Fan Jinghua: Let Me In

　　　Let Me In
　　　　　　　(Another Version)
On the couch you are your mother
And we cram in as if you have a soul-mate.
Do not be afraid. The loss of vision is
Less unbearable than the sound palpable like bubbles
But insulated at the blue opening to the world.

I have fallen into you too long to be back.
All the words I said cannot be unsaid or superimposed.

Let me in. I only take the space
Which the outer form of an empty body may take,
And I will give the air a nudge, helping it to ventilate.
All the air you inhale will be still what you used to breathe in,
And if I cannot survive the air you breathe out,
Let me suffocate in love.
　　　　　　　　　　　June 12, 2008


　　　容我进入
　　　　　　(另一个版本)

在那个长沙发上，你就是你的母亲，
我们挤在一起，犹如你有了一个知己。
别害怕。失去视力
并非难以忍受，更难忍的是
可感可触的声音像水泡一样
被隔绝在面向世界敞开的蓝色开口处。

我已爱你太久，难以回头。
所有说过的话不可能被收回或者覆盖。

让我进入吧，我只是一个空洞的身体，
所占据的空间也只是一个赤裸的形状；
而且，我还会用手肘触碰一下空气，助其流动。
你呼吸的空气仍是你曾经呼吸的，
而如果我不能在你呼出的空气中生存，
那么容许我在爱情中窒息。
　　　　　　　2009年1月29日

按：今晨打开去年6月12日的一首诗，发现了当时已经写了两个英文版的，后来(08年6月22日) 只翻写了一个汉语版。现在再将这个版本翻译成汉语，保存。

Fan Jinghua: Farting

　　　Farting
I come to and see things as they come my way,
And it is not anyone’s choice. I wanted to be a wind
Over grasses, agile, but at an adolescent age I was struck
By a fierce sudden cold front on the waist, so I limp a little.
I cannot look at myself from behind or at a distance;
I know it from the jiggle of my shadow. I can take it
With grace, if not pride, dragging along at any weather,
And believing that lameness may force me to see better.
There is a little problem, however, in rainy days
Or on dewy mornings, when my shoes tend to be wet,
And my way of walk will only aggravate it, making
Squeezing sounds, at best like frogs for pastoral ears.
Often than not, people pass by (they often do as they are faster)
And turn a glance at me, believing that I fart at their overtaking.
That is embarrassing, for I cannot prove with odorlessness,
And this is when I know silence is more shameful than farting.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 27, 2009

　　　放屁
我走来，随便看到什么，都只是因为它们出现
在我的路上而已，这并不能证明谁做了选择。
我本想做一阵风，吹过草，那该是多么轻捷，
却在青春期被冷峰击中了腰，所以我有点跛足。
虽然我并不能从自己的背后或远处看自己，
但我看到地上的影子一伸一缩地跳，知道我有点滑稽。
这没什么，我虽不会感到骄傲，但还能潇洒地接受，
在任何天气都拖着腿，向前走，甚至还令自己相信
跛行或许迫使我比别人看得更为细致。
当然，在阴雨天或者露水浓重的早晨，会有一点小问题：
我的鞋子往往会湿掉，而我的步态会令问题更加严重，
发出咕唧咕唧的声音。这在倾听田园的耳朵中可能是蛙鸣，
但大多数时候，人们超过我（他们走得自然比我快许多），
回头瞥我一眼，以为我出于妒忌，所以不满地放屁。
这令我难堪，而我却不能用无味来证明自己，
这时候我才明白，沉默比放屁还要令我羞愧。
　　　　　　　　　　2009年1月27日

May You Be Blessed! 祝福你！

　　　　祝福你！May You Be Blessed!

Wishing you, no matter where and who you are, a prosperous and healthy Chinese New Year!
祝愿你，无论你是谁在何处，新的一年里健康、兴旺。

These are net-cam pix taken on the Eve of Chinese New Year (very late on Jan. 25, 2009), when I was chatting with my family.

这是我在大年三十的深夜和家人网上聊天时拍摄的。

Fan Jinghua: New Year Resolution

　　　　New Year Resolution
Bother with no big issues such as democracy and food contamination
So as to spare myself from cursing, and I’ll browse through social news only,
To find pieces for a good laugh
Or to bump into some to let out my pompous indignation
Make sure to empty my mind and schedule over the desk
Once a fortnight, for a few hours or a whole night, to stay awake
Chatting with you, but open to anything and embrace whatever to come
When we have a few free days, we’d go to a place, any place, on an impulse
Bringing no luggage, not for sightseeing but for not seeing or being seen
So that we can have only ourselves to recollect
I’ll write many poems about it, distorting the details a little at a time
Until you cannot recognize yourself in it
And even I think you were another woman I had an affair with
I am so in love but, no, I will never tell
　　　　　　　　　Jan. 25, 2009

　　　　　　　　　　Changi Airport, Singapore (Nov. 17, 2008)

　　　新年愿望

绝不为民主与食物污染之类的大事而烦恼
免得自己失口，因咒骂而招致诅咒
只浏览社会新闻，找点笑话
或者撞上某些怪事，以释放我华而不实的义愤
然后每两周就清空一次心思和书桌上的日程安排
几个小时甚至彻夜与你不眠
闲聊，但对随性而至的一切都敞开胸怀
若有几天充分的自由，便凭着一时之兴去某处，任何地方
都行，不为了看风景，而恰恰是为了不看也不被看见
那么我们就会有只属于我们的记忆
我将会写一首又一首诗，每次扭曲一点细节
直到你无法在其中认出自己
甚至我也以为那是另一个女人，一场艳遇
我爱得多么热烈，但是，哦，我不会告诉你
　　　　　　　　　2009年1月25日

Li Yiliang: Memory; Saturday Morning; By the Window

Three Poems by Li Yiliang 李以亮诗三首

　　Li Yiliang was awarded Yulong Poetry Prize 2007 for he “reveals through his restraint lyrical narrative the tragic of our everyday life, and establishes a discreet and vigilant sense of poetic ethics so that his poetry call our attention to the spiritual destitution and the indestructible in life… and also for his translation of Polish poetry which implants into Chinese poetry writing a character and temperament unique to Eastern European nations.”

　在2007年度的“宇龙诗歌奖”评委会所宣布的授奖辞中，李以亮“以抒情而克制的叙事揭示了我们日常生活的悲剧性，并确立起一种审慎而警觉的诗性伦理态度，从而唤醒我们对生命中精神缺失和不可摧毁之物的关注。李以亮还以对波兰诗歌持久而出色的翻译，为汉语诗歌的写作注入了一种东欧民族特有的精神气质，让我们领略到在坚硬干燥的物质世界中镌刻真理的勇气和耐力”。

　　回忆
　　　　　　　李以亮 (1966-)
在湖边散步，凉风拂面
远处有人唱歌
车灯射过来射过去

三米之外有情侣静静拥吻
我们则相反
惊动了湖里的鱼群

我说，你的衣服底下
有奇迹
你也是——
这是你后来说的
　　　　　2008.10.14.

　　Memory
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Walking by the lake, enjoying the cool breeze on the face
Overhearing someone singing in the near distance
With headlights sweeping back and forth

Three meters away, lovers are necking
But our doing nothing
Startles the drift of fish

I said there were miracles
Under your clothes
You did too—
But you told me later
　　　　　　　Oct. 14, 2008


　　星期六早晨
　　　　　　　李以亮 (1966-)
许多日子里的一日。许多人中的一人。
许多，其实是有限。和风依然是奢侈。
电视，新闻报纸，为人类放哨的记者
带来刷新一过的消息。复活是死人的事，
活人很难。我愿意在音乐里均匀呼吸。
我愿意牵着女儿的手，能走多远就走多远。
　　　　　　　　2008.5.24

　　Saturday Morning
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
One day among many days. One man among many men.
Many actually means countable by digits. Breeze is still a luxury.
TV, newspapers, journalists who stand guard for the human race
Bring refreshed news to be refreshed. Resurrection is for the dead,
Near impossible for the living. I’d like to breathe smoothly in music.
I’d like to hold my daughter’s hand, and walk as far as I can.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 24, 2008


　　　　窗前
　　　　　　　李以亮
早晨我站在窗前看雪，正在融化的雪。
我想到你，想到二十年了仿佛我是锈在这里，
一团悲哀涌起—— “是的，你已经认输。”

而我并不甘于这样的指责。
我并不相信，——命运。
我只是感到，一节大拇指，顶住了我的咽喉。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008.2.7.

　　By the Window
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Early morning I stood by the window, watching the snow that was melting.
I thought of you… as if for twenty years I’ve been nailed here, rusting.
A fog of sadness rises—“Yes, you have admitted failure.”

And yet I’ve not brought myself to accept this reproof.
I do not believe, in Fate.
I have only felt a knuckle of thumb goring me by the throat.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 7, 2008

Li Yiliang: Listening to Xiaoqi Reading his Poems

　　听诗人晓棋朗诵
　　　　　（赠晓棋之一）
　　　　　　　李以亮 (1966-)
那时候我多希望我就是你
——微醺
仿佛每个在座的听众都是知音
仿佛每个洗耳恭听的女士都是恋人

那时候我多希望我就是那首诗的作者
不著名但已有了足够的理由飞扬与自雄

请允许我模仿你的样子清嗓停顿高声宣布开始朗诵
请理解诗人在朗诵的中途因酒力失忆并坚决地从头开始

仿佛另起一行

那时候我多希望我就是全场唯一的评委
亮出全场唯一的最高分

“诗人们将重要性归之于奖项和成功”*
那时候，我相信他们的误解比我们还深
　　　　　　
原注*引自扎加耶夫斯基的诗《中国诗》。
　　　　　　　　　　2008.11.20.

　　Listening to Xiaoqi Reading his Poems
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
At that moment how I wish I were you
--A little intoxicated
As if every listener there knows the tone of your chord
As if every lady sits with all ears in your heart

At that moment how I wish I were the author of the poem
Not known to all but having enough reasons to fly and self-accolade

Please allow me to copy the way you clear the throat, pause, and
Announce in an unflinching voice that you are about to read
Please forgive the poet who insists on starting over from the first line
When his wine-drowned memory does not follow up

The next line seems to be a new start

At that moment how I wish I were the only judge
Who gives the one and only highest score

"Poets attribute importance to prizes and successes"
At that moment I believe their misreading is deeper than ours

Author’s Note: The quote is from Zagajewski’s poem “Chinese Poem.”
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 20, 2008

Li Yiliang: More; On A Journey

Two Poems by Li Yiliang 李以亮诗二首

　　　更多的
　　　　　　　李以亮 (1966-)
整晚整晚的音乐，更多的沉默。
你的情欲，意志，年龄的吃水线，
你虚构和摧毁的一切。

更多的生死，更多的离别。
你知道你在寻找什么，它不存在。
　　　　　　2008.12.26.

　　More
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Music running night over night, more silence.
Your lust, your will, waterline of age,
All that you’ve imagined and destroyed.

More lives and deaths, more farewells.
You know what you are looking for, and it does not exist.
　　　　　　　Dec. 26, 2008

　　　在途中
夜色褪尽，16号车厢空空荡荡
仿佛水落石出，在我对面
出现了一个穿黄色绒衣的姑娘，沉默，爱着她的口香糖

如果愿意，我们应该可以说点什么
如果时光倒流，我会选择主动

我总是对女性
更容易产生美好的幻想，我迷恋她们的形容、服饰
我总是因为某个女性，记住一个城市的名字

我赞美造物主为我们的旅途安排了不可多得的明亮

但这个早晨我心无旁骛
这个早晨注定没有故事也没有回忆
我们默默到达、下车，从相遇到分手，从陌生到陌生
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008.11.20.


　　　On a Journey
　　　　　　　　　By Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Color of night has washed away and carriage 16 is left empty.
As if a boulder emerges at water-ebb, a girl in yellow eider jacket,
Silent, devoted to her chewing gum, appears in front of my eyes.

If in willing mood, we should have talked a little;
I would choose to initiate a talk, if time turned back.

I’m always easily inspired to project on women
Magnificent fantasies, and enchanted with their demeanor and apparel;
Most often, I remember the name of a town because of a woman.

I thank the Creator for the hard-to-come-by brightness
Prearranged on our journey.

But this morning I have nothing to put my heart on,
This morning is doomed, and there is no story, then no memory.
We arrive and get off, in mutual silence, from confluence to separation,
Strangers we were and strangers we remain.
　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 20, 2008

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　李以亮 Li Yiliang (1966-)

About the poet:
　　LI Yiliang (1966-) was born in the countryside of Hubei Province, and grew up with discrimination due to his birth. In 1984, he was enrolled Yichang Teacher’s College and majored in English, henceforth became an English teacher upon graduation. In 2001 he switched to Wuhan Telecommunication Bureau. He began writing poems early in high school through college, but stopped for a few years and resume writing after the millennium. He is living in Wuhan and is one of the editors of Chinese Poetry (Quarterly). He was awarded Yulong Poetry Prize 2007.

　　李以亮，1966年7月出生于湖北应城农村，因家庭出身问题，成长过程中一直颇受歧视。1984年考入宜昌师范专科学校英语专业，1987年毕业分配至湖北省邮电学校任英语教师，2001年改行至武汉市电信局工作至今。高中时期开始学习诗歌写作。大学期间与大学同学结过诗社办过刊物，1986年后开始发表诗作。1998年尝试过翻译和文学随笔、论文写作。2004年春与张执浩、余笑忠等诗人创办平行文学网，还是《汉诗》季刊的编辑。译著有《波兰现代诗歌选》（自费印刷）。

Fan Jinghua: My Time for Poetry

　　My Time for Poetry
No, I cannot call it a life or career, for my life is not yet
Coming to its end, although its course might be unalterable;
I still have visions or illusions for other possibles.
Most of my time has been spent on answering for the more practical matters,
And writing poems does not bring any worldly satisfactions;
I am even ashamed of the occasional thought
That there might be readers who, unpronounced, adore me
For what I am, after they read these personal sentiments of mine.

Poetry-writing yields no more pleasure than any everyday doing,
For a dish, a fuck, an appropriate spicy humor would respectively bring
Aftertaste, comfortable tiredness and self-aware smiles in reflection,
And these dredged sensations would tinge the whole scene, and even pulsate
The context, more intriguing than a poem. I have learned this
Long ago, and yet I have always wanted to build the one or two sparkling lines
Into a composition formally finished. This, I know, is a vanity
Which drowns my original wits in lusterless clichés or strained redundancies.
I can at best make my thought flow easier in plainer language, not able
To sustain a heightened surprise

This may be also a necessary fault, in a more relaxed mind.
As in musical composition, most often it is the leitmotif of several bars
That is the most memorable and inspirational, and the rest
Usually bridges chunks to channel the ears into inertia.
How to turn and divert smoothly and artlessly is a genuine art,
For grabbing fate by the throat, as Beethoven did, is not enough;
Ultimate triumph goes to the one
Who could punch and kick like tangoing in a scuffle.
This is a wire-walker’s skill. He learns to be better than an amateur
Before he could imitate the beginner’s stagger.
Risky steps require a way of super control.
This may also be Milan Kundera’s implications, though he is primarily
Concerned with the art of fiction.

The art behind all the artistry is disinterest and cool-mindedness;
In Roman Jakobson’s claim, the language of poetry is estranged, a detour
Or a hidden exit, calling a spade anything but a spade. This is
A metaphor for poetry, for the act of writing poetry points to itself,
And the pointing-to is poetry,
Like a toad crawling in a labyrinth, a night garden with forking path.
What is required is a certain degree of detachedness, aloofness,
Not imagining anyone to be moved.
As for the language, dried transparency, warm richness or chill cream,
Whatever comes may do, only to remember that consuming passion
Should be "recollected in tranquility," as Wordsworth maintained.

Poetry-writing, in essence, is a dodge.
This claim may court disdain, and I gladly acknowledge their reprimand.
For me, no matter how deep I sink into words, a man is still a man only,
Incapable of being a legislator of the world or turning to ivory.
A poem cannot do anything like an inch of steel bar to reinforce a schoolhouse
Or a spoonful of uncontaminated milk powder for the poor babies;
When it is sent out on paper or read to the victims, the poets may consider it
Their conscience, but tissue paper may be a better form of disaster relief.

Writing poems is a way to branch into the course of time, and then
If he will, come back and join the mainstream again;
If he will not, try to be violent and wash out his own way to the sea.
Sometimes, I am waist-deep in the restlessness before and the desertedness after writing,
And I forget them only in writing, but this does not numb my feeling of hunger
As now, at such a later night in winter.
I like hot chocolate, with a little milk, so I can imagine the swarthy beach girls…
This makes me excited about words for the local and the scheme for the whole,
Like weighing the events in a year or a life to find out
Which are both inspirational and word-inducing and can be finalized.
They are understandably few, and I cannot even claim
Whether the passionate moments strung together by time mark a process
Of maturity or progress, but certainly time is eternal for itself but aging for a man.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 23, 2009


　　　我的写诗时间

不能称之为生涯，我的一生还没有基本完结
虽说也许已经定型，但我还在幻想着其他的可能
我日常的大多数时间都在应付更加现实的事务

因为写诗并没给我带来任何世俗的满足，我甚至不敢
自作多情地想象或许有人
被我纯粹一己的感受触动，欣赏这些句子
爱屋及乌地暗中喜欢我这个人

写诗并没不比俗事更能带来爽快
一顿美味、一次性事、一个咸涩适度的幽默
会带来余香、舒适的疲惫、回想中的微笑
而这些反刍的感受能浸染整个场景，还波及前后
比一首诗更具感染力。这一点
我早已认识到了，可我总想着要将一两个闪光的句子
敷衍成篇。这是一种虚妄
将我原有的机智淹没在或暗淡陈腐或累赘做作的铺排中
充其量，我只能做到娓娓道来，流畅自然，而无法延续
那抬高的、紧绷的惊喜

然而，平和地想，这似乎也有必要
犹如音乐篇章，大多是题旨令人惊艳
人们耳熟能详的就是那几节旋律，而其他的峰回路转
似乎就是为了令人忘记转折
过门如何顺势而至，转承启合如何浑然不觉，这是技巧
譬如贝多芬紧紧扼住命运的喉咙并不够，最后的胜利
属于在纠缠扭打中动作洒脱而自如的人
犹如走钢丝的艺人首先要学会保持平衡，最后才模仿
初学者，——以险招惊人必须有整体的把控
这大概是昆德拉的意思，虽说他用来讲小说之技

所有的技艺都表现为一种淡泊、冷却
雅科布森说诗歌语言就是将日常话语陌生，有话却不直说
这本身就是诗歌的暗喻，诗写作最终指向的
就是诗本身
犹如癞蛤蟆漫步在一个小径交叉的花园，爬不出的迷宫
这都需要一定的超离，不要假想谁将会被感动
至于语言嘛，尽可以是风干的透明、温软的浓郁、或者凝脂的冷艳
关键在于，激情要在宁静中重拾、再现，正如沃兹华斯所言

写诗，说到底，就是一种躲避
——这或许令人不屑
而我也很乐意承认这种指责的正直
可在我看来，无论沉入文字多深，一个人还是一个人而已
不可能抽象成法律，也不会变成象牙
一首诗无论如何也抵不上一小截钢筋以抵御校舍的倒塌
或者一小勺无毒的幼儿奶粉
印在纸上捐出去或者聒噪地诉诸他人的耳膜
自以为可以当作自己的或者社会的良心散发
而人们很可能更需要干净的卫生纸

写诗，只是旁入时间的支流，然后
如果愿意，再汇入主流，不一定非得泾渭分明
如果自己足够汹涌，就冲出一条道，径自入海
我也不时深深陷入写作前的喧嚣和写出之后的寂寥
只在写的时候才会忘记一切，但这并不会
麻木我的饥饿感，例如此刻这样的冬夜，我喜欢醇厚的热巧克力
想象着沙滩美女的皮肤润滑、身材起伏，还有一些点……
这令我兴奋于写诗，既想着局部的词汇，还想着如何谋篇
犹如一年中或者一生中受到激发而终于写下的人事不会太多
但时间将那有限的激情片刻或者篇章贯穿起来
我甚至不敢说那过程是成熟或者进步，但可以肯定
这是一个衰老的过程
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2009年1月23日

Fan Jinghua: To A Distant Friend

　　To A Distant Friend
Nightly, your eyes grow a thousand ivy hands
To hold you, raise you and sail you
Into the sphere reigned only by a half-moon
You are dragged along toward the hustling of the dawn and sunlight
With a few stars watching you at the sky’s edge
Where I am too looking up
How distant I am from the compact branchy text of yours
Unlike any knurly pine or overbearing oak
I hold on to the window-frame and tiptoe for several times
And still I cannot fly a bit
Deep as it is outside, it provides no lift force
The red maple leave snuggles close against the wall before my desk
And stays up the whole night with me
Wordless, with tangible veins
　　　　　　　　Jan. 19, 2009


　　致一位远方的朋友

你的眼睛伸出一千只藤蔓的手
拥着你，也托起你
在月亮独自占据的水域
向着阳光与嘈杂航行
而几颗星星的小漩涡散在水边
我头顶着一颗，仰望
那篇风姿摇曳的散文，疏密有致
不似冷硬狰狞的雪松
我离它多么远啊，我拉着窗框
欠了好几次脚，还是不能飞起一点点来
外面那么深，却没有一丝浮力
书桌前的墙上，一片红叶俯伏着
也陪我熬了一夜
无言，但纹路清晰可触
　　　　　　2009年1月19日

Fan Jinghua: The Ancient Way of Parting

　　The Ancient Way of Parting

The imaginable distant place where he is going is visibly covered by grasses
As they come here, following a white clean path
To this ferry surrounded by rust-stained weeds.
Nothing special, really. Ordinary coming and going,
The same as the day he came to meet him at the dusk quite like today.
They meet for the first time, and yet they seem to have known each other many lives,
And this parting means only an end of one of their crossings in this life.
Or so they think, avoiding the thought
That the never-again parting in the future is taking place before their eyes.

They make the usual gestures for goodbye, wrapping the left fist with the right palm,
Waving hands and then standing still in long gaze.
One watches at the boat sailing away, dwindled,
While the other sees the ferry backing into nothing.
Distance spreads blankness and vastness into the field of vision.

He turns back, and the path remains there, occasional twos and threes walk along;
The boy at the inn greets him as loudly as he did them at noon,
But their table has been taken by another two.
He sits at the adjacent one, over a plate of boiled peanuts which he picks up
And one by one he hears the faint wet snaps.
When the two have left
They leave behind empty drinking bowls piled upon half of the table.
When the sun sets, he sees a lonely gown standing at the end of the boat,
The same color as the weathered sails.
He seems to see himself there, full of holes,
Stricken by the cries of southern-bound wild geese.

Late at night, he paces around his desk for a poem to his friend
When he is taken aback by a few continuous charring cracks on the oil lamp
He seems to hear from the darkness
A heart-breaking rumor to be spread at tomorrow dusk
And tears rush out of the springs of eyes
The unfinished goodbye has never the chance to come to an end
While his poem has only two lines
"Withered grasses have drowned the ancient road to the edge of earth,
My friend, by which way do you think you could return to your abode,"
Which require no abrupt turn
But a surprise of expression following the usual course of poetics.

What we can read today are the poems and their friendship, quite abstract like names,
But we do not know what jokes they laughed about over the wine
Or what had been swallowed on the ferry of their once and only parting.
As I am writing this now, the thought rises—
If we meet one day and then part, what could we speak out and what would not?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 15, 2009


　　　古离别

本来，想象中可见的远方也只是草连着草
他们从白净的小道上走来
渡口处，芦苇开始锈蚀
寻常的来来往往，并无什么特别的人与景物
一如他的来临，也是这样的黄昏
此生的初相识，几世的旧相知，这一次分手
不过是结束一次相遇，他们都避免想象
未来的生离死别就在眼前发生

他们拱手拜别、挥手、久久凝望
一个看到船帆越来越小
一个看到码头越退越后
距离将消失与空阔涂满视野

他转头，小道仍旧，偶尔有三三两两的行人
小街上酒馆的小二仍然热情地招呼，一如中午招呼他们两人
他们坐过的桌子被另外两个人占据
而他坐在另一边，一碟水煮花生，一颗一颗地剥
一声声沉闷潮湿只有他自己听见
那两个人离去时
空酒碗摞起来也排满了半个桌子了
夕阳西下时，他看到船尾那孤独的旧袍子
和久经风雨的船帆颜色接近，似乎那就是他自己
被南飞的雁声击中，一个个窟窿

夜深了，他背着手围着书案徘徊已久
豆油轻轻地连续炸了几下
他隐约听到黑暗中传来一个心碎的消息将要在明天黄昏传闻
突然泪如泉涌
原来还没有完成的道别已永远不再
赠友诗才写出两行：
“天涯枯草淹没了古道
朋友，你经哪条路归去”
后面的句子原本不该有什么突兀的转折
只应该在诗意的轨道上精彩

如今我们读到他们名下的诗歌和抽象的友情
不知道他们在酒馆讲过什么笑话
在码头分手时什么话被咽进了肚里
我写到这儿，想着
哪天我们见面、分手，能说出来的又会是什么
　　　　　　　　2009年1月15日

Xiao Maxian: Charma and the Lighter; Sisters

　　小玛仙诗二首

小玛仙的诗很容易被解读为一种精灵古怪的玄思幻想，我在这里选译的七首诗试图展示了一个不同于以往的诗人。

　　茶马和打火机
黑夜从山顶缓缓升起，茶马
你眼睛发出微光
能点亮星星
（像打火机那样！）
我真想立刻摇醒沉睡的梵高——真的，那是真的
银河就在头上悬垂，那么多星挤在一起！
挣扎着，摇摇欲坠
有一个巨大如蓝光的火盆
　　　　　　2008年11月20日

　　Charma and the Lighter
　　　　　　　　　by Xiao Maxian　　tr. Fan Jinghua

Night darkness rises slowly from the mountaintops, but Charma,
Your eyes glitter
And they can light stars
(The way a lighter does!)
How I want to wake up van Gogh from his sleep—really, that is real
Silver River is hanging above our heads, with so many stars crowded together!
It flounders to keep itself from falling down
Over there is a huge firepan of blue light
　　　　　　　November 20, 2008

Comments: No matter how enormous the night over the mountains is, the poet can see the glitters of Charma’s eyes. When the glitter is compared to a lighter, we know it is from a human being. Only when that is a human being, the seer can be excited, and then the poet-seer wants to wake up Van Gogh, for he is the heart of poetry and art.

极短评：山顶上的黑夜多么大啊，但是她能看到茶马眼睛的微光；这种光被比为打火机，那才是人。而人必须是人的时候才会如此激动，而这个激动的诗人于是要唤醒的就是诗心、艺心，在此就是“沉睡的梵高”。

　　姊妹
我们从一个地方来，那儿——黑暗而柔软
我们来自泥土
或透明的天空，海洋
我们来自花朵——但那花园已经消失
作为流亡者（你不可否认这一点
我们从不知道，故乡的名）
我们用一种畏惧
来爱——周围，人群，街道，墙壁
或者穿过树梢的风
彼此。我们来的那个地方
已经找不到了
　　　　　2008年10月8日

　　Sisters
　　　　　　　　　by Xiao Maxian　　tr. Fan Jinghua

We came from one place; it is dark and velvety over there.
We came from soil
Or transparent sky, ocean
We came from flowers, although the garden has disappeared
As exiles (you can not deny
That we have never learned the name of hometown)
We love
With a kind of terror, we love environs, crowds, streets, walls
Or the winds through treetops,
And each other. The place we came from
Can no longer be found
　　　　　　October 8, 2008

Comments: This poem is about women, as everyone can see. It tells the disappearance of the source and origin of femininity and motherliness is rooted out in the society.
极短评：这首诗写女人，这是人人都会承认的。然而，这首诗说出了女人之软从根源上的消失，读来令人惊恐，原来我们的社会甚至已经远离了滋养母性的时代。

About the Poet:
小玛仙，原名王莎莎，生于七十年代，现居住黑龙江。04年开始触网写作，用笔名冯碧落、余小蛮，写作诗歌、随笔、小说等；诗歌作品见《诗选刊》中国诗歌年代特别大展、《2005－2006华语诗歌双年展》等多家杂志与选本。以《夜读清水寺》为主的一组诗歌获得2007年第二届叶红全球女性诗奖二等奖。现任诗生活诗歌论坛版主及诗生活博客管理员。
Xiao Maxian, penname of Wang Shasha, born in late 1970s, writes poetry, essays and stories since 2004. Her work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies, and she won the Second Prize for Ye Hong International Women Poetry Competition in 2007. She now lives in Daqing, Heilongjiang Province, and serves as a webmaster in Poemlife.com, an influential poetry website in Mainland China.

Xiao Maxian: Home-Coming; A Scarecrow in the City; The Pleasure of Life

小玛仙诗三首《回归》《城市稻草人》《生活的喜悦》

　　回归
有一天大雾迷漫，他看到大山
橄榄树
但这果然是出生之地吗？
帕涅罗珀，多么遥远而陌生……
他想念小岛，黄昏，岩洞深处
听卡吕普索喊他的名字——尤利西斯
如果用这七年的生活交换
自由（但什么才是自由？）
他的回归
却如同埋葬
　　　　2008年10月7日

　　　Home-Coming
　　　　　　　　　by Xiao Maxian　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Big fogs overflow into the day, and he sees big mountains
And olive trees,
But is this really his birthplace?
Penelope, how distant and alienated…
He misses the small island, the dusk, the deep cave
Echoing his name in Calypso’s voice -- Ulysses
If the seven-year life is to be exchanged
Into freedom (what on earth is freedom?)
His homecoming would be
An act of interring
　　　　　October 7, 2008

Comments: The first three lines contain in the illusion (fogginess) a kind of tangible realness (visibility), but the realness is subject to questions: Is this really…? The doubtfulness of one’s birthplace makes the most fundamental questions and ambivalence about existence (freedom and home-coming) appear illusionary. The unsaid link between freedom and home is love, which both pushes and pulls a man (?).
极短评：起句中，那种幻（在雾中）含着一种可以确凿的真（可以看到），而那种真却又是有待质问的：那果然是么？这使得有关人类生存的最基本问题与矛盾之一（自由与归家）很虚幻。自由与归家之间没被说出的联系（向心力与外心力）竟然都可以是爱情。


　　城市稻草人
你夺走我的麦子和庄园
夺走我的城市
我的心
麦子金灿灿地发烧了
你说爱我——这真是一把匕首
　　　　　　2008年9月27日

　　A Scarecrow in the City
You’ve usurped my wheat and farm
Also my city
Plus my heart
Wheat is running a golden fever
While you say you love me—such a dagger
　　　　　　September 27, 2008

Comments: The purpose of a scarecrow is, of course, to scare crows, but when seen in the city it means that it only takes away the stalk and farmland. Can you accept the oath of faith from this lifeless life?
极短评：稻草人的目的原本是吓走乌鸦，然而放在城市里却仅仅是占有麦秸和农田的象征，没有生命，你能接受它的爱情誓言么？


　　生活的喜悦
　　　——致马可·夏加尔
我可爱的画家，此时
正午睡
他的眼镜还戴在鼻梁上，像是在梦里
也思考着。我可爱的，有着臃肿身体的老男孩
你花白的头发，让你看上去多么迷人
像是给你镀上了圣光
像是污浊的生活让你越来越
纯粹了。
　　　　　2008年8月18日

　　The Pleasure of Life
　　　-- To Marc Chargal
My lovable painter is at this moment
Taking his noon nap
His spectacles on his nose, as if he falls into thought
Even in his dream. My adorable old boy, you have an overblown body
Your hair is snowy, which makes a charming sight
As if you are silvered with saintly halo
And turbid life enables you to live
Purer and purer.
　　　　　　　August 18, 2008

Comments: Old men can be blessed for their talent and wisdom, for these qualities are seen as flesh on the body. Old but not necessary to hide. This is regained naivete.
极短评：老男人有福了，因为他的才华与智慧被看得堆积在身体上，甚至不再有任何掩饰，一种复拾的真纯，多么憨啊。

Xiao Maxian: How to Live; Accidental

小玛仙诗两首《怎样生活》《意外》

　　怎样生活
　　　　　　　小玛仙
磨刀
浇水
布衣粗食。

沉默
离开十字路口
和人群

羞涩
继续骄傲
和徒劳的孤单

深陷花香
骑马
和解一种毒药

是什么
你一说出
就会消失？
　　　　　2008年7月8日

　How to Live
　　　　　　　by Xiao Maxian　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Whetting,
Watering,
Course food and clothes.

Silent,
Away from crossroads
And crowds.

Shy,
Carrying on with pride
And futile loneliness.

Indulging in fragrance,
Riding a horse
And counterdosing a poison.

What is it
That ceases to be
Once you’ve said?
　　　　July 8, 2008

Comments: When asked about the difference after satori, a Buddhist master replies: Before, I shouldered water and swept the floor; after, I shoulder water and sweep the floor. This girl is a poet, and she is still what she has been.
极短评：大师说，得道前挑水扫地，得道后挑水扫地。这女人写了诗，依然依然。

　　意外
第三个路口我遇到骗子、小偷和布道者
后来，遇到了骆驼和鱼群
鸽子飞来的时候我开始学会了仰头
原来天空已这么澄明
　　　　　　2008年6月23日

　　Accidental
　　　　　　　by Xiao Maxian　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
At the third crossroad I met a trickster, a thief and a preacher
Later on, I saw camels and a school of fish
When doves fly by I am learning to raise my head to look up
The sky has already turned so clear
　　　　　　June 23, 2008

Comments: Three means many, each has its own way, and there are pleasure and pain in the sky, on the earth and under the water. My perspectives, upward or downward, front or back, to the left or the right, are all that I get.
极短评：三，又言多；人，各有各的道；海陆空，各自的苦乐；我的看法，前后上下左右，但看你如何看了。

About the Poet:
小玛仙，原名王莎莎，生于七十年代，现居住黑龙江。04年开始触网写作，用笔名冯碧落、余小蛮，写作诗歌、随笔、小说等；诗歌作品见《诗选刊》中国诗歌年代特别大展、《2005－2006华语诗歌双年展》等多家杂志与选本。以《夜读清水寺》为主的一组诗歌获得2007年第二届叶红全球女性诗奖二等奖。现任诗生活诗歌论坛版主及诗生活博客管理员。
Xiao Maxian, penname of Wang Shasha, born in late 1970s, writes poetry, essays and stories since 2004. Her work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies, and she won the Second Prize for Ye Hong International Women Poetry Competition in 2007. She now lives in Daqing, Heilongjiang Province, and serves as a webmaster in Poemlife.com, an influential poetry website in Mainland China.

Fan Jinghua: Half-Moon around 5 am on Jan. 14

　　Half-Moon around 5 am on Jan. 14

Too early to see anything in the sky to know whether
That’s gone or there’s something to come. For an entire night,
A half moon, a hole by canine teeth, has been leaking light.

The sense of touch is a chronic hurt sealed-in
That does not bear the most unintentional touch of breezes.
It crumples as if the wires are cut within a marionette,
And a few wooden sounds drag its backbone along.

I walk, not as an incidental evidence of the lampposts,
As I don’t block or emit light. Occasional catfishes pass by
A four-eyed fish, each along the left side of their own course.

This is the hour of tiger. I walk and walk on, and my feet begin
To climb the air, and then I float, without a stir under my arms or legs.
The vastness holds more white and clarity than the day, and it denies
Adjectives. No dancing of shadows or skeletons either, below or above.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 14, 2009


　　腊月十九寅时的月光

太早了，天上什么都没有，不知道
是已去还是没来，半个月亮一面长着毛边
像个破洞，光透过它散出，隔夜的

肉体，一个合缝的沉疴
微风以最无意的触摸就戳穿了
像断了线的木偶脆脆地响了几声
那脊梁骨就被光滑地拖着走了

我行走，却不是灯柱的映证者，不挡光
也不吸光；小道上，偶尔的人各自靠左行驶
像鲶鱼和四眼鱼，有远近但不分高低

这是老虎的时辰，而我走着走着
就踏空离开了地面，而腋下、裆下纹丝不动
这空阔拥有的爽白与净洁胜过白昼，拒绝形容词
也没有跳舞的影子或骷髅，地上没有，天上也没有
　　　　　　　　　2009年1月14日腊月十九

Fan Jinghua: On Trees and Love and How to Name Them

　　On Trees and Love and How to Name Them

If one can name a tree as love, and surely
We can, as no name is not arbitrary
Then we need not point at a tree to tell love
We may only need to say “tree”
And the one who knows how to love will see a tree
And upon seeing a tree will understand what love is

What an empty word love will then become
Because trees can be love, dark or lush

Nightly I watch the two trees outside my window
Below the blue sea of the sky, neither of them is
A jujube as Lu Xun wrote of and also heard a bird cry in there
Can I say that they have nothing to do with him
And that the nocturnal bird presages no evil

Knowing that Lu Xun’s trees did not grow dates of love
I, of course, cannot cultivate by myself a tree that breeds them
And yet I still wish you could see it growing as I have so named
　　　　　　　　　　　May 21, 2006
　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 11, 2009


　　树与爱情以及如何命名它们

如果将一棵树称为爱情（当然可以
因为没有名字不是一种任意的约定）
那么我们就不需要指着它称呼爱情
只需要说一声“树”
懂得爱的人会看到一棵树
看到一棵树的人就有了爱情

有了树的阴森或者葱绿
爱这个字将会多么空洞

夜夜，我看到两棵树我窗外的碧海青天之下
一棵不是枣树，另一棵也不是枣树
我能否说：因此它们与鲁迅无关
能否说是我自己发明了树与爱情的关联
能否说黑鸟凄惨的叫声不会给我们带来厄运

鲁迅的枣树结不出爱情
我也无法培育一棵结满爱情枣子的树
但我仍愿你能看见我如此命名的那棵
　　　　　2006年5月21日
　　　　　2009年1月11日

Fan Jinghua: Reflection

　　　Reflection
Staring long at the window, the eyes grow a wing,
Attached to the glass, fluttering for another.
The symmetrical space parenthesizes potentials
For flying, every feathertip throbbing
With a drop of light.

You have always said that my poems are not easy to follow,
And you use the knife of eyes to break up the lines, chewing
Words, every single of them. Yes, you are right.
If I can ever reach you, it can never be through lines
But through dots of words.
I am a bowl repairer, collecting the shiny dots
To rivet the night together.

A scientific truth:
No one can see anything if it does not reflect light.
How about motion? And emotion?
This wing articulates, at a small distance, with the glass, and it sounds.
The other one moves without a hiss, beyond the glass hinge.

At night, my only wing is permeated, heavy like a mouse-tail.
Night is a mammal touch on my crotch, an enduring lure,
The closest comfort, like warm liquid.

If you are behind me, please do not do catwalk,
For you will step on my dream
When you forget to split your legs a little.
Even if I believe in your merciful limbs,
I have no faith in men’s gaze.

What do you expect to seep from the glass between me and night,
The night in which you can be a phantom or an angel?
My eyes are a sprayer that atomizes temptation of melancholia,
And nothing can calm me like the heave of glittering fog,
In which I can see my endless flying with you.
When you flap in the midair,
Do you see yourself a mannequin swimming in the wind?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Dec. 26, 2008; January 1, 2009

　　　　映像
盯着窗子看久了，眼睛生出
一只翅膀，粘在玻璃上，习习
如波浪，等待另一只虚幻地浮现。
这对称的空间令人神出于黑夜，
感觉自己飞翔的潜能，羽毛尖上
一排颤悠悠的光珠。

你总是说我的诗行不易尾随，
你用眼光的刀子将它们裁成一截一截，
咀嚼那些词儿，直至每一个字。
是的，你说得不错。
如果我沿着诗行，就永不可能
抵达你，我只能借助虚线的点。
我采集那些断裂的闪光，
犹如一个补碗者，用铆钉粘合黑夜。

这是科学常识：
不反光的物体没有人能够看见。
那么感动呢？深情呢？
这只翅膀隔着小小的距离连接到玻璃上，发出声音；
另一只在玻璃的铰链外，翕动，
不闻一丝风声。

黑夜中，我惟一的翅膀被浸湿了，沉重
如一根老鼠尾巴，
夜晚如哺乳动物的触摸落在我的裆下，温水一般，
不消的诱惑，最亲近的舒适。

如果你在我身后，请不要走猫步，免得你忘记
要稍稍分开双腿，以免践踏我的梦。
即便我相信你四肢善良，
我却对男人们的凝视没有信心。

你期待我与黑夜之间的玻璃能够渗滴出什么？
在这黑夜中，你可能是幻影，也可能是天使。
我双眼的喷雾器喷出忧郁症的诱惑，
而这世上最令我安宁的
莫过于一大片裹挟着光粒的雾。
我在雾中看到映像，看到我与你没有终点的同飞。
当你在半空中划动四肢，
你是否看到一只服装模型在乘风游泳？
　　　　　　　　　　2009年1月1日


　　　Reflection
Staring long at the window, the eyes
Grow a wing
Attached to the glass, fluttering
For another.
The symmetrical space parenthesizes
Potentials for flying,
Every feathertip throbbing
With a drop of light.

You have always said that my poems are
Not easy to follow,
And you use the knife of eyes
To break up the lines, you chewing
Words, every single of them.
Yes, you are right.
If I can ever reach you,
It can never be
Through lines but through dots
Of words.
I am a bowl repairer,
Collecting the shiny dots
To rivet the night together.

A scientific truth:
No one can see anything if it does not
Reflect light.
How about motion?
And emotion?
This wing articulates, at a small distance, with the glass,
And it sounds.
The other one moves without a hiss,
Beyond the glass hinge.

At night, my only wing is permeated,
Heavy like a mouse-tail.
Night is a mammal touch on my crotch,
An enduring lure, the closest
Comfort, like warm liquid.

If you are behind me, please
Do not do catwalk, for you will step
On my dream
When you forget to split your legs
A little.
Even if I believe in your merciful limbs,
I have no faith in men’s gaze.

What do you expect to seep from the glass
Between me and night,
The night in which you can be a phantom or an angel?
My eyes are a sprayer that atomizes
Temptation of melancholia,
And nothing can calm me
Like the heave of glittering fog,
In which I can see
My endless flying with you.
When you flap in the midair,
Do you see yourself
A mannequin swimming in the wind?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Dec. 26, 2008; January 1, 2009

　　　映像
盯着窗子看久了，眼睛
生出一只翅膀，
粘在玻璃上，习习
如波浪，等待另一只
虚幻地浮现。
这对称的空间令人神出于黑夜，
感觉自己飞翔的潜能，
羽毛尖上
一排颤悠悠的光珠。

你总是说我的诗行
不易尾随，
你用眼光的刀子
将它们裁成一截一截，
你咀嚼词儿，
直至每一个字。
是的，你说得不错。如果我
沿着诗行，就永不可能
抵达你，
我只能借助虚线的点。
我采集
那些断裂的闪光，
犹如一个补碗者，
用铆钉粘合黑夜。

这是科学常识：
不反光的物体
没有人
能够看见。
那么感动呢？
深情呢？
这只翅膀
隔着小小的距离
连接到玻璃上，
发出声音；
另一只
在玻璃的铰链外，翕动，
不闻一丝风声。

黑夜中，我惟一的翅膀
被浸湿了，沉重
如一根老鼠尾巴，
夜晚如哺乳动物的触摸
落在我的裆下，温水一般，
不消的诱惑，
最亲近的舒适。

如果你在我身后，请不要
走猫步，免得你忘记
要稍稍分开双腿，
以免践踏我的梦。
即便我相信你四肢善良，
我却对男人们的凝视
没有信心。

你期待我与黑夜之间的玻璃
能够渗滴出什么？
你在这黑夜中可能是幻影
也可能是天使。
我双眼的喷雾器
喷出忧郁症的诱惑，
而这世上最令我安宁的
莫过于一大片裹挟着光粒的雾。
我在雾中看到映像，看到
我与你没有终点的同飞。
当你在半空中划动四肢，
你是否看到
一只服装模型在乘风游泳？
　　　　　　　　　　2009年1月1日