Yidan Han



Hanxin, pen name of Dong Mei, was born in 1968 in Lanzhou, Gansu and now resides in Shandong. She has published Three Simple Hearts (co-authored) and Rambling Slowness.


Jinghua Fan


Native of Jiangsu, PRC, upon graduation from Beijing Normal University in 1987, taught in Southeast University Nanjing for a dozen of years.  He writes, translates and currently is studying poetry in National University of Singapore.


向前走,是土墙下没有身份的花,是 树含蓄的阴影,是鸟带来的小径 是两三声懒散的犬吠、淡淡的粪肥味和油菜荚 积攒的气力与海。棕榈树有火烧的痕迹 它的高度稀薄,和你的愿望一样 长长地,四下散着 你拿着一本书,怎么走 都没有走出小镇的这个中午,并且听任 两只相伴起舞的蝴蝶,运走了天空


Walking, and there will be a flower of no identity under the clay wall, A reticent shadow of a tree, a tiny trail of a bird There will come a few lazy barks, the faint smell of manure and the stored-up energy and sea of canola pods. A palm tree will show burns of fire, and its height is thin air, like your wish, long and elongated, to every direction. You, with a book in hand, walk on and on but cannot walk out of this noon of the town. You can do nothing but watch two butterflies carrying away the sky in their matching dance.


There is a wind ...

有一种风,它不来 却在她看得见的地方,种太阳花、种佛甲草、种柔软的毛发 用理智的梳子,梳开夜晚的杂乱、沿河的阻塞 把鹰的眼睛、礼花的笑容送给星星 用身体里的奶浆,濡湿她身边龟裂的田垅 并藏好辘轳和井碰撞后的淤伤 她知道,她不能不开放了 不能不花木扶疏,像个扎着白羽毛翅膀的快乐婴孩 只是需要时间,需要一点点地醒来


There is a wind which does not come here But stays where it is to be seen. It grows sunflowers, biting stonecrops and soft hair. It uses a comb of reason to card tousles of night and jam-ups along waterways. It sends to the stars eagle eyes and firework smiles, It irrigates paddy-fields with its milky juice as they are cracked like a tortoise-shell, And it hides the contusions caused by the windlass against the well. She knows that she cannot keep herself closed any longer Or hide her luxuriance, for she looks too like a happy baby with attached white wings. What she needs is a little more time, so she will wake up, little by little.



那是一只木桩,一根锚在浅滩的桅杆 一道藏着深巷的门 一面山、山腰的石壁、石壁上磨得光滑的浮雕 无意间抬头,见它在黑暗中缓缓后退 哦,也许是我 是我一点点地远离 或者是时间,醒着的时间悄悄销蚀一切


That is a stump, a mast anchored in a shoal A door bescreening a deep alley A face of mountain, a stone wall on the mountain's waist, a time-worn relief reflecting on that wall I look up, unintentionally, and I see it receding into the darkness Oh, perhaps it's me Who is receding, half step by half step Or it's Time that keeps awake and nibbling at everything

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