Dumplings - 英文诗尝试

今天看完Billy Collins的写诗lecture想到他强调要多多瞎写，多多瞎读，多让诗带着自己走，而不要寄希望于事前就想透一首诗。于是在晚饭煮饺子间隙拿起久违的纸笔，胡乱涂抹几句，竟然也很快写成了我的第一首英文诗。

Dumplings 

One should pick up the dumplings 

a while after they begin to float,

which would be, again, several minutes

after the melted lard starts to seep through

their soft white skin, into the boiling water

they are cooked in, water that my parents

call “bianshi soup” and always drink up

to conclude a dumpling dinner.

One cannot be too careful tending to their dumplings.

My grandmother used to say that 

as I and my younger cousins watched her

tend to her dumplings, our dumplings, 

in the old, wretched wok, heated by flames

and fumes from the wood chunks 

that our parents had thrown into the stove

a little while before it began to snow outside

of the wobbly mudbrick hut, in which

we were prepared to greet a new year.

Grandmother’s dumplings had a special scent

that none of the kids liked, the same way 

we all disliked coming back to this rural home 

that had no floors, ceilings, no toilets or TVs, but only 

mud all around, and a naked wire hanging 

from above our heads, pulling up a light bulb 

that dispelled the night in the rest of the air.

And that scent would come out again,

and again and again, when grandmother

lifted the wooden lid, poured some cold water 

into the wok, and sat silently by the radiating heat 

of the boiling dumplings, which were bound to 

float up (and sink) three times 

before being served for a big dinner.

After all, one can never be too careful

tending to their dumplings, 

especially in the winter, especially

at their own home, and 

especially if a year is nearing its end.

4/18/2021, NYC