Fan Jinghua: Forget to Forget

　　　Forget to Forget

　　　　　--Where there we were once, there we are inhabited forever.

There are scenes our eyes pass by everyday that can become sights
Only when inhabited by our bodies. We see once and imagine all,
And all but one are nothing but proper nouns to be forgotten.
I keep so many names so long that they point to nothing
But the once-upon-a-time themselves.

There is a town called Big Factory which means first love and heartache,
A kind of milk powder that brings torture to your baby,
Who cries harder than others but cannot tell you why.
There is a title called Well-Wrought Urn that promotes study reading but maintains
Indetermination over truth, as all are texts open to all interpretative perspectives.

Last night when I was writing a poem, trying to balance morality and death with love,
My wife cried herself awake from a nightmare.
In the countryside she walks in eroticizing air, where beautiful leeks weep for help,
Saying they itch all over under the skin, for their blood is full of worms of pesticide.
The wind is too soft to thrash them and she cannot lend hands to them either.

I gave her a glass of water, saying this is the last soup of our lifetime tears;
I held her in my arms as if we were under Meng Po Pavilion by Frustration Bridge
That connects our road to Yellow Fountain Ave.,
The water below running silver and gold, and our eyes almost blind.
The water runs down into her like time through us, traceless, painless, as the bad of dreams ease.

We need bad dreams to delay us from drifting toward oblivion,
We need a startle, a gyring halt so that we can talk to each other’s eyes
And forget to forget and remember.
Now let me describe to you a scene of snow field where a blue bird jumps,
Writing a love letter to the sun, which I may whisper to your ears.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　September 17, 2008

　　忘了忘记

　　　　我们曾经哪儿，哪儿就永远居住着我们。——题记

有些景象我们日日走过，
如果身体不曾居住其中，它们并不可见。
我们看到一次，我们想象所有，
除了一次，所有的都只是等待遗忘的名词，
我收藏着那么多名字，收藏了那么久，
它们已经除了自己别无所指。

有一个镇子叫做大厂，它的意思是初恋和心伤；
有一种奶粉，以无以言状的疼痛折磨你的婴儿，
令你无从知道叫得更响的孩子是否应该吃得更多。
有一本书叫做“精制的瓮”，它鼓吹细读，但又告诉人们，
一切文本都对各种阐释视角开放，而真相永远无法确定。

昨夜我正在写一首诗，试图以爱抗衡道德与死亡，
这时我的妻子从梦中哭醒。
她在乡下漫步，熏风醉人，吹开她的欲望，而美丽的韭菜哭泣着向她呼救，
说它们全身的皮下瘙痒难忍，因为血液中充满了杀毒剂的蠕虫。
风太软，无法抽打它们，为它们止痒，而我的妻子农药过敏，满手都是红疮。

我扶起她，喂她喝下一杯清水，说这是我们一生的眼泪，
犹如我们站在一只叫做孟婆的亭下，在一座叫做奈何的桥边，
看着我们走过的路接上了叫做黄泉的阳关大道，
一条河流淌着银白与金黄，令我们的眼睛几乎无法看清。
她喝下水，犹如时间淌过我们，没有迹象，没有痛，梦之恶慢慢平息。

我们需要噩梦阻挡我们漂向遗忘的舒畅，
我们需要吃惊，需要一个漩涡的停顿，让我们对着彼此的眼睛说话，
让我们忘了忘记，也忘了记起。
此刻，我已写完那首小诗，一片雪地上，一只蓝色小鸟在跳来跳去，
写了一封献给太阳的情书，让我对着你的耳朵轻诵。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008年9月17日