Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesia, of Chinese parents. His publications include Rose, The City In Which I Love You, Book of My Nights, The Winged Seed: A Remembrance, and Behind My Eyes. His honors include fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Lannan Foundation, the Guggenheim Foundation and the Whiting Foundation.

李立扬， 1957年出生于印尼雅加达的华人家庭。1964年在美国定居。他曾出版诗集《玫瑰花》《那座让我爱你的城市》《我的黑夜之书》《带翅膀的种子：追忆》《我的眼睛之后》。他曾获美国图书奖、兰南文学奖、白垩粉作家奖等多个奖项。

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。

A Table in the Wilderness

荒野中的一张桌子

I draw a window
and a man sitting inside it.

I draw a bird in flight above the lintel.

That's my picture of thinking.

If I put a woman there instead
of the man, it's a picture of speaking.

If I draw a second bird
in the woman's lap, it's ministering.

A third flying below her feet.
Now it's singing.

Or erase the birds
make ivy branching
around the woman's ankles, clinging
to her knees, and it becomes remembering.

You'll have to find your own
pictures, whoever you are,
whatever your need.

As for me, many small hands
issuing from a waterfall
means silence
mothered me.

The hours hung like fruit in night's tree
means when I close my eyes
and look inside me,

a thousand open eyes
span the moment of my waking.

Meanwhile, the clock
adding a grain to a grain
and not getting bigger,

subtracting a day from a day
and never having less, means the honey

lies awake all night
inside the honeycomb
wondering who its parents are.

And even my death isn't my death
unless it's the unfathomed brow
of a nameless face. 

Even my name isn't my name
except the bees assemble

a table to grant a stranger
light and moment in a wilderness
of Who? Where?


Note: Li-Young Lee, "A Table in the Wilderness" from
A Book of My Nights. Copyright 2001 by Li-Young Lee.
Used by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
			

我画了一扇窗
和一个坐在窗内的男人。

我画了一只鸟飞过窗楣。

那是我的画思考。

如果我在那儿画一个女人
而不是男人，那是一幅言说的画。

如果我画了第二只鸟
在女人的膝上，那是守护

第三只飞在她的脚下
现在是歌唱。

或者抹去鸟儿
让常春藤枝蔓
环绕女人的脚踝，爬上
她的膝头，它成了记忆。

你需得找到你自己的
图画，不管你是谁，
需要什么。

对于我，瀑布
流溅的许多小手
意味着寂静
护育着我。

时间像果实悬挂在夜的树上
意味着当我合上眼睛
看进我自己，

一千只睁开的眼
测看过我醒着的时刻。

同时，时钟
一滴加上一滴
并没有变多，

一天中减去一天
从不拥有更少，意味着蜜

在蜂巢内
整夜醒着
猜想谁是它的父母。

即使我的死也不是我的亡去
除非它是一张无名的脸上
不可捉摸的表情。

即使我的名字也不是我的名
除非蜜蜂聚成

一张桌子，给一个陌生人
光和时刻，在荒野
给谁？在哪里？