Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Ming Di


Ming Di is the author of Selected Poems of Ming Di, Broken Chords, Almost All the Angeles Have Wings and Some Strange Hobbies, D Minor étude, Berlin Stories, The Art of Splitting, River Merchant’s Wife, etc. She translated into Chinese The Writer as Migrant, Missed Time, Dancing in Odessa, House, Observations – Poems by Marianne Moore. She co-translated into English The Book of Cranes and Empty Chairs. She edited and co-translated New Cathay: Contemporary Chinese Poetry, 100 New Poems from China, New Poetry from China 1917-2017. She co-edited with Alí Calderón Una soledad de ciena?os. Nueva poesía china 1916-2016.


Tony Barnstone


Tony Barnstone is a contemporary American poet, professor of English language and literature at Whittier College, and author of Impure (1998), Naked Magic (2002), Sad Jazz: Sonnets by Tony Barnstone (2005), The Golem of Los Angeles (2007), Tongue of War (2009), Beast in the Apartment (2014), and Pulp Sonnets (2015). He edited or co-edited and co-translated Laughing Lost in the Mountains: Poems of Wang Wei, Out of the Howling Storm: the New Chinese Poetry, The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry: From Ancient to Contemporary, The Full 3000-Year Tradition, etc.


Between Walls
--For Ferber in The Emigrants

住进104之后,你和维特根斯坦便有了默契。 你相信有一种特异功能,能够通过你, 把前辈的深刻传承下来。但你一直很单薄, 单薄到除了你的情人这世界完全感知不到你。 但你挺了下来——他们都自杀了,你选择了活。 你活下来只为了见证你的失败。与日后的……失落。 你爱灰尘,你爱从烟囱下走过,诺大的曼切斯特, 只有灰尘的渺小,让你看见意义的存在。 集中营,流亡,异乡人,这些都算不了什么, 大痛之后是无痛。只有地上这些熔岩一般流动过的, 从画布上刮下来后又干枯了的,颜料,才是 唯一能够触摸的失败。你画女人,她跟随你23年; 你画墙壁,它把你的过去藏在背后;你画光, 它穿过墙壁走到你的过去,穿过女人走到你的现在。 你反复地画女人,反复地画墙壁,层层叠叠, 你知道深厚在身后但不表示深刻,于是你反反复复 刮下来。但即使撕毁了女人,你也没有更爱妻子; 戳破了光,光也没有照亮陋室;推倒了墙, 废墟里也没有走出伦勃朗的光辉。 今晚,我没有站在画展大厅里,而是坐在灯光下 吃力地翻书(外语),隔着语言墙壁,感知 你的走投无路——那些生词,灰尘一样向我袭来。


After moving into #104, you feel a silent understanding with Wittgenstein. You believe a magic power will give you the earlier tenant’s profundity. But you are thin, so thin that nobody but your beloved can perceive you. They all killed themselves. Only you choose to live. You live only to witness the failure, and the loss that follows. You love the grit, you love to walk by the chimneys— in the big city of Manchester, you only find meanings in cinders, Concentration camps, exile, being a stranger, all these are nothing to you. After great pain comes the numbness. The only tangible failure is the paint you scrape from the canvas, dripping and flowing like lava. You paint a woman, she follows you for twenty years; you paint a wall, it covers your past behind it; you paint light and light goes through the wall to your past, and through the woman to your present. You paint the woman and wall repeatedly, layer upon layer. You know thickness shows depth but not profoundness, so you keep scraping. But even if you tear the woman apart, you’re unable to love more; you tear light, light still can’t illuminate your room; you tear down the wall, the glory of Rembrandt still won’t radiate from the ruins. Tonight, I’m not standing in the museum, but sitting by a lamp reading you with great difficulty. Through the language walls I sense your hopelessness—so many new words pelt me like grit.

Copyright © 2005-2022 by Poetrysky.com. All rights reserved.