Donna Pucciani was born in Washington D.C., received her Ph.D. in Humanities from New York University, and taught humanities and English in New Jersey, Ohio, and Illinois over the course of four decades. She has published widely in the US and UK. Her poetry collections include Chasing the Saints and Jumping Off the Train. She currently lives in the Chicago metropolitan area and serves as Vice President of the Poets' Club of Chicago.

丹娜-普西阿尼在华盛顿出生，自纽约大学获得人文博士学位，在纽泽西、俄亥俄与伊利诺州等地教人文学及英文达四十年。她的作品广泛发表在美国及英国。出版诗集包括《追逐圣者与跳下火车》等。她是芝加哥诗人俱乐部的副会长。现居芝加哥地区。

诗人非马出版有十四本诗集 （除《秋窗 》是英文外，其它都是中文） 以及几本翻译，包括双语诗选《让盛宴开始──我喜爱的英文诗》。他还编选出版了几本台湾及中国现代诗选。他是前任伊利诺州诗人协会的会长，现居芝加哥。

William Marr (Fei Ma) is the author of fourteen books of poetry (all in his native Chinese language except Autumn Window which is in English) and several books of translations, including the bilingual anthology Let the Feast Begin—My Favorite English Poems.  He has also edited and published several anthologies of contemporary Taiwanese and Chinese poetry.  A longtime resident of Chicago, he served from 1993 to 1995 as the president of the Illinois State Poetry Society.

What I Write About

我写什么

You ask me what I write about.  I say,
a moment, isolated in time –- a single star,
snowflake, touch, a door opened, or shut, 
a glance between strangers, let’s say, us,

when you strode into the hotel,
checked in at the desk while I 
waited for the moment you would turn
to look for me. You were slight of build, 
taut, muscular.  I felt the presence 
of a man used to having his way,
making the moon rise on Vesuvius, 
sending stars to fall over the bay
with its little boats huddled among the rocks.

I only knew you were some distant cousin
found in the telephone book, my research subject,
a specimen of rare butterfly pinned to wax
in a museum case, a rosy apple on the family tree,
I, too, am slight, yet sturdy, a presence 
breathing light from gray-blue eyes,
rising in slow motion, shedding the hours
like snakeskin.

You are pointing, quizzical, at me, 
the force of your brown eyes a laser exploding 
water and light everywhere.  I change into 
a golden apple on the tree of our ancestors.
I say our names aloud to make sure that,
of all the people in the hotel lounge, 
fat or thin, mustached or clean-shaven, jovial
or lugubrious, blowing noses or sipping coffee, 
whistling a tune or stone-still,

we are who we think we are, and this is just
the kind of moment I write about, since you asked,
the kind I try to save, and savor, yet never quite
grasp at all, except on some snow-stricken night
in Chicago, discovering these words while sorting
mail or cleaning out the top drawer.  I'll pour 
a glass of wine and swallow the moment again
like a mouthful of fine red vintage waiting to be tasted
in the ice-bitten night.


(Note: The poem was first published in Feile-Festa Journal.)
			

你问我写什么。我说，
一个瞬间，孤零零在时间里——一颗星，
雪片，触摸，一扇门开启，或关闭，
陌生人之间的一瞥，比方说，我们，

当你走进旅馆，
到柜台登记，而我
等着你回头找我
的那时刻。你身材苗条，
一本正经，肌肉发达。我感到
一个想干什么就干什么的男人的在场，
让月亮升上维苏威火山，
将星星撒落海湾
那里许多小船在岩石间挤成一团。

我只知道你是个远亲
在电话簿里找到的，我的研究对象，
博物馆展示柜里钉在蜡上一个罕见的
蝴蝶标本，家谱树上一粒玫瑰色苹果，
我也苗条，但健壮，
灰蓝色的眼睛透射出光芒，
慢动作站起，抖落时辰
如蛇皮。

你疑问地指着我，
你褐色眼睛的力量是一束雷射
把水和光炸得四处飞溅。我变成
我们祖先树上一粒金苹果。
我把我们的名字大声说出以便确定，
在旅馆休息室里的人群当中，
胖的瘦的，满脸胡子或刮得干干净净，
快乐或忧伤，擤鼻涕或啜咖啡，
吹着口哨或一动不动如一块石头，

我们就是我们认为是的人，而这正是
我写的那种瞬间，既然你问起，
那种我试着保存，赏味，但迄未
完全掌握，除了某个雪困的夜晚
在芝加哥，当我整顿信件或清理顶层抽屉
发现这些字句。我将倒
一杯酒再度把这瞬间吞下
如满嘴待尝的美酒
在这冰伤的夜晚。
			

Bluebird, You Are

蓝知更鸟，你

not even a bird, only a promise,
a slash of wings caught peripherally
fifty feet away, elm to ash,
a purpled shadow in the noon lake.

Bluish manmade water at my side stretches
pale among the sunbeams, fish, canoes single file,
but not as real as the indigo shadow of your wings.

Your stark cerulean among sun-gold trunks
flits from a box on a stake in a feathered meadow,
a Pandora's box from which all blessings
issue in a sudden rush of ether,

leaving you, real as God, visible as mercy,
the dark edge of hope unfolding
where hope has disappeared.

(Note: The poem was first published in Mochila Review.)
			

甚至不是只鸟，只是个许诺，
眼梢捕捉到的一个翼痕
五十尺外，榆树到梣树，
月湖里的一个紫色影子。

蓝色的人工水从我身边伸展
在阳光、鱼、单排的独木舟中显得苍白，
但都没有你翅膀的蓝影来得真实。

你全然的天蓝在金色阳光的树干间
从羽绒般草地上一根桩上的盒子掠出，
所有的祝福从一个潘多拉盒
以太般喷涌而出，

留下你，真实如上帝，明显如慈悲，
希望的黑边舒展开来
自希望消失的地方。
			

Not Needed

没人要

The thing about growing older
is that nobody says your name
for weeks. Nothing happens
if you don't get out of bed, don't
take the air, don't shop for bread
or shoes.  No one will stop to ask,
"Where is so-and-so?" or observe
footprints never left in the snow, 
the snow unshoveled, the class untaught.

You are home pouring coffee, 
working silently at your table,
uncubicled. You notice things:  
The hydrangeas are enormous. A cobweb
hangs over the lamp.  You are your own
museum piece, dusting yourself, 
listening for birdsong, breath and heartbeat,
standing still enough to watch motes
loiter in a sunny window, to hear
the rain falling like a silver miracle.

(Note: The poem was first published in 
Journal of the American Medical Association)

			

关于变老这玩意儿
是好几个星期没人提起你的
名字。没有事情发生
如果你不起床，不
散步，不买面包
或鞋子。没人会停下来问，
“某某人在哪里？”或注意
雪上没留下脚印，
没铲的雪，没教的课。

你在家倒咖啡，
在桌前，小隔间之外，
默默工作。你注意到：
绣球花好大好大。一个蛛网
张挂在灯上。你是你自己的
老古董，挥掸自己，
凝听鸟鸣，呼吸与心跳，
一动不动地站着看尘埃
在阳光照耀的窗上游荡，听
雨滴落如银色的奇迹。
			

Visitation

造访

Once in a while a frog comes to visit.
It appears at the back door
while I am having tea
and gazing at rain in the hills.

I unlatch the lock and, glancing around,
seeing no one in the rarified morning,
look down at my feet, where sits
a blob of grey-green, small enough
to fit into the palm of my hand.

I bend down, look first into one eye,
then the other.  It stares back.
It tells no tales of tragic kisses
and metamorphoses.  Instead,
it waits, I'm not sure for what,
throat pulsing, eyes fixed.

I envy its stillness, wordlessness,
lack of desire, and yet,
some need has brought it here
to offer mute friendship
amid dew and crickets, to watch me
sip Darjeeling at dawn.

(Note: The poem was first published in
Chaffin Journal.)
			

偶尔一只青蛙前来造访。
它出现在后门
当我凝望着小丘上的雨
喝茶。

我打开门锁，扫视四周，
看不到有人在这洁净的清晨，
低头看我脚下，那里蹲着
一团灰绿，小得
可放进我的掌心。

我弯下身去，先看进一只眼，
然后另一只。它瞪了回来。
它没吐露悲剧性的热吻
与变形的故事。它只是，
等待，不知等待什么，
咽喉搏动，眼睛一动不动。

羡慕它的平静，无语，
无欲，可是，
某种需要将它带到这里
在露水与蟋蟀之间
提供静默的友谊，来看我
在清晨啜饮大吉岭茶。