Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Zheng Xiaoqiong

Language

I speak this sharp-edged, oiled language
of cast iron – the language of silent workers
a language of tightened screws     the crimping and memories of iron sheets
a language like callouses   fierce    crying    unlucky
hurting   hungry language    back pay of the machines’ roar   occupational diseases
language of severed fingers    life’s foundational language   
in the dark place of unemployment
between the damp steel bars     these sad languages

. . . I speak them softly

in the roar of the machines. A dark language. Language of sweat. Rusty language
like a young woman worker’s helpless eyes or an injured male worker by the factory doors
their hurting language    language of shivering bodies
language of denied compensation for injured fingers

Rust-speckled switches, stations, laws, the system. I speak a black-blooded fired language
of status, age, disease, finances . . . a fearful, howling language. Tax collectors and petty officials.  
Factory bosses. Temporary residence permits. Migrant workers . . . their languages
language of a girl jumping off a building. The GDP’s language. Language of official projects. Language of a kid’s school fees.

I speak of stone. Of overtime. Violent language
I speak of . . . the abyss. Climbing the ladder. Unreachable distances
the language of holding life’s railings in the gusts of fruitless labor

I speak –

these sharp-edged oiled languages, their pointy edges open up
to stab this soft era!

Taal

Ik spreek deze stekelige vettige talen
gietijzer – de taal van stille arbeiders
de taal van vaste schroeven     kreukels en herinneringen van staalplaat
de taal van eelt     wreedaardig    huilend     ongelukkig
pijnlijk     de taal van honger     achterstallig loon van machinelawaai     beroepsziekten
de taal van afgerukte vingers     de taal van de sokkel van het leven
in het donker van werkeloosheid
in vochtige ruimtes tussen tralies      die trieste talen

. . . ik reciteer ze zacht

in machinelawaai. Donkere taal. Zweterige taal. Roestige taal
. . . als de hulpeloze blik van jonge arbeidsters of arbeiders met letselschade bij de fabrieksingang
Hun taal van pijn     de taal van bevende lijven
de taal van verminkte vingers waarvoor geen schadevergoeding is

Verroeste schakelaars, cassetterecorders, de wetten, het systeem.
Ik spreek een bloedzwart geblakerde taal.
Een angstige, brullende taal van status, leeftijd, kapitaal… Belastinginners en pennenlikkers.
Fabrieksbazen. Tijdelijke verblijfsvergunningen. De taal van . . . migrantenarbeiders.
De taal van hen die van een gebouw springen. De taal van BBP. De taal van prestigeprojecten.
De taal van schoolgeld voor kinderen.

Ik spreek van steen. Overwerk. De taal van geweld
Ik spreek van . . . afgronden. De ladder van het leven. Ongrijpbare verten.
De taal, die in windvlagen van nutteloze inspanning, de reling van het leven vastgrijpt

Ik spreek –

deze stekelige, vettige talen, al hun stekels spreiden zich
en prikken pijnlijk in dit zachte tijdperk!

语言

我说着这些多刺的油腻的语言
铸铁——沉默的工人的语言
螺丝拧紧的语言 铁片的折痕与记忆
手茧一样的语言 凶猛的 哭泣的 不幸的
疼痛的 饥饿的语言 机台上轰鸣着的欠薪 职业病
断指的语言 生活的底座的语言 在失业的暗处
钢筋潮湿的缝隙间 这些悲伤的语言

……我轻声念着它们

在机器的轰鸣间。黝黑的语言。汗液的语言。铁锈的语言
……正如年轻女工无助的眼神或者厂门口工伤的男工
他们疼痛的语言 颤栗的身体的语言
没有得到赔偿的伤残手指的语言

内在锈迹斑斑的开关、卡座、法律、制度。我说着黑血烘烤的语言
身份、年龄、疾病、资本……恐惧、嚎叫的语言。税官与小吏们。
工厂主。暂住证。外来工……的语言
跳楼秀的语言。GDP的语言。政绩工程的语言。孩子学费的语言

我说着石头。加班。暴力的语言
我说着的……深渊。生活的楼梯。伸向不可捉摸的远方
在徒劳的风中,紧紧抓住生活的栏杆的语言

我说着——

这些多刺的油腻的语言,它们所有的刺都张开着
刺痛这柔软的时代!
Close

Language

I speak this sharp-edged, oiled language
of cast iron – the language of silent workers
a language of tightened screws     the crimping and memories of iron sheets
a language like callouses   fierce    crying    unlucky
hurting   hungry language    back pay of the machines’ roar   occupational diseases
language of severed fingers    life’s foundational language   
in the dark place of unemployment
between the damp steel bars     these sad languages

. . . I speak them softly

in the roar of the machines. A dark language. Language of sweat. Rusty language
like a young woman worker’s helpless eyes or an injured male worker by the factory doors
their hurting language    language of shivering bodies
language of denied compensation for injured fingers

Rust-speckled switches, stations, laws, the system. I speak a black-blooded fired language
of status, age, disease, finances . . . a fearful, howling language. Tax collectors and petty officials.  
Factory bosses. Temporary residence permits. Migrant workers . . . their languages
language of a girl jumping off a building. The GDP’s language. Language of official projects. Language of a kid’s school fees.

I speak of stone. Of overtime. Violent language
I speak of . . . the abyss. Climbing the ladder. Unreachable distances
the language of holding life’s railings in the gusts of fruitless labor

I speak –

these sharp-edged oiled languages, their pointy edges open up
to stab this soft era!

Language

I speak this sharp-edged, oiled language
of cast iron – the language of silent workers
a language of tightened screws     the crimping and memories of iron sheets
a language like callouses   fierce    crying    unlucky
hurting   hungry language    back pay of the machines’ roar   occupational diseases
language of severed fingers    life’s foundational language   
in the dark place of unemployment
between the damp steel bars     these sad languages

. . . I speak them softly

in the roar of the machines. A dark language. Language of sweat. Rusty language
like a young woman worker’s helpless eyes or an injured male worker by the factory doors
their hurting language    language of shivering bodies
language of denied compensation for injured fingers

Rust-speckled switches, stations, laws, the system. I speak a black-blooded fired language
of status, age, disease, finances . . . a fearful, howling language. Tax collectors and petty officials.  
Factory bosses. Temporary residence permits. Migrant workers . . . their languages
language of a girl jumping off a building. The GDP’s language. Language of official projects. Language of a kid’s school fees.

I speak of stone. Of overtime. Violent language
I speak of . . . the abyss. Climbing the ladder. Unreachable distances
the language of holding life’s railings in the gusts of fruitless labor

I speak –

these sharp-edged oiled languages, their pointy edges open up
to stab this soft era!
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
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère