Monthly Archives: September 2013

Atlas05

 

For Vicki Viidikas, David Curtis and Kerry Leves

 

larger-than-life but skin-deep charisma
as seen in hindsight now
as he came out to greet us
those three people all dead now
my passenger, my hosts
at a young age

arms spread wide
he walked towards the car
like a scripted performance

and the view into the valley
from the back verandah
reading Bukowski as performance

Bukowski – feminism
how to reconcile them

smoke in our hands
and from the chimney
incense, wood, all that

they had a temporary escape
from the overdoses that killed them

and from alcohol

there near Dr George Mountain
behind the lagoon
the burnt fire palms
with exploded blackened cones
flashing orange on the white sand

I remembered it as Black Mountain
maybe because of the American poets
still can see her gesticulating
“Robert fucking Duncan!”

I looked on the map later
but couldn’t find the place

remembered the beach
the emptiness and their happiness
to reimagine
another life
useful for my novel

 

 

 

 

Breath is an origin story

before breath is non-existence

winds ride the edge of the storm

cloud messengers galloping loud

orchestral kettle drums beat.

 

Summer has been long

its breath has spanned millennia

and now comes the rain

the storm, the raging

rotten breath of cyclonic winds.

 

Myths are made of such noise

the rampages of Heracles

have filled our childhood ears

the violence of men and gods

he sneezes and we all fall down.

 

Who will be Delilah, brave enough

to calm Samson with a pair of

scissors, his long hair fallen

trampled like old vines that

strangle the biggest trees?

 

We are not so lucky with

Larrikin Larry, no shears large

enough to make his pate shine

as we watch, the ground turns bald

with his blunders through the undergrowth.

 

A shredder over his shoulder, Larry

larks about turning bark and leaves

to confetti and in his next breath

plays graffiti artist, pasting every

wall door and window.

 

But even wind needs to draw breath

a moment’s stillness, earth’s smoko―

then we hear the trampling across the roof

the flue knocked off, the guttering

torn ripped and discarded

 

as Larry changes direction, running rings

widdershins, bellowing earth’s grief

no longer at play, this brat is serious

his blood has curdled, our souls are rattled

ears drumming against bawling Larry.

 

glass clouds

Grant Caldwell

 

in salutation to your broken genius

no mirrors but

the windowed wall you

create and the light

breaks the glass clouds where

this morning’s broken

genius lets go like a

flower a bee the latest gadget

everything contained in a thought

encompassing empty thrills

the grand illusion is bright today

how serious you are eccetera

the definition of love is

where are you now and no

is a freedom we forget so much

regret and striving the broken

music of silence comes

quickly into the room

listening to your breathing

玻璃雲

格蘭特卡德維爾

Translated by Chris Song Zijiang 宋子江譯

 

向我這個被毀的天才敬禮

沒有鏡子,但有

你建起的

玻璃墻,陽光

穿過玻璃雲,就在那兒

今天早上被毀的

天才放棄了,像一朵花

放棄一隻蜜蜂,最新的玩意

一切都蘊藏在一個念頭裏

裹著空虛的激動

宏偉的幻想今天特別明亮

你有多認真,芸芸

愛的定義是

你現在身在何處,「不」

是一種我們已經

忘記的自由,多麼

後悔,媲美一曲沉默,斷續的

音樂很快便傳進房子裏

聆聽你的呼吸

espionage with duck

Patricia Sykes

 

if it looks like a duck and talks like a duck

it must be a government surveillance device

 

this not in the wisdom texts

but in the weird science

of an artificial eye whose wine

is calamity in the cellar

I find you in the museum Wiesbaden

is really code for a duck’s quack

has no echo, which is silenced

easily therefore, the shimmer

of plumage and gland of musk

fallen to the gaze, or else to the palate

where transformation is skill of the chef

where the bird who once flew becomes

meat with hot and cold properties,

is a pianist playing, the main course,

with oranges and wild mushrooms

and contextual candles melting

under the heat of Rachmaninoff

but I think for the woman

with cutlery still alive in her hands

the electronic eye makes a worse salad

its vigilance not half as delicate

as the wings on her plate

間諜

帕特麗夏•塞克斯

Translated by Chris Song Zijiang 宋子江譯

 

如果它看起來像鴨子,說話也像鴨子

那麼它一定是政府的監控設備

 

這不是藏在飽含智慧的書卷中

而是運用古怪的科技製造的

人工義眼,它的酒

是酒窖的災難。

我發現你在威斯巴登博物館

合適的暗號是鴨子嘎嘎叫

沒有回聲,拍動翅膀的

閃爍,散發麝香的

腺體,一下子出現在

凝視的眼中,亦或是味覺

它的轉化是大廚的技藝

曾經飛翔的鳥兒變成

冷盤或熱盤的肉,因此

被迫的沉默,輕易成為

鋼琴家的演奏,主菜

有橙子和野蘑菇做伴碟

有被拉赫尼瑪諾夫的熱力

熔化的蠟燭作氣氛

她手中的刀叉仍是活的

電子眼毀了沙律

它的警惕,還沒有

餐碟上的鴨翅

一半那麼脆弱

Epicentre

Jennifer Compton

 

I woke up dazed

some taniwha had risen

underneath my bed

straight up from

 

the centre of the earth

and humped like

a green horse

first time under the saddle.

 

Then the noise

a peremptory growl

travelling away from me

as swiftly as a train.

 

How unusual and strange.

I couldn’t write a poem

for every earthquake

I have lived through

 

they all have their little quirks

but every other one had rumbled

towards me, done its worst

shivered, rippled, shook

 

then galloped away.

The house and I settled

down, drew our breath

and the earth turned.

震央

珍妮弗•孔惇

Translated by Chris Song Zijiang 宋子江譯

 

恍惚中醒來

塔泥瓦水怪升起

就在床底

從地球的核心

 

徑直升起

像青澀的馬

馱著背

第一次被套上馬鞍

 

然後聽到

一聲霸道的低吼

向我的四方散開

迅猛如列車

 

多麼異常,多麼陌生。

以往經歷那麼多次地震

我都沒有

為它們寫過詩

 

它們都有各自的怪癖

但以往地震,震音均朝我

轟隆而來,盡情毀壞

顫抖,波浪,震動

 

馬兒疾馳而去。

我和屋子都安下

心來,倒吸一口氣

地球又如常轉動。

Its private idiom

Chris Wallace-Crabbe

 

A room lies open

giving onto grasscoloured silence,

the racket of our footsteps gone away

 

and the dust

which is friend to mankind

gathers over every thing inside

 

so that

when blue sky peeps in at breakfast-time

it sees the kindly coverlet of dust

 

like blessing

or a grey army blanket.

 

Sweet dust, bless us all in turn.

 

Keep us warm, if you can,

poor in our openness.

私言

克里斯•華萊士-卡普

Translated by Chris Song Zijiang 宋子江譯

 

躺著的房間

朝著草色的寧靜敞開

我們嘈雜的腳步聲已遠去

 

塵埃

是人類的朋友

沾上房間裏的一切

 

因此

當早餐時,藍天向房裏偷望

它會看見塵埃,這張體貼的毛毯

 

就像祝福

就像一張軍用灰毛毯

 

親愛的毛毯,祝福我們每一個人

 

請給我們溫暖,可以的話

請在我們敞開的胸懷,留下貧困

 

 

 

 

 

Warrior

 

 

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