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主题 : 午夜酒吧的阿根廷女郎 |《中外笔会》Vol .11
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午夜酒吧的阿根廷女郎 |《中外笔会》Vol .11

午夜酒吧的阿根廷女郎 |《中外笔会》Vol .11                                                                                
原创:                                                                                                             杨笑                                                                     中外笔会                      

中外笔会
WeChat ID
Intro刊登各国作家的文学作品、各国作家、诗人等的创作动态,以及各国风土人情奇闻趣事等素材,增进中外作家的友谊与交流


5月26日
CHINESE AND FOREIGN PENS
目录
CTALOGIUE
1、 (阿根廷)
玛琳娜的小说(上)(英、西、中)

      (Argentina)   
Novel of Marina 
Porcelli


2、 (美国)           
严力的诗 

(America)     Poem of Yan Li

3、 (中国)           陆萍的诗

      (China)        Poem of Lu Ping

4、 (中国)           南妮的诗
      (China)        Poem of Southern Girlie
5、 (中国)           聂权的诗         
      (China)        Pome of Nie Quan
6、 
(中国)           程庸的诗

(China)        Pome of Cheng Yong

7、 (中国)           秦华的诗

      (China)        Pome of Qin Hua

8、 (中国)           思静夜的诗

      (China )       Pome of Si Jingye

9、 (美国)           邱辛晔的散文

      (America)     Prose of Qiu Xinye



作者介绍:
玛丽娜•波尔切利,阿根廷当代著名作家、出版人、教师。出版《破夜》《狩猎》等多种小说,获得多种文学奖项。

NIGHTTIME  ( I ) 
 English version 

Marina Porcelli 

Tr. by Maggie Garrido


… not just the cessation of matter activity, 
but its total disappearance.
PAUL DAVIES, The Runaway Universe


It happens that time and space behave in a strange way. Look at that girl, for example. The one by the window. While you’re relaxed, sipping your coffee, and you happen to find out that, say, the waiter’s flowered vest is quite new, or he has a bitter expression on his face, she has died several times. Don’t open your eyes so, please, I’m not crazy. It’s just a mathematical issue, not a ghosts’ thing. High mathematics, I would say. Have you ever been sick and tired? Real sick and tired, I mean, sick and tired to the core? Because if you’ve ever felt like that, you might be able to understand what I want to tell you. A love story, but one that’s been turned upside down. Weren’t you looking for stories? Watch out that the tale’s coming long and if you start questioning me from the very beginning. Where did you say you work? A suburban newspaper, aha. It is OK to write about ordinary people, although you, look at your insomniac face, no, you won’t cheat me, you must be like us. All of us, who live by night, we are sick and tired. We shun the daylight.  We reject, somehow, the imposed order of things. Just try to picture yourself living in this quarter. A piece of shit, I know. There’s not a single old woman walking her dog around Rivadavia Park who wouldn’t merit the doggie shitting on her shoes. I can tell you myself, I’ve been watching them for years. I used to work at the checkout in a bar around the corner, Shananá, the one on the dead end street, I retired when they shut it down. Night shift, a complete panoramic view from my seat behind the bar, and I could read. Sci-fi, overall. Laboratory stories. I’ve told you before that it does have something to do. You’re stubborn, yeah. Have you ever read Pascal? The Very Interesting Magazine? A shame. And how did you come to be a journalist, tell me. Come on, don’t be offended. I was telling you that at that time I’d started to come to this bar and I’d found her, the girl sitting by the first window. At the same table and in the same position as she is now, legs crossed. Left ankle behind her right leg, you see. Always the same, for several years. Indeed, that’s what I mean. She sleeps at home all day, gets here after midnight, settles into her place, takes notes, reads, smokes like a condemned criminal, and looks out of the window. The blackness of the park doesn’t help, I know. Nor does the diluted shape of the trees, or the lamp at the back. But, believe me: for her, that means nothing. It no longer means a thing. Repetition, you understand me, ends up making things eternal, it makes them overwhelming, places them inside another reality. Hold on, don’t rush me, first you must know that she’s there because she’s waiting for him. Not her husband, her boyfriend. Bet you she gets into a car at midnight. He’ll pick her up, I know, because I’ve seen it happen for fifteen years. What, isn’t it twenty-ten now? Then, it’s fifteen years, exactly. OK, yeah, you’re right there: she’s not a girl any more, she’s a woman, although she’s still a young girl for me, just the same as when I saw her the first time. Understand? The key is in the observer, in the observer’s position. 
It turns out that nighttime people in bars end up speaking, always. An unspoken community is created with, let’s say, rules, rhythms; a newcomer can have trouble integrating at the beginning. He (or she) has trouble speaking. He’s desperate, first he needs to be on his own, think a little bit. Then, at some point one night, that changes. Out of boredom, I would say. Then, he speaks. Both of them told me this story at different times.  They told me, because I look like someone who knows. That’s what my friend, the doctor, used to tell me. He was a neurologist and would put his forefinger, voluptuously, into the glass of whisky. Yeah, Paco, you look like someone who knows many things, he would say. The point is that, in his view, the old men that turn up at 5am on Sundays, those who trade postage stamps in the park, how come you never saw them? Your street smarts is quite limited for a journalist, I say. No, please, don’t get upset again. I was telling you that my friend thought those guys moved, spoke, as if in fact they were swapping their souls. Bullshit, you’re right. People can invent things like that. He died, my friend. But he didn’t die like the young girl over there, or like the girl’s boyfriend, this one died ugly, and forever, of a stroke. The difference is in the details, believe me. The first time I saw her, her hands were under the edge of the table, thumbs up, nails badly clipped; she was squeezing her fingers tightly. What a violent stiff, I thought. Don’t you find it terrible? You don’t. Ok, but thanks to this detail, when she told me the whole story, I was already on guard. Ready for anything. I-did-not-move-a-muscle. I believed her, of course, and did not interrupt her. Well, yes, sometimes I interrupted her, but for my love of coherence, you know. I recall her talking to me and I thought that bar didn’t use to be like that: it used to have brown walls and wider awnings. Waiters used to wear green, not that sandy tone they sported now. Have you seen the bitterness on that waiter’s face? He will never change, I swear, although places do change, don’t they. We can recognize where they knocked off a house and put up a building, or the cobblestones underneath the pavement. There’s a certain simultaneity of times in our gaze, understand? A crossing of spaces. You need to see, wait a moment, because you need to see. Have you read In search of Lost Time? Me neither, but someone told me about it. Think of this, or rather, think that looking at the sky is looking at the past. Exactly, for the speed of light. Smart, isn’t it? You’ll understand, then, that the story of these two guys always happens at night, because there are zones, vast territories in the deep blue of the city, where time and space behave in a way we’re not used to. Otherwise, I don’t know, they both say it repeats itself, it keeps going. In this second dimension, you know, they don’t even have the chance of suicide.
Yes, but no.  The curious thing is that it is exactly there, in our dreams, where time and space are irregular. They’re impossible to predict, do you understand? Even when they’re repeated -you’re right- they follow that guideline.  Awesome, yes. The issue of waking up and falling. Once and again. Exactly, that’s what I mean, something like that happens in this story. Let me tell you. He would pick her up at midnight, she’d get into the car and they’d go there, to the downtown, into the fifth floor of a building on Moreno Street. They’d sprawl on the couches (although she wouldn’t, he told me, she would always sit on the rug), they discussed I don’t know what, silly things, those things couples discuss through the night. They also went to bed, of course. And ate at 4am, maybe that was happiness at that time: cooking whatever they had in the early hours, staying up all night, moving around on the rug. Sometimes, he would ask her to come close and she would lean her head on his chest, in silence. There was no time on those occasions, do you follow me, everything was frozen. In fact, they barely left the place, to buy tobacco, perhaps. Some beer, just that. At night, only at night because she worked in the evening. It’s interesting, ain’t it? The time couples fix to meet. Like a shift in the clock, a gap in the day. I remember those friends who would do it during the waiting time between two trains. That gave them almost three hours in a hotel. It was a good relationship, though. That girl’s I mean. Until meeting each other drove them crazy. 


TIEMPO DE NOCHE  Spanish version                 

by Marina Porcelli 


… no solo el cese de la actividad por parte de la materia,
sino su desaparición total.
PAUL DAVIES, El universo desbocado


Pasa que el tiempo y el espacio se comportan de un modo extraño. Mire a esa chica, por ejemplo. La que está junto a la ventana. Mientras usted se toma con naturalidad el café, y le resultan nuevos, digamos, el chaleco con flores del mozo, o su cara de amargado, ella ya se ha muerto varias veces. No abra así los ojos, quiere, no estoy loco. Es un asunto meramente matemático, no un lío de fantasmas. Altas matemáticas, diría yo. ¿Usted estuvo harto alguna vez? ¿Harto de verdad, digo, harto de un modo bestial? Porque si alguna vez se sintió así, puede entender lo que quiero contarle. Una historia de amor, pero al revés. ¿No buscaba historias? Mire que el cuento viene largo, y si ya desde el vamos empieza a cuestionarme, ¿dónde me dijo que trabaja? Un periódico barrial, ajá. Está bien eso de escribir sobre la gente común, aunque a mí, con esa cara de desvelado, no me engaña, eh, usted debe ser como nosotros. Todos los que vivimos de noche estamos hartos. Nos aturde la luz. Rechazamos, de alguna manera, el orden impuesto para las cosas. Imagínese viviendo en este barrio. Una porquería, ya sé. No hay una sola vieja, de esas que pasean el perro por el Parque Rivadavia, que no merezca que el cachorro no le cague los zapatos. Se lo digo yo, que las observo desde hace años. Fui cajero en el bar de acá a la vuelta, Shananá, ese, el que estaba sobre la cortada, me jubilé cuando lo cerraron. Horario nocturno, panorámica completa desde mi silla alta detrás de la barra, se podía leer. Ciencia ficción, sobre todo. Historias de laboratorio. Ya le dije que sí tiene que ver. Qué terquedad, che. ¿Nunca leyó a Pascal? ¿La Muy Interesante? Una lástima. Y cómo llegó a periodista, dígame. Bueno, bueno, no se ofenda. Le decía que entonces empecé a venir a este bar y la descubrí a ella, a la muchacha sentada en la primera ventana. En la misma mesa y en la misma posición que tiene ahora, con las piernas cruzadas. El tobillo de la izquierda bajo la pierna derecha, ve. Siempre igual desde hace años. Ah, claro, a eso voy. Ella duerme de día en su casa, llega acá después de la medianoche, se acomoda en su lugar, toma notas, lee, fuma como una condenada y mira por la ventana. La negrura del parque no la ayuda, ya lo sé. Ni el contorno diluido de los árboles, ni el farol del fondo. Pero, créame: para ella todo esto no significa nada. Ya no significa nada. La repetición, me entiende, acaba por eternizar las cosas, las vuelve agobiantes, las instala como en otra realidad. Espérese, no me apure, primero tiene que saber que ella está ahí porque lo espera. Al marido no, al novio. Le apuesto lo que quiera que ella va a subirse a un auto a mitad de la noche. La van a recoger, lo sé, porque la veo hacer lo mismo desde hace quince años. ¿Cómo, no estamos en el dosmildiez? Son quince años justos, entonces. Está bien, sí, sí, ahí tiene razón: ya no es una chica, es una mujer, aunque para mí sigue siendo una muchacha, exactamente igual a cuando la vi por primera vez. ¿Se da cuenta? La clave está en el observador, en la posición del observador. 
Es que la gente nocturna, en los bares, siempre termina por hablar. Se organiza una comunidad tácita, digamos, con reglas, con ritmos; al nuevo le cuesta integrarse al principio. Le cuesta hablar. Está desesperado, primero necesita aislarse, pensar un poco. Después, en algún tramo de alguna noche, eso cambia. Por aburrimiento, creo yo. Entonces habla. Los dos me contaron esta historia en momentos distintos. Me la contaron a mí, porque yo tengo cara de saber. Así me decía siempre mi amigo, el doctor. Era neurólogo y metía voluptuosamente el índice en el vaso de güisqui. Y sí, Paco, vos tenés cara de saber muchas cosas, decía. El caso es que, según él, los viejos que aparecen todos los domingos a las cinco de la mañana, los que cambian estampillas en el parque, ¿cómo, nunca los vio? Qué poca calle tiene usted, para ser periodista, digo. No, por favor, no se me vuelva a ofender. Le decía que para mi amigo estos tipos se movían, hablaban, como si en realidad intercambiaran el alma. Un disparate, acertó. La gente inventa cada cosa. Se murió mi amigo. Pero no se murió como la muchacha de allá, ni como el novio de la muchacha de allá, éste se murió bien feo y para siempre, de un ataque de embolia. Los detalles hacen la diferencia, créame. La primera vez que la vi, ella tenía las manos debajo del borde de la mesa, los pulgares arriba, con las uñas mal cortadas, y apretaba los dedos con muchísima fuerza. Qué tipa violenta, pensé. ¿No le parece terrible? No le parece. En fin, que gracias a ese detalle, cuando ella me contó todo, yo ya estaba preparado. Listo para cualquier cosa. Ni-me-in-mu-té. Le creí, por supuesto, y no la interrumpí. Bueno, sí, algunas veces la interrumpí, pero por mi amor a la coherencia, sabe. Me acuerdo de que ella hablaba y yo pensaba que antes este bar no era así: antes tenía las paredes marrones y unos toldos más amplios. Los mozos estaban vestidos de verde, no de ese color arena, como ahora. ¿Vio la cara de amargado que tiene ese mozo? Ese no cambia más, se lo juro yo; aunque los lugares sí cambian, vea. Reconocemos dónde derrumbaron una casa y plantaron un edificio, o el empedrado bajo el asfalto. Hay una simultaneidad de tiempos en la mirada, se da cuenta. Se cruzan los espacios. Tiene que ver, espérese, porque tiene que ver. ¿Nunca leyó El tiempo perdido? Yo tampoco, pero me lo contaron. Piense en esto, si no: piense que mirar el cielo es mirar pasado. Exacto, por la velocidad de la luz. Es inteligente, ¿eh? Entenderá, entonces, que la historia de estos dos sucede siempre de noche, porque hay zonas, territorios vastos en el profundo azul de la ciudad, en el que el tiempo y el espacio se comportan de una forma que no estamos acostumbrados. De otra manera, no sé, los dos dicen que se repite, y que se continúa. En esta segunda dimensión, sabe, ni siquiera les queda la posibilidad del suicidio. 
Sí pero no. Lo curioso es que justamente ahí, en los sueños, el tiempo y el espacio son irregulares. Imposible preverlos, ¿me entiende? Hasta cuando se repiten, tiene usted razón, cumplen con esa coordenada. Tremendo, sí. Eso de despertarse y caer. Una vez y otra vez. Exacto, a eso voy, algo así ocurre con la historia de ellos. Déjeme que le cuente. Él la pasaba a buscar a mitad de la noche, ella subía al auto y se iban allá, al centro, a meterse en el quinto piso de un departamentito de la calle Moreno. Se instalaban en los sillones (aunque ella no, me dijo él, ella se sentaba siempre sobre la alfombra), discutían, qué sé yo, de pavadas, de las cosas que hablan las parejas toda la noche. También se acostaban, por supuesto. Y comían a las cuatro de la mañana, quizá, la felicidad de esa época se cifraba en eso: en cocinar lo que hubiera a la madrugada, en quedarse toda la noche yendo y viniendo sobre la alfombra. A veces, él le pedía que se acercara y ella apoyaba la cabeza sobre el pecho de él, en silencio. No existía el tiempo en estas situaciones, me sigue, todo se inmovilizaba. De hecho, casi nunca salían de la casa: a comprar cigarrillos, tal vez. Alguna cerveza, no más. De noche, solo de noche, porque ella trabaja a la tarde. Llama la atención, ¿no es cierto? Los horarios que pautan las parejas para encontrarse. Como un corrimiento en el reloj, un desnivel en el día. Me acuerdo de unos amigos que aprovechaban el tiempo de espera entre dos trenes. Eso les daba casi tres horas de hotel. Fue una buena relación, sin embargo. La de esta muchacha, digo. Hasta que encontrarse los enloqueció. 


半夜   Chinese version 
文/玛琳娜·波尔切利
重黎、睿修编译


···不仅仅是物质活动的停止,所有的一切消失了。
-----《失控的宇宙》保罗·戴维著


时间和空间都以奇怪的方式发生着。看,那个女孩,临窗而坐的女孩!当你安闲地喝着咖啡时,碰巧发现,侍者穿着簇新的花背心,他的脸上带着一丝痛苦的表情,她已经死了好几次了。------请不要睁开眼睛,我没有疯。这只是一个数学问题,而不是一个鬼故事。我指的是高等数学。你曾经生病过吗?真正的生病和疲倦,我的意思是,生病和厌倦的真相是什么?因为如果你曾经有过这样的感觉,你可能会明白我想要告诉你什么。一个爱情故事,一个逆天奇缘。你不是在找故事吗?注意故事会很快出现。······你说你在哪里工作?郊区报纸,啊哈。这样的报纸可以写写普通人,但你,看看你的失眠的脸,不,你不会骗我,你必须和我们一样。我们都生活在黑夜中,我们已经厌倦了。我们避开白天。不知何故,我们拒绝了事物的强加秩序。试着想象一下自己生活在这个季度里的情景。一块屎,我知道。有没有一个孤单的老妇人在里瓦达维亚公园遛狗,而小狗在她的鞋上拉屎。我告诉你我已经观察他们很多年了。我曾在拐角处,一个酒吧的结账柜台。夜班,从吧台后面座位上能看到酒吧的全景,我在阅读科幻的实验室故事。-------你读过Pascal吗?非常有趣的杂志?告诉我,你是怎么成为一名记者的?来吧,别生气。我告诉你,在那个时候,我开始来到这个酒吧,我找到了她,坐在第一个窗口的女孩。在同一张桌子上,和她现在的姿势相同,双腿交叉。左脚踝勾在右腿后面,你看,这么多年来总是一样。她白天睡觉,午夜后来到这里,在固定的座位,做笔记,读书,抽烟,有时看着窗外。公园是黑暗的,树木呈现虚无,没有任何照明。但是,对她而言,那意味着什么。它不再意味着什么,只是重复,你理解我,最终使一切永恒。等一下,别催我,首先你必须知道她在那儿,因为她在等他,等的不是她丈夫,是男朋友。我看到这样的情景,已经有十五年了。什么,现在不是2010吗?那么,整整十五年了。好吧,是的,你说得对:她不再是个女孩了,她是个女人。
事实证明,酒吧之夜人们总爱说话。新的来客,一开始他(她)说话有困难。然后,他说话了。他们两个在不同的时间告诉我这个故事。他们告诉我,因为我看起来很像知道内情的人。他就是我的朋友,是一个神经科医生,会把他的食指、肉感,放入为威士忌。是啊,你看起来像知道许多,他会说。事实上,在他看来,周日老年人将在早上五点起床,那些在公园发生的邮票交易,很日常,你怎么从来没有看见呢?作为记者,你的才智有限。我说。拜托,别生气。我告诉你,我的朋友认为那些家伙在动手,说话了,好像他们在交换他们的灵魂。你说得对。人们可以发明这样的东西。他死了,我的朋友。但他并没有像那个年轻女孩那样死去,或者像那个女孩的男朋友一样死去,这个人死得很难看,而且是中风。相信我。···我第一次看见她时,她坐在桌子边,大拇指被夹住,她紧紧地捏着。你不觉得很糟糕吗?你不知道,但是多亏了这个细节,当她告诉我整个故事的时候,我已经很警惕了。准备好一切。我当然相信了她,没有打断她。是的,有时我打断她。我记得她跟我说话,我以为酒吧可不一样:它曾经有褐色的墙壁和大篷。服务员穿着绿色的外衣,你看到那个服务员脸上的辛酸了吗?···我发誓,他永远不会改变,尽管地方变了,不是吗?空间的交叉,你需要看,等一会儿,因为你需要看。你看了看丢失的时间了吗?想想看,或者更确切地说,认为仰望天空就是在看过去。准确地说,光的速度。很聪明,不是吗?你会明白,这两个人的故事总是发生在晚上,因为有一些区域,在城市的深蓝色的广阔的领土,时间和空间的行为,我们不习惯的方式。在第二个维度,你知道,他们甚至没有自杀的机会。
是的,然而不。奇怪的是,在我们的梦中,时间和空间都是不规则的。他们是不可能预测的,你明白吗?即使他们重复了,得遵循这个准则。在这个故事中发生过类似的事情。让我告诉你。他会在午夜接她,她会坐上汽车,然后到市中心,到莫雷诺街的一栋大楼的第五层。他们会趴在沙发上(虽然她不愿意,他告诉我,她总是坐在地毯上),他们讨论什么,我不知道,但他们彻夜讨论那些愚蠢的事情。当然,他们也上床睡觉。在4点种吃了东西,也许觉得此刻非常幸福。烹饪是美好的,无论他们在凌晨,还是半夜。有时,他会叫她走近,她会把头靠在他的胸口上,默默地。事实上,他们几乎没有离开这个地方,只是去买个香烟,有时喝点啤酒,就这样。她只有在晚上工作。不是吗?情侣们约定见面的时间。就像时钟的变换,会阙失什么。我记得那些朋友会在转换火车时做这样的事。他们在旅馆里呆了将近三个小时,这是一段很愉快的时间。那个女孩,直到见面才把他们逼疯。(上)


书法《一朵》| 春野

作者介绍:
严力,美国华语诗人、画家。一行诗社社长、朦胧诗代表人物之一。曾在香港、法国、英国、美国、日本、瑞典、大陆和台湾举办过个人展或参与集体展。
阳光明媚的星期天
严力


星期天的阳光明媚
我们几乎把露天咖啡馆
坐成了度假的沙滩
我们谈到了美妙的生命和爱情
甚至谈到的死亡也是浪漫的
我们谈到了
自杀者到了另一个世界之后
如果再自杀一次
就又回到了这个世界


星期天的阳光啊
真他妈的太明媚

(1988)



理发店


现实是最大的理发店
每次理发时
为修饰外观而被剪掉的那一部分
名叫诗歌
(2002.12.)


永恒的恋曲——维纳斯


她被推到水下去
压倒一片成熟的水草
鱼儿如标点符号般惊起
她和她的故事
沉默地睡了几个世纪之后被捞了起来


今天
我久久地坐在进餐的位置上反省
很小的食欲在很大的盘子里呻吟
身体中有许多个欲念来自遥远的前世
我清楚地忆起了她
我曾强行挣脱她的拥抱
她留在我脖子上的那条断臂
今世依然无法接上


The Bright Saturday Sunlight
Yan Li
Tr. By Wang Ping


In the bright Sunday sunlight
the sidewalk café where we sit
practically turns into a beach resort
what with our talk of death and travel
and going by way of suicide
from this world to another
after the dead arrive in the other world
they return to this world by suicide once more


The bright Sunday sunlight
It’s really damn bright


Barbershop
Tr. By Denis Mair


Social reality is the biggest barbershop
Every time you go in for a haircut
That which gets cut off to keep up appearances
Is called poetry




Eternal Love Song—Venus de Milo
Tr. By Glenn Steinem


She was pushed down into the water
Pressed upon the aged water plants
The fish swam about baffled, 
just like punctuation marks
She and her story were scooped up 
after silently sleeping for centuries
Today
I have sat for hours reflecting by the dining table
A small appetite groans inside a large plate
There are many desires in the body 
That come from far-off past lifetimes
I clearly recall her
I once forcefully pushed off her embrace
She left her broken arms around my neck
There is still no way to put them back


书法  《饮水思源》| 村濑 秀竹

作者介绍:
陆萍,亚洲诗歌中心成员、中国作协会员。上海视觉艺术学院兼职教授。著有诗集《玫瑰兀自绽放》《生活过成诗》《有只鸟飞过天空》《细雨打湿的花伞》等二十部作品。曾应邀赴印度、日本、韩国等出席国际笔会。作品曾在国内外获大奖多次。
这一瞬竟如此美妙
陆萍


这一瞬竟如此美妙
是金字塔,是泰姬陵
是黄果树瀑布,是钱塘江大潮
是毁灭、是诞生、是哭也是笑
是炽烈的阳光幻成的黑洞
是跌落深渊,是腾云九霄
是死去活来,是异想天开
是什么是什么我怎么知道

许是生命在两极永恒的黑暗里
一次美丽而壮严的燃烧                      
 (夜半,印度博帕尔)
WHAT A WONDERFUL MOMENT
 Lu Ping

What a wonderful moment
It's the Pyramid,it's Taj Mahal
It's Huangguoshu Waterfall,tide of Qiantangjiang River
It's destruction,birth,cry as well as laughter
It's black hole visualized from blazing sunshine
It's fall into abyss and fly in the sky
Coming to after being dead and a kick in one's gallop
What's it,what's it how can I know

Might be a beautiful and stately burning of life
In the perpetual darkness of two poles
(Midnight at Bhopal, India)
作者介绍:
南妮,上海新民晚报副刊部首席编辑。中国作家协会会员,上海作家协会理事。出版散文随笔集《一个梦撑一生》《在平淡与奢华之间》《随缘不变心》《妖娆时代》等十多部。《何处问多情》获全国青年读物二等奖。出版长篇小说《我的恐惧无法诉说》(获上海书展十大新书推荐)。《浅草湾之恋》。发表中短篇小说十多篇,为《小说月报》《小说选刊》及数个年度选本选载。


南妮


离别是为了重聚,
终于相信了这句箴言。
从晨曦微露,
到暮色苍茫,
时间如沙,
穿过手掌。


河水滔滔,
时而和缓,时而湍急,
我,永远无法扺达彼岸。 
凝视,
一千次的回望,
一千次的徘徊。


你,
脚下的蚂蚁都不忍踩踏的你,
做成了我的岸。
那些两小无猜的时光,
曾经唯一的相握......
天籁的玄机在哪里?


你救你的世,
却无法救你自己。
或者,
你已然平静,
如大地,如河流。
爱你,只能爱你爱世界的方式。
The Strand
Southern Girlie
Tr. by Yingniao Dai


We only part to meet again,
In which I have finally gained faith.
The first rays of the morning sun,
Mellows into the hazy dusk of twilight. 
Time flows like sand,
Slipping through my fingers.


Surges of the river
At times flow leisurely
And on occasions swiftly.
At the unreachable opposite shore
I can but gaze,
Glancing at it when I
Paced up and down the strand
For one thousand times.


You,
Who cannot bear to tread upon 
The ants beneath your feet,
Has formed the strand for me.
In the childhood intimacy between us,
You were the only one that held my hand...
Where are the secrets in the sounds of Nature?


You try to save your collapsing world,
But you can never set yourself free,
Or else
You can now breathe in peace
Like the earth and the river.
To love you, one must embrace 
The way you cherish your world.


作者介绍:
聂权,1979年生,山西朔州人。有诗集《一小块阳光》《下午茶》。曾获2016年华文青年诗人奖、2017年华语青年作家奖等奖项。

理发师
聂权


那个理发师
现在不知怎样了

少年时的一个
理发师。屋里有炉火
红通通的
有昏昏欲睡的灯光
忽然,两个警察推门
像冬夜的一阵猛然席卷的冷风

“得让人家把发理完”
两个警察
掏出一副手铐
理发师一言不发
他知道他们为什么来,他等待他们
应已久。他沉默地为我理发
耐心、细致
偶尔忍不住颤动的手指
像屋檐上,落进光影里的
一株冷冷的枯草
HAIRDRESSER
Nie Quan
Tr. by MW


Hairdresser
I don’t know what became of him.


A hairdresser when I was young.
There was a stove with open fire.
Red, very red.
Sleepy lamplight.
Suddenly, two policemen come in
Like from a winter night.


“got to let him finish the job”
Two policemen
Take out one pair of handcuffs,
Hairdresser doesn’t say anything.
He knows why they’ve come, he was waiting for them.
He just did my hair
Silently, thoroughly.
Sometimes his fingers trembled a little.
Like on the rafters, all the cold straw
Up where the light came in.
书法 《诗品之语》| 村濑 秀竹

作者介绍:
程庸,写诗与小说,鉴定古陶瓷等文物,从事海外文物回流工作。出版文学、文物鉴定书十七种。曾出访英、美、伊朗、日、德等做学术交流与演讲
时间在借酒消愁
程庸

时常在寻找一个叫神的人
试图把困惑搁在路边
等待飞鸟经过
感受这个方向的风


前头的客栈,黑瓦白墙的缝隙
时间在借酒消愁
那破落的古屋陈年悠长
没有给借酒者再添一口
正在开裂的窗户,逆光前引
你面向昨日
途径小巷的酿造花园
走入了麦田
Time drinks down sorrow 
Cheng Yong
Tr. by Gy  


Often looking for a man called god
Trying to put puzzles on the side of the road
Waiting for the birds to pass through
Feeling the wind in this direction


In the ahead Inn, with the gap on the white wall
Time  drinks down sorrow
The shabby house is old for a long time 
No a drop of wine can be added to the drinker any more
The cracking windows seem to  guide
you face yesterday
And into the mottled wheat field 
through The brewed garden by the alley

书法  《水渺视窝》 |  春野

作者介绍:
巴伶仁(秦华),曾获“鲁黎”诗歌奖等全国性文学奖、杰出诗人及优秀评委奖几十次。网络散文诗开拓者。《散文诗博览》总编、中国诗歌网及《谷风诗刊》副总编。中国散文诗作家协会副主席等。
一滴泪在春天里发芽

秦华

一滴泪,轻叩着大地的门扉,一下一下,爱的浮影在春天里发芽。
生界运转,那吱声消匿于冰裂的树干后,打破沉寂的时空。
曙光驾驶季节的风筝,像一朵漂泊的云,一直窜入天空,抚摸灵魂。
重获新生的青枝绽蕾,不能断定遥握的夏雨秋意。
飞鸟带着内心的滚烫,所有的遐想,开始享受春的轻盈。
流浪的词汇,从一个朝代穿越另一个朝代,唯有冷暖深浅,可以抵达柔软与坚挺。
流逝的河流纠结一生的沦陷,缥缈了许多足迹。
命运的诗歌,汲取渡口的潋滟。借水的呼吸,呐喊。
水动有声,埋下一个个春秋冬夏;埋下所有傲骨肉身。
吟唱时间的荒野,开始漫谈。
大海的思念,借用某种风雅淋湿气息,从远方到远方,抵达完整。
沉默萍踪夜的距离。一生的浊清,穿透灵魂。
掌的心思慢慢散开,散成一种迷恋的磅礴,是一种情怀的四溢。四周,是其他国度,听得到词的另一个口音。
当春天来临,每一滴泪水都将演变成一滴露,沾湿了眺望。
一把春风点燃空虚,供诗歌写意。
(2011-02-10于上海)


A Drop of Te ars Sprouts in Spring
Qin Hua 
Tr. by He Yu


Gently, knocking the earth, a drop of tear illuminates the shadow of the embryonic spring, stroke by stroke. ....

Click tick, breaking the silence, it comes out from the cracked frozen woods, around the rotation of nature.
lights of the daybreak sun soar highly into sky , with the kite of the season, to caress soul floating like the clouds
Regain the green, the buds and shoots are excited to their fate, even wind and rains are not certain.
Loaded with illusion and phantasm in their hearts, the slinky birds lavish the granted from the spring.
The wandering vocabulary, from a dynasty through another dynasty, only the depth of cold and warm changing in temperature, can arrive in soft and strong.
The passage of the river entangles the fall of life, and disembodied many footprints.
Poetry about the fate draws the ripples of the ferry. By right of water breathing, shouts.
Water still flows with sound, burying spring, autumn, winter and summer; burying all flesh pride.
The wilderness singing time begins to ramble.
The sea thoughts borrow some elegant from the wet breath, far away from a country, arrives in complete.
Silence wanders over the night distance. The whole life of the turbidity clear penetrates the soul.
The mind of the palm slowly spreads out, and falls to a crush of epic, which is a kind of feelings spreads everywhere. Around it is the other countries with another accents.
When spring comes, every tear evolves into dew, wet with the look.
A handful of spring breeze lights the empty, just for poetry’s enjoyable freehand.




作者介绍:
思静夜,高校教师,喜欢哲学与诗歌。


四月
思静夜


傍晚时分,鸟在欢鸣
拉康文集摊于殷红的桌面
百合还是青色的
但裂纹正跃跃欲试
四月美好得不知所措
虽然我并未看见紫色的蝴蝶
樱花也已凋零,缥缈甚于烟云
虽然肆掠的北风刚刚过去
猫眼仍疑惑重重
但草长莺飞便是确据
那些迷茫幻灭和空无并不比
它们自身少一点虚浮
麦芒挺立,劈开雾气
黑土地真实
外部的太阳点燃内部的燃烧
光正好,湖面金波粼粼
四月有两个,一个属于
万物,一个属于我
April
Si Jingye



At sunset, the birds are chirping
The Lacan’s selection lies open
on a dark red desk 
The lilies are still blackish green 
But the fissures of buds will be dissilient
An amazing April
Though the purple butterflies are not in view
And the cherry blossoms have fallen
More dimly discernible than a cloud floating 
Though the raging wind from the north 
has just passed 
And the cat’s eyes, still full of doubts 
But you can see 
The grass, sprouting up
and the orioles, singing in the air 
The confusion,disillusion and nihility
are no less vain than themselves 
Awns of wheat, standing bolt upright 
Split the fog
The black soil is real 
The inner, lit by the outer sun
is flaming 
The light is right, upon a golden lake spangling 
There are two Aprils, one belongs to
all things, one to me 
(2018.04.10)

纽约记事作者介绍:
遠遊者,本名邱辛曄,字冰寒,號思淵堂主人。1960年代生人。復旦大學1980級中文系本科,1987年復旦古典文學專業碩士畢業。1990年代初起定居紐約。現任職皇后公共圖書館。工餘以詩文遣懷。
书生和书的生命
邱辛晔              


案头有一本旧书,原来是我的藏书,復从朋友的书架上领回来的。说起我在美国的一批中文书,还是有点来头的。其一,是读大学时省吃俭用,从书店里购买的宝贝。二者,是我做编辑时留下的样书。到了美国后数年,一边读博,一边打工, 偏偏心不死,请姐夫将在上海的存书,打了整整一个立方的木箱,海路托运到纽约。
那天我接到了货单,开了「瘦小」的旧车,从纽约到纽泽西贝容一个码头里。递上单子,柜台小姐说,过时了,先付寄存费一百元。我兜里没几个钱,还好带着银行卡,便去取钱,付了寄存费。回来,码头工人指着一个正正方方的大箱子,说,拿去吧。老天,少说两百公斤,怎么拿?答曰:用铲车顶到卸货的平台,你再装车。我开的是一部载人小车,体积这么庞大的箱子,既不能放到车内,也无法搁在车顶。怎么办呢?工人出主意,将箱子打开,书散装到车里。好主意。还没有致谢呢,工人说,开箱费五十元。箱子是我做钳工的姐夫钉的,厚厚的木板,坚固极了。我即使有工具,也束手无策。只好再付费。工人拿了钱,开来一部铲车,对着箱子撞了几下,破了。书散了一地。工人们围了过来,好奇究竟是什么宝贝?我收拾几近狼藉的书,看到久别的书,感觉要哭了;一边还要应付工人们的问话,口不应心。终于,所有的书塞到了车子的每个角落。偏偏车门没关严,边上一部大卡车稍微一偏,把车门拉扯下大半。屋漏偏逢连夜雨啊。叫来警察处理,又是一番折腾。最后,码头工人给了我铁丝,绑上车门,一路上小心翼翼,车轮滚滚,尾灯闪闪,两眼望着前路,心中想挤在车里的书,无比酸楚。我的书啊,飘洋过海,你来干嘛?我这个破书生还用得着你吗?
因居室逼仄,搬家几次,朋友来挑选了一些,其他的也渐渐散了。2010年元旦,在朋友的书架上看到的那本旧书,愈加泛黄了。我认得,是「悬疑与宁静--皮浪主义文集」,上海三联书店1988年出版,我做的责任编辑。当年暑热中,伏在掀了被褥的床板上,一边读翻译稿,一边逐句核对原文的情景,仿佛就在眼前,生出无限感慨。这本书是古希腊怀疑主义代表作「皮浪主义概述」现代英文版的摘译本,书中的批判逻辑学,对后世西方哲学的思考方式,具有启发作用。虽然由塞·恩披里可重新编辑过,思路清晰,文字算是通俗的,毕竟是专业著作,我英文程度不够,责任编辑的「责任」有点扛不住。等到书编完,我大呼劳神。
一晃间,又数年过去了,见旧书,如遇故友,「一夜三摩娑,剧于十五女」。朋友见了我的傻态,连忙表示,从前赠送的旧书,尽可收回,完璧归赵。我虽然不好意思,却还是承了友人的盛情,将过继的「孩子」领了几个,不是为了重新阅读,而是对于一个书生之书的生命的纪念。除了「皮浪」,还有「现代文明与人的困境--马尔库塞文集」、「英雄与英雄崇拜」两本「入选」,原因是随手翻阅之下,发现其中有不少当年阅读的批注。还有一本则是明代张瀚撰写的「松窗梦语」,作为我喜爱的笔记的代表吧!又看见复旦大学顾晓鸣教授主编的「犹太文化丛书」,包括由我编辑者如「圣经文学概论」、「犹太人和钱」,令我想起和顾先生共同工作并承他提携的往事。
罢了,还是留在朋友的书架上吧,过去的记忆,难道都可以捡拾回来,而捡回了又如何呢?书生不再,书的生命作为往者,停留在历史的轨迹上,比之逸出,或许合适而温暖。


散文插图 |  李雄丁



 A Book’s Life 
Qiu Xinye
Tr. by Paul Qiu/ Gina Fazio 

There is an old book on my desk. It was originally in my collection of books, but got it back from my friend’s bookshelf. Speaking of my Chinese books collection in America, there are stories to tell. 

Some of them I brought from a bookstore when I was in Fudan University some thirty years ago. The other part was the sample books I edited myself when I was working for a publisher. The most painful memory is how they arrived in my new home.

On that day, I drove from New York to the seaport of Bayonne, New Jersey. My brother-in-law shipped some books to me. A girl at the reception desk said that it was overdue and I had to pay a deposit fee of one hundred dollars first. There was not much money in my pocket. Fortunately, I had bank card with me. The dock worker pointed to a square wooden box and said, “Take it.”  God, it must have weighed over two hundred kilograms. How could I take it? Answer: You use a forklift to the unloading platform and you reload it. I realized my used car is not for that capacity - a box that is so large that it cannot be placed inside the car or on the roof of the car. The workers came up with a smart idea: they opened the box and loaded whatever was inside into the car. 
“No thanks yet,” the worker said, “fifty dollars for opening the box.” The box was made by my brother-in-law who is a shipbuilder; the thick planks were extremely strong. Even if I had tools, I don’t think I was capable to do anything about it. I had to pay again. The workers took the money, hit the forklift against the box and broke it. The books scattered. Workers came around and looked curiously at what my “baby” was. While I was packing up a few books, I saw my long-awaited book and I felt like crying. Finally, all the books were stuffed into every corner of the poor car. However, the door was not tightly closed and a big truck hit it slightly on the side, pulling the door halfway off. Police were called to file a report. Another two hours passed. Eventually workers helped using the iron wire on the dock to tie the car door so at least I could drive on the road. Cautiously along the way, the wheels rolling, the tail lights flashing, looking at the front of the road, thinking of the book squeezed in the car, I was very sad. My book crossed the Pacific Ocean and I thought, why are you coming here? Poor student as I am, is there any use for me, dear old friend?

In the next twenty years or so, the family moved around several times and friends picked some of the books. Others gradually dispersed. On New Year's Day dinner in 2010, the old book that was spotted on the bookshelf of a friend’s house became more faded. I know it was Suspense and Tranquility--Outlines of Pyrrhonism, published in 1988 and I was the editor. It was summer when I read the translated manuscript on a bed. The translation was checked against the original text, recollecting the memory as if it was in my mind’s eye. This book is an excerpt from the modern English version of the Outlines of Pyrrhonism, an ancient Greek masterpiece that speaks of skepticism, by the surviving works of Sextus Empiricus. The critical logic in this book has inspired the thinking of later Western philosophy. My English was not strong enough and the responsibility for editing was a bit irritating. After finishing the book, I shouted in frustration. 

Now I have seen this old book, such as an old friend. My eager eye on it must have made my friend amused, so he offered to return a piece of treasure to me. Although I was embarrassed, I still accepted his graciousness and brought the adopted “baby” back. Well, I have a study now and it’s large enough for thousands of books. It was not for re-reading, but for the commemoration of the life of an old time student. In addition to the Pyrrho, there are several others I decided to “adopt” back, such as Heroes and Hero Worship by Thomas Carlyle and one translated book by Herbert Marcuse. I noticed many annotations in the margins of books when I read them decades ago. There is also a book written by Zhang Han of Ming Dynasty called Dreaming Words by Ping Windows, as a representative of my favorite history book of ancient China!  I then saw the "Jewish Culture Studies Series," of which Prof. Gu Xiaoming of Fudan University was editor-in-chief. Among them are those I edited, such as Introduction to Biblical Literature, Jews and Money, and so on. It reminded me of the past work with Mr. Gu and his mentorship.  No, I am not going to take all these books with me. Let them rest on a friend’s bookshelf. Can past memories be picked up and even so, what for?  I am no longer a scholar, but the book's life as a voyager, staying on the trajectory of history, may be more appropriate than a return to its original point. 







主笔:
艾伦·昭琼(美国)、安妮特·胡克(瑞士)、Bita Ashrafi(伊朗)、陈东东(中国)、Zraidi El Houcine (摩洛哥)、程庸(中国)、朵拉(马来西亚)、丁丽英(中国)、枫雨(美国)、华纯(日本)、河崎深雪(日本)、葛红兵(中国)、Gyholton(英国)、妮吉娜(乌兹别克斯坦)、梁小曼(中国)、李亚梦(中国)、玛琳娜•波尔切利(阿根廷)、尼古拉斯·克托维奇(法国)、邱辛晔(美国)、萨莎(俄罗斯)、Sabine Hesemann M.A.(德国)、塔考姆•珀伊•拉吉夫(印度)、王宏图(中国)、严力(美国)、杨炼(英国)、俞璐(中国)、杨笑(中国)、朱慧君(中国)
本期编审:
Gyholton、玛丽娜•波尔切利、高海涛
《中外笔会》
中国首家多语种国际文学微刊






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