Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Ouyang Jianghe


Ouyang Jianghe was born in Luzhou, Sichuan Province in 1956 while his ancestral hometown was in Hebei, China. As a nationally known poet, and a critic on poetry, music and culture, his works have been published since 1979, including over 200 poems, many articles on poetry, and lots of reviews on contemporary fine art, music, film, and drama, which amount over 350,000 words. His books published in China include the poem collection Through the Glass of Words (1997, Reform Press), the collection of poems and criticism Who Leave, Who Stay (1997, Hunan Literature and Art Publishing House), the collection of reviews and essays Standing on the Side of Fiction (2000, SDX Joint Publishing House), and the poem collection Tears of Things (2008, The Writers Publishing House). He is recognized as one of the most important poets of China since 1980s. He is now living in Beijing.


Austin Woerner

Austin Woerner is a Chinese-English literary translator. His works include two volumes of poetry, Doubled Shadows: Selected Poetry of Ouyang Jianghe and Phoenix, and a novel, The Invisible Valley by Su Wei. From 2011 to 2014 he served as English translation editor for the innovative, bilingual Chinese literary journal Chutzpah!, an anthology of whose short fiction is forthcoming from University of Oklahoma Press. He holds a BA in East Asian Studies from Yale and an MFA in creative writing from the New School, and is currently a lecturer in creative writing at Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou, China. He is represented by Irene Skolnick.

奥斯汀-威纳是耶鲁大学东亚系学士, 新学院创作硕士。曾译过两本中文诗集和一部小说。


Key to Sunday

钥匙在星期日早上的阳光中晃动。 深夜归来的人回不了自己的家。 钥匙进入锁孔的声音,不像敲门声 那么遥远,梦中的地址更为可靠。 当我横穿郊外公路,所有车灯 突然熄灭。在我头上的无限星空里 有人捏住了自行车的刹把。倾斜, 一秒钟的倾斜,我听到钥匙掉在地上。 许多年前的一串钥匙在阳光中晃动。 我拾起了它,但不知它后面的手 隐匿在何处?星期六之前的所有日子 都上了锁,我不知道该打开哪一把。 现在是星期日。所有房间 全部神秘地敞开。我扔掉钥匙。 走进任何一间房屋都用不着敲门。 世界如此拥挤,屋里却空无一人。


A key glints in the Sunday morning light. A returning traveler is locked out in the dark. A knock on the door is always more faint than the rasp of metal in the keyhole. Only a dreamed address is reliable. As I bike down a quiet street all the headlights go out at once. In the night sky above, a hand clenches a brake. I hear a clink. A key has fallen to the ground. I see a ring of keys, keys of years past glinting in the light. I pick them up. But where are the hands that hide behind them? A row of closed days, ending in Saturday— but I do not know which to unlock. Now it is Sunday. All the doors on the street stand open. I toss the keys away. No need to knock. Just walk right in. Such a crowded world, and no one at home.

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