A Poem

一首诗

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Shuguang Zhang


一首诗有时不是一首诗。它是一座山。
你得用尽全力才能
达到峰顶。透过云雾,也许
什么也看不见。

一首诗有时不是一首诗。它是一条河。
仿佛是在忘川,你让小船在逆流而上。
或躺在船上,望着天上的云朵
任随波涛把你带到哪里。

一首诗有时不是一首诗。它是一片原野。
长满荒草, 或到处布满瓦砾
你在远古的废墟上
盖起你的小房子。

一首诗有时不是一首诗。它是一块石头。
它击中了你,正像你当时用来
击中别人。现在一切变得安静了。
你在上面雕刻出人形。

纳博科夫的蝴蝶

纳博科夫喜爱蝴蝶。他捕捉 并杀死它们。他把它们做成标本 钉在纸板上。这是否在告诉我们 爱是一件残忍的事情?早餐过后 我清洗着碗筷。大海在远处发蓝。 它沉默。我听不见它的声音。也许太远了。 我听到的只是自来水管发出的哗哗声。 我喜爱海。但我无法捕捉 并杀死它。我无法把它做成标本 钉在纸板上。爱有不同的方式。 美也是这样。大海在远处。发蓝 并沉默。我知道他仍然活着。 它沉默着。但我知道它愤怒时的样子。

A Poem

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Yi Feng


Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a mountain.
You have to exhaust all your power to
reach its peak. Through the cloud, perhaps
you cannot see anything.

Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a river.
As if you were in Wangchuan, you would let the boat go upstream
or lie flat on the boat, looking at the clouds in the sky and
allowing waves to bring you nowhere.

Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a prairie.
Full of weeds, or covered with shards and tiles everywhere.
You are on archaic relics
building your own little house. 

Sometimes a poem is not a poem. It is a rock.
It hits you, just as you used it in the past to
hit others. Now everything turns to stillness.
You carve a human figure into it.

Nabakov’s Butterfly

Nabokov loves butterflies. He captured and killed them. He made them into specimens and nailed them on cardboard. Is this telling us love is a cruel thing? After breakfast I am cleaning the dishes. The sea is shining blue in the distance. It is in silence. I can't hear the sound of it. Maybe too far away. All I hear is the huahua sound from the water pipes. I love the sea. But I can't capture and kill it. I can't make it into a specimen and nail it on cardboard. Love has different ways. The same is true in aesthetics. The sea is in the distance. Blue and in silence. I know that it is still alive. It is in silence. But I know how it looks when it is in wrath.