Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Zhu Zhu

THE SEA INSIDE MY BODY

There is no exit for that sea: waves
tearing open a gap in the cascading valleys,
in the twinkling of an eye, pounding the cape;
their mission: to strike the rocks,
to drill, with ten thousand lightning bolts, into the depths of one word,
then leave behind the hole, rise into the air, scatter
like steam across the sea basin, turn into firework debris
into algae wisps, into numerous shelters,
a campsite lasting just for half a second, then, suddenly, pushed by the remaining
momentum, pull taut again like a spine, an emergency dike,
so as to let the next row of waves jump even higher, here it comes!
Such a sticky penetration, blunting the blade with blood,
ploughing the waterfall straight, wrapped by the wind
climbing upward once again, yes, only feeling satisfied
after the pounding, only retreating after the crushing,
never really wanting a piece of land, or a name,
or a shore – though no longer often hearing
the sea whistling inside my body, I know it is still there.
 

DE ZEE IN MIJ

Die zee heeft geen uitweg, golven
slaan een gat in het gelaagde ravijn,
naderen in een oogwenk, beuken op deze kaap;
ze komen, om te botsen op de uitspringende rots
met miljoenen bliksemflitsen diep in een woord,
laten een boorgat achter, stijgen tot halverwege de lucht, vallen
als stoom verspreid in het zeebekken, veranderen in vuurwerkresten,
kwastjes van algen, veranderen in ontelbare tenten,
een kamp van een halve seconde, krijgen plotseling een energieke
stoot, strekken dan weer uit tot de ruggengraat van de noodtoestand,
zodat de volgende rij golven nog hoger springt, komt ie!
Zo’n stroperige doorgang, met bloed opgekruld lemmet,
met een ploeg rechtgetrokken waterval, opgezweept door de wind
klimmen ze opnieuw, ja, pas na een botsing
zijn ze tevreden, pas na het uiteenvallen draaien ze terug,
nooit willen ze echt een stuk grond, een naam,
een oever –– hoewel hij niet vaak meer te horen is,
de zee in mij, weet ik dat hij nog bestaat.

我身上的海

那片海没有出路,浪
从层叠的沟壑间撕开豁口,
转瞬即至,扑向这一处岬角;
来,就是为了撞击礁岩,
以千万道闪电在一个词语上纵深,
留下钻孔,升到半空,蒸汽般
撒落海盆,变成烟花的残屑
藻草的流苏,变成无数只帐篷
搭建半秒钟的营地,突然间受余力
推动,又绷成一道应急的脊梁,
为了让下一排浪跃得更高,来了!
如此黏稠的穿越,以血卷曲刀刃,
以犁拉直瀑布,裹挟着风
再一次攀登,是的,只有撞击过
才满足,只有粉碎了才折返,
从不真的要一块土地,一个名字,
一座岸——虽已不能经常地听见
身上的海,但我知道它还在。
Close

THE SEA INSIDE MY BODY

There is no exit for that sea: waves
tearing open a gap in the cascading valleys,
in the twinkling of an eye, pounding the cape;
their mission: to strike the rocks,
to drill, with ten thousand lightning bolts, into the depths of one word,
then leave behind the hole, rise into the air, scatter
like steam across the sea basin, turn into firework debris
into algae wisps, into numerous shelters,
a campsite lasting just for half a second, then, suddenly, pushed by the remaining
momentum, pull taut again like a spine, an emergency dike,
so as to let the next row of waves jump even higher, here it comes!
Such a sticky penetration, blunting the blade with blood,
ploughing the waterfall straight, wrapped by the wind
climbing upward once again, yes, only feeling satisfied
after the pounding, only retreating after the crushing,
never really wanting a piece of land, or a name,
or a shore – though no longer often hearing
the sea whistling inside my body, I know it is still there.
 

THE SEA INSIDE MY BODY

There is no exit for that sea: waves
tearing open a gap in the cascading valleys,
in the twinkling of an eye, pounding the cape;
their mission: to strike the rocks,
to drill, with ten thousand lightning bolts, into the depths of one word,
then leave behind the hole, rise into the air, scatter
like steam across the sea basin, turn into firework debris
into algae wisps, into numerous shelters,
a campsite lasting just for half a second, then, suddenly, pushed by the remaining
momentum, pull taut again like a spine, an emergency dike,
so as to let the next row of waves jump even higher, here it comes!
Such a sticky penetration, blunting the blade with blood,
ploughing the waterfall straight, wrapped by the wind
climbing upward once again, yes, only feeling satisfied
after the pounding, only retreating after the crushing,
never really wanting a piece of land, or a name,
or a shore – though no longer often hearing
the sea whistling inside my body, I know it is still there.
 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère