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。

蛋白石来自暗处。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。

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

他食米，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

他有一个屋顶，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

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

Myheadache 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

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.

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。

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。

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.

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.
Opal’s 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.

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

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