Poem
Yang Lian
GREEN AND FENCES
the field tracks were metallic but these people’s rickety stancehandcuffed the mud’s flexibility like encouragement
their naked backs glued to the knife-shaped maize leaves
and ribs each year another shade of glossy green
like a set of numbers buried inside the flesh that mustn’t be mistaken
an acrid blood group escorting ears of grain
returned to the levied colours grouted in by each year’s Grave-Sweeping Day
everywhere the sound of jointing crops reciting their prison term
with the flavour of the fields and gardens the flavour of thirst
commanding the well to fall endlessly into zero’s depth
their vastness squatting by the wellhead mounting quail
and voles a near-colour-blind poem the same as the skyline
they couldn’t see the womb’s curse
still contracting a line of green fences locking in breath
stretch to the horizon suckering sunsets still swarthy
and wordless life imprisoned in a silent rumination
coarse china bowls held in both hands balanced the rouged and painted years
not meaning anything not even the game of filling in the green blanks
had any meaning wiping the spittle of denunciation from their faces
they conscientiously wiped the plough clean
© Translation: 2013, Brian Holton
GROEN EN HEKKEN
de paden op de velden zijn van metaal en hun gebogen houdingengeboeid de soepelheid van de aarde lijkt een aanmoediging
hun blote ruggen staan dicht tegen de mesvormige maïsbladeren
de ribben zijn ook één keer per jaar glanzend groen
als een stel in het vlees begraven nummers waarin je je niet kunt vergissen
een bittere bloedgroep begeleidt graankorrels
terug naar elk jaar op de Grafveegdag melkrijpe geronselde kleuren
overal lezen stengelvormende stemmen hun straftijd op
met de smaak van velden en tuinen de smaak van dorst
beveelt de put om onophoudelijk in de afgrond van de nul te vallen
hun verlorenheid gehurkt boven aan de put omrand met woelmuizen
en kwartels een als de horizon bijna kleurenblind gedicht
zij kunnen de bezwering van de baarmoeder niet zien
nog altijd samentrekkend een rij groene hekken sluit de ademhaling in
reikt tot de rand van de aarde de avondgloed van de scheuten blijft donker
en woordeloos leven gevangen in een stille overpeinzing
een omhooggehouden ruw porseleinen kom balanceert met de opgemaakte tijd
zonder enige betekenis zelfs het spel van de groene vakjes
is zonder betekenis een gespogen veroordeling van het gezicht vegen
zorgvuldig vegen zij de ploeg schoon
© Vertaling: 2013, Silvia Marijnissen
绿色和栅栏
田垄是金属的 而他们佝偻的姿势被铐着 泥土的柔韧像一种鼓励
他们的裸背贴近玉米刀形的叶子
肋骨也每年一度油亮亮的绿
像一组埋进肉里的 不会弄错的号码
一个酸涩的血型押送着麦粒
返回每年清明灌浆的 被征集的颜色
遍地拔节的声音朗读着刑期
也有田园的风味 渴的风味
命令井向一个零深处不停陷进去
他们蹲在井台上的茫然 镶着田鼠
和鹌鹑 一首地平线一样近乎色盲的诗
他们看不见子宫的咒语
仍在收缩 一排绿色栅栏锁着呼吸
延伸到天边 分蘖的晚霞仍黝黑
而无辞 活 监禁在一次静静的咀嚼里
端着的粗瓷碗 平衡上了妆的岁月
什么也不意味 连绿色的填空游戏
也不意味 揩着啐到脸上的一声喝斥
他们细细揩净一张犁
© 2013, Yang Lian
Poems
Poems of Yang Lian
Close
GREEN AND FENCES
the field tracks were metallic but these people’s rickety stancehandcuffed the mud’s flexibility like encouragement
their naked backs glued to the knife-shaped maize leaves
and ribs each year another shade of glossy green
like a set of numbers buried inside the flesh that mustn’t be mistaken
an acrid blood group escorting ears of grain
returned to the levied colours grouted in by each year’s Grave-Sweeping Day
everywhere the sound of jointing crops reciting their prison term
with the flavour of the fields and gardens the flavour of thirst
commanding the well to fall endlessly into zero’s depth
their vastness squatting by the wellhead mounting quail
and voles a near-colour-blind poem the same as the skyline
they couldn’t see the womb’s curse
still contracting a line of green fences locking in breath
stretch to the horizon suckering sunsets still swarthy
and wordless life imprisoned in a silent rumination
coarse china bowls held in both hands balanced the rouged and painted years
not meaning anything not even the game of filling in the green blanks
had any meaning wiping the spittle of denunciation from their faces
they conscientiously wiped the plough clean
© 2013, Brian Holton
GREEN AND FENCES
the field tracks were metallic but these people’s rickety stancehandcuffed the mud’s flexibility like encouragement
their naked backs glued to the knife-shaped maize leaves
and ribs each year another shade of glossy green
like a set of numbers buried inside the flesh that mustn’t be mistaken
an acrid blood group escorting ears of grain
returned to the levied colours grouted in by each year’s Grave-Sweeping Day
everywhere the sound of jointing crops reciting their prison term
with the flavour of the fields and gardens the flavour of thirst
commanding the well to fall endlessly into zero’s depth
their vastness squatting by the wellhead mounting quail
and voles a near-colour-blind poem the same as the skyline
they couldn’t see the womb’s curse
still contracting a line of green fences locking in breath
stretch to the horizon suckering sunsets still swarthy
and wordless life imprisoned in a silent rumination
coarse china bowls held in both hands balanced the rouged and painted years
not meaning anything not even the game of filling in the green blanks
had any meaning wiping the spittle of denunciation from their faces
they conscientiously wiped the plough clean
© 2013, Brian Holton
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