Mark Anderson has published two books of poetry, The Broken Boat and Serious Joy. His poetry has been published in many periodicals, including Poetry, The Hudson Review, Poetry Northwest, and Southern Poetry Review. He comes from Wichita, Kansas and was educated at Cornell University. He teaches at Rhode Island College.

马克-安德森曾出版过两本诗集：《破舟》和《严肃的快乐》。他的诗发表于《诗》、《哈德森评论》、《西北诗刊》、《南方诗评》等许多诗刊中。他生于坎萨斯州威曲塔，在康奈尔获博士学位。他现任教于罗得岛州立学院。

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。

Amphibians Explore and Colonize the Soul

在灵魂中探险并将其殖民的两栖动物

In the story we've finally taught ourselves to expect,
frogs always turn out to be royalty.  We imagine
ourselves as royalty, and we pay that price.  We imagine
the mute thing suddenly speaking its hopelessness,
pretending to be like us, until one of us mouths it
and makes it real.  Or else we're the frogs, waiting
for that kiss from the blue that could make us something more.

The sun comes up (as always—the sun that rings
us in, celestial carillon, and pounds off
the days of us)—the sun comes up and the purity
of its gaze gives us away: lost things, we struggle
against that light and the darkness it makes so predictable.
We long for that earlier darkness, the cool damp
where amphibians hide their eggs from the drying light
though most won't make it anyway.
        So they are like us, know all
about loss, waste, the frustration of craft and care
that we work all our lives to explain.  Our tongues slide
from their wet caves to test that final, shrivelling
light, to probe it for how stories of even a frog
might be redeemed, how the sun must sooner or later
take pity on us—or how these, our stories,
our hymns might sooner or later break into the light
as the first eggs laid on land broke into the air
and died, over and over, until at last
some mutant newt secreted a watertight shell
and the air was ours.  How no one can say what new
life's forming itself in there, in us, or what foolish
or necessary waste: how all are one: life, eggs,
waste, royalty, foolishness, the king sun,
the sun which is our nothing and all, which will come back
for us every day until finally we turn and follow.
			

在那个故事中我们最终教会自己期待，
青蛙总会变成皇族。  我们想象
自己是皇族，我们付出了代价。我们想象	
哑默者突然说出它的无望，
假装像我们一样，直到我们中的一个
开口，让它一切成真。 或者我们就是青蛙，等候
来自那幽蓝中的一吻，让我们麻雀变凤凰。

太阳升起（一如既往——太阳它召唤
我们，天上的钟乐，击散
我们的日子）—太阳升起，它凝视的纯粹
让我们无所遁形：失去的事物，我们挣扎着
反抗那光明与黑暗——它示为平庸无奇。
我们渴望早前的黑暗，那阴凉潮湿之处
两栖动物在那里避开干灼的日光藏起它们的卵
尽管大多数的卵还是不能成活。
        因此，它们和我们一样，完全明白
一切关于失去，徒劳，和我们一生辛劳试图说明的
劳心劳力的意义终归只是挫败。 我们的舌头
从那潮湿的洞穴中滑出，去尝试那最终的，令人束手无策
的光，探究那些故事，如何连一只青蛙
都可能得到救赎，太阳如何迟早
会怜悯我们——或者这些，我们的故事，
我们的颂歌迟早会见光，
如同第一批产在地上的卵暴露在空气中，
死亡，一而再再而三，直到最终
某只变异的蝾螈分泌出防水的壳
然后空气是我们的了。如何没有一个人可以说出
什么样的新生命在那里形成，在我们中间，还是什么样的愚蠢
或必要的徒劳：如何一切为一：生命，卵，
徒劳，皇族，愚蠢，君临的太阳，
太阳是我们的无和所有，它会每天
为我们归来，直到最终我们转身去追随。
			

Easter Eggs

复活节彩蛋

As I hold one ready for my three-year-old while he slaps it
with garish red, yellow, black, changing my hand
and his to bright apparitions around that perfectly
ordinary whiteness, I wonder what strange need
began this, drove us to add these brittle
ornaments to spring's own: the pastel flowers
of bulbs already open, the sky's deepening blue,
the enfolding green incipient everywhere.  But he
sees differently, chooses these fall colors
to wonder at—then, suddenly, wonders most of all
at my hand and how he's transformed, laughing
as he paints it again and again, until the egg
takes color from my mere touch, and I understand
these eggs are not for spring, not newness: they belong
to that oldest world we've always carried within us, ablaze
with magnificent birds that could only hatch from such brilliance,
ourselves savagely radiant in our own colors.
			

当我为三岁的儿子拿好一个蛋，他给它抹上
耀眼的红色，黄色，黑色，围着那普普通通的
洁白，将我的手和他的手变幻成
明快的幻影，我惊奇是什么奇怪的想法
让这发生，让我们给春天的华饰添加
这些脆弱的装饰：蜡笔画的花球
已然绽开，天空渐渐深远的蔚蓝，
处处蕴含的新绿。但是他
看的不同，选择那些秋天的色彩
来赞叹——然后，突然，最让他吃惊的是  
他怎么让我的手变了，他一边画一边笑
一遍又一遍，直到我的手
碰到蛋它就会上彩，我明白了
这些蛋不是为了春天，和新生：它们属于
始终装在我们里面的那最古老的世界，
同那只在如此的光辉中孵化的神奇鸟儿一起闪耀，
我们也在我们自己的色彩中勃然荣光幻彩。