Winter '21 Issue | 2021 冬季刊
Devoid of Facts
by Ember
When he looked back,
a gale pushed all the heavy curtains away;
beams of light threw themselves into the vacant space.
Gleaming particles of dust.
To think that we could ever obtain freedom,
as if one day Time would release us
from its chains and fetters,
letting us run,
swiftly and wildly,
like the dog that chases the boomerang,
only finding ourselves
rushed back to where we started.
There is always a “tomorrow,”
one that sprawls beyond the itching expiration date.
Night’s wind sharpens its blade
with the limbs of towering trees.
No enemies to swallow its slash,
or spill blood with massive scars.
Is there anyone to hear the silent rage?
Rage against the smothered,
snowy feathers of a crow.
Ember is a recent graduate from the photography department at New York University.
缺乏事实
翻译：诗验室
当他回头望去时，
一阵风将沉重的窗帘推开；
阳光泻入虚空。
灰尘明亮的颗粒。
我们竟然有可能获得自由，
一如时光终将把我们
从它的枷锁下释放，
让我们逃跑，
又快又猛，
像那只追逐回力镖的狗，
只不过发现自己
一番奔波后又返至原点。
“明天”源源不断，
那个蔓延至难忍的有效期以外的明天。
晚风磨刃
用大树的身躯。
没有敌人吃下它的乱斩，
或者用巨大的伤痕溅血。
这无声的愤怒有人听见么？
对一只乌鸦沉闷的、
雪白的羽毛的愤怒。
Ember 是纽约大学摄影学院的应届毕业生。
爸爸
作者：袁婵
你每往前一步
我就下陷一点
柏拉图的洞穴
不是摇篮
是你的影像
从圆形的光孔映出
我守护你的雨伞
它炸裂是子弹
合上是沉默的箭矢
爸爸
如果你所谓的正义的冰块
在一些地方坚硬
一些地方消融
你是不是可以考虑回来
陪我
吃完这包冷掉的薯条
我试着爬起
跪上纸盒
翻过众人目视的椅背
你的声音高过所有风筝、云彩
我转身捂住身体
不确定自己的立场
想得到什么呢？
是玩具、坚果、蘑菇
还是番茄酱和芭蕾舞鞋
爸爸？
有人还在低语而你
忽然终止
你变语态的高亢为动作的果决
回来
拿起剩下的橙汁和伞
没有任何关于遗弃和等待的解释
离开
像风筝和云彩
我跳下椅背跟随你了
爸爸
你知道的
所以才放心地
几步并作一步
极速向前
可爸爸
你从未看到我
在冰冻的橙汁里颤抖
暴雨冲垮了洞穴
——不是摇篮
是你
给我的
幻影
独自在光里幽微
袁婵，日常作画，偶尔写诗。
father
translated by PLS
the further you move forward
the deeper I sink
Plato’s cave
is not a cradle
but the image of you
diffracted through a circular aperture
the umbrella with which I guarded you
was a bullet when blasted open
a silent arrow when closed
father
if your so-called ice of justice
hardens in a place
and melts in another
would you then mind returning
to finish off this bag of cold fries
with me
I tried to stand up
kneeling on the carton
climbing over the back of the chair everyone’s watching
your voice higher than all kites and clouds
I turned around and wrapped myself up
unsure of my stance
what do you want？
toys, nuts, mushrooms
or ketchup and ballet shoes
father?
someone was still whispering but you
all of a sudden stopped
turning the vibrance of speech into a resolute action
and came back
picking up the unfinished juice and umbrella
no explanation about abandoning and waiting
departing
like kites and clouds
I jumped off the chair and followed you
father
you knew
so reassuringly
you mended your pace
dashing forward
but father
you never saw me
trembling in the cold orange juice
the storm burst the cave
— not a cradle
but the phantom
you
left me
fainting in light alone
Yuan Chan, usually paints and sometimes writes poetry.
Yearning
by Anna Seidel
Listening
to glistening raindrops
with the hunger of a child,
searching
for the known taste of milk.
This stained world
drips honey in our mouths.
Our words – stolen,
leaving us
with our human need
to impose
on memory a body language,
some shape
that holds our losses.
Anna Seidel founded the poetry foundation The Napkin Poetry Review. Her poetic works have been published in Mantis, Inkwell, Marble Poetry, Horizon Poetry Magazine, and Frontier Poetry.
渴望
翻译：诗验室
带着婴儿的饥渴
聆听
闪烁的雨滴，
找寻
熟悉的奶香。
这个被玷污过的世界
往我们的嘴里滴入蜂蜜。
我们的词语 — 被盗，
留下我们
与我们本能的需求
在记忆中
强行塞入一个肢体语言，
一种能够抓住
我们失去的事物的形状。
Anna Seidel 是诗歌平台 The Napkin Poetry Review 的创始人，其作品散见于《Mantis》、《Inkwell》、 《Marble Poetry》、《 Horizon Poetry Magazine》及《Frontier Poetry 》等处。
手
作者：梁津铭
手，植物的根部说
这不是我的手。
岸上零零散散地落着枯死的矮木桩
就在一条不能称为小溪的流水旁
像是早与油污结成了朋友
共同朝看不到的地方生长
见证见证者的存在
植物的根部以及岸边的杂草
他们、手的主人，显得冷漠
矮木桩里满是空心的洞
洞里凿出灰色的大海
像颜色均匀的丝绸
今天岸边出现了呼吸声
鼾声 以及但不限于
歌声
可是听渔民回家对妻子的话
“今天岸上又是一片死静”
妻子反而回答
“当你说话时，一切都离你远去”
在日记里昭示真理吧
——柔软的宇宙随着孩子的呼吸
与大海同时收缩：收缩间
我看见光明向神秘的方向袭去
就好像没有人知道那样
——确实没有人知道
“当你看到时，一切都已枯死”
在孤独的地方的绝对幸福
这是木桩的道理
把灰色的丝绸装进眼睛里 瞧！
你将再不会生产任何东西
与房子一起沉没吧
就沉没在时间之上
用黑暗的方式告诉手的主人你下定决心与话语道别
或从未抵达话语
你与木桩、孩子、植物的根部和岸边的杂草一起
——你将听到妻子对渔民说
永远失去眼睛
梁津铭，美国纽约州瓦萨学院大一学生。
hand
translated by PLS
hand, the root of the plant says
this is not my hand.
withered stumps scattered along the bank
beside a stream no longer deemed a creek
like an old friend of oil spills
growing toward a dark direction
witnessing the existence of witnesses
the root of the plant and weeds along the waters
they, master of the hand, seem indifferent
the stumps are filled with empty holes
inside which there are grey oceans
like evenly-colored silk
today there appears the sound of breathing
snoring, including but not limited to
singing across the bank
but the fisherman goes home and tells his wife
“it’s another dead still day on the bank”
to which the wife replies
“when you speak, everything is abandoning you”
reveal the truth in the diary
— the supple universe and the sea contracting simultaneously
along with a child’s breath: among the contractions
I see light stretching towards a secret direction
as if no one knows
— indeed that’s the case
“by the time you see, everything will have withered”
there is absolute happiness in solitude
this is the truth within stumps
store the grey silk in the eyes and behold!
there’s nothing else coming out of you
sink with the house
right above time
tell the master of the hand in darkness that you are determined to say farewell to speeches
or have never reached any speech
you, together with the stumps, kids, the root of the plant and the weeds along the bank
—— you’ll hear the wife telling the fisherman
don’t let the eyes return
Liang Jinming, is a freshman at Vassar College.
This Is All About Us
by Eric Low
There ought to be a word for those hours
you wake coughing, your mouth tasting of salt and blood.
The leaked half-light tells you it's too late
to forget, count sheep, go back to sleep,
but too early for coffee.
The days are turning cold,
but a text sent from Akagawa San-Chome,
reminds you that someone out there,
says she’s feeling colder.
Your father's call from hours ago echoes in your head.
He tells you he is managing on, old but no big deal,
everybody falls once in a while,
and your mother misses you.
The phone cuts us off right at the end of
“when are you coming home?”
It will be days before you reply.
Outside the window,
a couple bickers on the sidewalk entirely in Shanghainese.
She’s had it, she screams, as she turns her back to him
but does not move any farther.
Run to her, grab her from behind and never let her go;
you find yourself urging the man on.
He inches forward as if to respond,
but he just freezes there, looking almost happy,
in this one moment that is his and only his.
Even from this distance, you envy him.
Oh god, all you ever do, is envy.
Eric Low resides in Shanghai. His poems have been published in several print and online journals, like the Asia Literary Review, Mascara Review, Santa Clara Review etc. In 2009, he won Singapore’s Golden Point Award for poetry.
我们那些事
翻译：诗验室
肯定能找到一个合适的词来形容
你咳着醒来、嘴里满是盐与血的味道的时刻。
房间里漏着的微光告诉你既不能
选择忘掉、数羊、继续回去睡觉，
也不能起来喝咖啡。
天气越来越冷，
可是来自赤川三丁目的一条短信，
提醒你那里有个人，
说她感觉更冷。
你父亲几个小时前的电话还回荡在你的脑海里。
他告诉你他自有安排，虽然年纪大但也没什么大碍，
每个人偶尔都会遇到一些坎儿，