Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney (1939-2013) Irish poet, translator and playwright, and he received Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995.



Jinghua Fan


Fan Jinghua, born in 1965, is a poet and translator. His poems have been published in literary magazines and anthologies in Mainland China, Taiwan, Japan, France, Singapore and USA, and he has been invited to poetry festivals. He is a university lecturer and lives in Singapore.

- For Ciaran Carson

- 给迦朗·卡森

I. Sidhe She took me into the ground, the spade-marked Clean-cut inside of a dugout Meant for calves. Dung on the floor, a damp gleam And seam of sand like white gold In the earth wall, nicked fibres in the roof. We stook under the hill, out of the day But faced towards the daylight, holding hands, Inhaling the excavated bank. Zoom in over our shoulders, A tunnelling shot that accelerates and flares. Discover us against weird brightness. Cut. II. Parking Lot We were wraiths in the afternoon. The bus had stopped. There was neither waiting room Nor booth nor bench, only a parking lot Above the town, open as a hillfort, A panned sky and a light wind blowing. We were on our way to the Gaeltacht, Between languages, half in thrall to desire, Half shy of it, when a flit of the foreknown Blinked off a sunlit lake near the horizon And passed into us, climbing and clunking up Those fretted metal steps, as we reboarded And were reincarnated seat by seat. III. White Nights Furrow-plodders in spats and bright clasped brogues Are cradling bags and hoisting beribboned drones As their skilled neck-pullers’ fingers force the chanters And the whole band starts rehearsing Its stupendous, swaggering march Inside the hall. Meanwhile One twilit field and summer hedge away We wait for the learner who will stay behind Piping by stops and starts, Making an injured music for us alone, Early-to-beds, white-nights absentees Open-eared to this day.


一. 仙 她把我拉进地下,那地洞内部 有铁锨的挖痕、铲修得干净, 是要给牛用的。 地面上是牛粪,一股湿乎乎的闪光 和沙子镶缝,犹如泥土洞壁上 有白金,屋顶上有带凹槽的纤维。 我们站在山下,与当天的时间脱节, 但面向着阳光,手挽着手, 吸着挖开的河岸土味。 镜头拉近,透过我们的肩头, 一个隧道式发射加速到光爆。 发现我们逆着怪异的光明。停! 二. 停车场 我们是下午的仙。巴士停下。 既没有候车室,也没有候车亭 或凳子,只有一个停车场 在镇子上面,像一座山堡, 平远的天空和荡漾的轻风。 我们正在去爱尔兰语地区, 在两种语言间,一半是奴役于欲望, 一半是羞于接近,这时天启世界 掠过地平线附近阳光普照的湖面, 当我们再次上车,沉实地爬上 生锈的金属台阶,那天启闪入我们, 我们按座位,一个一个轮回转世。 三. 白夜 亮扣粗皮鞋套着鞋套,走在犁沟中的人 抱着气囊,举着很多饰带的低音管, 而这些老练的扭鸡鸭脖子的工人 用手指压着风笛调音管,整个乐队 开始在大厅里彩排那令人惊叹的 炫耀招摇的进行曲。与此同时, 隔着暮光下的田野和夏季的树篱, 我们等着初学者留下来, 按着音孔开始吹奏风笛, 单独为我们制造受伤的音乐, 我们早早上了床,躲开了白夜, 至今仍然洗耳恭听。

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