倒啊倒啊倒 —奇姆肯特的夏天翻译：诗验室抓饭是心之所归，与大家分享日子的滋味。香料监视干枯的眼，让沙哑的喉咙变沉，一条夏毯裹着促膝闲谈上菜。墨色坐垫燃烧的颜色绿茶在完整的思想上沸腾着倒啊倒啊倒。当空杯以金叶之唇打呵欠时，一直吃到所有的肉都已耗光。母亲曾经告诉我们太阳也持相同的看法 ——它会在我们的皮肤上一直待到我们变瘦为止。感谢的话在睡意十足的餐巾间溜到桌上而朋友们则拿着账单相互搀扶。
Pour and pour and pour —Summer in Shymkentby Katie EsméePlov is meant for the heart,breaking bread the day. Spices spy dry eyes and coat hoarse throatsheavy, a summer blanket servedwith cross-legged conversations.Burning colors of inked seat cushionsand zelenny chay simmering atop whole thoughts pour and pour and pour. When empty chashkayawn lipped in gold leaf, eat until all meat isconsumed. Our mothers told usthe sun thinks the same – mooring on our skin until we've pruned.Spasiba slips to table among sleepy napkinswhile friends carry the bill and each other.Katie Esmée is a Bachata lover, yogi, and poet.
Family Gatheringtranslated by PLSpomegranates and slot machinesand the glass bullets rolling in your eyesplacing fate and other dazzling gemstones in a colorful mazethose left behind tracing your footstepsdevils marching across the wilderness can also be captured so easilyand the sword of Mei Jian Chi from the darkest moment of flowers and the nameless shadow floating in the evening skythe slim body will generate beautiful and violent tremors in her fight against the Taurenthis violent beauty as if falling into the giant horse-weeds blooming in the duskin which the spirit that need not be drunk boilingmore mysterious and cruel than the revenge of the first loverabandoned sneakers, voice of crystals, pitch-black rivers of floating disasters and pipes piercing through silver skyscrapersirrational shadows crushing each other in the reflection over the whites of the eye, never coming togetherdancing flies and bees as if watching pair after pair of horses galloping awayyes, your enemy is the souls on the horsebackall natural laws and self-claimed matters of orderswhose lips once had the traces of tango dancers’ moves toobut now losing the direction of eyesight in the bustling dead citylies petrified from speeches occupied by banalitywho keeps the sleepwalker at a gold-burning dinner captivethe saddest thing about lifeis to play a song about dying when dyingdead pomegranates bloomingunder the cold blazing sun where slot machines have gambled away all their glass bulletshairs flaming red, eyes blinking in the heat, ears led to the depth of the cave with rising yellow smokeby a pair of feathersgalloping, hopping, wrestling phantoms, an honorable collective executing the act of murderalong with the concerto of the clinking sounds of all wine glasses raised in the worldfrom now on swirling or scattering fire and mist have stoppedlike their commotions fantasized from the negative and positive electrodesreadings from face to facemovements from the delirium of all still thingsand mental disorders
家庭聚餐作者：青番石榴和老虎机以及你眼底转动的玻璃子弹把命运同其他令人眩晕的宝石放进五光十色的迷宫中那些剩下的踩着你的脚印列队穿行于旷野的魔鬼也可以如此轻易被捕获而那把来自花丛最昏暗的时刻，夜空中漂浮的无名阴影的眉间尺之剑纤细的躯体将在与牛头人的搏斗中引起一阵阵美好剧烈的震颤美好剧烈仿佛摔落于暮色下生长的高大蓬草其中沸腾着无需饮用的烈酒比第一个恋人的复仇更神秘残酷遗弃的旅鞋 晶体的歌声 漂浮灾难的黢黑大河与穿透银色摩天楼的管道无理的影子在眼白的倒影上彼此粉碎 永不结合蝇飞蜂舞如同仰望一对对马蹄飞驰而过是的，你的敌人是马背上的魂灵一切自然规律与自称规律的物质他们的双唇也曾浮现探戈舞者双腿的轨迹如今在风尘仆仆的死城迷失目光的去向谎言僵化自被庸常占领的话语为之俘获的是燃烧着金子的宴席上的梦游者世间的可悲在于将死的时刻也自动奏响一首关于将死的歌死去的番石榴盛开在老虎机输光了玻璃子弹时放射的冰冷烈日之下头发是火红色，眼在灼热中精光闪烁，双耳被一对羽毛带向升起黄烟的洞窟深处飞驰、蹦跳、搏斗的幻影、行使谋杀的荣誉集体连同世界上被举起的全部酒杯相互碰撞的协奏从此停止了飞旋或倾撒火与雾一如它们自电极正负间幻化的骚动面孔对面孔的解读一切静止之物的谵妄与神经倒错中产生的运动
天秤座翻译：诗验室对那个妄想中只容下密谋攻击宇宙季的男人保持戒备。因为有一天，他可能会觉得其中一些诡计会比那些由发酵的后悔支撑的诡计有着更明显的修饰痕迹。他应该在黑边的棉花糖与被旋至你贪婪的火焰周围一堆潮湿的承诺之间多参与一些夜行希望你能理解乙醇制成的男人与无月之空下被一饮而尽的那杯水之间的区别
Libra Seasonby Lauren Elizabeth be wary of the man whose schemeagainst the cosmic seasonslies unaccompaniedin fallacious mind,for one day, he may find some more readily refurbished than those upholstered in fermented regret.and should he engage in nocturnal affairsbetween charcoal lipped marshmallowsandthe dampened piles of promisesswept round your ravenous flames,may you understand the differencebetween a man made of ethanoland a bedside glass of waterswilled under a moonless sky.
crossing the rivertranslated by PLSleave the river too long, then you try to lookno longer obsessed with butterflies, no longerafraid of the blinding reflected light of the telescopewhat’s burning is still the rubbles untamed, stillthe arched body standing at the head of the bridgetrembling, reflecting, crushed between the banksscreaming, curling shells of cocoon“You shouldn’t cross the river!” yet you are already on the other shorebecause of a similar joy from brushing past each other, again sculpted intoa blood-stained statue by the fornicationof similarities and differences“how could you cross the river” yet you are allowed to plant flowersusing orange leaves and inked hands to feeda squad of dogs turned into a storm rain from continuous barkingat least, this evening is still sculptable, stillgentle enough to grant one sleep walk “what can I do about you”at the end it’s the intermittent groans of passersbyyet because of this you always wailwail over a river too long, too dark, too wild but silent
渡河作者：白昕沄任那过长的河流，而你去看不再执着于蝴蝶，不再畏惧于望远镜中倒刺的光灼身的，仍是未磨平的石砂，仍是桥头站立又弯曲的身体颠仆，反射，碎裂进岸与岸间呐喊的、蜷曲的茧壳“公无渡河！” 而你已在彼岸因为一缕擦肩的相似喜悦，又被相同与相异的交媾塑成了一座带血的像“公竟渡河！” 而你被允许种花用橙红的瓣叶、用染墨的手去喂一群吠着吠着便成了暴雨的狗至少，这一夜依然可塑，依然温柔得准许一次梦游 “其奈公何！” 尽头是过路人的断鸣而你总因此而哭哭一条过长、过暗、过盛却缄言的河
turbulence — to YXtranslated by PLSwe are forced to land here for nowBrautigan on the table, like adefeated Indian tenttrekking doesn’t take place on the other shorethose mellow soils, fernsthe rebounds after being rolled over by cars, yetaround us, the muddy vulgarityembellished into chocolate paste —the more obsession people have with sweetness, the morebitterness proven, the more speed they demand,the more emptinesscongealed into ores on the backinflammations from bad postures, increasinglyintolerant to stooping, touching the porcelain oflight over waterthe throat you bring to China, askingwhy there’s no difference betweensomeone hearing “Jiangnan”and changing channelsthis reminds me of the concerns about earthquakesinscribed all over the top of the pagoda, inside ancient gatesthere’s always people building a country of a countryin Mandarin.self-salvations already so suspicious as this, wecan’t be as selfish as themit used to be the moon leading us through the night,then lamps, now, it’s the non-stopprogress bars: galloping radio waves want me to answerwhether suspending in the air is a real flight
乱气流—给YX作者：李晚我们暂时迫降到这里布劳提根扣在桌上，像一顶战败的印第安帐篷跋涉，并不发生在彼岸那些松爽土壤、蕨类植物被车碾过后的回弹，而在我们周围，正被妆点成巧克力酱的泥泞俗气——人们有多嗜甜，就有多少苦得到证实，怀何种热情在要求速度，就有同等的空虚在背上冷凝成矿石坏坐姿引发的炎症，越来越难以容忍弯腰、向水面抚摸光的瓷片你到中国的咽喉，问为什么有人听见“江南”和换一个频道没什么区别这让我想起宝塔高处写满对地震的担忧，古老重门里一直有人在营建汉语的国中之国。自救已如此可疑，我们不能同他们一样自私夜里为我们领航的，从前是月亮后来是灯，现在，是永无止息的进度条：疾驰的电波要我回答是否悬空就是真正的飞行
tilapiatranslated by PLSI don’t understandwhy would someone who knows how to cooktear up in the kitchenis it because the stove becomes a turretor the sauces a drink of leisurely funin fact it’s the groans of a wronged ghost —wide eyes staring like a lightbulbresentments bursting onto the chopping boardpalms sparkling with scaleswith half of the head remainedbones of theirs, spurs of minedrawn out one after anotherdisplayed across the boardthrown into a binthe smell of that river slaughtered by the butcherthat ancient smell of the dead and of lifelessnessrushing through the nose to the brain causing one to tear upI shut my eyes with disgustlistening to the sizzling of the frying panafter all, I am as stuck as youyou don’t want to become my foodneither do Ito sacrifice your life for minewhen everything circles to the end through boring samsarawhen ruthless hands keep everyone’s fate under controlin this world of riversraging waves leaving one no way outin the end, there’s only a grieving sound of the wind leftwhy would someone who knows how to cookhave tears all over her face in the kitchen
罗非鱼作者：北竹我不明白为什么一个自己会做饭的人会在厨房里流下眼泪是灶台变成了炮台还是油盐酱醋变成了诗酒茶花其实是冤魂的呻吟硕大的眼球如灯泡一般瞪着在案板上倾泻一腔怨气鳞片在手掌上闪闪发亮脑袋剩了半个ta的骨头我的刺一条条抽出来横列在案板上丢弃在垃圾里那屠夫的杀戮的河水的味道那死去的毫无生命的古老的味道冲进了鼻腔冲进了大脑让眼睛流泪我厌恶地闭上了眼睛听见油锅的声音滋啦滋啦说到底，我与你一样的不自由你不想成为我的盘中餐我也不愿以你的生命为我的养料当万事万物被无聊的轮回循环到生命的终点当无情的双手将人与物的命运操盘在这河流世界汹涌的巨浪令人无处可退最终，也只剩下一声风的悲鸣一个自己会做饭的人为什么在自己的厨房里泪流满面
encountertranslated by PLSa troop of ants were climbing over my instepin the collapsed timeher words blown off by somethingsome to the east, the other west,responding to the man standing before herthe end of the troop was still antsand the only sound of the groundhe had been stooping in silencesince her last glancealong with his expressionshrunken towards a certain directiontheyseemed to be in a great hurry to seethat manwalking on the road stretching shorteraiming at the heart of themvelvetleaf, her memoryand the empty brick buildingshe was catching a sound in the weedsand then swaggeringto offer it to her —her forehead brighter than yesterdaymen singingwomen dancingaround the chaotic flamesa type of transparent fabric slowly separates themno shadows of any mannor beastspigeons sauntering on the squareright now, ants were climbing over my instepshe started opening to me layer by layerwith a multitude of unintelligible languagessketching out a few stories from the pastand a few dispensable edges
相遇作者：路边一队蚂蚁正从我的脚面翻过在倒塌的时间里她的话被什么刮了起来东一句，西一句回应着眼前的男人蚂蚁的队尾是蚂蚁是地面仅有的声响他一声不吭地佝偻着自她不再注视后连同他的眼神一起朝某个方向瘦弱下去他们似乎都迫不及待地要看见那个男人走在越来越近的路上对准他们的中心苘麻，她的记忆还有空虚的楼板房他在乱草里捉一种声音然后大摇大摆捧在她眼前让她的额头比昨天更加明亮男人唱歌女人舞蹈在嘈杂的火焰周围一种透明的织物渐渐将他们隔开没有谁的影子没有野兽鸽子踱步于广场此刻，蚂蚁正翻过我的脚背她开始一层一层向我呈现用很多听不懂的话勾勒一些往事一些可有可无的边缘
silencetranslated by Nittin and PLSin the silence between morning and dusk,I was —I was the one who kept failing,silently lowering the sound of the footsteps through the jungle of stamens. how high could the water rise, how transparent could it beto cover the top of the breathing hairs, what’s swayingwas your hair refusing to melt.pierce into the depth of my sorrow, Marianne,with your most poignant eyes. Please hold me in your arms,like those people who embrace the fragmentedness of the glass.otherwise —otherwise,across the plain without any shepherd,how could one survive as purely as snow?yet things are different now, it’s the dead that are no longer willing to entermy cup unable to hold any water, to take another strolland swim into our forest of neon souls.flowers and leaves torn from each other, ashes and fires burning each other, over the bladea crimson submarine has just taken offI love you, all of you,please tiptoe through my fragile heart with care,through my humble eyes of plantain.none of the requiem,should have been chanted nightly by the dreams.
不语寸寸作者：Nittin在晨昏交替的止语里，我是 ——我是持续失败的人，默默放低足音穿过蕊的丛林。水位可以有多高，透明到盖过呼吸的发顶，摇曳的，是你不肯消融的发丝寸寸。刺入我哀伤的深处，玛丽安，凭借你最动人的眼神。怀抱我吧，就像怀抱玻璃样碎裂的所有人。不然，不然的话，少了牧者的平原上，又将如何雪白地生存？今时不同往昔，是逝者不肯再入我盈不住水的怀中，不肯再漫步着游入我们霓虹的灵魂林。花与叶撕扯，灰与火互焚，刀锋上恰恰起飞一只红色的潜水艇我爱你啊，这一切的一切，请小心着地路过我脆弱的心。路过我卑微的车前草的眼神。安魂的一切，本不应被梦来夜夜诵吟。
into the blinded brighttranslated by PLSin the heat of the wind we exhaust ourselvesscalded by the fierce sunthere’s very little to see in terms of roads and the futurethe fleeting view is like an illusionthe frail green of the field losing content of colorstrees standing in a vast of lushnessegrets floating among twigs like mourning flagson countless bright days I stare at the sunthe sun burning my retina, scorching with arrogancesomeone please tell me, which is which, and what is mandatorywhen all these orders are overthrown, I walk straightcoming across someone I haven’t seen in a long whilesomeone walking in the opposite direction of me, who are youwhere is this, and where to if you carry on walkingmy legs feel like they are out of strength, drained of bloodeven turning hesitant, like a life form bestowed with thoughtsno longer under my control, like a crumbling shadowdepressions clinging to me like dispersing sewagedesire turning its head against me, as if I’ve never had itI squeeze myself through time and desire like a crawler, fantasizing impotently aboutwhat should happen, what should happen like a miraclewash me clean, wash my dirty body and soul cleanit has always been, it has always been the shouting that is separated from frivolitythis heap of blasphemies and roads full of directionsgods obstructing the explosion of my inner arrogance like a blazing sunhave mercy on me, like a mother who doesn’t know how to deal with her kidlend me a life one more time? in this turbulent timehead spinning without control, what have I seen, and what have you obtained
白日盲途作者：吴立松在风的热力中我们透支了自己被严厉的太阳狠狠地曝晒基于道路和未来，什么也看不清了那倏忽而逝的风景像一阵幻觉田野衰微的绿流失着色彩的内容树木挺立在一片无限的茂盛中成群的白鹭飘越树枝间如同丧幡于无数个光明的白日我注视太阳太阳燃烧着我的视网膜，骄傲地发烫谁告诉我，什么是什么，什么是应当当这一切秩序被掀翻，我径直走着在路上遇到很久没有见到的人一个朝着我反方向走的人，你是谁这里是哪里，再往前走要走到哪里去我的双腿像丧失了活力，抽空了血液甚至变得犹豫，像获得了思想的生命体再也不能由我所控制，像倒塌的影子像一片散开的污水抑郁的头脑攀附上我渴望远我而去，此刻像从未有过我像爬虫挤进时间和欲望，无能地幻想什么该降临，什么该降临像一个奇迹洗净我吧，将我肮脏的身体和灵魂洗净从来都是，呼唤的从来都是脱离于卑微这成堆的亵渎充满着去向的路途神明像烈日阻扰着我内心骄傲的迸溅怜悯我吧，像对自己孩子无能无力的妈妈再借我一次生命？在这混乱的时代头脑失控地旋转，我看见了什么，你又得到了什么
塔 致Asa翻译：诗验室一座象牙白的塔。优雅的六边形，衣衫褴褛的木头。我应该永远不会忘记在我们幼小时它是怎样保护我们：双腿在我们的裙下迈开，赤着脚踏着石头，踏着木头 ——顺着平滑的楼梯我们爬至七层塔顶。我们常在夏夜里拥在一起，顶着一个被风吹开的洞。在蜿蜒的楼梯之巅，用舌尖传递着一个故事。那时候我们在词语里，在对钻石和龙的一阵阵描绘中彼此守护。我们用膝盖顶着雨的敲打，将字母刻进石头里。在指甲下方大理石凹陷之处，幻想在我们的指尖流淌着。一座塔是逝者的殿堂。一颗秘密之梅，枯竭的歌淌至年轻姑娘的大腿上。直到我们睡着，雕花的屋顶在影子下移动。双层屋檐在灰尘游于横梁四周时烦躁不安。我们一直睡到肋骨开进基座，睡到基座沉入袖中 ——一座塔是一个我们称之为归宿的家。我们从小在里面长大。在拱门下我们每次都会在离开前细数自己的愿望。我们踏上沉默的地球，一边走着，一边吟诵着象形文字 ——一个接着另一个。朝着翻腾的田地互相道别。
PagodaFor Asaby Zoe DuA pagoda, ivory white. Elegant octagon, low-ripped wood.I shall never forget how it stood for uswhen we were little:legs splayed under our dress, bare feettouching stone, touching wood —the flat, glossy steps that led us up the seven-storied pagoda.On summer nights we huddled together, against a wind-blown hole. On top of the zigzagging staircase, a story passed between our tongues. Back thenwe held each other in verse, in fits of diamonds and dragons.Knees knocked by rain, we etched syllables into stone.And where the marble bent under our nails,the figments crawled through our fingers.A pagoda is a palace for the deceased. A plum of secrets, its sapped songs flowing onto the young girls’ lap.Until we fell asleep, and the sculpted ceilings movedbeneath the shadows. The double-eaves fidgetedwhere dust played on the crossbeams.We slept till our limbs drove into the pedestals,and the pedestals sank into our sleeves —A pagoda is a house to home us.In it we grew as children.And under its arched doorways we counted our wisheseach time, before we left.We stepped onto the silent earth, chanting hieroglyphs —one by one — as we walked. Towards the rolling fieldsand departed.
partial impression of Ilya Kaminskytranslated by PLS“homeland” is a distorted key.I am unfamiliar with it, as with the snowflakes —they refuse to dance in the cold blazing sun of the southern land.your glasses and smileremind me of a Chinese poet.I dare not say, I know him well,only know that he’s dead long ago(I think he died of some kind of suffocation.)he was trying to contain the splashing ink with words,alleviate suffering, so that he could hold it tight.suffering might happenlike the mysterious vibrations behind cities,whose frequency resonates with the flapping wings of birds.you were counting birds in the yard, andlistening to their flights with eyes —“count me in too”is perhaps what you would say.
对伊利亚·卡明斯基的片面印象作者：胡悦然“故土”是一把变形的钥匙。我对其陌生，如对那些雪花——它们拒绝在南方冷冽的艳阳下起舞。你的眼镜和笑容使我想起一个中国诗人。我不敢说，我认识他，只知道他很早就死了（我想他是死于某种窒息。）他用词语遏制四溅的墨水，将苦难变轻，好将它紧握。苦难或许降临如城市背后的隐秘颤抖，频率与拍打的鸟翼共振。你在庭院里数鸟，并用眼睛去听它们飞起——“把我也数进去”你或许会说。
