Virtual Fruition
For many days, you have been walking the path in the backyard,
lifting your skirt
to avoid the thriving lances of thistles.
It is the best of the day.
You reflect, smiling.
In the mountains, animals have lurked for a long afternoon, as if non-existence,
their gaze weary, the glare,
for lack of moonlight, not yet frighteningly beaming,
though the howls are in cool preparation
in the abdomen.
It is too much to be enough, the blue indefinable in the sky,
so different from the shower of confetti
which had pleased almost everyone in your wedding,
and in particular that pair of hands, which in colored light were thrilled,
picking up the glitters from your barely accommodable body, one by one.
By now at nightfall, you’ve fallen into nowhere,
and only by holding one hand with another
can you hold yourself from falling further.
No one is around,
not even any form of regard.
It is in such a world of otherness where I entertain
an extravaganza
that we breathe from each other like we reach
for the invisible color of our skins
under a blanket in a dark house.
Through the intersticed window
we surface to see the night
is still night, with a falling star shearing across our mind’s eyes,
and I feel the electric of two fish touching scaleless bellies
when gliding through the window.
July 29, 2008
虚的抵达
多日来，你踱步量着后院的小径，
轻轻地提起裙子，
避开奶蓟草阳刚的刺矛。
在一日最好的时辰，
你回味着，满面微笑。
后山上，野兽蛰伏了整整一个下午，成为从未有的存在，
眼神迷离而疲惫，那色泽
因缺少月光的照射而未能凝聚出令人恐惧的光，
吼叫也还寒浸浸地
在腹下酝酿着。
天空中的蓝色质地太难描述，无底
却总是未能充满，
与婚礼上几乎令人人欣喜的彩纸屑多么不同，
那夜，从你难以守持的身上，
四只指尖一颗一颗地捡起小亮点。
此刻，夜幕垂下，你沉入积重难返的迷途，
只得用一只手捉住另一只手
将自己拉住。
而八方无人，
甚至没有任何形式的注目。
就是在这个异域空间，
我谱写一段狂想的华彩，
我们在其中相向而呼吸，犹如
赤裸躺在一个小黑屋中的厚毛毯下，
伸手触摸对方肌肤的颜色。
而后我们探出头来，辨认窗户的
缝隙，确信夜仍是夜，
在我们的灵视中抛落一颗流星；
一条快感电过我，
犹如两条鱼侧身游出窗户时腹部短暂地一擦。
2008年7月30日
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Fan Jinghua: A Sight
A Sight
Noise will have it eclipsed into dumb banality
That you alone
Doubtfully
Stand before the alternating green, yellow and red
And for a time use a smile to veneer the noise
Until now I write it down
And I am over there
July 26, 2008
一瞥之景
噪音将把这景象消蚀为喑哑的庸常
一人
迟疑地
站在交替的红、黄与绿之前
一时间还用微笑虚掩那噪音
直到此刻我记下这一景
我便身在那边
2008年7月26日
Noise will have it eclipsed into dumb banality
That you alone
Doubtfully
Stand before the alternating green, yellow and red
And for a time use a smile to veneer the noise
Until now I write it down
And I am over there
July 26, 2008
一瞥之景
噪音将把这景象消蚀为喑哑的庸常
一人
迟疑地
站在交替的红、黄与绿之前
一时间还用微笑虚掩那噪音
直到此刻我记下这一景
我便身在那边
2008年7月26日
Fan Jinghua: The Third Person
The Third Person
If, (reflect it and take stock!) remember this is the only way possible
To still a relation between mobile bodies, you are of another kind,
Will you visit and annunciate my dream?
This is my dream, truly,
As I am awake, here and now, wide and spreadable.
When you say if to yourself, a breath of air will become my name,
Which you have never spelt out and never will.
As you breathe my name, nothing becomes more real.
Part of you makes my dream, and you do not;
That part, in the third person, is a disembodied threefold one.
We play this dream, this game of personae and pronouns,
We are between them and love it.
It is love between them.
We are them, her and him, or it and it
Like one butterfly and another.
July 23, 2008
第三人称
假若（稍一想即收住！并记住假若是惟一可能的途径
使得两个移动体的关系凝止），你可以是另一类，
你是否会降临并告示我的梦？
这便是我的梦，真的，
因为我醒着，此时此刻，透彻而且能展延。
当你对自己说假若，一股气息将变成我的名字，
只是你从未清晰地说出那名字，将来也不会。
有了你呼吸我的名字，真也不会更真。
你的一部分成为我的梦，而你不会；
那第三人称的部分，去了肉身的三位格一体。
这梦、这游戏有关面具与代名词，我们会玩，
我们就在它们之间，爱着游戏。
爱在它们之间。
我们是它们，她与他，或者它与它，
犹如一只蝴蝶与另一只。
2008年7月24日
If, (reflect it and take stock!) remember this is the only way possible
To still a relation between mobile bodies, you are of another kind,
Will you visit and annunciate my dream?
This is my dream, truly,
As I am awake, here and now, wide and spreadable.
When you say if to yourself, a breath of air will become my name,
Which you have never spelt out and never will.
As you breathe my name, nothing becomes more real.
Part of you makes my dream, and you do not;
That part, in the third person, is a disembodied threefold one.
We play this dream, this game of personae and pronouns,
We are between them and love it.
It is love between them.
We are them, her and him, or it and it
Like one butterfly and another.
July 23, 2008
第三人称
假若（稍一想即收住！并记住假若是惟一可能的途径
使得两个移动体的关系凝止），你可以是另一类，
你是否会降临并告示我的梦？
这便是我的梦，真的，
因为我醒着，此时此刻，透彻而且能展延。
当你对自己说假若，一股气息将变成我的名字，
只是你从未清晰地说出那名字，将来也不会。
有了你呼吸我的名字，真也不会更真。
你的一部分成为我的梦，而你不会；
那第三人称的部分，去了肉身的三位格一体。
这梦、这游戏有关面具与代名词，我们会玩，
我们就在它们之间，爱着游戏。
爱在它们之间。
我们是它们，她与他，或者它与它，
犹如一只蝴蝶与另一只。
2008年7月24日
Monday, July 28, 2008
Fan Jinghua: A Summer Nightfall
A Summer Nightfall
After Han Wo
The tree in my yard
Casts down
A sluggish shade, faint and fresh.
A translucent figure fades out
By the marble steps leading to a dark cave
From where a cricket is heard.
The sun is down for quite a while now,
And the breezes, continuous, cannot be seen
But make one feel.
Occasionally, from way over the eaves,
Late returning cuckoos call out their own names,
Bewitchingly delicate.
July 27, 2008
夏暮
仿韩偓
我院子的这棵梧桐
投下懒懒的
影子，淡淡的，很新鲜。
大理石的台阶上，
一个半透明的身影消失进了黑洞，
只留下一只蛐蛐的叫声。
太阳落山已有一会儿了，
我能感到晚风
翩翩，却无法看见。
偶尔，迟归的布谷鸟
从屋檐外的高处叫唤着自己的名字，
那声音娇滴滴的，令人心悸。
2008年7月27日
Han Wo's Original
夏日
[唐] 韩偓 (844-)
庭树新阴叶未成
玉阶人静一蝉声
相风不动乌龙睡
时有娇莺自唤名
夏summer 日day
唐Tang (Dynasty) 韩HAN 偓Wo
庭yard 树tree 新new 阴shade 叶leaf 未not yet 成fully grown
玉jade 阶steps 人man 静silent 一one 蝉cicada 声sound
相continuous 风wind 不not 动stir 乌dark 龙dragon 睡sleep
时oft 有have 娇delicate 莺cuckoo 自self 唤call 名name
Note: 自唤名 (call out its own name) refers to cuckoo, which is believed to cry out its own name. In Chinese literary motif, the cry sounds like “bu-ru-gui-qu (不如归去),” literally meaning “not comparable with returning (hometown)”. Therefore, cuckoo is usually a symbol of nostalgia.
HAN Wo is a late Tang Dynasty poet, who wrote some of the best erotic literati poems in Chinese. It is reported that he had a collection of poems entitled 香奁集 Fragrant Casket, and therefore he was hailed or denigrated as writing in a “Fragrant Casket” Style. The great late Tang poet Li Shangyin (813-858) was the husband of his mother’s sister, and he esteemed his promise when Han Wo was a child.
After Han Wo
The tree in my yard
Casts down
A sluggish shade, faint and fresh.
A translucent figure fades out
By the marble steps leading to a dark cave
From where a cricket is heard.
The sun is down for quite a while now,
And the breezes, continuous, cannot be seen
But make one feel.
Occasionally, from way over the eaves,
Late returning cuckoos call out their own names,
Bewitchingly delicate.
July 27, 2008
夏暮
仿韩偓
我院子的这棵梧桐
投下懒懒的
影子，淡淡的，很新鲜。
大理石的台阶上，
一个半透明的身影消失进了黑洞，
只留下一只蛐蛐的叫声。
太阳落山已有一会儿了，
我能感到晚风
翩翩，却无法看见。
偶尔，迟归的布谷鸟
从屋檐外的高处叫唤着自己的名字，
那声音娇滴滴的，令人心悸。
2008年7月27日
Han Wo's Original
夏日
[唐] 韩偓 (844-)
庭树新阴叶未成
玉阶人静一蝉声
相风不动乌龙睡
时有娇莺自唤名
夏summer 日day
唐Tang (Dynasty) 韩HAN 偓Wo
庭yard 树tree 新new 阴shade 叶leaf 未not yet 成fully grown
玉jade 阶steps 人man 静silent 一one 蝉cicada 声sound
相continuous 风wind 不not 动stir 乌dark 龙dragon 睡sleep
时oft 有have 娇delicate 莺cuckoo 自self 唤call 名name
Note: 自唤名 (call out its own name) refers to cuckoo, which is believed to cry out its own name. In Chinese literary motif, the cry sounds like “bu-ru-gui-qu (不如归去),” literally meaning “not comparable with returning (hometown)”. Therefore, cuckoo is usually a symbol of nostalgia.
HAN Wo is a late Tang Dynasty poet, who wrote some of the best erotic literati poems in Chinese. It is reported that he had a collection of poems entitled 香奁集 Fragrant Casket, and therefore he was hailed or denigrated as writing in a “Fragrant Casket” Style. The great late Tang poet Li Shangyin (813-858) was the husband of his mother’s sister, and he esteemed his promise when Han Wo was a child.
Fan Jinghua: Depression
Depression
i. Sinking
There is always a winding path
Standing like a guidepost on every drainage outlet by a highway curb
"No U-Turn"
I do not turn my head but turn my eyeballs when eyes closed
Trying to find a white line connecting another to reach you
And forget the thousand mountains and waters
A full face of features
Dismantled and scattered on the blank paper of night
I could not assemble back to a flowing sentence
I fold my own limbs, together with them, back into the dark
Hallucinating
Your breathing in heavy nonchalance
I have never learned how to advance fast
I am still on a path like a lamb’s small intestine
And bare footed
ii. Insomnia
For quite some time, I have listened for something
The alphabets that spell your name flick and click like stars
I do not open eyes, and those willow-leaf brows have long been rolled up
An ancient city arches down into the summer
A whitish leg floats out
From under a bridge, followed by a pillow mat
On a 3-D map, affixes and radicals are scattered
Like banners, none of which can preinstall or forestall or translocate
A lone tree on a terrace and transfigure it into a paragon of virtues
The immortal body is the mortal corpse under the desert
Where my gilded boudoir of bride-to-be-never lies
Like a spacecraft coated with starlight without moisture
She has found a posture to sleep in Time
Is it neglected or violated at this moment
Even if I am the most hurt, I won’t tell to myself
I am the one who is spread out within a circle in a square
My pelt can be lacerated from my navel
Exemplifying strength, usefulness and grace
iii. Vision of Death
One sheep, two sheep; three sheep. Their similar faces cuddle together by bleats that tell
there is some kind of benign plot going on between them from mouth to mouth
The floating shamrock of white heads expands and spreads open,
centrifugalized and elongated out, their protruding and concave features flattened.
These clouds I counted numerous times on a culvert in my childhood later afternoons
with a girl from a neighboring village
whose down-to-shoulder plaits had colorful rubber bands.
At this very moment she is leading a flock along a riverbank.
In the morning mist, her fingers, a bunch of truncated scallions, open
on the marble wrist, turning
and turning like a morning glory, beckoning the flock to file through the culvert,
among which headless human trunks walk in navy blue serge, stiffly, steadily.
There is no hearse, no mourning banners.
Who are they seeing off to the burial ground?
I slipped and lost balance, ditched in this gully and left behind,
because I was tempted by a cattail spike, the greenish brown stick
like a cork poked into the bottle of Rogor emulsion, suspending like my head
on the water, eyes above and mouth below
And yet I know
I will soon become a broken stool turning in the flooded river
and rolling beyond the log-pier before my home
like a dead upturned clown knifefish
when the sunrays shower down staggers and baronets
Mamma Mia, the silvery color is darkly grinding
as if on the huge bedstone of night
several ball-shaped scalped runner stones are crisscrossing
and my head is positioned in the rynd and scrubbed once and again
layer after layer
so feathery and flimsy that it does not vibrate to make any sound
in the clearing fog
iv. Waking and Gone
Who has hooked out the green algae and let them dry in the sun
and form stiff dark bowels on the riverbank grasstop?
A school of baby snakeheads sip the water-surface sunlight
while a big one is insidiously watching from the below
Not far away, the hand of clouds is doing the blue
till a spurt of white seeds ejaculates and blurs the liquid crystal
A snake, hesitating for a few seconds, springs out
and snaps a croak of frog to a sudden end
Left on the water is a zipped vein skeleton of a heart
which closes my eyes
July 15, 2008
忧郁症患的夜晚
一．沉底
总是同一条小路
像路牌一样插在这条大路的每个排水口
“不许拐弯”
我不转头，只转动眼帘后的珠子
在地图上寻找通向你的线条
以此忘记千山万水
将一张脸拆散
放在黑夜的白纸上
却不会重组，造出一个句子
连同自己的四肢一道折叠，回到黑暗中
幻听
你的呼吸带着粗重的淡漠
我从没学会飞速进步
仍留恋于羊肠小道
和赤脚
二．失眠
听了很久，拼写你名字的字母发出星星般的噼叭声
睁眼还是多余的了，那柳叶眉
不知哪天已卷了起来
一座古城低头拱进了夏天
一条白净的腿
从桥洞下漂了出来，接着是一块枕席
地形图上，偏旁部首
随处插着小旗子，哪只手、哪只脚能够将自己
移到一个合适的位置，保持端庄
沙漠之下有不烂的
古尸，我的楼兰，如藤椅
遨游太空，没有水分只有星光
此刻，她的睡姿被冷落
还是被欺凌？即使我最受伤害
我仍然是那无动于衷的人，对自己也不说
我便是那个被撑开在方圆之中的人
整张皮可以从肚脐拉开
例证着持久、有用与美观
三．死的幻象
一只大羊两只小羊，三只羊
彼此相像的脸在咩咩声中聚在一起
嘴对嘴，商量着什么
然后那羊头三叶草由小变大，飘飞起来
被甩开，沿着离心力的方向铺展，越发难以分辨其五官
这些云朵，我曾经数过，很多次坐在一座桥涵上
和邻村的一个女孩，她两根齐肩的辫子，扎红绿相间的头绳
此刻，她正带领羊群沿着一条河岸迁徙，举起的手举着
细嫩白净的手腕，在半空中绕着兰花指
那羊群的队伍正经过那座小桥
没有头的大人夹杂其中，肩膀以下是青色的咔叽布
在这个雾气沉沉的早晨，没有幡儿，没有哀乐，被送葬的是谁
丢下我，在这条河的深壑中
我，为了一支刚刚转成褐色的蒲棒，伸手、失足
像一只被弃的乐果瓶里的小木塞
水面在我的嘴巴与眼睛之间晃荡
很快，我就是一张三条腿的凳子在泛滥的雨季
从我家门前的简易码头前滚过
一条刀鱼露出白色的肚皮
那时阳光会从云与云之间投掷无数刺刀
妈妈，妈妈，那白色犹如黑夜
巨大的磨盘上
许多底部被切割掉一块的大石球疾速交错地碾轧
我被一层又一层地搓掉
软塌塌，如粉皮，只是更薄更轻，甚至无法形成任何声音
连雾气也早已蒸发了
四．醒去
是谁将水边的青苔挑出来晾在岸上
午后，河岸上已有一条条僵硬的黑色肠衣
黑鱼苗的嘴密密地咂着阳光碎片
一条大黑鱼在恰好看不见的深处不动声色
不远处，云朵的手
套弄着蓝色，挤出白色的汁
一条蛇犹豫着，突然追了过去
掐断一声蛙叫
水面上裂开的心型拉链
在水面上咬合了我的眼睛
2008年7月15日
i. Sinking
There is always a winding path
Standing like a guidepost on every drainage outlet by a highway curb
"No U-Turn"
I do not turn my head but turn my eyeballs when eyes closed
Trying to find a white line connecting another to reach you
And forget the thousand mountains and waters
A full face of features
Dismantled and scattered on the blank paper of night
I could not assemble back to a flowing sentence
I fold my own limbs, together with them, back into the dark
Hallucinating
Your breathing in heavy nonchalance
I have never learned how to advance fast
I am still on a path like a lamb’s small intestine
And bare footed
ii. Insomnia
For quite some time, I have listened for something
The alphabets that spell your name flick and click like stars
I do not open eyes, and those willow-leaf brows have long been rolled up
An ancient city arches down into the summer
A whitish leg floats out
From under a bridge, followed by a pillow mat
On a 3-D map, affixes and radicals are scattered
Like banners, none of which can preinstall or forestall or translocate
A lone tree on a terrace and transfigure it into a paragon of virtues
The immortal body is the mortal corpse under the desert
Where my gilded boudoir of bride-to-be-never lies
Like a spacecraft coated with starlight without moisture
She has found a posture to sleep in Time
Is it neglected or violated at this moment
Even if I am the most hurt, I won’t tell to myself
I am the one who is spread out within a circle in a square
My pelt can be lacerated from my navel
Exemplifying strength, usefulness and grace
iii. Vision of Death
One sheep, two sheep; three sheep. Their similar faces cuddle together by bleats that tell
there is some kind of benign plot going on between them from mouth to mouth
The floating shamrock of white heads expands and spreads open,
centrifugalized and elongated out, their protruding and concave features flattened.
These clouds I counted numerous times on a culvert in my childhood later afternoons
with a girl from a neighboring village
whose down-to-shoulder plaits had colorful rubber bands.
At this very moment she is leading a flock along a riverbank.
In the morning mist, her fingers, a bunch of truncated scallions, open
on the marble wrist, turning
and turning like a morning glory, beckoning the flock to file through the culvert,
among which headless human trunks walk in navy blue serge, stiffly, steadily.
There is no hearse, no mourning banners.
Who are they seeing off to the burial ground?
I slipped and lost balance, ditched in this gully and left behind,
because I was tempted by a cattail spike, the greenish brown stick
like a cork poked into the bottle of Rogor emulsion, suspending like my head
on the water, eyes above and mouth below
And yet I know
I will soon become a broken stool turning in the flooded river
and rolling beyond the log-pier before my home
like a dead upturned clown knifefish
when the sunrays shower down staggers and baronets
Mamma Mia, the silvery color is darkly grinding
as if on the huge bedstone of night
several ball-shaped scalped runner stones are crisscrossing
and my head is positioned in the rynd and scrubbed once and again
layer after layer
so feathery and flimsy that it does not vibrate to make any sound
in the clearing fog
iv. Waking and Gone
Who has hooked out the green algae and let them dry in the sun
and form stiff dark bowels on the riverbank grasstop?
A school of baby snakeheads sip the water-surface sunlight
while a big one is insidiously watching from the below
Not far away, the hand of clouds is doing the blue
till a spurt of white seeds ejaculates and blurs the liquid crystal
A snake, hesitating for a few seconds, springs out
and snaps a croak of frog to a sudden end
Left on the water is a zipped vein skeleton of a heart
which closes my eyes
July 15, 2008
忧郁症患的夜晚
一．沉底
总是同一条小路
像路牌一样插在这条大路的每个排水口
“不许拐弯”
我不转头，只转动眼帘后的珠子
在地图上寻找通向你的线条
以此忘记千山万水
将一张脸拆散
放在黑夜的白纸上
却不会重组，造出一个句子
连同自己的四肢一道折叠，回到黑暗中
幻听
你的呼吸带着粗重的淡漠
我从没学会飞速进步
仍留恋于羊肠小道
和赤脚
二．失眠
听了很久，拼写你名字的字母发出星星般的噼叭声
睁眼还是多余的了，那柳叶眉
不知哪天已卷了起来
一座古城低头拱进了夏天
一条白净的腿
从桥洞下漂了出来，接着是一块枕席
地形图上，偏旁部首
随处插着小旗子，哪只手、哪只脚能够将自己
移到一个合适的位置，保持端庄
沙漠之下有不烂的
古尸，我的楼兰，如藤椅
遨游太空，没有水分只有星光
此刻，她的睡姿被冷落
还是被欺凌？即使我最受伤害
我仍然是那无动于衷的人，对自己也不说
我便是那个被撑开在方圆之中的人
整张皮可以从肚脐拉开
例证着持久、有用与美观
三．死的幻象
一只大羊两只小羊，三只羊
彼此相像的脸在咩咩声中聚在一起
嘴对嘴，商量着什么
然后那羊头三叶草由小变大，飘飞起来
被甩开，沿着离心力的方向铺展，越发难以分辨其五官
这些云朵，我曾经数过，很多次坐在一座桥涵上
和邻村的一个女孩，她两根齐肩的辫子，扎红绿相间的头绳
此刻，她正带领羊群沿着一条河岸迁徙，举起的手举着
细嫩白净的手腕，在半空中绕着兰花指
那羊群的队伍正经过那座小桥
没有头的大人夹杂其中，肩膀以下是青色的咔叽布
在这个雾气沉沉的早晨，没有幡儿，没有哀乐，被送葬的是谁
丢下我，在这条河的深壑中
我，为了一支刚刚转成褐色的蒲棒，伸手、失足
像一只被弃的乐果瓶里的小木塞
水面在我的嘴巴与眼睛之间晃荡
很快，我就是一张三条腿的凳子在泛滥的雨季
从我家门前的简易码头前滚过
一条刀鱼露出白色的肚皮
那时阳光会从云与云之间投掷无数刺刀
妈妈，妈妈，那白色犹如黑夜
巨大的磨盘上
许多底部被切割掉一块的大石球疾速交错地碾轧
我被一层又一层地搓掉
软塌塌，如粉皮，只是更薄更轻，甚至无法形成任何声音
连雾气也早已蒸发了
四．醒去
是谁将水边的青苔挑出来晾在岸上
午后，河岸上已有一条条僵硬的黑色肠衣
黑鱼苗的嘴密密地咂着阳光碎片
一条大黑鱼在恰好看不见的深处不动声色
不远处，云朵的手
套弄着蓝色，挤出白色的汁
一条蛇犹豫着，突然追了过去
掐断一声蛙叫
水面上裂开的心型拉链
在水面上咬合了我的眼睛
2008年7月15日
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Suicidal
Suicidal
You wanna make a few lines and make them short and long
Into a rhythm
Against vehicles not far away zipping the air open on the highway
When no human sound permutes time
Night is night only when you sink
Deep indoors behind a door
And can hear far far away down some valley in the Alps echoes of a church bell
Roll and flutter
Who’d breathe difficult in the morning mist
When you are secretly murdering your poem for the coming of light
The last line, serpentine before your eyes, is disembodied and dismembered
It insinuates
With all silky knotty body
Like drills into your temple and chisels itching for a smile from inside your skull
You are used to this like the dark irregularities patched upon the moon
Mean no more darkness or brightness than your eyeballs
You’d love to keep a smile too
As a bitter souvenir
The last line is a broken sentence
You cannot reincarnate the relic of the sacrificed poem
What can you leave behind
But a wax pieta that wizens in the light of microthermic love
A lacerated mouth that becomes increasingly vivid
Two arms that cannot hold each other
When a baby cries not for milk or dry bottoms
It cries as a man, as if for the first time, with all his heart out
July 22, 2008
自杀的诗
你在造句，句子要三长两短
才有节奏
以便对抗不远处高速公路上拉链头似的车辆
撕开空气的啸声
此刻没有人声改变时间的序列
黑夜
之所以是黑夜是因为
你沉入室内深处的另一扇门后
而且还能听到很远很远的阿尔卑斯山的某个峡谷中
回响着山脊上的钟声
当你为了迎接朝霞而秘密谋杀一首诗
有谁会在晨雾中呼吸困难
那最后一行如一条蛇横在你眼前，丝光的多瘤的身体
支离又无实
影射什么
如钻子钻进了你的太阳穴，凿子从脑颅内部开凿一个微笑
你已习惯这一切，犹如月亮上毫无规则的黑补丁
并不会比你的眼珠更加黑暗或明亮
你也想收藏一个微笑
作为苦涩的留念
那最后一行是一个残句
你无法将献祭之诗的遗骨赋形为肉身
除了一座蜡制的圣殇像在低温之爱的光照下干枯
一张撕裂的嘴越发栩栩如生
两只手臂抱不住彼此
你，还能留下什么
当一个婴儿不是为了吃奶和干爽的屁股而哭叫
那么那已是一个成人在痛哭，也许第一次，将心都哭了出来
2008年7月23日
You wanna make a few lines and make them short and long
Into a rhythm
Against vehicles not far away zipping the air open on the highway
When no human sound permutes time
Night is night only when you sink
Deep indoors behind a door
And can hear far far away down some valley in the Alps echoes of a church bell
Roll and flutter
Who’d breathe difficult in the morning mist
When you are secretly murdering your poem for the coming of light
The last line, serpentine before your eyes, is disembodied and dismembered
It insinuates
With all silky knotty body
Like drills into your temple and chisels itching for a smile from inside your skull
You are used to this like the dark irregularities patched upon the moon
Mean no more darkness or brightness than your eyeballs
You’d love to keep a smile too
As a bitter souvenir
The last line is a broken sentence
You cannot reincarnate the relic of the sacrificed poem
What can you leave behind
But a wax pieta that wizens in the light of microthermic love
A lacerated mouth that becomes increasingly vivid
Two arms that cannot hold each other
When a baby cries not for milk or dry bottoms
It cries as a man, as if for the first time, with all his heart out
July 22, 2008
自杀的诗
你在造句，句子要三长两短
才有节奏
以便对抗不远处高速公路上拉链头似的车辆
撕开空气的啸声
此刻没有人声改变时间的序列
黑夜
之所以是黑夜是因为
你沉入室内深处的另一扇门后
而且还能听到很远很远的阿尔卑斯山的某个峡谷中
回响着山脊上的钟声
当你为了迎接朝霞而秘密谋杀一首诗
有谁会在晨雾中呼吸困难
那最后一行如一条蛇横在你眼前，丝光的多瘤的身体
支离又无实
影射什么
如钻子钻进了你的太阳穴，凿子从脑颅内部开凿一个微笑
你已习惯这一切，犹如月亮上毫无规则的黑补丁
并不会比你的眼珠更加黑暗或明亮
你也想收藏一个微笑
作为苦涩的留念
那最后一行是一个残句
你无法将献祭之诗的遗骨赋形为肉身
除了一座蜡制的圣殇像在低温之爱的光照下干枯
一张撕裂的嘴越发栩栩如生
两只手臂抱不住彼此
你，还能留下什么
当一个婴儿不是为了吃奶和干爽的屁股而哭叫
那么那已是一个成人在痛哭，也许第一次，将心都哭了出来
2008年7月23日
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Vagabondage
Vagabondage
I can see the door opening to the dark, and a cold front
Jogs by, riding an invisible pony, to the river.
What else but the silent tail would linger, when a fisherman’s lamp
Yellows In its own light, to listen for the disturbed undercurrent?
At such a time, no leaf would fall, nor would
A vagabond spirit.
July 21, 2008
漂泊
你能看到那扇门向黑暗敞开 一道冷锋
一颠一颠地 骑一匹看不见小马 向河边涌去
除了它那安静的尾巴 当渔火
在自己的光中昏黄 还有什么会流连不舍
仅为倾听那被搅扰的潜流
这样的时刻 没有叶子会零落
流浪的灵也不会
2008年7月21日
I can see the door opening to the dark, and a cold front
Jogs by, riding an invisible pony, to the river.
What else but the silent tail would linger, when a fisherman’s lamp
Yellows In its own light, to listen for the disturbed undercurrent?
At such a time, no leaf would fall, nor would
A vagabond spirit.
July 21, 2008
漂泊
你能看到那扇门向黑暗敞开 一道冷锋
一颠一颠地 骑一匹看不见小马 向河边涌去
除了它那安静的尾巴 当渔火
在自己的光中昏黄 还有什么会流连不舍
仅为倾听那被搅扰的潜流
这样的时刻 没有叶子会零落
流浪的灵也不会
2008年7月21日
Monday, July 14, 2008
Fan Jinghua: An Email
An Email
Re: What to say
Dear
If a word is to be used only by what it connotes, the word
by which I can and should call you
has not come into being
There are always words that do not show themselves in this world
in this world of beings with societal features
and I wish I am not a human of flesh
I have been writing about someone as something, all these years
I wrote of something too dear to be poked by fire-tongs
something to be kept burning unexposed, growing in and inward
What I've written is only the air
that takes away the mould on that tiny flowerless plant
and the air brings dust
July 14, 2008
（汉译）
一封电邮
关于：说什么
亲爱的
如果一个词只能按其内涵而使用
我可以并且应该用来称呼你的
那个词，还没有出现
有很多词不会在这个世界显示出自己
充满这世界的人都长着社会的五官
而我只希望自己没有肉身
这些年来，我一直把人当作事书写
我写到有某种东西太珍贵，不该被火钳拨动
它应该暗自燃烧，不见光，在内部向内生长
我写出来的文字只是空气
带走了那棵小小的无花植物上的霉气
又为它带来灰尘
2008年7月14日
Re: What to say
Dear
If a word is to be used only by what it connotes, the word
by which I can and should call you
has not come into being
There are always words that do not show themselves in this world
in this world of beings with societal features
and I wish I am not a human of flesh
I have been writing about someone as something, all these years
I wrote of something too dear to be poked by fire-tongs
something to be kept burning unexposed, growing in and inward
What I've written is only the air
that takes away the mould on that tiny flowerless plant
and the air brings dust
July 14, 2008
（汉译）
一封电邮
关于：说什么
亲爱的
如果一个词只能按其内涵而使用
我可以并且应该用来称呼你的
那个词，还没有出现
有很多词不会在这个世界显示出自己
充满这世界的人都长着社会的五官
而我只希望自己没有肉身
这些年来，我一直把人当作事书写
我写到有某种东西太珍贵，不该被火钳拨动
它应该暗自燃烧，不见光，在内部向内生长
我写出来的文字只是空气
带走了那棵小小的无花植物上的霉气
又为它带来灰尘
2008年7月14日
Fan Jinghua: In the Dead of Summer Night
In the Dead of Summer Night
In the hottest city besieged by dry thunders, the moat lies
Stagnant with a film, willows drooping by the openings of steaming alleys,
Green but half-withered, like punctured love.
All the doorways are dead till bats fly out at dusk.
This is not a day to lit candles. If music is to meow,
Let it startle no snake eyes or donkey ears.
When I sit long enough, I may drain away along the floorboard
Like moonlight, and the threshold is no hold. You may as well take it
As menses, but, please, keep aside a candle, for when I come back,
I will enter another room where only your shadow may dwell.
After 2 am, I only need cooled water, and for three short hours
Before day strikes its match and your smile, I am not in my flesh.
For three times a night, you convert to my demon and savior,
While no star will reveal to another how chillingly dark its core is.
July 13, 2008
夏夜的死寂中
城市上空干雷交错，护城河结一层薄膜，
冒着蒸汽的巷口，柳树们垂头，绿
但卷着叶子，如丧气的爱情气球。
所有的门廊死寂，没有鸦雀，直到
黄昏将临，蝙蝠飞出。
这样的日子不适于点蜡烛。如果音乐必须
发出猫叫声，愿它别惊动蛇的眼睛和驴的耳朵。
我坐够了，自然会淌掉，沿着木地板，
像月光一样，而门槛无法阻止它的流逸。
你可视之为月经，但是请你为我留一支蜡烛，
当我再次回来，我将进入另一间屋子，
在那里，你将只能以影子的形式与我共处。
两点过后，我只需要凉开水，我有三个钟头不在
肉身中，直到白昼擦亮它的火柴与你的笑容。
一夜有三次钟声，把你化为我的恶魔和救主，
而每一颗星都坚持闪亮，不愿向另一颗透露
它的心底多么黑暗、阴冷。
2008年7月14日
In the hottest city besieged by dry thunders, the moat lies
Stagnant with a film, willows drooping by the openings of steaming alleys,
Green but half-withered, like punctured love.
All the doorways are dead till bats fly out at dusk.
This is not a day to lit candles. If music is to meow,
Let it startle no snake eyes or donkey ears.
When I sit long enough, I may drain away along the floorboard
Like moonlight, and the threshold is no hold. You may as well take it
As menses, but, please, keep aside a candle, for when I come back,
I will enter another room where only your shadow may dwell.
After 2 am, I only need cooled water, and for three short hours
Before day strikes its match and your smile, I am not in my flesh.
For three times a night, you convert to my demon and savior,
While no star will reveal to another how chillingly dark its core is.
July 13, 2008
夏夜的死寂中
城市上空干雷交错，护城河结一层薄膜，
冒着蒸汽的巷口，柳树们垂头，绿
但卷着叶子，如丧气的爱情气球。
所有的门廊死寂，没有鸦雀，直到
黄昏将临，蝙蝠飞出。
这样的日子不适于点蜡烛。如果音乐必须
发出猫叫声，愿它别惊动蛇的眼睛和驴的耳朵。
我坐够了，自然会淌掉，沿着木地板，
像月光一样，而门槛无法阻止它的流逸。
你可视之为月经，但是请你为我留一支蜡烛，
当我再次回来，我将进入另一间屋子，
在那里，你将只能以影子的形式与我共处。
两点过后，我只需要凉开水，我有三个钟头不在
肉身中，直到白昼擦亮它的火柴与你的笑容。
一夜有三次钟声，把你化为我的恶魔和救主，
而每一颗星都坚持闪亮，不愿向另一颗透露
它的心底多么黑暗、阴冷。
2008年7月14日
Franz Wright: Octaves, June Storm, The Word
Three Poems by Franz Wright
from Walking to Martha's Vineyard 《走向玛莎的葡萄园》
Octaves
Franz Wright
We were, about as useful as a hammer and nail made of gold
Some woman crying the first thing we heard before our
birth
No people anymore
Oh prayer of night
Who’s going to miss you
八度音程
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
我们曾，有用，差不多像金子制成的锤子与钉子
某个女人哭着，那是我们听到的第一件事情
在出生前
不再有任何人
啊，夜晚的祈祷者
谁会想念你
June Storm
Franz Wright
Voices from the first dark heartshaped green of summer
leaves, rain:
birds’.
What are they called.
I’m leaving here, and still don’t know.
I’m going there, though,
where they are—
I feel this.
Feel that I was there
before.
I felt this
as a child, and now
I know it.
六月风暴
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
声音传自第一波黑色的心型的绿色夏日的
叶子，雨：
鸟的。
它们叫做什么。
我将离开这儿，仍然不知道。
我将去那儿，不过，
它们就在那——
我感觉到了。
感觉我到过那儿
以前。
我有过这感觉
在童年时，至如今
我才知道。
The Word
Franz Wright
Like a third set of teeth
or side in a chess match
Thought
and most mysterious
of all, the
matter of thought
The mortal mind thinking
deathless things,
singing
See it examining
black grains of death
and life—they are the same
thing—
in its open hand
Sweet black green-shadowed grains of soil:
When no one is looking
see it secretly
taste one.
词
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
犹如第三口牙齿
或者象棋比赛的一边
思
以及一切之中尤为
神秘的，思
的实质
必死之人的头脑思考着
不死的物事，
歌唱着
看它仔细检查
死与生的黑色
颗粒——它们都是同样的
物质——
在其敞开的手中
泥土甜蜜的黑色颗粒有绿色阴影：
没有他人看到的时候
秘密地看
品尝一颗
from Walking to Martha's Vineyard 《走向玛莎的葡萄园》
Octaves
Franz Wright
We were, about as useful as a hammer and nail made of gold
Some woman crying the first thing we heard before our
birth
No people anymore
Oh prayer of night
Who’s going to miss you
八度音程
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
我们曾，有用，差不多像金子制成的锤子与钉子
某个女人哭着，那是我们听到的第一件事情
在出生前
不再有任何人
啊，夜晚的祈祷者
谁会想念你
June Storm
Franz Wright
Voices from the first dark heartshaped green of summer
leaves, rain:
birds’.
What are they called.
I’m leaving here, and still don’t know.
I’m going there, though,
where they are—
I feel this.
Feel that I was there
before.
I felt this
as a child, and now
I know it.
六月风暴
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
声音传自第一波黑色的心型的绿色夏日的
叶子，雨：
鸟的。
它们叫做什么。
我将离开这儿，仍然不知道。
我将去那儿，不过，
它们就在那——
我感觉到了。
感觉我到过那儿
以前。
我有过这感觉
在童年时，至如今
我才知道。
The Word
Franz Wright
Like a third set of teeth
or side in a chess match
Thought
and most mysterious
of all, the
matter of thought
The mortal mind thinking
deathless things,
singing
See it examining
black grains of death
and life—they are the same
thing—
in its open hand
Sweet black green-shadowed grains of soil:
When no one is looking
see it secretly
taste one.
词
弗朗兹·赖特 tr. Fan Jinghua
犹如第三口牙齿
或者象棋比赛的一边
思
以及一切之中尤为
神秘的，思
的实质
必死之人的头脑思考着
不死的物事，
歌唱着
看它仔细检查
死与生的黑色
颗粒——它们都是同样的
物质——
在其敞开的手中
泥土甜蜜的黑色颗粒有绿色阴影：
没有他人看到的时候
秘密地看
品尝一颗
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Temporal Lag (An Air)
An Air: Temporal Lag
It’s your dusk, and evening has not fallen.
Like one in a Chicago street
Where the saxophone did not drive away the doves on the yard
And us sitting on a bridge in the colorfully lit breeze
I heard a Chinese air and hummed the lyrics
“How I wish to pluck one for my hair if the flowers can still bloom next year”
Then you walked over, your blue cashmere in an arc
And pressed a note in the case under the stack, bringing back
A CD, saying the rearranged tune would remind me
Of the air I had breathed, not so exotic as in Turandot
Now my day is breaking
The hard sunshine will strike down like a shower
And the noises from the construction site
This is my Saturday and your Friday
We, living the same time, are kept apart
One in the future and one in the past
I am drinking green tea, imaging in your apartment
What the air smells? Alcohol, aria or insomnia?
There is a candle-lit box
Suspending in my brain, a high window.
July 11, 2008
时间差
此刻是你的黄昏，黑暗还没有降落
如那次在芝加哥街头的小广场
一支萨克斯赶不走鸽子
和坐在桥头上看灯火开始映暖凉风的我们
我说那是我家乡的一首小曲，原来的歌词唱到
“我有心采一朵戴，又怕来年不发芽”
于是你走过去，蓝色羊绒衫蹲成一个弧线
将一张钞票压在那盒内，换回一张CD
说那首重新编配的小调将会令我在自己的国家
回味曾经呼吸过的不像图兰多那么异国的风情
此刻我这儿已开始黎明
硬朗的阳光将如阵雨一般坠落
伴随着院墙外建筑工地的噪音
这是我的周六、你的周五
我们同住在一个时间里，却被日期分开
一个在过去一个在将来
我喝着绿茶，想象你的公寓
会有怎样的气味？酒精、咏叹调还是失眠？
我脑后的半空中悬浮着
一只被供烛点亮的灯笼，一只高高的窗子。
It’s your dusk, and evening has not fallen.
Like one in a Chicago street
Where the saxophone did not drive away the doves on the yard
And us sitting on a bridge in the colorfully lit breeze
I heard a Chinese air and hummed the lyrics
“How I wish to pluck one for my hair if the flowers can still bloom next year”
Then you walked over, your blue cashmere in an arc
And pressed a note in the case under the stack, bringing back
A CD, saying the rearranged tune would remind me
Of the air I had breathed, not so exotic as in Turandot
Now my day is breaking
The hard sunshine will strike down like a shower
And the noises from the construction site
This is my Saturday and your Friday
We, living the same time, are kept apart
One in the future and one in the past
I am drinking green tea, imaging in your apartment
What the air smells? Alcohol, aria or insomnia?
There is a candle-lit box
Suspending in my brain, a high window.
July 11, 2008
时间差
此刻是你的黄昏，黑暗还没有降落
如那次在芝加哥街头的小广场
一支萨克斯赶不走鸽子
和坐在桥头上看灯火开始映暖凉风的我们
我说那是我家乡的一首小曲，原来的歌词唱到
“我有心采一朵戴，又怕来年不发芽”
于是你走过去，蓝色羊绒衫蹲成一个弧线
将一张钞票压在那盒内，换回一张CD
说那首重新编配的小调将会令我在自己的国家
回味曾经呼吸过的不像图兰多那么异国的风情
此刻我这儿已开始黎明
硬朗的阳光将如阵雨一般坠落
伴随着院墙外建筑工地的噪音
这是我的周六、你的周五
我们同住在一个时间里，却被日期分开
一个在过去一个在将来
我喝着绿茶，想象你的公寓
会有怎样的气味？酒精、咏叹调还是失眠？
我脑后的半空中悬浮着
一只被供烛点亮的灯笼，一只高高的窗子。
Franz Wright: First Light
弗朗兹·赖特Franz Wright诗
第一次读到Franz Wright弗朗兹·赖特的诗是这一首，然后就开始找他的诗歌来读，知道他是另一个著名诗人James Wright詹姆斯·赖特的儿子，于1953年出生在维也纳，读到他以一种不在此世的语言方式捕捉空灵和倏忽，知道他一直有“精神”问题，读到他最令人欣喜的英语里尔克，知道他获得很多奖项，直到他获得2004年的普利策诗歌奖，他现在在Brandeis大学教授创作。
First Light
It’s raining
in a dead language.
The empty house filled with the sound
of your name
abruptly whispered,
once,
before you finally slept.
第一抹光
雨正在下
以一种死的语言
空房子充满的声音
是你名字
突然被低语
一次
在你最终入睡之前
第一次读到Franz Wright弗朗兹·赖特的诗是这一首，然后就开始找他的诗歌来读，知道他是另一个著名诗人James Wright詹姆斯·赖特的儿子，于1953年出生在维也纳，读到他以一种不在此世的语言方式捕捉空灵和倏忽，知道他一直有“精神”问题，读到他最令人欣喜的英语里尔克，知道他获得很多奖项，直到他获得2004年的普利策诗歌奖，他现在在Brandeis大学教授创作。
First Light
It’s raining
in a dead language.
The empty house filled with the sound
of your name
abruptly whispered,
once,
before you finally slept.
第一抹光
雨正在下
以一种死的语言
空房子充满的声音
是你名字
突然被低语
一次
在你最终入睡之前
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Pierpoint: This Dead Relationship
This Dead Relationship
Katherine Pierpoint (1961-)
I carry a dead relationship around everywhere with me.
It’s my hobby.
How lucky to have a job that’s also my hobby,
To do it all the time.
A few people notice, and ask if they can help carry this thing.
But, like an alcoholic scared they will hear the clink of glass in the bag,
I refuse—scared they’ll smell rottenness,
Scared of something under their touch
That will cave in, a skin over brown foam on a bad apple.
I cram this thing over the threshold
Into the cold and speechless house,
Lean against the front door for a moment to breathe in the dark,
Then start the slow haul to the kitchen.
Steel knives catch the moonlight on white tiles.
This dead relationship.
Or not yet dead.
Or dead and half-eaten,
One eye and one flank open, like a sheep under a hedge.
Or dead but still farting like the bodies in the trenches,
Exploding with their own gas. Hair and nails still growing.
It has the pins and needles of returning feeling in a deadness.
It is a reptile in my hand, quick and small and cool;
The flip of life in a dry, cold bag of loose skin.
A pressure without warmth of small claws and horn moving on my palm.
At night it slips slow but purposeful across the floor towards the bed.
Next thing it’s looking out of my eyes in the morning—
And in the mirror, though my eyes are not my own,
My mouth shows surprise that I am still there at all.
Oh, a sickness that can make you so ill,
Yet doesn’t have the decency to kill you.
A mad free-fall that never hits the ground,
Never knows even the relief of sudden shock;
Just endless medium-rare shock, half-firm, half-bloody all the time.
A long, slow learning curve.
The overheating that can strip an engine badly,
Strain it far worse than a racing rally.
The fear that you will slow to a stop
Then start a soft, thick, slow-gathering roll backwards.
I want something that is familiar but not.
To feel in someone else’s pocket for a key
While they lean away, laughing, their arms up,
Hands in the air covered in grease or dough or paint or clay.
I have to carry it around.
A weeping mother brings a baby to hospital,
Late-night emergency.
The tired doctor smoothes the hand-made lace back from its face.
He sees it was stillborn weeks ago, has been dead for weeks.
He looks at her, there is no air in the room…
This dead relationship. This dead and sinking ship.
Bulbs lie, unplanted, on a plate of dust.
Dry and puckered pouches, only slightly mouldy;
Embalmed little stomachs but with hairy, twisted fingers,
Waiting for something to happen without needing to know what it is.
When it happens everything else in the universe can start.
This dead relationship.
I am this thing’s twin.
One of us is dead
And we don’t know which, we are so close.
这没气的关系
凯瑟琳·皮厄庖尹特
无论去哪里，我都将一种没气的关系随身携带。
这是我的爱好。
多么幸运，我的工作就是我的爱好，
可以一直做下去。
有几位注意到了，还问我他们可否帮我扛。
但我拒绝了他们——就像一个酒鬼害怕被人听到行囊里
酒杯的玎玲声，害怕他们闻出腐烂的味道，
害怕被他们一碰就会
塌陷，像烂苹果的表皮包不住酱色的泥糊。
我拉着这东西挤过门槛，
进了阴冷无声的屋子，倚着前门
歇了一会儿，呼吸黑暗，
然后开始慢慢朝厨房里拖。
不锈钢的刀泛着白房瓦上的月光。
这没气的关系。
或许还没死透。
或许没气了但还没被吃光，
留一只眼、露出半边身，就像树篱下的一只羊。
或许没气了但还会放屁，如战壕里的尸体，
放出体内的气。头发和指甲还在长长。
它有探针和别针，能把情感送还给死亡。
它是我手里的爬虫，敏捷、体小、冷静；
干燥、冰冷、皮挂挂的袋囊里忽闪的生命。
轻压着我的手掌，没有小脚丫和触角的暖意。
入夜，它迟缓地穿过地板滑向床沿，意向明确。
接着就到了早晨，它从我的眼里朝外张望——
镜中，我看到的眼睛不是我的眼，
我的嘴巴吃惊，表明我竟然还在。
哦，一种不适，令你病得不轻，
却又不够爽快一下子将你了结。
一种发疯了的自由下落，却绝不会栽到地面，
永不会懂得瞬间惊呆所带来的解脱；
只不过是没完没了稀而不缺的震撼，半硬半软，血也流得不够痛快。
一个弯道，很长，慢慢地转。
一种过热现象，逐步将引擎剥蚀，
远不如一场飙车带来的毁坏。
你总会担心它要慢下来再也启动不了，
然后你只好倒车试试，软绵绵、黏糊糊、慢腾腾。
我想要是一种熟悉感，但并不要熟稔。
在别人的口袋里掏摸钥匙，
而他们斜着身子，一边笑，一边举起双臂，
手上沾满了机油和面粉或油漆或泥巴，竖在空中。
我随便去哪儿，都得带着它。
一个泪汪汪的母亲带着婴儿去医院，
深夜急诊。
疲倦的医生将那手工制作的花边从他的小脸蛋上拂开。
他看着婴孩，一个死产儿，已经死了几个礼拜。
他又看一眼那母亲，房间里没有一丝空气……
这没气的关系。这没气的下沉的船。
球茎，没有被埋下去，躺在一盘灰尘上。
干瘪的、皱皮的袋子，才开始有点发霉；
防腐保存的胃子长出了毛茸茸的畸形手指，
等着发生连它自己也不必知道的事情。
只有当那事发生了，宇宙中的一切才可以开始。
这没气的关系。
我就是这东西的双胞胎。
我们有一个没气了，
但我们彼此太近，不知道没气的是谁。
About the Poet and this translation
诗人介绍：
英国诗人凯瑟琳·皮厄庖尹特Katherine Pierpoint生于1961年，在Exeter大学的语言专业毕业后，做过出版和电视，现在为专业作家、编辑与诗歌翻译。她1993年获得一项Harthornden国际创作奖，1995年的第一部诗集Truffle Beds《菌床》出版后就成为英国Poetry Society诗歌读者联谊会的推荐书目，获得英国一项重要文学奖项Somerset Maugham毛姆奖（以小说家毛姆命名），并且进入最著名的T. S. 艾略特诗歌奖的最终入选的五本之一；这首诗就是选自这个诗集（40-41页）。1996年被选为Sunday Times的年度青年诗人，2002年出版了第二部诗集Moon Apple《月亮苹果》，2005年她的Buffalo Calf《水牛犊》入选Forward前进诗歌奖的单篇作品优异奖的五篇。
这个诗人的语言鲜活多汁，而我的翻译也更加根据自己的感觉，注重的是她的节奏以及我以为的她原文能给原文读者带来的感觉。不过，仅仅就这首诗而言，一种感觉被写成了这样，实在也是很妙的。原文的dead最基本的意思是“死的”，如dead电池就是指“没电了/用竭了”，而用于修饰一种关系，本可指“往事已成空”、再也热不起来了的意思。我们都知道“空”总是具有一种吸力的，因此即便你不去记起，它也会如影相随。我将它翻译成“没气”想暗示这种没有了“生气/气息”的意味，有点像“没戏了/玩完了”的意思。诗人的长处在于将这种感觉很具体的写入了她的日常生活，没有什么抽象化或抒情化，而是施展语言的鬼魅魔力前推后拥，令人读来感觉如同在一叶小舟上，她如何潮汐，我就如何起伏。当然，如果读原文的话，这种感觉就更强烈，这也是翻译最难以做到的。
Katherine Pierpoint (1961-)
I carry a dead relationship around everywhere with me.
It’s my hobby.
How lucky to have a job that’s also my hobby,
To do it all the time.
A few people notice, and ask if they can help carry this thing.
But, like an alcoholic scared they will hear the clink of glass in the bag,
I refuse—scared they’ll smell rottenness,
Scared of something under their touch
That will cave in, a skin over brown foam on a bad apple.
I cram this thing over the threshold
Into the cold and speechless house,
Lean against the front door for a moment to breathe in the dark,
Then start the slow haul to the kitchen.
Steel knives catch the moonlight on white tiles.
This dead relationship.
Or not yet dead.
Or dead and half-eaten,
One eye and one flank open, like a sheep under a hedge.
Or dead but still farting like the bodies in the trenches,
Exploding with their own gas. Hair and nails still growing.
It has the pins and needles of returning feeling in a deadness.
It is a reptile in my hand, quick and small and cool;
The flip of life in a dry, cold bag of loose skin.
A pressure without warmth of small claws and horn moving on my palm.
At night it slips slow but purposeful across the floor towards the bed.
Next thing it’s looking out of my eyes in the morning—
And in the mirror, though my eyes are not my own,
My mouth shows surprise that I am still there at all.
Oh, a sickness that can make you so ill,
Yet doesn’t have the decency to kill you.
A mad free-fall that never hits the ground,
Never knows even the relief of sudden shock;
Just endless medium-rare shock, half-firm, half-bloody all the time.
A long, slow learning curve.
The overheating that can strip an engine badly,
Strain it far worse than a racing rally.
The fear that you will slow to a stop
Then start a soft, thick, slow-gathering roll backwards.
I want something that is familiar but not.
To feel in someone else’s pocket for a key
While they lean away, laughing, their arms up,
Hands in the air covered in grease or dough or paint or clay.
I have to carry it around.
A weeping mother brings a baby to hospital,
Late-night emergency.
The tired doctor smoothes the hand-made lace back from its face.
He sees it was stillborn weeks ago, has been dead for weeks.
He looks at her, there is no air in the room…
This dead relationship. This dead and sinking ship.
Bulbs lie, unplanted, on a plate of dust.
Dry and puckered pouches, only slightly mouldy;
Embalmed little stomachs but with hairy, twisted fingers,
Waiting for something to happen without needing to know what it is.
When it happens everything else in the universe can start.
This dead relationship.
I am this thing’s twin.
One of us is dead
And we don’t know which, we are so close.
这没气的关系
凯瑟琳·皮厄庖尹特
无论去哪里，我都将一种没气的关系随身携带。
这是我的爱好。
多么幸运，我的工作就是我的爱好，
可以一直做下去。
有几位注意到了，还问我他们可否帮我扛。
但我拒绝了他们——就像一个酒鬼害怕被人听到行囊里
酒杯的玎玲声，害怕他们闻出腐烂的味道，
害怕被他们一碰就会
塌陷，像烂苹果的表皮包不住酱色的泥糊。
我拉着这东西挤过门槛，
进了阴冷无声的屋子，倚着前门
歇了一会儿，呼吸黑暗，
然后开始慢慢朝厨房里拖。
不锈钢的刀泛着白房瓦上的月光。
这没气的关系。
或许还没死透。
或许没气了但还没被吃光，
留一只眼、露出半边身，就像树篱下的一只羊。
或许没气了但还会放屁，如战壕里的尸体，
放出体内的气。头发和指甲还在长长。
它有探针和别针，能把情感送还给死亡。
它是我手里的爬虫，敏捷、体小、冷静；
干燥、冰冷、皮挂挂的袋囊里忽闪的生命。
轻压着我的手掌，没有小脚丫和触角的暖意。
入夜，它迟缓地穿过地板滑向床沿，意向明确。
接着就到了早晨，它从我的眼里朝外张望——
镜中，我看到的眼睛不是我的眼，
我的嘴巴吃惊，表明我竟然还在。
哦，一种不适，令你病得不轻，
却又不够爽快一下子将你了结。
一种发疯了的自由下落，却绝不会栽到地面，
永不会懂得瞬间惊呆所带来的解脱；
只不过是没完没了稀而不缺的震撼，半硬半软，血也流得不够痛快。
一个弯道，很长，慢慢地转。
一种过热现象，逐步将引擎剥蚀，
远不如一场飙车带来的毁坏。
你总会担心它要慢下来再也启动不了，
然后你只好倒车试试，软绵绵、黏糊糊、慢腾腾。
我想要是一种熟悉感，但并不要熟稔。
在别人的口袋里掏摸钥匙，
而他们斜着身子，一边笑，一边举起双臂，
手上沾满了机油和面粉或油漆或泥巴，竖在空中。
我随便去哪儿，都得带着它。
一个泪汪汪的母亲带着婴儿去医院，
深夜急诊。
疲倦的医生将那手工制作的花边从他的小脸蛋上拂开。
他看着婴孩，一个死产儿，已经死了几个礼拜。
他又看一眼那母亲，房间里没有一丝空气……
这没气的关系。这没气的下沉的船。
球茎，没有被埋下去，躺在一盘灰尘上。
干瘪的、皱皮的袋子，才开始有点发霉；
防腐保存的胃子长出了毛茸茸的畸形手指，
等着发生连它自己也不必知道的事情。
只有当那事发生了，宇宙中的一切才可以开始。
这没气的关系。
我就是这东西的双胞胎。
我们有一个没气了，
但我们彼此太近，不知道没气的是谁。
About the Poet and this translation
诗人介绍：
英国诗人凯瑟琳·皮厄庖尹特Katherine Pierpoint生于1961年，在Exeter大学的语言专业毕业后，做过出版和电视，现在为专业作家、编辑与诗歌翻译。她1993年获得一项Harthornden国际创作奖，1995年的第一部诗集Truffle Beds《菌床》出版后就成为英国Poetry Society诗歌读者联谊会的推荐书目，获得英国一项重要文学奖项Somerset Maugham毛姆奖（以小说家毛姆命名），并且进入最著名的T. S. 艾略特诗歌奖的最终入选的五本之一；这首诗就是选自这个诗集（40-41页）。1996年被选为Sunday Times的年度青年诗人，2002年出版了第二部诗集Moon Apple《月亮苹果》，2005年她的Buffalo Calf《水牛犊》入选Forward前进诗歌奖的单篇作品优异奖的五篇。
这个诗人的语言鲜活多汁，而我的翻译也更加根据自己的感觉，注重的是她的节奏以及我以为的她原文能给原文读者带来的感觉。不过，仅仅就这首诗而言，一种感觉被写成了这样，实在也是很妙的。原文的dead最基本的意思是“死的”，如dead电池就是指“没电了/用竭了”，而用于修饰一种关系，本可指“往事已成空”、再也热不起来了的意思。我们都知道“空”总是具有一种吸力的，因此即便你不去记起，它也会如影相随。我将它翻译成“没气”想暗示这种没有了“生气/气息”的意味，有点像“没戏了/玩完了”的意思。诗人的长处在于将这种感觉很具体的写入了她的日常生活，没有什么抽象化或抒情化，而是施展语言的鬼魅魔力前推后拥，令人读来感觉如同在一叶小舟上，她如何潮汐，我就如何起伏。当然，如果读原文的话，这种感觉就更强烈，这也是翻译最难以做到的。
Fan Jinghua: Revisions
Revisions
For many times, I open this file, created more than a year ago,
Many versions of a poem called "Late Spring."
Every time I open it, different moods precede and confuse my reading;
The atmosphere sustained by a few catchwords is enough
To bring out from me
The central image of a figure standing in front of a window,
Like a broad fallen leaf stuck in the mid-air in my view,
And I only want to know what the face is like that never turns,
The facial expression that can be understood in any language.
The first version starts like this, which may need a translation for you to read:
"Younger ones begin to peel in March,
Boys from the outer layer, girls from the inner;
Eyes searching like a breeze, stealing into the thinned clothes, easily.
But my tongue is still wearing mittens…"
It seems that whenever I cannot say something direct,
I start a poem with a season or a word to indicate the time of a day,
As if a woman said once every ten years she needed a suicidal attempt
To purge her heart and mind.
I have many Marches in a year, like flowers
Whose petals encircle the most untouchable filaments.
This version ends up at the lingering dragonflies and damselflies in a pond:
"See they lift off and land, hover and circle, never staying away from the stamens,
Their glassine wings emitting shifty light.
Short-lived, mesmerizing."
A later revision seems to aim at a masculine loftiness:
"There has never been a balustrade outside the north-facing windows,
And only when we climb a tower and eastbound water lies below in our view,
Do you suffice to become my irreversible loss, like a tradition…"
But my study is nothing but a snail’s coiled shell, and I can only
Imagine the once dreamt-of vagabond life and your lasting lure that attracts me
At every nightfall, the lean desire for your fleshy smile
And a bowl of noodles with an ox-eyed egg and emerald patch of pea leaves.
From the desk, I look up, with you behind me for a while,
Examining a horizontal scroll print of mountains and rivers from the left to the right,
A leaf-like boat making the blank water cooler and broader.
Perhaps I too soon realized that there was a kind of incongruity.
When one cannot do away with luxuries and women,
He shall not convince anyone that he’s taken the world and men in his heart;
When one holds a woman by her waist, he shall not sigh for any suffering.
I read that version, my left hand stroking the shaven chin,
Then the palm holding the cheek, fingers combing the short hair.
One leg of my spectacles was touched and all I saw jerked,
While my right hand on the mouse had scrolled down the file to the bottom:
"Your man occupies the living room, watching a football match, as if in a stadium,
While you are thinking of a man who does not like balls, quiet, sensitive,
A little melancholic. He is far away, and your man is forthright, tough and strong.
Eyes closed, pleasure of light could come out of the dark (who/from whom?)
For the while you stand in front of the window,
Spring turns to summer, and stars are diamonds."
As you can see, there is an alternative in parentheses beside the line, indicating
The uncertainty over the possibilities in the moment or any stilled moment:
Are the closed eyes referring to my eyes or yours?
And from whom could the pleasure out of the dark be? You, him or me?
Or if it is "If you close your eyes, you may get pleasure from me out of the dark"
While actually it is he who is getting pleasure out of you and I am here,
Standing before a window in a far-away country,
The ambiguity would certainly make me a dirty middle-aged man looking at stars.
And a few lines of blank space down, there are some isolate phrases, uncannily related:
"At their middle age, still in mind
Those fatless wrinkleless years years ago, beauty
Bad beauty, beauty of purified desire, landscape of you and me"
July 9, 2008
修修改改
多少次，打开那个题为《暮春》的文档
这是一首我写了好几个版本的诗，创建时间在一年多前
每次打开，就被迎面而来的不同情绪迷糊
一种氛围已先于阅读令我的视觉模糊，我不知如何稀释
我再不能一行一行地读，实际上也不需要，几个关键词
就足以令我从心底看到
一个站在窗前的背影
像一片落叶贴在眼前半透明的半空中
而我总想着这背影另一边的那张脸有什么表情
那是我不需要翻译的表达，我可以按任何语言体识
第一个版本如此开始，当然此刻我要将它转换成汉语
“年轻人都开始蜕皮了，三月的
眼神挠痒一般，轻易探入逐日单薄的衣衫
而我的舌头还戴着棉手套”
似乎每当我无法直接说出什么
就要找一个季节，重新开始
犹如有一个人说每十年要让自己的自杀企图洗涤一回意志
而我，每一年都有许多三月，像花朵一样绽开
露出花瓣内我无法对你描述的花丝
这个版本落到了蜻蜓和蜻蛉身上
“看它们起飞、降落，盘旋萦回，从不远离那花柱
它们的翅膀像薄玻璃纸一样闪光，虚幻、短暂、令人眼花”
后面有一次修改，好像试图从婉约走向豪放
“北向的窗，从没有栏杆
只有在登高时，那东去的流水自在地任我俯瞰
你便成为我所有的失落，犹如传统”
而我总是身在蜗居，这不过是我想象那曾经可能的浪迹天涯
你给我一个在每个黄昏归家的引力
清瘦的欲望、丰美的微笑
一碗清汤面上摞着翡翠一般的豌豆苗，放在我的书案上
我抬头，一幅印刷的山水横轴，从右向左
无人处有扁舟一叶，令江水更加冷更加宽阔
或许我很快就认识到一种不合时宜
抛不开饮食男女，音响与丝绸
还非得要说自己很有古人的豁达和关怀
搂着女人撩心的笑还说是念天地之悠悠与苍然
我看着这个版本，左手摸了摸修得光滑的下巴
然后托着脸颊，手指插入短短的鬓角
眼镜腿被我一压，所有的景物与文字都跳了一下
这时我右手的食指已在轻搓鼠标的滚轮
文档的最后，只剩下没头没尾的几行
“你男人占据着客厅看球，犹如在现场，而你
想着一个不爱球的男人，他安静、敏感、带着点忧郁
在远方，而你的男人粗犷豪爽，身强体壮
若你闭眼，就很享受（谁？）
站在窗前，片刻间，春天就已入夏，惟有星空永恒”
如你所见，上面倒数第二行旁边有一个括号
我想那暗示了当时或者任何一个凝滞的时刻都有很多可能
“若你闭眼”还是“若我闭眼”
是谁“就很享受”，是“你”还是“他”，是享受他还是我
如果整句理解为“若你闭眼，就很享受我”
可事实很可能是他正在享受着你，而我正站在遥远的窗前
这样的隐晦无疑令我成为一个龌龊的男人看着净洁的星空
而隔了几行空白，还有一些孤绝的词句，令人心悸地暗通
“中年 仍然想 自我尴尬的美
没有脂肪没有皱纹的岁月 纯净的欲
望 不美也难 你我的山水”
2008年7月9-10日Singapore Time
For many times, I open this file, created more than a year ago,
Many versions of a poem called "Late Spring."
Every time I open it, different moods precede and confuse my reading;
The atmosphere sustained by a few catchwords is enough
To bring out from me
The central image of a figure standing in front of a window,
Like a broad fallen leaf stuck in the mid-air in my view,
And I only want to know what the face is like that never turns,
The facial expression that can be understood in any language.
The first version starts like this, which may need a translation for you to read:
"Younger ones begin to peel in March,
Boys from the outer layer, girls from the inner;
Eyes searching like a breeze, stealing into the thinned clothes, easily.
But my tongue is still wearing mittens…"
It seems that whenever I cannot say something direct,
I start a poem with a season or a word to indicate the time of a day,
As if a woman said once every ten years she needed a suicidal attempt
To purge her heart and mind.
I have many Marches in a year, like flowers
Whose petals encircle the most untouchable filaments.
This version ends up at the lingering dragonflies and damselflies in a pond:
"See they lift off and land, hover and circle, never staying away from the stamens,
Their glassine wings emitting shifty light.
Short-lived, mesmerizing."
A later revision seems to aim at a masculine loftiness:
"There has never been a balustrade outside the north-facing windows,
And only when we climb a tower and eastbound water lies below in our view,
Do you suffice to become my irreversible loss, like a tradition…"
But my study is nothing but a snail’s coiled shell, and I can only
Imagine the once dreamt-of vagabond life and your lasting lure that attracts me
At every nightfall, the lean desire for your fleshy smile
And a bowl of noodles with an ox-eyed egg and emerald patch of pea leaves.
From the desk, I look up, with you behind me for a while,
Examining a horizontal scroll print of mountains and rivers from the left to the right,
A leaf-like boat making the blank water cooler and broader.
Perhaps I too soon realized that there was a kind of incongruity.
When one cannot do away with luxuries and women,
He shall not convince anyone that he’s taken the world and men in his heart;
When one holds a woman by her waist, he shall not sigh for any suffering.
I read that version, my left hand stroking the shaven chin,
Then the palm holding the cheek, fingers combing the short hair.
One leg of my spectacles was touched and all I saw jerked,
While my right hand on the mouse had scrolled down the file to the bottom:
"Your man occupies the living room, watching a football match, as if in a stadium,
While you are thinking of a man who does not like balls, quiet, sensitive,
A little melancholic. He is far away, and your man is forthright, tough and strong.
Eyes closed, pleasure of light could come out of the dark (who/from whom?)
For the while you stand in front of the window,
Spring turns to summer, and stars are diamonds."
As you can see, there is an alternative in parentheses beside the line, indicating
The uncertainty over the possibilities in the moment or any stilled moment:
Are the closed eyes referring to my eyes or yours?
And from whom could the pleasure out of the dark be? You, him or me?
Or if it is "If you close your eyes, you may get pleasure from me out of the dark"
While actually it is he who is getting pleasure out of you and I am here,
Standing before a window in a far-away country,
The ambiguity would certainly make me a dirty middle-aged man looking at stars.
And a few lines of blank space down, there are some isolate phrases, uncannily related:
"At their middle age, still in mind
Those fatless wrinkleless years years ago, beauty
Bad beauty, beauty of purified desire, landscape of you and me"
July 9, 2008
修修改改
多少次，打开那个题为《暮春》的文档
这是一首我写了好几个版本的诗，创建时间在一年多前
每次打开，就被迎面而来的不同情绪迷糊
一种氛围已先于阅读令我的视觉模糊，我不知如何稀释
我再不能一行一行地读，实际上也不需要，几个关键词
就足以令我从心底看到
一个站在窗前的背影
像一片落叶贴在眼前半透明的半空中
而我总想着这背影另一边的那张脸有什么表情
那是我不需要翻译的表达，我可以按任何语言体识
第一个版本如此开始，当然此刻我要将它转换成汉语
“年轻人都开始蜕皮了，三月的
眼神挠痒一般，轻易探入逐日单薄的衣衫
而我的舌头还戴着棉手套”
似乎每当我无法直接说出什么
就要找一个季节，重新开始
犹如有一个人说每十年要让自己的自杀企图洗涤一回意志
而我，每一年都有许多三月，像花朵一样绽开
露出花瓣内我无法对你描述的花丝
这个版本落到了蜻蜓和蜻蛉身上
“看它们起飞、降落，盘旋萦回，从不远离那花柱
它们的翅膀像薄玻璃纸一样闪光，虚幻、短暂、令人眼花”
后面有一次修改，好像试图从婉约走向豪放
“北向的窗，从没有栏杆
只有在登高时，那东去的流水自在地任我俯瞰
你便成为我所有的失落，犹如传统”
而我总是身在蜗居，这不过是我想象那曾经可能的浪迹天涯
你给我一个在每个黄昏归家的引力
清瘦的欲望、丰美的微笑
一碗清汤面上摞着翡翠一般的豌豆苗，放在我的书案上
我抬头，一幅印刷的山水横轴，从右向左
无人处有扁舟一叶，令江水更加冷更加宽阔
或许我很快就认识到一种不合时宜
抛不开饮食男女，音响与丝绸
还非得要说自己很有古人的豁达和关怀
搂着女人撩心的笑还说是念天地之悠悠与苍然
我看着这个版本，左手摸了摸修得光滑的下巴
然后托着脸颊，手指插入短短的鬓角
眼镜腿被我一压，所有的景物与文字都跳了一下
这时我右手的食指已在轻搓鼠标的滚轮
文档的最后，只剩下没头没尾的几行
“你男人占据着客厅看球，犹如在现场，而你
想着一个不爱球的男人，他安静、敏感、带着点忧郁
在远方，而你的男人粗犷豪爽，身强体壮
若你闭眼，就很享受（谁？）
站在窗前，片刻间，春天就已入夏，惟有星空永恒”
如你所见，上面倒数第二行旁边有一个括号
我想那暗示了当时或者任何一个凝滞的时刻都有很多可能
“若你闭眼”还是“若我闭眼”
是谁“就很享受”，是“你”还是“他”，是享受他还是我
如果整句理解为“若你闭眼，就很享受我”
可事实很可能是他正在享受着你，而我正站在遥远的窗前
这样的隐晦无疑令我成为一个龌龊的男人看着净洁的星空
而隔了几行空白，还有一些孤绝的词句，令人心悸地暗通
“中年 仍然想 自我尴尬的美
没有脂肪没有皱纹的岁月 纯净的欲
望 不美也难 你我的山水”
2008年7月9-10日Singapore Time
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Anne Michaels: What The Light Teaches
What The Light Teaches (extracts)
Anne Michaels (1958-)
Language is the house with lamplight in its windows,
visible across fields. Approaching, you can hear
music; closer, smell
soup, bay leaves, bread—a meal for anyone
who has only his tongue left.
It’s a country; home, family:
abandoned; burned down; whole lines dead, unmarried.
For those who can’t read their way in the streets,
or in the gestures and faces of strangers,
language is the house to run to;
in wild nights, chased by dogs and other sounds,
when you’ve been lost a long time,
when you have no other place.
There are nights in the forest of words
when I panic, every step into thicker darkness,
the only way out to write myself into a clearing,
which is silence.
Nights in the forest of words
when I’m afraid we won’t hear each other
over clattering branches, over
both our voices calling.
In winter, in the hour
when the sun runs liquid then freezes,
caught in the mantilla of empty trees;
when my heart listens
through the cold stethoscope of fear,
your voice in my head reminds me
what the light teaches.
Slowly you translate fear into love,
the way the moon’s blood is the sea.
《光的教诲》(节选)
[加]安·米凯尔斯(1958-)
语言这所房子，灯火映照窗户，
从原野中清晰可见。走近，你可听见
音乐；再近一些，扑鼻的
浓汤、月桂叶、面包香——这佳肴
献给所有只剩下舌头的人。
这是一个国度；家园、家人：
都已被弃；烧毁；整系整支地死光，鳏寡孤独。
对于那些迷途之人，他们不识街牌、
不识陌生人的手势与表情，
语言便是那可以投奔的屋子；
在狂暴之夜，被狗与其它的声音追猎，
当你已消失很久，
当你没有可去之处。
词语的森林中有黑夜，
我充满恐慌，进入浓稠之暗的每一步，
写作是唯一的途径，令我接近林中空地
这片寂静。
在词语森林的夜晚，
我害怕我们无法听见彼此的声音，
因为树枝咔嚓咔嚓地响，
因为我们淹没于自己高声的叫喊。
在冬日，那个时辰，
太阳泻照如流水，然后凝结，
僵硬在秃树的小披肩下；
我的心在倾听，
借助于恐惧这副冰冷的听诊器，
你的声音进入我的脑子，
以光的教诲告诫我。
渐渐地，你将恐惧迻译成爱，
正如月亮的血化为大海。
About the Poet:
安·米凯尔斯生于1958年，是当代加拿大著名诗人和小说家。1986年第一部诗集The Weight of Oranges《橘子的重量》获得了美洲的联邦文学奖，该诗集中一个比较突出的主题是记忆，有关童年和死者，而在写作中则调用了包括文字、音乐、摄影、身体等各方面的题材。出版于1991年的第二部诗集Miner’s Pond《矿工池》获得了包括Governor General加拿大总督奖在内的多项大奖。这部诗集中，很多是篇涉及欧洲文学、艺术与科学中的人物，其中最重要的是这篇长诗What the Light Teaches《光的教诲》，该诗篇因为苏联诗人艾赫玛托娃、曼德尔斯坦姆以及茨维塔耶娃的生活而感发，触及了包括丧失、家庭以及大屠杀等各种主题。而针对犹太人的大屠杀则是她写了十多年的首部小说Fugitive Pieces《漂泊碎片》的主题，该抒情小说出版于1996年，立即成为英语世界的畅销书，并赢得包括英国最著名的Orange Prize奥兰芝（橘子）小说奖；该书写的是二战前一个波兰小孩逃亡到希腊，后来来到加拿大的人生故事。去年该小说被拍成电影，受到普遍好评。这个节选所探讨的是母语对于流亡者或者被贬者的意义。迻译此节选作为母亲节的纪念。
Anne Michaels (1958-)
Language is the house with lamplight in its windows,
visible across fields. Approaching, you can hear
music; closer, smell
soup, bay leaves, bread—a meal for anyone
who has only his tongue left.
It’s a country; home, family:
abandoned; burned down; whole lines dead, unmarried.
For those who can’t read their way in the streets,
or in the gestures and faces of strangers,
language is the house to run to;
in wild nights, chased by dogs and other sounds,
when you’ve been lost a long time,
when you have no other place.
There are nights in the forest of words
when I panic, every step into thicker darkness,
the only way out to write myself into a clearing,
which is silence.
Nights in the forest of words
when I’m afraid we won’t hear each other
over clattering branches, over
both our voices calling.
In winter, in the hour
when the sun runs liquid then freezes,
caught in the mantilla of empty trees;
when my heart listens
through the cold stethoscope of fear,
your voice in my head reminds me
what the light teaches.
Slowly you translate fear into love,
the way the moon’s blood is the sea.
《光的教诲》(节选)
[加]安·米凯尔斯(1958-)
语言这所房子，灯火映照窗户，
从原野中清晰可见。走近，你可听见
音乐；再近一些，扑鼻的
浓汤、月桂叶、面包香——这佳肴
献给所有只剩下舌头的人。
这是一个国度；家园、家人：
都已被弃；烧毁；整系整支地死光，鳏寡孤独。
对于那些迷途之人，他们不识街牌、
不识陌生人的手势与表情，
语言便是那可以投奔的屋子；
在狂暴之夜，被狗与其它的声音追猎，
当你已消失很久，
当你没有可去之处。
词语的森林中有黑夜，
我充满恐慌，进入浓稠之暗的每一步，
写作是唯一的途径，令我接近林中空地
这片寂静。
在词语森林的夜晚，
我害怕我们无法听见彼此的声音，
因为树枝咔嚓咔嚓地响，
因为我们淹没于自己高声的叫喊。
在冬日，那个时辰，
太阳泻照如流水，然后凝结，
僵硬在秃树的小披肩下；
我的心在倾听，
借助于恐惧这副冰冷的听诊器，
你的声音进入我的脑子，
以光的教诲告诫我。
渐渐地，你将恐惧迻译成爱，
正如月亮的血化为大海。
About the Poet:
安·米凯尔斯生于1958年，是当代加拿大著名诗人和小说家。1986年第一部诗集The Weight of Oranges《橘子的重量》获得了美洲的联邦文学奖，该诗集中一个比较突出的主题是记忆，有关童年和死者，而在写作中则调用了包括文字、音乐、摄影、身体等各方面的题材。出版于1991年的第二部诗集Miner’s Pond《矿工池》获得了包括Governor General加拿大总督奖在内的多项大奖。这部诗集中，很多是篇涉及欧洲文学、艺术与科学中的人物，其中最重要的是这篇长诗What the Light Teaches《光的教诲》，该诗篇因为苏联诗人艾赫玛托娃、曼德尔斯坦姆以及茨维塔耶娃的生活而感发，触及了包括丧失、家庭以及大屠杀等各种主题。而针对犹太人的大屠杀则是她写了十多年的首部小说Fugitive Pieces《漂泊碎片》的主题，该抒情小说出版于1996年，立即成为英语世界的畅销书，并赢得包括英国最著名的Orange Prize奥兰芝（橘子）小说奖；该书写的是二战前一个波兰小孩逃亡到希腊，后来来到加拿大的人生故事。去年该小说被拍成电影，受到普遍好评。这个节选所探讨的是母语对于流亡者或者被贬者的意义。迻译此节选作为母亲节的纪念。
Fan Jinghua: Hoop Rolling
Hoop Rolling
That was a time-honored game which I was
Skillfully artless as a child, and I could even
Fly a kite to hear the holed bottle gourd
Accompany our running on the ground
A boy followed an iron hoop at an arm’s distance
Linked by a stick with a hook
After the first push, the circle turned on
Along its points of tangency with the earth
And only very occasionally at a low speed did I feel
The vibrating friction between the hoop and the stick and hook
The years afterwards I’ve met with so many unsmoothnesses
That hoop-rolling ranked the highest felicity in my life
Now my recollection turns to a reflection
That the boy’s arm has written out an expression
Of force and speed between his body and the hoop
And that has nothing to do with the variables of the road
The most important is, the hoop has to be
Heavy enough to defy the ruggedness of the ground
And light enough to roll easily like a wind
July 7, 2008
滚铁环
那童年的游戏 我曾玩得不露技巧
甚至能一边放着风筝
听挖了孔的葫芦从空中传来埙声
伴着我们在地上矮矮地跑
一个孩子手持一柄钩子跟着一条铁环
人与物彼此不即也不离
在最初的推动之后 铁圈沿着自己
与大地的切点 滚动 我只是
以钩柄和钩子偶尔从旁矫正
尤其在低速的时候
其后的岁月 太多生涩
反证了那是我一生做得最得心应手的事
现在 回味变成了反思
那孩童的手臂竟写出了身体与物体之间的公式
有关力道与速度
而与路面的变量没有关系
重要的是那铁环要有一定的重量
不至于有一点不平就跳得轻狂
2008年7月8日
That was a time-honored game which I was
Skillfully artless as a child, and I could even
Fly a kite to hear the holed bottle gourd
Accompany our running on the ground
A boy followed an iron hoop at an arm’s distance
Linked by a stick with a hook
After the first push, the circle turned on
Along its points of tangency with the earth
And only very occasionally at a low speed did I feel
The vibrating friction between the hoop and the stick and hook
The years afterwards I’ve met with so many unsmoothnesses
That hoop-rolling ranked the highest felicity in my life
Now my recollection turns to a reflection
That the boy’s arm has written out an expression
Of force and speed between his body and the hoop
And that has nothing to do with the variables of the road
The most important is, the hoop has to be
Heavy enough to defy the ruggedness of the ground
And light enough to roll easily like a wind
July 7, 2008
滚铁环
那童年的游戏 我曾玩得不露技巧
甚至能一边放着风筝
听挖了孔的葫芦从空中传来埙声
伴着我们在地上矮矮地跑
一个孩子手持一柄钩子跟着一条铁环
人与物彼此不即也不离
在最初的推动之后 铁圈沿着自己
与大地的切点 滚动 我只是
以钩柄和钩子偶尔从旁矫正
尤其在低速的时候
其后的岁月 太多生涩
反证了那是我一生做得最得心应手的事
现在 回味变成了反思
那孩童的手臂竟写出了身体与物体之间的公式
有关力道与速度
而与路面的变量没有关系
重要的是那铁环要有一定的重量
不至于有一点不平就跳得轻狂
2008年7月8日
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Fan Jinghua: My Voodoo Baby
My Voodoo Baby
I lost my voodoo baby
When jostling through the parade of banners and war cries;
I lost her and she was abandoned for the tracks of human tanks.
The cotton filled baby, full and round to every limb,
Light, warm and sexy;
And oh explosive when a warp of the fabric skin is pulled out.
So delicate that she could not even sink as a reef but was only
A faint ache sobbing on the narrow web between my thumb and forefinger,
And lapping dry the moisture;
Her head craning out as if she could levitate in my hold.
I could always see her pouncing plaits, her rabbit ears, and the big curious eyes
That took in whatever reflected light,
And in a blink
She had eaten up and digested all the shapes.
But she never shut her mouth, always ready
To muster a stomach of grievances to accuse my possible negligence,
So that guilt would propel me around in the sea of people.
There is a negativity going on that even sunshine could not analyze
The “I” and “thou” between us.
I had never put her in my pocket, side or rear;
When my hands were busy with my lover, I’d hang her onto my backpack
And made sure she had views and fresh air.
Whenever my mind’s eye touches her like acupuncture,
Her voodoo force steamed like marijuana
Which was passed from mouth to mouth in the dimly lit bedroom.
I hid her blaze with the forepart of my sportcoat, but it was
Her grace of a self-indulgent aesthete that could not be shut in.
I’d fondle her shoulder blades from which wings should have grown,
With five fingers, one by one,
And then my palm would plaster and pause as if to warm and heal the scars,
In a carriage or a lift, or even in a half-covered zigzagging corridor or a promenade,
She would burst into giggles, not giving a damn about our manners.
Oh, my voodoo baby, my voodoo baby,
What have become of you?
I imagine you found a dry gutter to shelter yourself
From the litter of plastic bags and newspapers and used greaseproof paper flags,
Waiting sulkily, and eventually you were picked up and taken home,
His face tense with a suppressed excitement, while your memory was refreshed.
Was the warmth of another warmer than mine or was the difference just incomparable?
I say, every blot on your body is a dark spot on my lungs,
But I’ll muffle my cough;
I say, every wrinkle on your face is a crack on my heart,
But I won’t let it show on the forehead;
I say, we should not expect a wholesale harmony from this world,
As the pitch of laughter is not a good graduation of happiness,
As the erected ruler is not valid for love and endearment;
We know that sometimes an open palm may bear more weight than a quicksand beach.
I am saying this, perhaps because I have already lost you;
And losing your touch means that you might have turned dirty and mean;
Your mood ferments in moonlight into soap fantasy,
Like wild fantasies, popped in and out,
Leaving only several cold stars that nail the sky fast against a vast sheet of emptiness,
And your only way to feel your own weight---
To snake into my dreams like a wronged ghost,
Stone-faced, blood-eyed and tongued hanging long toward your breasts,
While I, trying to stay awake,
Except for listening to the monotonous cries from the rally,
Can do nothing.
July 4, 2008
我的巫毒宝贝
怪只怪我逆着人流，挤过那些标语和口号
我丢了我的巫毒宝贝
她被离弃在肉体坦克的履带前
又轻又暖的宝贝，四肢棉柔
饱满，性感
如果她针织的皮肤被抽掉两根经线，就会爆炸
那么纤弱，怎么经得起呢
她甚至不会成为暗礁，双肘轻轻地支撑着我的虎口
舔干我手心渗上来的热气，留下一丝麻麻的疼
她的头伸出来，似乎在我的掌握中仍能悬浮而自由
跳跃的辫子、竖起的耳朵，那双充满好奇的大眼睛
将能反光的都收了进去，一眨之间就吞掉了
那些形状，转换成自己的能量
她从不闭起嘴巴，随时都备好一肚子的怨气
打算用来指责我可能的冷落
于是我一直被未来的愧疚撑满，航行于人海
这就有了一种气在我们之间运行，甚至阳光也无法分解出彼此
我从不将她放进衣袋，无论是腰侧的插兜还是屁股后面
当我拥着情人，腾不出手，我便将她挂在我的背包上，确保
她视野开阔而且呼吸顺畅
我只要用我的心灵之眼刺扎她的身体，她就会冒出生命的巫毒
那味道好像大麻，我们躲在卧室幽暗的笑声中传递，而我
用休闲西装的前片当作她的屏风
可难掩你那唯美主义者惊鸿一瞥的颓废
当我一有机会，在车厢或者电梯、甚至在半封闭的游廊或林荫道
便会抚弄她的肩胛骨，那儿本是翅膀生发的地方
我以五指抹过，再用手掌捂着，停顿，似乎为了抚消那块伤疤
而她咯咯地笑，丝毫没想到举止是否端庄
我的巫毒宝贝，我的巫毒宝贝
你现在怎样
我想象你找到了一段干爽的路肩，躲开了塑料袋、腊纸彩旗与报纸的垃圾
在那里闷气地等，终于有一个人，捡起你，回家，他的神色紧绷
抑制着急不可耐，而你的记忆正被刷新
那个人的温度是否令你想起曾有的暖意，或者两种温暖不可并提
我说，你身上的每一块污渍，都是我肺叶上的阴影，但我会咳嗽得毫不失礼
我说，你脸上的每一道皱褶，都是我心肝上的裂纹，但我不会让它们转到眉头
我说，我们不该希求这世界有一荣俱荣的和谐，笑声的分贝并非开怀的指标
正如勃起的探尺无法衡量爱与思念的柔韧，而手心向上
敞开，或许比流动的沙滩更能承接分量
我这样说，也许正因为我已失去了你
而失去，没有接触，或许意味着，你已变得又脏又坏，月光下的心情
像性幻想的气泡一样
一个接着一个破灭，剩下一望无际的空被几颗冷星钉在空中
还有或许能感到自身重量的惟一途径——
吐着信子钻进我的梦，像一个吊死鬼的冤魂
脸如死灰，眼睛流血，舌头拖在嘴外
而我，为了醒着，除了听满街高昂得单调的口号声之外
一无所能
2008年7月5-6日
I lost my voodoo baby
When jostling through the parade of banners and war cries;
I lost her and she was abandoned for the tracks of human tanks.
The cotton filled baby, full and round to every limb,
Light, warm and sexy;
And oh explosive when a warp of the fabric skin is pulled out.
So delicate that she could not even sink as a reef but was only
A faint ache sobbing on the narrow web between my thumb and forefinger,
And lapping dry the moisture;
Her head craning out as if she could levitate in my hold.
I could always see her pouncing plaits, her rabbit ears, and the big curious eyes
That took in whatever reflected light,
And in a blink
She had eaten up and digested all the shapes.
But she never shut her mouth, always ready
To muster a stomach of grievances to accuse my possible negligence,
So that guilt would propel me around in the sea of people.
There is a negativity going on that even sunshine could not analyze
The “I” and “thou” between us.
I had never put her in my pocket, side or rear;
When my hands were busy with my lover, I’d hang her onto my backpack
And made sure she had views and fresh air.
Whenever my mind’s eye touches her like acupuncture,
Her voodoo force steamed like marijuana
Which was passed from mouth to mouth in the dimly lit bedroom.
I hid her blaze with the forepart of my sportcoat, but it was
Her grace of a self-indulgent aesthete that could not be shut in.
I’d fondle her shoulder blades from which wings should have grown,
With five fingers, one by one,
And then my palm would plaster and pause as if to warm and heal the scars,
In a carriage or a lift, or even in a half-covered zigzagging corridor or a promenade,
She would burst into giggles, not giving a damn about our manners.
Oh, my voodoo baby, my voodoo baby,
What have become of you?
I imagine you found a dry gutter to shelter yourself
From the litter of plastic bags and newspapers and used greaseproof paper flags,
Waiting sulkily, and eventually you were picked up and taken home,
His face tense with a suppressed excitement, while your memory was refreshed.
Was the warmth of another warmer than mine or was the difference just incomparable?
I say, every blot on your body is a dark spot on my lungs,
But I’ll muffle my cough;
I say, every wrinkle on your face is a crack on my heart,
But I won’t let it show on the forehead;
I say, we should not expect a wholesale harmony from this world,
As the pitch of laughter is not a good graduation of happiness,
As the erected ruler is not valid for love and endearment;
We know that sometimes an open palm may bear more weight than a quicksand beach.
I am saying this, perhaps because I have already lost you;
And losing your touch means that you might have turned dirty and mean;
Your mood ferments in moonlight into soap fantasy,
Like wild fantasies, popped in and out,
Leaving only several cold stars that nail the sky fast against a vast sheet of emptiness,
And your only way to feel your own weight---
To snake into my dreams like a wronged ghost,
Stone-faced, blood-eyed and tongued hanging long toward your breasts,
While I, trying to stay awake,
Except for listening to the monotonous cries from the rally,
Can do nothing.
July 4, 2008
我的巫毒宝贝
怪只怪我逆着人流，挤过那些标语和口号
我丢了我的巫毒宝贝
她被离弃在肉体坦克的履带前
又轻又暖的宝贝，四肢棉柔
饱满，性感
如果她针织的皮肤被抽掉两根经线，就会爆炸
那么纤弱，怎么经得起呢
她甚至不会成为暗礁，双肘轻轻地支撑着我的虎口
舔干我手心渗上来的热气，留下一丝麻麻的疼
她的头伸出来，似乎在我的掌握中仍能悬浮而自由
跳跃的辫子、竖起的耳朵，那双充满好奇的大眼睛
将能反光的都收了进去，一眨之间就吞掉了
那些形状，转换成自己的能量
她从不闭起嘴巴，随时都备好一肚子的怨气
打算用来指责我可能的冷落
于是我一直被未来的愧疚撑满，航行于人海
这就有了一种气在我们之间运行，甚至阳光也无法分解出彼此
我从不将她放进衣袋，无论是腰侧的插兜还是屁股后面
当我拥着情人，腾不出手，我便将她挂在我的背包上，确保
她视野开阔而且呼吸顺畅
我只要用我的心灵之眼刺扎她的身体，她就会冒出生命的巫毒
那味道好像大麻，我们躲在卧室幽暗的笑声中传递，而我
用休闲西装的前片当作她的屏风
可难掩你那唯美主义者惊鸿一瞥的颓废
当我一有机会，在车厢或者电梯、甚至在半封闭的游廊或林荫道
便会抚弄她的肩胛骨，那儿本是翅膀生发的地方
我以五指抹过，再用手掌捂着，停顿，似乎为了抚消那块伤疤
而她咯咯地笑，丝毫没想到举止是否端庄
我的巫毒宝贝，我的巫毒宝贝
你现在怎样
我想象你找到了一段干爽的路肩，躲开了塑料袋、腊纸彩旗与报纸的垃圾
在那里闷气地等，终于有一个人，捡起你，回家，他的神色紧绷
抑制着急不可耐，而你的记忆正被刷新
那个人的温度是否令你想起曾有的暖意，或者两种温暖不可并提
我说，你身上的每一块污渍，都是我肺叶上的阴影，但我会咳嗽得毫不失礼
我说，你脸上的每一道皱褶，都是我心肝上的裂纹，但我不会让它们转到眉头
我说，我们不该希求这世界有一荣俱荣的和谐，笑声的分贝并非开怀的指标
正如勃起的探尺无法衡量爱与思念的柔韧，而手心向上
敞开，或许比流动的沙滩更能承接分量
我这样说，也许正因为我已失去了你
而失去，没有接触，或许意味着，你已变得又脏又坏，月光下的心情
像性幻想的气泡一样
一个接着一个破灭，剩下一望无际的空被几颗冷星钉在空中
还有或许能感到自身重量的惟一途径——
吐着信子钻进我的梦，像一个吊死鬼的冤魂
脸如死灰，眼睛流血，舌头拖在嘴外
而我，为了醒着，除了听满街高昂得单调的口号声之外
一无所能
2008年7月5-6日
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Flying Low
Flying Low
Flying low, the high-flyer has to tuck its feet
to the hairless underbelly
to avoid every lightening rod and lamppost.
In the marsh to the east, fowls
lure passers-by with their tranquillizing calls,
but the concrete nest of yours
is a rigid regret my palms could not touch.
So we leave it in the city and marketplace,
and we may use a pillbox where we do not belong.
July 1, 2008
低飞
超低空飞行，脚
必须缩在腹下
躲开避雷针和路灯
东去的湿地
鸟叫声令人自然而沉默
你的水泥窝
是我没有到达的缺憾
我们将它留在城市
因为我们也不属于那里
2008年7月1日
直译版 Literal translation
低飞
惯于高飞者时常得低飞，得学会
如何将双脚缩在无毛的腹下，
躲开每一根避雷针和路灯。
东去的湿地，水禽们
以镇静的叫声引诱着路过的人，
而你那混凝土的窝
是我手掌无法抚摸的僵冷的缺憾。
所以我们将它留在城里和市集，
在我们难以归属的地方，我们住着堡垒。
2008年7月2日
Flying low, the high-flyer has to tuck its feet
to the hairless underbelly
to avoid every lightening rod and lamppost.
In the marsh to the east, fowls
lure passers-by with their tranquillizing calls,
but the concrete nest of yours
is a rigid regret my palms could not touch.
So we leave it in the city and marketplace,
and we may use a pillbox where we do not belong.
July 1, 2008
低飞
超低空飞行，脚
必须缩在腹下
躲开避雷针和路灯
东去的湿地
鸟叫声令人自然而沉默
你的水泥窝
是我没有到达的缺憾
我们将它留在城市
因为我们也不属于那里
2008年7月1日
直译版 Literal translation
低飞
惯于高飞者时常得低飞，得学会
如何将双脚缩在无毛的腹下，
躲开每一根避雷针和路灯。
东去的湿地，水禽们
以镇静的叫声引诱着路过的人，
而你那混凝土的窝
是我手掌无法抚摸的僵冷的缺憾。
所以我们将它留在城里和市集，
在我们难以归属的地方，我们住着堡垒。
2008年7月2日
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Word Poem
Word Poem
There is a still stirring in those words of yours
Prefixes and suffixes bracket your mood swing
Seven emotions flow in the structure of the run-on sentences
Like my imagination, like my memory, of colors and sounds
Whatever words I may borrow
It is the impregnated spirit of your wings of originality
That can never be captured
The ears, the eyes, the arms, the bosom, the waist and hips
Oh, there is also a leg that springs like one batwing door
June 26, 2008
以字为诗
看你动静有致的字句
偏旁部首难以掩饰的情绪
间架结构中透出各异的气息
犹如想象 犹如记忆 有色有声
无论我用怎样的辞藻来描述
都不能再现你原有的神态
耳朵 眼睛 手 心胸 腰臀
还有一只微微跷起的腿
2008年6月26日
There is a still stirring in those words of yours
Prefixes and suffixes bracket your mood swing
Seven emotions flow in the structure of the run-on sentences
Like my imagination, like my memory, of colors and sounds
Whatever words I may borrow
It is the impregnated spirit of your wings of originality
That can never be captured
The ears, the eyes, the arms, the bosom, the waist and hips
Oh, there is also a leg that springs like one batwing door
June 26, 2008
以字为诗
看你动静有致的字句
偏旁部首难以掩饰的情绪
间架结构中透出各异的气息
犹如想象 犹如记忆 有色有声
无论我用怎样的辞藻来描述
都不能再现你原有的神态
耳朵 眼睛 手 心胸 腰臀
还有一只微微跷起的腿
2008年6月26日
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Fan Jinghua: Delivery
Delivery
Who is going to miss you
as the eyebrow-shaped moon hangs in the immense night sky
like a kite, tailless and stringless, and it regards drunkenly
the dark trees that canopy themselves and all those that lie beneath them
in the northern country where you sleep soundly
in the form of a riderless boat
delivering yourself from a small bay to a vast one called eternity?
Who among the sleepless ones will make water cry, drowning out the snoring,
rowing upstream to you as if toward dawn in the waning moon?
Whom can your dreams deliver
when your body is given to an embrace?
There will always be a pair of hands that write your name over and over
till a relief is made into the daily calendar, but the eyes know
there is nothing behind the words, except the ruts.
June 29-30, 2008
度
当月亮的娥眉在无限的夜空，如无尾无线的风筝，垂顾着
幽暗的树木自成冠盖并遮掩膝下的一切，谁
会在此刻思念北国的你蜷曲成一只无主之船的形状，
在一只小小的港湾，船头儿翘起，向着一顷更加浩瀚的永恒？
谁将荡起失眠的眼神，搅扰时间之水，淹没另一个人的鼾声，
逆流向你，把月牙儿划向黎明？
当你将身体让渡给他人的怀抱，你的梦又能度脱谁？
尽管总有一双手会日复一日地写着你的名字，直到
阳文在日历本上凝结出浮雕，而眼睛明白，
笔锋可以力透岁月的纸背，而词句背后却依然一无所有。
2008年6月30日
Who is going to miss you
as the eyebrow-shaped moon hangs in the immense night sky
like a kite, tailless and stringless, and it regards drunkenly
the dark trees that canopy themselves and all those that lie beneath them
in the northern country where you sleep soundly
in the form of a riderless boat
delivering yourself from a small bay to a vast one called eternity?
Who among the sleepless ones will make water cry, drowning out the snoring,
rowing upstream to you as if toward dawn in the waning moon?
Whom can your dreams deliver
when your body is given to an embrace?
There will always be a pair of hands that write your name over and over
till a relief is made into the daily calendar, but the eyes know
there is nothing behind the words, except the ruts.
June 29-30, 2008
度
当月亮的娥眉在无限的夜空，如无尾无线的风筝，垂顾着
幽暗的树木自成冠盖并遮掩膝下的一切，谁
会在此刻思念北国的你蜷曲成一只无主之船的形状，
在一只小小的港湾，船头儿翘起，向着一顷更加浩瀚的永恒？
谁将荡起失眠的眼神，搅扰时间之水，淹没另一个人的鼾声，
逆流向你，把月牙儿划向黎明？
当你将身体让渡给他人的怀抱，你的梦又能度脱谁？
尽管总有一双手会日复一日地写着你的名字，直到
阳文在日历本上凝结出浮雕，而眼睛明白，
笔锋可以力透岁月的纸背，而词句背后却依然一无所有。
2008年6月30日
Wilbur: Parable
Parable
Richard Wilbur
I read how Quixote in his random ride
Came to a crossing once, and lest he lose
The purity of chance, would not decide
Whither to fare, but wished his horse to choose.
For glory lay wherever he might turn.
His head was light with pride, his horse’s shoes
Were heavy, and he headed for the barn.
讽喻
理查·威尔伯
读到唐吉诃德信马由缰
到了一个路口，为了免失
偶然之纯，他不愿自作主张，
往哪个方向，任由马儿自己。
荣耀处处，人生何处不风流。
他轻松骄傲地昂首，可坐骑
脚底沉重，他前去的是马棚。
Richard Wilbur
I read how Quixote in his random ride
Came to a crossing once, and lest he lose
The purity of chance, would not decide
Whither to fare, but wished his horse to choose.
For glory lay wherever he might turn.
His head was light with pride, his horse’s shoes
Were heavy, and he headed for the barn.
讽喻
理查·威尔伯
读到唐吉诃德信马由缰
到了一个路口，为了免失
偶然之纯，他不愿自作主张，
往哪个方向，任由马儿自己。
荣耀处处，人生何处不风流。
他轻松骄傲地昂首，可坐骑
脚底沉重，他前去的是马棚。
Fan Jinghua: Gorgon Plant Pond
Gorgon Plant Pond
Waking up but knowing not which part
Wakes first, the leaves of gorgon plant glaze
Stubbornly on the surface
As shields and hearts.
The pond is full of their bodies
Or their body is full with a pond, from which
Shoots of numbness are the absolute
Tangibility. Oh, those cock heads with pricks!
Their previous life blooms, in warm smoke of pale purple
Floating as the breath of the underwater
Stems, invisible but positive.
All the greenness expands within the pond
For the pond, endorsed by dark purple
Shrouding the water.
June 25, 2008
刺莲池
醒来 却不知道哪儿先醒 鸡头莲的叶子
泛着僵硬的腊光 以盾牌或心粘着水面
池塘挤满了我的身体或者我被池塘挤满 一种麻木
沉实而确凿 举着多刺的鸡头状浆果 而在此之前
你已经将温暖开成淡紫的水晶花 在于不在之中
我的绿色都向着你 将深紫藏在背后 覆盖着池水
2008年6月25日
Waking up but knowing not which part
Wakes first, the leaves of gorgon plant glaze
Stubbornly on the surface
As shields and hearts.
The pond is full of their bodies
Or their body is full with a pond, from which
Shoots of numbness are the absolute
Tangibility. Oh, those cock heads with pricks!
Their previous life blooms, in warm smoke of pale purple
Floating as the breath of the underwater
Stems, invisible but positive.
All the greenness expands within the pond
For the pond, endorsed by dark purple
Shrouding the water.
June 25, 2008
刺莲池
醒来 却不知道哪儿先醒 鸡头莲的叶子
泛着僵硬的腊光 以盾牌或心粘着水面
池塘挤满了我的身体或者我被池塘挤满 一种麻木
沉实而确凿 举着多刺的鸡头状浆果 而在此之前
你已经将温暖开成淡紫的水晶花 在于不在之中
我的绿色都向着你 将深紫藏在背后 覆盖着池水
2008年6月25日
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