播刻岛
打开 App
Bilingual Readings of Summer '23 Issue
Society & Culture
Personal Journals

Bilingual Readings of Summer '23 Issue

作者: Poetry Lab Shanghai
最近更新: 2023/7/17
One poem, two worlds.

Recent Episodes

6. 我盗走美 - 莹

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。

2023/7/17
02:35
9. 遗传病 - 莹

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

2023/7/17
02:56
9. Hereditary Disease Recording - Ashley Leung

9. Hereditary Disease Recording - Ashley Leung

Hereditary Diseaseby Ashley LeungOn an impoverished Monday, about 10 years before Mother was born,incarnated Mother’s headacheIt ate rice, she ate flourOn an unremembered Tuesday, Mother embarked for Hollywood,where her headache awaitedIt had roof, she shelteredOn a wedlock Wednesday, the ring now worn on your forefingermaterialized around Mother’s left handA little cuff she had saved up for waiting tablesAnd she wrapped her right hand around a warm headache stableOn a twin Thursday, Mother multiplied herselfA joy with two eyes and a slobbery smileA burden sent back home 6,810 milesMother’s headache shrunk in size, swelled in weightOn a severed Friday, Mother takes you backSo your developed eyes can now focus on her backIn the car, in the kitchenIn the shower, in the garden she builtto grow some herb flowersOn a seared Saturday, Mother’s headache burns her chestwith a plate of fried riceShe stands strong, but you crumble downScattered on the keyboard of your laptoponly she and you know the password toOn a Mother’s Day Sunday, you call her in formalityShe tells you that her headache is worseYou tell her Mom, I knowI’ve inherited my ownThen proudly show her a photoShe mumbles intelligenceAnd in her face I shut the door of a suburb homeMyheadache is a pounding of the heart, a lyrical epic of fairytale pledgesA fried rice I didn’t make,In tummy not on chestMother listens to me, but not reallyShe never takes the Advil I buy,so I tell her to just wait until headache becomes dead heartacheI don’t even hate headaches that muchYet here we are dreaming about when Father will die

2023/7/17
02:27
8. Post-event pattern - 杰

8. Post-event pattern - 杰

the post-event patterntranslated by PLSwhen i was sixteen i was obsessed with exposing hypocrisies and lies.  i was already quite familiar with the tricks of the media and politiciansand could delve right to the heart of national education matters, thoughin 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 illyour 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 snakeswirling 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.

2023/7/17
02:51
8. 事后的花纹 - 莹

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。

2023/7/17
02:57
6. I took beauty - 杰

6. I took beauty - 杰

I Took Beauty by Sean Thomas Dougherty"When Butterflies – renounce their 'drams' –I shall but drink the more!"--Emily Dickinsonfrom 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.

2023/7/17
01:50