Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Zhu Zhu

ZOOM

I
 
Over the great wall, over
hundreds of miles of mountain ranges with no vegetation
once you can smell the source of water in the air
just as by the side of a hollowed-out cave
you will see a mural exposed to the sun:
a grove of persimmon trees, sloping, rising higher and higher,
with roots boring into the rocks, mold vanished,
competing for light and raindrops with other trees.
the green becomes bright and dense
like molten metal, flowing over a cliff edge;
in that series of near infinite numbers,
each leaf delights in being anonymous,
delights in falling, or remaining on the branch,
along a golden seam whirling in the wind,
the fruits become ever sweeter as birds peck at them,
shamelessly swelling, softening, dripping.
 
II
 
Outside the window, again, the view is of this persimmon tree
(Vermeer’s light shines into the flat through the window,
illuminating this only half-finished poem).
we have always investigated each other,
like two leaves forming a trembling jaw.
Persimmons in early summer are like newly developed nipples,
hiding behind clusters, bashful of their increasing weight.
Their color is that of red, transparent ear lobes,
after frost, quickly engorged,
turning into red hot irons, naked in the air
in the snow, desiring to be touched, sucked.
I have never seen such sad breasts,
hard as pebbles, lava having turned cold: when falling
they are bruised by branches. skin broken, secretions from
incontinence: blood, bile, species, core.
My gaze darkens into a cave where the bonfire is spent.


ZOOMEN

I

Voorbij de Chinese Muur, voorbij
de bergen die kilometerslang geen begroeiing hebben,
zodra je in de lucht de bron van water kunt ruiken,
is het alsof je naast een uitgeholde grot
een fresco kunt zien die in het zonlicht is geplaatst:
een hellend, hoger en hoger stijgend bos van kakibomen,
wortels de rotsen ingedrongen, schimmels verwijderd,
vechtend om licht en regen met andere boomsoorten,
het groen wordt helder, wordt compact als
gesmolten metaal, stroomt naar de afgrond;
in die reeks van bijna oneindige getallen
is elk blad blij om anoniem te zijn,
blij om te dwarrelen, of nog aan een tak te blijven.
Langs een gouden door de wind beroerde strook
wordt het fruit door het gepik van vogels nog zoeter,
zorgeloos zwellend, verwekend, druppelend.
 
 
II
 
Voor het raam vangt deze ene boom het blikveld, weer,
(licht in de stijl van Vermeer valt via hem het appartement in,
beschijnt dit maar half afgeschreven gedicht),
we zullen altijd in wederzijds onderzoek verzeilen,
zoals twee bladeren een bevende kaak vormen.
Kaki’s zijn vroeg in de zomer nog klein als tepels in de groei,
schuilen tussen het gebladerte, verlegen door hun toenemende gewicht,
hun kleur verandert als blozende, transparante oorlellen,
na wat vorst rijpen ze versneld,
veranderen in brandend rode soldeerbouten, naakt in de lucht
in de sneeuw, verlangend te worden gestreeld, uitgezogen.
Ik heb nog nooit zulke verdrietige borsten gezien,
hard als keien, het magma koud, beschadigd door gevorkte takken
wanneer ze vallen. Gescheurd vel, incontinente
afscheiding: bloed, gal, ras, kern.
Mijn starende blik verdonkert tot een grot waar het vreugdevuur uit is.

变焦


 
越过了长城,越过了
上百里几乎没有植被的山脉,
空气中能嗅到水源之后,
就像从剜空的洞窟边看见了
一面被移至日光下的壁画:
倾斜的、越升越高的柿子林,
根重新插入了岩层,褪除霉斑,
和别的树种争抢着光线、雨滴,
绿色变得明亮,变得稠密如
熔化的金属,涌到了悬崖;
在那组接近了无限的数字里,
每片叶子都轻快于它们是无名的一,
轻快于飘落,或仍然留在枝头。
沿一道被风掀动的金色襟带,
果实在鸟儿的啄食中变得更甜了,
毫无顾忌地膨胀,瘫软,滴淌。
 

 
窗前的这一棵又占据了视野
(维米尔式的光透过它射进公寓,
照亮这首只写到一半的诗),
我们总是会陷入相互的探询,
像两片叶子形成一个颤动的颚。
柿子初夏时还小如刚发育的乳头,
躲藏在丛簇间,羞怯于渐增的重量,
色泽变得像发红而透明的耳垂,
经过了霜冻之后迅速地丰满,
变成烧红的烙铁,赤裸在空气中
大雪中,渴望被抚摸被吮吸。
从未见过如此忧伤的乳房,
硬如卵石,熔浆已冷,掉落时
被枝杈刮伤。碎裂的皮,失禁的
分泌物:血,胆汁,种属,核。
我的凝视暗成一处生完篝火的洞窟。
Close

ZOOM

I
 
Over the great wall, over
hundreds of miles of mountain ranges with no vegetation
once you can smell the source of water in the air
just as by the side of a hollowed-out cave
you will see a mural exposed to the sun:
a grove of persimmon trees, sloping, rising higher and higher,
with roots boring into the rocks, mold vanished,
competing for light and raindrops with other trees.
the green becomes bright and dense
like molten metal, flowing over a cliff edge;
in that series of near infinite numbers,
each leaf delights in being anonymous,
delights in falling, or remaining on the branch,
along a golden seam whirling in the wind,
the fruits become ever sweeter as birds peck at them,
shamelessly swelling, softening, dripping.
 
II
 
Outside the window, again, the view is of this persimmon tree
(Vermeer’s light shines into the flat through the window,
illuminating this only half-finished poem).
we have always investigated each other,
like two leaves forming a trembling jaw.
Persimmons in early summer are like newly developed nipples,
hiding behind clusters, bashful of their increasing weight.
Their color is that of red, transparent ear lobes,
after frost, quickly engorged,
turning into red hot irons, naked in the air
in the snow, desiring to be touched, sucked.
I have never seen such sad breasts,
hard as pebbles, lava having turned cold: when falling
they are bruised by branches. skin broken, secretions from
incontinence: blood, bile, species, core.
My gaze darkens into a cave where the bonfire is spent.


ZOOM

I
 
Over the great wall, over
hundreds of miles of mountain ranges with no vegetation
once you can smell the source of water in the air
just as by the side of a hollowed-out cave
you will see a mural exposed to the sun:
a grove of persimmon trees, sloping, rising higher and higher,
with roots boring into the rocks, mold vanished,
competing for light and raindrops with other trees.
the green becomes bright and dense
like molten metal, flowing over a cliff edge;
in that series of near infinite numbers,
each leaf delights in being anonymous,
delights in falling, or remaining on the branch,
along a golden seam whirling in the wind,
the fruits become ever sweeter as birds peck at them,
shamelessly swelling, softening, dripping.
 
II
 
Outside the window, again, the view is of this persimmon tree
(Vermeer’s light shines into the flat through the window,
illuminating this only half-finished poem).
we have always investigated each other,
like two leaves forming a trembling jaw.
Persimmons in early summer are like newly developed nipples,
hiding behind clusters, bashful of their increasing weight.
Their color is that of red, transparent ear lobes,
after frost, quickly engorged,
turning into red hot irons, naked in the air
in the snow, desiring to be touched, sucked.
I have never seen such sad breasts,
hard as pebbles, lava having turned cold: when falling
they are bruised by branches. skin broken, secretions from
incontinence: blood, bile, species, core.
My gaze darkens into a cave where the bonfire is spent.


Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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