Spring '23 Issue | 2023 春季刊
translated by PLS
no longer able to hold up, the hours
breaking from each other
between iron walls
their words moan like
an abyss of great mass
water churning out water, fantasy replacing emptiness
the first letter is almost there
all day you sit idle over here
and i remain supine over there
willingly walking into a tomb
praying for an unprecedented ending
a death knell actually becomes a taboo
i have finally come to an answer
lest it be doomed forever
disassembling and crumbling inside itself
Kako Sho is a PHD student in Hokkaido University.
abecedarian for my 心*
by Emily Liu
alive. and nothing else should matter
but dissatisfactions open like paper
cuts. how can all things feel
dissolving. how has the long
evening already crumbled into
february. it can’t be only me
gingerly touching my cheeks,
hair, arms. reassurances that
i remain. am here. am alive.
just need a moment or a while.
kiting, this year’s winds not kind.
learning how to kiss the bruises.
mornings with green, ginger tea;
new wounds and old newly torn
open; apply leaves as a
poultice. afternoons with
questions: why i don’t
rest—why the sun sets—why
sundays depress. hazy
thief of a day. lights dull bright
until past the quiet hours.
viscous dreams in hibernation,
winter a jar of peanut butter.
心 pulse so faint, so slow
yet i am alive. for the moon passes
zenith and my 心, patient, pulses.
Emily Liu is a San Diego native teaching English in Taiwan. Her poetry has appeared in Red Ogre Review.
我的 heart 之启蒙
Emily Liu 来自圣地亚哥，现在台湾教英文。其诗作曾发表于《Red Ogre Review》。
science of spring
translated by PLS
birds know that isolation is a very un-spring thing
plants know that with a desire to grow the vines can lift up a rock, instead of blossoming
the rock would crumble in a few years, the hardness won’t matter. birds know that in fact
we have squandered the most optimistic and healthy rainwater of the year
on nourishing weeds and fake news. plants know that the land
hasn’t grown more fertile because of this, it has become narrow minded, and depressed, it
is the only land that wants to climb up on the globe, it pines to become a highland
thus plants and birds are prone to oxygen deficiency during orogenesis. last night
a moth orchid was dying of hunger and weariness, in order to elude the surveillance of the land
we had to talk about an honest and pure thing in a different language: death is approaching—
she has been a nobody, and has been too scared to drink the water flowing backwards to the highland. she is agitated at night
—and for this she hasn’t forgotten to apologise. in the secret future, she will always be seen as the mother of fruits
once she becomes a flower, she will be seeded in you forever, all the way to your heart. you once told me:
flowers won’t be flowers, and grass won’t be grass, until the day the land learns how to apologise to the spring
Li Mang has won Youth Literary Awards (2023) and Guanghua Poetry Prize (2022), some of his works can be found in Fleurs de Lettres, Xu Ci, Poetry Monthly and so on.
by Hazel Ma
The afternoon witnesses silence
tainted by fear; the park bonds with
the schools, the churches, the supermarkets
through sirens and police
Unattended garbage is blown
from sewer holes to rooftops to the feet of a bench
where people have fled. Pigeons wander
in this dim atmosphere. The air of
coolness countering angst
A usual weekday for a group of students
to do their sketches. They make little tombs that
mourn about the incident’s suddenness
like vegetation sprawled to death
in the blink of a night
They don’t want to be used to it
Hazel Ma is a first-year masters student at NYU’s XE Experimental Humanities and Social Engagement department.
Hazel Ma 是纽约大学在读研究生。
year of fate
translated by PLS
“would the sound remain in the tape?”
ya qiu, waterfowls swooping up and down in your diary,
wavering inquietude, wavering
the parking apron where dew is starting to settle. is it the right path？
many things tend to rush to affirm, the fruits on the tree
ill with rain, secretly cracked open by sunlight.
i wonder, i have been trying to conquer the days and nights, so many
jelly beans re-poured into the pocket, no less than a disappointing
ya qiu, the potted plants you once fed, are spewing
insomniac mammoth. space regressed to imaginary numbers, are
all rainforests barbaric?
the conveyer belt accelerating, steadfast carriages crunching the full moon
but the teeth haven’t got the permission. for a while,
there are red fire hydrants arrayed in the aisle
i couldn’t carry myself, or be as happy as before.
ya qiu, all these zigzags have rendered you and i…but the sound,
can it really stay here?
Lv Zhouhang, who pities one that stands in the dewy wind all night.
by Erin Jamieson
I paint your bedroom
color of dying sunflowers
like the ones you left
at my mother’s grave
hoping through death
we could forget
when sunsets blistered
our stained living room
& we danced, barefoot &
blistered & in love & lost
beyond words as our bills
collected & you applied to
far away jobs & I typed away
to dreams we watched dissolve
with misty collisions of force
When I am finished
I stand back, noting
flecks of uneven
passion you might miss
if you didn’t know
Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, and her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is the author of a forthcoming poetry collection (Clothesline, NiftyLit)
Erin Jamieson 曾在80余家文学刊物上发表过，其小说曾获“小推车文学奖”提名。她的最新诗集《Clothesline》即将由NiftyLit出版。
song of wind
translated by PLS
i’ve seen wind, it’s a touchable force against a wish