山曲

村东电杆倒伏的黄泥小院
是我对宇宙的第一印象
挥动归来之鞭的小马车
不同于停在米年间那辆
 喇叭传出高亢的二流水
蜜语化作严厉的唱腔
合我心意的蹋地呼天
诗是一座阴山以北的村庄
几扇雕花如过眼烟云的窗户
废弃在我一定耽留过的凉房
我触摸着世间最美的破洞
仿佛可以摸到耽留于窗纸上的星光
 房后的鸦巢是一滴粗糙的泪水
噙在不远处的远方的眼眶
我走到一首诗的尽头
伤逝如辣椒，夺目地挂在门上


JIA LIU (Trans.)

Music of the Mountains

In the east of the village, a yard of yellow mud where a lamppost has collapsed
Forms my first impression of the Universe.
The small returning wagon, from which the whip is wielded,
Is no longer the one in the Year of Harvest.
From the tannoy flows a loud tune of Twin Streams,
Its sweet whisper turned into shrill singing.
To my heart’s joy, such is the music that shakes the ground and pierces the sky,
The poem that is the village north of the Yin Mountains.
A few window panels, their latticework a fleeting beauty,
Are left behind in the cold storage room where I must have lingered.
I brush my fingers across their cracks and holes, the most beautiful in the world,
As if by touch to feel the starlight that has stained the window paper.
The crow’s nest behind the house is a drop of ill-shaped tear
Burning in the distant eyes not so far away.
As I approach the end of the poem,
My grief for the dead hangs like red chillies, conspicuous, above the door.

LUISETTA MUDIE (Trans.)

Hill Song

My first image of the cosmos:
a fallen power pole in a courtyard
on an ochre mud floor
east of the village;
a mule-cart returning,
whip flailing; not the same one
that came in the days of plenty.
The loudspeakers pour forth
the “Flowing Waters” overture,
its honeyed notes giving way
to a rousing army chorus.
A poem is like a village
on a north-facing hillside
shouting, like me, its grief to the skies.
The carvings on the shutters
left behind in a cold room
where I must once have stayed
make windows on passing clouds.
I reach out, finger
the most exquisite
tear in the fabric of the world
as if to feel the starlight
linger on the window paper.
The crow’s nest behind the house
is a rough teardrop held close
by far-away eyes.
I walk to the end of the poem,
dazzled by past hurts
that hang like chilli peppers
from the door-jamb
to dry.



I chose the Qin Xiaoyu poem because, in a word, it was challenging! The accomplishment of rhyme through natural syntax is difficult enough; Qin manages to do more by embodying a certain heaviness in his language. The allusions are deep, intertwined, and culturally esoteric. I wanted to bring the best translators out of the woodwork and see what they could do.
                                                                                                                                         — Canaan Morse