Sunday, September 21, 2008

Fan Jinghua: Sense of Cleanness

  Sense of Cleanness

The fact is
what your closed eyes can see is a hidden pain, softer
than what a hand can touch.
Yet, you are still willing to believe
when you press your fingers against your temples
the distant one may be appeased.
This, has become a habit.

Therefore, black fat balloons
scrape by a broken lampshade on the post in the black night and then
they float away into nothingness.
Nothing is broken. No smell of burning.
But you frown,
for the imaginary distinct odor.

Imagination, you know, is like
A kite or an intimate word, a joy that echoes in your heart
and surrenders to no words.
If it is not bound with a red tape of love and shame,
it is a bad thought.
At this thought, he flashes into your mind,
again, but you tell yourself
he does not know.

The beach beneath the pedestal of your desklamp, no matter how sunny,
is no place for you to sunbathe.
You need a coconut tree, a big boulder, a big bath towel.
You need more than
turning back to those bare chests and backs.
When you step out of the shade, you pave a path for your soles,
with your unspoken words, and shove your toes
into the warm sand.
The blue sky and white clouds are too luxuriously expansive,
and you only need to keep very little to your own.

Venus, your mons is a pure delight to the eyes
of a wandering singer, who is gleeful
even when repenting.
Its beauty is like a blossom on a papal staff,
and you have never seen it, not even in a mirror.
You have heard of his name as a poet and lover and a saint.

You have a phobia for crawling insects, especially the reptiles
and smooth-skinned amphibians,
so you’d like to perch on a round bed
at the center of an incensed room.
You have not left your third-floor boudoir window since mid-spring,
for at the end of the alley downstairs there
live a Chinese date tree and a phoenix tree.

The flowering season has gone, but your face,
in bud, is waiting for the stars
to descend and visit your dream.
The white silk handkerchief you use to bind hair has red flowers,
and black waves shimmer on your untied hair.
You always feel a little ashamed for having a pair of small breasts,
like many vain women.
           September 18-20, 2008


  你,净洁的

其实,你闭着眼睛看到的
是更柔软的隐痛。那绝不是伸手可及的。
可你还是愿意觉得
如果你用手指压着自己的太阳穴,
就抚慰了远方的人;
这,已成了习惯。

于是,胖嘟嘟的黑色气球
从破的路灯罩上刮了一下,离开了,
飘进了黑夜的虚无。
什么都没有破,也没有焦味,
可你却锁着眉心,
为了想象中奇异的味道。

想象,你在心中自语,
犹如风筝,或一个亲密的字眼,一种喜悦
在胸内回响却绝不向任何文字投降。
如果不系上爱与羞耻的红线,它便是
恶念。
紧接着,他又闪过你的脑子,但你暗自说
他不知。

你台灯圣坛下的海滩,阳光多么明媚啊,
可你需要一棵椰子树、一块大岩石、一条大浴巾。
你需要背对所有裸露的后背或胸膛。
然后,你将自言自语铺在眼前,弓着脚心
走出阴凉,将脚尖插入温暖的细沙……
蓝天白云太奢侈了,你只要一点点存在心中。

维纳斯,你的小丘饱满。凝视的人
在事后的忏悔时
还有点心动。
你听说过那个传奇的流浪歌手,一个情圣,一个圣徒,
只是你从没见过它隆起的美
以及教皇权杖上的花朵。

你从小就害怕爬虫,尤其恐惧
粘滑的两栖生物,
所以你惯于在熏香的楼上叠床架屋。
从仲春开始,你就不曾离开过三楼的窗户,
因为巷子尽头住着一棵枣树
和一棵梧桐。

如今已过了细碎的花期,你满脸还是
矜持的苞蕾,等待着星星下凡。
当你松开那条红花素底的真丝手绢,你乌黑的长发
便有点波浪了;你将它拢到胸前,
因为你一直有点羞于乳房娇小,犹如
很多虚荣的女人。
        2008年9月18-20日

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