Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Yang Lian

GREEN AND FENCES

the field tracks were metallic     but these people’s rickety stance
handcuffed     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

GROEN EN HEKKEN

de paden op de velden zijn van metaal       en hun gebogen houdingen
geboeid      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

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
Close

GREEN AND FENCES

the field tracks were metallic     but these people’s rickety stance
handcuffed     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

GREEN AND FENCES

the field tracks were metallic     but these people’s rickety stance
handcuffed     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
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère