Fall Book Pick Six
Jerusalem myristic acid row poetry Choose three
| Multiple poems at a time |
《秋之书》（选六）Fall Book Pick Six
《秋之书》（选六）
Baxter, James K ·
1
From the hill 托罗普提尼 houses down,
I am naked in the sharp two-foot stone, raw so.
That is the most appropriate repentance. Pakistani village on the road
Filled with cold dust, and I can see
Ax moon slowly slipped behind a tree,
Shot out the windows of the church red light,
Like a pack of demons, and in this place
The devil is real. Above the church door, the old
Honeycomb wrapped in moonlight, the bees hum loud.
I went into the church door, knelt down to pray, and then out of,
Climb the hill, convent above the horse farm
I went through the frightened horses. Now, one or two tribes of people
Has returned to the big room - you let me do,
Christ the Lord? I play the game you and I have been turned into boulders
3
Now our meat has been eaten, but in that way
Grace Church back shoulder of a goat,
I was taken aback. He asked me, "Do you know what
The slaughter of learning? "I replied:" That's not a bad thing! "
And tonight, I opened a book Debray revolutionaries,
Two candles burning on the table, we see the wall
Sergio father gave us many heroes on the cross,
Grace Church dial ring guitar, Kate in the long-winded,
The other a house, Fu Lanxi in the bath;
Good dinner: half a sheep heart, a kidney, a testicle,
There cabbage and soybeans. Hill outside
Owl loud screaming birds, like the human voice,
Pakistani villagers told us that this is someone to die,
Anyone can. But tonight we are safe.
5
At the moment an open world, "self" as a sentinel
Temporarily close your eyes in front of the soul;
Like today, a group of pigeons
In a river on flapping wings,
I am prepared to go that river bath, naked,
Lift the water to my thigh;
Then I walk around barefoot marching smooth boulders,
I thought: "The world does not need
Then there is a Heaven "- but the sky purple cloud head
Soon the rain come down, I hid
Under the willow and thorns, as previously
Just avoid the Father. I am back to Fu Lanxi
A wet and wild mint sprig,
Tomorrow it will grow as the potato-like.
11
Often when I walk in the germination of fig Shupang,
Or stepping on a boulder in the river,
I met my dead father's face,
Also on the chin with twelve white students to be short,
Safety razor lost. In his youth,
He was holding a razor sharp ivory handle,
Very skilled scraped cheek,
Smooth blue skin scrapings. "Old", I said,
"I have loved you long time, many people still love you,
Whether there will be an opportunity for your son and you
"Star in the realm of summer meet?" He quietly
Away from me, but if because of his touch
That _set_ off by the rounded leaves become more green figs,
It becomes more dazzling midday sun.
23
Here, in the end of the corridor,
Heat penetrated my bones again.
Saudi wahi Figure an hour to an hour old
Salvage the rain and flooding could not leaking roof tank
Put on new wood. And when I asked him why,
He replied, "to work for the first"
"Working for God" - the day the house repaired
In my previous house students from the stove;
Stove is second-hand, in the desolate post Nepalese twenty dollars only,
Its lid is broken - firewood, stoves, matches everything evil;
The first root flame Jumping - so the room
No longer have that clean fire exists.
That fire burning bright now and forever in the hearts of the whole tribe
For the world, this thing easy to understand.
39
Our dream is the core of the cave,
Translated it to the world brothels. Margaret
She gave me about a dream: On beach,
A house on the grass, the old, there is confusion of the path,
Upstairs downstairs was full of sleep the entire tribe,
Three big waves coming from the sea
Washed houses, but it is not washed away,
Although there is then a little while, they have obscured the sun and the moon;
I think people must have a shelter
A home, a flesh and blood of God, a mother,
Have the time, place, and not just in the abstract of a vacuum
Find themselves. In that wall, they
Reached into the paint bucket, the fingerprint is printed on the wall
As the cave in the era of Margaret Delin hunters.
Translator: 西川