Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jiang Hao

IN HASTE – FOR MY BABY

I’m poor, but I’m so fond of joy,
of women, of books, of poetry . . . and of you.
I’m alive and not too old, I know death
from family, friends, strangers . . . and you,
but you are the only one I bury in person.
The milk that you loved I love, too,
but it’s gone. The empty cardboard box
is here just in time for your body,
your head south, outside my window,
behind the window a bookshelf, behind
the bookshelf a bedroom, behind the bedroom
Mt. Yan. You follow me, loving the sight
of the mountain the way I do. Today
I cover this wall of mud in front of your head
with the envelope she mailed to me
because the mountain is too lonely
with its back curved, never straightened,
but coming to a stop now, foothills
sending the light. You are no longer lonely.
Three months ago I found a pigeon
on top of a trash can, a spot of blood
the size of a thumb over its right ribs
under the left wing. I buried it at midnight
on your left in the same kind of box,
on your right the stairs I go up and down
every day. Let’s go out for a walk. Bite
the cuff of my pants, even if you hurt my toes.
I do not know why you are obsessed
with a joy that is only a small part of my body,
still alive in my shoes. I am digging
deep at night like a grave robber. Some say
pets have no souls, no need to make a grave
in the yard, the grassland like a pancake
that has not been touched. Just as
the world exists or does not exist, my life
is full or it is empty, and this is
the only thing we cannot control.

急就章,给我的宝贝

急就章,给我的宝贝

我穷。但我多么迷恋欢乐啊!
女人的,书本的,诗歌的,
……还有,你的。
我还活着。不算太老。但我经历了一些死亡:
亲人的,朋友的,陌生人的,
还有,……你的。
但只有你是我亲手埋的。
你爱喝的牛奶,我也爱喝,没有了。
空纸箱正好装殓你发软又发硬的小身体。
脑袋,
正对我的南窗。
窗后是书架,书架后是卧室,
卧室后是燕山。
你跟在我后面,也爱看山。
今天,我故意用她寄给我的旧信封
挡住你脑袋前的这面土坑壁,
因为,
山太孤独了。
弓起的背,一直在奔跑,
从来没有拉直过。
现在,它停下来,
山脚亮起了灯火。
现在,你不孤独了。
三个月前,
我在垃圾箱上捡回一只无名信鸽,
右肋和左翅下,都是拇指大的血孔。
也是半夜,
也用这样的纸箱,
埋在你的左边。
你的右边,是我每天进出上下的台阶。
且出门去,且出门去,
……咬我的裤脚吧;
且归来兮,且归来兮,
……咬我的裤脚吧。
有时,你会咬疼我的脚趾——
你迷恋的欢乐,为什么只是我身体的一个小的部分?
它还活着。鞋也活着。
我深夜挖土,
像盗墓。
有人说,动物是没有灵魂的,
不必在园里隆起一座坟。
草地像没有动过的烙饼。
当想到还有一个存在不存在的世界时,
我还会活得又真实又虚无,
也许这才是唯一没有办法的事。
Close

IN HASTE – FOR MY BABY

I’m poor, but I’m so fond of joy,
of women, of books, of poetry . . . and of you.
I’m alive and not too old, I know death
from family, friends, strangers . . . and you,
but you are the only one I bury in person.
The milk that you loved I love, too,
but it’s gone. The empty cardboard box
is here just in time for your body,
your head south, outside my window,
behind the window a bookshelf, behind
the bookshelf a bedroom, behind the bedroom
Mt. Yan. You follow me, loving the sight
of the mountain the way I do. Today
I cover this wall of mud in front of your head
with the envelope she mailed to me
because the mountain is too lonely
with its back curved, never straightened,
but coming to a stop now, foothills
sending the light. You are no longer lonely.
Three months ago I found a pigeon
on top of a trash can, a spot of blood
the size of a thumb over its right ribs
under the left wing. I buried it at midnight
on your left in the same kind of box,
on your right the stairs I go up and down
every day. Let’s go out for a walk. Bite
the cuff of my pants, even if you hurt my toes.
I do not know why you are obsessed
with a joy that is only a small part of my body,
still alive in my shoes. I am digging
deep at night like a grave robber. Some say
pets have no souls, no need to make a grave
in the yard, the grassland like a pancake
that has not been touched. Just as
the world exists or does not exist, my life
is full or it is empty, and this is
the only thing we cannot control.

IN HASTE – FOR MY BABY

I’m poor, but I’m so fond of joy,
of women, of books, of poetry . . . and of you.
I’m alive and not too old, I know death
from family, friends, strangers . . . and you,
but you are the only one I bury in person.
The milk that you loved I love, too,
but it’s gone. The empty cardboard box
is here just in time for your body,
your head south, outside my window,
behind the window a bookshelf, behind
the bookshelf a bedroom, behind the bedroom
Mt. Yan. You follow me, loving the sight
of the mountain the way I do. Today
I cover this wall of mud in front of your head
with the envelope she mailed to me
because the mountain is too lonely
with its back curved, never straightened,
but coming to a stop now, foothills
sending the light. You are no longer lonely.
Three months ago I found a pigeon
on top of a trash can, a spot of blood
the size of a thumb over its right ribs
under the left wing. I buried it at midnight
on your left in the same kind of box,
on your right the stairs I go up and down
every day. Let’s go out for a walk. Bite
the cuff of my pants, even if you hurt my toes.
I do not know why you are obsessed
with a joy that is only a small part of my body,
still alive in my shoes. I am digging
deep at night like a grave robber. Some say
pets have no souls, no need to make a grave
in the yard, the grassland like a pancake
that has not been touched. Just as
the world exists or does not exist, my life
is full or it is empty, and this is
the only thing we cannot control.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère