Winter '22 Issue | 2022 冬季刊
Clouds
by Barbara Southard
Tangled shreds
thin veils
fishbones
each a small
catastrophe
that dies
before our eyes
replaced
with ragged plumes
arch and anvil
their changing ways
skimming through air
in vaporous trails.
Birds gather
in a moving dazzle
in their depths
of heaps and layers
erasing, rewriting
new patterns
on the blank canvas
of blue skies.
Barbara Southard served as Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, New York from 2019-2021. She is continuing to work with the Long Island Poetry Collective to provide Zoom workshops for poets nationally and internationally.
云
翻译：诗验室
扭成一处的细条
轻薄的面纱
鱼骨
每条都是一场
在我们的双目
被破碎的
羽毛
取代前
死去的
小灾难
拱门与铁砧
它们变换的姿势
掠过空气
留下雾状的痕迹。
鸟儿们聚集
在移动的炫光中
在他们堆叠
的深处
抹去、重写
新图案
在蓝天
空白的画布上
Barbara Southard 曾是2019 - 2021年纽约萨福克郡的桂冠诗人。她如今仍与长岛诗人们合作，为海内外诗人提供线上诗歌工作坊。
神聖舞蹈
作者：王圣元
葛吉夫*在第四條道路上
走了百年
（無涉第一、第二與第三
眾生，都有自己的門道）
神聖的舞蹈，整合
虛實，三二歸一
頭、手和腳，是不同的路徑
又是相同的路人
（形影不離，一同走路
一同回家）
神聖舞蹈，像你可以
右手寫詩，左手寫散文
現今的能人異士
右腳寫小說、左腳寫評論
口裡含徽墨，渲染眾人
統合身心的舞，任何一支
都能悟道
任何一手、一腳，鑽木
必能取火，火將燃燒
槁木死灰的眾魂
*葛吉夫（1866~1949），俄國神祕主義者。
王圣元，1991年生，现为小学教师，曾获后山文学奖。
sacred dances
translated by PLS
Gurdjieff* on his Fourth Way
walking for a hundred years
(irrelevant to the first, second and third
all human beings, have their own methods)
sacred dances, wedding
reality and virtuality, three reduces to two and two to one
head, hands and feet, are different paths
but the same passengers
（inseparable, walking together
returning home together）
sacred dances, like you can
write poems with the right hand, essays with the other
the modern talents
writing novels with the right foot, and criticisms with the other
light ink in their mouths, dramatising everyone
the dances that unite the body and mind, each one
knows how to enlighten
any gesture, with hand or leg, drilling the wood
will certainly lead to a fire, it will burn
the ashen souls of dry trunks
*Gurdjieff (1866~1949), American philosopher and mystic.
Wang Shengyuan, born in 1991, currently a primary school teacher, has won the Houshan Literature Award.
Pigeon Obsession
by Cynthia Chen
A pigeon died outside of my window on a Saturday morning, or a Friday night, or a Thursday. I am not sure. It leaned against a tree until someone noticed it and shoveled it away. There was too much tranquility in its moment of death. The stillness still disturbs me.
Mom once said I had an addictive personality, not in a medical way, but that I’m easily obsessed with things. I started to cease the denial when I found myself writing about pigeons on every page, lingering on the trembles that arose from staring at them while realizing how a dead bird can be more alive than a breathing man.
There was once this woman whom I firmly believed to be a pigeon in her previous life. She was kneeling by the curb eating rice with her bare hands from a stacked paper plate. I felt the hunger demanding and time diminishing into a miniature under inspection.
There are things that resemble eternity, like doing laundry, like waiting to be seated on a Saturday night in manhattan, like mourning or loving, like forgetting, or remembering. Her hands felt like eternity to me, and I thought the world was lacking the exact kind of rawness she held.
People love sharing their darkest secrets at parties. They spilled childhood traumas, abusive partners, and weird places that they have had sex at with strangers. So when I shared that I once dreamed of voluntarily being eaten by a starving pigeon and masturbated inside the warm, dying body, the room went dead silent, but I’ve never felt more alive than in that moment of speechlessness.
Cynthia Chen is a senior at NYU Tisch School of the Arts. Her works can be found in West 10th journal and the Quirk magazine.
鸽子情结
翻译：诗验室
一只鸽子死在了我的窗外，周六早上或周五晚上，抑或是一个星期四。我已经记不清了。它靠在一棵树上直到有人发现并将其铲走。它的死亡过于平静。那种安详至今仍令我不安。
妈妈曾经说过我有着一种成瘾人格，当然不是生理上的问题，但我确实很容易迷恋某些东西。在发现自己除了鸽子外什么也不写时我就开始不否认了，脑海里回荡着盯着鸽子看时身体发出的颤抖，我意识到一只死鸟可以比呼吸的活人更有生命力。
曾经有一次我坚信有个女人的前世就是一只鸽子。她蹲在路旁用裸露的双手从一堆纸盘里捡米吃。我感觉到无法满足的饥饿与在审视下消失成缩影的时间。
有些事情仿佛就是永恒，比如洗衣服，比如想在一个周六晚上在曼哈顿找个地方坐下来，比如哀悼或爱，比如忘却，比如惦记。她的手给我的感觉就像不朽，我觉得这个世界缺少她手中所握住的那种清纯。
人们喜欢在派对上分享见不得人的秘密。他们诉说着童年的阴影、暴力的伴侣以及他们曾与陌生人做爱的奇葩场所。所以当我提到我曾经梦到自己心甘情愿被一只饥饿的鸽子吃掉并在温暖地死去的身体内手淫时，整个房间一片死寂，但在那个无语的瞬间我却感受到了前所未有的活力。
陈朗月，纽约大学帝势艺术学院大四学生，其作品散见于《West 10th》文学期刊与《Quirk》杂志等。
在澎湖钓小章鱼
作者：程予
我解下你的表带，一颗
那么亮的蛹；像你对我说话
随着汽车穿越山底隧道
一段一段放凉；在
松树气味的路，情感的吸烟房
吞云吐雾的魔鬼的影子
虚构这一幕可以藏身的暗场
让人想起云朵摇摇
雨季里迁移不定的内陆海
海湾里甜蜜的鹅毛和打字机
或许在黑暗里敬礼
那是我们共同的猫咪
所以仍然无法标记位置
所有在这场玩笑中
倒退回去的沙子
相信祖国，相信爱情
相信以后我能照顾好你
和电视里明日渔汛
为什么再一次
将历史比喻成照做
照做这一件危险的事
历经多遍便就是这个场景
你有你妥善的品德
我有网，我没有节制的山林
及其及其
程予，文学系毕业生，现居杭州。
fishing for baby octopuses in the pescadores islands
translated by PLS
I untie your watch strap, so bright
a chrysalis, like you talking to me
as the car races through the tunnel beneath the mountain
cooling down section by section, on
the road shrouded in the smell of pines, the smoking room of emotions
the shadow of a smoking demon
to invent this scenario of a hidden plot that allows one to hide
reminds one of the swaying clouds
the landlocked sea that keeps migrating during rainy seasons
sweet goose feathers and the typewriter at the bay
perhaps saluting in the dark
that’s our mutual kitten
so we still cannot label the position
all of the sands receded
in this joke
have faith in the motherland, and have faith in love
believe me that I can take good care of you in the future
and in the fishing news tomorrow on TV
why once again
compare the history with being compliant
this happens when a dangerous thing
such as following orders is repeated too many times
you’ve got your proper virtues
I have a net, my unrestrained mountain forests
etcetera etcetera
Cheng Yu, a literature graduate currently living in Hangzhou.
Transformation
by Shawntaye M. Scott
Scintillating drills
reemerge haunted
unwell souls.
Progress happens
everyone’s dismayed
neurons frayed
from distress.
Foundation shook
liquid sanity
into concrete
awaiting Gaia
resetting zones
fortifying depth
quelling frenzy
modern insolence
spiralling towards
a
quiet
rebirth.
Shawntaye M. Scott is a Shanghai-based creative writer. She has previously been published in A Shanghai Poetry Zine, The Great Human Connection and Tiny Seed Journal.
改头换面
翻译：诗验室
摇晃的钻击
重又出现忧心忡忡
不适的心。
进度会有的
每个人都很惊慌
神经细胞被
痛苦磨损。
粉底将液状的
清醒甩
成混凝土
等待盖亚
重设秩序
加强深度
平息混乱
现代版无礼
往上旋向
一个
宁静的
重生。
Shawntaye M. Scott 是一位居住在上海的创意写作者，其作品散见于《Beijing Underground》、《The Great Human Connection》、《Tiny Seed Journal》等处。
爱情里没有什么可写
作者：铲子
要去写好奇 奉献 和羞耻心
还是写夏天的傍晚
怎么也走不完的路
我左耳与你右耳中的夜曲
消失于被蝉鸣催眠得
纹丝不动的月光
写怎么也摸不到的发丝
紧张的汗水也
分不开的手
写此时
站在公寓楼前，巨人模样
却仍想像曾经一样
从十三楼的窗户挤入
你的房间
挤坏了墙上的时针，冰箱的把手，吉他的E弦
空空如也的书架，猫
我的皮肤、血肉一粒粒交换着
叫嚷着
突然水开了，又停了。
写映在窗上的我的影子已经对你的影子说出了
爱情中的一切秘密
而我们却还在各自思考
桌上的最后一杯咖啡
末班火车，刮胡刀
和被车灯点燃的黑夜
“我已经正常了”，你说
“等一等。” 我却还是
要穿上鞋才能飞走
铲子，沟通者。一半生活在解谜，一半生活在梦里的人。
there is nothing to write about in a romantic relationship
translated by PLS
need to write about curiosity devotion and sense of shame
or the dusk of a summer
the never-ending road
the lullaby in my left ear and your right ear
waning in the still moonlight
hypnotised by the chants of cicadas
write about the intangible hair
hands that won’t part even
when soaked with nervous sweat
write about right now
standing in front of the apartment building, giant-like
yet still wishing to squeeze into your room
through the thirteenth floor window
breaking the clock on the wall, handle of the fridge, E string of the guitar
empty bookshelf, cat
my skin, blood and flesh exchanging in grains
shrieking
all of a sudden the water’s boiled, and stopped again.
about my shadow imprinted on the window having already told your shadow about
every little secret in a romantic relationship
yet we are still contemplating on our own on
the last coffee on the table
the last train, razor
and the night lit by vehicles
“I am already back to normal,” you said
“hold on.” I still need to
wear shoes in order to fly away
Spades is a bit too obsessed with puzzles and dreams.
Electric Blue
in the years of Covid
by Barbara Southard
There are mornings when blue takes over,
as if nothing else exists but a divine sense
of place on this spinning globe,
then vaporizes into the faint filigree of dawn
when the cat purrs you into wakefulness.
You put the kettle on, grind coffee beans
in a silent house, a chorus of birds
now singing in hazed light, smell
of almost-rain seeping in under the door.