胡弦，1966年生于徐州铜山，著有诗集《阵雨》《沙漏》《空楼梯》、散文集《永远无法返乡的人》《蔬菜江湖》等。曾获诗刊社“新世纪十佳青年诗人”称号，《诗刊》《星星》《作品》《芳草》等杂志年度诗歌奖，花地文学榜年度诗歌奖金奖，柔刚诗歌奖，十月文学奖，鲁迅文学奖等。现居南京，江苏作协副主席，中国诗歌学会副会长，《扬子江诗刊》主编。

Hu Xian, born in Tong Shan County, Jiangsu Province in 1966. Editor of The Yangtze Poetry Journal in Nanjing. Member of Writers Association of China. His publications include a book of poetry Ten Year of Light (2007) and Shower (2010). A book of prose: Food and Its Anecdotes (2008). He is the recipient of the following awards: The Top Ten Young Poets of the New Century(2009), The Biennial Top Ten Poetry Award (2010), The Poetry Prize of Wen Yiduo (2011), The Yearly Golden Prize (2011),The Purple Mountain Poetry Award (2011) and many others.

1964年生于上海，1982年考入北京外国语大学英语系，1989年获得该校英美文学硕士学位，入职外国文学研究所。现供职于一家国际企业，居住在南京。作品曾发表在《中国作家》《香港文学》《一行》和《飞天》等刊物上。另翻译有布罗斯基、阿什贝利等诗人的作品及小说《白雪公主》和《在西瓜糖里》。《新九叶集》诗人之一。出版诗集《次要的雪》。

旧胶片

Old Film

郊区结了冰。
教堂，又大又冷。
钟表的滴答声在桌子上融化。

有人爱革命，有人爱表妹；
有人昏厥于香水的气息。
数到五是桉树，
数到十，
墙外走过的人，
影子又被裁去了一截

门开到一半；
话谈到一半；
风停了；
咳嗽停了；
头，卡在头疼里。
			

The suburb is frozen.
The cathedral, large and cold,
The ticking sound of a clock melts on the table.

Some love revolutions, some love cousins;
Some faint at the smell of perfume.
Counting to five is eucalyptus,
Counting to ten,
The shadow of the man passing by 
outside the wall is ground a bit shorter again.

The door is half open;
The talk is half done;
The wind stops；
The coughing stops;
The head, jammed in the headache.
			

初夏

Early Summer

我们爱过的女孩不见了，
街上的男子步履匆匆。
雨季来临，梯子潮湿，
昨夜，一张古画里的妙人儿，
悄悄更换了表情。
			

The girl we loved is gone,
Men in the street walk in a hurry.
Rainy season arrives and the ladder is damp.
Last night, the pretty doll in an ancient painting
Quietly changed her expression.
			

此刻

This Moment

面前的这朵花，我无法
形容它的颜色、情态……
语言止于此也许

是合理的。当我
仰望天空，我察觉到“蔚蓝”一词的无用。
屏风上，木头雕成云朵：得其
所适的云，像一个安居室内的词，带着
绝对的宁静——是种

淡淡的绝望控制着人间：你是核心，
和这核心的绝对性——你的美
对词语的作用是种完美的终结。

……我们继续说话，漫无边际，
镜中人：你和我
全知——拥有全部的心痛，但不在
语言那漫长的旅程中。
			

Facing a flower, I fail to
describe accurately its color and mood…
That language stops there perhaps

Is reasonable. When I 
Look up at the sky, I read the poverty of the word beauty.
On the screen, wood is carved into clouds: clouds 
At their ease, like a word at home, with its 
Absolute tranquility——it is a kind

Of faint despair that controls the world: you are the core,
And the absoluteness of this core, the impact 
Of your beauty on the words is a kind of perfect ending.

...we continue talking, rambling on,
People in the mirror: you and I
Omniscient——possessing all the heart's pain, but not 
On the long long journey of language.