Media Gallery

Plastic 12: Concluding our Plastic folio is one long poem by Zheng Xiaoqiong, in translation by Eleanor Goodman from Iron Moon, An Anthology of Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry (White Pine Press, 2016). Bearing the relentlessness of production in its own body, the poem endures.

 

In the Hardware Factory

God’s as lazy as we are and produced humans on an assembly line
I could find my other half anywhere
they’re as standardized as goods made in a factory,
a marriage gives rise to thorns of resentment, from noon to sunset
you live among the thorns, the pain is hard to bear, thinking of the pretty girl in the mirror
thinking of bone diseases, thinking of the conventions of Chinese medicine
you hear death’s name, and it’s like a piece of steel
inlayed in your bones, you can’t afford to be sick,
a butterfly flapping its wings inside a 3000-degree boiler
you’ll think it was a beast in a past life
running across an African savanna, but your disease started with the beast
of the machine, from levers to screws, from blueprints to calipers
from loneliness to a lost youth, it smells of hardware factory tools
and you’re nothing but a lump of iron, thinking of words that have to do with iron
like sheen, iron oxide, cast iron, steel, thinking of its sharpness
and the pain it causes as it pricks the body, thinking of its enormous
spindles, pulverizing a dream into powder, thinking of its steel needle
sewing up a wound, and if you need
to emerge from love in the midst of labor laws, smearing bread with butter
in the midst of hope, these nighttime machines at 11:14pm
these thoughts wriggle like fish as she huddles between the calipers
and there is a different world outside, with its songs of debauchery

A lion would have trouble reaching the tip of a thought of steel
a steel monster has her by the throat, and in its bones
are violent rain and thunder, heartfelt fantasies, and the iron turns from black to red
turns cold and dusty like frost in my stomach
or it installs itself in the gears or levers or pulleys of the era
we need an energy-saving era, but all the inferior goods
are turned into a symbol of iron by my abandoned organs, it was once
a nostalgic spring equinox, stove fires lit the many metaphors and symbols
you made genitals out of steel, made them hard
the basis of Chinese medicine is the moon, waxing and waning
you cut patterns of a cross, a sun, a penis at your cutting machine
and the thunder brings silver wings across the sky, steel has its own
mouth and taste, it must use sliding calipers or a compass to calibrate
the hunger of this era, the officials are anxious to learn, the poor are used to crying
the countryside has learned to be polluted, the city is being demolished
torn down, demolished, torn down
our diminishing bodies feel the unformed future
and his designs depart from realism, the Romantics
start to feed on illusion, our futures get better and better, just keep on
signing real contracts with blind men, he imagines plums on the southern mountains
and he tells us that the eggs in his hands are rocks
time seems set apart from the Four Modernizations of the ‘80s
I still haven’t made it to the 21st century’s low slope of prosperity
the mountains are so high, but the body rots, and how many years will it take
to reach utopia, I pity myself as I age
unable to squeeze onto communism’s last train
but living in a scorching workshop in a sweat and blood factory, and there’s only one
autumn cicada ready to cast off its shell, unnamable, unsummonable, impassable,
trustworthy time, ideal sunlight, an obscure silent future
beside the new century is a pile of machine-cut trash and social stages
that came too late to complete, time begins to defect
it laughs at our memories and enthusiasm as they slip away, and you don’t stop your praises
nothing can absorb more than empty time
I long for the past, twenty years of a turned loom spins a classic thread
the needle of the Great Leap Forward sewed the clothes of reform and opening up,
the bureaucrats’ livers turn black, but they’re black enough already
so much has been destroyed, what’s left is an unbroken eulogy
oh, these goddamn soft bones, he always planned to use
wings of lies to step on the moon, the poor man, so servile
I’m accustomed to breaking iron, polishing it, drilling holes, creating the exterior
of this era, arranging my fate on top of pieces of ironware
a grand banquet requires worry as alcohol, poverty as food
what does this world have to offer me aside from grief, what else
can console us, living these difficult lives…..

The reality is princes and party bosses, tax collectors and organizations, on rainy days
they hold meetings to discuss the country’s yin and yang, the roads, ideology, how there’s a need
for more email attachments and ordinances, how trees need steel altars, the moon will be reborn
in water, these guesses should be rewarded, its bewitching passwords comes from Grave-Sweeping Day
the powers of the elders, its cheekbones are too high, her fate is too terrible, her poetry
is too good, leaving goals that are too hard, stabbing into this soft era
in her last life she was a phoenix, reborn as a lion, and the steel is too black
the isms too many, leaving her shapely body to surrender to the world, together with the night
appearing, intersecting, coinciding, and they have identical faces
it already can’t return to the prairie, its definition is expanding, extending
the leftover seeds from Grain Rain Day to bring you good luck
morality is fragile, its body is skewered on steel shamelessness, the spiders spin webs
the moths leap to flame, I can’t avoid the building’s lean, its arrogant expression
and the remaining warmth of Naturalism’s adherents, they feel fine but have lost confidence
still sunk in the self-pitying elegant scenery of the past, she comes from the Sichuan countryside
the hometown of milkvetch, returning from forests to steel, bleak heart filled with ivy
polishing poetry between machines, molding it with iron and blueprints, so life is
this toil, the burning heat of the hardware factory workshop, electric saws and steel hammers, the sago palms on the windowsill, the palms outside
traditional woods, they’re formed
into frames, strips, shapes, like ancient doctrines
you hold tight to Japanese silk roses, German gears, imitation calipers, it’s tragic, this imitation factory
starts to produce counterfeit boxes and lids, they’re like coffin after coffin, filled with my soul
they’re independent from your body and heart, they hold endless secrets
the draftsmen sink into lines, the molders craft by appearance,
statisticians compute numbers, bosses calculate profits, while I do overtime overnight
and the moon in the window only lights up my dreams, the quality inspector stamps in red
signs her name and adds her number, I face the cold steel and the unresponsive vastness
memory lies in waste like the development zones, gazing at ancient temples surrounded by factories
there are some deserted old ways that seem like ruins or relics, the air shakes the scent of hemp
I write this line on the back of graph paper, and the shaking will be passed
from the paper to the flesh, if I still need to explain, I get used to abstractions and comfortable seats along with the production supervisor
she has a tongue like fine iron wire, twisting around order forms and customers, the overhead lights
illuminate my doctrines and notations, and the iron pincers and knives head my way, she flips the switch
and turns on disease, and the iron on the machine is polished, rounded, squared, corrugated, left
or right, oh, I’m a loyal worker, the gears catch as they turn, and the iron bars turn
into toys, VCDs, the silent iron will be given a rare long journey
the thread-cutter thrusts out a crablike pincer, grabbing onto Confucius’s poetry, thoughts, and profits,
grains of life’s original quiet, lifting toward the shady places like the production supervisor’s skirt, and all night the lamp
lights up a blueprint for the future, oh, these threads are fairly simple, these doctrines have some mistakes
I open the valve to life, this postmodern art, what do springtime’s dark ghosts need
the iron is forged, its wet silhouette blooms in the iron webbing, it wears
a black iron coat, carries a black iron scarf, oh, you lift your head to look at the clock at the top of the church
now, my blood pressure skyrockets, it rises with our collective shame
for so many years, I haven’t kept up with the isms, politics’ swimming champions grow
scales, the bell’s ring lives on in time, and time is so long and life is so short
what’s left of the city lacks education, it tries to start a red-light district, big hotels
raise bright mosaics, it’s just a shame that the old houses that have held out don’t understand a harmonious society
these defective kids and products, the strange odor filling my life
will they come into bloom, will they wither and fall, look at the workshop’s polisher
who starts to stick out a defecting finger, life was once a trade and her back is to the rock,
a lonely heart, overtime in a sweating factory has destroyed my heart, I’m like a prisoner
who has given up freedom for a rebirth, oh, there are still three work steps left, rivet joints
soldering, and isn’t it like a beast biting into you, iron shavings flying,
with so many nightmares, we need someone to warm our sleep

As soon as I could I left this life of iron, it carried out a kind of Romanticism
on the machines, pulled dreams from the last punched hole, left behind a hundred shapes
and a hundred futures, as I bear loneliness in the shrieks of iron, it carved
my residence registration on a hole-punch, my age, records, temporary residence permits, it records it all
my work number and jobs, it forges a jail cell, and uses production numbers to track
our emotional states, its blueprints are dusky theories, requiring philosophy and political theory
iron is delivering a speech on the machines, it’s waiting for the name of a theory or a style
I’m already used to a fantastical realism, worshipping the mute, now it’s perfect for
a kind of opening up, from ore to iron, from iron to products, this is
the process of iron establishing a political party, it uses calipers, blueprints, switches, yes
and there’s electricity, those words you softly muttered, like water
flowing through your nerves, you tremble and read out electricity, iron turns electricity
into party regulations and power, these collective parties of iron tools start to tell me what to do
drill holes here, fold there, it speaks in translation, good at guarding against
the mixed grief and confusion of the ordinary people, it matches my inner thoughts
the molding designer starts drafting economic policy and advancing the system of roads
finding the main points on an iron plate, the center of iron, organizing principles,
the thread-cutter is busy with plans and development, planning a development zone on an iron plate
the central zone, where they forge a subpar financial center, the sharp whistles of the machines
are the last home-owning holdouts having their houses torn down, relocated, the toiling hardware factory’s polisher,
hole-puncher, and cutter, who live with their relatives in one room, use a ruthless measure
to mold iron lives, they are confined there to polish, punch, and bore
the size and depth must be harmonious and stable, the textbooks repeat the political ideology
they must learn forbearance, this is a separate China of unemployment, layoffs,
job injuries, severed fingers, oh, these simple people prevented from living in the city
the representatives give speeches, the Central Consultative Conference puts forward proposals, while elementary students explain in their homework
to create a clean and tourist-friendly city, migrant workers must be forbidden from crowding in
they live in the shame of an iron-sheet country, so many of their hearts are weak
they can’t take X pounds of pain, they get stomach problems and occupational diseases
and kidney stones, their blood vessels are stuffed with dissatisfaction and grudges, made sick for the iron country
bringing elements of destabilization, and petitioners begin to enter the next sequence
product inspectors begin to pick undesirables, familiar iron bars show another face
the scarred winning competitors are too humorous and righteous, they will not yield
to a single doctrine, and we begin to use computer bits and forms to express happiness
time is like a pork pie, it lacks a birthplace and an identity, it is filled with too much dissent
we must wait for the custodians to come and clean, this iron will exchange its tongue and mouth
its personality makes it excellent in a chorus, it uses satire and rhetorical tricks
to recite the comedies of life, while the foreign factory’s quality control points in only one direction
she starts to point at the nation of iron, her voice is filled
with calls for the dead and for alchemy, this iron needs work with a stronger political bent
with the poems and art of existence, iron is too quiet
it hasn’t cast off the old customs, it won’t face the customer gods
and flirt, we need revisions and deletions, for time to return
to 1990, our transformations need to be examined anew
these restless years need to be debated and corrected
of mistakes, iron’s matrix is stuck in the 1980s
its dull stiff circles don’t work in the new age, the molding designers need
to be woken, they’ve stood too long in the advantages of the past
or they’re too close to the bureaucrats of old and the new VIPs
their designs aren’t right for the masses, the thread-cutter cares too much
about profits, leaving out the curved lines of ordinary people, leaving behind the polishers,
hole-punchers, cutters, who are made responsible for inferior goods, and the suffering
iron’s hesitant despair makes dead politicians take responsibility, and just as we
have never felt grief for no reason, the dead can pardon them
to arrive at memories and symbols even emptier than iron’s political party, the bosses
must pay respects to useless objects, the statisticians calculate mistakes and defects
her handwriting is terrible, it makes my pay seem confusing
sickening my heart, and under the stares of collectivism we learn
how distrust and habit and lack of habit replace force, I think rebellion
cannot but play the role of loyal workers, punching the time clock right on time, respectful of superiors
brains are washed by iron’s political party, there are eyes everywhere
it glistens in a crab-claw light, getting a vice-grip on excess ideas and imagination
the security guards are good at violence, guarding the doors and searching bodies, their blue uniforms
are as forbidding as policemen’s, they inspect the workshops, hand out fines to those they find napping

Now I return to the center of iron, and where is it from
a mountain’s depths, a coalmine, a foreign country, it was once a buried stone
dug up by someone, pulverized, it holds the earth’s coughing
its dark gray body is wracked by late-stage disease, iron’s past
is so desolate I don’t dare imagine any more, it’s passed through tall buildings, factories,
railways and state-run processing plants, they’re installed even deeper in the machines than the earth
its hopes need the hacksaw and spark machine, I use a mute language to speak
of their desires, returning to the mood of rocks, it can’t speak Chinese
the hardest place of the Han, I can only indistinctly hear it, it sounds like rocks
crying, it comes from a handmade cellar, and the way back has been sealed up by industry and the city guards
it’s traveling a corridor made of nonfiction, from stone to iron
from iron to product, it encounters nonstop time
they are cut into incomplete shapes, yesterday, today, tomorrow,
history, the future, the present, or the 21st century, it’s all fragments of you
or me, you want to insist on the old doctrines, tossed by life, pushed aside
life cannot tolerate overly perfect things, it has a dangerous
jealous heart, it starts to end, and I’m still longing for ancient times as I stand at this modern machine
longing to go back to the Tang—to write poetry, collect Chinese medicine on the mountainsides, go fishing in the wind and fine rain

 
 

《在五金厂》
郑小琼

上帝也偷懒,用流水线造人
我在世间可以寻找的另一半太多
他们像工业流水线的制品整齐,平整
婚姻生长于幽怨的刺,从中午到黄昏
你在刺中活着,疼痛难忍,想想镜中美人
想想骨头的疾病,想想中草药的风情
你听到死亡的名字,如一根钢铁
嵌在你的骨头,你长病不起,一只
蝴蝶在3000度的锅炉里扇动着翅膀
你会误认为它的前生是一头在非洲草原上
奔跑的兽,你的病是从野兽样的机器
开始,从扳手到螺丝,从图纸到卡尺
从孤独到丢失的青春,它有着五金工具的味道
你不过是一块铁,想想与铁有关的言辞
与光泽,哑铁,铸铁,钢铁,想想它的尖锐
以及它扎进身体的疼痛,想想它是巨大的
锭子,将一场美梦砸得粉碎,想想它一口钢针
将裂开的伤口缝上,如果还需要
从劳动法里的爱出发,在希望间涂上面包
与奶油,这些十一点十四分,深夜的机台
有意念像鱼一样游动,她蜷缩在卡尺间
窗外是另一个世界,有灯红酒绿的歌声

一头狮子难以抵达一块钢铁的意念之尖
她被怪异的铁紧捏着喉咙,它的骨头里有着
暴雨与雷鸣,内心的想象,铁由黑变成红
变成霜样的灰与寒冷,在我身体的腹部
或者底座安装着时代的齿轮,杠杆或者滑轮
我们需要进入一个省力时代,却充满了劣质产品
被我遗弃的器官成为铁的某种象征,它原本是
一个怀旧的春分,炉火照亮那么多隐喻和象征
你用铁造出下体的某个器官,让它坚硬
中草药原本是明月,它有阴晴圆缺
你在线切割机上割着十字架,太阳与阳具的图案
雷声在半空送来银色的翅膀,钢铁有着它自己的
嘴巴和品味,需要用游标卡尺或者用罗盘校准
时代的胃口,官员急于学习,贫民习惯哭泣
乡村学会污染,城市正在拆迁,拆,拆,拆
日益萎靡的身体预知着难以成型的未来,啊
他的设计图纸已逃离现实主义,浪漫主义者
开始画饼充饥,我们的前途越来越好,请继续
向瞎子签订真相的契约,他想象南山上的
梅子,他告诉我们,手中的鸡蛋就是石头
时间有些远,从八十年代的四个现代化
我还没有进入二十一世小康的矮坡岭
山,还有那么高,身体却腐朽,还需要多少年
才能到达乌托邦,我真为自己难过,年龄
衰老,挤不上去共产主义的最后一趟火车
却活在血汗工厂某着灼热的车间,做一只即将
脱壳的秋蝉,说不出,也叫不了,穿越不了
信用的时间,理想阳光明媚,前途杳无言讯
新世纪旁边堆满机器的剪口废物跟没有来得及
过完的社会主初级阶段,时间开始变节
它嘲笑我渐失的记忆与激情,啊,你不断赞美
没有什么比空虚的时间容纳更多的东西
我在怀旧,二十年的手动纺纱机纺出了古典的线
穿上大跃进的针,缝着改革开放的衣
官僚们的肝发黑,是的,他们已黑得够多了
有很多可看的已被摧毁,剩下赞美曲不断
嗯,这该死的软骨头,他一直企图用借用
谎言的翅膀,踩上银月亮,可怜的,一副奴才相
我习惯了把铁分割,打磨,钻孔,造成一个时代的
外观特征,把我的宿命安置在一块铁器之上
在铁的泪水中孤独地漫游,把身体插入铁
让它驮着我去遥远的地方,这苦原本是人生的
盛宴,需要用忧伤当酒,贫寒的食物
啊,这世界对于我,除了忧伤,还有什么
可以安慰此生,生活是困难的……

真相原本是王侯与党棍,税官和体制,在雨水日
开会,商量国家的阴阳,路线,主义,需要更多
附件与条例,树木需要一个钢铁的祭坛,明月转世
投胎水中,猜测需要歌颂,它妖娆的密码来自清明日
祖先的通灵术,它的颧骨太高,她的命运太苦,她的诗歌
太好,剩下铁质的渴望太硬,刺痛了柔软的时代
她前生原本一只凤凰,转身投胎却成狮子,钢铁太黑
主义太多,剩下她丰腴的肉体向世界屈服,与黑夜相互
呈现,交叉,重合,啊,它们有着相同的面孔,
它已无法返回它的草原,它的定义正扩展,延伸
如今剩下谷雨日的种子给你带来好运气
道德原本脆弱,它的肉体插入一根无耻的钢扦,蜘蛛结网
飞蛾扑火,我无法回避大厦的倾斜,它傲慢的神情
残留着自然主义者的余温,感觉良好,却彻底丧失信心
啊,它还沉缅于旧时代自怜优雅的风景,她来自四川乡下
红花草的故乡,从树木返回钢铁,荒凉的内心挤满了爬山虎
在机器中打磨着诗句,用铁与图纸造型,啊,一生,原来多么
辛劳,五金厂车间的灼热,电锯与钢锤,窗台的铁树,门外的棕榈
来自传统的木头,它们被制成框,条,形,像古老的教条
你握住日本的丝玫,德国的牙轮,仿制的卡尺,可悲的,这仿制工厂
开始生产冒牌盒身盒盖,它们像一具具的棺木,装着我的灵魂
它们独立于你的身体与内心,有说不完的秘密
绘图员沉缅于线条,模具师们匠心于外观
统计员核算数字,老板们计算着利润,而我在深夜加班
窗口的月亮它仅仅照耀我的梦幻,质检员用红色的印章
签上她的姓氏与编号,我面对冰冷的钢铁与无言以对的空旷
记忆正像开发区被荒芜,眺望像被厂房包围着的古老祠堂
有些守旧,冷清,像废墟,也似遗址,“空气颤栗着麻的味道”
我在合格纸的背面写这句话,颤栗是可以传递的
从纸到肉体,如果还需我来阐释什么,跟单员小姐习惯了抽象
与雅座,她有着细铁丝一样舌头,绞着订单与客户,头顶的灯
照亮我的主义与符号,劈面而来的铁钳与刀具,她按动开关与
疾病,机台上的铁被打磨,圆具,方形,六棱色,向左
还是向右,啊,我是良民,齿轮有效地运转,一座座铁制品
做成,玩具,VCD的,寂静的铁将有一次难得的长途族行
线切割机伸出螃蟹样的钳子,钳住子曰诗云,思想与利润
生活原本寂静的砂粒,跟单员的裙子朝着背阴处掀起,彻夜亮灯
照亮图纸上的未来,啊,这些线条有点简单,这些主义有些错误
我打开生活的阀门,这后现代的艺术,春日灰暗的幽灵需要怎样
铁来打造,它们湿漉漉的身影,在铁丝网上开花,它们穿着
黑铁外套,带着黑铁头罩,啊,你抬头看教堂头顶的钟
此刻,我的血压比天空还高,它因为集体的耻辱不断上升
这么多年,我趟不过主义的河流,政治的游泳选手长出了
鱼鳞,钟声在时间里活着,啊,岁月太长,生命太短
剩下的城市缺少教养,它努力开发红灯区,大酒店
举起繁华的马赛克,只可惜钉子户习惯了不和谐
这些次品的毛头与披峰,我生活充满异样的味道
它们是不是会盛开,它们会不会凋谢,你看见车间打磨员
开始伸出变节的手指,生命原是一场交易,她背着石头
寂寞的内心,血汗工厂的加班灰了我的心,我像囚徒
用放弃自由获得新生,啊,还剩下三个工序,铆接
锡焊,它是不是像猛兽一样咬着你,铁屑飞动
恶梦太多,需要找一个人来温暖睡眠

我尽快走出这铁质结构的生活,它在机台推行
浪漫主义,把梦从最后一个牙孔抽走,剩下一百种形状
一百种未来,当我在铁的尖叫中忍受着孤独,它在牙上
刻下我的户籍,年龄,档案与暂住证,啊,它记录下
工号与工种,它打造一个囚笼,用生产数字记下我们的
内心状况,它在图纸是黄昏理论,必须用哲学与政治学
铁正在机台上发表演讲,它们等待一个主义或者风格命名
我已经习惯了魔幻现实主义,崇拜哑巴,它现在适合于
某种开放的经验,从矿石到铁块,从铁块到制品,这是
铁开始建立政党的过程,它用卡尺,图纸,开关,哦,
忘了,电,你轻声念出这个有些麻麻的词,它像水流
在你的神经间流动,你颤抖一下念出电,铁把电当作
党章与动力,啊,这些集体政党的铁具开始指挥着我
在此处钻孔,彼处折叠,它说着翻译体,合适而警惕
交集着百姓的悲哀与糊涂,它正与我内心的观念对称
模具设计师开始制定经济政策与前进的路线
它在铁片上找出基本点,铁的中心,组织原则
线切割机师傅忙着规划与发展,在铁片上规划开发区
核心地带,他们打造次级金融中心,机器尖厉的哨声
是拆迁的钉子户,再往下,是血汗五金厂的打磨工
打孔工,啤工,他们祖孙三同居一室,用残忍的尺度
塑造铁的生活,他们被限制在哪里打孔,打磨,孔径
大小与深度,必须和谐而稳定,课本重复着政治思想
他们要学会忍耐生活,这是另一个中国,失业,下岗
工伤,断指,啊,这些被限制进入城市的低素质人群
代表发言,政协提议,小学生作文中早已经写清
为了创建卫生与旅游城市,禁止民工拥进首都
他们活着是铁片国家的耻辱,太多的民工内心脆弱
不能承受X公斤重的痛苦,他们得了胃病,职业病
结石,血管里塞满了不满与怨恨,这些病变会给铁国
带来不稳定的因素,上访者开始进入下一个程序
品检员开始挑选不良分子,熟悉的铁块有了另一个面孔
带着伤痕的淘汰者,它过度幽默与正义,不肯屈服
某个单一的主义,我们开始用数位元与表格来显示喜悦
时间是一个馅饼,它缺少籍贯与身份,饱含太多的岐义
需要等待清洁工来清理,这些铁会换掉了舌头嘴巴
它的风格适于合唱,它用反讽,借助修辞术
开始诵读人间喜剧,官僚的外厂QC只有单一方向
她开始对铁的国度指手画脚,她的声音充满了
招魂与炼金术,这些铁需要加强政治思想工作
还有生存的诗艺与艺术,铁过于沉默
它还没有摆脱旧时代的公式,不会向顾客上帝
暗送秋波,需要删改和编辑,时间重新返回
一九九0年代,我们的变革需要重新审视
这个躁动不安的年份,需要辩论与误解
调整与修正,铁的模型还停在一九八0年代
它笨重而呆板的圈圈不适于新世纪,模具设计师需要
反醒,他们过多的站在旧时代的既得利益者的立场
或者他们本身与旧时官僚与新时的权贵走得太近
他们的设计不适应于大众们的立场,线切割员过度
在意利益,省略小百姓们的曲线,唉,剩下打磨工
打孔工,啤工来承担不良品的责任,味道有些痛苦
彷徨,铁的绝望让死去的政治家们承担,就像我们
从来没有经过意义之外的忧伤,死去了就能够原谅
要抵达这些比铁的政党更虚无的回忆与象征,老板们
需要向这些报废品致敬,统计员计算着错误与缺点
她的字迹有扭曲,将我的月薪描述得扑朔迷离
后勤人员在我周围装上监控器,目无遮拦的关照
让我的内心感冒,在集体主的凝视下,我们学会了
怀疑,习惯与不习惯交替压迫着,我想暴动
却又不得不装着良民,按时打卡,对上司尊敬
思想被铁的政党清洗,四周布满了眼睛
它闪烁着铁钳样的光,把多余的念头与想象钳住
保安人员适于暴力,守门与搜身,他的蓝色制服
有着军警们的懔然,他们巡视车间,给瞌睡罚款单

现在我还是回到一块铁的中央,它来自哪里
深山,矿野,国外,它曾是埋藏地下的石头
被人挖掘,粉碎,它饱含着大地的咳嗽
灰黝的躯体有着晚期的职业病,这些铁的往事
太凄凉,我再也不敢想象,它们穿过高楼,厂房
铁路与国营的加工厂,它们在机台上装着比大地还深沉
它的希望需要用钢锯与线切割,我用哑语说出
它的愿望,回到那属于岩石的心境,它说不出汉语的声音
这汉族人最为坚硬的部分,我只隐约听到它像岩石一样的
哭泣,它来自于土制窖,回去的路已被工商与城管查封
它正走并非虚构的改造甬道上,从石头到铁块
从铁块到制品,它遇见马不停蹄的时间
它们被切割成不完整的形式,昨天,今天,明天
历史,未来,现在,或者二十一世纪,这些正是我或者你的
片段,你想坚持原来固有的主义,被生活打扎,卷边
生活不能容忍那些太过于完美的事物,它有着危险的
嫉妒心,开始便是结束,我还在现代的机台上怀想着古代
返回唐朝写诗,去山间采集中草药,垂钓斜风与细雨

Zheng Xiaoqiong and Eleanor Goodman

Zheng Xiaoqiong (b. 1980, Nanchong, Sichuan) worked for six months in a rural hospital after graduating from nursing school, and then moved to Dongguan to work in a die-mold factory. She soon moved to a toy factory and a magnetic tape factory, before beginning work as a warehouse manager. She then worked as a hole-punch operator in a hardware factory for five years. She is now an editor at a magazine. Her poetry collections include Huangma Mountains, Collected Poems of Zheng Xiaoqiong, Pedestrian Bridge, and Poems Falling on Machines.

Eleanor Goodman’s first collection of poetry, Nine Dragon Island (Enclave/Zephyr, 2016), was a finalist for the Drunken Boat First Book Prize.’ Her translation of Something Crosses My Mind: Selected Poems of Wang Xiaoni (Zephyr, 2014) was the winner of the 2015 Lucien Stryk Prize and the recipient of a 2013 PEN/Heim Translation Grant. The book was also shortlisted for the International Griffin Prize. She is aso the translator of the anthology Iron Moon: Chinese Worker Poetry (White Pine, 2017), The Roots of Wisdom: Poems by Zang Di (Zephyr, 2017), and Days When I Hide My Corpse in a Cardboard Box: Poems of Natalia Chan (Zephyr, 2018). She is a Research Associate at the Harvard University Fairbank Center.

Tags: , , , ,

Comments are closed.