为进一步繁荣新时代诗歌，推动汉语诗歌走向世界，激励本土诗人们创作出具有世界影响力的优秀作品，中国诗歌网与美国华盛顿PATHSHARERS BOOKS（出版有季刊21st Century Chinese Poetry）合作开展汉诗英译活动。《诗刊》每期刊登的诗作及中国诗歌网“每日好诗”中的佳作，将有机会被译成英语，刊于21st Century Chinese Poetry，并在中国诗歌网做专题展示。

孤 岛   李子锐

这座岛上，曾有过一场

能够焚毁一切的大火，那时

在滚滚翻腾的火舌中，

连海浪也被染成血色

如今，岛中央的石碑业已磨损

见证时间的文字变得无法辨认

海风阵阵，最高的那棵椰子树上

喑哑的铃铛凭空相撞

山猫们常朝着奔涌的海平面

凝视湛蓝的远方

我站上风的肩膀，向另一座孤岛——

你的方向，眺望，眺望……

也许明日清晨

一根桅杆射向太阳

风张开她洁白的屏障

我会独自涉水前往

哪怕只为你一人也好

选自《诗刊》2019年4月

AN ISLAND ALONE

by Li Zirui

There was once an inferno on this island

that was able to burn down everything, and

with its rolling flares

licked the waves blood-red.

The stele in the middle of the island is weathered,

the text that bears witness to time now unrecognizable.

The sea winds blows ceaselessly, the coconuts

on the tallest tree clunk softly together like silent bells.

Lynxes often appear and gaze at the azure distance

over the surging waves of the deep blue sea.

As for me, I stand above the wind, looking towards another island,

—in your direction, I look, and look...

Maybe tomorrow morning,

a mast will point towards the sun.

The wind will open her white sail,

and I will wade the distance alone

even if only for you.

李子锐，就读于吉林大学2018级汉语言文学专业，山东青年作家协会会员，曾出版个人诗集《青涩的桅杆》，获首届零零国际诗歌奖华语奖。

给母亲的简短家书      陈钰鹏  

很少给你写信，仅仅是怕

你看到我歪斜潦草的字迹

会伤心，怕你会由潦草

想到潦倒。冬天了，北京却

不下雪，偶尔也有

沙尘暴，更常见是一些人戴着口罩

穿过雾霾。而我是

另一些人，足不出户，用书和琴谱

把自己围起来。这里不大，

却已足够生活，足够容纳我

吃饭、排泄、虚构

和睡眠。住得久了，难免不对北国之食

有些厌倦，难免不怀念你曾用粗手

烹调的鱼虾、蔬菜、贝类

和米饭。不过请放心，妈，我依然不挑食

也很能吃。忽好忽坏的

只有睡眠，凡我所虚构的

皆会梦见。我的梦，比别人的

要悲伤一些，偶尔也哭着

醒过来，走到半夜窗前

垂手看月亮，月亮升起，看到窗前

我垂手。这便是我一天中

最安静的时刻，它总让我想起

过去我们相依为命的

那些年，结束一天的工作，你带我在夜里

穿过整座城市。而我年幼，对月亮

充满好奇，你就用疲惫、沙哑的声音

回答我：“月亮会

带我们回家。”

离开你之后，妈，我爱过许多

陌生人，可再也没有人，对我说过

类似的话。妈，我糊涂的生活

越来越模糊了，至今才懂：

原来记忆中最明亮、清晰的那部分，

一直由你来标记。

选自 中国诗歌网·每日好诗

A SHORT LETTER TO MOTHER

by Chen Yupeng

I seldom write to you, lest

my scribblings will cause you

sorrows, lest you compare my scraggly handwritings

to my scraggly existence. It’s now winter,  no snow

shows up in Beijing yet, but there are occasional

sandstorms, even more plentiful are people

going through smog in mouth masks. And I belong to

the other group, staying in, books and music

are my fortress. It’s not a big space here,

but enough to live, enough to facilitate

eating, toiletry, daydreaming, and sleep.

After living here for a long time, it’s inevitable

that I get tired of the northern cuisine, and begin to miss

the fish, shrimp, vegetables, shellfish, and rice

that you cooked with your callused hands.

But, rest assured, Mom, I am still not a finicky eater,

and often with a good appetite. What’s less reliable

is a good night’s sleep, as I always dream of

what I imagine during the day. My dreams are

always a little sadder than those of others, and occasionally

I wake up sobbing, then standing by the window

to watch the moon with arms down, until the moon

rises higher and sees me by the window

with leaden arms. This is the quietest moment

of my day, and it always reminds me of

the years when we relied on each other,

when at the end the day's work, you took me

through the city at night. I was little then, and curious

about the moon, but you answered my question

with a voice, tired and croaky, saying “the moon will

lead us home. ”

After leaving you, Mom, I loved many

strangers, but no one spoke to me

with words like yours. Mom, my messy life

is getting more and more confusing, and only now I understand:

the brightest and clearest part of my memories

has always been with you.

陈钰鹏，1996年4月生，国防大学戏剧影视文学创作专业（原军艺）2018级研究生，第九届复旦”光华诗歌奖“得主。

我从远方带回众多颜色      陈允东  

赶到德令哈，夜已无声

黑暗笼罩远处的山脉和戈壁

我们在一家清真面馆大声朗诵诗歌

司机默默饮酒，饮下一天的行程

他们的面庞风霜凝结

大片的雪和森林覆盖鸟兽的足迹

白色的呼吸从屋檐落下

灯笼挂在木梁上，是仅有的红

这里是雪乡，我不远千里来此

遁一片茫茫，照亮身体里沉默的河

在木栏围场，一群湖泊从天空降临

这天空庞大，高高的蓝，孤单的蓝

俯视人间的花、酒、连绵的草木

我经过这里，太阳、月亮、星星

经过这里，人们以此为众多湖泊命名

去敦煌的路上，要与沙漠相遇

那年老月深的黄铺在眼前

让尘世的恐惧不值一提

必须要从人类的血管里抽出一瓶烈酒

敬那一轮盛大的月，它清澈，看天圆地阔

走过的地方大于我，我总要适时归来

带回众多颜色，这颜色巨大

会在我的一生中停留，看我长出白发

也会在我成为困兽之时

说出活下去的秘密

选自 中国诗歌网·每日好诗

A MYRIAD OF COLORS FROM THE FARAWAY

by Chen Yundong

Arriving at Delingha, the night is already quiet.

Darkness shrouds distant mountains and the Gobi Desert.

We recite poetry aloud in a halal noodle shop.

The drivers drink silently, swallowing down the day's itinerary,

faces weather-worn.

A blanket of snow in the forest covers the tracks of birds and beasts.

White breath falls from the eaves,

with lanterns hung on the wooden beam as the only red.

I came a long way to this snowy country, a place out of this world

that lights up the silent river in my body.

In the Mulan Weichang grassland, lakes descend from the sky.

This sky is vast, towering and blue, a desolate blue,

overlooking the flowers, wine, and the rolling greens.

I pass here.  The sun, the moon, the stars

pass here, people named the lakes after them.

On the way to Dunhuang, one meets the desert.

The ancient color of yellow stretches out before you,

dispelling all fears of the world.

We will distill a strong spirit from our blood vessels

to toast the grand moon, it is clear, presiding over heaven and earth.

I roamed a place larger than me, and always return to it,

to take home a myriad of colors, colossal colors

that will stay with me as my hair grows white,

when I feel like a caged animal.

陈允东，1978年出生，浙江平阳人，作品散见于《诗潮》《坡度诗刊》《温州文学》《平阳文艺》等并入选《温州当代诗歌选》等选本。

北方叙事    李永才

在深秋的北方，你躲进哪里

都有一种故园的感觉

无论风怎样吹

流水都没有从前那样的亮色

风声过后，落叶沉默

一堆又一堆，被秋天抱在怀里

这些人间丢弃的纸币

足以见证，万物的清白

躲是一种姿态。混迹于江湖

总会邂逅一些炎凉的事物

而躲进荒芜

谁也不知道，单调和乏味

是你的一种创造

就像一只凤凰，躲进了天空

无论怎么引诱

在凤凰岭，都寻不见它的踪影

山河，柿子和柿子树上

一枚没落的太阳

构成了一种传统的叙事

天朗风清的下午消逝。空荡的

寂静中，陷入情景交融的

不是一枚柿子美好的忧伤

而是墙上的贝司，以斜躺的

姿势，近乎一个梨儿，

弹奏的这个秋天

选自《诗刊》7月号

NORTHERN NARRATIVES

by Li Yongcai                   

In deep autumn, up north,

wherever you go, to be alone,

there is a sense of returning home.

No matter which way the wind blows,

the water does not glitter as much as before.

Then the wind stops howling, and the fallen leaves fall silent,

piles of them, held in autumn's embrace.

They look like discarded banknotes

to witness the innocence of our world.

Hiding is one way to go.

But, if you hang out with those people on the road,

be ready to live by your wits and the biting cold.

In desolation, you will be the only one

to know it takes creativity

to return to simplicity and monotony.

Like a Phoenix hiding in the sky,

despite the alluring calls of the world,

there is no trace of it on Phoenix Mountain.

Mountains and rivers, the setting sun

over the persimmon trees, and persimmons

weave a traditional narrative.

The fine afternoon is receding, replaced by an empty

silent space. What draws me closer to it,

to merge with the fade-away ambiance,

is not the soft sadness of a persimmon,

but the bass guitar on the wall, leaning back.

Its posture resembles a pear almost,

strumming autumn. 

李永才 (1966.1～  )，重庆涪陵人，现居成都。中国作家协会会员。成都文学院签约作家。《四川诗歌》执行主编。作品见诸于《诗刊》《星星》《扬子江诗刊》《诗选刊》《绿风》《诗歌月刊》《诗林》《诗潮》《诗江南》等三百余种刊物，作品在全国诗歌大赛中获得多种奖项，并入选《中国年度诗歌精选》《中国年度诗歌排行榜》《汉英双语年度诗歌选》《中国年度优秀诗歌》等数十种选本。出版诗集《故乡的方向》《城市器物》《空白的色彩》《教堂的手》《灵魂的牧场》等多部。领衔主编《四川诗歌地理》《中国诗歌版图》等诗选集。

天鹅往事    何冰凌

某年夏天，在去天鹅湖的路上

我折了回来

我深深知道，在夜里

黝黑的湖水会召唤你

那些鱼都有发亮的软肋

引着我们向湖的深处

温水里煮着青蛙

20年了，合肥在我的体内慢慢地热

黄昏无数的蝙蝠低飞

一个人在阳台上种花

收旱金莲种子

那种子里有一张老人的脸

往事那么苦，那么深

而今，秋天也越来越深

南淝河的水流也慢了下来

你曾是敏感的

寄居蟹，在九月

踏着哗哗作响的小水车

昼夜不停歇

人们总是在水边得到安慰

和爱情。她十九岁

在此献出初吻

鱼儿一瞬间跃出水面

波光粼粼

她以手掩面

黑发轻垂

选自《诗刊》2018年1月号

MEMORIES OF A SWAN

by He Bingling

One summer, on the way to Swan Lake,

halfway there I turned around.

I truly knew, at night

the darkest lake water

would summon you.

Those fish, with translucent, soft bellies,

lure us towards the lake’s depths.

I am a frog being cooked on low heat,

Hefei has been simmering in me for the past twenty years.

Countless bats fly low in the dusk.

Someone, on a balcony, is growing monks cress,

collecting its seeds.

In that seed is the face of a man grown old.

The past, so bitter, so dark.

But now, we are in late autumn,

and the south fork of Hefei river is slowing down.

I once was sensitive as a gypsy crab,

tramping along in September plying my trade,

no rest, day or night.

People find solace and love

at the water’s edge.  She was nineteen,

and here she offered her first kiss.

In the twinkle of an eye, a little fish broke the surface

and rippled it, shining.

She shyly cupped her face,

her black hair flowing.

何冰凌，安徽桐城人，中国作协会员，安徽省第二届签约作家，安徽省作协诗歌创委会委员，安徽省散文随笔学会副会长，诗歌月刊杂志社副主编。1990年发表作品，早年参与创办白鲸诗社，著有文学评论集及随笔集《时光沙漏》等四种。

汉诗英译”同步更新于美国“21st Century Chinese Poetry”网站 

http://www.modernchinesepoetry.com/

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