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