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◎ SangKe short poems--1 (阅读4318次)



Translated by Xiaorong
12/13/2003 9:15pm
1/22/2005

Early Spring

Night becomes shorter
Buried in the bed, I am late for my work
But not my soul

No snow on the curb. No mud on the road
I feel blue for this nothingness
Even no reminiscence, dirt or brutality

My friends on the phone, in the monitor.
But my love, lost in the recycling bin of the memory
With no restoration, nor cleanout. Let it sleep.

Go sleep, my darling Cher
With new ashes
The ashes of my soul, daubed on the nose, like a bronze ointment

-------------------------
The Bushes

I was afraid of the bushes
So I chose to fly. Stretching out my body
I flew on top of the bushes, bewildered gazing
Ahead. The wavy terrain. The cusp of the bush  
Scratched my ankle. My naked ankle
But I was flying. The suburbs from afar
The gray roofs. A lonely patrol wagon
A couple bicycles and trucks. I flew away
Swirling, I shut my eyes and saw
My heart, turning dark
As though the cloak of the night

--------------------------------
The Mosquitoes

I sat down. The grass was above my head
I sat down. I lost my parents
I gazed around. My parents were behind the tall grass
Mow the field. I found
Mosquitoes gathered around squabbling
One kissed my cheek
Her kiss was so sharp that it hurt my cheek
I sat down, and started crying
Not because of the pain, but the dusk
The dusk fell upon, the squabbling escalated
I can not see my parents, though I knew
They were right behind the tall grass

------------------------------

Defend My Obscurity

I am obscure, and you are my
Limpidity. I am obscure, and you are
My secret heart.
I care so I spread mist outside your
Coat. I am an obscure mirror.
You are mine. You are my clear
Mist. I refuse to confess your thoroughfare
Your lash your knife
I hang my head, like the maturing paddy shoots  

------------------------
Winter

Cold. The gas-heating was cold.
My soul shrank as a mole
Buried deeply under the warm quilt.
Two people together, still felt the same cold
Smoke a pipe, look through
the collected commemorative stamps
Her childhood
Her sister, the cleft lip
On the way to the school, a boy
Was bleeding in his nose
”What were you doing?”
In the dorm of a farm school
With a white chalk, on the white wall
Drew the white snow

---------------------------
The Sound of Air

I heard the sound of air.
So did the sound inside the light bulb, or the brain
The humming noise, from nowhere
Urged me to go for a stroll, within the compact disc
And made me sad, as my strain of loneliness
Anyway, the world is broken apart.
Don’t even bother to rescue it, including a tinge of my joy
Which is also a part of the broken world.
Go ahead, destroy it, from myself.
  

----------------------------
The Tranquil Wood…..

The tranquil wood, visited in my childhood
Treks back into my dream
I am the cherub, my face turning ashen
I console the cold brook, who will console myself

Circling around the wood, the death-like
Tranquil wood. So quiet, everything is dead
The cuckoo, the pheasant, and the buds of grass bursting quietly
I understand their tranquility. Who will understand myself

Tired, my wings became my burden
Dragging me down, though I tried to resist
My resistance broke apart. I crashed on the ground
In the tranquil wood, I started walking

-------------------------------
The Mechanic

Upon my touch, it turns into a color TV
This is my hometown, when our parents were young
The chiffon flows, when the ion bell roaring in the neighbor farm

I fell down from a horse, people surrounding up
The violin is playing, calling my names
The madman the madman, you know how much I love your fragility

Vivid, I believe you are still alive
Revived after death. The memories. The languor revived after death
A song of the clown. A glossy fragrant lime    

The shaking metaphysics, crashed
On the wooden stage, I believe
I believe deeply, that I am alive, and breathing

--------------------------

A Cable Car on the Fjord

In the cold wind, the fjord fell into the eventide
Add one more minor role, into the fine chilling autumn
I, myself, sat in the cable car, underneath the azure yet ferocious waves
A seagull stood on the buoy, staring at me
I stared him down, with my hands grasping my baseball hat
I, myself, grasped the moment
And my loneliness. I hugged him
Maybe he is the wind, full of energy, yet
Unreal
  

--------------------
The Dazzling Snow

Thirteen degree. Suddenly it snows
Heavy, like sand plumping down to the earth
People shamble in such a plight, yet I am satisfied
Meanwhile, the sorrow suddenly hit my eyes
Tears are hot, burning my toes
Yesterday was the Qing-Ming Festival
I hid myself in my cold dark heart
I did not go to the graveyard
Nor read the ancient poem of Rains in Qing-Ming by Tu-Mu.  

--------------
A Park Fair on April 19th

The quite alley, the silent peddler
The dark-red cab, at the crossroad, spattered bloody mist
Next to the west gate of the park, with a special permit, in the
Ferment spring----so many people
Surrounded the ancient elm
Only for a bottle of milk and a couple mini-beers
A powerful microphone enlarged its manor, as if the detergent spouting
In the air. Oh the slim forsythia, ramblers stopped at the man-made river
A relay baton of the sound passed on
I heard the SARS already crossed the border, toward us…..
Hush! Be quiet! Please listen to what the anti-SA… said

----------------
The Saint Church Without a Pastor

The Saint church without a pastor is like a poem without a soul
I live close by, always thinking how to introduce my soul
To the nearby woods, raising my objection to this mortal life to the wind
Yet I am still too far away from it, neither is my shadow
So I start talking to my shadow patiently
About nihilism, desperation, and when my wings turning soft
: too much self-consciousness, is also dangerous


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