Fan Jinghua: Two Times A Day

　　Two Times A Day
Love you two times a day, as I do
One for desperation, one for hope
Once I forget body, once I forget soul
One you can feel, hot and cruel
One too gossamer for you to do

I have always loved you the way I do
Oh, my love always grows two times a day
One toward the past, one toward the future
One has connected us for a thousand years and more
One tries in vain to unite two bodies forever into one

Twice a day I have loved you for the day
One from my body to your soul, one from my soul to your body
One for your rejection, one for your feeling, till you accept
The love which can’t be denied by reason or felt by feeling
　　　　　　　　　　April 24, 2008

　　一日爱两次
每天爱你两次，一如既往
一次出于绝望，一次为了希望
一次忘记身体，一次忘记灵魂
一次你能感到，热而且残忍
一次太虚忽，你没有感觉

我爱你，一直未曾改变
哦，我的爱每天生长两次
一次伸进过去，一次朝着将来
一次已将我们连在一起，千年有余
一次徒然地要将两个人融为一体

为了每个今天，我爱你，爱你两次
以灵魂爱着身体，以身体爱着灵魂
爱你的感受，爱你的拒绝，直到你接受
一种爱无法被身体感到、无法被理智拒绝
　　　　　　　　　2008年4月24、28日

Chinese News 2007 Billboard

　　　Chinese News 2007 Billboard

On August 13, 2008, there was a horrific accident
on the Dixi Bridge on the Phoenix Expressway in Hunan Province,
which was henceforth called 813 accident,
a normal practice for a serious accident.
The local official newspaper, of course, would run on the first page
at lower bottom right or left column which is kept for news
not directly related with or directed from the Central Government.
On August 16, a news item reported that an old man named Liu Kangshen,
the old father of one victim Liu Laping, came from his countryside home
to send a silk banner on which is written “warm service, public servant”
to Director Long Taoying of Bureau of Personnel of Phoenix County.
From this, people read of the accident which must be serious
as it not only ran on the first page but also took the government's notice.
On the following day, the paper continued reporting on the accident,
which must be, to the people, very serious,
as people were informed that by August 17
there have been four silk banners sent by the relatives of victims
to the County Committee and Government
to express gratitude for their excellence in redressing the accident.
The newspaper had never mentioned the number of the casualties,
no mention of the investigation of the causes,
no mention of the builders or designers of the bridge….

There is no p.s. of the news items, and I would attach one here.
The nonstandard news about the accident is that on August 13
when workers were dissembling the scaffolds of the almost completed bridge
which was scheduled to open to traffic by the end of August,
the bridge suddenly collapsed into pieces, leaving
88 survived, 22 injured and 64 dead.

Fan Jinghua: Gnosticism

　　　　Gnosticism

April. When I type it, an automatic date, today, pops up, and I have to
continue typing to null it.

The night air is cool but the day is warm, the most pore-opening season of the year.
Outside is a word I have always liked, so much
that whenever you appear in my vision
I would type this word, from o, a sound I pronounce very soft,
then ou that gives me two visions:
our and out.
Then, of course, I can not stop.
What I want to get is always outside, and what I have is only
inside.

Here you are, never being outside, though you may be far. So palpably in my sight,
your spine and hips sensuously curve as if they crawl
in such a still motion that I may feel
a little dizzy and fearful, as if you may vanish into space like in Star Trek
when a turn of page will take you
away, your face and body held in a sheet of paper, wobbling
downward and down.
Nothing there to cushion you, I could not fly or dive faster than the Superman
to receive you from the below with a confident smile.

The only sureness I like you to give me is what I feel when I
lie on a couch and you
lie on me, I reading and you watching TV, until one of my limbs go numb.
Your hand would accidentally touch my parts and then stroke and give a nip,
and you would chortle at my physical change as I squirm, saying
you love the uneasy look on my face.
I would ask: how can a crystal eye see colors, if it has no sense of color?
You answer: “Reflection” and then add
“From inside!”

The book of poems I carry everywhere is an abyss, anything from which I think I get
is absorbed back to it and added to its suction.
Who’s written it? Is it our book of karma? Do I get anything I can never get hold of?
Meaning, like you, as an angelic lightness and omnipresence. You travel
without a trace, in and out of me, and my fear
is not so much whether you would cease to be or disappear forever
as whether I could always feel your weight even in nightmares.
If I should reincarnate in stone, I’d love to be crushed by a demon till my life essence
drains, leaving behind a dry skeleton.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 17, 2008
Again, when I type April and press “ENTER,” this piece is
over. Now.


　　　　灵知

四月。当我打出这个词，今天的日期就弹了出来，我不得不继续打字，才能
忽略自动弹出的今天。

此时夜晚凉爽而白昼温热，一年中最逼人毛孔打开的季节。
外面是一个令我总会欣喜的词儿，每当你
浮现在我的灵视中，我便会在电脑上打出：
外面——从w开始，犹如我的声母，轻柔得无人听到，然后是ai爱；
瞬间，我爱被浓缩成了一个字，
下面再不会出现你；
而我无法停止。外面
自然弹出，这是我的需要，而我拥有的只有
内在。

你可以在远方，但你从不在外面，你只会在我眼前，如此切实，你的臀与股沟
肉感而逶迤，这静止的蜿蜒
令我目眩而心中惶然，似乎你在眨眼间就会消失，像《星球大战》中的
时空，一经折叠，你的脸、你的身体便会如相片一样
进入另一个维度，漂浮着、摇晃着
向下、坠落。
那儿没有任何东西承接你，而我不会急速飞翔、不会在空中超音速下潜，
我不是超人，
无法兜底托起你，送上自信的微笑。

你给予我惟一的可信，是我躺在沙发上，
而你躺在
我身上，你看电视，我看书，直到我某个肢体麻木。
你的手偶然碰触我的私处，接着故意抚摸并且轻轻的一捏，
嘲笑我紧绷的扭动，说你
喜欢我自然的反应和不自然的神情，
而我反问：你这玉壶一片冰心，怎能看到暖色？
你答“折射”，然后又加了一句
“从内部”。

那本诗集是我随身携带的一个深渊，我从中获得的一切
都被吸回，更增其吸力。
你我都不知谁是作者，不知道它是否是我们的因果之书。意思，
如你，我从未在手中抓住过，它是否曾被我拥有？
你有天使的轻盈，无所不在，自由出入我的身体，毫无痕迹。我的恐惧
不是你何时会永远消失，而是我能否哪怕在梦魇中
感到你的重量。
如果我将托生为石头，我愿先在梦魇中被你压碎，愿你吸尽我生命之精，只留下
一副干裂的骷髅。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月27日
当我再次打出2008年，按一下回车键，这篇文字就此
结束。在今天的此刻。

Helen Ivory: Note to the Reader: this is not a poem

　Note to the Reader: this is not a poem
　　　　　　　Helen Ivory (1969-)
The pictures are falling from my walls
because the paint is too heavy.
Illusionary landscapes are real landscapes now.

No need for tonality or warmth of colour.
Now I write another poem that nobody will read.
There is loneliness in these words

I tell you the supposed reader in plain terms.
There is no need to hide behind poetry.
I won’t try to be clever with you.

　致读者：这不是一首诗
　　　　　　[英] 海伦·埃弗瑞 (1969-) tr. Fan Jinghua

我的四壁油画在朝下掉，
因为颜料太沉。
幻觉的风景如今就成了真实的景致。

无需颜色的色调和温暖了。
此刻我又写了一首无人有缘读到的诗。
这些字里有一种孤独，

我用朴素的说法告诉了你们，我假想的读者。
没有必要躲在诗歌背后。
我不会和你们耍小聪明。

Archibald MacLeish: Ars Poetica (Chinese translation)

　　　Ars Poetica
　　　　　　　Archibald MacLeish (1892-1972)

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be.


　　诗艺
　　　　　阿契鲍·麦克利许 (1892-1972) tr. Fan Jinghua

诗当可感而沉默，
若球形水果，

拙于言
若拇指摸着旧章纹，

无语若窗台上的卵石
青苔被衣袖轻抹——

诗当无字，
若翔鸟之飞天。

诗当静止于时间中，
如月亮升空，

离而不去，一如月亮一枝一枝
将夜幕笼罩的树木呈现，

离而不去，一如月亮在冬日的树叶后
一片一片呈现记忆——

诗当静止于时间中，
如月亮升空。

诗当只是神似，
而非写真。

抒写所有的痛史
只需一扇空空的门廊和一片枫叶

抒写爱情
惟有倾伏的草和大海上的两盏孤灯——

诗不该以言呈意，
诗就是自己。

Sylvia Plath: Kindness

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 220

　　　Kindness

Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
In the windows, the mirrors
Are filling with smiles.

What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit's cry may be wilder
But it has no soul.
Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says.
Sugar is a necessary fluid,

Its crystals a little poultice.
O kindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
May be pinned any minute, anesthetized.

And here you come, with a cup of tea
Wreathed in steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
You hand me two children, two roses.
　　　　　　　　1 February 1963

第220首
　　　善意

善意在我家掠来掠去。
善夫人，她如此和蔼！
她戒指的蓝宝石、红宝石
在窗子里冒烟，镜子
都布满着笑意。

有什么会像孩子的哭声这么真实？
野兔的叫声也许更狂
但它没有灵魂。
糖是百病灵丹，善意这么说。
这种液体非常必要，

它的结晶是一点点药膏。
啊，善行啊，善行
好心地掇拾着碎片！
我的日本绸衣，绝路的蝴蝶，
随时都会被钉住、麻醉。

而你就这样来了，端着清茶一杯
热气袅娜升腾。
血喷射成诗，
无法令它停止。
你交给我两个孩子、两朵玫瑰。
　　　　　　　　1963年2月1日

Fan Jinghua: In One Room

　　　In One Room

　　　　　　　　A cold girl’ll kill you
　　　　　　　　In a darkened room
　　　　　　　　　　　---The Doors

Cars hissing by outside in the pattering rain,
Your face blankly white and eyes darkly cold,
You are two arms’ reach away at the edge of the dusk.
The room is horrifyingly vast, but we, buried in our own doing,
Feel so expansive in here, two to hold a universe, like two thumbtacks
Pinning a piece of white paper unto an airy wall,
On which two lovers float, clinging to each other under one umbrella.

In this reliably mute room, we sit, still and serene, watching
From different ends at Time which licks its foggy lips on the wall,
Drooling toward a dwarf potted plant on the windowsill.
A smile would well and swell up from the corners of your mouth
When the sounds not supposed to be heard pass by your ears.
When confined together we are what we were before we met;
With everything said as if unsaid, we are locked in love.
　　　　　　　　　　　　April 21, 2008 (to KC)

　　　　同房幽闭

　　　　　　　　一个冷漠女孩将会杀死你
　　　　　　　　在一个幽暗的房间
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　——大门乐队
　　　　　　　　
啪啪的雨声中汽车刺溜溜地驶过外面，
灯下的脸苍白，眼睛幽幽的冷，
你在两臂之外犹在黄昏的边际。
这个小小的房间空旷得令人恐慌，但两个人的存在
便膨胀到足以占据宇宙，这张白纸，一堵悬于半空的墙，
我们是两只图钉，各自埋头在桌前；
纸上，走过两个恋人，依偎在一把伞下，漂泊的家。

我们坐在这儿，安宁而无虞，
这小小的立方宇宙，沉默、虚空得毫无成见；
窗楣上，时间舔着嘴唇，它的口水一滴滴滴进窗脚下的盆栽。
当不想被听见的声音从细雨滤进了你的耳朵，
一丝无名的笑从你的嘴角涌起、稍纵即逝。
当你我幽闭一起，我们成为了我们原本的自己；
无论一切说了还是没说，这就是一首情歌。
　　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月21日、26日

Note: The Chinese title of this poem literally means "confined in the same room" while 同房 (the same room) has two other meanings: one being "from the same branch of a family," one being a euphemism for "(a couple) sleeping together".

Sylvia Plath: Words

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 221

　　　Words
Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes traveling
Off from the center like horses.

The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock

That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road------

Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern a life.
　　　　　　1 February 1963

第221首
　　　　词
　　　　　　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
斧头，
树木因其砍击而鸣响，
回声荡漾！
自树心荡开，
回声如群马奔离。

树汁
泉涌似泪，又如
流水勉力
在石块上
重展它的明镜。

石块下落、翻滚，
一只白脑壳，
被杂草丛生的绿水吞没。
多年后的我
邂逅它们于路上——

词，干枯而无人驾驭，
毫无倦意的蹄音。
而同时
恒定的星辰自那潭水深处
宰制着某人一生。
　　　　　1963年2月1日

Sylvia Plath: Contusion

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 222

　　Contusion
Color floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed out,
The color of pearl.

In a pit of rock
The sea sucks obsessively,
One hollow the whole sea's pivot.

The size of a fly,
The doom mark
Crawls down the wall.

The heart shuts,
The sea slides back,
The mirrors are sheeted.
　　　　　4 February 1963


第222首
　　瘀伤

颜色冲积于一点，闷紫色。
身体的剩余部分全都洗尽，
珍珠之色。

岩石的凹陷处，
大海上瘾似地吮吸，
一眼空穴成为整座海洋的轴心。

大小如蝇，
那只命定的记号
从墙上向下爬来。

心扉关闭，
大海回涌，
镜子已被蒙罩。
　　　　1963年2月4日
Notes:
　　Among all her poems, this hurts me deepest. Like many poeple, almost all those in China, I read first of some so-called representative poems most often anthologized, before I read her collected poems. For many poeple in China, they have never been exposed to more than a dozen of her poems. I still could remember clearly how I felt when I first read of this poem (in English). I was sharing a flat in a dorm apartment with a few engineering students who had their own labs to work, while I, as an art & humanities independent researcher, usually read at my preferred time and space. I took for my own space the big living room, usually during the night time when they were sleeping. I was groping along the path from The Mystic (before this poem in the Collected Poems), in which the poet seemed to suggest that the final form of life is but a kind of vanishment or oblivion: "Does the sea/ Remember the walker upon it?" Yet, I could see and feel a ray (stray) of sun warmth in "The sun blooms, it is a geranium./ The heart has not stopped." Then comes "Kindness," in which the only real thing is the cry of a child. Then, of course, is "Words," which I take not only as the poet's manifestation of poetics but also her philosophy of life.
　　When I read this poem for several times, empathized myself into the color scheme and imagery, I rose and walked unto the balcony which overlooked a night expressway on which lines of red rear lights and screams pierced the night silence. Tears welled up. It was around 4 in the morning on a Saturday. I was standing on 21 floor, and the building was erected on a hill.
　　Contusion, of course, is the automatic physical response toward the pressure and strike from the outside, and hence it should be understood as life in its final and extreme form. When the poet compares the paleness of body to the color of a pearl, the gestation process of a pearl has to be taken into the understanding of the poem. Central to the pearl formation is pain in the process of naturalisation of the thing from outside the body. .....

譯按：
　　普拉斯詩中最令我心痛的便是這首《瘀傷》。我當然像很多人一樣，也是先讀了詩選本中她常常入選的所謂代表作之後多年才讀她的詩全編。我還清楚記得第一次讀這首詩的感受。當時我住在學校的公寓里，同屋都是有實驗室的工科學生，所以我可以在深夜佔據整個空蕩蕩的起居室。在深夜，我從《神秘論者》那隱晦曲折的小俓上摸索走來，雖然詩人似乎暗示生命的最終形式不過是一種陻滅：Does the sea／Remember the walker upon it?（大海是否／記得那走过水面的行者？），然而我似乎還能看到一點陽光感到某種暖意：The sun blooms, it is a geranium.／The heart has not stopped（太陽綻放，它是一株天竺葵／心尚未停滯）。然後，在那首沉痛而令人不安的《善行》中，一面她堅持What is so real as the cry of a child?（有什麽會像孩子的哭聲這樣真實？），因而在詩最後也許出於自我安慰她又說：You hand me two children, two roses（你交給我兩個孩子、兩朵玫瑰）；而另一方面她更不能止住的是流血的詩歌：The blood jet is poetry,／There is no stopping it.（血噴射成詩／無法令它停止）。緊接著便是大家非常熟悉的《詞兒》，其中的命定色彩很巧妙地融入一種詩學／美學，令人覺得詩篇具有某種形而上的意義。然而，當我的目光將這首詩中的字句翻譯成意象，當我的眼睛與呈現這些意象的眼睛重合，移情作用油然升起，我擡頭看到五房兩廳的諾大空間，僅剩下白色的牆壁和關閉的臥室，我無法控制淚水。走到陽臺，高速公路上不時有摩托車尖利地呼嘯而過，那是一個星期六的淩晨，四點左右。我站在二十一樓，樓建在一座小山上。

　　詩人為我們呈現了生命中最傷痛的經驗。瘀傷可以説是血和生命對於外界壓力的回應，於是也成爲生命力的終極顯示。這個瘀傷不僅僅將受傷部位周圍的全部顔色壓榨並集中於一點，而且清洗掉全身的顔色。當詩人將毫無血色的身軀比作珍珠之時，我們不得不想到珍珠作爲苦痛之結晶這一象徵。這一沉悶的紫色似乎逐漸硬化成了岩石上的缺口／凹陷，而生命在此猶如大海，不停地舔著自己的傷痕，如此自憐而貫注，以至於這個缺口竟然成爲生命的核心。我們無法知道這隻蒼蠅是詩人偶然擡頭在對面牆上看到的黑點或者只是她的幻覺，也許正如詩人最喜愛的一位作家弗吉尼亞·伍爾夫筆下那只蒼蠅，但是現在它正緩緩地向下爬行，猶如入夜了，一切可見的生命都在回到起點；於是，心扉閉起，大海回湧。最後一行“鏡子被蒙起來”，表示屋子里有死者。據信，當屋里有死人或靈柩的時候，鏡子一定得用黑布蒙罩住，這樣此人的靈魂才不會被鏡子吸進去，不至於靈魂久久遊蕩於人間而不得升天。

Ashebery: Some Tree (Chinese translation)

　　Some Trees
　　　　　　　　　　John Ashbery
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance

To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what trees try

To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.

And glad not to have invented
Such comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges

A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
　　From The Mooring of Starting Out: The First Five Books of Poetry

　　　一些树
　　　　　　　[美] 阿什伯利 tr. Fan Jinghua
这些树令人惊叹：每一株
都与邻居连理，似乎言语
化做一场凝止的表演。
因为机缘的调遣

你我相遇，犹如这清晨
与尘世游离却依然
与之切合，恍惚间
你我便成为它们

试图晓示的我们：
它们存在于此便足以
包含蕴意；你我很快
便会抚触、相爱、释怀。

令人欣慰的是如此的亲和
并非虚妄，我们正置身其间：
一种静寂已充满声响，
一张帆布已然浮现

彼此应和的笑容、一个冬晨。
置于一片迷离的光中，移动，
我们的日子披着这般缄默，
这些音色似乎是它们自足的辩护。

Notes on Translation 译后(Originally posted on a translation forum on May 29, 2003)：

首先想说的是我对这首诗的总体理解。我以为大家会同意这首诗想说明一种人与自然之物之间的应和，人因自然之物的晓谕而产生一种顿悟epiphany；这其中有多次言说（宣 / 喧）与不说（会 / 悟）的对照（still 这个词也同样如此，既是沉寂无言又是静止的运动）。
这种顿悟首先表现在amazing这个词上，（有一首赞美上帝的歌Amazing Grace很能说明这个词的含义）遗憾的是我没有在汉语中找到能够表达既令人惊异、赞叹又传达某种敬畏感、启示感这多层含义的词；

题目：几棵树、一些树、某些树？
这里似乎应该有某种不确定性，说到底这些树到底是什么树、有多少、长得如何等等都已经不是诗人所关注的，他只是直观这种存在（their merely being there）带给他的某种启示，但是他分辨出了每一株都与其邻株相连，成为一个整体；我选择“一些树”不知道能否说明这一点。

对树的观照/直观使人达至you and I / Are suddenly what trees try / To tell us we are这样的感悟或者由树传达至人的“感应”；树，静默地以其枝叶的相互接触，成为无言的/静止的（still）表演，这无声的/不动的呈示still performance似乎以一种欲言又止的方式
向人们暗示机缘/缘分（chance），似乎若即若离（as far this morning / From the world as agreeing / With it）。所以它们的存在本身便已经充满奥义，足够我们揣摩。

我想指出as far this morning / From the world as agreeing / With it这句话我理解为：this morning is as far from the world as agreeing with it (the world)
下面的翻译基本依据这样的理解思路：comeliness（“亲和”尽管不是很尽人意）；
a chorus of smile（“彼此应和的笑容”）；puzzling（“迷离”，很难翻译的一个词）；
accents也很slippery，起码从下面三方面都能讲得通：口音（延伸至“特征”）（认知判断的）、重读音（重音、强调）（听觉上的）、图画的重点部位（视觉上的），选了“音色”不知是否太走样；their own defense：本来想翻译成“特有的辩词” ，现在译成“自足的辩护”似乎有点太创造了，但是它们的accents除了是自在的、自为的、自足的，难道还有什么目的麽？（my own defense!）

另外，尽管不需要每个韵都加以复制（事实上也不可能；退一步讲，不同的语言之间本来就不可能产生相同的韵感）。我总想让译诗读得出来，尽量像原文一样有韵感。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 29, 2003

Sylvia Plath: Balloons

Collected Poems
No. 223

　　　Balloons
　　　　　　　　Sylvia Plath
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish------
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
　　　　　　　5 February 1963

诗全编第223首

　　　气球
　　　　　　　希维娅·普拉斯
圣诞以来，它们就一直与我们同在，
直率而澄明，
椭圆的有灵生物，
占据着一半空间，
乘着不可见的丝质气流

游动、摩擦，
一旦被攻击，便发出一声尖叫
砰然爆裂，倏然溜走，几乎不带一丝颤抖。
黄色的猫头，蓝色的鱼——
与我们共处的是些如此希奇的月亮

而非死气沉沉的家具！
麦秸的坐垫，白色的墙壁
以及这些游移的球体，
含着稀薄的空气，有红有绿，
令人愉快

犹如祝福，又像自由自在的孔雀
以一管被星光之铁
锤炼的羽毛
祝福着古老大地。
你幼小的弟弟

正把他的气球
拨弄得像猫一样吱吱乱叫。
他似乎看到
一个有趣的粉红世界，他可从另一边将它吃掉，
他张嘴便咬，

接着退后
坐好，胖乎乎的水罐
审视着一个清澄如水的世界。
一块红色
碎片攥在他的小拳中。
　　　　　　　1963年2月5日


譯按：我最喜歡的是這兩行
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
按照字面直譯應該是：
隨著不可見的氣流/移動並摩擦
而正是因爲氣球的移動和摩擦我們才見到了氣流的不可見；
而這個胖乎乎的小兒子才一歲多，看著滿屋子的氣球：
他張嘴便咬，/接著退後/坐好，胖乎乎的水罐
審視著一個清澄如水的世界
啊，這真是一個清澄如水的世界！

Sylvia Plath: Edge

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 224
　　　
　　　Edge
　　　　　Sylvia Plath
The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
　　　　　　　　5 February 1963

第224首

边缘
　　　　希维娅·普拉斯

这女人完美了。
她僵死的

躯体带着功成名就的微笑，
古希腊必然命运的幻觉

流淌在她长罩袍的皱褶中，
她赤裸的

双脚似乎在说：
我们走了这么远，都结束了。

每个夭死的孩子蜷曲着，一条白蛇。
各自守着一只小小的

盛奶的罐子，现已空了。
她已将他们折叠

放回她的身体，如一朵玫瑰的
花瓣在花园僵枯时闭合，

而馨香如血流
涌出这朵夜花甜蜜幽深的喉管。

月亮没什么可悲伤的，
从她罩着骨头的头巾里呆看。

对这种事她已习以为常。
她的黑块噼啪地开裂缓慢地移动。
　　　　　　　　1963年2月5日

譯按：希维娅·普拉斯Sylvia Plath死於1963年2月11日。這首詩和另外一首《氣球》寫於同一天，也詩她的最後詩篇。在她還沒有離婚的丈夫、詩人泰德·休斯(Ted Hughes)所編輯的《普拉斯詩歌全編》中被排在最後，從某種角度給人們造成一種印象，似乎這首詩就是詩人的遺言了。從另一個角度來讀，如果把這首詩和詩人的最後幾首詩放在一起，我們也許可以說它們分別代表她一生中很重要的幾個方面。《詞兒》可説是她的詩學，《瘀傷》是她的内傷，《氣球》以孩子爲主題，表現了她最柔情的那部分，而這首《邊緣》恐怕可以説是她收拾以往重新出發的態度。
Note: For me, the last few poems can be read as pointing to almost every aspect of Plath's poetry. "Words" may be read as her poetics, "Contusion" points to her internal wound, "Balloons" presents her mother tenderness, and "Edge" is both an end and a point of departure.

Fan Jinghua: My Walk of Life

　　My Walk of Life
In the sunlit air I walk
And my body squeezes out
A niche that perfectly hugs me,
Never letting me go.
My road ends and extends forever
At where my feet carry me.
Only those who come up to my front,
May see the halo over my head.
　　　　　　April 14, 2008


　　生命之行

在注满阳光的空气中，
我的身体，
撑开一个神龛。
它完全拥抱着我，
且随我而行。
我被双脚送达之处
永远是道路的终点与开端。
惟有那迎头而来的人
或许能看到我头上有一圈晕光。
　　　　　　2008年4月15日

Fan Jinghua: Chronicles of Love in Nanjing

　　　Chronicles of Love in Nanjing

Across a ditch, the hidden path resumes itself, passing by a pond, home
to a flock of wild ducks, and this trail
bypasses the ticket office and entrance to a tourist resort.
There, the graveyards of celebrities from the older dynasties are small-scale plazas,
at dusk, haunted by romance, remembrance and oblivion.
When people have left, what is left behind?
Which Hippocratic type will always tread the same often-traveled ruts and get stuck?
Spring warmth etches into wedges the thin ice around the Waterfront Pavilion stilts,
And pigeons cuckoo in the aromatized Herbal Garden where young lovers
Giggle behind the bushes and give dirty looks to whomever passing their way.
--Fools rush fast in pre-doomed love.

Pollen allergy is not his vulnerability but his conduct in the world,
therefore no one around him would suspect
whether his incentive is to undermine the morality of midsummer night
when he sneaks out into the dark.
For instance, at a certain 2 am, in front of the Life-Liberating Pond
of the ancient Cock-Crowing Nunnery, in a pavilion
a pair of arms disappeared into a pair of blouse and skirt, chafing and rubbing,
and he had barely accomplished his lingering walk on the sloping link
along which emptied carts from peddlers of joss sticks and gold-foiled papers are
chained to cherry-trees that stood on the blanket of fallen pinks.
--In the season of no faith, only falling petals are true.

From the rouge-greased moat of this capital of six short-lived dynasties, a frog
crawls out and jumps onto the second-story windowsill.
It holds a lewd posture,
sucking and blowing two air sacs, filling them up with noises.
Passion, when habitually tuned into the verbal, leaves little space
for compression, and he has written lines after lines, only to be written off,
and the frog season fades away without warning.
In southern country where the weather is either sultrily hot or humidly cold, it is hard
to keep the same posture throughout a night, and he turns and twists, finally
pillowing high to revise in his mind the scraps of poems posted on the white wall.
--dove sta memoria. This is where memory is conceived and grows.

The bladders of dawn are bloated when the night rain comes to
a stop, and at this threshold he falls
into half-sleep, visited by black tree trunks and yellow leaves,
as if a terminal love is approaching the climax of breakup
and all the trivialities, previous romantic gestures, are heated up and burning.
Seeds of time, ashes or sarīra, are waiting to be sifted,
the fine grains of memory sieved through, the knots of heart rolling like rocks.
On cooled feet he stands
on the riverbank of time and makes ducks and drakes, seeing
tiny crystal flowers fading and skimming away.
--He has another wet dream, much to his shame.

His friends, even with photochromic spectacles, have laser eyes;
formidable as it is, he is relieved, for he does not need
any disguise, albeit he feels a little cold-shouldered.
Before the desk at the corner of his dormitory, he practices, in the card-playing noises,
doing three things with words from different media—
a book on the left, a writing pad on the right, a boombox playing vissi d’arte vissi d’amore.
When the coloratura turns to a steep slope, his eyes fall on juxtaposed static characters
“a green sea, a blue sky, a heart, night after night” and a longer prosaic line winds
on the pad “dust grows on the sea of my heart as each dusk gives way to the dark
while your black hair is buoyantly smiling to spring breezes over the water.”
--As wild geese are nowhere to chase, who would sit up all the nights for their return?

In the everydayness of uniform variables, a trance is a black hole, sure to lead one
out of time; when he stares at the setting sun,
the autumn leaves have suddenly turned rusty in the Afterglow-Lingering Mount.
The black woman-made turtleneck soothes his professional ailment best,
faucitis from pollen to weather changes, from too much lecturing to chalk sticks.
The silvery chain of the zipper dangles like a tiny tail in and out of his collar,
now cool like a fish, then warmed to his body temperature, and then cool again,
coolness and warmth giving way to each other.
Like a largehead hairtail the Long River lies, down over there,
shimmering like a slate of ice between dark lands where chimneys emit smelly smokes.
--Sensation of coolness is a pleasure privileged for the warm-blooded animal.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 9-12, 2008


　　　南京：爱情殇事

越过一条小沟，绕开一口住着野鸭的池塘，那一条隐秘的小径
穿过树林，免费进入管制的风景。
前朝名士的墓地都是小小的广场，在黄昏中飘着浪漫、淡忘与湮灭，
人去了，什么会空？
无法从重蹈的覆辙中爬起来的人，多的是哪种体液？
当春风将水榭前的薄冰蚀成楔子，
药物园里，鸽子在薄荷气息中咕咕，树丛半遮的窃笑并不善待路过的人。
——蠢蠢之心陷入注定早殇的爱情。

花粉过敏不是他的病症，而是他的行为准则，
已没有人怀疑他只在盛夏入夜时潜入世界是否包藏诋毁道德的祸心。
例如那个雨夜两点，
鸡鸣古寺的放生池前，一座亭子里有一双膀子伸进一套衬衫和裙子下暗中搓揉，
而他刚刚结束了在庙门前坡道上的徘徊，
卖香火与金箔纸的摊位只剩下红漆涂抹的铁皮车，
被链条锁在樱花树上。
——失信的时节惟有缤纷的落红片片真实。

在这六个短命王朝的都城，护城河上脂粉的浮渣深浅不一；
青蛙爬出今夜，污秽长成了皮肤，蹲伏在二楼窗台，
它稳当当地守持一个下流姿势，来劲地抽吸气泡；
情感一旦被惯性地转化为语言，就再也无法压缩，
他，写下一行又一行被划掉的句子，于是，牛蛙的季节也就过去了。
江南的气候，要么闷骚要么阴冷，只用一种姿势睡一夜觉是艰难的；
他辗转反侧，最后，垫高了枕头，惟有倚卧的姿态可以修改白墙上的诗句贴。
——此乃记忆之生发之所dove sta memoria。

一夜雨声在黎明的鱼脬中停了，醒于未醒的人，睡起了回笼觉，
梦中弥散着潮湿的图像和叶子，
如恋爱末期不成功的行为将颤栗的无穷动颤进了现在。
时间就这样被筛糠一样整合，离析出来的是
种子、灰烬还是舍利？
精细的记忆筛漏了，而滚来滚去的，是难解的心结，如块垒；
时间的河岸上，软泥含水，阴凉着脚底，粗砾用于打水漂，跳出一串小小的碎花。
——他又一次在梦中湿滑，醒来，猥琐地发愣。

朋友们的眼睛，甚至带戴着可以变色的眼镜，也都透出激光，
这反而令他松弛了，
他再也无需掩饰心情，只需稍微掩饰一点心寒。
于是他在八十分的众声喧哗中开发一心三用的静电：
左眼看书、右手写字、耳听花腔女高音的咏叹vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore….
当那嗓音转弯来到一个上坡，他看到 “碧海青天夜夜心”没有介词，他的纸上
蜿蜒着“我的心海一夜又一夜地积着灰尘而你从水中探出满头青丝笑对流经的春风”。
——雁去也，而谁还会彻夜不眠等待旧时相识?

稍一出神，亘古的日常就出现黑洞；
他不过是看了一次完整的落日，栖霞山的叶子便已生锈。
站在山顶上一棵依然丰润的小树旁，黑色
高领毛衣抚慰他的咽喉，花粉和气候转换沾上粉笔和唾液横飞的职业。
已经磨损的颈项上再没有编织它的手指，
一根拉链头拖着几厘米长的尾巴，在领口跳进跳出，
凉丝丝的、没有感觉、凉丝丝的、没有感觉、凉丝丝的、没有感觉……
——凉，是热血动物才有的快感。

长江铺展一条长长的带鱼，白熠熠的细鳞犹如一层薄冰，
两岸广袤的绿色中，烟囱昂然挺起。
哦，江南，散发着隐晦的腥味。哦，氤氲的南京。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月9-12日

Fan Jinghua: Reins of Freedom

　　　　Reins of Freedom

　　He who stays mute behind his door for over 229 days
　　May expect to be granted a fair blessing in secret.

　　　You carried your own burden and very soon
　　　Your symptoms of creeping privilege disappeared.
　　　　　　　　Seamus Heaney “From the Republic of Conscience”

So I decide to wear out my boredom in vacuumed boredom,
And let seasons turn in their own solitary ways,
Persuading myself into believing that a bookman is good for nothing;
I will let those coming-and-going lingerers dry out from dawn to dusk,
The happy ones who never look up and know not their could-be whereabouts
But only the places where they have been planted and watered.
They have no hammocks, so they sit on folding chairs around an extra one,
On which they kill time and transform the surrounding air.
Occasionally, they follow others, at a sensible distance,
Only to make their following felt, oppressive but not assaulting.
They expose their darkly covered heads and wingless backs,
And we never exchange looks, but we know we have the same faces.
The reins of freedom harness us, loosely, without any hasps or hooks,
Like the fishing line that might connect the fisherman and his catch-to-be;
We each bear our own demon fetus, and we are lovers unable to make love.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 10, 2008

　　　　自由的缰绳

　只有在自家门后蛰伏229天以上的人
　才有可能获得了一次秘密的公正祝福
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　——题记

　　你背负自己的重担，过不了多久
　　你爬行着的特权显出的病兆就会消失。
　　　　　　希尼《来自良心共和国》

我决定让独自的无聊衰竭在真空的无聊中，
不看季节如何径自峰回路转，我要
说服自己相信，一个书生必须百无一用；
我将让楼下来来往往的人植物一般从清晨晾晒到黄昏，
那从不会仰望的，幸福于不知道自己的何去何从，
幸福于只认识自己被栽种和浇水的地方。
他们没有吊床；他们围坐着，在多余的折叠椅子上
改变空气成分，偶尔站起来跟在别人的后面，不即
不离，让被跟的人感到他们的压迫却不加攻击。
他们向我暴露黑压压的头顶和光秃秃的后背，
而我们从不交换眼神，我们知道彼此肯定有同样的脸。
自由的缰绳连接着我们，没有打结，也没有任何搭扣，
像钓鱼线将垂钓者和可能上钩的鱼建立或可确凿的关系；
我们已各自怀上了鬼胎，是一对相爱而不能做爱的人。
　　　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月10日

229 days, referring to Prisoner in the Freedom City available at YouTube.

Fan Jinghua: Eve in Eden

　　　Eve in Eden

　　　　And they were both naked, the man and his wife… --Genesis

When it feels like the lick of a cat, it is the coming of a summer;
Summer, this is the season I know.
Our year is one summer after another.
When it feels like the lick of a cow, it is the going of a summer.
Your palm, I feel with my cheeks, one cheek telling the feel to another,
While my eyes see your eyes fixing on the sun that is lowering,
Bigger first and then suddenly small before the canopy of darkness.
My man, my only, you are meek and good,
Your upper-arms hide muscles like mice, and your chest,
Firmer than the rock terrace by the pond, is the upcountry for my hands and head.
When there is no moon and our Lord is absent on his inspection tour,
When the rustlings of snakes and the chirpings of crickets are clearer
In the stillness of winds, your breath is soothing, and
Your silent gaze into the distance, sometimes unintelligible, is my peace,
Though you never speak and I never tell.
What else do I want
When in this garden whatever I can think of
I see and hear and touch?
The only unknowable lies behind your eyes, even when I can see they mirror
Stars and clouds like images in the water.
I sometimes go to the pond, alone, when you sit under a fig tree, a little absent-minded,
As if you do not see me when I am around, or
You like to be undisturbed.
I like kneeling down by it and see myself in it, untouchable, but I know that is me too.
I do not know why the clouds also grow in there as in your eyes
When they are flowing above our heads with our Lord.
You never speak to me about that world.
You might have always assumed that I understand as much as you know,
But I only know that if I do not know
That is because our Lord so ordains and you, too, wish so.
But there are so many things that I do not know,
Because they do not speak and cannot be touched.
There are things that I forget to learn:
Whenever you hold me around my waist or your palm touches my cheeks or nape,
I feel a sudden knowing or suddenly I forget what to know or to be known.
But your touch and hold are so seldom, my man,
And sometimes beasts and fowls are better companions.
Sometimes, I wish I can have wings, not to be an angel, but to be a bird.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 8, 2008

　　　　夏娃在伊甸园

　　　　　当时他们都赤身露体，那男人和他的妻子……《圣经·创世纪》

当天气犹如猫儿舔舐手心，就是夏季的来临；
夏季，这是我所知的惟一的季节；
我们的一年便是从一个夏季过到另一个夏季。
当天气像母牛舔舐手心，那就是夏季的消逝。
而你的手心，我用我的脸颊感受，
一只脸颊告诉另一只脸颊，我凝然于
你的双眼，看它们盯着越来越低的太阳，
看它变大之后，又突然变小，接着，黑暗降临。
哦，男人，你是惟一的，你温顺而俊美，
手臂上有肌肉，有如小鼠趴守着洞穴，
你的胸膛比池边的岩石平台还要稳妥坚实，
是我手与头的床枕和内陆。
在没有月亮的夜晚，当我们的主去他处巡视，
当蛇虫的窸窣和蟋蟀的尖鸣在风静夜沉中更加清晰，
你的呼吸令我心安神宁，而你的沉默，有时那么遥远，
犹如你出神凝视的天，仍然是我寻求平静的源泉。
这一切你从不对我讲述，而我也从未对你说出。
在这个园子里，我能够想得到的
我都能看见、听到甚至触摸，我还能要求什么？
我惟一不明白的
在你眼睛背后，尽管我能看见它们像镜子一样
含着星星和云朵，犹如水里的图像。
我有时也去那个池塘，一人，
那是因为
你坐在无花果树下，有点心不在焉，虽说我就在你身边走来走去，
你似乎没有看见，或者你好像不喜欢受我打扰。
我喜欢跪在池塘边，看我自己在水里，不可触摸，但我知道
那也是我。
我不明白云朵为何也会在水里生长，犹如你眼里的云朵与星星，
它们本该在我们头上漂浮，陪伴我们的主。
那个世界，你从不对我讲。
也许你一直以为我所理解的和你所知道的一样，
但是我只知道如果我有所不知，
那就是我们的主如此规定，也就是你的愿望。
可是有那么多事物，因为它们从不对我说话，而又无法触摸得到，
所以我无法了解。
还有一些事我会忘记去了解：
每当你拥着我的腰或者你的手心抚摸我的脸颊或颈项，
我似乎突然有所领悟或者突然间忘了要了解什么或者这世界还有什么需要去了解。
可是，男人，你拥抱和触摸我的时候不多，
有时我觉得野兽和禽鸟是更好的伴儿。
还有一些时候，我真想有一对翅膀，
不是要成为天使，而仅仅是想做一回鸟。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月8日

Fan Jinghua: Airmail

　　　Airmail

　For Zhao Dongni and a Heart Sutra

Its flight is of every mystery, otherworldly,
Yet your trust is penetrant, like a turtledove’s magnetism.
You let go of your hold, letting worlds transmigrate.

Then it takes off, it disappears, and it reaches,
Bearing stamps of agreement, embodied with a signature and date,
The grace note freed from people and weather.

An air wave travels, through the syrinx of your cursive style,
And the distant ear that hears
Picks up its wavelength from the myriad sounds.
　　　　　　　　　　　April 4, 2008


　　空邮

　　为赵冬妮以及她邮寄来的一帖《心经》而作

它的飞行有所有的神秘，指向此世之外
而你的信是不变的穿透力，如鸽子的磁性
你放开手，各世界的居民便自由迁移过境

于是它起飞，进入消隐，然后抵达
承负着契约的印花，签名与日期的身体，
还有一条纯粹的问候，甚至被抽空了人与天气

而空气的波吹过你行草的鸣管，
远方的那只耳朵，若能听见，
便是从万籁之中离析出它的波长。
　　　　　　　　　　2008年4月5日

Fan Jinghua: Morning Sounds

　　Morning Sounds

To the sounds of morning
At this water-bowelled town
I wake, the sunlight
Heavy on the window curtains.
The rattling of a wooden wheeled cart
On the slate and cobblestones
Inlaid with beatings on the wooden barrels
Of breakfast from soybean,
Semen-smelling,
Makes this room a boat
Swaddling me in.

We lodged this room yesterday as night fell,
And late night I, too, stood on the small bridge,
Looking at a star, long, as if it were a moon,
When she finally found me with a red lantern.
It was long long ago,
And it is now late February or March or early April.
I open my eyes, staring upward
And after several seconds
See behind the dark red truss
Grey tiles groveling on neat effacement.
It must have been for more than a hundred year.

Souls under this roof change, black-haired or white-robed,
But have all gone out, eventually,
Out into different weathers that alternate.
Beyond her breath, a flapping is
Heard on the awning window, in an expectable
Irregular rhythm, over and over
Again, like this woman who, lazily curled up under my arm,
Keeps nudging with the fleshy part of her palm,
For a promised tour of the town,
But does not really care about going out.
And then in a silence the sounds have taken on a changed rhythm.
　　　　　　　　　April 1, 2008

　　晨音

晨音中，我醒来，
在这河道穿肠的小镇，
光，在窗帘上晃动，
沉缓地，伴着木轮子
滚压石板与卵石的闷声，
还有，小槌棒不时敲击木桶，
半边小街飘着清骚的
豆香，不远处的桥头停留着
早点和散发着惺忪的人。
此刻，这个房间
犹如一只小船，我在襁褓中。

昨夜，我也曾站在那桥上，一人，
也是一星如月看了多时，
而她最终找到了我，提着红灯笼。
那已是很久很久以前了，
如今是二月将尽或是三月抑或是四月之初。
我睁开眼，数秒钟过后，才盯住了
天花板，又过了数秒
才看见绛红油漆的屋梁，
撑着灰色小瓦，
它们紧密地趴在一起整齐得
不分彼此，也许已经超过了百年。

这屋檐下人来魂往，幼齿变白头，
最终都走出了门槛，外面，
气候在四季中更替轮回。
此刻，她的呼吸之外，可听见
一种拍打，从遮雨的窗蓬上传来，
似乎没有规律，却又可以预期，
一次之后又会有一次，
犹如我腋下的这个女人，懒懒地蜷曲着，
用手掌的软处轻推我开始松泡的腰，要去
看这小镇，自己却并不想真的起身；
外面的声音仿佛在片刻突然的安静中换了节奏。
　　　　　　　2008年4月4日

Fan Jinghua: Camping

　　　　Camping

　　　Spread thy close curtain, love-performing love—
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

We had argued about the site,
On the grass under a tree with all the surroundings
Rising to make us feel as if in a huge open cradle,
Or on a hillside terrace that would make us feel like animals
Of higher order knowing Safety First
And for me there and then as a mere man
Safety implied that you should be kept away from the vast exposure

Your idea of lying on the ground incited the romantic in you
As we had been locked in lofty room-like cages far too long
And could now see ourselves flying down
This chance was too precious
Even insecurity was necessary for the vanity hidden in us
It was much easier to pitch the tent on the grass
Which brought me no trouble but even some added pride

Then, you crawled into your sleeping-bag, I
Mine, like a straightjacket
After a day’s hiking and unstoppable sight-viewing
You were soon slightly snoring
My mind became increasingly dark until I melt into
The darkness of sleep. We were like a couple
After a fight, still having to use the same bed

When birdsongs woke you up I woke at your stirs
I groaned, What is good about a night out
When you fell into sleep alone without
A pillow talk or a star-gazing
You said, The most important is
We have stayed in one tent
For a whole night, alone, away from homes, in the open wilderness

Then your body crawled out of the bag, and went on
To walk out of the tent. You said you needed to pee
And asked me to look out, so my head stuck out of the fly
Seeing you squatting down in front of a slope
“Your apple-shaped buttocks are the most beautiful white
I have ever seen in the early morning light
And I seem to hear the brooklet” whispered my heart
　　　　　　　　　　　　　March 29-30, 2008

　　　野营

　　　张开你密闭的帷帐吧，成全爱情的黑夜！
　　　　　　　　　莎士比亚《罗密欧与朱丽叶》

应该插在树下的草皮上，看四周
缓缓升起，将我们
摆放在一个敞开的巨大摇篮中，
还是搭在山坡的平台
令我们自感是高一等的动物，
懂得安全第一？
于我，仅有的男人，安全
是将你从无穷尽的暴露中隐藏。

一想到躺在大地上，你的内部
便浪漫了起来，
陈旧的我们从高高在上的笼子里飞下来了。
这是多么难得的机会，
不安全感
成就了我们潜在的虚荣。
在草地插起帐篷多么容易，
顺利得甚至给我附加了自豪。

你爬进你的睡袋，我爬进
我的，犹如穿上束身衣。
白天的跋涉与风景
令你很快发出轻鼾。
我越发阴暗
直到融进了昏睡。
我们就像一对恶吵后的夫妻
躺在不得不分享的床上。

晨鸟将你唤醒，
我醒于你的翻身。
我咕哝，似乎自己也不愿听清，
你昨夜径自睡去，
没有看星也没有枕臂长聊。
你说，最重要的是
我们宿在同一个帐篷下，
整整一夜，一男一女，离家，在野外。

接着你的身体爬了出来，继续，
走出帐篷，你让我守望。
我，头伸出门帘，看你
蹲下，在绿色的小坡前；
屁股的大苹果
悬在清晨的草头上，
是我见过的最美丽的白，
而我似乎还听见了小溪潺潺。
　　　　　　　2008年4月1日

Fan Jinghua: Light

　　Light
The darkest light,
Your eyes,
My mind.
They emit, not for each other.
But the light makes visible
The light between you and me
Shining or being reflected.
The in-between becomes us.
Is what I see
What you can feel?
Which light can be a proof?
　　　　March 30, 2008

　　光
最黑暗的光，
你的眼睛，
我的心智。
它们各自散发，
不是为了彼此。
而这光
令你我有了之间
并且令之间可见，
无论那是源光还是反射。
之间变成了我们。
我看到的
是你感到的么？
哪种光是证明？
　　　2008年3月30日

Fan Jinghua: Hard

　　　Hard
I get hard thinking of you
It is a hurt, sad, that can not be a thing to tell
What is human is always too morally human
That even in the VR I cannot share with you my desire
How can a morality of theirs have such an immunity
As to violate our love?
　　　　　　　　March 28, 2008

　　硬的难
想你，硬且艰难
这伤害，痛于不可说出
人性的，总是太道德化地人性了
甚至在虚拟中我也不能和你分享我的欲望
凭什么他们的道德具有如此的豁免权，可以
凌辱我们的爱情？
　　　　　　　2008年3月28日

Fan Jinghua: Floriculture

　　Floriculture

To match is of the utmost importance.
First, you have to decide on the color,
For your eyes, your temperament, and your everyday life.
Then, the scent,
As even if you do not look, it still affects you.
There are options between the odorless and the odorous,
The latter of which comes with numerous choices
Between two main categories of the strong and the faint,
Which, sometimes, if coupled with the color, will betray your style.
The former, well…, if the flower is a flower, it is there,
Only those who seek will see.
Oh, there are people who do care about the shape, but that sort…
But still, first, what’s your preference?
　　--Well, I think I need a rock.
　　　　　　　　　　March 27, 2008

　　　栽花规划

匹配是最至关重要的。
首先，你必须决定选什么颜色，
因为要悦目、要投合性情、还要日日相顾。
然后，要决定味道；
因为即使你不看，她也还会影响你。
喜欢无香还是有味？
后者有很多选择的余地，
总的来说可分为浓烈和清淡，
若与颜色组合，往往显出一个人的品位。
前者嘛，嗯，那花开了，就开在那儿，
只有想看的人才能看见。
哦，也有人挺在乎形状的，不过那种……
不过首先还是，你有什么偏好？
　　——我，我想，需要一块石头。
　　　　　　　2008年3月30日

Nalan Xingde: To the Tune of Picking Mulberry

纳兰性德《采桑子》

谁翻乐府凄凉曲，
风也萧萧，雨也萧萧，
瘦尽灯花又一宵。
不知何事萦怀抱，
醒也无聊，醉也无聊，
梦也何曾到谢桥。

Exegesis 逐字注
谁who　翻play/redo　乐府Music Bureau　凄凉sad & cold　曲tune/air
风wind　也also/alas　萧萧sough/desolate　雨rain　也萧萧
瘦thin　尽out　灯lamp　花flower　又yet　一another　宵night
不not　知know　何what　事thing　萦hover/linger　怀bosom抱embrace
醒awake　也also/alas　无聊dreary/weary　醉drunk　也无聊
梦dream　也also/alas　何曾ever(in question)　到to　谢桥Xie Bridge (where a love starts)

English translation
　　Nalan Xingde (1655-1685)
　　　　To the Tune of Picking Mulberry

Who is playing the sadly familiar tune
Against the howling wind
That slashes the rain for a whole night
As the candle dwindles out?
I don’t know and I don’t want to know
What harbors in my heart,
And I don’t care I am sober or drunk,
For the dreams are not what I dream of.

Back-translation is too different to be the original and not to be original.
回译过来和原文的出入太大，不成原作反成仿作了：

是谁在演奏那首熟悉的悲伤小调？
吼叫的风彻夜
抽打着冷雨，
而蜡烛缩小到了没有。
我不明白，我也不想明白，
到底有什么停泊在心中，
我已不在乎自己是醒是醉,
因为那些梦并非我要梦到的。