A winter without snow
Is like a house without a roof.
Jiang Jie is a Beijing native poet
Jiang Jie, born Wang Xu in 1975, is a Beijing native who has also written under the pen names Ge Duo and Mu Duo. He has published poetry collections including “I Speak of Light,” “The Monocular,” and “Stories from Our Nights.” His published works include the prose poetry collection “Spherical Nightmare” and the essay collection “Fragments of Dream Shadows.” His poems have appeared in various media outlets and publications, and have been included in anthologies such as: “China Poetry Ranking”, “Yearbook of Chinese Regional Poetry”, “The Book of Songs: 2017-2018 Guide to contemporary Chinese Poetry and Collection of Award Winners”, “21st Century Chinese Literature Series: Poetry Volume” (for 2006 and 2007) and “On the Road: 10th Anniversary Collection of the Third Road”.
江介,原名王旭，1975年出生，曾用笔名戈多、木铎，北京人。自编有诗集《我说 光》、《单筒望远镜》、《我们的夜晚的故事》。著有散文诗集《球形梦魇》、散文集《梦影残痕》等。作品发表于各种媒体和刊物。有作品收入《中国诗歌排行榜》、《汉语地域诗歌年鉴》《双年诗经2017-2018中国当代诗歌导读暨中国当代诗歌奖获得者作品集》、《21世纪中国文学大系•诗歌卷》(2006、2007年度)、《在路上：第三条道路10周年作品集》等。
(Translated by Ma Yongbo)
Snow Falling on the Roof
Snow Falling on the RoofA winter without snow
Is like a house without a roof.
(Too distant to see)
In those days,
Children fought snowball wars in the yard.
Grandma pasted paper-cuttings on the windows, watching us from inside.
Grandpa grumbled about how hard the world had become.
(The scene veiled in a layer of damp mist)
Their wrinkles always reminded me of the frozen, cracked earth.
The snow lay thick,
As if I’d forgotten the pain of losing my mother, “giggling”
Bits of snow on the branches fell in a soft flurry.
In the distance, straw stacks capped with snow are burning.
The low, dilapidated old house seemed to grow taller;
The sleeping snow always raised its foundations.
***
落在屋顶上的雪
没有下过雪的冬天
像是没有屋顶
(遥远得看不到）
那时候
孩子们在院子里打雪仗
老祖母贴窗花，从窗子里望着我们
祖父唠叨世道艰难
(画面蒙上一层潮湿的雾气）
他们的皱纹总让人想起冻裂的土地
雪压得很厚
似乎忘了丧母之痛，“咯咯咯”
树枝上的雪屑簌簌而落
远处顶着雪的麦秸垛燃烧着
低矮失修的老房子高大起来
沉睡的白雪总是抬高了它的地基
***
The Well
The WellI thought I was sitting at the bottom of a well.
At the mouth, a thousand meters above, my mother
Cranes her neck.
At the mouth, ten thousand meters above, my grandmother
Cranes her neck.
At the mouth, a hundred thousand meters above, my great-grandmother
Cranes her neck…
I feel the kindness in my ancestors’ gaze
Cold and rational, moving at the speed of laser light,
Piercing the well. The water bursts forth,
Surges within me, and becomes a lake.
But I too am sitting at the mouth of the well,
Constantly craning my neck,
Gazing a thousand meters down,
Gazing ten thousand meters down,
Gazing a hundred thousand meters down.
The windlass clatters emptily, creaking and squeaking,
As a single bucket sinks.
***
井
我以为自己坐在井底
千米深的井口，母亲
伸着脖子
万米深的井口，祖母
伸着脖子
十万米深的井口，曾祖母
伸着脖子……
我触摸到祖先目光的仁慈
冷冰而理智，以激光的速度
穿透水井。井水破溢而出
汹涌在我的体内成为一眼湖
其实我也是坐在井口
不住地伸着脖子
向千米深探视
向万米深探视
向十万米深探视
辘轳空响，吱扭吱扭
一只水桶沉下去
***
Walking Through a Persimmon Grove in Autumn
Walking Through a Persimmon Grove in AutumnFrom afar, a blaze of red tempts
Branches heavy with plump, juicy fruit,
Each a heart that strikes me with pain.
Within the grove, death rests, crimson as blood.
I lift my head to look up
A tree of lanterns illuminates the soul,
As autumn awakens the desire for harvest
Through these countless yellow stars, the sky cannot be seen.
Every fruit is hard,
Every is a key that opens
An old wooden door with a “squeak,”
And a spiral staircase rising upward, leading deep
Into another shadowy world.
Having passed through that grove, I cannot stop looking back.
My body decays into earth,
While the departed wander within the persimmon grove.
***
秋天里穿过一片柿树林
远远地，一片火红诱惑着
枝丫上缀满多浆的果实
一颗颗心脏掴疼我
树林里安息着死亡，殷红如血
抬起头来仰望
一树灯笼照亮灵魂
如同秋天催醒了丰收的欲望
透过这满天的黄星星，看不到天空
一颗颗果实坚硬
是一把把钥匙，打开
陈旧的木门，“吱扭”一声
旋梯而上，直深入到
另一个幽暗世界
走过那片柿树林，还不住回望
身体腐烂成泥
亡灵在柿树林里徘徊
__________________
Read: The Gray Bird – Poetry from China
