病月 (The Sick Moon)

中秋节又来了，所以我又写了一首讨论月亮的诗歌。我忽然想了“怀孕”的问题，然而怎么结束让我思想一点。我也考虑全球变暖，因为西雅图夏天的气度超越以前的records. 而且，太平洋西南的火变得越来越大，所以月亮变得越来越红。

Another Moon Festival comes, and so does another poem by me! This time, it focuses on pregnancy, though I tried to deal with climate change, because of the increasing temperatures in the Seattle area during the summer.

那一年，我是怀孕了，
可是我血着甜酒;
我不知道是否婴儿活下去。
我为她的父亲等一等;
混乱乱的日子只是
快快走了的麻雀;
亲爱的脚步，它们深得在沙漠买了吗?

我们互相羡慕别人的美丽;
你问我为什么我是永恒的梦者，
我答应是我只想住在
那个琳琅满目的城市，
那个无法了解的幻梦。
可你早已知道了多的街;
如今你的光不如霓虹灯引起迷失人，
因为你的前橘色画着世界末日。

我问你为什么把岁月打造了镰刀，
然后在我背上无情地刻着我的死亡，
燃烧了我的翅膀。
你从来没讨论结束，
而只说你再回来一次，
可你忍不住变成一个另外的东西，
这样的思念慢慢地让你疯狂。

我嗓子沙哑;
我害怕他早已阵亡，
为了再吃新鲜黑莓一次。
你不停的看不清我们，
因为我们的自负是野花--
它们绽放之后，
我们将它们买别人，
因为我们买不起道德，
或者一双回乡的机票。

你被迫了抱着世界
当银海慢慢地融化白金，
我们留在城市的郊外，
而只对朋友告别。
所以，为了互相救一点，
而我会出走，
就背叛自己的放纵。

That year, I became pregnant,
but I bleed sweet wine,
and I don't know whether my baby will keep on living or not.
I wait for her father,
those hurried days are just
sparrows that have already left--
are those cherished footsteps already buried in the desert?

We envy the other's beauty.
you ask why I am the eternal dreamer,
I reply that I just want to live in
that city which pleases the eye--
that fantasy one cannot understand.
But you already know so many roads;
Now your light is not as attractive to the lost as the neon lights;
because your light orange glow paints the end of the world.

I ask you why did you take the years to make a scythe,
and then carve my death upon my back
while burning my wings.
You never talk about the end;
just that you will return again,
but you can't bear just to be another object,
this longing drives you mad.

My tongue curls up;
I'm afraid that he had died in battle,
so that he may have fresh blackberries again.
You keep on looking down on us,
because our pride are wildflowers.
After they bloom,
we sell them to others,
for we can afford neither virtue,
nor tickets back home.

You've been forced to hold the world
when the Milky Way slowly melts into platinum.
We stay on the city's outskirts,
and bid our friends goodbye.
So, in order to save a bit of each other,
I set out,
and betray a bit of my self-indulgence.

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

《筠子》(Yun Zi)

我跟着伊人的夹克，
迎风如黑色军旗。
早晨之前，
我听得见
她庆祝春分的脆性。

我手里拿着
她用鲜红墨写的回答，
“我天生十分犹豫”--
她只准我知道。
她的心是汗泉，
只有猛禽知道
一切的心碎。


不过，柠檬的香
一直我陪到了
柳树公园。
一些燕子跟我寻寻觅觅
开朗的姑娘--
一直留在黑白的画片，


她的名字
只是古老的祈祷，
但是还尝着青苹果，
而我的脸又枯萎了，
一直思念那个春天。

在永恒的盛夏，
她只想变成自由的化身。
那个阳光只属于她，
可是我看不清她的真实。

I follow that person's jacket;
facing the wind like a black military flag.
Before dawn,
I hear her
praise for spring's fragility.

In my hand,
I hold her response in bright red--
"I was born depressed".
She only let me know.
Her heart is a dried-up well,
only birds of prey know
all of her heartache.

However, the scent of lemons
always leads me to
a park of willow trees.
Several swallows search with me
for a cheerful girl,
who always stays in a black-and-white photograph.

Although her name
is just an ancient prayer,
I still taste green apples
and my face withers again,
always yearning for spring.

In the eternal midsummer,
she wants to become the embodiment for freedom.
The sunlight belongs to her,
but I can't make out her truth.

灵感/Inspiration

筠子是一个有希望的歌手，但是21年之前，一些的心碎导致她自杀了。《春分》是她最有名的歌；你可能知道那个歌曲作者。

《我有一个恋爱》：徐志摩 (I Have a Love Affair by Xu Zhimo)

One of the earliest poets I’ve read when I got into Chinese poetry was Xu Zhimo （徐志摩)，who lived in the early twentieth century. His literary career was during a turbulent time in China, in which the emperor was overthrown and the country was struggling between different political systems. Xu studied in both the United States and the United Kingdom (the latter which inspired his most famous poem, Saying Goodbye to Cambridge again), which resulted in him utilizing Western poetic styles with Chinese influences. Xu’s mystique is increased with his romantic interests, along with an early death because of a plane crash in 1931.

This poem, 《我有一个恋爱》(I Have a Love Affair), was written a few years earlier. Here you can note the familiar line breaks, along with the sweet imagery conveyed.

我有一个恋爱；——
我爱天上的明星；
我爱他们的晶莹：
人间没有这异样的神明。

在冷峭的暮冬的黄昏，
在寂寞的灰色的清晨。
在海上，在风雨后的山顶——
永远有一颗，万颗的明星！

山涧边小草花的知心，
高楼上小孩童的欢欣，
旅行人的灯亮与南针：——
万万里外闪烁的精灵！

我有一个破碎的魂灵，
像一堆破碎的水晶，
散布在荒野的枯草里——
饱啜你一瞬瞬的殷勤。

人生的冰激与柔情，
我也曾尝味，我也曾容忍；
有时阶砌下蟋蟀的秋吟，
引起我心伤，逼迫我泪零。

我袒露我的坦白的胸襟，
献爱与一天的明星，
任凭人生是幻是真
地球存在或是消泯——
太空中永远有不昧的明星！

I Have a Love Affair:

I am in love:
I love the stars in the sky,
I love how sparkling and translucent they are;
the world doesn't have these deities.

In the chilly winter dusk,
in the lonely gray dawn,
on the sea, on a hilltop after a storm,
it always has one--or so many stars!

The intimacy of the grass and flowers by a mountain stream,
the elation of a small child on a tall building,
the traveler's lantern and compass--
a spirit that twinkles absolutely inside and out!

I have a broken soul,
like a pile of broken crystal.
Walking on the wild, wilted grass,
my politeness takes you in for a second.


I had once tasted and put up with
life's violent ice and tender tendencies.
Sometimes, under stairs made of bricks, a cricket's autumn cry
attracts my sadness, forcing me to wither in tears.

I expose my honest heart;
offering love with a daily star.
No matter if life is fantasy or the truth,
or if this planet exists or is destroyed,
the sky will always have a star that never goes dark!

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

《污染花园》(The Polluted Garden)

2021年之夏天如此疯狂–这不仅我们还面对冠状病毒的心版，而地中海的国家看到这么高的温度，就导致了不可思议的野火。在德国和中国，它们还有那么猛的洪水；最近的新闻讨论了我们人生把地球破坏了这么多，而温度增加摄氏2°之前，我们来不及创造新的政策与新的科技。

五年以前，我只学了污染的问题，因为我看到了一个中国纪录片。

从我的墓碑 

我转向失去的阳光， 

充满了烟雾，流泪， 

被雾黯然失色了。 

我的永恒的睡眼 

慢慢地把我沉没幽冥 ,

可是我还想知道。

 

我听得见我朋友的脚步， 

希望她们可能将 

鲜花放在我孤独的石头上。 

其实，他们胳膊上 

抱着的花 

显出黑色灰烬， 

并没准备好代表 

我曾经的梦想--

他们也开不了口，

不能想象甜蜜的下个化身。

 

从天堂， 

美丽的污染 

唱给活下去的人， 

脆弱花瓣飘来飘去， 

悄悄地亲吻天真的爱人。

可是，今天，我的朋友 

只无可奈何地 

站在一个安静墓地， 

看着污染的花园。 

The Polluted Garden:

From my tomb,
I turn towards the sun,
filled with fog and tears,
blanched by the dim smog.
My eternal slumber
slowly sinks me into oblivion,
but I still want to know.

I hear my friends' footsteps,
and hope that they brought
fresh flowers for my lonely stone.
Actually, the flowers they hold
in their arms
show off dark ashes,
and they aren't prepared to represent
my dreams from before--
they cannot open their mouths,
nor imagine beauty's next incarnation.

From heaven,
they sing to those who go on living;
delicate pedals drift along
and quietly kiss innocent lovers.
But today, my friends only could
stand helplessly
in the quiet cemetery
and look at the polluted gardens.

Author’s Prayer by Ilya Kaminsky 《作家之祷告》

你知道有时候，你碰到一个特别好的作品，然后思想一点吗？有一天，我忽然读了《作家之祷告》，我就被感动了。然而，我也忘了作家是谁，所以我勉强地又找到了那首诗歌。

《作家之祷告》，我好喜欢因为写作文与宗教的关系。我想一想这样的问题，但是我不知道我是否真的相信。这首诗不仅求天力量，而且沉思作家在社会的负责。根据他写的句子，我觉得他想说他得给脆弱的人声音。

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.

翻译 《作家之祷告》

如果我为死者说话，我就必须剩下
我身体里只动物

我必须张三写同的诗歌，
因为一页的空代表他们放弃的白旗。

如果我为他们说话，我必须走在自己
的边缘，我必须或者如

跑步空间，不要触摸家具的盲人。

对，我活下去。我可以走在街上，就问 ”今年是几年？“
而在睡眼中，我可以跳舞，

也在镜子的前面笑一笑。
连睡眼都是祷告，主，

我会赞美您的疯狂，还有
我用不属于我之语言说

让我们醒来的音乐，
也让我们活动的。因为我说的什么

是一种请求，而我必须
赞美那些最绝望的天。

Ilya Kaminsky, “Author’s Prayer” from Dancing in Odessa. Copyright © 2004 by Ilya Kaminsky.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

《仙女》(Fairy)

时光把天真人生吞下深处，
就像一条河流拥抱着自己的鱼。
可当我悄悄地涉水在左岸中，
我看你高兴地跳个舞--
继续转了，继续转了。

不安的岁月让我融化如羽毛；
你呢，你只想为桃子寻寻觅觅。
一眨眼，你的瓜子脸变了内向，
你的眼睛是好深之池塘--
我来不到的，我受不了
喝一点点的。

所以，我珍惜幻化之现象--
我改变了智慧的化身。
不过，我怀念永恒之青春：
穿着如怒放的樱花，
也开放一点点的快乐。




Fairy:

Time swallows innocents into its depths,
like how a river embraces its own fish.
But when I quietly wade in the left bank,
I see you happily dancing--
always spinning, always spinning.

Restless years makes me dissolve like feathers,
but you--you just want to find more peaches.
In a moment, your seed-shaped face becomes introverted,
and your eyes are deep pools--
those I cannot enter, and from which
I cannot bear to drink a little bit from.

So, I treasure the phenomenon of metamorphosis--
I become the embodiment of wisdom.
However, I miss that eternal youth,
where I dressed like cherry blossoms in full bloom,
and opened a little bit of happiness.

Photograph: 无妄亭, found on the tumblr hanfugallery

《秘密》(Secret) 翻译

I hold a heavy heart. 

 

My piercings, my blood, my etchings, 

My story, my life, my strengths and weaknesses 

Behind the impregnable shield of secrecy. 

 

I have confessed to so many people before, 

While dancing on the street, 

Yet I never understand what their biases are. 

They pretend to hear what I try to say, 

But they pass by, knowing what I have done from somewhere else.  

 

I speak of similar veins—of sadness, of misery, 

Of tears and blood, 

Of ambiguities and fine lines and red lines. 

Every story wraps around my heart, 

Repressing its beat with every bloodied string. 

It’s almost as if all my sins decided to turn on me— 

Killing me from the inside out, 

Drowning me to the furthest depths of the ocean,  

Even to which the fishes decide to not rest, 

Even where hell cannot overcome. 

  

And now, I have it here for you, my secret. 

 

I don’t ask for your forgiveness, if you’ve been involved. 

I don’t even ask for you to exonerate me before others. 

I ask for your understanding, your willingness to listen to the other side of so many stories. 

I want to know if I can live with my sins, tattooed on my soul like the real ones around my ribs. 

And, if I have the time and energy, let me find a way 

To purge them--to make a new life for myself so I can erase this from my consciousness. 

 

So, now I told you my secret—the secret that cannot be told… 

Promise me you will hide it, 

And take it to the earth and sky. 

翻译/Translation:

我拿着一颗沉默的心。

我的穿刺，我的血肉，我的蚀刻，
我的故事与生活，力量与脆弱，
它们都在我的坚不可摧盾牌后面。
当我在繁华街上跳舞的时候，
我对人山人海忏悔了，
可是我不知道如果它们看不起我。
虽然他们加装了听得懂我说的话，
但是他们继续走，
我的名字是一个舒服却恶毒的法宝。

我的血管透明了悲伤的岁月，
穿成我的血液与眼泪,
而陪我走了红线。
每个故事都把我的心绑扎了，
用我木条血清线压迫心跳。
我犯的罪决定了转而反对我,
就里勾外连地杀我，
就在苦海让我淹没--
连鱼都不会跟我睡觉，
连地狱都不能超越哪儿。

现在，我把我的秘密送给你。

如果你经过了悲伤，我不为你的宽恕要求，
也不想你为我开脱。
我祈求你的了解，你看见对方的原意。
我想知道我跟我的最活下去；
他们就像我的骨子上之纹身。
还有，如果我来得及，
就让我学会把我的鬼清洗，
为了我可能创造新的生活，
为了把我的过去驱逐我的精神。

所以，我告诉你我的秘密--
那个不能说的秘密，
答应我你会帮助我保密，
就把它带到遥远之天地。

灵感/Inspiration:

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

《明信片》(Postcards)

从前的明信片
早已被春雨沾湿了，
而我现在看不懂
你最好的句子。
当你趋于那个旅途，
你终于忘了昨天的告别--
叠了两次，
就留在课堂里。

画画的回忆把我的脑海伤了
就像一把刀切我小小的手指。
你走过了安闲大海
与人山人海的城市，
可你的脚步把你
标志了四海为家。
不完整的自己，
他依赖小风召唤你，
为了在幻梦狂喜淹没。

灿烂的世纪
不会还给我
从前的回答--
一千七色纸鹤
排了窗户上，
默默等着回到的一天。
我忍不住梦见了
穿着粉红色的小姑娘--
她一直快快地走开，
为了再找你一次。

翻译/Translation:

Postcards from once upon a time
were bedewed by the spring rain,
and I can't understand
your best sentences now.
When you headed towards the journey,
you finally forgot yesterday's farewell--
piled up twice,
and left behind in the classroom.

Painted memories hurt my mind
just like a knife would cut my tiny fingertips.
You passed through the carefree ocean,
and through a city filled with people,
but your footsteps 
mark you as a wanderer.
Your incomplete self
relies on the breeze to call you,
so that he may drown in the ecstasy of fantasy.

This brilliant century
cannot return yesterday's answers
to me--
a thousand colorful paper cranes
still line up alongside the windowsill,
quietly waiting for the day you return.
I couldn't help but dream of
a little girl dressed in pink--
she always leaves quickly
to find you again.

蝴蝶 (Butterfly)

我的虹彩是我的武器，
它让我自由自在绽放，
但当夏日悄然凋零，
我发现我可能只是小虫。
所以，我飞来飞去，
心里唱着自己的歌，
也寻寻觅觅自己的话。

在深蓝色天空中，
我尝试跳舞，
月亮跟着我。
可在一溜烟，
我美丽的礼物，
它就是我卖淫的路。
他们把我的翅膀
采摘如春天的雏菊
银色的丝绸漂浮向地。

我记得住在花房的朋友，
他们唯一的朋友是秘密爱人。
可当他们一起做爱，
他们被花香围功了，
不知不觉渴望这样的爱。

我忍不住活下去
在这假的密切里。

哦， 如果我可以重生，
我就变成海鸟，
为了超越人类，
为了飞翔海边。。。

翻译/Translation:

My rainbow is my weapon;
it lets me bloom freely.
But when the summer wilts,
I discover that I could only be a worm.
I fly back and forth,
my heart singing my own songs,
and trying to find my own words.

In the deep blue skies,
I try to dance
as the moonlight follows me.
But in a brief moment,
my beautiful gift
is a road towards prostitution.
They take my wings
and pick them off like spring daisies,
silver silk floating towards the earth.

I remember my friends who live in the greenhouse,
their only friends are secret lovers.
But when they make love,
they are besieged by the fragrance,
and unconsciously long for that kind of love.

I cannot bear to continue living
in this artificial intimacy.

Oh, if I could reincarnate,
I would be reborn as a seagull,
to surpass all humanity,
to fly towards the seashore...

sans titre (il pluie seulement)

Il pluie seulement 
Parce que j'ai oublié chanter.
Je me perds mon bateau
Aux autres avenues en mains,
Et je cours en circles
Et puis ellipses
Dans la gallérie sans de couleur.

Le temps cassé,
C'est un café que existe seulement dans un carte postale;
Mon rêve en vanille
A dissolue comme du suc.
Et le rendez-vous que tu m'a donné,
C'est la framboise meurent--
Elle est devant la fenêtre 
Dort, dort.

Je voudrais seulement
Dormir à la plage,
Avec le dos saline 
Et du cheveux en ficelle.
Mais maintenant,
Je vogue saoule à chez moi,
Attend pour tes mains
Arrêter moi.

Traduction/Translation:

It only rains
because I forgot to sing.
I lost my boat
in a sea of others' hands,
and I run in circles,
and then in ellipses,
in a colorless gallery.

Broken time
is a café that only exists in a postcard;
my vanilla dream
dissolves like sugar.
And the rendez-vous you took me on
is a dead raspberry;
it sleeps, sleeps
in front of the window.

I only would like to
sleep on the beach,
with a salty back
and hair made of string.
But now,
I vogue drunkenly in my place,
waiting for hands to
stop me.

《老钟》(The Old Clock)

一个老的铜钟
代表
理想与真实之间:
一家梅花园
悄悄面对
血着孤岛，一直哭泣。

一双细手
勉强地
反方向移动，
超越冷漠的国家。
可是遥远的谣言
吹着寒风.
一首按魂曲;
让红色的伤口
又开放了。

朦胧的鬼
忙着采金银花;
朋友们是白云，
现代化为了霞。

在半月
死者又写诗，
老钟也停了。

翻译/Translation:

An old, copper clock
signifies
the space between ideals and reality;
a garden of plum blossoms
quietly faces
a lonely island, always crying.

A pair of fine hands
struggle to
move counterclockwise
and to surpass the indifferent country.
But faraway hearsay
blows a winter wind;
a requiem
makes bright red wounds
open again.

Misty ghosts
are busy picking honeysuckle;
their friends are the white clouds,
modernity melts into red ones.

At midnight,
the dead writes poetry again,
and the old clock stops too.

《无心赏月》：俞心樵 (Without the Heart to Admire the Moon by Yu Xinqiao)

无心赏月
　　
仇视月亮与星空的人
当然不是我。我爱你

还有谁爱你呢
爱得太过分了

说好了的我又怎敌我
晚来风急，月上横店

正如我不需要任何开发宇宙的可能性
我只需要在地球上安居乐业的不可能
　　
在所有的自由之外，是我的自由
没有神秘性的自由是我不需要的

月亮和星星都将归于尘土
这可不是开玩笑的，尘土
　　
我还了解某些尘土的飞天梦
我在大地上当过尘土的领导

不需要选票，忙不完的法律和税务工作
爱你，我与低质量的神同在，无心赏月
　　2020.9.29.简言居

Without the Heart to Admire the Moon:

The person who is hostile to the moon and stars
isn't me, of course.
I love you.

And who loves you?
To love is too excessive.

How could I, who has finished speaking,
withstand myself
against the strong morning wind,
horizontal with the moon？

Just as I don't need to exploit the universe's possibilities,
I just need the impossibility of working and living peacefully on Earth.

Outside all freedom is my own--
I don't want a freedom without mystique.

The moon and the stars owe it to the dust;
this can't be a joke--dust.

I still understand some dusty dreams of Apsara;
I was the dust leader of Earth.

No need to vote, hurried leaves
and tax jobs.
I love you, but I'm with a low-quality God,
without the heart to admire the moon.

520

One quirk of the Chinese language is how they use numbers as puns. You may know that the number four is unlucky because 四 (fourth) tone has the same pronunciation as 死 (third tone)–death. On the contrast. the number 9 is lucky because 九 (third tone) has the same prononciation as 久–for a long time.

When you put those numbers together, you get a funny number of puns and commentary. A simple one is 88, which sounds like 拜拜–bye!

Although the date has passed, I wanted to do something special for 520, or 20 May. It’s an unofficial holiday about love–520 (wu3er4ba1) sounds like 我爱你 (wo3ai4ni3): I love you!

我从幻梦的边境召唤你，
我的皮肤闪耀如在雨中的石头。
可是我的希望摇摇欲坠；
他们在暴风中的船，
默默的为灯塔寻寻觅觅。
你的侧脸慢慢的过来，
我来不及思想你是否真的--
我快快地失盲了。

生的蜂蜜，它不准我吃饱，
我曾经密封的嘴缺乏一个吻。
今天，我会再转身，
但是我勉强地走开
我熟悉的脸话。
当我正在走过那一些荆棘，
我听不见你跟着我。
你到底知道我为你期待吗？

翻译/Translation:

I call for you from the edge of the dreamworld;
my skin glistens like stones in the rain.
But my hopes hang on a thread--
they're on a ship in a hurricane, 
quietly searching for a lighthouse.
Your profile slowly comes,
but I don't have time to think about whether you're real--
I'm quickly going blind.

Raw honey doesn't make me full;
my lips, once sealed, lack for a kiss.
Although I will turn around today,
I struggle to leave
the lotus I'm comfortable in.
When I walk on these thorns,
I cannot hear you following me.
Do you really know I've been waiting for you?

Links:

• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_numerology (a basic article on how Chinese see different numbers, and some puns at the bottom of the page)
• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homophonic_puns_in_Standard_Chinese (The many ways you can use language to communicate hidden messages)
• https://ninchanese.com/blog/2016/05/20/520-chinese-love-word-number/ (The use of 520)
• http://laowaichinese.net/numbers-with-special-meanings.htm

《隔离区》(Quarantine)

我忘了夏风的亲吻--
每次我在它的跳舞投入，
我觉得我与萤火虫交融，
也发现了我来不及疗伤自己。
我忘了太阳的颜色--
光黄色柠檬的梦想
不准我追求彼岸的温暖。

我梦着超越疫病的国家，
快快地腐烂的春天跟着我的地方
而飞翔那个苍茫的海港。
在船坞上，我闻着玫瑰，
也拒绝放弃船帆，
为了把恶魔放逐在水下，
连美人鱼都不要引起他们。

我曾经是新娘；在半夜里，
我的连衣裙的丝
变成了慢慢地窒息我蝮蛇。
明天，我站在古老船坞上，
渴望云霞保护我，
就像裸体的孤儿。
城市看得到我，
但是我看不到自己，
明天只是白纸。

翻译/Translation:

I forgot the kisses of the summer wind--
every time when I'm engrossed in its dance,
I feel like I blend in with the fireflies,
realizing I don't have time to heal myself.
I forgot what color the sun was--
the dreams of bright yellow lemons
do not allow me to search for the warmth 
on the other shore.

I dream of escaping this diseased country,
a place where the quickly rotting spring follows me,
and flying to the vast harbor.
On the docks, I smell of roses,
and refuse to give up the sails,
so that I may banish these demons underwater--
where not even mermaids can attract them.

I was once a bride; at midnight,
the threads of my dress 
turn into vipers which slowly choke me.
Tomorrow, I stand on that old dock,
yearning for rosy clouds to protect me, like a naked orphan would.
The city can look at me,
but I can't look at myself; 
tomorrow is just a sheet of paper.

《养蜂家》(The Beekeeper)

那个善良的姑娘
在自己的皮夹克里
哭了橘红色墨。
在枯萎的梨树下，
花瓣散落着，
不得不跳舞。

蜜蜂下雨了她，
但是复制的光
让她的脸闪亮,
想找到的
一些蜂蜜围困了
曾经怒放的野花；
她水品的心逐步
走开那些
朽烂梨子。

她的命运
不靠近
那些偷偷走开的
青鸟--她得把
心肝里的雏菊
创造一个草地，
为了在蜂巢里
再找自己。

翻译/Translation:

The soft-hearted girl
cries orange-colored ink
inside her leather jacket.
Under the wilted pear tree,
petals scatter around;
they cannot help but dance.

Although honey rains on her,
the duplicate sun
makes her face shine, 
the bees she wanted to find 
besiege the flower, once in full bloom;
and her crystal heart
gradually leaves
the rotting pears.

Her fate no longer relies on
those birds who stealthily go away;
she must turn the daisies in her heart
into grassland,
so that she my find herself again
in a honeycomb.

无名（我把双手纵横你的头发里…)/Untitled (I weave my hands through your hair…)

I weave my hands through your hair--
 reveled in rosemary, smelling of lavender.
 Once-tightened braids unfurl themselves
 silk ribbons undoing an engagement dress.
 My fingertips catch your cheeks,
 drawing maps with your scars,
 and traverse through rocky coasts,
 so I may find a sliver of shelter
 on goldenrod sands.
 
There, the warm breeze mocks
 my inhibitions, blackberry bushes
 which I carried as an offering.
 My hands tingle with every thorn
 picked out of my palms,
 fidgeting as I offer my finest fruit for you.
 My smile cracks with the dawn,
 a sliver of moon in my teeth,
 and I bubble from my blood,
 like champagne being opened.

 A single kiss ignites my driftwood--
 the muse drives through the shoreline
 and slices her words through my lungs.
 They slither through miles of sand,
 dancing through a lost wind,
 until they meet your gaze,
 where they bloom violently.

我把双手纵横你的头发里， 
陶醉了迷迭香，也闻着薰衣草。 
曾经紧绷的辫子展开自己， 
丝带解开了一条婚约衣裙。 
我的指尖捕你的面颊， 
用你的疤画着地图， 
穿越岩石的海岸， 
为了在黄花的沙子， 
我找得到一点的避难。 

 温暖的风，它嘲笑我的约束； 
我双手抱着黑莓的祭品。 
每一棘从手心挑出， 
我的手刺痛， 
当我把最好的水果送给你， 
一直一直盘弄。 
我的微笑跟黎明一起发光
像一个狼牙月在我牙齿里； 
我从我血里起泡 
像开放的香槟酒一样。 

 
只有一个吻，就点燃我的漂木， 
一位缪斯在海边开车了， 
就把她的句子切我的肺。 
他们滑动了茫茫沙子， 
跳舞在迷茫风中， 
直到遇到你的眼光-- 
他们就猛烈地绽放了。 

《空缺》(Vacancy)

我的名字，只是一点点海盐;
让我继续游来游去，
也慢慢地刻着我的自负，
一个亮红色的纹身。

我的存在摇摇欲坠--
虽然花瓶早已破碎了，
但是我手里枯萎的菊花
学会了坚忍主义，
拒绝了腐烂。
微弱的意志
是一条
母亲橄榄树木的帆船，
逃不出
夏天的台风。

一百万首歌陪我
在一条向阴间的河流;
那些歌手不知道我牺牲了
一辈子里的青春，
就像把最后的米饭喂了小鸭。
黑社里的小公主
叫我的名字，
而我改弦易辙，
付出所有的意识。

我的手心透露了一个空缺；
它渴望的樱桃，
我早已给孩子们吃。
她喂我的石榴
慢慢地激发我的嘴,
就让它们悄然地召唤我的鬼--
我来不及把过去洗净。

如果有一天,上帝想评判我，
那就让他来看见我
可让他过来
麻雀的化身。

翻译/Translation:

My name is just a little bit of sea salt--
it makes me continue swimming,
and also carves through my vanity,
a bright red tattoo.

My existence hangs by a thread--
even though the flowerpot already broke,
the wilted chrysanthemums in my hands 
studied stoicism
and refused to rot.
A fragile will is
a sailboat made from 
my mother's olive trees,
unable to escape
the summer typhoon.

A million songs accompany me
as I sail across the river to the netherworld;
the singers do not know that I've 
sacrificed the youth in one's life,
like feeding ducklings the last bits of rice.
The princess of the underworld calls my name,
and I would change my tune,
paying with all my consciousness.

My palm reveals a vacancy;
the cherries it had yearned for 
were already given to other children.
The pomegranate she feeds me
slowly excites my lips,
and quietly makes them summon my ghosts--
I have no time to wash my past clean.

If, one day, God wants to judge me,
then let him come see me,
but make him come
incarnate as a sparrow.

“Praha 1990” (Prague 1990) by Sylviane Dupuis

Les hommes avancent sans te voir
– pâles Lazares qu’échine le froid –
et l’oeil des femmes est comme un clou

Etrangère! Tu ne passeras pas indemne
ce seuil amer où glissent des ombres
sur les façades coloriées:

toute mue s’éprouve à douleur,
blesse qui même
l’effleure…

Traduction/Translation:

The men advance without looking at you--
pale Lazaruses who put great effort in the cold,
and the women's eye is like a nail.

Stranger! You will not pass unharmed,
this bitter threshold where shadows glide
under the colored façades;

all transformation shows that sorrow
hurts the same
as a touch...

Photo by Ryan Lum on Unsplash

Ludivine

Ya que quand mes mains rencontrent
avec les tiennes, j'oublie les silences
que j'ai donné naissance,
mes mots fleurissent 
dans un jardin secret,
et je désir toujours, toujours.

Tes bras sont ces baies inconnus;
la lune enceinte sait seulement 
où on peut trouver des fraises.
Tu m'a donné les chansons
que ma mère a chantée;
en la coquille;
tu écoutes du paradise;
mais tu restes ici;
avec moi, en larmes.

Tu te coiffes te cheveux blondes,
brulent comme un soleil nouveau
et laissent seulement des étincelles.
Ces blessures bénis
sont plus belles que ces baies,
que tu a oubliée manger,
pour moi 


Traduction/Translation:

Only when my hands meet yours,
do I forget the silences I've given birth to;
my words bloom 
in a secret garden,
and I always yearn, always yearn.

Your arms are those unknown bays,
only the moon knows where
we can find strawberries.
You gave me songs
that my mother had sung;
in a seashell,
you listen to heaven,
but you stay here
with me, in tears.

You brush your blonde hair,
burning like a new sun,
leaving only sparks in their wake,
These blessed wounds
are more beautiful than these berries
that you've forgotten to eat,
for me...

《天鹅》(Swans)

找我在古老的麦田吧--
没有人会思想
一双情人互相
捕获自己，就用
小小的疤走过
那个琳琅满目的别处。

我们这样的怀抱
不准冷风进入
你的脑海；你的头发
只会隐藏你的眼睛--
一双我找到了
纯银鱼的并。

我扔了硬币之后，
天使在霞光都没关系。
你的双手对我有求必应
当天鹅飞向我们，
而我们开始变了。

翻译/Translation：

Find me in the ancient wheat fields--
nobody would ever think
a pair of lovers would
capture each other, before
using their tiny, tiny scars
to pass through that glimmering elsewhere.

Our kind of embrace
doesn't let the frigid wind
enter your mind; your hair
will only hide your eyes--
a pair of wells
where I find pure silver fish.

After flipping a coin,
the angels in the red sunset don't matter.
Your hands respond to my needs
as the swans fly towards us,
and we begin to change.

无名《在樱花下我们抱抱的一天》Untitled (On the day we embraced under the cherry blossoms…)

在樱花下我们抱抱的一天，
你问我什么让我活下去。
当我们前仰后合，
一个孤独的杨柳挑舞，
我告诉你我真的心愿。

我想把霞画画一群，
就在星空飞翔，
跟仙人一起微笑。
而当你闻我闻着石榴的头发，
我低声了我想邀请我的朋友，
就一起喝纯真的甜酒。
我感觉你亲吻我，
散满了肉桂，
可是哎呦! 我忘了说，
忘了说。。。

如今，我跟樱花一起哭泣，
我们忘了太阳又升起了。
你决定了跟蝴蝶一起飞翔，
风言风语在彼岸等你。
天意不准我死，
但我的心悄然唱着安魂曲。
我梦着穿着天使的连衣裙，
可不是帮助心碎的姑娘
超越爱情的负担，
一家玫瑰花园在冬天。

On the day we embraced under the cherry blossoms,
you asked me what keeps me alive.
As we rocked back and forth,
as a lonely willow tree would dance,
I tell you my truest wish.

I want to paint a group of rosy clouds,
to fly in the starry skies,
and to laugh along with the immortals.
And when you smell my hair, with the scent of pomegranates,
I whisper that I want to invite all my friends
and drink pure, sweet wine together.
I feel you kissing me,
scattered and full of cinnamon,
but oh! I forgot to say,
forgot to say...

Nowadays, I cry with the cherry blossoms;
we've forgotten that the sun rose again.
You've decided to fly with the butterflies,
with gossip waiting for you at the other side.
Although the will of God forbids me to die,
my heart softly sings requiems.
I dream of dressing in an angel's dress,
but it won't help a broken-hearted girl
to surpass the burdens of love,
a rose garden at winter.

灵感/Inspiration:

Although Katerina Duska wasn’t the original singer, she still adds a bit of melancholy to this song. The minimalistic instrumentation helps too.

Roma 1989 (Rome 1989) by Sylviane Dupuis

A nos pieds ce chaos de règnes,
le temps tassé sous l’opulence des dômes
et l’infernal fracas

là-bas, je sais qu’un fleuve
charrie les soleils et la boue
sous un pont criblé d’anges
– mais qu’ai-je à faire de l’éternel

Rejoindre, plus haut que l’air
cette noire poudre d’ailes
migrante

Rome, 1989

At our feet, this chaos of reigns,
the packed time underneath the domes' opulence
and the infernal roar

over there, I know that a river
carries the suns and mud
under a bridge riddled with angels,
but what do I have to do for the eternal?

To reach higher than the air,
this dark powder of migrant
wings.

Photo by Viktoriia Krivorotova on Unsplash

《故乡》：俞心樵 (Hometown by Yu Xinqiao)

在对你刻骨的爱恋中又一天过去了 
让我说，这是胜利 
这就是胜利 

让我为你诵读昨夜写下的《爱我炎娃》 
让我不停止一切诗歌的活动 

我说死是因为我还活着 

我不断说死是因为我不停地活着 
我说，活着要爱，死了也不能不爱 
整整一天我都沉浸在巨大梦幻中 

 天气很坏，我紧紧跟随密集的暴雨 
又和雨后阳光一起走出乌云 
我在你的寝室楼前找到这把绿色的长椅 

暑假前的校园多么适于回想 
六月二十七日正午，在这儿你诵读你自己的诗篇 
一声声都是花开花落 

而今天，现在，正是正午 
绿色长椅上空空荡荡 
一声声，炎娃，你又去哪个教室默读俄语 

由此我怀念俄罗斯的风雪大地 

永远歌唱田园的叶赛宁 
他说，找到故乡，就是胜利 

而你，炎娃，炎娃 
你就是我的故乡，永不能归


1991.6.29凌晨 清华园

Hometown:

In your deeply ingrained love 
Another day passes,
And it makes me say,
"This is excellent, this is excellent".

Let me read aloud "Love Me, Yanwa",
And never let me stop any of my poetic activity.

I talk of death because I still live.

I continually talk about death because I don't stop living--
I say, to live is to love; after dying, you can't not love.
Everyday, I immerse myself in a grand illusion.

The weather is really bad; I closely follow the concentrated rain, 
Going out of dark clouds again with the sun after rain,
I found this green bench in front of your dormitory block.

The schoolyard before summer vacation is suitable for recollection--
At noon on June 27, you read out your own poetry,
Every sound are flowers blooming and wilting.

And today, now, at noon 
On an empty and white green bench,
A sound, Yan Wa, you go into the classroom again to silently read Russian.

Therefore, I miss the Russian wind and snow, all along the land.

Yesenin, who always sings about the countryside,
He says finding the hometown is a victory.

And you, Yanwa, Yanwa,
You are always my hometown, never returning.

Le Mont (The Mount)

You may have noticed that even though I said this would be a blog for my French and Chinese poetry, I posted Chinese content. It’s because I have a stronger hold on the language; I could speak it at a higher-intermediate level versus a mere beginning level for French.

This time, I’m translating one of my poems into French for feedback. I was inspired by music about water and wanted to write my take on such a journey. The Mont-Saint-Michel also provided a source of inspiration because it resembled a safe place to end the journey.

Bien que au debout, j’ai dit que mon blog est pour mes poesies et traductions français et chinois, mais tout le content sont sur des poesies chinoises. C’est parce que mon chinois est mieux que mon français–je peux parler chinoise dans de niveau intermédiaire supérieur, mais mon français est plus simple.

Mais pour cette poème, je vais traditeur en français pour autres m’aider. J’ai écoute deux chansons en l’eaux et j’ai vu écrire un voyage. Le Mont-Saint-Michel est aussi du symbol pour un sanctuaire.

The leaden waters invite me--
icy tentacles
wrapping me in a blanket
for the lost children,
submerged
into a kingdom of seaweed and songs.
The currents spin around my waist--
a hurricane emerging from the depths,
as an avant-garde dress
bubbling, tickling my legs
with its embrace.

I take a deep breath,
but I only exhale a campfire's remains.
Quicksand quickly betrays me,
a thread severed
to liberate the penitent.
Stretching my hands,
I fiddle for hands to anchor me--
they don't stop my journey.
They whistle a banshee's song,
a last call for divine intervention.

Between heaven and earth
is a temple of granite;
the grainy watchtowers
are only perches
for the pigeons
to gather breadcrumbs.
The sound of angels are lost
to the breaking waves;
a psalm with scattered notes,
clashed with gunfire
for a nascent god.

And I still believed.
I still believed
that an island will wait for me,
lined with coral hibiscus
and palm trees.
I sought faith
out on the rocks,
where mosses glow and grow--
instead,
I become a wanderer,
a melting lantern seeking for the dawn,
turning into the salt of the sea
as I am stripped bare again.

Traduction:

L’eaux lourds m’invitent, 
Tentacules verglaces  
Qu'ils enveloppent moi dans une couverture, 
Qu'ont immergé 
Dans un royaume des algues et chansons. 
Les courants tournent autour de ma taille, 
Un ouragan qu’émerge des profondeurs, 
Comme une robe avant-garde que bouillonne, 
Que chatouille mes jambes avec son étreinte. 

Je prends une profonde inspiration, 
Mais j'expire seulement des restes du feu de camp. 
Les sables mourants traient-moi rapidement, 
Un fils qu’a coupé pour la libération des pénitents. 
Je m'étire mes mains, 
Et bricole pour mains ancrer-moi-- 
Ils n'arrentent mon voyage. 
Ils sifflent une chanson de la banshee,  
Un appel dernier pour l'intervention divine. 

Entre le ciel et la terre est un temple en granite ; 
Les tours de guet granuleux sont seulement perchoirs 
Pour les pigeons 
Ramasser des miettes de pain. 
Les bruits des anges ont perdu dans les vagues, 
Un psaume avec des notes éparpilles, 
Qu'a affronté avec coups de feu 
Pour un dieu naissent. 

Et j’ai cru encore. 
Et j’ai cru encore 
Qu'une île m’attendra, 
Qu'ont recouvre avec des hibiscus corail 
Et des palmiers. 
J’ai trouvé des convictions 
Dans les pierres ; 
Où les mousses grandissent et luisent. 
Je suis devenu plutôt vagabond, 
Une lanterne fondante que cherche pour l’aurore, 
Que transforme du sel de mer 
Quand je suis déshabillé encore. 

Inspiration:

《三月》(March)

口袋里的形象
是一把老铁刀:
我水彩的眼睛
面对早晨的尸体，
在柳丁树下埋了。
万念俱灰的朋友们
隐没了盛开的樱花，
来不及思想
彼岸到底在哪里--
四海为家的神
把这个岛迁移
浅色的春分。
而我逃不出
历史的温柔双手;
我是用老刀的女孩，
但是我留在镜子的另外边，
跟怒放紫藤交朋友。

March

The shape inside the pocket
is that of an old iron knife--
my watercolor eyes
face the dawn's corpse,
buried under a tangerine tree.
Friends who have lost hope
slowly vanish in blooming cherry blossoms,
with no time to think about
where the other shore actually is;
the vagrant gods moved this island
to the pastel equinox.
And I cannot escape
the tender hands of history;
even though I'm the daughter who uses the knife,
I remain on the other side of the mirror,
making friends with wisteria in full bloom.

《战后》：北岛 (Post-Bellum by Bei Dao)

While I was trying to find Hebrew poetry, I stumbled upon the website lyrikline.org. There, they have poems from many different languages; in some of them, you could actually hear the poet read their own work.

There’s obviously Mandarin Chinese poetry in it; one of the featured authors is Bei Dao, who currently lives in Hong Kong. His poetry, which I’ve delved into through the past year, is part of the 朦胧 (meng2long2) “Misty” generation–which focuses on realism, but with enigmatic language. After reading this piece, I figured I might translate it here for you.

Link: https://www.lyrikline.org/en/poems/post-bellum-3710 (in traditional Chinese, along with Bei Dao reading it)

从梦里蒸馏的形象
在天边遗弃旗帜

池塘变得明光，
那失踪者的笑声
表明：疼痛
是莲花的叫喊

我们的沉默
变成草浆变成
纸，那愈合
书写伤口的冬天

Post-Bellum

Distilled images from a dream
abandon a flag on the horizon.

The pond has become bright;
the laughing sounds of the missing
make it clear: pain
is a lotus flower's shout.

Our silence
turns into straw pulp, turning into 
paper, that winter
which heals written wounds.

《桃花：在故乡》：俞心樵 (Peach Blossoms in Hometown by Yu Xinqiao)

春天这家杂志，在故乡
发表了大量的桃花
 而我们必须销声匿迹
 桃花的铃声正催逼着我们
 在故乡，太阳大权在握
 命令春风这架印刷机
 印出湖泊中牛鬼的倒影
 印出千年前追逐蜜蜂的苏小小
 而我们必须销声匿迹
 我们唯一能够发表的作品就是我们悲哀的脸
 我们曾经在酒足饭饱之后停止探索
 如今我们在悲哀中初具遥远的意识
 在故乡，我和月亮气味相投
 就这个嫦娥，是我诗篇中的土特产
 是我带着她奔月，千年的传说中
 人们将我忘得如此之深
 1990　3　浙师大

Peach Blossoms in Hometown:

Spring--this magazine publishes
 many peach blossoms at home,
 and we have to lie low.
 The peach blossoms' ringing
 now press us for payment.
 At home, the sun holds power in its hands,
 and orders this printing press, the spring breeze
 to print an upside down image of a cow's ghost,
 and to print a miniature of a chasing bee from many years ago.
 And we have to lie low;
 the only things we're able to publish are our sorrowful faces.
 We once stopped exploring after we had our fill;
 nowadays, we first have a sense of remoteness in sorrow.
 In our hometown, I am compatible with Chang'e--
 it's the local specialty in my poems,
 it's me flying to the moon with her,
 in thousand-year-old legends,
 people forget me so thoroughly.

Photo by Hieu Do on Unsplash

无名《我的天真让我疯狂》(Untitled–“Your innocence drives me crazy…)

Photo by Manuel Meurisse on Unsplash

你的天真让我疯狂， 
你的眼泪如钻石宝贵， 
一直寻找满月。 
 在黑夜中， 当雾霭把我们裹好，
 你一直旋转，旋转， 
 你的衣裙悄然发光。
 一分钟，就可以着火。 
 
你的温柔让我的脸开始破碎， 
 而隐藏的流泪变了河流， 
 漂移向遥远的港， 
 人山人海等着公平地宣布。 
 当军人航行向地狱， 
 他们的血污的情书 
 飞越破碎的山谷， 
 跟叶子一起散落街道。 
 
你在樱花下，倩影不准我走， 
你的手又邀请我一起跳舞。 
你的嘴如梅花绽放， 
可不准自己勇敢地告别。 
冷风叫我的名字， 
而暴风快地来到， 
 可假如我可以回乡， 
一切的我就是你的。 

翻译/Translation

Your innocence drives me crazy,
and your eyes are valuable like diamonds,
always searching for the moon.
At night, when the fog wraps around us, 
you always spin, always spin；
your dress quietly giving off light.
In a minute, it could catch fire.

Your tenderness makes my face want to break,
and the tears I've hidden transform into rivers,
drifting towards a faraway harbor
where a sea of people wait for a peace treaty.
When the soldiers sail towards hell,
their bloodied love letters
will fly across the broken valleys
before scattering on the streets with leaves.

You are under the cherry blossoms, a beautiful woman forbidding me to go,
your hands invite me to come and dance together again.
Your lips bloom like plum blossoms,
yet you don't let yourself to say goodbye courageously.
The frigid winds call my name,
and the storm quickly arrives,
but if I can return home,
all of me will be yours.

《爱情如刺刀的肺部》(Love is Like a Punctured Lung)

爱情如刺刀的肺部； 
它限制你的氧气。 
而在你的黑暗中， 
你的谵妄保护你， 
 一直唱童年的歌。

你坐在心里的悬崖-- 
山风变幻你的方向； 
当一双鹭鸶超越冬天。 
你弹古琴，眼睛水灵， 
可当你开口，寻找歌词， 
你不得不啜泣
蜂蜜的流泪。

你一直爬山如新僧， 
忙着忏悔在白天中， 
画着过去的回忆。 
你的彼岸只是 
死去的白桃树， 
水果被老百姓亵渎了， 
 为了让家人不会凋零。 
 
如果你告诉我 ”我爱你“， 
请把双手伸给我， 
而回到我的氧气。 
 我祷告这个真实如清水-- 
 我青春的药膏， 
 一直留在我手心里 
 像昨天的毒药。 

翻译/Translation:

Love is like a punctured lung--
it takes away your oxygen.
And in your darkness,
your delirium protects you,
always singing songs from childhood.

You sit on a cliff inside your heart,
the mountain winds changing your direction
as a pair of herons overcome winter.
You play the guqin, your eyes twinkling,
but when you open your mouth,
searching for the words,
you can't help but sob
in tears made of honey.

You always climb there like a monk,
busy repenting during the day,
painting memories of the past.
Your other shore is just
a dying cherry tree--
others defiled the fruit,
so that their loved ones may not wither.

So if you tell me, "I love you,"
please take my hands 
and return the oxygen to me.
I pray this reality is like clear water;
the salve for my youth
stays on my palms 
like yesterday's poison.

《朝圣者》(The Pilgrim)

耶路撒冷只是
一条起伏的老桥。
生来牛奶的牧师
熬夜，不知不觉焚香。
他们忙着忏悔，
也看不见
人们的荒野。

我的双手读者西墙，
但我的心里是哑的。
心愿飞来飞去，
从来不渴望石榴的食物，
可昨天的回音
让我哑口无言。

哦，饱经沧桑的城市，
不要着火橄榄森林--
一双被麦刺的手
只想喝一杯圣酒。

Translation/翻译

Jerusalem is only
a wavering bridge.
Priests born out of milk
stay up all night,
mindlessly burning incense--
too busy repenting,
they don't see the wilderness of people.

Although my hands read the Western Wall,
my heart is mute.
My mind flies around,
never longing for a pomegranate's sustenance,
but yesterday's echoes
render me silent.

Oh, this city which saw so much,
do not burn the forest of olive trees--
a pair of hands, cut by wheat,
only wants a cup of holy wine.

《1984：写给一万卡》: 俞心樵 (1984: Written for Ivanka by Yu Xinqiao)

白痴带来了黑夜
黑社会带来曙光
这世道那个乱呀
没什么道理可讲
  
这首诗也将大乱
岂能再整齐划一
  
川普一家及其
可怜的小团队
被正确主流媒体
泼污了四年之后
终于全都被封口
  
我很想帮你们的
可怜的一万卡
如果你读卡夫卡
你就必然知道
  
你们的可怜
快赶上了我的可怜
你爹的孤独
快赶上了我的孤独
  
唉，真是抱歉
我，作为一个
可怜的亡国之君
我的江山社稷
已丢失千百年
要军队没军队
要粮草没粮草
  
如今，我
只能抱着
一个破手机
干着急
   
可怜的一万卡呀
如果你读卡夫卡
不，不不，如果
如果你读奥威尔
  
黑夜带来了白痴
曙光带来黑社会
这世道那个乱呀
没什么道理可讲
  
 2020.1.10.简言居

1984: Written For Ivanka

Idiocy brings the night,
while the underworld brings the dawn.
These attitudes are so messy,
with no values to speak of.
 
This poem also brings a state of chaos;
how could it be balanced again?
 
Trump's family and
their small, pitiful team
are corrected by the mainstream media.
After a rough and brutish four years
they are all finally sealed up.
 
I want to help your
pitiful Ivanka.
If you read Kafka,
then you must certainly know.

Your pitifulness
quickly overtakes mine;
your father's loneliness
quickly overtakes mine also.
 
Ay--I'm really sorry.
I'm seen as a 
pitiful gentleman from a dying country.
The scenery of my country
already lost thousands of years.
I want an army, but don't have one.
I want provisions, but don't have any.
 
Nowadays, I can only
hold a broken cell phone
and worry helplessly.
 
Oh, pitiful Ivanka--
if you read Kafka…
No, no no--
if you read Orwell,
 
Darkness brings idiocy,
while the dawn brings about the underworld.
These attitudes are so messy,
with no values to speak of.

Picture: Alternative Ivanka II by me (Elda Mengisto). Charcoal and colored pencil and sketch paper, 2017

《空虚的女孩》 (Daughter of Nothingness)

I was rejected at birth, nestled in the arms of death— 
My mother was heaven, and my father the earth. 
The sun smiled at me as I woke up in the forest, 
Clothed in a blanket and crowned with dead wildflowers. 
 
The summer warmth raised me in the years to come, 
Melting the blue on my fingertips and the ice on my lips. 
Yet it also unveiled my heart, cracked by rocks and time; 
With daggers piercing my shield, many thoughts are revealed. 
 
Witnesses to my existence mock my elusiveness, 
A virginal soul enduring in the woods. 
Yet I was whored out by nature herself, 
Decayed by the fall and devoured by vultures. 
 
I seek wings which I could fly to a place where my soul could rest, 
Against the winter winds, against the snipes of gnashing teeth. 
As the scent of roses leaves me, I cry seeking for the sun, 
For there is no God, only birds. 

我在出生被拒绝了，就在死神的胳膊依偎着。 
我妈妈是天空，我爸爸是地球。 
太阳对我微笑当我在森林醒来了， 
穿着毛毯，也为自己用死着野花加冕。 
 
来到的岁月中，夏天的温暖养了我， 
融化了指尖上的蓝色和嘴唇上的冰。
可他也透露我被石头与时光开裂的心； 
匕首刺着我的盾牌，多少思想被暴露了。 

 我存在的目击者嘲笑我的谜团， 
 一个在森林中忍耐的处女灵魂。 
 可自然界，她让我吃喝嫖赌， 
 被秋天腐烂，就被秃鹫吞吃了。 

 我寻找翅膀，为了飞向一个我灵魂休息的地方， 
 超越冬风，超越切齿。 
 当玫瑰香味离开我，我为太阳哭泣， 
 因为没有上帝，而只有鸟。 

Picture Credit: StarFlames at Pixbay

《心愿》(Wish)

我不想为金硬币问你，
或用你的诗意称颂我。

 仁慈与真实，如银河与海洋—
 当他们和解，就互相毁灭。
我已经在雾霭帝国卖自己，
穿着紫色礼包，带着春天玫瑰。

可我已经被钉死了一百万次，
每一次把我的呼吸偷了。
只有我能为我的敌人惨叫，
我就推翻她们的尊严。

为了重生，凤凰在凤霞升华；
为了出生，星星在重力爆发。
可加入从沉沦的灵魂，
让我放弃眼睛里的星星，
我如何继续，在冷漠森林绽放？

当太阳再升起，
我只想要追求余火，
为了草原燃烧，
为了让我在烟中跳舞。 --2018年12月31日

Wish:

I don't want to ask you for golden coins,
nor to praise me with your poetic verse.

Mercy and reality are like the Milky Way and the sea--
when they reconcile, they destroy each other.
I've already sold myself in an empire of fog,
clothed in purple gift wrap, while carrying roses from spring.

But I've already been crucified a million times;
every time, it steals my breath away.
Only when I can shout out for my enemies 
could I overturn their dignity.

In order to resurrect, a phoenix sublimates in rosy clouds;
in order to be born, a star explodes in its own gravity.
But a soul entering oblivion
makes me lose the stars in my eyes--
how can I continue, and bloom in an indifferent forest?

When the sun rises again,
I just want to chase the sparks,
so that the grasslands may burn,
so that I can dance in the smoke. --31 December 2018

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

《寻贝-Ocean Beach》 (Finding Shells–Ocean Beach) by Chun Yu

I haven’t been on a beach for a while, partially because of the pandemic and because I haven’t gotten the chance to do so. I always liked the imagery of them; when I was younger, I loved to collect rocks and shells from there.

Chun Yu dedicates 《寻贝-Ocean Beach》 to the titular Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Despite going there twice, I never went to that specific place, but I’d imagine it is pretty. She lives there after moving from China to pursue a career in the sciences; Chun only started writing when she became a post-doctorate fellow.

Her best known book is Little Green: Growing Up in the Chinese Revolution, but she also does other projects, like anthologies, a poetry collection between Chinese Americans and African Americans alike, and even does some poetry herself! One of these, 《地图》 (Map), can be found here.

这彼岸的沙滩
我漂洋过海的
栖落之地
以海洋为名 
是伸展无际的
美洲天涯


听说那大海 
有时会抛出
沙钱贝
洒落在她的
黄金海岸


尽管零星渺茫
拾贝者众多 
我并不满怀希望 
却也不无希望地 
俯身寻觅


而海上风暴无常 
玲珑的沙钱贝 
或许早已被击碎
黯然飘散
无法重圆


当我耗尽了
心神与眼力
无意中抬头
望向茫茫大海
却看见飞溅的喷泉 
鲸鱼巨大的黑色脊背 
在海上浮现— 
如同希望 
身背重负 
却充满力量 
一旦升起 
整个海洋
都为之涌动


（2017年9月13日初稿于旧金山，2020年12月1日完稿于旧金山）

翻译/Translation

This beach on the other shore,
the sunken place where I've traveled the sea for,
gave the sea a name--
the ends of the Americas
which stretch out endlessly.

I've heard this ocean
would sometimes toss out
sand dollars,
sprinkling across her
golden coasts.

Even with fragments of uncertainty,
and a lot of people collecting shells,
I'm not filled with hope,
but I have a little bit, hopefully 
bending down to look.

And as the storm on the sea dies out,
an exquisite sand dollar,
or maybe one already smashed into pieces.
They dimly drift
with no way to reunite.

When I've depleted
my mind and vision,
I accidentally raise my head up,
and look at the endless ocean.
But looking at the splashing fountain,
a whale's giant black back
emerges above the sea--
like hope,
a burden on the body
but filled with strength.
In a day, it raises
the entire sea,
all to bubble forward.

《冬至》 (Winter Solstice)

A few years ago, my Chinese 401 class and I had to read a short story called 《取暖》 (To Warm Oneself). It’s about a young man who committed a crime and it imbues on him when he returns home for the Lunar New Year. It also covers his time in prison.

That form of isolation inspired me to write this poem in 2016-2017, but under different circumstances. This is probably one of my favorites I have written thus far.

站在那条孤独的路上
我祈祷为了从命运获释，
而为我亲爱的朋友终于原谅我。
当季节第一次降雪来到的时候，
我应该走，
去看我的亲朋好友，
可是如今，回来的我不是英雄，
而是拿着破碎灵魂的。

今夜，我想了英雄的意义，
我以为它是把我的刀剑，
走向天涯，为了救多生命。
其实，这个挑战，
也像冬至一样黑暗。
回家呢？不是个荣耀，
而是一个委任--
妈妈难以忍受疗伤我伤痕累累的脸，
爸爸告诉我只是个无助的流浪。

风又吹了，一首难忘的旋律，
也如此残酷。一位仙女独自
站在那遥远的岛，充满了山花。
但是她来不及送给我阳光。
天继续下雪，车继续飘逸，
可谁要花了时间暖和脆弱的我？
我问了白云，就又祈祷了。

Winter Solstice

Standing on the lonely road,
I pray that I will be freed from my destiny
and that my beloved will finally forgive me.
I should've left 
when the first snow of the season started falling,
but nowadays, the me who returns is not a hero,
but one holding a broken soul.

Tonight, I think about what it means to be a hero--
I thought it was holding a sword,
traveling to the ends of the earth, and saving many lives.
Actually, that challenge
was as dark as the winter solstice.
And returning home? It's not an honor,
but an appointment--
my mother cannot bear to heal my scarred face;
my father tells me I'm just a helpless wanderer.

The wind blows again, a melody not forgotten,
yet so brutal. A fairy stands alone
on a faraway island, filled with mountain flowers,
but she has no time to bestow sunlight on me.
The snow continues to fall, the cars continue to drift,
but who would waste time to warm me, oh so fragile?
I asked the white clouds, before praying again.

When Beatrice Calls

如果你们读过但丁的《神曲》，你就知道了Beatrice的人物。她不仅陪但丁到了天堂，而是他的缪斯。研究者讨论谁炫目但丁；然而，结论不太清纯。有一个女人，叫Beatrice Portinari, 就是他们猜猜看的但丁的亲爱的。虽然他们的关系比较弱，但是但丁的心一直为他渴望。

八年以前，我看过了《神曲》；但是我不记得那么多的事情。可是，这个夏天，我写了两首诗；他们都心想Beatrice 当缪斯。如果她是道德的化身，她就怎么帮助我们？

If you’ve ever read “The Divine Comedy”, you would know the character of Beatrice. She accompanies Dante as he moves out of Purgatory and into Heaven, along with acting as his muse. Researchers have debated on whom inspired him, but there isn’t a clear conclusion on who it is. They’ve came to a relative consensus, however, on Beatrice Portinari. Their relationship was a bit fragile, as they only met twice, but it gave Dante such a longing that it inspired him, such as with “La Vita Nuova“.

I’ve read The Divine Comedy in high school, but I don’t remember much of it. This doesn’t mean I didn’t use Beatrice’s figure as a muse in these two poems–one in English, the other in Mandarin. If she’s the embodiment of goodness, then what would that mean for us?

Beatrice Calls:

The waves beckon me afar--
 a siren song smothered；
 the bridge between myself
 and paradise
 is a tightrope made of spun sugar.
 The sand wraps my ankles
as ivy grows on a maple,
 and compels me
to submerge in millennia
 of bleeding transitions.
 I fantasize of a mermaid,
 her fingers on my toes,
 challenging me to come to the depths
 where opals dissolve.
 But Beatrice calls
 and I acquise.
Wrapping myself in the humid wind,
I swirl in the musky evening,
to prepare myself for the terror.

Beatrice召唤 （中文翻译）：

那些波浪招手我，
一首被抑制了的曲，
我自己与天堂之间的桥
是一条丝糖钢丝。
沙子包裹着我的脚踝，
像常春藤蜿蜒枫树
就强迫了我
为了在血着过渡的千年
淹没自己。
我意淫了美人鱼,
她的手指摸着我的脚趾，
一直激将我过来
在蛋白石溶解的深处。
可是Beatrice召唤我；
我就放弃了，
我把潮湿风包裹自己，
就在麝香晚上转一转，
为未来的战争准备自己。

《天涯》

晶莹的桃子
从霞光坠落，
在你心手里
又绽放了。
你把沼泽地
收获了
未枯萎的莲花；
天鹅飞翔
遥远的地平线。
你付出所有的
阳光灿烂的岁月--
忘了黎明的温暖，
为了假装勇敢的流浪。
可在霎眼，
Beatrice召唤我，
穿着月亮，
也拿着宝剑，
四海为家。

At the Ends of the Earth:

Crystal peaches
fall from the red sunlight;
they bloom again
in the palm of your hand.
You harvested lotuses
that never wither in marshlands;
swans fly towards
a faraway horizon.
You have given up 
all those sunny years,
and forgotten the dawn's warmth,
so that you may pretend to be a courageous wanderer.
But in a blink of an eye,
Beatrice calls you--
dressed in moonlight,
she holds a valuable sword,
a vagrant.

Picture Credit: Ray Bilcliff from Pexels

High Noon《正午》

连万花筒
都不能控制
白天的统治;
那个永恒的朝代
为军人面对他。
可我逃避了
我对早晨的渴望；
蔚蓝的天空
为我打开了--
海阔天空，
那个海洋的深渊。

我把我继承的蓝宝石
驱逐了天涯；
逐步, 地平线只是银线。
我又学会了微笑，
也学会了保护自己的火，
春天太阳的小礼物。

扔了硬币之后，
我发现了自己的指南针,
但我得学会读它的旅途。

所以，我终于决定了改变。

翻译/Translation:

Even a kaleidoscope
cannot control the day's rule;
the never-ending dynasty
waits for solider to face it.
But I've already escaped
the longing for dawn;
the azure skies opened for me
the entire world,
the ocean's abyss.

I've banished the sapphires
that I have inherited;
step by step, the horizon is just a silver wire.
I learned how to smile again,
and learned how to protect my own fire,
a gift from the spring sun.

After flipping a coin,
I discovered my own compass,
but I have to read its journey.

So, I've finally decided to change.

Dawn 《早晨》

万花筒做的眼睛
看得见
透明的樱花
悄悄绽放了，
吹响了
我开放的手心里。
我听得见
夜莺的歌曲，
但我的心里
不知不觉
跳了华尔兹舞。
灰姑娘的梦想
早已过去了，
不过，露珠头发的我
终于变了女士。
我跟回乡的天鹅
骑着一片白云；
在阳光灿烂
重生的维纳斯。
小小的丁香
也让我再写诗歌；
连昨天晚上的叫床
都像交响乐一样。

翻译/Translation:

Kaleidoscopic eyes
can see
transparent cherry blossoms
quietly blooming
and blowing into
my open palms.
Although I can hear a nightingale's song,
my heart unconsciously 
dances a waltz.
Cinderella's dream has already passed--
nevertheless,
I, with dew drops in hair,
has finally become a woman.
I ride a white cloud 
with swans flying homeward;
I am Venus resurrected
on a bright and sunny day.
Small lilacs
make me write poems again;
even last night's moaning
is like a symphony.

Picture Credit: Roberto Nickson at Pexels

Midnight 《半夜》

一双蔚蓝眼睛
常常出没我的心愿--
我找不到盯视我的人。
半夜超越爱人的渴望，
也安慰着自杀的诗人，
手里拿着的万花筒
被我的忧郁混乱了。

它们的三角镜子
不知不觉
展示黑白房子，
闻着新鲜牡丹，
也看不见曦辰在哪里。
我跟蜡烛祷告；
烟草神话着
我做的演讲；
忏悔是
收获菊花
当我用了血画画
回乡的旅途。

我哭的这样--
流泪只是
孕育星星碎片，
但心里的呼喊
就是无尽唱词。
它们逐渐地
解放纯白茉莉；
它们的美丽
从来不属于我。

翻译/Translation:

A pair of azure eyes
frequently haunts my desires--
I cannot find the one who stares at me.
Midnight surpasses the lovers' yearning
and comforts the suicidal poets;
the kaleidoscope I hold in my hands
is muddled by my melancholy.

Their triangular mirrors
unconsciously reveal black and white places;
they smell like fresh peonies,
yet cannot see where the dawn is.
I pray alongside the candles;
the tobacco sanctifying my speech--
repentance is 
harvesting chrysanthemums
when I used my blood to paint
the way home.

I cry like this--
although tears only
beget the stars' fragments,
the screams in my mind
are endless song lyrics.
They gradually release
pure white jasmines,
but their beauty 
will never belong to me.

Picture Credit: Miriam Espacio on Pexels.

Sunset 《夕阳》

一辈子是这样: 我们继续跑步，而继续渴望更荣耀的事情。然而，当我们面临挑战或者不幸福的一年，我们可能绝望。

我也勉强地写了这首四部分的诗歌。我以为写完了一首，叫《半夜》；我突然写了《夕阳》，也用了万花筒的画面。我会发布的次序影响从绝望到狂喜的旅途。然而，如果你从一首诗方向（比如说，从早晨到半夜，或许从正午到早晨），你就看得到一辈子里的周期。

We keep running and yearning for better things in life, but we struggle through a bunch of things in life, such as this unfortunate year.

One thing that came out of it for me is a four-part poem, which started out as a single one called 《半夜》(Midnight). The order I’m posting it over the next few days reflects the transition from despair to hope However, you can start at anytime of the day, so that you could see how things work in a cycle.

我把死着太阳化妆了,
画画了笨拙的画面。
鹅蛋脸面对霞光
只发现灵魂的黑暗，
连梅花都活不下去。

我亲吻了世外桃源，
但我的心渴望着
阴雨绵绵的le岁月。
我酒红的嘴
就为你闪耀，
当我站在地平线
我们可能一起走，
在荒山秃岭相拥。

用万花筒看夕阳，
我以为我看得见
你漂浮的侧面。
我只发现血红的波，
它想要把心痛的我
假如我是海洋的唯一船。

I use the dying sunset as makeup,
painting a clumsy image.
The egg-shaped face
faces the rosy light,
but only discovers the soul's darkness,
where even the plum blossoms cannot persist.

Although I gave utopia a kiss,
my heart only yearns for
those years with continuous rain.
My wine red lips shine for you;
when I stand at the horizon.
then we could 
embrace on a lonely hill.

Using a kaleidoscope to look at the sunset,
I thought I could see 
your drifting side profile.
I only discover a blood red wave;
it wants to take me away,
as if I was the only ship out on the sea.

Candlelight Youth 《蜡烛青年》

前年，当我上网了，我意外地遇到了 “蜡烛青年” 的生词。虽然真的内容不清楚，但是意思就是以色列的青年为Yitzhak Rabin一起追悼；他被杀了之后，他们常常烛光而涂写。所以，我用这样的悲伤写了那首诗；然而, 今年，我决定了在这儿发布。虽然我只是美国人，但是我想描述世界上的焦虑：我们的理想未成真，而青年面临全球的脆弱。

A couple years ago, as I was looking around the internet, I stumbled upon the turn “candlelight youth”, or “candlelight generation”. They referred to the young adults who mourned Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination with candles and graffiti (which is still preserved today in Tel Aviv), and representative of the shaken state of society and how they tried, and failed, to reconfigure the peace process. While I’ve written this poem at the same time, I decided to publish it now, because of the current state of the world twenty-five years later. We despair at what could’ve we done better, and lament on the fact we don’t have a suitable figurehead, despite that not always being the case.

This is not a judgement of the tension between Israel and Palestine (though I want to write something more in depth, my stance is that the status quo is untenable and that human rights have to be respected), but a reflection of a loss of hope politically, juxtaposed with the communing of youths around the world.

我们失去了太阳 
当圣人的血爆发， 
着色繁华的街上
像怒放野花一样。 
希望散落如叶子 
当秋天渗入冬天， 
而天鹅陪了灵魂 
飞翔冷漠的幽冥。 
 
黑夜被蜡烛刺了， 
但我们靠近老友 
保护神圣的理想， 
被冬风吹了天涯。 
我们一起喝甜酒， 
像大学岁月一样--
可我们忘了微笑，
梦着出家的一天。

当白天又升起了， 
我们把新鲜玫瑰 
放弃在墓地里。 
我们终于为他唱 
神圣却伤心的歌，
点缀着海阔天空。 
我们学会跳个舞， 
假装还在那个公园， 
可是我们鸦片蝴蝶， 
不愿意粉身碎骨。

翻译/Translation:

We lost the sun
when the saint's blood exploded,
coloring the crowded streets
like wildflowers in full bloom.
As autumn permeates into winter,
hopes scatter like fallen leaves
and swans accompany the soul,
flying towards an indifferent afterlife.

Although candles pierce through the night,
we cling onto our old friends,
protecting these sacred ideals 
that the winter winds blow 
to the ends of the earth.
We drink sweet wine,
like back in our college days,
but we forgot to laugh;
we just dream of when we become monks.

When the sun rises again,
we surrender fresh roses
inside the cemetery.
We finally sing 
sacred yet sorrowful songs for him,
decorating the whole wide world.
We will learn how to dance,
pretending that we were still in that park,
but we're butterflies of opium,
unwilling to give up our lives.

Picture Credit: Dhivakaran S at Pexels

《窥视者》(Voyeur)

我陪了你下楼，
眼睛羡慕你的吊灯
但你一直渴望
阳光灿烂的日子
你曾经自由自在的青年。
你喝着一杯甜酒，
就后给我一杯女血,
为了约束这个誓言。

你闻着我的茉莉香水,
可是你一直说了，
“连充满木兰花的花园
都不让地狱神圣。"
你抽烟，就为我花了光轮，
烟草慢慢地亵渎角落。

你说了你想为我缝丝绸一群，
也拍裸体姑娘的照片。
七色的日子，他们只是乐土的小吃，
黑白的半夜是你现在的避难所。
在满月下，你吃了禁果，
就把石榴籽散落在天鹅羽毛上。

你答应我一直是你的小公主，
直到我解开约束我身体的金属丝

翻译/Translation:

Although I accompany you downstairs,
my eyes rivaling your chandelier.
you always long for
those bright, sunny days,
your once free youth.
You drink a cup of sweet wine,
then offer me a cup of virgin's blood,
to seal this promise.

You smell my jasmine perfume, 
but you have always said, 
“Even a garden filled with magnolias
cannot sanctify hell."
You smoke a cigarette,
and then draw a halo for me, 
the tobacco slowly desecrating the corner.

You say you want to dress me up in silk,
yet you also take pictures of naked girls.
Those colorful days are only snacks for you;
the black and white nights are your sanctuary now.
Under the full moon, you eat the forbidden fruit,
and then scatter pomegranate seeds across swan's feathers.

You promised me that I would always be your princess--
until I loosen the golden wire that binds my body...

灵感/Inspiration:

我之所以开始听了Philippe Lafontaine的歌是因为他在1990年的欧洲歌唱大赛唱了”Macedomienne”,一首感动的歌。这首呢，是比较神秘，而让我想一想享乐的画面。最后的是比较黑暗。

Picture Credit: Barik5ive from Pexels https://www.pexels.com/@barik5ive-3355696

Autumn Girl 《秋天姑娘》

与以前的秋天相比，2020年的更安静。虽然我难得做秋天的事 (比如说拿苹果或者享受落叶子），但是这样的安静影响我们的感觉。去年，我写了那首诗因为说了我的感觉。

This fall is a bit quieter than usual, even though I never take part in traditional fall activities. It kind of reflects our mood right now–a bit melancholic. Hence the scene I wrote a year ago, which reflects the mood through someone one loves.

《秋天姑娘》

她把红茶疗伤我的心，
而用雨天洗净我的脸。
她留辫子，忙着期待
我唱我最喜欢歌的瞬间。

她跳舞在夕阳以前，
靴子画着浪漫画面。
叶子也跳个舞，
从阴沉沉天空飘来飘去，
好像蝴蝶都变了好朋友。
可是当我抓住她粉红色围巾，
她和香草香水突然消失，
航行到另外海港。

她是安慰我的曦辰，
也快地调入天使，
翅膀在阳光下回到羽毛。
她一直渴望牡丹，
也为白玫瑰哀悼，
被夏天的爆发牺牲了。
在我眼角中，
她穿着翠绿的衣裙，
吃着薰衣草冰淇淋，
而我只买得起苹果…

翻译/Translation:

She heals my wounds with black tea,
and wipes my face clean with rain.
She leaves behind petals, busy waiting 
for me to sing my favorite song.

Before sunset, she dances,
her boots painting a romantic picture.
Drifting from the sky,
the leaves do the same,
as if the butterflies became her friends.
But when I pull onto her pink scarf,
she and her vanilla perfume suddenly disappear,
sailing to another harbor.

She is the dawn that comforts me,
and an angel that quickly comes down,
her wings turning into feathers under the sun.
She always yearns for peonies,
and mourns for white roses,
sacrificed by summer's violence.
In the corner of my eye,
she wears an emerald dress
and eats lavender ice cream--
while I can only afford apples...

History 《历史》

生来冬天的女神/The goddess born from winter

不是风口浪尖的恒星–/is not the polestar in the heart of the storm;

她在死着火花跳舞，/she dances in the dying embers,

跟抽烟的礼拜者/and with her worshippers who smoke

一起分享了/share

怕冷的梨。/cold-hearted pears.

在紫色的黎明破晓了，/When the violet dawn breaks,

她就骑着纯真天马,/ although she rides the pure Pegasus,

但现代的戈迪娃/this modern-day Godiva

只是鄙视的娼妓。/Is just a despised whore.

金色的衣裙熄灭了，/With her golden dresses destroyed

自己养桃子早已朽烂了，/and the peaches she raised already rotten,

她的性欲只孕育了/her desire only gives birth to

破碎诺言；/broken promises

在变色的蝴蝶翅膀/carried on the wings of iridescent butterflies,

漂浮如放射性的雪花。/drifting like radioactive snowflakes.

我听得到她脚步声，/When I hear her footsteps,

看得见她文雅身影，/and can see her refined silhouette,

我忘了我是射手，就坠入了/I forget I’m an archer, and fall into

她像白天的头发走路/the path of her hair like day.

我跑向她，/I run towards her,

可她的历史/but her history

是我唯一的继承/is my only inheritance.

灵感/Inspiration:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49001/ariel

Sylvia Plath 是有一位美国的最有名诗人；今年我终于看了她 《Ariel》 的诗书。她的诗，“Ariel”, 更有意思因为Plath用的语言好气色，而且我被女人骑马感到了。所以，我想写一首看着恨的女士诗, 就参加更幻梦的印象。

Sylvia Plath is one of the most famous American poets; I finally read her collection Ariel this year. One of her poems, the titular “Ariel”, is especially interesting because her use of language was quite colorful, but a bit mysterious. In addition, the image of a woman riding a horse really inspired me to write this bit. I also added the perception of a deceiving, heathen woman, along with more fantastical elements such as the Pegasus and Godiva (which she mentioned in Ariel herself).

Picture Credit: Lady Godiva by John Collier, c. 1897, Herbert Art Gallery and Museum, Coventry.

《祈祷》–Prayer Translation

This year was dominated by the coronavirus, specifically, a mutant called Covid-19. It started out at a wet-market and then expanded across China, afflicting everywhere it touched. Before we knew it, the disease spread through the entire world, leading to lockdowns and delayed events and questions about how to approach it and why we got here in the first place.

I didn’t think about how bad it was until a cluster occurred in a nursing home in the Seattle area, and then I had to wear a mask during a hospital visit because I coughed a bit. On an early Friday morning in March, I hurried to the library to pick up some books to read because they were about to be closed, preceding a state-wide stay-at-home order which was meant to contain it. It was the first time that I personally noted that it could become serious and hit us at home.

Fortunately, I haven’t been impacted that much because of the pandemic. There have been a few changes on job situations within the house and the need to stay around rather than go out, but we haven’t been infected yet. My father always has a number of masks in his car, just in case we have to run an errand or two.

And throughout this year, conflict still emerges on causes, remedies, and how different people are handling the crisis. From racism against Asian people to how mistreatment of the environment helped trigger the crisis, a maelstrom of different political causes are mixed together in terms of what the future would be like. One thing that stood out for me are how Chinese-American relations are deteriorating further, because of mutual conspiracies against the other about how COVID-19 originated, along with whom had the better response. Hopefully I could write some policy about how to resolve the boiling tensions between the two.

Until then, I want to share a poem from February by Shan Hong (山鸿）, which I read on WeiXin (or Wechat). I was inspired by this to write one of my own, but with a different focus. I also began to translate it, but I stopped and recently just found it again. Now I want to finish it, as a second wave hit the United States and it doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any soon.

祈祷：

今天新增的发病人数会少一些

感染者再少一些

祈祷：

天不要下雨，最好出个大太阳

把空气里的病毒杀一杀

祈祷：

走出医院和隔离区的再多一些

其他的好消息、哪怕是虚假的好消息

也再多一些

祈祷：

医生能拿出更多的试纸

把所有应该确诊的患者都确诊了吧

祈祷：

医院里还有一张床

把社区里挣扎在死亡线上的重病者

再收进去一个吧

祈祷：

今天发到病员手上的药物

除了两粒奥司他韦，还有

昨日那些好消息里说到的新药

祈祷：

那个就要死的父亲，他是别人的父亲

年龄和我差不多，在死之前

喝上了他想喝的那一口热粥

祈祷：

那个刚死的人衣衫不整头发凌乱

请让他同样已被感染的儿子

给他简单整理一下

祈祷：

那个刚才装进殓尸袋抬上殡仪车的人

能够释然他在这个世上活了几十年

临走的时候，只有她女儿一个人

在夜幕下的医院门口

望着他去的方向喊了几声“爸爸”

祈祷：

今天将要死去的人会少一些

火葬场的殡仪工能得到短暂的时间

安慰一下自己

祈祷：

那个给骨灰盒贴名签的人

不要把他们的名字贴错了

他们幸存的亲人

往后，会来火葬场寻找他们

2020.2.3

Prayer:

I pray that:

today, the number of new cases will fall a bit,

and those infected also.

I pray that:

it will not rain; it’s best that the sun comes out

and kills the virus in the air.

I pray that:

More people would leave the hospital and isolation zones;

and other good news, even if they are fake.

I pray that:

doctors can give out more more tests

to all the sufferers that need to be diagnosed.

I pray that:

the hospital would still have a bed,

so that the serious patients struggling on the line of death in society

can come in again.

I pray that:

the medicine in a patient’s hand is

other than the two doses of Oseltamivir,

is also the medicine in yesterday’s good news.

I pray that:

the father who is about to die, the other one

who’s close in age to me, can drink a cup of his coffee

and drink a spoonful of porridge before his death.

I pray that:

the clothing of a person who’s just died is not completely messed with hair–

please let his similarly-infected child sort things out.

I pray that:

the person who just lifted the corpse bag into the hearse,

can feel relieved about living another few decades;

before leaving, only his daughter

stands at the darkening hospital door,

hoping to hear “baba” in the direction he is going.

I pray that:

today’s dead will go down,

and that the undertakers at the crematorium could receive

a temporary respite to comfort themselves.

I pray that:

the people who stick on name tags to coffins

don’t stick the wrong one–

their beloved relatives

will come to the crematorium to find them

from now on.

In the Eye of the Storm 《暴风之中》

今天, 虽然阳光照亮一点，但是风雨持续。我们也听见一点雷，可是看不见闪电。

两个星期以前，我睡不着因为我听得到暴风；外面的树常常打我的卧室窗。

所以，让我分享二月写的《暴风之中》。

Today, even with a little bit of sun peaking out, it’s been storming outside with heavy rain, and even a little bit of hail. We heard a bit of thunder, even though peeks of lighting were rare.

It reminded me of how about two weeks ago, I was restless as a storm struck, and the wind pounded with great force. A tree outside brushed its branches against my bedroom window.

It made me want to share a poem from February, “In the Eye of the Storm”.

在暴风的中心，/In the eye of the storm,
我以为我认识了上帝。/I thought I had met God.
海洋与天空的关系撕裂了，/The connection between the sea and sky tears apart,
跟我裙子碎片一起飘逸。/floating with pieces of my skirt.
裸体的我慢慢地/A naked me slowly
对蔷薇石英云伸手，/stretchs my hands out to the rose quartz clouds,
为天堂的荣耀期待，/so that I could wait for heaven’s glory,
为了穿着如天使。/so that I may dress like the angels.

我听见强风的祷告：/I heard a strong breeze’s prayer,
对忧郁的孩子哭泣，/crying out at a depressed child,
正在岛的废墟隐藏。/now hiding in the island’s ruins.
我勉强地做了呼喊，/I struggle to shout,
加装了我是只狮子，/pretending that I was a lion–
可是我失去了声音，/but I lost my voice,
天堂的合唱队接受了。/which the heavenly choir accepted.

而在脆弱的瞬间中，/And in that fragile moment,
我以为我的流泪/I thought I that my tears
可以扑灭一辈子的火。/could extinguish the fires of life.
闪电和波浪一起跳舞；/The lightning and waves dance together;
我期望他们可能带我。/I wait for them to take me away.
我眨眼以前，/Before I could blink,
血淋淋手拥抱我，/a pair of bloodied hands embrace me,
而我快地发现，/and I quickly realized,
我没面对自己。/I had not faced myself.

灵感/Inspiration:

Lady of the North

(Picture Credit: Victor Miyata from Pexels)

Hello everybody,

As mentioned, I like writing poetry in different languages. When I do so, I usually choose the language I want to write in before I actually write it. The images would naturally float up from there.

But, what happens if I have a similar idea, but diverged in different ways?

A few years ago, I wrote an English-language poem, called Lady of the North. I was listening to Adele’s “Hello” and was caught on the idea of memory from it.

Lady of the north, 

Spindling winds from winter, 

Stop haunting me, 

This person you claimed to be a friend, 

Yet played like a small stone skipping 

Through a summer sea. 

You have conjured dreams turning me about 

In the night, 

Alluding to a security never there except by name. 

Stop giving me mirages 

In the snow, where it’s actually raining— 

You can never have purity, just a scent of gray. 

Don’t give me blue when you want to send me black— 

Promised me wealth and innocence, 

Only to fire a bullet of guilt right through my heart— 

In which you spit and leave me to silence in the snow. 

A year ago, I wanted to try to write with a similar idea, only in Chinese. The first draft wasn’t my best work, as I thought my use of language wasn’t the best there. I wanted to start off like the English-language version, but it got lost along the way. It was only recently where I thought of the idea of hands coming out of the snow, in which I found a starting point for this final version. I also included an English translation.

在我出生的雪中/In the snow where I was born

我把双手伸给你。/I stretched out my hands for you.

我开始变了，/I began to change,

像一个腼腆的梅花/like a shy plum blossom

又开放了。blooming again.

在你琳琅满目的山峰，/In your glistening, sparkling peaks,

我失去了我的冰箱，/I lost my frost,

烧了直到我是/and burned until I became

文雅的天鹅。/a refined swan.

我的毛让你放弃/My feathers made you give up

你最珍惜的奖品–一杯黄茶。/your most precious good–a cup of yellow tea.

海阔天空的山谷拥抱我，/The boundless valleys embraced me,

可是你的黑色幽默/but your dark humour

云满了我的黑夜。/clouded up my nights.

你说了春分只是幻梦/You say that the spring equinox is a fantasy,

而我应该当独自的狼，/and I should be a solitary wolf,

一直被松林和银河陪了/always accompanied by the woods and the Milky Way.

山花冰了/The mountain flowers freeze

当它们勉强地/as they struggle to

征服山峰，/conquer the peaks,

神交太阳。/communing with the sun.

我会出走，/And I will set out,

头破血流，/beaten black and blue,

面对你的/to face your

冷漠荣耀/indifferent glory.