Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Michael Galati

A former news editor and columnist, and a member of the Illinois State Poetry Society, Michael Galati retired in 1993 after teaching 40 years of high school English and related subjects. He earned a doctorate in education from Northern Illinois University in 1985 and at present reads from his poetry at a wide variety of venues. He is the author of Love Me a Village (1976), a collection of poems and personal reflections.

迈寇-葛拉提曾担任过新闻编辑,也写过专栏,是伊利诺州诗人协会的会员。在芝加哥西南郊教了40年中学英文,于1993 退休。1985年他从北伊州大学获得教育博士学位,目前到各处朗诵他的诗。1976年出版了他的诗集《爱我一村庄》。


William Marr (Fei Ma)


William Marr has published 23 volumes of poetry (three in English and the rest in his native Chinese language), 3 books of essays and several books of translations. His most recent book is Chicago Serenade, a trilingual (Chinese/English/French) anthology of poems published in Paris in 2015. His poetry has been translated into more than ten languages and included in over one hundred anthologies. He is a former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society and has received numerous awards, including three from Taiwan for his poetry and translations.

Sorrow's Field


There, out in the field, where the pin oak stands near, I heard his cry at night as if that would bring her back. Poor fool, to carry on like that. The dead are dead, I say, and grief has to be folded away like old clothes, and then put out Of sight. Yes, that's the way. He should put her things away. She won't be back. Not in this life anyway. I know the place too Down there in the basement, that old trunk he's kept for all these years, the one from Norway, hand-made. There is a secret place within, a shelf Beneath the floor, no one would know. No one would think to look. He could hide her things there, letters, poems, bits of hair, and then another might come to love him, And maybe love him more than she, and he could go off into the field with her, and lie over near the oak, hidden by the August corn, And we would pretend not to know that something was going on between them, as if we were so blind, so very, very blind.


那里,在野地, 在针栎站立的不远处 我听到他的哭声 在夜里,有如 那会把她叫回来。 可怜的傻瓜,尽这样 下去。死的 已死了,我说,悲伤 必须像旧衣服般 折叠收起,眼不见 为净。是的,那才是 办法。他该把她的东西 移走。她不会 回来了。至少这一生 不会。我也知道 地下室那地方, 那个他保存了 这么多年,那个 从挪威带来的手制的 旧皮箱。在地板下 的木架上有个密室,,没有人 会知道。没有人会想到 去找。他可以把她的东西 信件啦,诗啦,髪啦,藏在里面 然后也许会有另一个来爱他, 也许比她 更爱他,而他可以同她 一起去野地, 躺在那棵针栎树旁边, 躲在八月玉蜀黍里头, 而我们会假装不 知道他们之间 在搞些什么, 有如我们都是瞎子 道道地地的瞎子。

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