Brigit Pegeen Kelly was born in Palo Alto, California, in 1951. She is the author of several books of poetry including The Orchard (BOA Editions, 2004). Her many honors include a "Discovery"/The Nation Award, the Cecil Hemley Award from the Poetry Society of America, a Pushcart Prize, a NEA and a Whiting Writers Award. She is a professor of English at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign.

布里吉特?贝根?凯利1951年生于加州。她出版过包括《果园》在内的数本诗集。她曾获得过国家艺术捐赠奖等多项奖项。她是伊利诺州大学一分校的英语教授。

Yan Zhou was born in Shanxi. She graduated from the Chinese Department of the Northwest University in China. She works as an editor and translator.

周焱，又名周琰（笔名）。1970年生于陕西，长于陕西。毕业于西北大学中文系，自学英语、法语，从事编辑、翻译工作。

Silver Lake

银湖

Fast-locked the land for weeks. Of ice we dream. 
Of ice and the low fires the fishermen feed on Silver Lake. 
All the lakes are called silver here, though none are that. 
And this one now is white and shot through with fishing holes. 
It looks like the blasted back of one of those huge turtles 
That summer drags out of the weeds with the lure of sweeter bogs. 
They lumber with the ponderous slowness of some interminable sermon 
And they are easy game for the long-legged boys in pickups 
Who hack their backs with axes to make thick soup. Years 
In that soup. Unseen years and depth to mull the blond meat 
That my great great Uncle Lusty in England made his fortune from 
But that is another story. Now the lake—with its toppled shrine 
And the memory of its lone heron, seasonal and proud—is sealed; 
And on these frigid fog-bound days the sun comes late, 
If at all, comes like a slow yellow age stain on linen, 
Or like the muted blare of the fluorescent lights you can see 
Through the smeared windows of the Gulf Station garage. 
Sometimes it has the iridescence of spilled oil, and always 
In the fog you can look straight at it, as you can look 
At the sun in Medjugorje, and it will not burn your eyes, 
Though here we are not changed much by such sights. 
Once you were alone on the ice. Too cold for the rest. 
All day the wind was rank with the metallic smell of old snow, 
Blowing over and over itself, tangling like lost laundry, 
And even the hungry packs of snowmobiles—that sound 
As they cross the cornfields with their shrill chain-saw whine 
As if they are felling whole forests—were silent. 
Dusk was coming on. And I watched you for a long time. 
I was in the open, though you did not see me, did not turn 
To where I stood in the high grasses the weather had stained black. 
You sat on your three-legged stool by a numb fire, your boot 
Cocked on the coughed-up collar of ice the awl leaves, 
And waited for the fish to spring your trap, spring 
The pink plastic flag that made me think of the lawn flamingos 
In the yard of the Kinkel's Corner antique shop. Few stop there 
Because the highway's hairpin curves are deadly and blind, 
But one morning I stood among the flocks of those plastic birds 
And the statues posturing in the yard. Virgins and trolls. 
Saints and satyrs and naked women with no arms. "Things 
That keep and do not change," as the proprietor told me. 
And he pointed to the painted figure of a shirtless slave 
Up the narrow walk to his house. "See that colored boy," he said. 
"I've had him sixty years, and all he needs is a little varnish." 
The lower rims of the man's eyes belled forward and were very red 
And it was impossible not to look at that soreness.... 
You sat for so long on the ice my tongue went numb in my mouth 
And I woke to see you paying your line out slow as a delicious thought 
Into the circled dark. There was a pause before whatever contract 
You made with the darkness was complete, the wind repeated 
Its wolf whistle in the reeds, and then the prisoner was released— 
The orange-winged, green-and-black striped perch flew up, flew fast, 
Iced by the fire's light, scattering bright hot pellets as it flew, 
The way the priest scatters holy water during the Asperges 
At Easter Vigil. And when you put your hand on the fish 
I felt how it burned your flesh, burned for the two worlds to meet.... 
I don't lie to myself. This is what men love the best. 
The thoughts they deal from the dark. Better than any woman's flesh.

Note: "Silver Lake" is from The Orchard.  Copyright(c) 2004 
By Brigit Pegeen Kelly.  Used by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
			

冰封大地已几周了。我们梦着冰。
梦着冰和渔夫在银湖上点燃的低矮的火。
这里所有的湖都叫银湖，虽然没有一个是银。
而这一个现在是白的，被射开了钓鱼的洞。
看上去像一只那种巨龟的毁损的背
它们被夏天以沼泽地更甜郁的诱惑从野草中拽出。
它们背着沉重的慢吞吞没完没了的训诫蹒跚而行
它们是长腿的男孩们最容易拣拾的猎物
他们用斧头劈开它们的背做浓汤。岁月
都在汤中。看不见的年月和深远来回味那金色的肉
那可是我在英国的曾叔祖用来发财的
不过这是另一个故事了。现在湖——还有它坍塌的圣殿
孤寂的苍鹭之巢的记忆，季节的、骄傲的，被封了；
在这寒雾牢锁的日子太阳迟迟，
如果它还出来，就象是麻布上年久的黄斑，
或者是你从海湾加油站污秽的窗户
看到的暗淡的荧光。
有时它有溅洒的油的虹彩，但总是在雾中
你可以直视它，好象你能够看
美珠阁热的太阳，它也不会灼痛你的眼睛，
尽管我们不见得会因所见有什么改变。
你曾经独自在冰上。太冷而不能休息。
风一整天携着陈雪的金属气味，
吹卷吹卷自己，像飞散了的衣服一样乱舞，
即使是荒凉的雪地车群——它们穿过
玉米田时链锯发出的尖利的声音
好像要锯倒整个森林——也是静。
黄昏来临。我很久很久在看你。
我在露天，尽管你没看见我，没有转过身
朝向我站立的风雪凋黑的高草。
你坐在三角凳上挨着无力的火堆，你的靴子
跷起在冰竖起的领子上，尖利的冰叶，
等待鱼儿跳入你的陷阱，像一面粉色
塑料旗子抖动，让我想到肯克尔古物店
院中的草坪鹳。我很少去那里
因为高速路的急转弯吓人地看不见，
但是一个早上我站在那群塑料鸟
和院中作势的雕像中间。圣女和侏儒。
圣徒，羊神还有无臂的裸女。
“保存而不变的东西”，店主告诉我说。
他指着一个裸着上身的奴隶的着色雕像
就在通往他的房子的窄路上。“看那个有色男孩，”他说。
“我有他六十年了，他所要的只是上点漆。”
那个男人的下半眼边红肿突出
让人不能不看那溃痛........
你在冰上坐了那么久我的舌头都在嘴里变木了
我清醒过来看你缓慢地甩出你的线如同
没入一圈圈黑暗中的微妙思想。在约定前有一刻停顿
你和黑暗的契约是完美的，风在芦苇中
重复它的狼鸣，黑绿斑纹的河鲈飞出，迅飞，
在火光中结冰，飞中散落闪亮温暖的水球，
像牧师在复活节守夜弥撒时
播洒圣水。当你把手放到鱼上
我感到了它怎样灼痛了你的肉体，因为两个世界的相遇而灼痛........
我没对自己撒谎。这是男人的最爱。
他们和来自黑暗的东西较量的想法。胜过任何女人的肉体。