Summer '21 Issue | 2021 夏季刊

银歌

作者:刘鹤尧


没有忧郁

行走在午后的白色庭院

阴影盛大

飞鸟般哗然 开散


无名之处蔓延着

像动物优雅的爪

揉捻心脏的力


泉水之眼涌出

银子的馨香

这蓝天,轰隆作响

洒下干涩的闪光

没有忧郁

一个瞬间预示着全部的时间

我拒绝梦境,启示,或玄奥的金黄,

像是脉搏烧断了它的弦

要为了这爱

刘鹤尧,学生,经常不由自主地陷入失败冥想。

Silver Ballad

translated by PLS

no melancholy

wandering in a white courtyard in the afternoon

grandiose shade

quiet as birds dispersing

in a nameless spot

creep claws as elegant as those of animals

and a force that crushes hearts


the eye of spring gushing out

the fragrance of silver

this blue sky thunders

pouring down dry flashes

no melancholy

a moment foretells all moments

I refuse dreamscapes, premonitions, or esoteric gold,

like a pulse burning its strings

all for this love


Liu Heyao, a student, often wandering into futile meditations.

Rewritten City

by Erica Martin


I miss the places that are gone now

Smoky sweaty air

Grates that shake

And a sloping tunnel that smells like fresh earth.

But as the bulldozer rips them away

At least now the wounds can cauterize.


Far worse are the places that remain unchanged

As the city folds and flips

Instead of ripping

Upending your perspective

Though the materials remain.

Sidewalks and doors

Bras that drip from the ceiling

A painted demon who pukes red wine

A very exclusive bathroom shelf

And the chalky drywall that once smeared our clothes

They look exactly the same.


These mummified sets now hold no players

Or worse, new ones

Traipsing callously through your most haunted spots.

Preserved halls that meant one thing now mean

Nothing

As the city turns its page on you.


So you rewrite it

Your story

On the starchy new page

Rewrite the limbs on the dance floor

The menagerie of smokers by the door

The kneeling people in the bathroom stall

The long chats by unsubtle candlelight.

Erase a few faces

And draw in the new

As the book spine wrinkles

From vigorous reuse

And the erasing

The eviction

The exorcism

Gets less complete every time.

How many times can you reuse a place

A bar, a street corner, a hidden upstairs room, a bed

Before it has no new memories left to give you?

Just a chaotic mess of the old ones

Laid on syrupy and thick.


So you reshuffle the pieces

Braid the bones into mismatched sets.

They clink and twitch

And fit together

Under the dark power of your scribbling hand

But not into anything whole.


Erica Martin is a Shanghai-based poet.



重写城市

翻译:诗验室

我怀念现已逝去的地方

夹着汗味与烟味的气息

摇晃的火炉

和闻起来像清新泥土的坡度隧道。

可在推土机撕开一切后

至少还能为伤口消毒。

更糟的是那些一成不变的地方

城市并未开裂

而是折叠与翻转

搅乱你的视觉

尽管材料依旧如故。


人行道与门

从天花板垂下的胸罩

一名口吐红酒的手绘恶魔

一个高级浴室挂架

以及曾经弄脏我们衣服的白色泥墙

他们看起来一模一样。


这些僵死的摆设不再有人光顾

或者更糟,有新面孔光顾

冷冷地游荡在你最念念不忘的地方。

那些被保存下来、曾经意味着某些东西的过道

现已毫无意义

就像这座城市已将你抛之脑后。


于是你开始重写它

你的故事

关于刻板的新篇章

重写舞池中的臂膀

门口的一群吸烟者

卫生间里跪着的人

赤裸的烛光旁无尽的长谈。


抹去一些脸庞

吸入一些新脸庞

像书脊一样

因频繁使用而发皱

那些抹除

那些排挤

那些驱邪

一次比一次不完整。

一家酒吧、一个街角、一个隐蔽的楼上房间、一张床

在一个地方无法留给你任何新的记忆之前

你究竟可以重复使用它们多少次?

只是一塌糊涂的老地方

黏稠而厚重地横着。

于是你重新调整这些东西

将骨头编入错位的组合。

他们撞击与抽搐着

然后在你随意书写之手的暗黑力量下

彼此结合

只是没有组成任何一个整体。


Erica Martin 是一位常驻上海的诗人。



松鼠记

作者:吕周杭


树木对攀登保有母性。即使疼痛

即使松鼠因庇护遗忘飞行,即使

松鼠衰老,粮仓在地下氧化燃烧

抑或他奔向新的阁楼,狠狠关掉

朝向你的窗。唯独不忘攫取果实


奉献且无惧背叛。至纯之爱

莫过松木留给松鼠柔软的羽翼

纵容天真与薄情暗暗掩住枯枝

掩住雷声,蚊虫的繁殖与入侵

钥匙旋开旱季时土地缓慢的龟裂

蓬松尾鎏金。你爱看夕阳融化他

仰脸思考的小模样。划破天空

捧给他大朵郁金香。生活无危险

你把他举到神的唇边,私有晚霞

在肥胖的手腕系好幸运的红绫

某日,根系触及他曾私有的房间

皮肤上爪痕滚烫若新生胎记

想起他狡黠的闪电,傲慢的夺取

与椭型的回归轨迹。想起离去

凉风与脚下的火山岩夜夜相对

想起深爱不致挽留,即使虔诚

想起树冠下,时间沙漏滤去耐心

空气中盐粒跳动。想起澎湃的风

淡蓝的河谷,一只松鼠展开双翼

踮起脚暗暗生长的岁月一去不返


吕周杭,他还不想放下手里的锤子。

On Squirrels

translated by PLS


trees keep a maternal instinct for climbing. Though painful

a squirrel forgets how to fly under shelter, and

the squirrel ages, barns oxidize and burn underground

or he runs towards the new attic at a gallop, ruthlessly shutting

the windows facing you. Only to remember collecting fruits


giving and being not afraid of betrayals. Love of sublime purity

no more than the soft wings pines left for squirrels

collusion to innocence and ungrateful love enshroud withered twigs

the sound of thundering, propagation and invasion of mosquitos

keys unlock slow cracks of the earth during dry season


fluffy tails shine with gold. You like to watch his cute pondering face

shining under the sunset. Slash the sky open

endorse him with giant tulips. Life is danger-less

you hold him up to the lips of gods, private sunset glow

ribbons the rounded wrist with auspicious vermillion silk


one day, the roots reach his former residence

scratches on the skin burning like a birth mark

reminding me of his furtive lightening, arrogant steals

and oval recursive orbit. Of departing

cold breeze and lava staring at each other night after night


of even the deepest love won’t keep one, however loyal

of under the canopy, sandglass of time filters out patience

salt particles dancing in the air. Of roaring wind

cerulean ravine, a squirrel unfolding its wings

the days of growing furtively on the tips of toes are long gone


Lv Zhouhang, not yet ready to let go of his hammer.

Spring Azaleas

by Roddie McKenzie


Another spring:

green muzzle flashes from the ground,

annuals detonate along the border;

savage ambushes of the retina.

A walk becomes hazardous,

dodging the floral salvos

and technicolour shrapnel.


The boom of reds,

the whine of orange,

the shriek of yellows,

the zip and chatter

of automatic daffodil fire.


I long for the soft bloom of evening skies.


And then I see them.... azaleas,

fluorescent and hallucinogenic

in the dusk, petals winking

from soft violet to bold cobalt.

Like cool flames,

flickering,

nuances of blue.

Their soft satin light,

soothes my eyes,

comforts me,

in velvet

moments.

Roddie McKenzie lives in Dundee and is a member of Wyvern Poets and Nethergate Writers. His poetry and prose have appeared in Lallans, Seagate III, New Writing Scotland 35, Northwords Now 36, 50 Shades of Tay, and Rebel.

春之杜鹃

翻译:诗验室

又一春:

绿色炮口就地发出信号,

年生植物在边界地区引爆;

视网膜野蛮的埋伏。

散步变成冒险,

避开鲜花的齐射

与绚丽的弹片。

红之盛,

橙之啼,

黄之尖叫,

水仙之火的

叽叽喳喳。


我渴望夜空温柔的绽放。


然后我就看见它们……杜鹃,

在黄昏中闪着微光

令人神魂颠倒,花瓣眨着眼

从柔软的紫闪到大胆的蓝。

仿佛冷酷的火焰,

闪烁着,

蓝的神韵。

他们柔滑的光,

平息着我的双眼,

安慰着我,

在天鹅绒的

时光里。

Roddie McKenzie 住在邓迪,为当地“Wyvern Poets”与“Nethergate Writers”协会成员。他的诗歌与散文曾发表于《Lallans》、《Seagate III》、《New Writing Scotland 35》、《Northwords Now 36》、《50 Shades of Tay》及《Rebel》等处。

静香

作者:旎


地平线绑缚你。焚身用色素

欺瞒你,你才不至于陷得更深。在我之上

橘子仍在学习今天的腐烂


(停顿,至少三十分钟)


往复锈石路,被遗弃的

假象乱如麻。密友一一

将我指认:子宫有意脱垂。

湿润的婴儿

不应背着自己行走

观愈远愈臃肿。铃声

长出一对空心的双乳。慈母吸吮

我们

到甜的

鸟中去,到嬗变的灯笼里去。

,女学生。

Still Fragrance

translated by PLS


Horizon binds you. Burning with pigments

deluding you, so you won’t become too involved. Above me

oranges still apprehending the decay of today


(pause, for at least thirty minutes)


Moving back and forth on Xiushi Road, abandoned

illusions utterly confusing. Confidantes one after another

identified me: uterus intentionally prolapses.

moist baby

should not walk carrying herself on the back


The further you watch, the more inflated it is. Bells

grew a pair of hollow breasts. Devoted mother sucking

us

into sweet

birds, into evolving lanterns.


Ni, a female student.

Angelic Syzygy

by Diana Thoresen


The dark intestine of the sea Swallowed a colony of moonlit bats God laughed and threw a new Canopic jar of graceful waves For Set and Horus to quarrel over God smiled again and the darkness Stampeded over distant green hills Horus cried and Set fainted God grimaced and the luminous Blackness enveloped every flower Ancient cliffs and ghastly crabs remained Transfixed by limpid moonshine But the pale owl wrapped its feathers Around the spirit of every paperbark tree Victorious as ever, Pallas traced The eldritch mnemonics of the Big Dipper To Arcturus and the earth Rejoined in an angelic syzygy

Diana Thoresen is a Russian-Australian writer.

天使之合体

翻译:诗验室


大海的黑色肠道

吞下一群沐浴在月光中的蝙蝠

神笑了,抛下一口崭新的


盛满优雅之浪的卡诺卜坛

只为挑拨赛特与荷鲁斯之争

神又笑了,黑暗

将遥远的青山踩在脚下

荷鲁斯哭泣 赛特昏厥

神皱眉,发光透亮的


黑暗裹住每一朵花

古老的悬崖与可怖的螃蟹

在清澈的月光下继续凝固


可灰色的猫头鹰用羽毛

将所有千层树的魂灵围住

一如既往的胜利,帕拉斯

从大角星找到

北斗七星的诡异密术

地球在天使之合体中返回


Diana Thoresen 是一名澳籍俄罗斯写作者。

以目为囚

作者:路边


是的,多么没有信心的开头

眼睛能看向哪里

水草的睫毛从来不指引什么


看吧

看见孩子

就一直认为拥有过童年


看见被削平的塔尖

便以为

巨大的,一定垂立在某个角落


看见色彩

身体也会跟着斑斓

介于黑白之间的心脏

停跳于雨水冲刷的屋顶


看吧

看到婚礼现场

便承认

新人是一瞬间的衰老


看见自整容镜

反射而出的弧线

确认那是瞳孔的时候

也确认了自己


继续看

一直看

企图将目之所及

全部定义在铁门之内


熟睡之后

从别人的目光那里

得到“这是梦”


并试图

再一次睁开双眼


路边,河北人,闲时写诗,一个地下写作者。

Let the Eyes be Hostages

translated by PLS


Yes, what a confidence-lacking start

where can the eyes land

the lashes of waterweeds never hint at anything


look

seeing children

and thinking you once had a childhood


seeing a truncated spire

and thinking

the enormous, must stand erect in a corner

seeing colors

and the body will become colorful

heart between black and white

ceasing to pulsate at the rain-washed roof

look

seeing a wedding

and admitting

the newlywed is the aging of an instant


seeing the curved light rays

reflected from a vanity mirror

and confirming it is a pupil

is also self-reassurance


keep looking

and staring

attempting to shut whatever the eyes can reach

inside the iron gate with a definition

after a sound sleep

from other people’s eyes

you get that “it’s a dream”

and attempting

to open your eyes once again

Lu Bian, from Hebei province, writing poetry as a hobby, an underground writer.

The Weight of Forgiveness

by Matt Schroeder

we must dig deep down

to wherever the weight of forgiveness has buried its head in sand in stone in something we cannot quite find the shape of in our mouths & try as we must to collect in our arms

with whatever strength can be sucked from the marrow of our bones through cracks that leak from the chipping of these temples of bodies we have named home this forgiveness this stone necked crane this oiled eel we must fix upon this contradiction of a feeling & reel backwards with all our might until the ground gasps in delight in surprise in dirt-throated ecstasy at remembering air & try as we must carry forward this truth of begin this middle path forward until even the staple gaze of lowercase god cannot grace us until even the stinging bite of minor powers cannot taste us

we must if the word redemption is to make a home of the rooms that house our many tongues

if there is going to be any

chance to break away from the forms of glory that tie us down & say it must be so

for it must be forgiveness that paves the way under threat of whatever these dark-eyed & feather-throated rulers have in store for us


Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently living in southern China. His poetry can be found in Thin Air Magazine, The Rush, Dovecote Magazine, The Decadent Review, Fearsome Critters Magazine, New World Writing and more.

原谅的重量

翻译:诗验室


我们必须狠狠挖入

原谅的重量

掩埋头颅之处

无论是沙里 石头里 还是

那些我们无法在口中

找到形状的东西里


& 尽我们所能

从切削我们

称之为家的

身之神殿时

遗漏的缝隙中

借助能够从

骨髓中吸取的

一切力量

用双臂收集

这原谅

这石颈的

仙鹤 这油鳗

我们必须专注于

感觉的自相矛盾

& 用尽全力

向后挪动 直至地面

在快乐中 在讶异中 在

泥喉的兴奋中喘息 记住空气

& 尽我们所能

发扬这种起始的

真理 这一中庸之道

直至就连小写之神

的凝视也无法

赐予我们恩典 直到就连小众

势力的疯狂蜇咬都无法尝出我们


如果“救赎”一词

意味着要造一个让众舌

居住的房子


如果有任何机会

可以逃脱

缚住我们的荣耀

之状 & 确认别无他法

那么我们就一定要遵循


因为在这些

黑眼与羽喉统治者

给我们带来的

潜在威胁之下

只有原谅才能

扫清道路


Matt Schroeder 是一位居住在中国南部的诗人与教育工作者。他的作品散见于《Thin Air Magazine》、《 The Rush》、《Dovecote Magazine》、《 The Decadent Review》以及《 Fearsome Critters Magazine》等文学期刊。

南岭记

作者:吕周杭


以我为参照物,逸夫楼开裂。AB两区

考试的纠结选项,成合围之势

用光亮的碗准确扣住一尾鱼

铃声是汛期,人潮携斑斓降落伞,势能

冲开大坝。动能留给排队与咀嚼

一二三四五六餐,六块橡胶糖

所有的嘴都在开会,所有的嘴都在消化

含混着综艺,春招,金工实习的小铁锤

南岭生活着我

指挥交通,清扫落叶,偶尔为街道续好断骨


二公寓。

木板床上每晚,啤酒冒泡。月亮搭在潮湿的肩

我们习惯睡前谈起传动轴,一些计划的期限

气压骤低。齿轮旋转,成环岛模样

德制机械臂,把盐均匀撒入所有开着的窗

睡梦中目击霓虹尾,寝室漂浮。我们

再次将头齐齐埋入西瓜

在南岭手术台,一些誓言逐渐酥软

磐石路上的蛋黄灌入松胀的饼,生态循环

饱腹即惆怅。娴熟跨越月光后

他三分熟的脊背

缓缓缓缓渗出深色的墨汁

On Nanling

translated by PLS


Yifu Building cracks around me. The confusing

options in an exam between section A and B, closing in from all sides

using shiny bowl to accurately catch a fish

the bell is the flood season, the crowd carries bright-colored parachutes, with force

that can break a dam. When moving, it can leave queues and chewing

one, two, three, four, five and six meals, six pieces of dambose

every mouth is participating in a meeting, every mouth is digesting

mixing with entertainment, spring enrollments, small hammers from metalworking practice

in Nanling I reside

commanding traffic, sweeping leaves, sometimes setting broken bones for streets


Apartment building II.

Each night upon wooden bed, beer foaming. Moon resting on moist shoulders

we are used to talking about driveshafts, a few deadlines

the atmospheric pressure suddenly drops. Gears rotate, into the shape of a circular island

Germany-made mechanical arms, sprinkle salt into every open window

witnessing a neon tail in the dream, dormitory floating. We

bury our heads into watermelon again

on an operating table in Nanling, a few promises slowly softened

egg yolks sliding into bulging pancakes on Panshi Road, ecological cycles

fully fed means despondency. After adeptly traversing through moonlight

his medium rare back

slowly-y-y oozing dark ink

Orchid

by Jillian Mae Lee

Walking in the autumn fields, the wind pricks my skin

because I think I hear your name.

A name like old leather, ragged armchairs, holey socks,

grapefruit smiles, fallen petals on the floor.

I’ll keep your name in pockets, the corners of my mouth,

hidden in my chest, stuck against my lungs.

This tender torment happens

when I dream of you at the dinner table.

Spring will come, the blossoms sprout

from my ribs. I feel my heart twist

with every sunrise, catching light like memories

in a shoebox or a Kodak roll.


Jillian Mae Lee is a writer from Seattle, WA.

翻译:诗验室


在秋田里漫游,凉风扎人

因为我感觉自己听见了你的名字。

一个像旧皮革、破扶手椅、破洞袜、

葡萄柚的微笑、落在地上的花瓣的名字。


我会将你的名字塞进兜里、嘴角里,

藏在我的胸口、置于我的肺旁。

如此温柔的折磨就这样

随我在桌旁梦你时潜入。


春天会来的,花会从

我的肋骨盛开。我感觉我的心脏

随着每个日出扭转,就像鞋盒里的记忆

或者柯达胶卷那样捉住光。


Jillian Mae Lee 是一名来自华盛顿西雅图的写作者。



Social Distancing in the art of Georges Seurat (1859-1891)

by Kevin Kiely


Awake a second time, the digital clock at 04.11

EuroNews (on mute) slides countries & statistics

across the screen. Gothic trees beyond the window sill

with the sad still life, iPhone and two stray books

Nineteenth Century French Artists

and When Things Fall Apart (Pema Chödrön)


Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte may be breaking

the 2-metres social distancing, his perfectly painted parents

catcalled their kids (obviously) to order like those on a break

from lockdown who waddle nervous as ducklings

in the local park where joggers wearing sunglasses

endlessly circle the artificial lake, and elders

are like mourners staring into the water

the dogs on leads (by order), while the volley ball

mixed-doubles seems to be the only fun in the sun—

Seurat’s cosmopolitans pulsate in sombre sensual haze

beside the glittering river, yachts, boats, Paris on the horizon—

but it was the hats, umbrellas, the dreamy relaxation that made me grab

the red marker and graffiti ←2Metres→ between his two dragoons, the freak

playing the trombone, the guys rowing, the pipe smoker snooping on the

family picnic—

A Star Trek episode Planet C-19 would lack action

about an invisible virus that kills at random (weak storyline)

‘It’s life Jim but not as we know it’ (Got it in one, Mr Spock)

I wilfully ‘destroy’ Seurat’s beautiful painting with plenty ←2M→

(Chödrön) offers Buddhist heart advice on ‘intimacy with fear’

and ‘this very moment is the perfect teacher’ as the kettle boils

making morbid music. The label on the Yogi Organic Sleep Tea

bag says ‘Patience Pays’. ‘Healthy lockdowners who are fed and fed up

are never heroes. Frontline workers are the heroes’—the local

free newspaper proclaims.


EuroNews attempts to evade the horrors, shows people talking

balcony to balcony, shoppers zig-zagging to the safety of their cars

and then lots of hospital footage, South American lion coloured graveyards

with JCB diggers on standby. Drink your tea and don’t touch your face.


It may be years before children in school-playgrounds

chant: ‘Ring-A-Ring A-Covid. Cough Cough, Spit Spit.

We All Fall Down’. And how long before the pharmacies

sell Covidox and Covidox (Extra Strength):‘don’t take while

driving your electric car.’ Or there may be no more schools,

as once there were cave dwellers, animal skins for clothes,

flint utensils and bone needles—

Someone messaged around midnight with laughing emoticons:

‘If you hear the sound of one hand washing in the sink,

you’re not staying safe.’

Kevin Kiely is a poet, critic and author. Some of his published books include Quintesse (St Martin’s Press, NY), Breakfast with Sylvia (Lagan Press) (awarded Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry), Plainchant for a Sundering (Lapwing Press).

乔治·修拉(1859-1891)艺术中的社交隔离

翻译:诗验室


第二次醒来,数字手表显示:凌晨四时十一分

“欧洲新闻电视台”(静音)在屏幕上显示着

不同的国家与相应的统计数字。窗外,哥特式的树木

忧郁的静物,苹果手机与两本散落的书籍

《十九世纪法国艺术家》

与《当生命陷落时》(佩玛·丘卓)


修拉的《大碗岛的星期天下午》可能违反了

保持两米社交距离的规定,画中形象完美的父母

命令自己的小孩(很明显)要举止得当,一如那些刚从封城中解放

像鸭子一样在当地公园里蹒跚而行的人,戴着墨镜的慢跑者

绕着人工湖来回跑动,老人们

守丧者一样凝视着湖水

宠物狗系着绳(受命),排球

混合双打似乎是阳光下唯一的乐趣 ——


修拉笔下的大都市在沉闷而愉悦的朦胧中跳跃着

除波光粼粼的小河之外,还有游艇、帆船、与地平线融成一体的巴黎——

但是,是那些帽子、阳伞以及梦幻的轻松气氛让我决定拿起

红色马克笔,在两名骑兵、吹长号的怪人、争吵的男人、

与偷窥家庭野餐聚会的抽大烟者之间画出“←两米→” ——

《星球 C-19》会是一部关于滥杀无辜的

隐形病毒(情节有点弱)且枯燥无味的“星际迷航”系列

‘这就是生活,吉姆,它不是我们想象中的那样’(这么快就中了,史波克先生)

我故意用很多“←两米→” 来“摧毁”修拉的精美绘画


(丘卓)就“亲近恐惧”与“当下这一刻是最好的老师”

提出佛学智慧,然后水壶开了

发出病态的音乐。“瑜伽有机助眠茶”包装的标签上

写着“耐心会有回报的”。“那些有吃有喝却仍旧不满的健康隔离者

从来都不是英雄。前线工作者才是英雄” —— 当地免费报纸这样宣称。


“欧洲新闻电视台”试图避开引起恐慌的内容,报道着人们在阳台上

互相交谈、购物者来回绕行只为安全回到车上

以及大量医院镜头、南美狮子大闹坟场

挖掘机随时待命的画面。喝茶吧,不要摸脸。

多年后,孩子们可能会在操场上

高唱:“叮叮当,叮叮当,新冠来啦。咳啊咳,吐啊吐。

我们都要倒”。还要多久,各大药店就会开始

销售“抗新冠口服液”与“升级版抗新冠口服液”:“不要在

开电动汽车时服药。”或者可能学校已不复存在,

一如曾经的山顶洞人、作衣物用的动物皮毛、

燧石用具与骨制针器 ——


有人在半夜发了条带笑脸表情的信息:

“如果你听到一只手在水池里清洗的声音,

那么你就不是安全的。”


Kevin Kiely 是一名诗人、评论家兼作家,著有《Quintesse》(圣马丁出版社,纽约)、《Breakfast with Sylvia 》(Lagan 出版社)以及《Plainchant for a Sundering》(Lapwing 出版社)等书。

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