C.D. Wright's (1949-2016) most recent books are Cooling Time: An American Poetry Vigil and One Big Self: Prisoners of Louisiana with photographer Deborah Luster. She was the recipient of numerous awards including a 2004 MacArthur Fellowship and was an elected member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Wright was on the faculty at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island.
C.D. 莱特(1949-2016)的最新作品集是《冷却时间：美洲诗的不眠夜》和《一个大写的自我：路易斯安那的囚犯》（该书配有Deborah Luster拍摄的照片）。她曾多次获奖，包括2004 麦克阿瑟奖学金，曾获选美国艺术和科学学院奖成员。她曾在美国罗德岛州普罗维登斯的布朗大学任教多年。
星子安娜，Anna Yin中国湖南出生。99年移民加拿大，其英文诗多次获奖，其中包括 2005 年安省的“Ted Plantos 纪念奖”和2010 年和2013年 的“Martry文学奖“。星子著有五本诗集，包括《Wings Toward Sunlight》（2011）以及《Inhaling the Silence》（2013）。星子是加拿大诗人联盟安省代表，她工作和居住在安省的密西沙加。
Anna Yin was born in China and immigrated to Canada in 1999. Anna won the 2005 Ted Plantos Memorial Award, the 2010 MARTY Award, etc. She has published five books of poetry. Collections of her poetry Wings Toward Sunlight was published by Mosaic Press in 2011 and Inhaling the Silence was published in 2013. Anna is Ontario representative for the League of Canadian Poets. She works and lives in Mississauga, Ontario.
only the crossing counts.
It's not how we leave one's life. How go off
the air. You never know do you. You think you're ready
for anything; then it happens, and you're not. You're really
not. The genesis of an ending, nothing
but a feeling, a slow movement, the dusting
of furniture with a remnant of the revenant's shirt.
Seeing the candles sink in their sockets; we turn
away, yet the music never quits. The fire kisses our face.
O phthsis, o lotharian dead eye, no longer
Will you gaze on the baize of the billiard table. No more
Shooting butter dishes out of the sky. Scattering light.
Between snatches of poetry and penitence you left
the brumal wood of men and women. Snow drove
the butterflies home. You must know
How it goes, known all along what to expect,
sooner or later…the faded cadence of anonymity.
Frankly my dear, frankly my dear, frankly
in our only time.
"Follow me," the voice, the long, longed-for voice stops
the writing hand. "I have your shoes." Except
for a rotating fan, movement at a minimum. The plan,
if one can call it a plan, is to begin in what is known
to some as the perennial present; beginning
with a few sentences written in a kitchen while others
cling to their own images in twisted sheets of heat.
A napkin floats from a counter in lieu of a letter. Portals
of the back life part in silence: O verge
of song, O big eyelets of daylight. Leaving milk and bowl
on the table, leaving the house discalced. All this
mystery, mildly erotic. Even if one is terrified
of both death and the color red. Even if a message is sent
each of us in secrecy, no one can make it stay.
Notwithstanding scale—everything has its meaning,
every thing matters; no one a means every one an end
until words turn to moss.
This was all roses, here, where an overblown house crowns
the hill, the whole field, roses, all the way to the end;
when the rosarian died, the partition of roses
began. We've come out of nowhere, literally,
nowhere, autumnal towns marked for destruction
by a phantom hand; houses held underwater, every bed
a sunken tub, tools drowned between rows, every keyhole
caulked; clouds hallucinating girls asleep on a wedge
of wedding cake; the white rose, among the greatest of liars
beginning to show the debilitating effects of fame,
the ever-popular blaze placates a vase; the bad sons
of thunder beating back a strand of light; someone
who knows nothing apart from the rain
standing on a chair in muddy legs; the roses
blown into their cumulonimbuses,
and someone whose glove is recovered, a face
that doesn't come clear, a face drawn under an umbrella,
beautiful, charcoal, beautiful, like words
that never get old, the sons of thunder beating