Arthur Sze was born in New York in December 1950. He is an American poet, translator and professor. He has published 10 collections of poetry since 1972. His 9th poetry collection Compass Rose was shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 2015. His 10th poetry collection Sight Lines won the 2019 National Book Award for Poetry. He also won Guggenheim Fellowship, Lannan Literature Award and American Book Award. His eleventh book of poetry, The Glass Constellation: New and Collected Poems, was published by Copper Canyon Press in 2021. He recently received the 2021 Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America.

施加彰1950年12月生于美国纽约，是美国诗人、翻译家和教授。自1972年以来，他出版了十部诗集。他的第9部诗集《罗盘玫瑰》入围2015年普利策诗歌奖。他的第10部诗集《视线》赢得了2019年国家图书诗歌奖。他还获得过古根海姆奖学金、兰南文学奖和美国图书奖等。施加彰1950年12月生于美国纽约，是美国诗人、翻译家和教授。自1972年以来，他出版了十部诗集。他的第9部诗集《罗盘玫瑰》入围2015年普利策诗歌奖。他的第10部诗集《视线》赢得了2019年国家图书诗歌奖。他还获得过古根海姆奖学金、兰南文学奖和美国图书奖等。

周道模，教师，在国内外文学报刊发表汉语、英语和翻译作品。 出版汉语诗集两部、汉英双语诗集两部、自印汉语诗集一部。曾获国内外诗歌奖。主编汉英版《2018世界诗选》。多次应邀参加世界诗人大会和国际诗歌节。中国诗歌学会会员、四川省作协会员、覃子豪研究会会长、《覃子豪诗刊》主编。

Zhou Daomo is the author of two Chinese poetry collections, two Chinese English bilingual poetry collections and one self-printed Chinese poetry collection. He won poetry awards in China and abroad. He is the Editor in Chief of 2018 Selected World Poems in Chinese and English. He was invited to attend the World Poets' Congress and the International Poetry Festival. He is now a lifelong member of the World Poets' Congress and editor-in-chief of the Qin Zihao Poetry Journal.

Among Spruce

云杉之中

Before glimpsing outlines of whorled branches,
you smell spruce needles, know gophers lie 

in tunnels below ground and sense their tracks. 
You can’t measure the background tracks 

of the big bang but believe in finding what 
is needed when you must. A sea captain 

brewed spruce beer during a voyage and rescued 
his crew from scurvy; a famished hiker 

consumed spruce needles and emerged out 
of the forest. In the darkest minutes before dawn,  

you won’t ever live to experience pure silence
but were never a composer yearning 

for that nirvana. Standing in the cusp of cold, 
you hunger for a hummingbird darting from scarlet 

penstemon to penstemon in midsummer, 
for a shearwater skimming over ocean waves; 

now, in this dissolving darkness, you strike
a match and cup this second of warmth, this flame.			

在瞥见有螺纹树枝的轮廓之前，
你闻到云杉针的味道，知道地鼠躺在

地下的隧道里并感知它们的踪迹。
你无法测量创世大爆炸的

背景轨迹但是相信在发现
你必须时需要什么。一位船长

在一次航海中酿造了云杉啤酒并把他的船员
从坏血病中拯救出来；一位饥饿的远足者

吃了云杉的针叶并走出了
森林。在黎明前最黑暗的时刻，

你将永远无法活着体验纯粹的寂静
但你也从来不是一位渴望那种涅槃

的创作者。站在寒冷的交汇点，
你渴望一只蜂鸟在仲夏时节

从猩红色的吊钟花飞到另一朵       
你渴望一只剪水鹕掠过海浪；

现在，在这消散的黑暗中，你擦燃
一根火柴，杯握这一秒的温暖，这火焰。			

Swimming Laps

游泳数圈

Swimming backstroke toward the far end of a pool in sunlight—
yellow flares in the nearby aspens—
in the predawn sky, Mars and Venus glimmered—
how is it a glimmering moment coalesces, and the rest slides like flour through a sieve?—
how is it these glimmerings become constellations in a predawn sky?—
reaching the wall, I turn and push off swimming freestyle—
how is it we bobbed in water beyond the breaking surf, and I taste that salt in my mouth now?—
how is it, disheveled, breathless, we drew each other up into flame?—
how is it that flame burns steadily within?—
reaching the wall, I turn and push off swimming sidestroke—
with each scissors kick, I know time’s shears—
this is not predawn to a battle when the air dips to a windless calm—
let each day be lived risking feeling loving alive to ivy reddening along the fence—
reaching the wall, I turn and push off swimming breaststroke—
how is it I see below then above a horizon line?—
how is it I didn’t sputter, slosh, end up staring at a Geiger-counter clock mounted on a barroom wall?—
I who have no answers find glimmering shards— 
reaching the wall, I pause, climb out of the pool, start a new day—			

在阳光下仰泳游向泳池的另一端——
附近白杨树上的黄色耀斑——
黎明前的天空中，火星和金星隐约闪烁——
一个闪光的瞬间是如何汇聚的，而其它的瞬间又是如何像面粉一样滑过筛子的呢——
这些微光是如何在黎明前的天空中变成星座的——
抵达池边，我转身并开始自由泳——
我们怎么会在破浪之外的水里摆游，而现在我尝到了嘴里那种盐的味道？——
我们怎么会蓬头垢面，气喘吁吁，彼此吸引到燃烧起来？——
火焰怎样在内部持续燃烧的？——
到达池边，我转过身并开始侧泳——
每踢一次剪刀腿，我就意识到时间的剪刀——
当空气下降到无风的平静这不是黎明前的较量——
让每天都活在大胆感受爱的生动，就像常春藤沿篱笆那样红艳——
到达池边，我转身并开始蛙泳——
我怎么会看地平线下然后看地平线上面的呢？——
我怎么没有溅起水花，晃荡，最后盯着装在酒吧墙上的盖革计数器时钟？——
没有答案的我却发现了闪闪发光的碎片——
到达池边，我停下来，爬出泳池，开启新的一天生活——			

Dawn Branches

黎明树枝

Owls hoot back and forth—

inside a pencil, peace
waits to be written—

gunshots, blood cries in streets—

shouts ricochet
in November moonlight—

this is not about last things—

drawing a curve, he sees the graphite erode: 
he can never make an unending circle—

this is about anticipation,

your time on this planet,
this stark branch, sapphire light, steel rake noise—

this fern leaf ooze compressed—

these carbonized 
griefs and hungers—

lifting sounds 
out of the cauldron of silence—

branches of a golden rain tree emerge out of darkness—
			

猫头鹰来回地鸣叫——

铅笔内部，和平
等待被书写——

枪声，血在街上哭泣——

呼喊跳弹在
十一月的月光下——

这不是关于过去的事——

画一条曲线，他就看到石墨的风蚀：
他永远不可能做一个无尽的圆圈——

这是有关期盼的事，

你在这个星球上的时间，
这赤裸的树枝，宝蓝色的光亮，钢擦子般的噪音——

这被浓缩的蕨类叶子的流汁——

这些碳化了的
悲伤和饥饿——

从沉默的大锅
正提升出声音来——

金雨树的树枝从黑暗中显露出来——