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。
敬 畏 林 莽
by Lin Mang
With a gunshot,
a puff of dusty smoke appeared on the hillside.
Sideways hopped a few steps,
a small ochre-colored fox, unharmed, turned his head to look back at us.
The old bronze-faced driver shouted a few words in Tibetan.
The passenger put away his gun.
On that day, we were fortunate to visit the sky-burial platform with a skull-wall
on the upper reach of the Nu River.
We hurried through the muddy, steep and treacherous canyon road
ahead of a sudden heavy rainstorm.
Ah, let us be grateful to heavens and gods, who have been looking down
and guiding us.
After many years, I reflected upon the way we were, still youthful then,
driving a thousand miles across a summery plateau,
like those who risk death to climb a sacred mountain,
we were rash, so ignorant, and rude to those lonely pious souls.
See those snowy mountains under the clear sky,
towering, forbidding, evoking a feeling of awe.
Oh, looking ahead, I can't count the things I am still in the dark,
the things I need to be ready for enlightenment, to repent.
长 廊 黎落
by Li Luo
The sound of running water. Sunlight streaming through midday treetops.
You are mired in a world of whiteness, surrounded by critters coming and going.
Not to wake you. Perhaps, you prefer to float away with the running water.
Baby roses climb on the wall, looking very beautiful.
I envy their ability to penetrate barriers, to help you up.
There is water between us, only tenacious flowers can reach the other shore.
Listen. Birds are singing again, shattering my burnt-up cigarette.
The lump in my throat seems a bit lighter,
as if wanting to turn into fireflies, to wake the ten thousand mountains around,
as if hoping to light up the image of you.
Days stretch thinner and thinner, I should learn to weave a wreath,
asking the portico for a view of you as you leave. But, it only casts a cold glow on the floor.
If My Dream Lasts Long Enough
by Zhao Wenhao
If only my dream would last long enough
for me to walk with you to the kitchen, to see how you
set each dish at its special place, to see how you
recall everyone's tastes and appetites,
for the elderly, help them sail through the days;
for those weighed down, lighten things up a bit.
It hurts horribly waiting, and waiting for you to wake up,
and I feel most useless to see that you look different now,
but despite all that, even though my heart
has given me many reasons to cry,
I come to remember
that, without making special arrangements,
I visited your home, while having a sesame flat bread,
listening to you recounting the small events of the day,
with a bowl in my hands receiving warm soymilk from you.
Let us resume, if only our dreams would last long enough,
Three Encounters with My Father
by Tong Yusheng
My first encounter with my father
was before I formed the concept of father.
From my mother's chest of keepsakes
I took a dozen or so star-shaped medals
and pinned every single one to my chest.
Mother dragged me home from the street and spanked me,
removing all the stars, one star, then another star,
and fastened them all on a sheet of flannel,
and locked the chest.
The second time,
I finally knew which one was my father in a monochrome photograph.
I looked at the picture
while listening to Mother telling tales about him.
Later on, whenever any kid on the street asked: "Who was your dad?",
I would take him home to see that photo.
It was only when I turned nineteen,
Mother pulled out from the bottom of her treasure trove a vest with a badge, and said:
"Now you're an adult,
put this on."
The third encounter with Father
was when grandfather passed away.
My sister and I went to an earthen ditch,
trying to dig up our father's bones.
My sister lifted up a skull from the pit and said:
"this is our own old man's head",
next, the arms and the legs were unearthed
with missing fingers and toes.
While he was re-buried, our folks couldn't find him a head cushion,
and took a chunk of clay;
Dongyu, our dear brother, rest in peace, on the pillow of mud.
远 方 指尖流年
by Zhijian Liunian
I am almost indifferent to both future and distances.
I have only been to Harbin a few times.
The first time was to see my son off to a school in the South.
I saw an airplane for the first time and thought
it had been there waiting for us the whole time.
Later I learned that it flew in 30 minutes earlier.
My son waved to me from the security checkpoint, I said nothing,
sending him my farewell between travelers coming and going.
That was the first time he left us for a distant place.
Then the crew that had just landed walked by me,
pulling their luggage, looking spritely,
as if continuously dashing and beautiful.
Every year I go into town a few times for business,
to buy seeds and fertilizers, once to exchange for a second-generation ID card,
the new head shot shows the years in-between.
Time has crushed this person,
powdery, now extraordinarily delicate and soft.
From a small village to a small town, what I have is
a little bit of a place. My courtyard,
at the end of February, rarely feels warm,
still desolate, but I can detect
things are waking up: my grape vines
look shining, while their roots in the soil
grasp tighter to the darkness.
You said: "Find the chance to get out more!"
I said: "I will!" When young,
I wanted to go to Ireland, and walk
through the sad streets of Dublin,
with my hands in my pockets, like Bloom and Stephen.
At the time, I read James Joyce's
"Ulysses". I read Mr. Van Gogh,
and yearned for the wheat fields and crows in North Brabant.
"My dear Theo, if you were alive,
your brother would return your money ten folds."
Tiny Holland, rich with tulips, and artists,
Rembrandt was obscured by Van Gogh's brilliance.
However, Amherst, you are so far!
Otherwise I really would like to go there for a few days. To your home,
which is said to be remodeled into a Shell gas-station now.
To see your little desk, I'd sure be amazed,
did you really write the immortal poems at this small desk?
I'd be sitting in a small café in Amherst, seeing other
visitors, like me, come here to pay homage to you.
I imagine you in your lonely garden,
picking geraniums to make a flower press for specimen.
"Wild strawberries by the fence."
Well, Dickinson, I can't help but feel happy.
Now, I think the most livable place is England.
France is frivolous; Rome, city of loneliness.
England has Shakespeare, it also has the Bronte Sisters.
It has Cambridge, football hooligans, gentlemen and paupers,
the simplicity of the countryside,
and islands that separate us...
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