Moon: mark strand; Translated by Shu Dandan
Open the book at night, turn to the moon, always the moon, emerge in. A page between two clouds, it moves slowly, and time seems to pass. Before you turn to the next page, there, the moon is brighter now, and it hangs on a road.
It leads you away from everything you are familiar with and to where you want things to happen. Its lonely syllables hang like sentences. The edge of feeling is waiting for you to look up from the page before you say its name. Then close the book and still feel like it, living in that kind of light, that kind of sudden sound paradise. ?
Moon: Walcott; Translated by Wang Weiqing?
Reject poetry, I am becoming a poem. Oh, orpheus's drooping head is howling silently, and my own head is raised from its clouds and waves. Slowly, a sound grew inside me. Slowly, I became a bell, an oval separated vowel. I grew up, an owl, a halo and a white fire.
I watched the crazy image of the moon burning, and a candle was hypnotized by its own light. I turned my hot and frozen face to fork mountain, which plunged into the drowning singer. Frozen eyes, frostbite, typical fossilization. You didn't swear not to write such poems this year, did you? Stop writing poems about the moon? Why are you firmly caught by lazy demons? Your silence screams so fast?