Michael Galati
迈寇-噶拉提
 A graduate of Northern Illinois University, Michael Galati retired in 1993 after teaching 40 years of high school English and related subjects in southwest suburban Lemont near Chicago. Also a former news editor and columnist, he is the author of Love Me a Village (1976), a collection of poems and personal reflections. He was a member of the Arlington Poetry Project, Poets and Patrons, Chicago Poets' Club and currently is with the Illinois State Poetry Society.
迈寇-噶拉提毕业于北伊州大学 ，在芝加哥西南郊教了40年中学英文，于1993 退休。他曾当过新闻编辑，也写过专栏。 1976年出版了他的诗集《爱我一村庄》。他曾是阿灵顿诗歌计划、诗人与赞助者与芝加哥诗人俱乐部的会员，现为伊利诺州诗人协会的会员。
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译者
Translator
William Marr (Fei Ma)
非马
诗人非马出版有十四本诗集 （除《秋窗 》是英文外，其它都是中文） 以及几本翻译，包括双语诗选《让盛宴开始──我喜爱的英文诗》。他还编选出版了几本台湾及中国现代诗选。他是前任伊利诺州诗人协会的会长，现居芝加哥。
William Marr (Fei Ma) is the author of fourteen books of poetry (all in his native Chinese language except Autumn Window which is in English) and several books of translations, including the bilingual anthology Let the Feast Begin—My Favorite English Poems. He has also edited and published several anthologies of contemporary Taiwanese and Chinese poetry. A longtime resident of Chicago, he served from 1993 to 1995 as the president of the Illinois State Poetry Society.
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God taught his songs
first to birds,
and then to hollow reeds
along these quarried walls,
and last of all to Foley's Creek, rippling.
Always, Dear,
I start to sing
when I think of you.
**
The flower along the path
bends in the wind
like a musical note
strummed softly from
an old guitar.
When you talk to me,
I hear flowers.
**
The night sky holds endless galaxies.
The dawn comes as wide-turning as griddle cakes,
the sunset as red as the bleeding of a rose.
How was I to know you were the sky?
**
When I go for the newspaper each morning
I walk out through a garden of birdsong.
When you call me, it's the same song.
**
Have you noticed how she and I were almost kissing?
If you cannot picture God,
you need to look
when our lips touch.
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上帝把他的歌
首先教给鸟，
然后给沿着采石场围墙
空心的芦苇，
最后给浮利溪，潺潺流动。
常常，亲爱的，
我开始唱
当我想起你。
**
沿着小径的花
在风中弯腰
如一个音符
自一只旧吉他
轻轻弹奏。
当你同我说话，
我听到花。
**
夜空上有数不尽的星系。
黎明阔展如煎饼，
夕阳红如滴血的玫瑰。
我怎知道你就是天空？
**
每天早晨我去拿报纸
走过一个鸟鸣的花园。
当你呼唤我，是同样的鸣声。
**
你有没注意到她同我几乎接吻？
如果你想像不出上帝的模样，
你该看看
当我们的唇相碰。
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Sometimes they rang at inconvenient hours,
their remorseless tolling of the years,
so that we could not think, or talk
to each other, but had to count the years
instead: one -- two -- three -- and then
how many more? Was it eighty, or was it
less than that？ We tried to count the years
each one had lived. It became a game of sorts.
Who was it that died, that lies now still
of all this daily fuss？ How many was it
last month? We lost count of the lives
passing, the years they had outlived us by.
You remember. We were young then, three
little ones to our name and little more,
a car, a stove for heat, and buckets of oil
carried up the icy steps each day,
our windows a shaking rattle in the wind.
Across the street, St. Matthew's, the belfry
again astir with the sombre echoes
of new deaths, deaths that fell before
we suspected the coming of our own.
What was it we were so busy with then?
Was it ourselves, knit up like long winter
scarves against the cold we were
to each other? When the tolling began,
and then began again, what was it we were
putting aside because of it? I do forget.
Did I close that book of poetry against
the tolls as if it were a window to somewhere,
or was it our talking we closed? It did
us little good to hush the bells by shutting
windows or anything else for that matter.
We tried. I know. While they rang, there was
little else we could do but count the years.
On days when the fog rolled in from the river,
each toll lingered, or so it seemed to us,
lingered more than it had to before it climbed
Singer Hill, reaching the ears of those who
arrived early at the opened grave. On one
such day, we chose to stay home, away from
the burial of a friend, the fog too thick,
the day too damp, too cold. Some years later,
we could not recall her name, but oh,
how the bell had lingered that day as if
waiting for us to climb the hill, and go
at last to her grave. That we'll remember.
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有时候它们在不便的时辰响起，
它们冷酷地敲响年数，
使得我们无法思想，或交谈，
只能跟着数：一 二 三——然后
还有多少？是八十，或
少些？我们试着计数每个人
活过的年岁。 有点游戏的味道。
是谁死了，此刻正一动不动地躺在
这尘世的忙碌纷扰里？上个月
有多少？我们算不清逝去的
生命，他们比我们多活的年数。
你记得。当时我们年轻，有三个
我们名下的小孩以及一点别的，
一部车子，一个取暖用的炉子，还有每天
拎上结冰阶梯的几桶油，
我们的窗子在风中嘎嘎摇响。
对街，圣马太教堂的钟楼
再度激荡着新死者阴沉的
回音，在我们觉察自己死期来临之前
倒下的死者。
那时候我们正忙些什么呢？
是忙我们自己，编织长长的冬天
围巾彼此御寒吗？当钟声开始响起，
然后又响起，我们因为它而摆在
一边的是什么呢？我真的忘了。
在钟声中我把那本诗集合起来
有如它是一扇通向某处的窗户，
或我们关起的是我们的谈话？紧闭
门窗或别的什么都无法让钟声安静下来。
我们试过。我知道。当它们鸣响，我们
除了计数年岁之外别的几乎都干不了。
在那些雾汽从河上涌进的日子，
每记钟声都流连不去，至少我们有这感觉，
没必要地流连，在它爬上辛格山，
传到那些早早抵达墓穴者的耳朵之前。
在这样的一个日子，我们选择留在家中，不去
参加一个朋友的葬礼，雾太浓，
天太湿，太冷。几年以后，
我们记不起她的名字，可是啊，
那天的钟声是怎样地久久流连有如
等着我们去爬那座山，最终抵达
她的墓地。这个我们会记得。
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