tilapia

translated by PLS

I don’t understand

why would someone who knows how to cook

tear up in the kitchen

is it because the stove becomes a turret

or the sauces a drink of leisurely fun

in fact it’s the groans of a wronged ghost —

wide eyes staring like a lightbulb

resentments bursting onto the chopping board

palms sparkling with scales

with half of the head remained

bones of theirs, spurs of mine

drawn out one after another

displayed across the board

thrown into a bin

the smell of that river slaughtered by the butcher

that ancient smell of the dead and of lifelessness

rushing through the nose to the brain causing one to tear up

I shut my eyes with disgust

listening to the sizzling of the frying pan

after all, I am as stuck as you

you don’t want to become my food

neither do I

to sacrifice your life for mine

when everything circles to the end through boring samsara

when ruthless hands keep everyone’s fate under control

in this world of rivers

raging waves leaving one no way out

in the end, there’s only a grieving sound of the wind left

why would someone who knows how to cook

have tears all over her face in the kitchen

罗非鱼

作者：北竹

我不明白

为什么一个自己会做饭的人

会在厨房里流下眼泪

是灶台变成了炮台

还是油盐酱醋变成了诗酒茶花

其实是冤魂的呻吟

硕大的眼球如灯泡一般瞪着

在案板上倾泻一腔怨气

鳞片在手掌上闪闪发亮

脑袋剩了半个

ta的骨头我的刺

一条条抽出来

横列在案板上

丢弃在垃圾里

那屠夫的杀戮的河水的味道

那死去的毫无生命的古老的味道

冲进了鼻腔冲进了大脑让眼睛流泪

我厌恶地闭上了眼睛

听见油锅的声音滋啦滋啦

说到底，我与你一样的不自由

你不想成为我的盘中餐

我也不愿

以你的生命为我的养料

当万事万物被无聊的轮回循环到生命的终点

当无情的双手将人与物的命运操盘

在这河流世界

汹涌的巨浪令人无处可退

最终，也只剩下一声风的悲鸣

一个自己会做饭的人

为什么在自己的厨房里泪流满面

encounter

translated by PLS

a troop of ants were climbing over my instep

in the collapsed time

her words blown off by something

some to the east, the other west,

responding to the man standing before her

the end of the troop was still ants

and the only sound of the ground

he had been stooping in silence

since her last glance

along with his expression

shrunken towards a certain direction

they

seemed to be in a great hurry to see

that man

walking on the road stretching shorter

aiming at the heart of them

velvetleaf, her memory

and the empty brick buildings

he was 

catching a sound in the weeds

and then swaggering

to offer it to her —

her forehead brighter than yesterday

men singing

women dancing

around the chaotic flames

a type of transparent fabric slowly separates them

no shadows of any man

nor beasts

pigeons sauntering on the square

right now, ants were climbing over my instep

she started opening to me layer by layer

with a multitude of unintelligible languages

sketching out a few stories from the past

and a few dispensable edges

相遇

作者：路边

一队蚂蚁正从我的脚面翻过

在倒塌的时间里

她的话被什么刮了起来

东一句，西一句

回应着眼前的男人

蚂蚁的队尾是蚂蚁

是地面仅有的声响

他一声不吭地佝偻着

自她不再注视后

连同他的眼神一起

朝某个方向瘦弱下去

他们

似乎都迫不及待地要看见

那个男人

走在越来越近的路上

对准他们的中心

苘麻，她的记忆

还有空虚的楼板房

他

在乱草里捉一种声音

然后大摇大摆

捧在她眼前

让她的额头比昨天更加明亮

男人唱歌

女人舞蹈

在嘈杂的火焰周围

一种透明的织物渐渐将他们隔开

没有谁的影子

没有野兽

鸽子踱步于广场

此刻，蚂蚁正翻过我的脚背

她开始一层一层向我呈现

用很多听不懂的话

勾勒一些往事

一些可有可无的边缘

silence

translated by Nittin and PLS

in the silence between morning and dusk,

I was —

I was the one who kept failing,

silently lowering the sound of the footsteps through the jungle of stamens. 

how high could the water rise, how transparent could it be

to cover the top of the breathing hairs, what’s swaying

was your hair refusing to melt.

pierce into the depth of my sorrow, Marianne,

with your most poignant eyes. Please hold me in your arms,

like those people who embrace the fragmentedness of the glass.

otherwise —

otherwise,

across the plain without any shepherd,

how could one survive as purely as snow?

yet things are different now, it’s the dead that are no longer willing to enter

my cup unable to hold any water, to take another stroll

and swim into our forest of neon souls.

flowers and leaves torn from each other,  ashes and fires burning each other, over the blade

a crimson submarine has just taken off

I love you, all of you,

please tiptoe through my fragile heart with care,

through my humble eyes of plantain.

none of the requiem,

should have been chanted nightly by the dreams.

不语寸寸

作者：Nittin

在晨昏交替的止语里，

我是 ——

我是持续失败的人，

默默放低足音穿过蕊的丛林。

水位可以有多高，透明到

盖过呼吸的发顶，摇曳的，

是你不肯消融的发丝寸寸。

刺入我哀伤的深处，玛丽安，

凭借你最动人的眼神。怀抱我吧，

就像怀抱玻璃样碎裂的所有人。

不然，不然的话，

少了牧者的平原上，又将如何

雪白地生存？

今时不同往昔，是逝者不肯再入

我盈不住水的怀中，不肯再漫步着

游入我们霓虹的灵魂林。

花与叶撕扯，灰与火互焚，刀锋上

恰恰起飞一只红色的潜水艇

我爱你啊，这一切的一切，

请小心着地路过我脆弱的心。

路过我卑微的车前草的眼神。

安魂的一切，

本不应被梦来夜夜诵吟。

into the blinded bright

translated by PLS

in the heat of the wind we exhaust ourselves

scalded by the fierce sun

there’s very little to see in terms of roads and the future

the fleeting view is like an illusion

the frail green of the field losing content of colors

trees standing in a vast of lushness

egrets floating among twigs like mourning flags

on countless bright days I stare at the sun

the sun burning my retina, scorching with arrogance

someone please tell me, which is which, and what is mandatory

when all these orders are overthrown, I walk straight

coming across someone I haven’t seen in a long while

someone walking in the opposite direction of me, who are you

where is this, and where to if you carry on walking

my legs feel like they are out of strength, drained of blood

even turning hesitant, like a life form bestowed with thoughts

no longer under my control, like a crumbling shadow

depressions clinging to me like dispersing sewage

desire turning its head against me, as if I’ve never had it

I squeeze myself through time and desire like a crawler, fantasizing impotently about

what should happen, what should happen like a miracle

wash me clean, wash my dirty body and soul clean

it has always been, it has always been the shouting that is separated from frivolity

this heap of blasphemies and roads full of directions

gods obstructing the explosion of my inner arrogance like a blazing sun

have mercy on me, like a mother who doesn’t know how to deal with her kid

lend me a life one more time? in this turbulent time

head spinning without control, what have I seen, and what have you obtained

白日盲途

作者：吴立松

在风的热力中我们透支了自己

被严厉的太阳狠狠地曝晒

基于道路和未来，什么也看不清了

那倏忽而逝的风景像一阵幻觉

田野衰微的绿流失着色彩的内容

树木挺立在一片无限的茂盛中

成群的白鹭飘越树枝间如同丧幡

于无数个光明的白日我注视太阳

太阳燃烧着我的视网膜，骄傲地发烫

谁告诉我，什么是什么，什么是应当

当这一切秩序被掀翻，我径直走着

在路上遇到很久没有见到的人

一个朝着我反方向走的人，你是谁

这里是哪里，再往前走要走到哪里去

我的双腿像丧失了活力，抽空了血液

甚至变得犹豫，像获得了思想的生命体

再也不能由我所控制，像倒塌的影子

像一片散开的污水抑郁的头脑攀附上我

渴望远我而去，此刻像从未有过

我像爬虫挤进时间和欲望，无能地幻想

什么该降临，什么该降临像一个奇迹

洗净我吧，将我肮脏的身体和灵魂洗净

从来都是，呼唤的从来都是脱离于卑微

这成堆的亵渎充满着去向的路途

神明像烈日阻扰着我内心骄傲的迸溅

怜悯我吧，像对自己孩子无能无力的妈妈

再借我一次生命？在这混乱的时代

头脑失控地旋转，我看见了什么，你又得到了什么

塔

  致Asa

翻译：诗验室

一座象牙白的塔。

优雅的六边形，衣衫褴褛的木头。

我应该永远不会忘记在我们幼小时

它是怎样保护我们：

双腿在我们的裙下迈开，赤着脚

踏着石头，踏着木头 ——

顺着平滑的楼梯我们爬至七层塔顶。

我们常在夏夜里拥在一起，顶着

一个被风吹开的洞。在蜿蜒的楼梯之巅，

用舌尖传递着一个故事。那时候

我们在词语里，在对钻石和龙的一阵阵描绘中彼此守护。

我们用膝盖顶着雨的敲打，将字母刻进石头里。

在指甲下方大理石凹陷之处，

幻想在我们的指尖流淌着。

一座塔是逝者的殿堂。一颗秘密之梅，

枯竭的歌淌至年轻姑娘的大腿上。

直到我们睡着，雕花的屋顶

在影子下移动。双层屋檐

在灰尘游于横梁四周时烦躁不安。

我们一直睡到肋骨开进基座，

睡到基座沉入袖中 ——

一座塔是一个我们称之为归宿的家。

我们从小在里面长大。

在拱门下我们每次都会

在离开前细数自己的愿望。

我们踏上沉默的地球，一边走着，一边吟诵着象形文字 ——

一个接着另一个。朝着翻腾的田地

互相道别。

Pagoda

For Asa

by Zoe Du

A pagoda, ivory white. 

Elegant octagon, low-ripped wood.

I shall never forget how it stood for us

when we were little:

legs splayed under our dress, bare feet

touching stone, touching wood —

the flat, glossy steps that led us up the seven-storied pagoda.

On summer nights we huddled together, against 

a wind-blown hole. On top of the zigzagging staircase, 

a story passed between our tongues. Back then

we held each other in verse, in fits of diamonds and dragons.

Knees knocked by rain, we etched syllables into stone.

And where the marble bent under our nails,

the figments crawled through our fingers.

A pagoda is a palace for the deceased. A plum of secrets,

its sapped songs flowing onto the young girls’ lap.

Until we fell asleep, and the sculpted ceilings moved

beneath the shadows. The double-eaves fidgeted

where dust played on the crossbeams.

We slept till our limbs drove into the pedestals,

and the pedestals sank into our sleeves —

A pagoda is a house to home us.

In it we grew as children.

And under its arched doorways we counted our wishes

each time, before we left.

We stepped onto the silent earth, chanting hieroglyphs —

one by one — as we walked. Towards the rolling fields

and departed.