Winter '19 Issue | 2019 冬季刊
夏天比冬天丧
作者:李鸬鹚
夏天比冬天丧
夏天在完成另外一种凋敝
你我都已经知道那是假象的繁荣
夏天的血被抽干了
它们卖不上一个好价钱
于是它只好踉踉跄跄
它只好回到乌斯怀亚
李鸬鹚,女,长居北京。
Summer Is More Depressing Than Winter
translated by PLS
Summer is more depressing than winter
Yet it is trying to achieve another kind of depression
You and I both know it’s just the prosperity of illusion
Summer’s blood has been drained
But it won’t sell for a good price
So it has to stagger on
Has to return to Ushuaia
Luci Li, female, based in Beijing.
Return to Sender
by Matt Schroeder
this feeling with–
out a name or a
home
having cast
the last stone lazily
will get you nothing but cast out into the wilderness where
even the figs will
vomit the wasps
that gave them–
selves
find a lake
& examine
the reflection
you've named
beloved above
all else
are we all
anything other
than address-less
or do I mold this clay in
too oblong a shape
staining
my hands with
earth blood that surely
should have been left alone
a lesson learned & re–
learned
until something
has flowered
been plucked
forced into hot water
held in the belly long
enough
to calm the senses
to print an address we can
no longer tongue through
sunshine teeth & a hole
the size of the moon
that takes
& takes
but never fills
Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently living in Shenzhen.
返回发送者
翻译:诗验室
这种无
名或家的
感觉
慵懒地
投掷石头
无法给你任何慰藉
反而将你抛至
荒野 那里
就连无花果都会
吐出向其
奉献自
我的黄蜂
找一条湖
然后仔细审查
你命名为
至爱的
倒影
难道我们
除了流浪者之外
还有其它身份
或者我得将这块黏土揉进
一个过于细长的形状
用本不该被侵犯的
地之血
玷污
我的双手
学习与再
学习一个教训
直到某些东西
已经盛开
被摘除
被强抛入热水
在腹中待得
足够久
才能让意识冷静下来
打印一个地址我们
不必再舔穿
阳光 牙齿和一个洞
月亮那么大
它索取
索取
但从未满足
Matt Schroeder现居深圳,是一名诗人与教育工作者。
诗人
作者:曹周鹏
我摘下诗人的头
放在双膝上
我杀了一个诗人
抢走了他的诗
我听诗人说
诗歌是咳出来的
我还听诗人说
要咳出血来
我的内心充满肿瘤
我以为我的肺部溃烂
我以为我的喉咙脓肿
我以为我要文思泉涌
我以为我要血流如注
可惜我没有
我听说诗歌是自由的
我张开双臂
飞出窗外
看见了万家灯火
看见了车水马龙
看见了无数摔死的尸体
我听说诗歌是奴役的
我在地上画一个笼子
站在里面
低下头
看见自己松了的鞋带
我踮起脚尖眺望大海
我没去过远方
我没写过诗
揉碎了几张纸
转了几个圈
我蹲在地上呜呜哭了起来
哭到天晚了
夜深了
我的喉咙里有一口带血的痰
我咽下去
它涌上来
憋不住
咳出来
砸在地面上
我用脚偷偷碾碎抹匀
犹如碾碎一朵花
犹如抹匀一个梦
曹周鹏是在深圳工作的动画师。
Poet
translated by PLS
I plucked off a poet’s head
Placed it on my knees
I killed a poet
Robbed him of his poems
I heard a poet say
Poems should be coughed out
I also heard him say
The blood needed to be coughed out
I am stuffed with tumors
I thought there was an ulcer in my lung
I thought there was an abscess down my throat
I thought I was fully inspired to write
I thought I was bleeding ceaselessly
But I was not
I heard poetry should be free
I opened my arms
Flew out of the window
I saw light from tens of thousands of households
I saw streets thronged with people
I saw countless bodies dropped to death
I heard poetry should be servile
I drew a cage on the ground
And stood at the heart of it
Lowered my head
Saw my loosened shoelaces
I stood on my toes to overlook the ocean
I’d never been to distant places
I’d never written a poem
I crumbled a few pieces of paper
And circled a few rounds
I squatted on the ground crying
And kept crying till late
It was late at night
There was bloody phlegm in my throat
I swallowed it
But it came back up
I couldn’t hold it for any longer
So I coughed it out
Spat it on the ground
Stealthily crushed it and blotted it evenly with my feet
Just like crushing a flower
Just like evenly blotting out a dream
Zhoupeng Cao is an animator based in Shenzhen.
在遥远的1989
作者:曹周鹏
在遥远的1989
我路过一个村庄
没有鸡的叫声
没有婴儿的哭泣
我顺了一只西瓜和几穗玉米
看见了墙上计划生育的标语
我穿上了彩衣
吹起了魔笛
吹醒了无数婴儿的尸体
有的鲜红 有的淡绿 有的青紫
比灰色的天空和大地更美丽
婴儿跟随我蹒跚前行
路过的两个妇女
认出了几具尸体
娃娃哇哇哭泣
她们掀起了上衣
把美丽的娃娃塞进干瘪的肚皮
我停止了吹笛
娃娃没有了呼吸
老鼠啃食它们的脚趾
蛆虫吮吸它们的手臂
蜻蜓和蝴蝶在它们的骨头上停留栖息
我捡起几根散落的骨头
制成一支美丽的风笛
我坐在一棵树下
轻轻一吹
没有声音
它们没有坟墓
它们也就没有尸体
一阵风吹过
树叶还没有落下
它们就消失了
1989年
我走了好多个村庄和城市
我没有拐卖到一个孩子
In a Distant 1989
translated by PLS
In a distant 1989
I walked past a village
There was no cockcrow
Nor baby’s cry
I nicked a watermelon and some corn
Saw the slogans of one-child policy on the wall
I put on a costume
Played the pied piper
Woke up countless corpses of babies
Some blood-red, some light green, some purple
More beautiful than the grey sky and the earth
Babies followed me and stumbled forward
Two women passed by
Recognized some of the corpses
Babies started to cry
They stripped their tops
Stuffed the beautiful babies into their shrunken bellies
I stopped playing the piper
The babies stopped breathing
Rats ate their toes
Maggots devoured their arms
Dragonflies and butterflies paused for a rest on top of their bones
I picked up a few scattered bones
Turned them into a beautiful set of pipes
I sat under a tree
Played the pipes
No sound
They didn’t have graves
Therefore they didn’t have corpses
A breeze swept past
Leaves yet to fall
Had already disappeared
In 1989
I walked through a lot of villages and cities
I did not abduct any kids
Another Man
by Patrick Schiefen
I can put on
but I can never take off
this skin I try to shape
into a desired form
& these hands afraid to touch anything
because I tell myself:
I’m not him I’m not him I’m not him.
Which is, at the same time, both true & not true.
I can’t say anything
to convince you of a pigeon being flightless
but I can pluck the feathers off, fashion a crown,
& try.
Sometimes to love
I must hate not what I’ve become
but hate that I can’t become;
I must listen to every song
that pushes off your lips
& remember how long they’ve all been silenced
before the breaching of your body.
It’s the contrast
of my words
scribbled across my skin
that makes them so easy to read.
This I know.
I also know I am the trigger,
the trap
even if I tell myself:
I’m not him I’m not him I’m not him.
I’m just another form,
just another choice,
just another man,
white & given every opportunity
to be heard.
Patrick Schiefen is an expatriate writer from New York who currently writes and performs in Shanghai.
另一个人
翻译:诗验室
我可以穿上
但永远无法卸下
这张我试图穿成
理想之状的皮囊
还有这双不敢碰任何东西的手
因为我告诉自己:
我不是他我不是他我不是他。
这同时
亦真亦假
我不能用任何言语
来让你相信一只鸽子飞不起来
但我可以拔掉羽毛,用以装扮一顶皇冠
与尝试。
有时候为了爱
我必须不能憎恨我如今的模样
而去憎恨我无法成为的模样;
我必须聆听每一首
从你唇间挤出的歌