Birds are nowhere to be seen. The vanishing they pursue
Hides within a trembling line of verse
Only the jagged wind sweeps sharply across the lake
Far deeper than the crowns of trees
Liang Xuebo
Liang Xuebo, poet and poetry critic. Born in 1973. Author of poetry collections Broken Knife at Midnight, Book of Rain, and The Lamp mender. He is the recipient of the Jiangsu Biennial Award for Young Poets (2012 2013), the 9th Jinling Literature Award, the 2nd Li Bai Poetry Award, and the 4th Hai Zi Poetry Award, among others. He serves as Executive Deputy Editor of the avant garde poetry journal Fei Fei and Executive Editor of Turbulence. He currently lives in Nanjing.
梁雪波，诗人，兼事诗歌评论。生于1973年。著有诗集《午夜的断刀》《雨之书》《修灯的人》。曾获江苏青年诗人双年奖（2012-2013）、第九届金陵文学奖、第二届李白诗歌奖、第四届海子诗歌奖等。先锋诗刊《非非》执行副主编，《湍流》执行主编。现居南京。
Translated by Ma Yongbo
Tree‑Nest
The snow‑cloaked mountain woods hold a hush too fragile for ink
Metasequoias stand sharp‑erect, as if growth has come to a halt
Ancient secrets stored atop the treetops
Drift like a cloud — to the mortal world below
A half‑finished paradise
Birds are nowhere to be seen. The vanishing they pursue
Hides within a trembling line of verse
Only the jagged wind sweeps sharply across the lake
Far deeper than the crowns of trees
The jay’s heartbeat merges wholly with the snow‑bound silence
Reflections of distant mountains sway inside the cup
In the mythic garden where paths fork apart
For that electric, jolting gaze shared with a jay years ago
Snow falls thicker still
Burying all footprints left by the visitor
Far mountains: pills exchanged between my eyes and the jay’s
That jagged wind rips open my disquiet too
The wind blows, and the tree‑nest sways
As though the heart of the world lies on a doubter’s sickbed
Unrelenting, the reckless wind
Blows through crabapple, black locust, withered willow and plum
Drawing the jay’s cry into a vaster darkness
树巢
雪后的山林有不忍落墨的空寂
水杉峭立，仿佛停止了生长
蓄积在树顶的古老的秘密
如一朵浮云——相对于尘世来说
那是完成一半的天堂
飞鸟不知去向，她们追求的消逝
像隐身于一行颤栗的诗
只留下锯齿形的风，急掠湖面
在比树冠更高的深处
松鸦的心跳与雪的寂静合二为一
杯中晃动着远山的倒影
在小径分岔的玄圃，为多年前
与松鸦的一次电击般的对视
雪下得更密了
覆盖了造访者来时的足迹
远山，是我与松鸦眼中互换的药丸
这锯齿形的风也割开了惶然
风吹过，树巢摇晃
仿佛世界的中心陷入怀疑者的病榻
风不停歇，它孤注地
吹过海棠、刺槐、枯柳和梅
把松鸦的鸣叫纳入更广阔的黑暗中
***
Eaves‑Snow
They catch the grace descending out of heaven
With patience more enduring than the trees
When I wake from the cold night under the frigid moon
I push the window open; snow gleams toward me
Revealing the crisp, cool depth of time
I watch several grey finches on the sloped roof
Plunging down in glee
Like a troop of schoolchildren refusing their breakfast
And the darkness drunk the night before, almost ashamed
Becomes the most sunken hollow in the garden
Snow holds the elasticity of language. It shapes
One thing out of another
Inside the snowman’s frame lie people’s dramatized inner lives
As snowballs are rolled bright
Someone long‑lost reappears within the scenery of the season
All winter long I have nothing to do
The boughs stand bare, as if brooding
On how to carry a fall of snow northward — carrying snow to fill a well
Across the undulating roof tiles
Good and evil hasten each toward their native home
Yet one who gazes up at snow upon the eaves will still, for long
Take root within the dark
檐雪
它们接住了从天空降下的美意
用比树木更为持久的耐心
当我从寒宵冷月中醒来
推开窗，迎面的雪闪着光
显示出时间甘冽的厚度
我看见几只灰雀在屋顶的斜坡上
欢快地俯冲
像一群不肯吃早饭的小学生
而昨夜饮下的黑暗，几乎羞愧地成为
花园里最凹陷的那个部分
雪有语言般的弹性，用一种事物
塑造另一种事物，在
雪人的身体里，藏着人们戏剧化的内心
当雪球搓亮，一个失踪多年的人
重新出现在季节的风景中
整个冬天我无所事事，枝条光裸
仿佛酝酿着
如何将一场雪运往北方，担雪填井
起伏不定的屋瓦上
善恶都在奔赴各自的故乡
而一个仰望檐雪的人，仍将长久地
在黑暗中扎根
***
Rain in the South
Rain has played all through July night in the South
I wake from dreams, loosely holding an empty cup
My breath sinks into darkness. Piled‑up books
Still keep the thickness of paper and the secrets of words
Frog croaks drift in from outdoors
Steady and urgent, like a telegram out of memory
Solitary raindrops hanging over olden days
Have dampened my temples, I know not when
In truth nothing can be clearly heard: stations, sleep‑talk, the eyes of trees
Truly, this July rain
is but cool fingermarks gliding over black piano keys
Shards of glass cutting close to the inner weather of the heart
Everything slows down in the rain
Low‑humming cargo boats, an emperor’s rebuke, and time’s white bones
Within the folds of rain, a young horse still slumbers
He breathes warm vapours onto my face
Amid the rising chirp of birds
His lifted hooves bear mud from last night’s thunderous downpour
南方的雨
雨，在南方的七月弹了一夜
我从梦中醒来，虚执空杯
呼吸沉入黑暗，堆积的书
还保持着纸的厚度和词的秘密
屋外传来的蛙鸣
持续而急促，像一封记忆的电报
对应于陈旧时光的孤悬的雨滴
不知何时弄湿了耳际
其实什么也听不清：车站、梦呓、树的眼睛
其实一场七月的雨
只是滑过黑色琴键的微凉的指痕
切近内心气候的玻璃碎片
在雨中一切都慢下来了
低鸣的货船，皇帝的呵斥，与时间的白骨
在雨的褶皱里，年幼的马仍在熟睡
他朝我的脸喷着热气
在渐起的鸟鸣中
他翘起的足尖嵌着昨夜轰响的泥
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