Ars Poetica
by Sean Thomas Dougherty
You reach a certain age,
& you have written
all these elegies for your dead,
& you think you’re done,
but the dead keep coming.
Sean Thomas Dougherty is the author or editor of 20 books including the forthcoming Death Prefers the Minor Keys from BOA Editions. His awards include a US Fulbright Fellowship to the Balkans and the James Hearst Poetry Prize from North American Review.
诗艺
翻译：诗验室
你到了一个年纪
你已经为死去的你
写了这么多挽歌，
你觉得已经够了，
可死却源源不断。
Sean Thomas Dougherty 曾编辑与撰写20本书籍，其中包括即将由 BOA Editions 出版的《Death Prefers the Minor Keys》。他曾获得“巴尔干半岛地区美国富布莱特奖学金”和由《北美评论》推出的“James Hearst 诗歌奖”。
七月十三日
作者：胡列塔
黑暗舔舐脊背
那黑暗是我创造的
为了侵凌，为了进犯
一种结缀饰着对方
伴以雌伏的状貌
啜食杏子
其中是隐秘的性别的核
太阳早早地死了
人类在荒蛮中耕作
在小径中散步
夏天为我们的初吻
放低了姿态
胡列塔，北京外国语大学海外汉学研究生。
The 13th of July
translated by PLS
the darkness that licks the back
was invented by me
as an aggression, an intrusion
a type of knot embellished with the
opponent’s submissive posture
slurping an apricot
inside which is a kernel of hidden gender
the sun is long gone
people are farming in the wilderness
strolling down the little path
summer has toned down its attitude
for our very first kiss
Hu Lieta, a master student of Overseas Sinology at Beijing Foreign Studies University.
I ran
by Mary Ventura
to the end of the street
hair in the air
not what my parents ever taught
to hell, I’m prepared
I ran
towards the void in front of such a crowd
hair in the air
a sequence of moments I’d dreamed long enough to
stop waiting
I ran
to the foot of a mountain
hair in the air
muted, knowing
message will reach
I ran
on to the road
paved with truth, freedom, big abstract words
hair in the air
feeling those luxuries
I ran
into men and women, all
hair in the air
smiling and marching on
Mary Ventura, translator. Her Chinese poems and book reviews have been published in Voice & Verse, Wen Hsun, and Cha Journal, and her English poems have appeared in SAND, Asymptote Journal “Translation Tuesdays”, and Voice & Verse. She also founded Zi Fu magazine.
伊朗朗笑声*
翻译：Mary Ventura
上街尾
飞腾的发辫
爸爸妈妈的教授？管他！
伊朗朗笑声
撞在生人的间隔
飞腾的发辫
好多断片的我，不想
停着等
伊朗朗笑声
山的脚下
飞腾的发辫
合契默默
将会到达
伊朗朗笑声
路上
铺满得与失
飞腾的发辫
觉知奢靡的风
伊朗朗笑声
撞在男男女女中间
飞腾的发辫
笑着行进
* 这首回文诗是对我的英文诗歌《I Ran》的“反向自由翻译”。《I Ran》原诗被铸造成一首隐形在NFT内的诗歌，只有拥有者才可以看到，由TheSPACEweb3Museum铸造并将收入捐赠给Tezos4Iran。
Mary Ventura，翻译。其中文诗歌及书评散见于《声韵诗刊》、《文讯》、《Cha》期刊等处。英文诗歌见于《SAND》, 《Asymptote》期刊 “Translation Tuesdays”，《Voice & Verse》 等杂志。创办并主编《字缚》杂志。
Salt
by ashe
In the midst of the vast blue,
There stood me and myself.
We stared at each other,
Not speaking a word.
A hand reached out,
And another one soon followed.
They grew closer and closer,
Until they finally touched and began to merge.
We did not feel pain,
But a warmth most comforting,
A release.
We embraced, cried, and dissolved.
ashe, born in 2004 in Taiwan.
盐
翻译：诗验室
在广阔的蓝中，
站着我和我自己。
我们盯着对方看，
一句话也不说。
一只手伸出，
另一只紧跟着伸出。
她们越来越近，
直至触及对方并合二为一。
我们没感觉到任何疼痛，
而是一股惬意的暖流，
一种解脱。
我们互相拥抱、尖叫，然后散去。
ashe, 2004年生于台湾。
某个春天
作者：商长江
又一个春天按时到来
一片桃花在钟声和鸟鸣里开得正艳
像一场盛大而矫情的雪事
几乎在水边完整覆盖了去年
一阵清风偶尔吹进骨瘦如柴的三月
偶尔在故乡左岸吹绿了
田园河水和石头
甚至你有些微妙的心事
却始终吹不动夜晚带来的荒凉和
激情
澄明的时间早已轻过三月
偶尔在一个寻常词句里举起明晃晃的火焰
照亮了岸边无数个不眠的夜晚
只是此刻我那生命的春天此刻还远未
抵达
商长江，山东省宁阳县人。
some spring
translated by PLS
another spring arrives timely
a peach blossom screams in the bell sounds and bird chirps
like a grand and finicky snowing feast
almost covering the whole of last year by the waters
a breeze blows sporadically into March as thin as a rake
sporadically blows the fields, rivers and stones
on the left bank of the hometown green
even your somehow subtle sentiments
yet unable to touch the desolation and passion
born with the night
the clear time has long been lighter than March
sometimes holding up a blazing flame in an ordinary sentence
brightening the countless sleepless nights by the bank
it’s just right now the spring of my life has
yet to arrive
Shang Changjiang, from Ningyang county in Shandong province.
I Took Beauty
by Sean Thomas Dougherty
"When Butterflies – renounce their 'drams' – I shall but drink the more!" --Emily Dickinson
from the trees, plucked sapphires & rubies from the evening sky. Opals from the dark. I took the shimmer of the breeze across the bay, in the morning after working the third shift. I put that shimmer in a plastic bag. I sold it like meth. I’d walk up to strangers & open the bag & say how much for this? I mixed it into the soup that was not sorrow. Here eat, I said to my sick wife when soup was all she could endure. The trees in autumn cast their quilts across the cold ground. & all that sings? Finches & thrushes, grosbeaks & wrens. Music growing right out of the earth like the jonquils & marigolds the widow plants along the side of her double-wide. Or a bag of blood oranges in the window at the corner bodega. Outside two teenage girls spoke in Spanish, sharing a cigarette. I took their dark eyed languorous youth, I mixed it with the fog that hangs on the mooring bay, with the high wail of the ore freighter’s horn, with the downcast faces waiting in the rain for the last bus that will not arrive. & you with your handful of stolen pills. & you waiting for the needle’s plunge. & you there at the back table in the dim light of the last open bar in Ohio, I see you too. Here, open this bag I say. It tastes like a dram of butterflies one says. It sounds, another says, scrunching his face like the emptiness of streets
full of wind-rustled receipts.
我盗走美
翻译：诗验室
“当蝴蝶 —— 放弃她们的’酒水’ ——
我将喝得更猛！”
——艾米莉·狄金森
自树上，自夜空
摘下蓝宝石与红宝石。
自暗处拔出蛋白石。我自海湾
虏走风的微光，在清晨
值完第三轮班后。我将那微光
装入一个塑料袋。我把它像甲安非他明那样售卖。
我会走向陌生人
打开袋子，问他们多少钱要？
我把它调入不是悲伤
的汤。来，喝下它，
当生病的妻子只能喝得下
汤时我这么跟她说。
秋天的树在冰冷的地面
铺好被子。以及一切鸣鸟？
雀与鸫、松雀
与鹪鹩。音乐从
大地直接长出
像她流动住宅旁
孤独的丁香水仙与金盏花。
或者路旁小店
窗户上的
一袋血橙。窗外两个年轻女孩
正说着西班牙语，同抽一支烟。
我盗走她们黑眼圈般
无精打采的青春，我把它与悬在
港湾上的雾，
与矿石货轮的汽笛，
与在雨中等待最后一班
永远也到不了的巴士的
垂桑的脸揉在一起。
你和你偷来的一把药片。
你等待针头的扎入。
你在俄亥俄最后一家营业酒吧靠后的桌子那里
在昏暗的灯光中，
我也看见你了。来，打开这个袋子我说。
有人说它尝起来像蝴蝶的酒。
还有人皱着脸说，它听起来
像布满被风吹得沙沙响的账单的
街头的空。
Outside
by Erica Hu
Outside my window was a yard
of broken tarps atop Fords rusting.
Untamed weeds bespeckled the field.
From the telephone wires overhead,
Blue jays sang.
How amazing ––
if you let it,
life just grows feral.
-
Sunlight spilled over my groggy sheets.
A squirrel on the windowsill woke me
with a chewing crunch –– woodland tinkering.
In wonder, I gazed as she glanced my way,
hugging the nut in her cheeks.
Moments later,
there was only the nut ––
a token of presence.
-
Late August,
guitar strumming,
I heard it all from our tent ––
folklores from the Great Lakes,
where the water folds into ripples so infinite
it could be the ocean.
The waves kiss the sandy shore.
Gently,
everything crumbles at our feet.
Erica Hu is infatuated with life’s little moments.
外
翻译：诗验室
我的窗外有一个院子
生锈的福特车上挂满碎油布
地里长满了肆无忌惮的杂草。
空中的电话线上
冠蓝鸦们敞开歌喉。
多么美好 ——
如果你愿意，
生活可以如此狂野。
—
阳光洒在我慵懒的被子上。
窗台上一只松鼠用细声咀嚼
将我唤醒 —— 树林哐当响。
带着好奇，我盯着它，它也瞧向我，
把坚果贴紧脸颊。
没一会，
就只剩坚果的影子 ——
来过的标志。
—
八月下旬，
吉他声响起，
我在帐篷里就可以听见 ——
来自五大湖的民歌，
那里水涌成如此宽广的浪
给人感觉它就是海洋。
浪花亲吻着沙滩。
轻轻地，
一切在我们脚下坍塌着。
Erica Hu 独爱点滴日常。
事后的花纹
作者：Yisheng Gong
十六岁时我热衷于揭穿伪善与谎言。
那时我早已精通媒体和政客的伎俩 对国民教育也一针见血，唯独 在人际关系的周旋中，我笨拙。
你不可解，像一个顽劣的诱惑， 满足我入侵的渴望。
于是我决定像侦探一般跟随你， 进入一个有因果的小宇宙。
彼岸是一个商品的王国， 一百个太阳在天空演讲， 永生的念头，不可撤销地堆砌。
接近时我感受到你温暖、微醺的长发， 这使我的大脑，过敏般地羞耻。
抵达城门已是盛大的傍晚， 我们逆行穿过整齐的木偶军乐团， 他们手中凶猛的铜镲使我眩晕。
醒来时，我和你已落入美的陷阱， 你正仔细地清点每一种烦恼的花期。
我于病中认识你，好辩的少年， 你过剩的激情使我兴奋， 你挥舞着不受控制的力量。
你举起我爬上狮子的王座， 这使我幸福，亲爱的， 但不安的是有条预言般青蛇， 在我虚晃的酒杯中游弋。
不是你特权般魁梧的躯体， 而是躯体它投下的阴影， 像一个冷酷的教训， 保护我，使我惧怕。
我的疼痛落在矿山的遗骸上， 我狼狈得像雨后的沙丘。
而现在你又在我身边颤抖， 真诚得像一套西装， 为意外的失手负荆请罪。
狮群正向我咆哮而来， 它们从枯水期的湖底幡然醒悟。
我只好接受从不的邀请， 躲入你非法的自治领， 私人的历史也不会见证。
所以我必将再次经历暴力， 我的决心像一幅失败的画， 面对你食言的霸道你的幽默。
神祇旁聚集着叛道者， 而我却遭遇了爱情。
秘密笑我守口如瓶，
这命中的惩罚欲加之于我，
正如你的清醒一般不可理喻。
Yisheng Gong 白日里是一名工程师，夜间则化身一名诗人兼故事写作者。
the post-event pattern
translated by PLS
when i was sixteen i was obsessed with exposing hypocrisies and lies.
i was already quite familiar with the tricks of the media and politicians
and could delve right to the heart of national education matters, though
in taking care of interpersonal relationships, i am rather clumsy.
you were insolvable, like a naughty temptation,
satiating my desire of invasion.
so i decided to stalk you like a detective,
entering the little universe that had karma.
on the other shore was a kingdom of commodity,
a hundred suns were giving speeches in the sky,
the thoughts about immortality, irrevocably stacking up.
when i got closer i could feel your warm, tipsy hair,
this made my brain almost allergically ashamed.
it was a magnificent dusk when we arrived at the town gate,
we walked against and through an orderly puppet brass band,
the cymbals in their hands dazzled me.
when we woke up, you and i were trapped in beauty,
you were carefully listing out the florescence of every trouble.
i met you, an argumentative youth, when i was ill
your excessive passion excited me,
you were brandishing uncontrollable strength.
you lifted me up while ascending to the throne of lion,
this made me happy, my dear,
but what unsettled me was that there’s a prophetic green snake
swirling in my deceptive goblet.
not your privilege-like stalwart body,
but the shadow it cast,
like a coldblooded lesson,
protecting me, frightening me.
my pains were scattered across the remains of the mine,
i was as embarrassed as the sand dunes after the rain.
and now you are trembling next to me,
honest as a suit,
taking blame for the accident.
the lions are roaring toward me,
they are suddenly waking from the bottom of the lake of the dry season.
i have no choice but to accept the invitation,
sheltering in your illegal autonomous territory,
the personal history won’t be witnessed.
therefore i will have to endure more violence,
my resolution is like a failed painting,
against the dictatorship of your broken promises, your humour.
deviants are gathering around gods,
but i encounter love.
secrets make fun of me for being tight lipped,
this predestined punishment has been exerted on me,
as irrational as your soberness.
Yisheng Gong is an engineer by day and poet / story writer by night.
Hereditary Disease
by Ashley Leung
On an impoverished Monday, about 10 years before Mother was born,
incarnated Mother’s headache
It ate rice, she ate flour
On an unremembered Tuesday, Mother embarked for Hollywood,
where her headache awaited
It had roof, she sheltered
On a wedlock Wednesday, the ring now worn on your forefinger
materialized around Mother’s left hand
A little cuff she had saved up for waiting tables
And she wrapped her right hand around a warm headache stable
On a twin Thursday, Mother multiplied herself
A joy with two eyes and a slobbery smile
A burden sent back home 6,810 miles
Mother’s headache shrunk in size, swelled in weight
On a severed Friday, Mother takes you back
So your developed eyes can now focus on her back
In the car, in the kitchen
In the shower, in the garden she built
to grow some herb flowers
On a seared Saturday, Mother’s headache burns her chest
with a plate of fried rice
She stands strong, but you crumble down
Scattered on the keyboard of your laptop
only she and you know the password to
On a Mother’s Day Sunday, you call her in formality
She tells you that her headache is worse
You tell her Mom, I know
I’ve inherited my own
Then proudly show her a photo
She mumbles intelligence
And in her face I shut the door of a suburb home
My headache is a pounding of the heart, a lyrical epic of fairytale pledges
A fried rice I didn’t make,
In tummy not on chest
Mother listens to me, but not really
She never takes the Advil I buy,
so I tell her to just wait until headache becomes dead heartache
I don’t even hate headaches that much
Yet here we are dreaming about when Father will die
Ashley Leung is a writer based in Los Angeles.
遗传病
翻译：诗验室
在母亲出生前大约十年，一个穷困潦倒的星期一，
母亲的头痛诞生了
它食米，她吃面粉
在一个无人记住的星期二，母亲乘船前往好莱坞，
她的头痛在那里等着她
它有一个屋顶，她以其为所
在一个步入婚姻殿堂的星期三，如今戴在你食指上的戒指
在母亲的左手逐渐成为现实
她为服务生一职攒下的一个小小袖扣
她把右手缠在一个温暖而稳固的头痛上
在一个双胞胎星期四，母亲自我繁殖
一种由两只眼和一张淌着口水的笑脸构成的喜悦
一个送回6810英里外老家的负担
母亲的头痛体型变小，体重却增加了
在一个被切开的星期五，母亲把你接回去
这样你就可以用成熟的双眼盯着她的后背
在车上，在厨房里
在浴室，在她打造的种有
草本花卉的花园
在一个炙热的星期六，母亲的头痛用一盘炒饭
烫到她的胸口
她勇敢地站着，而你却崩溃了
在只有她和你知道密码的
电脑键盘前如一盘散沙
在一个母亲节的星期日，你很正式地给她打电话
她告诉你她的头痛加重了
你告诉她老妈，我知道
我也有自己的头痛
然后自豪地给她看一张照片
她说了一堆模糊不清的东西
在她面前我关上乡郊房子的门
我的头痛是胸口剧烈的跳动，一首关于童话般誓言的抒情史诗
我没做过的炒饭，
在腹中而非胸口
母亲听着我说的话，但并未全神贯注
她从未吃我买的止痛药，
所以我告诉她就等着头痛变成死亡心痛吧
我甚至并没有那么痛恨头痛
可现在我们却幻想着父亲什么时候会死
Ashley Leung 是一名居住于洛杉矶的写作者。
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