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。
磁 场 王常婷
by Wang Changting
Let me settle here like an outcast, and dip in the moonlight.
Sharpen knives, the heroes of the past,
one after another, they fall, youth has disappointed.
Charred red soil, broken shards of pottery,
offering scorching hot sorrow
Sediment gathers under the water;
the wind has swept away all the clouds and stars.
Give me another fire or ice mountain,
make a North and South Pole, allow all the hearts
and all traces of tears to journey homeward.
A magnet unveils the warmth of the earth,
like a mother's hand peeling open a sweet red potato
and the loneliness of this mortal world.
They bend down to make fire, roast eternity, melt the years,
bones snap with a radiant smile.
Water and mud ensnared in the scorching fire, that's our mortal world.
All that is left are the inscription on the porcelain.
It's a secret, a belief, the soul's magnetic field,
lured by the mortal world that glows for an instant
and the soaring heart that skirts around it.
礼 物 雪蝴蝶
by Snow Butterfly
White cups have been received.
I am glad that both are beautiful and in perfect condition.
With the tea that came together,
they expand, like a lake in my imagination.
At night, the lake ripples on the ceiling.
I seem to be in a school of fish,
blowing out a small army of bubbles.
There are a few who willfully, carelessly,
love to go against the traffic.
But the cup is even smoother than described.
The moon fell in.
It became so anxious, for
all night, it didn't know how to climb out.
父亲的鸟群 贾 想
FATHER'S FLOCK OF BIRDS
by Jia Xiang
Father took me home, light rain on the way.
The motorcycle suddenly died. Farm fields left and right
jested at us, as the distant mountains disappeared into the mist.
All we could do was walk. Rain, timid rain,
you look at her with squinted eyes, but she says: I don't exist.
Father's pink ears stood out from his white T-shirt,
exploring the sounds.
Knowing it's safe, the rain summons all her companions
hidden in the clouds. Now a flash mob
striking on Father: pouring rain. Easy to hide in the field,
I immediately opened the umbrella and said: I am not here.
Only Father and the boreal temperate vegetation were left,
naked in the rain as the flock of translucent birds landed on his shoulders.
What a good rain. But the seasoned farmer whispers:
I fear it will scare away autumn that has just arrived.
WHEN SCENERY IS LOOKED AT AS A SCENE
by Zhang Shuguang
Among many things, only scenery remains unchanged.
I mean the word. Sometimes they are pictures.
But can't it be the projection of objects on the retina,
entering and merging with the consciousness? Or the opposite,
when the inner consciousness finds from outside
the clues that meet all the criteria, isn't it like a detective resolving a case?
Holmes or Wittgenstein. But this morning
I am reading "Looking Awry" by Slavoj Zizek.
He is an observer. Observing instead of watching.
Sometimes he drags in a foreign film. He is like a crow,
noisily flying over the playground. But he appears
more like a bear who broke into the kitchen. Licking honey.
We see the world through the eyes of others,
such as our ancestors in us, such as some demonic possession.
Freud or Id. We are genuinely pleased by it.
What is born from a seed is not a tree but
a large forest. Many birds perch on it.
Birds' white droppings fall on the grass. Manet was with his lover
and friends having a picnic there. In fact, they were just
sitting there, each looking at
somewhere outside the screen. Were they watch
someone, or a particular scenery? Did they know
they were also becoming a scene, seen by us. When disrobed,
they were only men and women, just like us.
I no longer praise any scenery. When a scenery
is looked at as a scene, it is no longer at ease, but observed,
tailored and critiqued. But it cannot but put up with it,
allowing others' consciousness to immerse; accepting
that it may enter the eyes of certain people
or become a picture in a frame. Intentional or not, it has to live with it.
适 应 伤 水
by Shang Shui
Suddenly it is sunset
even though the sun seems not to have appeared in the sky,
that kind of peacefulness
is not for me to understand, but for me to adapt—
to go with the sun, to disappear head to toe.
I wonder if I was ever illuminated.
Next time when the sun shines again, I will look carefully
to see if my dark parts are still there.
Right now, I can feel my body tremble.
How amazing: the mood that is both dark and bright.
“汉诗英译” 同步更新于美国“21st Century Chinese Poetry”网站
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