Albert F. Moritz (A. F. Moritz) is the author of 20 books of poetry. His poetry has received the Griffin Poetry Prize, the Award in Literature of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Guggenheim Fellowship, the Ingram Merrill Fellowship, Poetry magazine’s Bess Hokin Award, selection to the Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets, and three nominations as finalist volumes for the Governor General’s Award, among other recognitions. His most recent books are The Sparrow: Selected Poems (2018) and Sequence: a Poem (2015), both from House of Anansi Press.
阿尔伯特·莫里茨（A. F. Moritz）是 20 本诗集的作者。他的诗歌获得了格里芬诗歌奖， 美国艺术与文学学院文学奖，古根海姆奖学金，英格拉姆美林奖学金，诗歌杂志的贝丝霍金奖，普林斯顿当代诗人系列奖，以及三次提名总督奖和其他表彰。他最近出版的书是 The Sparrow：Selected Poems（2018）和 Sequence：a Poem（2015），由House of Anansi Press 出版。
Anna Yin was Mississauga’s Inaugural Poet Laureate and has authored six books of poetry, including “Wings Toward Sunlight and “Seven Nights with the Chinese Zodiac”. Anna won the 2005 Ted Plantos Memorial Award, two MARTY Awards etc. Her poems have appeared Arc Poetry, New York Times, China Daily, CBC Radio, World Journal, the Literary Review of Canada. She teaches Poetry Alive at schools in Canada. Her website: annapoetry.com
What They Prayed For
What they prayed for seemed not much, and already, despite the dusty weeds extending to the sky, a possession:
a grassy land, lightly wooded, rolling, with intricate slopes
and crossed by streams, relieved by lakes, pools and reedy swamps. Breezes over the water to suggest music; and, visible from rises,
the ocean, glinting among the trees, near so that when you are silent within yourself it can be heard.
Also shade and shadow: an openness to the sun,
to the sky, that is yet defended
and moistened by fingers of the earth.
Then a few things will follow
from these first conditions: women singing in full light and at dusk before reflecting water;
and some way to live together that is not a scandal and a shame.
尘土飞扬的杂草延伸到天空： 一片草地，树木轻微环绕， 起伏着，错综复杂的斜坡
向太阳和天空的开放。 然后在这些先决条件下 将有一些事情发生：女人
A Narrow Silent Throat
How many nights eaten by rain
have I sat here, dreaming of the world, this world which is, facing a blank wall, the sound of ruining water?
Or dreaming by day when the dust filled the throat and the dry light burnt all strength from the eyes:
a dream of night with its grateful moisture out of the sides of the air,
its repose of trees and hedges, its gift of music in running water?
Dreaming in suffocating nights of a noon on wooded slopes:
breathable flame, agate that quenches thirst, and the excellent shape of a maple leaf,
its shadow among a million shadows conferring a just degree
of darkness upon day: the vegetable humanizing the light.
Dreaming of a life still possible in an anguished moment,
a narrow silent throat
where one by one, pulsing and shining, the unbodied elements pass.
焚烧眼里所有力量时，梦想着： 一个被感恩滋润的夜晚的梦， 来自空气两侧，安息的
树木繁茂山坡上的一个中午： 透气的火焰，止渴的玛瑙， 和一片枫叶的优良造型，
一道沉默狭窄的喉咙那儿 无形体的元素一个接一个， 脉动着和闪耀着，
Poem of Courtly Love
I want to hate what is believed: that darkness is ﬁrst and silence best, that the good part
of the word is wind, and the adequate part
an image, that the chance part is the beginning and the necessary part the end. I want
to sit with you, unable to understand
the book that holds all human story to be an allegory of our dying
proposals of rebirth. I want this book we were reading to slip from your lap
as you tremble, seeking courage to surrender,
so the interpretations woven insidiously into plot lines lie face down in dust, and the story
that starts with your breast
opens in our air— nipples, eyes, tongues and the words to come
happy in the pause
that is their natural home.
从你的乳房开始， 在我们空中展开- 乳头，眼睛，舌头然后言辞湧來
Every Step Was into a New World
Every step was into a new world
drenched in memory and longing: these were the dew there.
The sun sparkled in it, the low sun that pierced the tips of the oak crowns
on the eastern, the far-side banks. A sparkling
that never would leave us, that later we’d know again in the splendour of a breast shining in lace,
the stirring of birds by the creek,
the fluttering in our struck heart. The sun shone through the drops of memory, and the child was wet, chilled
and warmed. The child we were.
He and she purred in nerves and muscles and brought their eyes close to the places
they could see in the drops, some of the new worlds of the spot where we’d halted for the morning.
You chose the right path in life
though as it assures you it abashes you
with crushing beauty—like these lines of Neruda
you desire the way at eleven you desire a girl.
To write just one verse like that. To know
the fruitful softness, the whispering of shadows
in light-sprinkled entrances, the female
strangeness of their male force.
As Neruda’s century passed and the astonishment
his coming had aroused decayed, in you it grew.
As the dead fall away, the living is laid bare
more living. You look up from his book
and are in a world more world, and you look up
from that new world and are in his book
more book: another earth, another early home
and childhood. He shelters as he overshadows,
an older brother still a child himself.
You two are orphans, and guarding you through forests
and the eyes of crowds he reaches manhood,
and yet he’s still the youth of the good promise,
alpha point of unhewn roads. You feel
abundance and the void rise alert, tender
as they watch him pass and engulf him – a love so dark
you have to long to pierce it repeatedly.