What does it mean if a poem wants to “dwell on the shelf”—to be preserved, but with the potential to be un- or under-read? In Dai Weina’s poem, translated by Liang Yujing, dwelling is a technique or technology of ordinary life, the shelf (perhaps) a form of meditation—a way to appraise and appreciate erosion, to inhabit an unsteady or unreliable constellation of things. This poem charts the pathos of the unsustainable: through a domestic arrangement, a coastline, a planet, a future. It comforts because it knows destruction itself is primordial, is the underside of poems and relish both—off and on the shelf, in our mouths or in the jar. While the cursor of a word processor blinks gently in the background (as mermaid fin, or the keyboard’s lightning), Dai Weina’s poetry wants to dredge up deep time, lined (as it is) with fantasies of the future. –The Editors and Poetry Staff
Bookshelf Apartment
Icy blue seawater ebbs from the bookshelf.
A large spoon churns the photons of days and nights,
notched shells of seven colors, broken parts of crabs
and all the work wind has done on the sands.
At low tide, a giant bookshelf is standing, lame, on the beach,
brittle, rotting—
an image of loss.
When people get lost in time, we dwell on the shelf.
Then, light rays curve, the day an endless book.
You hungrily fill your ears with preserves.
The music in my bones curls like falling leaves.
The sea-witch’s sweat diffuses into a blue mist.
The bookshelf apartment—our last shelter,
the only residues of this world. Its increasing erosion
never frightens us, who routinely witness the extinction of another chapter,
still believe in the world-changing power of pen and paper.
The one offspring of the Writing Age, now only I can read your handwriting.
I am omnipotent in front of you—
I can smell who has just walked by under the sun.
I can call the anonymous god to stop from behind.
I’m willing to be a drop of ink splattered on your robe—
an air crash in the mechanical storm as the mansion tilts.
The keyboard’s lightning won’t tear up our chastity contract.
Some laugh at our over-romantic expressions.
But don’t forget I am a trained actor
who is better than anyone at acting cute, pretending to be deep or poetic.
At the worst, we can become a pair of warm-blooded robots
in the times of cold blood.
Still, I want to merge into this image of loss,
listening to my falling leaves and your preserves.
At a syncopation, I catch a glimpse of the mermaid flashing past behind the shelf.
Her face fades away in a quarter of a second,
leaving behind a fin looming in the air, glittering.
§
书架公寓
冰蓝的海水从书架间退去
大匙搅拌日夜的光子
缺口的七色贝壳，水蟹的断肢残骸
和风在沙子上做过的一切功课
巨大的书架跛立在退潮的海滩上
脆弱而毁减——
一副关于损失的画面
当人们在时间里迷路，我们就居住在这书架的某一层
那光景，日月曲折，白昼总也翻不到尽头
你耳廓里饥饿地灌进蜜饯
我骨中音乐是卷曲的落叶
海巫的汗滴晕成一场蓝雾
书架公寓——我们最后的栖身之所
这世界的唯一残存，腐蚀日夜加剧
你我却不惊慌，像上班一样目送又一章的消亡
仍相信纸笔有扭转世界的力量
书写时代的唯一子嗣，你的笔体如今只有我识
在你面前我可以无所不能——
我能闻出谁刚打阳光下走过
我能从背后喊住那匿名的神
我愿做你僧袍上溅洒的一颗墨水——
随将倾的大厦在机械风暴中坠机
键盘的电闪无法撕毁我们之间贞洁的契约
有人在笑话，我们的表达太过浪漫
可别忘记，我乃表演系出身
装萌、装深沉、装诗，我都比他们在行
大不了在一个无体温的年代
做一对有体温的机器人
我还是要住回这一副损失的画面
听我的落叶，你的蜜饯
就在被切分的瞬间，瞥见书架后一闪而过的美人鱼
她的容颜在四分之一秒内消逝
剩下一截鱼鳍隐隐落在空气里，发光
June 2018