Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Forrest Gander

Forrest Gander is the editor of Mouth to Mouth, a bilingual anthology of contemporary Mexican poets, and the author of numerous books, including Eye Against Eye (poems, New Directions, 2005) and Faithful Existence: Reading, Memory, & Transcendence (essays, Shoemaker & Hoard, 2005). Gander's most recent translations are No Shelter: Selected Poems of Pura López Colomé and, with Kent Johnson, Immanent Visitor: The Selected Poems of Jaime Saenz, a PEN Translation Award Finalist. The recipient of Gertrude Stein Awards for Innovative Writing, NEA Fellowships in poetry, The Whiting Award for Writers, and a Howard Foundation Award, Gander has written critical essays for numerous journals, including The Nation, The Boston Review, and The Providence Journal.  He keeps a small orchard outside of Providence, Rhode Island. Gander is Professor of Literary Arts and Comparative Literature at Brown University.




Laoha, poet and translator, pen name of Xiaoqing Mario Li, born in China in 1960. He moved to USA in 1986 and made his residence in northern Nevada since 1987.


Ligature 4


The bioluminescent undersides of squid render them invisible to predators below. That the radiance of the boy's anger might protect him. Walking the dog and stepping on a patch of repaired road, I remember the soft spot in his head. You're deaf as a beagle. No, you are. Can I feel the tide's drag on the turning earth increase each day's duration? A hair in my nostril has gone white. In absolute night from my bed, I hear him aiming for the toilet's center. The sound deepens, voice finding its register. Scientists call it an entangled system. We survive Christmas, his face pressed to the smooshed bosom of his grandmother in a house so immaculate, the spider in the seam of the ceiling stands out obscenely. Like a star at the outskirts of the galaxy, and slung around by the gravity of dark matter. For now, he goes where we go, but he does not belong to us. I begin to begin my sentences leaning toward him, taking a deep breath. He relinquishes the conversation with a contraction of his pupils. What is for one of us the throb of the immediate is, for the other, the imminent mundane. When napalm hits my brain, he takes on the tranquility of a blinking newt. She finds a photograph of him at seven. The sheer expressed of his face. As among Michelangelo's early drawings, there is a copy of Massacchio's lost Consecration. We search our memories of him for a certain unity of characteristics that would hold through the permutations he now submits to us. When it clings to the wire-and-rug surrogate, lab technicians shock it again. Instead of releasing, it clings tighter. Throwing himself into the back seat after wrestling practice, mat burns on his cheek and forehead. His muteness an onomatopoeia of the rising moon.


鱿鱼下侧显递出生物荧光,使得在身下的掠食者无法看出。同样,男孩子愤怒时的面红耳赤, 也许会将他自己保护。 遛狗,踩到一块修补的路面。我记得他头上的那块软骨。 你像是一只聋狗。不,你就是。 我能够感受到吗?潮汐正拉曳着转动的地球,使得每一天变得更漫长。 我的一根鼻毛已经变白。 在绝对的深夜里,我在床上听见他对着便桶的中心瞄准。声响深沉,嗓音找到了它的注册簿。 科学家们称之为困惑体系。 圣诞节难熬,他的脸紧贴在他祖母热情洋溢的胸前,那所房子是如此的纯洁无瑕,天花板缝间 却有可恶的蜘蛛站立。 就像是在星系外围的一颗星,被黑暗物质的引力抛旋。就目前而止,我们去哪儿他就去哪儿, 但是他不属于我们。 我的刑期开始,开始依赖于他,我深深地吸了一口气。他的瞳孔收缩一下,在交谈中让步。 对我们两个人之一来说是刻不容缓的悸动,而对另一个人来说却是世俗的紧迫。 当凝固汽油弹击中我的大脑,他静如蝾螈眨眼。 她找到他七岁时的一张相片。他表情清冷的脸,在米开朗琪罗的早期绘画中,有一幅作品叫作 《玛莎琪约失去的祭祀》与此相似。 在有关他的记忆里,我们寻找他性格里的某种和谐统一,能够与他现在交给我们的错综复杂相符。 它紧紧地抱住麻袋钢丝替身。这时,实验室技术员对它再次电击。它一点都不放,反而抱的更紧。 摔跤训练后,猛然跳入后座,垫子烧着他的前额和脸。 他的无言好比月亮升起时声音。

Ligature 2


I'm afraid you have mistaken my intent, I do not say to her. And so we will not speak to each other again. Small dog barking "like it wants something." But the birds are not singing like they want something. Early moon, an illuminated fetus. That deep, intimate smell of a child in sickness, I mean to say: the fusion of fever, skin, hair, and sweat at the neck. But my translation is so slow, they take child and smell and begin to - interject: the smell of Calomine when he had chicken pocks, the smell of the baby's breath after nursing…. Requisite tequila shots. The face looking back haggard, lined. The human ear appears most sensitive to the sound of keening. So that birds seem to vocalize the grief of trees? A dog on the rooftop, her teats black and long, checks out the boy who walks ahead of us and on the opposite side of the street. Her come-hither finger curl auditions his response. As we pass the beggar slouched against the wall with his palm open on his knee, is it still sky of skies or skies of sky? To watch, in the woman's eyes, the sinking Plimsoll line of her despair. At the hotel, sunburned and disconsolado, the boy immelmanning across the pool for an hour. I remember dreaming last night that he loved me.


恐怕你误解了我的意图,我不和她说话。我们之间再也不会有任何的交谈。 小狗叫着“就像它想要什么”。但小鸟的歌唱却不像是想要什么。 早早升起的月亮,一个发光的胎儿。 孩子生病时,那深层的亲密气息,我想说的是,高烧的熔融,皮肤,头发,还有脖子上的汗。 但是我的翻译太慢,他们一接过孩子和气味,就开始插话:他出痘时卡罗敏止痒霜的气味, 婴儿刚喂过奶后呼吸的气息。 得干喝坦基拉酒。回望的脸憔悴又满是皱纹。 人类的耳朵对恸哭的声音最为敏感。如此,似乎小鸟叫出的是树的悲声。 房顶上有只狗,乳头又黑又长,在审视那些走在我们前面和街对面的男孩子们。 她弯着手指,示意要他作出反应,到她那儿去。 当我们从曲卷在墙边的乞丐身旁走过,看到放在膝盖上张开的双手,天空的天或是天的天空 是否依然? 去观察,在那女人的眼里,她绝望的载重线在下沉。 大酒店里,那晒黑了皮肤、提不起精神的男孩,在游泳池里前滚翻转身来回游上个把钟头。 我记得昨晚梦到他爱我。

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