为伊巴丹大学本科生。他的作品曾发表于《Hawaii Pacific Review》、《Watershed Review》、《The Westchester Review》、《The Oakland Arts Review》及《Subnivean Magazine》等处。
生长的声音
作者：李晴
她在生长
即使生长的声音很轻，很轻
缓慢的事物不会过于响亮
比如甘甜的月亮在夏夜里升起
流星滑落进摊开的手掌
将一个愿望紧紧合十
愿望的声音很轻，很轻
虔诚的事物不会过于响亮
日复一日在地图外聚集的信徒
已在遥远的地方找到了位置
于是他们便不再畏惧近在咫尺的寒冷
充满慈爱地深深睡去
睡眠的声音很轻，很轻
困倦的事物不会过于响亮
一只猫咪缓缓合上整个世界的眼睛
梦的孤儿院收留了渺小的生命
在这里我们一无所有
因此忍耐的伤口会偷偷哭泣
忍耐的声音很轻，很轻
沉重的事物不会过于响亮
窄窄的肩膀上停留着沉沉的蝴蝶
它翅膀颤抖着，吐出了一生嚼不碎的秘密
我总会在一个秘密里遇见你
遇见你薄如蝶翼的嘴唇
和黎明般清澈的爱
爱的声音很轻，很轻
温柔的事物不会过于响亮
口含一块苏醒的软糖
我们交换甜蜜和同一天的阳光
在一粒粒晶莹洁白的时辰里相拥
我们望向彼此，听到爱在生长
她在生长
即使生长的声音很轻，很轻
李晴，现从事文字相关工作，定居上海。
sound of growing
translated by PLS
she is growing
though the sound of growing is so light, oh light
slow things won’t get too loud
such as the sweet moon that rises in a summer night
shooting stars slip into an open palm
turning a wish into crossed fingers
the sound of wishing is so light, oh light
pious things won’t get too loud
the believers gathering outside the image day after day
have found a spot in a distant place
so they are no longer in fear of the imminent coldness
falling asleep with great affection
the sound of sleeping is so light, oh light
drowsy things won’t get too loud
a kitten gradually shuts the eyes of the entire world
the orphan of dreams takes in tiny lives
here we are left with nothing
so the wound of patience is weeping in secret
the sound of patience is so light, oh light
heavy things won’t get too loud
on narrow shoulders there remains a hefty butterfly
its wings shiver, spilling the un-chewable secrets of life
I always encounter you in a secret
encountering your lips as thin as butterfly’s wings
and love as clear as the dawn
the sound of love is so light, oh light
gentle things won’t get too loud
mouth a gummy candy of revival
we exchange sweetness and sunlight of the same day
embrace in grains of crystal white hours
we look at each other, hearing the growing of love
she is growing
though the sound of growing is so light, oh light
Li Qing is domiciled in Shanghai, and deals with text at work.
Resurfacing
by Katherine Schmidt
In the winter, the sea turns void
and becomes home to krakens and myths
that leap from stories with the roll of thunder.
In a flash, I remember your face –
sharp eyebrows, long nose, thin lips –
before I’m pummeled again by the waves.
So much of the ocean is water. And I’m drowning
again and again, pulled under, sideways,
and around, never breathing.
You exhale and turn a page,
see how whales look like angels, and
bubbles like clouds? Remember when
you’d sit on my bed and sing-song fairytales?
Sometimes I believe you are gone,
but then I remember.
Katherine Schmidt is a co-founder of Spark to Flame Journal, her poetry is published in Roi Fainéant Press, Rejection Letters, Thimble Literary Magazine, 3Elements Literary Review, and elsewhere.
浮出水面
翻译：诗验室
冬天，大海变空
成了北海巨妖与神话的家
他们随着雷声从故事里跃出。
转眼间，我记得你的脸 ——
剑眉、长鼻、薄唇 ——
然后我又被海浪捶打。
这么多大海都是水。我一次
又一次被淹没，往下拉，左右拉，
打着圈，却没有呼吸。
你吐了口气并重新开始，
看鲸鱼们多像天使，
而气泡如云？还记得你
曾经坐在我的床沿和那些单调的童话？
有时我觉得你已远去，
但后来我记起来了。
Katherine Schmidt 是《Spark to Flame》期刊的联合创始人，其作品曾发表于《Roi Fainéant Press》、《Rejection Letters》、《Thimble Literary Magazine》及《3Elements Literary Review》等处。
身体里的江水
作者：Yestin Deng
常常立于长江边
清水涤荡出一个又一个黎明
大山是死在岸边的巨人
江水不任方向
像在诘问它那些谁也不知道的事
我在窗边守望一切风景
江水缓缓流动
运走了清晨的雾 太阳的毒
带着它的呜咽
缕缕水花夹杂着我的日子转瞬而过
也冲刷走了稚嫩
后来我离开家乡
不再看到江水
楼宇和街道都手持一把刀
来往的风被砍去了一股凉爽
我们在尘埃里过活
日程 工作 收益死死地贴在生活的皮上
比江水更浩荡 推着我走
或许不算是前行
而是被浪裹着快要溺亡
不像江上来往的船只
有着航线和方向
而我只能不断飘荡
像背对江河的川江号子们
死死抓住大船的绳索
生活的绳索死死绑住了我的脊梁
Yestin Deng，毕业于香港浸会大学的重庆人。
water inside the body
translated by PLS
i often stand by the Yangtze River
the clear water washes out a dawn after another
mountains are giants dead along the river
the water is not run by any direction
as if questioning about things nobody knows
i admire the whole landscape by the window
the water moves unhurriedly
carrying away the morning mist, and the sun’s poison
with its wailing sounds
ripples of water fleeting past with my days
flushing away all immaturity
later i left my hometown
no longer seeing river water
buildings and streets are holding a knife in hand
pelting a layer of coolness from the sweeping wind
we are getting by in the dust
agenda, work and profits are nailed into the skin of life
vaster than water, shoving me about
perhaps not forward
rather almost drowning in the waves
unlike the passing boats on the river
with clear routes and direction
i cannot but drift incessantly
like the Yangtze labourers with their backs against the river
hanging on to the hawser of the ship
my spine anchored to the rope of life
Yestin Deng, is from Chongqing and a graduate from Hong Kong Baptist University.
Dictator
by Tolu Ogunlesi
A face is enough, single black-&-white
photograph, from anytime in childhood.
In it, a calculator coded unerringly
to solve for y, where x = betrayal,
self-inducing logic of carrot-&-stick,
the invisible armor of unpredictability.
That face, frozen in time,
tells all you need to know
who will make it past the road-
blocks ahead, and arrive
at strongman graduation day
clutching a diploma wet with
the ink of consequence.
Tolu Ogunlesi’s fiction and poetry have appeared in Istanbul Literature Review, Magma, Mississippi Review, Times Arts Review and many others. He is the winner of a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize and a PEN/Studzinski Literary Award.
独裁者
翻译：诗验室
一张脸就够，一张黑白
照，来自童年的任一时刻。
照片中，一台为解出y值而经过
精准编码的计算器，这里x等于背叛。
胡萝卜与棍的自感应逻辑，
不确定性的隐形盔甲。
那张在时光中定住的脸，
泄露了你需要知道的一切
谁将跨过前面那些路
障，然后抵达
强人毕业日
握着一张被后果之墨
浸湿的毕业证书
Tolu Ogunlesi 的小说与诗歌曾发表于《Istanbul Literature Review》、《Magma》、《Mississippi Review》及《Times Arts Review》等处，曾获得“Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg诗歌奖”和“PEN/Studzinski文学奖”。
Words Fail Me
——2023旧历新年随笔
作者：吴勒
1
诗歌绝不该用于粉饰生活的痛苦
（尤其那些难以厘清的结构性痛苦）
诗歌应该通过放大的呈示
刺穿（公/私领域）生活的荒谬
早些时候，从“白纸运动”到“新冠疫情爆发”
2
“用母语反抗母语”——
徒劳的超然？
3
恍惚间听见电子时钟的走针——心陡然沉下去。
对于他自己，他常常有种错误得离谱的估计。
比方说，他所饮食的，又原封不动离开他的身体。
一点异味也没有，被反复冲洗过的水族箱。
@多摩，东京
4
“童年老友”？似乎大都断了联系。25岁以来，
每到农历的年关，那种被抛甩出某种轴心的力
最为可感。那核心是越来越陌生的“家”、“国”？
还是曾经触手可及的“友谊”？找来找去，
那核心是一片洁净的暗影。亲爱的“老友”们，
如果我们都一样，随着年岁加增，不得不每年
淡忘些什么，这次就把关于我的部份丢掉吧。
给“一个”写的新年问答（该企划似乎未登出）
5
午后的巴士是“景象的困厄”*
夜间的巴士是激越的沉酣与自由
一天两趟，坐巴士通勤
*《景象的困厄》：傅元峰著作
6
“而可见性是一种陷阱。”*
一天中绝大多数时刻，他无话可说。
有什么可说的呢？他想，现实已经如此。
前景就摆在眼前。既然多数时候，
你我心照不宣。既然唯有绝望让人暂时安定。
看似来去自由的人其实最无路可走……
* 福柯《规训与惩罚》, 1975
7
“坐在角落里观察的人最不可信。”*
一天冷过一天。他又整夜地听德沃夏克……
“From the New World”，人们说：标题妙在“from”。
从布拉格到纽约，心底流淌的到底是伏尔塔瓦河。
他自己呢？“new world”尚且不能抵达——
如果那也只是一个随时能被拆除的地标，
便注定只在永久的丧失后才变得簇新、闪亮。
——而他的伏尔塔瓦河，已经要干涸了。
永久地困在那毫秒的休止里，他便是那枚
温柔的短剑——想必在半空便会无力地下落
摔得粉碎。但终究是掷出去了。
* 斯特拉·本森《世界中的世界》, 1928
吴勒，出没于东京南郊的写作者与译者。
无言以对
—Notes on Lunar New Year of 2023
translated by PLS
1
poetry shouldn’t be used to sugarcoat the pains in life
(especially those intricate structural pains)
it should pierce through the absurdity of
life (public/private sector) with magnified presentations
earlier, from a4 movement to covid outbreak
2
“using mother tongue against mother tongue” —
a futile detachment?
3
all of sudden there emerges the striking sound of the digital clock—the heart sinks abruptly.
for him, he often carries this kind of preposterously wrong estimation.
for example, what he eats and drinks, then departs from his body intactly.
without any strange odour, the aquarium washed over and over again.
@Tama, Tokyo
4
“childhood friends”? all seem to have lost connection. over the past twenty five years,
whenever the lunar new year approaches, the force thrusted away from an axis
is the most evident/tangible. is this nucleus/pivot the “home” or “country” that grows more and more distant?
or the “friendship” once so accessible? looking around,
that nucleus/pivot is a clean shadow. dear “old friends”,
if we are all the same, having to leave something behind as
time flies, this round it’s time to chuck me.
a new year questionnaire for “one”(which wasn’t published in the end)
5
the afternoon bus is “the death of nature”*
the midnight bus passionate indulgence and freedom
twice a day, taking the bus to work
*The name of a book written by Fu Yuanfeng
6
visibility is a trap.*
for most of the day, he has nothing to say.
what’s there to be said? he thinks, the reality is such.
the prospect is right in front of you. since most of the time
between you and me there’s a tacit understanding. since despair is sometimes the only solution to anxiety. (since only despair can temporarily calm one)
those who seem to be wandering freely are actually the most hopeless ones…
*Foucault: Discipline and Punish, 1975
7
watchful sitters in corners are to be profoundly distrusted.*
it gets colder every day. he starts listening to Dvořák all night long…
“来自新世界”, people say: the clever bit of the title lies in“来自”.
from Prague to New York, it’s the Vltava river that runs at the bottom of your heart.
what about himself? “新世界” is still unreachable—
if it’s just a landmark that can be demolished any time,
then it’s destined to be new and shiny after an eternal loss.
—yet his Vltava river, is drying up.
forever trapped in the stop of mili second, he is the
gentle dagger—presumably falling helplessly from the air
crumbling. but thrown after all.
* Stella Benson: Worlds within Worlds, 1928
Hu Rui is a writer and translator living in southern Tokyo.
清洁阿姨
作者：袁婵
你的尖锐的寂寞
嗑着瓜子刺穿黑墙
在洗衣房积起厚厚的水
走廊蓄满冬日晨光
所有的门都亮了
曝晒的衣衫发重
扫帚、拖把，一切
长柄事物放弃了做桨
却是我的午夜刚过去
不多时候
身体枕着半床枯叶
行经你紧锁的工具间
声音和声音相见了
载去的风也是独行的
是谁惊扰了谁？
每一个清清白白的日子
都有急雨擦落漂洗的灰云
也有语言或笑容
在洗漱台、热水器
等待如薄雾停驻的时候
而此刻，水流起来了
一些扑到脸上
一些走着，又凝成镜子
明锐如花收起瓣来
相会的时空
只有洁净
只有洁净
袁婵，现居北京，诗作散见《香港文学》《声韵诗刊》《星星诗刊》等华语文学刊物。
cleaning lady
translated by PLS
your acute loneliness
cracking melon seeds piercing through dark walls
flooding the laundromat with an abundance of water
the corridor imbued with morning light of winter
all of the doors are gleaming
insolated clothes become heavier
brooms, mopes, everything
long handled things have given up being oars
not long after my midnight
has passed
the body on a half bed of dry leaves
walking past your locked tool shed
sounds encounter
the wind they convey is also alone
who disturbs who?
on each honest day
there are sudden rain that rubs off dark clouds
words and smiles
by the sink, the boiler
waiting as the mist parks
yet right now, the water trickles
some splashed onto the face
some running, assembling into a mirror
keen as flowers that fold the petals
when encountered
there’s only cleanness
only cleanness
Yuan Chan currently lives in Beijing. Her works have been published in HongKong Literary, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine and Star Poetry Journal.
Survival
by Yong Takahashi
I am waterlogged,
my soul bruised from
attempted resuscitations.
Scarred,
tussled,
my body pot-marked from
bouncing off rough sea floors,
the calligraphy of disappointment
etched on my skin.
Men tied boulders to my waist,
hoping to weigh me down,
praying I would never resurface.
But as life shook this carcass,
small crevices in between pain
caught breath, just
room enough for new hope to live,
as I am not yet ready for a watery grave.
Yong Takahashi is the author of four books of fiction and poetry. She was a finalist in The Sexton Prize for Poetry.
生存
翻译：诗验室
我被水堵住
我的灵魂因尝试
复活而淤青
恐惧，
挣扎，
我的身体因从崎岖
不平的海底反弹而留下印记
失望的书法
刻在我的皮肤上。
男人们将巨石系在我的腰部，
想要让我沉下去，
祈祷我就此消失。
但是生活抖动这具尸体，
痛苦之间的小罅隙
歇了口气，使其
足够容纳新的生存希望，
因为我还未准备好葬身水墓。
Yong Takahashi 曾出版过四本小说与诗集，她是“The Sexton诗歌奖”的决赛入围者。
Monterey Park
by Christine Shan Shan Hou
Madness ensued
at what was
supposed to be
a celebration
of the moon
What happened
to the old man
What broke
inside of him
The dead fathers
in his eye glasses
were broken too
All that looking has never
brought any change
But still we continue
to look
and look
until we become
Winter statues
Not from ice or grief
but from our bones
knowing that
we were part
of that hatred too
Christine Shan Shan Hou is a poet and visual artist of Hakka Chinese descent. Their publications include Playdate (White Columns, 2022), The Joy and Terror are Both in the Swallowing (After Hours Editions, 2021) Community Garden for Lonely Girls (Gramma Poetry, 2017), and “I'm Sunlight” (The Song Cave, 2016).
蒙特利公园
翻译：诗验室
原本是一场
对月的
庆祝可后来
却很疯狂
父亲到底
怎么了
他到底
哪里不对劲了
他眼里死去
的父亲眼镜
也四分五裂
那么多年的注视从未
带来任何改变
但我们依然继续
注视
注视
直至我们变成
冬日雕像
不因冰或悲痛
而因我们的骨头
知道
我们也是
那恨的一部分
Christine Shan Shan Hou 是一名客家诗人与视觉艺术家。TA们曾出版《Playdate》（White Columns，2022年）、《The Joy and Terror are Both in the Swallowing》（After Hours Editions，2022年）、《Community Garden for Lonely Girls》（Gramma Poetry，2017年）以及《“I’m Sunlight”》（The Song Cave，2016年）等诗集。
献给加缪
作者：李晴
上个世纪，加缪在他的笔记中写道：“我最喜欢的十个词：世界，痛苦，土地，母亲，人，荒原，荣誉，贫穷，夏天，大海。”
加缪的生日这一天，我根据这十个词写成一首小诗，献给他。
世界变得渺小
当痛苦变得很大
结成大果子，压弯幸福的树梢
母亲轻轻捶腰
生命便从土地回到土地
咚咚，敲响接近夜晚的黎明
于是一些人醒来，他们需要不停说话
才能走出空空如也的荒原
这里没有国王颁发荣誉勋章
贫穷的孩子就把勇敢戴在心上
只是后来，那颗心有的破碎了，
有的消失了，胸口却更加沉沉
夏天记录着走失的少年
直到他们湿漉漉地，从大海里走出
风温柔地吹干头发和耳朵
当痛苦变得渺小
世界变得很大
to Camus
translated by PLS
Last century, Albert Camus wrote in his diary: “these are ten of my most favourite words: world, pain, earth, mother, people, wasteland, honour, poor, summer, sea.”
On Camus’ birthday, I wrote a little poem based on these words, for him.
the world grows smaller
when the pain grows larger
into a fruit, bending the treetop of happiness
mother quietly pats her back
life returns from earth to earth
thump thump, striking the dawn nearing night
therefore some people wake up, they need to talk ceaselessly
in order to walk out of the empty wasteland
here there’s no king to present medals of honour
poor children are wearing bravery in their heart
though later on, bits of the heart break,
the others disappear, the chest grows more leaden
the summer records the lost youth
til they stride out of the ocean, all wet
wind gently dries the hair and ears
when pain grows smaller
and the world larger
Fireworks
by Erin Jamieson
I set off fireworks with my painted nails
fuschia, turquoise, blood orange—colors
slice inky midnight sky & never fade
lingering like indelible tattoos
no explosions just dreamy echoes
of haunted lullabies I carried
ketchup-stained striped polo
your kiss faded when you saw flowers sprout
from my fingertips—
Why didn’t you tell me?
tonight you’ll glance at the sky
new lover at your side bottle of Merlot know this is my masterpiece
Erin Jamieson (she/her) is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, 2023) and four poetry chapbooks. Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottle Cap Press.
烟花
翻译：诗验室
我用涂过色的指甲点燃烟花
桃红、天蓝、血橙 —— 颜色
切开漆黑的夜空，永不褪去
像难以消除的刺青
没有爆破声只有我的
闹鬼摇篮曲的梦幻回响
沾了蕃茄酱的条纹polo衫
你的吻已褪去
当你看到花儿们从
我的指尖绽放 ——
你为何不告诉我？
今夜你将望向天空
身旁有位新的爱人
一瓶梅洛
深知这就是我的杰作
Erin Jamieson 曾出版一本诗集《Clothesline》与四本小诗册，其最新的诗册《Fairytales》由Bottle Cap Press出版。
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