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| University of Leeds |
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History:
"Stand first appeared in 1952 when Jon Silkin used his £5 redundancy money, received after trying to organise some of his fellow manual workers, to found a magazine which would 'Stand' against injustice and oppression, and 'Stand' for the role that the arts, poetry and fiction in particular, could and should play in that fight.
In its 50 plus years, Stand has published early work by many writers who have gone on to become established figures. The magazine has also played a major role in bringing the work of Russian and East European writers in translation to an English-speaking audience.
The search for inventive or radical or experimental work goes on, as Stand appears quarterly, featuring the best in new writing, poetry, fiction and criticism."
Källa: standmagazine.org
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Jag har studerat vårnumret av Stand Magazine. Det hade tema; "Chinese Journeys: a special issue on new Chinese writing".
Första poesibidraget är skrivet av Wang Xiaoni, författarinnan som deltog för Kina i bloggens PMC förra året.
Hon föddes 1955, i Changchun, Jilinprovinsen. Wang Xiaoni skickades till landsbygden under kulturrevolutionen och började skriva poesi 1974. Hon var en del av den löst sammanhållna Menglong (Obscure), en grupp poeter med bland annat Bei Dao, Yang Lian och Gu Cheng. Hon har arbetat i en filmstudio i Changchun och undervisar nu på Hainan-universitetet i södra Kina. Källa: The Guardian
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Seeing the Ocean from a Night Flight, by Wang Xiaoni
(Published in Stand magazine, Issue 213, March-May 2017. Translated by Eleanor Goodman.)
Everything becomes small
only the ocean makes the night’s leather clothes
open up the further out it spreads.
Flying north
to the right is Tianjin
to the left is Beijing
two clusters of moths flinging themselves at fire.
Then the East China Sea suddenly moves
the wind brings silver bits that couldn’t be more shattered
and many thick wrinkles whip up
I see the face of the ocean
I see the aged seashore
trembling and hugging the world too tightly.
I have seen death before
but never before seen the dead come back to life.
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I samma utgåva publiceras två genmälen från Helen Mort till Wang Xiaoni. Jag gillade båda hennes bidrag, och här följer texten som bildar par med ovanstående dikt .
Även Helen Mort har omnämnts tidigare i bloggen. Hon var en av de tjugo utvalda till nomineringen "Next Generation of 20 hotly-tipped poets" utnämnda av Poetry Book Societys jury, 2014. En utlysning som organisationen utfärdat med tio års intervall sedan 1994 (första året innehöll listan namn som Simon Armitage och Carol Ann Duffy).
Jag tycker att Helen Mort är en mycket lovande poet.
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Transpennine, by Helen Mort (f. 1985)
(Published in Stand magazine, Issue 213, March-May 2017.)
(in response to Wang Xiaoni)
‘…only the ocean makes the night’s leather clothes open up’
- Wang Xiaoni
Back in the town where I grew up,
daybreak undresses the dark canal.
Its banks have papery skin. Its bones
are reeds, a trolley with the wheels removed.
A heron makes a mystery of the scrap yard,
soundless, blue then gone.
On the bridge at dawn, a man walks
with a plastic bag of clothes held at his chest.
We’ll meet, sooner or later. One of us
will reach the other side.
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Jag avslutar med ett diktbidrag av Qin Xiaoyu. Han är poet, kritiker och litteraturteoretiker. Han föddes 1974 i Hohhot i Inre Mongoliet i norra Kina. När han studerade på college för att bli ingenjör startade han den litterära tidningen New Century och han publicerade själv sin första poesisamling, Degrees of Emptiness. Hans kritiska arbete Poetry After '70, publicerad 2006 av Dunhuang Art and Literature Press, beskrevs som att ha "öppnat nya dörrar för genren poetisk kritik". Källa: Paper Republic - Chinese literature in translation
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| Statue at the Wang Zhaojun Tomb |
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Music of the Mountains, by Qin Xiaoyu
(Published in Stand magazine, Issue 213, March-May 2017. Translated by Jia Liu.)
In the east of the village, a yard of yellow mud where a lamppost has collapsed forms my first impression of the Universe.
The small returning wagon, from which the whip is wielded,
is no longer the one in the Year of Harvest.
From the tannoy flows a loud tune of Twin Streams, its sweet whisper turned into shrill singing.
To my heart’s joy, such is the music that shakes the ground and pierces the sky,
The poem that is the village north of the Yin Mountains.
A few window panels, their latticework a fleeting beauty,
are left behind in the cold storage room where I must have lingered.
I brush my fingers across their cracks and holes, the most beautiful in the world,
As if by touch to feel the starlight that has stained the window paper.
The crow’s nest behind the house is a drop of ill-shaped tear
burning in the distant eyes not so far away.
As I approach the end of the poem, my grief for the dead hangs like red chillies, conspicuous, above the door.
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