Bilingual Readings of Summer '23 Issue

Poetry Lab Shanghai
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One poem, two worlds.

  1. 07/17/2023

    6. 我盗走美 - 莹

    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。

  2. 07/17/2023

    9. 遗传病 - 莹

    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

  3. 07/17/2023

    9. Hereditary Disease Recording - Ashley Leung

    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

  4. 07/17/2023

    8. Post-event pattern - 杰

    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.

  5. 07/17/2023

    8. 事后的花纹 - 莹

    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。

  6. 07/17/2023

    7. 外 - 莹

    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。

  7. 07/17/2023

    7. Outside - 杰

    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.

  8. 07/17/2023

    6. I took beauty - 杰

    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 shimmerof the breeze across the bay, in the morningafter working the third shift. I put that shimmerin 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 soupthat was not sorrow. Here eat,I said to my sick wife when soupwas all she could endure.The trees in autumn cast their quiltsacross the cold ground. & all that sings?Finches & thrushes, grosbeaks& wrens. Music growingright out of the earthlike the jonquils & marigoldsthe widow plants along the sideof her double-wide.Or a bag of blood orangesin the windowat the corner bodega. Outside two teenage girlsspoke in Spanish, sharing a cigarette.I took their darkeyed languorous youth, I mixed it with the fogthat hangs on the mooring bay,with the high wail of the ore freighter’s horn,with the downcast faceswaiting in the rain for the last busthat will not arrive.& you with your handful of stolen pills.& you waiting for the needle’s plunge.& you there at the back tablein 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 facelike the emptiness of streets  full of wind-rustled receipts.

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