熱帶魚

by Heng Yi Wang(邢詒旺), trans. by Tiong

Summer snow fell from the foreign land unto the headline of my country

falling at the same time, along of flood and bush fire

as I resign for rest, I have been like the current weather forecast

being asked of the cause of resignation

and the direction for future-- you might have already known

but lending on the quest a confirmation-- yes, ich liebe dich auch

I need you too-- but how much do I love, and need, you? You may also know, that

we are keeping the changing, however my changes (rhythmically..)

is without in the rhythm...

you might have already known, but lending on the quest

to be so sure, of -- adventure and guilt, their differences is sehr mystic

summer snow is like the love enemy falling from the top half of the globe...falling down, we are falling down....

and thus attack so secretly my lower hidden land (can this, be? Spirit, and flesh

divide the lovers into two?) Destroyed,

some harmony of rhythm

why should there be such change?

or, why not, my dear You may also know

I am a poet...(if this also, is,

rhythm...) so why then ask me why am I not

sending message of rhythmic grammar...?

we are changing, this is so called, rhythm, unchangable...

like our overwhelmed civilization receiving the bill from the heavenly desaster

like we fore-withdrawn as the base of the delayed sorrow

we love, but can't we deny...

love and love, without, the changes.... my resigntion

might be the only snow fell on my summer... of my life, but

may be also it's just:
Summer snow fell from the foreign land unto the headline of my country

falling unto the land of my country, it is of course not only the papers

falling on my living land... and how can I be so shy to

base on the rhythm, reply?

接受兰波的教诲Accepting the teaching of Rimbaud
By Jie Zhang(張杰), trans. By Tiong
In the bitter water to accept the teaching from Rimbaud
the middle branch, spring like twisted handler
with some holy humbleness, the spirit beared by green sword
the changing star in the brain, so far from the universe
the tall wall of rhythm, riding the dizzy sky
faces moving within the cacoon
homeland of papers disccsuing the secrets, rowing…
in the tomb, displayed with the pitiful thoughts
and the darkness of this life. Those work
announced the sunsets of two persons
glorious thing in the wandering sorrowful kingdom
who can stop the blinds from making footnotes to the snow?
A kind of spirit applying some warm punishment upon the purity
Dizzy, melt as the sun comes…
Inner snow, like a runway extending toward the unknown airport
In the materialisric airways…, floating…
Flowing ones feel the unsteadiness of the earth
With closed eyes… feeling the calling of the harpists…
the waves of conversation give place to hearing and loyalty
being moved onto the wall… imagism of ironic curve formed…
it focuses on the threaten ones, the kidnapped thinker of the second half of nights
and but the jilun wasser in China, is yet to flow amidst the heart of judgement…

Kota Hujan
By Chan Chi Tak(陳智德), trans. by Tiong

Di depan kedai beberapa orang jalan-jalan
Tiada yang melintas jalan tengah hujan hebat
Antara garisan hujan bayang putih perlahan-lahan bergerak
Lepas tengahari bagai pagi masanya henti untuk hujan hebat jua
yang bergerak jadilah hantu

LRT membawa passenger mengarisi the shell of city
Di muka jalan orang Nampak mereka bagaikan shooting star
A blink sudahlah simpan diri
Passenger nampak sendiri didalam refleksi gelas
Tak sangka itulah yang benar
Air titik titik melekat di tingkap dishot kedalam muka orang
Dalam gelap lampu jalann sudah padam dan distationkan
Di dalam sebuah dunia yang benggang-bengkok oh tumpukan
tarian yang pekak tapi konkrek oh
hentikan LRT yang pantas
biarlah passenger kaki botol masukkan diri kedalam hujan
kadang-kala mengingati sepohon payung didalam peti LRT

Kota oh mengampun diatas muka laut
Kereta berjalan diatas perabot yang belum balik
Mentiadakan kebawah jalan benggang-bengkok yang lebih amat diliputi
Luren menghadapi langit 45 degree ke cahaya lampu pisah jadi lianyi
Hujan hebat bersambung ke malam laut
Sunyi sepiiiiii simpan ketawa......
Barulah
terdengar sebuah lagu letih
didengar sampai saat terakhir didalam bar............

Glass factory

By Ouyang Jianghe(歐陽江河), trans. by Tiong

1

From seeing to seeing, only glass in the midth.

From face to face,

unseen separation.

In the glass, intransparent is material.

The whole glass factory as a big eyeball,

the darkest is the labour,

its day sparks in the core of thing.

Thing insists the first tears,

like a bird insists for its shadow in pure light.

Offering with the light returned in a dark way.

Wherever there is glass everywhere,

glass has become non glass, but

a spirit.

Just like it is air everywhere, air almost non exist is.

2

Sea by the factory.

Knowing water is to know glass.

Solid, cold, easy breaking,

the price of transparency.

A language of myth can see wave,

to say it out is to cast a leave,

leaving mug, side table for tea, dressing mirror, of glass

in form, materials in group production.

But I continue to be, in the wrapping of materials,

a life full of desire.

Language splashed out, dried off, in the eve of transparency.

It is flying, is

free space facing free space, lightning facing lightning, language.

Outside the flying body are skies in numbers,

the shadow of a lonely bird

can be a light rubbing through above the sea.

Something scratched through the glass, lighter than shadow,

deeper than wound, more stubborn than blade.

The crack is unseen.

3

I have come, I see, I speak.

Language and time blended, a mass falling of sand

splashed the blindness from its centre.

It experienced the same in the core of glass.

Breathing of flame, the heart of flame.

Glass is so called changing attitude of water in flame, is

a meeting of two types of spirit,

two destroys entering one eternity.

Water passed flame and turned as glass,

into the cold fire beneath zero degree,

like a truth or a feeling

slightly revealed, crystal, refuse moving further.

In the fruit, of deep sea, water is always calm.

4

Then this is indeed what I see, as glass──

A stone, no longer hard.

A fire, no longer warm.

Still water, but neither soft nor passing away.

It is some wounds that never bleed,

a voice, but never passing through silence.

From loss to loss, this is glass.

Language and time turn transparent,

a high price paid.

5

I see glass in three types in a same factory:

of material, of decoration, of symbol.

People told me, it was stone giving birth to glass as its father.

In vain in stone, death is a changable primitive truth

bringing no death.

Stone broken, glass born.

This is the truth. But there is another truth

lead me toward another level: from height to height.

Glass is only water in such truth, which is or turning

hard, with bone, unable to be splashed off,

but flame is cold to the bone,

the most pretty the easiest broken.

All the high thing in the world, and

tears of the thing.

Animal lullaby
/Chenli(陳黎)﹐trans. by: Tiong
Let time be fixed like the dots of cheetah
tired water bird ski over the surface and lightly its tears
drop as a departing arrow needing to fall down
in a garden without music a garden grey and misty
big elephant lowly and heavy and lowly heavily passing you and invite you
to safeguard bee nest without bee for the bee nest.

I could be the stars for the night for grasses without cloth with the dew collected
raise the sky up and gradually taller than the giraffe at the doorgate
leave the breast feeding mother from their children like a
cat of wow back finally relax its spine no longer
abstractly insisted colours of love height of dream for
this is garden musical garden without music.

When dumb donkey marching its snoring not to follow
let time pause the breathing like death pretending bear laid down quietly
a few flowers of snowy white hit its eyelash a few butterflies
i will wipe the door plate for the cowshed for sparrow without home
misty grey big elephant lowly heavily passed you by and invite you
to sew the gap of the broken pillar for the broken pillar without sorrow.

This is garden without music a garden a spinning eagle do not
search for hunting dog do not run like the forehead of angel
its volume consisted of fifty castles seventy horse cart
let the children left alone from mothers return to their mothers like the long
smokily vanished mythy religion once again to be found believed
i could praise and pray for fruit trees for fruit trees whose fruits falling down in toto.

Let time be fixed like the dots of cheetah
a few flowers of snowy white hit its eyelash a few butterflies
lion in deep sleep their anger not to be frightened up
in a garden without music a garden grey and misty
big elephant lowly and heavy and lowly heavily passing you and invite you
to invite the soil to cover its footsteps in toto.

PASTERNAK
/Wang Jiaxin(王家新), trans. by: Tiong

Destined to devote my whole life reading your poetry,
a broken festival, the tembling in my soul
penetrated by thousand miles of snowy wind, before
a bunch of flowers present at your grave,

finally I am allowed to write from my heart
but not to live yet,
such tragedy we share
with your lips even more quiet, that is

a seal of destiny, you have to keep
in endurance, endure, to engrave the words deeper
in order to gain, you do not remain
to live, you request a death, a thorough one.

And this is you, who have found and tried me
from one to another trials, paining my life all of a sudden
from snow to snow, I read your poetry
in Peking in the bus on the muddy land, in my heart

calling the noble names
of the exiled, sacrificed, testified, of
the soul whom we met in the trembling of a Requiem
shone in the death, on my land

of one’s own. The tears in the eyes of the northern beast
in the wind, the burning maple leaves, but
darkness, hunger in the body of somebody else, despite all these
how can I talk about myself, only?

Can you, safeguard your Russland
through endurance, in the crazy snow of the wind,
your Larissa, the beautiful one, that do no further harm,
your unbelievable miracle

with the coldness all over the snowy body, right at the front!
And the autumn lighten up by candles in Levitan,
the death, praise and guilt from Pushkin’s lyrics,
spring thus arrives, darkness revealed on the naked wide land.

Won’t you face your soul toward this, poet?
Joy, rhythmic law raises high from the bottom of the heart,
no longer distressed, it is what you have sustained
come to look for us, unstoppably,

to dig us up: to request for a symmetry
or a Requiem more moving than echoes.
And in what way may we present ourselves, to your grave?
Shame, it is winter in December in Peking,

sorrow from your sparkling eyes, request and quest
like a ringing bell, pressing my soul
as pain and joy, reading it
in a life full of ice and snow.

Biarlah angin yang berpuisi
Yang Mu(楊牧),trans. by: Tiong

1

Jikalau ku mampu menulis untukmu sebuah

puisi musim pan as, seakan rumput

memultikan diri sehebat-hebatnya, sinaran matahari

melayang kepada pinggang, mengalir

ke arah dimana kaki

berdiri terasing. Seakan sebuah gendang yang
baru dibuka, jikalau ku

mampu menulis untukmu sebuah puisi musim luruh

berayun diatas sebuah sampan kecil

memasahkan duabelas ukiran

seakan kesedihan mengulung diri diatas sungai

sebagai naga kuning，biarlah aliran gunung cepat mengalir

menerbangkan dari mata yang terluka

gemercak，jikalau ku mampu untukmu

sebuah puisi musim dingin dituliskan

seakan-akan akhirnya jadi satu bukti

untuk salji, untuk tasik yang jadi kecil

buktikan memang ada orang yang mengunjung waktu tengah malam

mengejutkan seketil mimpi yang awal-awalnya

membawamu ke wilayah yang jauh

bagikan sebuah lampu untukmu, biarkan mu

duduk disana diam menunggu

dan tidak dibenarkan menangis

2

Jikalau mereka tidak benarkanmu

berkabung untuk musim bunga

tidak benarkan tenunan

jikalau mereka kata

duduk diam-diam

tunggulah

untuk seribu tahun

lepas musim bunga

hijau masihlah

nama kamu

mereka akan hantarmu

balik, ambillah

cincin mu

pakaian mu

menguntingkan rambutmu jadi pendek

melepaskan mu kepada aku

yang bersabar di tempat air rumput

akhirnya ku milik mu

akhirnya mu milk ku

ku memandikan mu

bagikan mu wain

beberapa gula minti

beberapa pakaian baru

rambutmu akan tumbuh

jadi panjang lagi, pulih kepada dulu

nampaknya，Sino masihlah

nama mu

３

Dan ketikatu ku akan tuliskan untuk mu sebuah

puisi musim bunga，ketika semua sudah

bermula sekali lagi——

begitu muda, mentah

akhirnya jua jumpa di dalam air bayang diri sendiri
yang matang ，ku ingin biarkan mu menangis sebebas-bebasnya

bikinkan pakaian baru，sediakan lilin untuk malam petama mu

Ketikatu mu terus biarkan ku tuliskan sebuah

puisi musim bunga，tuliskan diatas pintu jantung

rentak hati，irama darah

imej dada，ibarat tandabadan

ku meletak mu rata diatas tasik yang mesra

biarlah angin yang berpuisi

I wanna smile quietly
Ko Chingmin(柯慶明)﹐trans. by Chantelle Tiong

I wanna smile quietly
no longer speak with knots
as your palm has carved
unto my palm, feel so warm,
I shall taste carefully your transparent eyes
coloured in amber
for I fear not drunk-
dizzy face will be as beautiful as the full bloom of a red, red rose.
For I could then sleep soundly on your knee
like a child throwing toward the mother at peace.
While, how would I recollect the falling pearls
coming from the weaving of your eyelash?

I just wanna smile quietly
let the smoke turn fire
let the fog turn into dew
gazing on your gaze
holding your palm in the palm
forget about the storm, the wave
forget about yesterday, about tomorrow
let the universe pass away in this moment
to be reborn in your smile
let the sunset fall
leave the late cloud to be relieved
I just wanna smile quietly
before your eyes, in your eyeball

Lover in dream 1
/Lo Chicheng(羅智成), trans. by: Tiong

0936-772001
Clock tickled twelve midnight
in time the numbers dialed
thus a voice in rumour heard,
Hello?......
hello?......
Slipping through the spotlights, coverage of sleepiness
and digital exchange that
the always closely garded gentle greetings
and feelings fully spreaded by low volume
applied accurate through SIM
hello?......

But still you remain silent
like a kite electrically shocked by things not yet happened as it
first connected to some fully recharged thundered clouds
speechless you remain
with topics and words
not yet prepared
the only unique magic experience
not yet prepared
to be spent in this poem.

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