Spring '23 Issue | 2023 春季刊

虚构

作者：肖禾子

一些微小的差异

再无法支撑，遗落

在铜墙铁壁之间

对立开裂的时刻

他们的话语悲叹就像

大质量的 深渊

水生产水，幻想填补空白

第一个字仿佛就要出产

你终日枯坐在这里

我日夜躺卧在那里

心甘情愿走入坟墓

祈祷着 从未有过的结局

丧钟竟成为禁忌

我终于怀揣着某个答案

只怕它难逃千古宿命

在自身内部解体 塌陷

肖禾子，日本北海道大学博士课程在读。

fiction

translated by PLS

minor differences

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.

*heart (xīn)

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

翻译：诗验室

活着，其它已不重要

但不满像剪纸一样

展开。为何一切都感觉像

在溶解。为何这漫长的

夜已经坍塌成

二月。我不可能是唯一一个

小心翼翼抚摸脸颊、

头发、臂膀的人。确认

我还在。在这里。依然活着。

放风筝，今年的风并不顺。

学会如何舔伤口。

泡绿茶与姜茶的清晨；

新伤与重被撕开的旧

伤；把树叶当膏药

涂抹。被问题充斥的

下午：为何我不

休息—为何太阳要下山—为何

周日令人忧伤。就这样

溜走的模糊的一天。灯光暗亮

直至寂静结束的时刻。

处于冬眠中的粘稠的梦，

一罐花生酱里的冬天。

heart 跳动频率如此微弱，如此缓慢

但我依然活着。因为月亮

已满过而我的 heart，耐心地跳动着。

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》。

---

有关春天的学问

作者：李盲

群鸟知道，隔离是一件很不春天的事

植物知道，生长的渴望可以让藤蔓举起岩石，而不是开花

岩石会在数年后碎裂，而坚硬无济于事。群鸟知道，实质上

我们已经浪费了今年最乐观、最健康的雨水

全用在滋养杂草和假新闻上。植物知道，土地

没有因此变得肥沃，土地心胸狭隘，土地心情郁结，土地

是全球唯一一块想要往上爬的土地，它渴望成为高原

植物和群鸟故而很容易在众多造山运动中缺氧。昨晚

一朵蝴蝶兰因饥饿和疲倦奄奄一息，为了逃避土地的耳目

我们不得不用异语谈论一件诚实且纯洁的事：死亡将至——

她一直无名，一直不敢饮用计划倒流回高原的溪水。她在深夜暴怒

——她没有忘记为此道歉。在隐秘的未来，她一直被当作果实的母亲

当她成为花时，她就长久地种在你的身上，入心入肺。你告诉我：

花不能为花，草不能为草，一直到土地学会向春天道歉

李盲，曾獲「青年文學獎」（2023）、「光華詩歌獎」（2022），詩作見「字花·別字」、「虛詞」、《詩歌月刊》等處。

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.

---

The Storm

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.

暴风雨

翻译：诗验室

午后审视着被恐惧

染过的寂静；警笛与警察

将公园、学校、教堂与超市

串了起来

无人清理的垃圾被风

从下水道口吹到屋顶到一条空无

一人的长凳旁。鸽子们游荡着

在这个昏暗的午后。一席

凉风对抗着焦虑

这是一群学生进行日常速写

的工作日。他们画下的小坟墓

哀悼着事件的突发性

如同一夜之间

蔓延成死亡的植被

他们不想对此习以为常

Hazel Ma 是纽约大学在读研究生。

---

本命年

作者：吕周杭

“声音会留在磁带里么?”

雅秋，水鸟在你的日记本里起落，

摇曳着不宁，摇曳着

水露方息的停机坪。是我们的路么？

好多事情急于肯定，那悬在树上

罹患雨季的果实，被日头悄然剥开。

我想，我在努力攻克那些昼夜，那么多

再次灌入口袋的糖豆，不亚于一次失落

的冲锋

雅秋，你曾饲喂的盆栽，正吐出

失眠的猛犸。空间退至虚数，雨林

尽是蒙昧的么?

运输带加速传动，车厢一路南行硌碎满月

可牙齿未经允许。好些时候，

甬道里排列着红色的消防栓

我无法搬运自己，像从前那样快活。

雅秋，这曲折的使你我……可声音，

真的可以留在这里吗？

吕周杭，谁怜风露中宵立。

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

assault

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.

---

Paint

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

thunderstruck nights

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

or coincidence

When I am finished

I stand back, noting

the imperfections:

flecks of uneven

passion you might miss

if you didn’t know

our story

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)

涂

翻译：诗验室

我将你的卧室

涂成死去的向日葵之色

就如你放在我母亲

坟墓旁的那簇

希望通过死亡

我们能够忘却

雷声不断的夜晚

当日落击打着

我们肮脏的客厅

我们起舞，光脚

起泡并相爱，当

账单出现时我们

无言以对，你申请

远方的工作，我打着字

对着那些我们亲眼看着溶解

在雾蒙蒙的力之碰撞

或巧合中的梦想

当我结束时

我置身事外，审视着

种种不完美：

如果不了解我们的

故事你就可能错过的

一片片凹凸不

平的热情

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。

---

風歌

作者：陈聪

我見過風，它是能觸的另一與願望相反的力

萬草再輪番枯敗都行將展開，你也不必隱藏

秋得像一杯茶中的殘影，我就從底下浮上來

湖啊無限雕刻，追逋你和我之間可悲的平衡

豈真有這樣一幅畫，當中無事發生還被欣賞

獨關著一扇門的空廳，敞開窗任憑雨聲灼燒

馱伏細粉的飛蛾子淡出款書，你這樣停了筆

我也想如其盤旋、如其僵死於蛛網但被你畫

互相地出逃，從一所窠臼跳進另一所窠臼里

勿在洞中營造不切這真實的穩定，然後波動

如倚音，心在琴上狂砸但怎麼擺動無力的鐘

以其最似絕對性的流動與詞彙雄辯，面對面

我無意在這陣風中復現，像條裙子那般荏弱

而俯拾即是的承諾於新織的愛情里光輝如初

無端的對流在空中作曖昧的摩擦，還有些人

能全無後顧地模擬出狡詰的翅膀，然後墜落

陈聪，哲学系研究生。

song of wind

translated by PLS

i’ve seen wind, it’s a touchable force against a wish

the grasses are about to bloom no matter how withered they are, you don’t need to hide

once as autumnal as a broken shadow in the tea, i will float up from the bottom

oh, the lake keeps sculpting, chasing the pathetic balance between you and me

is there really such a painting, in which nothing happens yet it is still appreciated

empty hall with the only door shut, open the window let the sound of rain burn

the moth carrying fine powder fading out of the signature, thus you stop writing

i also want to swirl like her, die in a cobweb like her yet be painted by you

both running away, jumping from one old den to the other

don’t create unreal stability in the cave, and then ripple

like appoggiatura, heart beating the strings but how to swing the strengthless clock

with its most absolute flow and vocabulary of eloquence, face to face

i reappear unintentionally in this blast of wind, timid as a skirt

plentiful promises glowing as before in the newly woven romance

unprovoked convections rubbing flirtingly in the air, there are some people

who can simulate sly wings without any worry, and plummet

Chen Cong is a student in philosophy.

---

红帽姐姐

作者：袁婵

莴苣莴苣，把你的长发放下来

让我以之为云梯

乘你的黑发在黑夜进入你的黑色圣殿

莴苣莴苣，你说你赏月赏的是危险

荆棘丛划瞎了骑士的眼，他们的脸

被鸱鸮抓去巢内作毯

世界是你桌上阴翳的漆碗

深幽的汤水中有血红的手指

黎明和巫士还在森林沉睡但终将苏醒

莴苣莴苣

你的魔咒破碎过，你又把它重新拼合

故事如断肢、碎骨

每一个版本都有新的爱与残忍

童话都是这样成形，你也如此长大

越来越长，你的头发

它在吞噬你的房间

新的背叛出自你的身体

莴苣莴苣，从你的城堡出来

或先把你的长发放下

那清僻的小路我曾走过

外婆的家门我也锁过

可爱的谎言、悲伤的歌

我也在如深潭的腹中独自唱过

可传奇小说没有这样写过

莴苣，莴苣

我路过你太多太多次

不是巫士，不是王子

我们都被乌黑的月亮照着

莴苣，莴苣

把你的长发放下

让我以之为云梯

乘你的黑发

我们走出黑夜

扔一把火，翦除那黑色圣殿

如果此时你还不愿

还风以残发或余灰

那便先借你我的红帽

袁婵，香港大学文学博士，作者，翻译。诗作散见于《星星诗刊》《香港文学》《新加坡文艺》等华语文学刊物。

red hooded sister

translated by PLS

lettuce, lettuce, please loosen your long hair

and let me scale it as a ladder

riding your black hair to enter your temple of black

lettuce, lettuce, you said what you love about the moon is the danger in it

brambles slit the knights’ eyes blind, their faces

captured by true owls to carpet their nest

the world is the umbrageous lacquered bowl on your table

bloody fingers in the abysmal soup

the dawn and sorcerers are still asleep in the forest but will eventually wake

lettuce, lettuce

your curse was once broken, and you are now stitching it up

the story is like severed limbs and fragmented bones

every version has fresh love and cruelty

fairytales are formed this way, you grew up this way

your hair, longer and longer

devouring your room

the new betrayal stems from your own body

lettuce, lettuce, walk out of your castle

or lay down your long hair first

i’ve walked that quiet lane

and locked grandma’s door

cute lies and tragic songs

i’ve sung alone in the abdomen deep as an abyss

but no legendary fiction has been written this way

lettuce, lettuce

i’ve walked past you too many times

not sorcerer, nor prince

we are all caressed by the pitch-black moon

lettuce, lettuce

put your long hair down

let me scale it as a ladder

on your black hair

we walk out of the night

hurl a fire, rid of that temple of black

if you are still not sure about

returning the residual hair or ash to the wind

then please take my red hood first

Yuan Chan is a writer and translator. Her works have been published in Chinese language publications such as The Stars Poetry, Hong Kong Literature, and Singapore Literature.

---

There is a vengeance in the snow that my ancestors forgot to melt

and

now it is my turn to tell you how to burn ice

by Shalini Singh

Glass brittle people pray to a stone watched by guards guns in towers that pinnacle

in a bulletproof vest of a soldier, a steel heart pumps solid. single hair on his chin and three on his pubes signaling the non-eligibilities a year late and- now all the pelters have grown up graduating into killers, murderers, terrorists, and slayers. Some, sophomores in sadism.

At night, I slowly watch the snowfall in the light of the lampshade cry “ghost” when it flickers

five times too slowly. I call the murky gods rooted high to give not my feet black snow beneath to break bones in a spatter sputter cry. To freeze my eyelids not when the black snow buries seven feet faster than my hands can whip frostbite in late January when no crusty birds want to die.

Blood cannot mix with snow and the patterns are not pretty awash in ugly. The truce of the bodies fly’s solitary in conjunction and a retrograde. You must not ask your father. Or his father about mothers and their mothers for they might never recover.

Raining as it should, your face is tear-masked charcoal eyes burning fever of a hundred and a four. Soon, a cemetery in kind.

Crows have been fasting in an abandoned toolshed in a monastery filled with filthy monks

that raped women who prayed at their feet and raped their gods and the courts denied reparations.

Now, everyone that was denied everything in foresight is blind with spite. They all walk with crows that shine like gutter oil and oiled battered onions pucker in deep fry, together they cry in unison and the cries are heard in ears chartered in all corners.

The filth is old, heard, old.

Crows existed even before. Before there were some of us and most did not care.

They did not care for the gold on the trees was hanging by the threads of a fortune teller’s whiskers

as he drank whiskey and later in the light, the village was awakened by the cries of the women who were raped

by monks, filthy. Monks that wore string cheese white which finished red. Red would be black.

If you had to wait, the black was crestfallen into surrender and the hands would paint into the

handheld heart of a small body wreathing in a county jail. The jailer says he knows of a god that

can kill rapists in their sleep. The warden grieves that suicide is not an option. That options can run into tragedies if not pleasured by a knife and a baton or bougie loin kinky comrades.

Shalini Singh’s work has been published or is forthcoming in The Nation, Outlook India, Poetically, The Spectacle, Tofu Ink Arts Press amongst others.

雪里有我祖先忘记融掉的复仇

因此

现在轮到我来告诉你烧冰的秘诀

翻译：诗验室

玻璃易碎人们祈祷 对着有警卫守护的一块石头 塔里的枪在一名士兵

的防弹衣中达到巅峰， 一颗钢铁的心顽固地跳动着。 他脸上的那根毛和阴部的三根毛暗示着缺乏资格性

晚一年以及 如今所有的掷弹者都已长大成人并逐渐出落成杀手、谋杀者、恐怖主义者和凶手。 有些人，则成了二流的施虐狂。

夜里，我慢慢看着雪 在灯罩的光中下下来 当它闪的速度慢五拍时

我会发出惊叫。 我呼唤着高处昏暗的神 不要拿我的脚下方的黑雪来折断骨头 在四处飞溅的叫声中。不 在黑雪以比我双手挥舞的速度快七尺的节奏填埋时凝住我的眼皮 一月末的冻疮 没有一只带壳的鸟愿意死去。

血不能与雪相融，最终的图案并不美丽 在丑陋中被淹没。身体连词里飞蝇的孤独与退步者的休战。 你不准向你父亲提问。或者他的父亲关于 母亲以及他们的母亲因为他们可能从未缓过来。

你本该下雨的脸，被泪水淹没 灰色的眼燃着一九零四的烧。 很快，墓地以牙还牙。

乌鸦们在被废弃的工具棚里斋戒在 到处都是强奸在其脚下祷告的女人以及 强奸他们的神明的和尚的寺庙里 在拒绝赔偿的法庭里。

现在，每个人都在预见中被 拒绝一切都被怨恨蒙蔽双眼。他们都

与地沟油那样锃亮的乌鸦同行 涂满油与面糊的洋葱在油炸中卷缩

它们发出整齐的呐喊这些叫喊 被设立在每个角落的耳朵听见。

这老掉牙的污秽，被听见了的，陈词滥调。

乌鸦在更早之前就已经存在了。在我们当中一些人存在之前，但多数人并不在乎。

他们不在乎 因为树上的金块与 占卜者之须挂在一起

而他正喝着 威士忌夜间晚些时候在火的微光中，村庄被那些被无耻的和尚强奸的女人

的尖叫惊醒。 和尚身上乳白的绳结在暴行结束时已成血红。

连红色都是黑的。

如果你不得不等，黑色会沮丧成投降，双手脆弱得被画成地方监狱里一个扭动的小躯体被捧在手中的心脏。

狱卒说他知道一个会

在强奸犯的睡眠中将其杀死的神。 狱长对不能自杀的条例很伤心。如果没有刀和棍棒或性变态的狱友来满足他的话，这一条例足以迅速演变成悲剧。

Shalini Singh 的作品曾经或即将发表于《The Nation》、《Outlook India》、《Poetically》、《The Spectacle》及《Tofu Ink Arts Press》等处。

---

空气钉子

作者：林翠羽

锤击我的空气钉子

并不把我锤进地里

在光滑 油亮的地表之上

太阳和我——保持永恒的距离

它用影子提醒我

“总有踩不灭的影，赖皮、顽强

只能厌恶，不能触及”

相比而言，会生锈的钉子 要牢靠的多

它们扎进肉里，就无法拔除

偶尔，在凌晨四点

会看见体内弯折的钉子闪烁

我们都在流泪

月光也在伤害我们

林翠羽，编辑，现居北京。

airy nails

translated by PLS

the airy nails that hammer me

aren’t nailing me into the ground

on the smooth and shiny crust of the earth

the sun keeps a perpetual distance from me

and it reminds me with shadows:

there is always uncrushable shadow, shameless, resistant

you can only detest it, yet you can’t touch it

rusty nails, by contrast

are far more reliable

once in the flesh, they are unremovable

from time to time, at four in the morning

the glowing of bent nails can be seen

we are all weeping

for even moonlight is hurting us

Heather is an editor currently living in Beijing.

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有关爱情的学问

作者：李盲

终有一天，事物在语言的倒退中变得迟钝

我们会用一整天，以慌乱的蓝光眼捉蝴蝶和玫瑰的相互亲吻

命令它们的影像也相互亲吻。傍晚建造一个三层高的温室

将房子、钢琴、桫椤、万年笔和热带果树装入其中

“作为诗人的我们俩还会相互致以诗歌吗？”你问

姐姐，那时候词句已如瓷片般古老，我们要开口

就想要艰难地抹开唇齿上的古渍，而我们常常会摔进另一句话里：

要有光。这是唯一一句穿过了玻璃墙的话

它激起了诸多物种的抗议：虎、蝉、鬼、猿

在众多啸声中，它又准确地抵达了你。当你向我开口

你用你的第一句话揭示翻译的必要性：要有爱。

由此，在终日的沉默过后，我们仿佛重返泪光，词语半开半合之际

一只鸟向与它同居的鸟问了第一个问题：为什么？

science of love

translated by PLS

one day, things will be blunt in the regression of languages

we will use an entire day to capture the kiss between butterfly and rose with panicking blu-ray lens

ordering their reflections to kiss each other too. at dusk we build a three storey greenhouse

stuff it with a house, piano, tree fern, fountain pen and tropical fruit tree

“as poets will we still send each other poems?” you asked

sister, by then the lines will be as ancient as the tiles, if we wanted to talk

we’d need to wipe off the old stains around our mouths in struggle, yet we often fall into another sentence:

there needs to be light. this is the only sentence that travels through the glass wall

which instigates protests from different species: tiger, cicada, ghost, ape

and in the sound of flutes, reaches you in accuracy. when you start speaking to me

you use your first sentence to illustrate the necessity of translation: there needs to be love.

from that, after days of silence, it seems as if we return to tears, between the opening and closing of words

a bird asks the first question to its cohabitant: why?

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