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。

荒 凉     茅林清茶  

我一个人走在戈壁

越来越多的光芒在我身后推着我

越来越多的光芒在眼前复制

风，吹拂，吹拂……

如果不是吹响了我身体的乐器

我几乎不知道这就是，风

只不过我和戈壁上的任何事物一样

都呼吸着这空

都搬运着这静

我们是如此的缓慢

选自中国诗歌网·每日好诗

DESOLATION

by Light Tea in Straw Hut

Walking alone in the Gobi Desert,

rays climbing higher nudge me from behind,

and double their brilliance in front of my eyes.

The wind blows, and blows…

but I hardly know it's there

until it resonates through my body.

But I am just another in the desert,

inhaling the empty,

carrying the silence,

trudging on ever so slow.

茅林清茶，山丹县人，甘肃作协会员，曾发表诗歌多首。

位置感     江 汀  

谁能知道，一种正确的位置

究竟意味着什么？

如果谁对这个时代有所抱怨，

那么，这意味着他已经

来到公园门口，在广场上

遇见那些蘸水写字的老人，

那些书法爱好者。

“青山隐隐水迢迢”，

难道这些汉字与时间无关？

赶快凝视它们，那些

正在消逝的事物，

你猝然察觉光线的抖动。

多么奇异，谦和的老人们

正在拆卸地面。

努力站稳自己的位置，

仿佛不知道脚下的悬空。

一群轻盈的大象踏过水面，

仿佛它们已经信任一切，

正在揽起一扇光洁的镜子。

而我们，既然没有生活在画像中，

也许可能只是古代的残余物，

就像那一摊已经模糊的汉字。

它们是躯体，我们是灵魂，

我们只能用推测来自省。

我走遍广场，辨认一切

尚未消失的书法痕迹。

诵读，是时代在抽搐。

我得试着去理解它们的语境。

选自中国诗歌网·每日好诗

SENSE OF PLACE

by Jiang Ting

How do you know you are at the right place,

and exactly what does that means?

Whoever complains about these times,

well then, that's a telling sign that he has come to

the entrance of the park, and saw on the square

those old people who dip in ink to write,

those calligraphy enthusiasts.

“Hazy blue mountains and faraway waters,”

are you saying there is no connection

between these Chinese characters and time?

Quick!  Take a look, look at the

things that are fading right before your eyes.

You suddenly catch a trembling ray of light.

How amazing that these amiable elders

are tearing down the face of the earth.

Try to stand firm where you are,

as if not knowing your feet are hovering in midair.

A herd of dainty elephants trample across the water's surface

as if they have faith in all things,

while looking into a bright clear mirror.

But since we don't live in portraits,

these are only relics of the past,

like those fading pools of Chinese characters.

They are the body, we are the soul.

We can only wonder about ourselves in introspection.

I walk through the square, trying to identify

what remains in calligraphy before they disappear.

Reciting poems, the last gasp of time,

I must try to understand their context.

江汀，安徽望江人，1986年生，现居北京。著有诗集《来自邻人的光》、散文集《二十个站台》。

一  处     方启华  

下班的路上，我经过一处孤岛

之所以说它孤岛，是因为

它的存在与川流不息的北一环

格格不入，它像一个迷你公园

被设置在一条拥挤的道路边

它的身后是一处老旧小区

小区的人一定看不上这

至少被缩小了100倍的某处公园

所以没有现实的鸟群，只有

两只木制的仙鹤对眼相望

没有鲜活的物种，只有两只藤编的

小鹿，它们其中一只仰天长啸

另外一只小鹿羞涩地低头吃草

关于这草，我不得不承认

它是真实的，它是某个工人

从某处移植过来，同理可以推测

这里的花，也是来自某处

所以关于这座孤岛，我们可以

得出一个结论：首先它是孤立的

它是被拼接而成的，它是存在

于现实和虚拟之间的，它与我

有着一种仿佛命中注定的缘分

且它是可以写入诗中的，每次

路过，我都会想象自己是一个

伟大的诗人，我的眼睛，我的

鼻子和我的潜意识开始捕捉任何

带有诗歌的气息，比如睁眼或者

闭眼，亦或者是闭着眼睛倾听

除了连绵不绝的汽车鸣笛声和灰尘

我在努力寻找一种所谓

“传统的鸟叫声和现代主义的花朵”

我努力证明自己是正确的，就好比

我经过了这条马路，我孤立在这座城市

我在热闹的诗群说了我的某个观点

我开始反省和斗争，我望一切因果

可以扭转次序，我试着把黑暗剖开

去看看究竟里面是一点点光亮，还是

更加黑暗。我努力让自己静下来

认认真真的听听一朵花在开放的过程中

是否会发出微弱的喝彩声

选自中国诗歌网·每日好诗

SOME PLACE

by Fang Qihua

After work, I passed an island.

The reason I call it an island is because

its life seems out of place in the constant stream of traffic

on the North Ring Rd, like a miniature park place

next to a crammed highway.

Behind it is an old neighborhood,

where the folks must have sneered at this "park",

not even one percent of what it should be,

not a real flock of birds except

two wooden cranes facing each other,

no live animals but for two rattan-woven

deer, one, head raised back whinnying,

the other grazing timidly.

As to the grass, it's true, it's real,

laid down by some worker, and one can also wonder

about the exotica of the flowers here.

So, about this island, we can draw our conclusions

safely: it's isolated and it's pieced together, its existence,

half-real and half-dreamt up, I feel close to it

as our fates seem to intertwine.

And it's great for poetry, each time

I pass by, I imagine myself

a great poet, eyes,

nose, subconscious mind hoping to capture

something with a touch of poetry, doing it with eyes open

or closed, or hearing with eyes closed

for something bigger than the endless honking and the dust,

something resembling the so-called

"traditional bird songs and modernist flowers."

I try to prove my point, not unlike going

down this road, separating myself from the city,

voicing my opinions in a lively poetry group,

constant pros and cons, hoping for a change of order

out of cause and effect, trying to pry open darkness

for the slightest peek of light within, even though

it might well be an even darker view. I try to quiet myself,

try to catch very carefully the sound of blooming flower,

not to miss the faint cheer in case it is there.

方启华，安徽无为人，生于1986年光棍节，偶有作品发纸媒。

烧烤摊     王江平  

你到来时，天气已发生微妙的变化

但不妨碍，我们穿过小巷，转身投入

热浪卷起的巨大菌尘中

想来——我们已多年不见，必不可少的食物

会层层地筑起在你我之间。我们把想说的

冷暖好坏，都默认在里面，并嘎嘣嘎嘣吃出响声

吃，只是我们推心置腹的一部分。我还留意到

你悄悄从眼角，释放的几朵白云——可能我也有

我们曾经交换或者递来递去，直到天上的云层

足够厚，足以发动一场大雨，笼罩在我们的四周

雨里，有人在他闷闷的中年打出鼾声？

“多么恐怖！”这不，我们的整个下午

像纸屑一样，被乱风卷走。只有散尽的街道中

杯盘已碎，亚热带植物，迅速长满你坐过的空椅子

这是我此后大致记得的模样，还有知了，失控地

叫响着洗净的天空：知吾……知吾……知吾……

选自中国诗歌网·每日好诗

AT THE KEBOB STAND

by Wang Jiangping

Before you came, the weather had changed,

but no matter, we walked down the alley, into

a germ storm cooked up by the heat wave.

Come to think of it— we hadn't met for years, some choice dishes

would pile up between you and me. We would eat them loudly,

an unspoken way of showing past regrets and joy.

Sharing a meal, the thing best friends do. I also noticed

you're getting teary-eyed — I probably did, too.

We used to ping-pong things, until thin clouds turned thick clouds

and became a rainstorm, shrouding us.

The rain rattled everything, and a snort came from a disgruntled, middle-aged person:

"How terrible!" Can't believe it, an entire afternoon

ruined, like shredded paper strewn in the wind. The streets were left with chipped

plates and broken glasses, subtropical plants conquered the chair where you once sat.

That's all I roughly remember, that and the loud drone of the cicadas, as if out of control,

crying sky high: Zhiwu, soul mate, my mate....

王江平，生于湖南，毕业于西南交通大学，现供职于浙江丽水学院。

我尤怜爱那些不开花的植物     方 斌  

在山肩。当他们惊呼于那一树的妖艳

我的目光却投向低处，黏住了

影子一样幽暗的一地苔藓

它们簇拥着石头，给它裹上一件时光的睡袍

像深褐色的血痂，缝合了大地的伤口

像一句蒙尘的箴言，微光难觅

是的，我尤怜爱那些不开花的植物

像怜爱沉寂的群山，爱隐忍的矿与托举

像怜爱河的源头，爱被遗忘的汇聚与孤独

匍匐者的释放从来就在黑夜，在冰冷的盲区

它们是羽翼下的气流，是秒针追赶的微乎其微

是荒野端着月亮的小塘，是对月的小哑巴

一一这像极了我一生未吐一字的二婶

一一此刻，我想好了为她写的墓志铭:

宋月娥，女。生于苦，卒于难

她用无语，为丈夫打造了另一条腿

她用无语，为一对儿女勾画出远方

拜托每一位善良的路人，她没有说的

请你替她说出来一一

选自中国诗歌网·每日好诗

I ESPECIALLY LOVE THE PLANTS THAT DON'T BLOOM

by Fang Bin

On the shoulder of the mountain, when people loudly admire a gorgeous tree,

I cast my eyes lower, fix upon

a patch of shadowy, gloomy liverworts.

Clustering among rocks, wrapping them in time's nightgown,

they resemble a deep brown scab, or stitches on the earth's wound,

a wisdom covered up by dust that shields away daylight.

Yes, I especially cherish these plants that do not bloom,

like my love for a quiet mountain range, for the hidden mines or strut,

for a river's spring, forgotten as it collects water alone.

The lowly creatures usually only roam free at night, in icy blind spots,

like the current under the wings, or a clock's second hand making tiny advances.

It is the little pond with the moon in the wilderness, the mute watching the moon.

— they resemble my aunt who has not said one word in her life.

— I now have an epitaph for her:

Song Yue'er, female. Born in hardship, died in difficulties.

Using no words, she was the third leg for her husband.

Using no words, she painted a distant place for her son and daughter.

Please, kind-hearted passersby, the things she did not say,

you say for her...

方斌，原名阳诗芳，乡村教师。有诗文发表，有诗获奖。

“汉诗英译” 同步更新于美国“21st Century Chinese Poetry”网站 

http://www.modernchinesepoetry.com/

一  键  关  注

中国诗歌网公众号

▼