Yidan Han

Tom Chandler

Tom Chandler is the Poet Laureate Emeritus of Rhode Island. He is the author of five books of poems, including the latest Toy Firing Squad (2008). He is a professor of creative writing at Bryant University.



Tammy Ho Lai-ming


Tammy Ho Lai-ming was born in Hong Kong. She studied English Literature & Translation at the University of Hong Kong and is currently living in London, studying at King's College London. She edited Hong Kong U Writing: An Anthology (2006) and co-edited Love & Lust (2008). She is a co-founder of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal.

Montreal Bus Station, 3am

蒙特利尔巴士站, 凌晨三时

The Greyhound express won't be leaving till six so I'm hunched in this broken vinyl chair sipping coffee long gone with twelve hours to Providence laid before me like a day of splitting rocks. You nuns in clutches on those benches in shadow, your prayers are questions the paper bag derelict in the corner knows better than to ask. The driver arrives in the back of a hack, having caught a three beer nap since the last run from Winnipeg, used to steering frazzed in permanent twilight, strung out for years at a time. Finally the loudspeaker cackles and gasps, the storage bin doors lift open, we stash what little we have beneath, save the rest to place at our feet like offerings to whoever decided the clouds above, smelly bus belly below, dark air hissing through the windshield crack that will grow by a tenth of a tenth of an inch all the way down through Vermont.


公车要六时才离站 我曲着身坐在破旧的折椅上 咖啡早己呷尽 离普罗维登斯的十二个小时 是一整天乏味的惩罚 修女们 群集于蔽荫的长椅 你们的祷告是疑问 连街角的醉酒流浪汉 也懂得不去发问 司机乘坐另一巴士抵达 自从他上次驶到温尼伯湖市 他喝了三瓶啤酒 小睡过后 现习惯了疲惫地行驶于永恆的黄昏 年年展开 扩音器终于格格作响 喘气 存储门随之举开 我们把小量物件藏在里头 剩余的放在脚下 是祭品 送给 那创造云的 那管是谁 巴士的肚皮发出异味 黑烟嘶嘶 从挡风玻璃的裂缝透出 它会逐点逐点增长 一直到佛蒙持州

Bowling for Furniture


You're unembarrassed by your shoe size emblazoned on the back of each heel, undistracted by all the bright silk shirts, the skirl of rolling balls on shellacked and waxed lumber, the soft jets of air to dry your fingers so they slide like sex in the customized holes, the little numbers glowing everywhere. You sip the air like pilsner, size up the quantum physics of the lane, aim straight into the vacuum at the edge of your life, distant dead end of the imaginary alley where all of us stand cringing in a wedge.


你不为 刻在每只鞋底的尺码 感到尴尬; 你不为 那些发亮的丝的衬衣分神 保龄球 在手摩擦蜡和虫胶地板滚动 声音尖锐 喷气使你的指头干爽 好让它们有如性爱般滑进那定做的球孔 细小的数目字四处闪呀闪 你呼吸空气像啜饮比尔森啤酒 你计算保龄球巷的量子力 你瞄准前面的真空 是你生命的边缘 远处 你幻想的小巷 是死胡同 我们所有人一一站着 排成楔形

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