Fan Jinghua: A Valediction
A Valediction
As if all of a sudden, it mellows, in your words and pictures,
Autumn, catalyzed, pours into my spare cup of knowledge
About the places of this season:
Golden Hill, Windy City, Blooming Town and Net-ground Shore
Where people’s walking-away looks so mesmerizing.
There, on campus, Halloween costumes with wings and courtesan faces
Are beautiful, and some under umbrellas hope for a drizzle
More sonorous, but there are only ginkgo leaves
Swirling down and incidentally sticking on the black nylon;
Wind is too small and your skirt does not flare.
For the entire afternoon till nightfall that forces the light
To huddle up under the streetlamp shades, one line
From the cut-out half of an always truncated poem
Haunts my mind “Scent of grasses afar invades the ancient road,”
While I try not to let the image of a bleak city invade my mind
By eroticizing and rejuvenating it with a lovely woman.
The bright morning you said like strokes of dawn clouds
“You are a gem, gorgeous and great,” and I was made
To be more humble and diligent even at night;
But we have been saying goodbye every day, virtually.
Oct. 29, 2009
Note: Bai Juyi's poem "Grass" was truncated in the school text, so that most people only know the first fours lines of the five-character regulated verse, while the latter half is often forgotten. The line "Afar, scents invade the ancient road" is followed by another line in the couplet "The green meets the bleak city".
告别辞
秋，在你的文字与照片中，似乎突然熟透，
那醇厚的酒倾满我闲置的记忆之杯，
这个季节，这么多地方：
金色丘陵、风之城、兰花镇、晒网海滨，
人们走开的姿态有着催眠的流动感。
万圣节的校园，天使的翅膀与艺伎的脸
那么粉白，有人因为新买一把伞
而希望小雨能再多一点声响，可只有银杏叶
回旋着飘落，黑尼龙的伞面上总贴着三两片明亮的黄；
风，依然微小，你的长裙不会抛开。
整个下午，有一个句子一直溯洄于我的脑中，
像一尾鱼，直到夜色越来越浓，将一排排路灯的光
挤压成一团团长毛绒，在我心中的长亭短亭，
“远芳侵古道”，来自总被截去的部分，
而我拒绝看见古道尽头一河之隔的那座荒城，
我想象一个美丽的女人走来，遮挡着
灞桥朝雨沾浥我的心尘。
一个阳光明媚的早晨，你说 “你真棒，令我可以欣赏妒忌”；
可你的话带着几抹丹霞，令我更加谦卑与勤奋，
在每个夜晚，我们都说再见，像真的再见一样。
2009年10月30日
Friday, October 30, 2009
Plath: Pheasant
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 162
Pheasant
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court—
The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill—green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
7 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第162首
野鸡
你说你会在今天早晨将它杀掉。
不要杀吧。它至今仍令我震惊，
那奇怪的黑头顶上的突起，缓步
穿过榆树山上没人修剪的草坪。
拥有一只野鸡，算是有点特别，
哪怕只是供人参观。
我不信什么神秘主义：它也并非
如我所想象的那样拥有灵魂。
那只是在于它的元素。
那赋予它一种君王的威严，一种权利。
去年冬天，它大脚的印记，
尾巴的痕迹，在我们院子的雪上——
它的惊艳，带着那样的苍白，
映衬着麻雀与八哥交叉飞过的阴影。
这不正是它的难得么？它确实难得。
但一打之数还是值得拥有，
一百只，在那座小山上——有绿有红，
走来又走去：一种优美的生灵！
它有那么美妙的身形，如此生动。
它是一只小小的丰饶角。
它扑闪着收起翅膀，有叶子的褐色，嘹亮，
栖息在榆树上，怡然自得。
它在水仙丛中晒太阳。
我傻兮兮地侵入。放过它，放过它。
1962年4月7日
No. 162
Pheasant
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court—
The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill—green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
7 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第162首
野鸡
你说你会在今天早晨将它杀掉。
不要杀吧。它至今仍令我震惊，
那奇怪的黑头顶上的突起，缓步
穿过榆树山上没人修剪的草坪。
拥有一只野鸡，算是有点特别，
哪怕只是供人参观。
我不信什么神秘主义：它也并非
如我所想象的那样拥有灵魂。
那只是在于它的元素。
那赋予它一种君王的威严，一种权利。
去年冬天，它大脚的印记，
尾巴的痕迹，在我们院子的雪上——
它的惊艳，带着那样的苍白，
映衬着麻雀与八哥交叉飞过的阴影。
这不正是它的难得么？它确实难得。
但一打之数还是值得拥有，
一百只，在那座小山上——有绿有红，
走来又走去：一种优美的生灵！
它有那么美妙的身形，如此生动。
它是一只小小的丰饶角。
它扑闪着收起翅膀，有叶子的褐色，嘹亮，
栖息在榆树上，怡然自得。
它在水仙丛中晒太阳。
我傻兮兮地侵入。放过它，放过它。
1962年4月7日
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Fan Jinghua: With Heart
With Heart
Where is that poem now, dear
The one I arranged into capitalized lines
From the syncopated sentences
You spurted onto the interface between two patches of the unfathomable
When you, after a walk
With your reticent smiling significant other who
In the neighborhood park
Did not look at the flowers and dwarf trees
But at the distant mountaintop under the purple sky
Came back to your desk, hurriedly
As if the dialogue box on the Messenger had been jammed by words
Even though a light rain outside had cleared up
You wanted to say
That you had been gossiping to your man, nothing special
When you were taking the everyday stroll, hand in hand for most of the time
But you didn’t ask what he had seen and neither did he
And that you did not seem to have talked about anything worth telling
Except for telling me this, now
Where is the poem that came out so natural in a dialogue window
Oct. 25, 2009
有心的话无心的诗
那首诗去了哪儿，亲爱的朋友
我按照视觉与呼吸
将你的句子重新分行
我们都说那是一首多好的诗
好得自然而然
那些词句被你切分，迸发在
分隔着两片深不可测之境的界面上
刚才，你和沉默宽厚满脸笑意的爱人
在邻里花园中散步
你们的手在手中
他没有看你看的仍在滴水的矮树与花朵
而是远眺那座山峰在绛紫的天空下轮廓朦胧
你回家之后便匆匆来到写字台前
外面早已雨收云散
而QQ的对话框似乎被你的言语堵塞
你只是想说
你和你的爱人絮叨着日常，走得随意
幸福得理所当然
你没问他看到了什么，他也没有问你
终于，你停了停，说
其实你真的想不起来你们说了什么
值得对我复述
2009年10月26日
Where is that poem now, dear
The one I arranged into capitalized lines
From the syncopated sentences
You spurted onto the interface between two patches of the unfathomable
When you, after a walk
With your reticent smiling significant other who
In the neighborhood park
Did not look at the flowers and dwarf trees
But at the distant mountaintop under the purple sky
Came back to your desk, hurriedly
As if the dialogue box on the Messenger had been jammed by words
Even though a light rain outside had cleared up
You wanted to say
That you had been gossiping to your man, nothing special
When you were taking the everyday stroll, hand in hand for most of the time
But you didn’t ask what he had seen and neither did he
And that you did not seem to have talked about anything worth telling
Except for telling me this, now
Where is the poem that came out so natural in a dialogue window
Oct. 25, 2009
有心的话无心的诗
那首诗去了哪儿，亲爱的朋友
我按照视觉与呼吸
将你的句子重新分行
我们都说那是一首多好的诗
好得自然而然
那些词句被你切分，迸发在
分隔着两片深不可测之境的界面上
刚才，你和沉默宽厚满脸笑意的爱人
在邻里花园中散步
你们的手在手中
他没有看你看的仍在滴水的矮树与花朵
而是远眺那座山峰在绛紫的天空下轮廓朦胧
你回家之后便匆匆来到写字台前
外面早已雨收云散
而QQ的对话框似乎被你的言语堵塞
你只是想说
你和你的爱人絮叨着日常，走得随意
幸福得理所当然
你没问他看到了什么，他也没有问你
终于，你停了停，说
其实你真的想不起来你们说了什么
值得对我复述
2009年10月26日
Monday, October 26, 2009
Fan Jinghua: A Nightmare
A Nightmare
Fan Jinghua
They come on the ripples of water, masters of light body gung-fu,
Through my dreamscape, as if a wind cutting through the world of the real.
I lie as a river island, and bare-footed, they skip on my body as a spring board,
To mount a cloud; there they sit now, like an antique sage
Who angled without a hook, the line suspending over the water by half a meter.
Water rises and falls, now over my nose,
Now lower than my jaw, and I
Struggle to breathe in accord with the ebb and tide.
They come for a look at the river fight:
Pelvic fins of big fish clutch smaller fish, and stick in
To prize up those glossy gills of clamshells.
Eyes wide open, mouth flared, the aquatic creature is drowning in water:
SOSs rise as a string of transparent bubbles,
And after the string is a mouth opening and closing.
No tears seen, no suffocate looks, only the tail
Waggling like a rudder out of control,
And as I swirl in the stream,
A huge flood crest swarm like a sand storm from the Northwest.
They are still in the midair, like a veni-vidi-vici commander,
Pointing at the mountains and rivers, claiming territory,
While looking askew at me and sneering my fear.
They know this is but my dream, but they only care
For conquest and the conscription of the able-bodied,
Not bothering to broach my angst of a weakling.
They wring the clouds, and as the clouds lighten, their mechanic feet
Stomping on the water surface around me;
They leave me behind like a wrecked ship,
My eardrums suffering the bow waves.
Oct. 2009
梦魇
他们踏水而来，是轻功高强的人
他们穿入我的梦境，如破开现实的风
我是水中的冲积岛，他们一踏脚就翻身
上了云朵，一个个像垂钓的智者
鱼线离开水面三尺，没有钩子
水，涌起，过我的鼻子
水退下，低于我的下巴
我努力调节呼吸的节奏
他们只为俯瞰这条河里
大鱼用双鳍掐住小鱼，插入
撬开那些蚌壳般滑亮的无力夹紧的小腮
这些水生的弱者睁圆了眼睛撑开了嘴，闷在水中
透明的呼号，先是一串气泡
一串之后，只剩下嘴巴的开合
它们眼中无泪，看不出被呛的神色
只是尾巴如失控的舵，左右摔打
于是，我在水流中旋转
而一股洪峰正如沙尘暴一般从西北涌来
他们浮在半空中，像运筹帷幄的指挥官一样
伸手就将一片疆土划入自己的版图
侧眼，嘲弄我的恐惧
他们知道这只是我的梦而已，但他们
只考虑疆界和壮丁，不屑点破
我孱弱的焦虑
他们拧了拧乘坐的云，升高，于是机械臂似的排脚
高速猛跺水面
我的耳鼓被一波波的水压冲击冲击
冲击中，他们已经离去
2009年10月13-17日
Fan Jinghua
They come on the ripples of water, masters of light body gung-fu,
Through my dreamscape, as if a wind cutting through the world of the real.
I lie as a river island, and bare-footed, they skip on my body as a spring board,
To mount a cloud; there they sit now, like an antique sage
Who angled without a hook, the line suspending over the water by half a meter.
Water rises and falls, now over my nose,
Now lower than my jaw, and I
Struggle to breathe in accord with the ebb and tide.
They come for a look at the river fight:
Pelvic fins of big fish clutch smaller fish, and stick in
To prize up those glossy gills of clamshells.
Eyes wide open, mouth flared, the aquatic creature is drowning in water:
SOSs rise as a string of transparent bubbles,
And after the string is a mouth opening and closing.
No tears seen, no suffocate looks, only the tail
Waggling like a rudder out of control,
And as I swirl in the stream,
A huge flood crest swarm like a sand storm from the Northwest.
They are still in the midair, like a veni-vidi-vici commander,
Pointing at the mountains and rivers, claiming territory,
While looking askew at me and sneering my fear.
They know this is but my dream, but they only care
For conquest and the conscription of the able-bodied,
Not bothering to broach my angst of a weakling.
They wring the clouds, and as the clouds lighten, their mechanic feet
Stomping on the water surface around me;
They leave me behind like a wrecked ship,
My eardrums suffering the bow waves.
Oct. 2009
梦魇
他们踏水而来，是轻功高强的人
他们穿入我的梦境，如破开现实的风
我是水中的冲积岛，他们一踏脚就翻身
上了云朵，一个个像垂钓的智者
鱼线离开水面三尺，没有钩子
水，涌起，过我的鼻子
水退下，低于我的下巴
我努力调节呼吸的节奏
他们只为俯瞰这条河里
大鱼用双鳍掐住小鱼，插入
撬开那些蚌壳般滑亮的无力夹紧的小腮
这些水生的弱者睁圆了眼睛撑开了嘴，闷在水中
透明的呼号，先是一串气泡
一串之后，只剩下嘴巴的开合
它们眼中无泪，看不出被呛的神色
只是尾巴如失控的舵，左右摔打
于是，我在水流中旋转
而一股洪峰正如沙尘暴一般从西北涌来
他们浮在半空中，像运筹帷幄的指挥官一样
伸手就将一片疆土划入自己的版图
侧眼，嘲弄我的恐惧
他们知道这只是我的梦而已，但他们
只考虑疆界和壮丁，不屑点破
我孱弱的焦虑
他们拧了拧乘坐的云，升高，于是机械臂似的排脚
高速猛跺水面
我的耳鼓被一波波的水压冲击冲击
冲击中，他们已经离去
2009年10月13-17日
Plath: Elm
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 163
Elm
For Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—
Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
19 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第163首
榆树
——致茹丝•芬莱特
我了解那底部，她说。我以巨大的主根了解它：
那是你的恐惧所在。
我不怕它：我已去过。
你在我深处听到的可是大海，
以及它的不满？
或是虚空之声，你的疯狂？
爱是一个影子。
你撒着谎，哭喊着穷追不舍。
听啊：它的蹄声。它已经跑开，像一匹马。
我也将彻夜这样奔腾，狂野地，
直到你的头化为石头，枕头化为一方小小的赛马场，
回响，回响。
或者，我应给你带来毒药的声音？
它现在化作雨了，这巨大的静寂。
这就是它的果实：锡白色，像砒霜。
我已饱经日落的暴行。
我红色的丝
烤焦到根部，燃烧，竖起，一只铁丝的手。
现在，我断成碎片，棍棒似地飞散出去。
如此暴力的风
不会容忍旁观：我必须尖叫。
月亮也绝不仁慈：她会拖住我，
残酷地，因为她不育。
她的辐射灼伤了我。或许，是我不放过她。
我放她走了。我放走了她，
萎缩了，干瘪了，像经过了彻底的手术。
你的恶梦占有了我，也馈赠我。
我被一种啼哭附了身。
它夜夜扑闪而出，
以它的钩爪，寻找值得一爱的东西。
这黑暗的东西睡在我的体内，
吓得我魂不附体；
我整天都感到它轻柔的羽毛似的转动，它的恶毒。
云朵飘过，云朵疏散。
那些一去不回的苍白，都是爱的面孔吗？
我心神不宁，是否因为这一切？
我无力承受更多知识。
这是什么，这张充满杀机
被树枝掐住的脸，是什么？——
它毒蛇的酸液嘶嘶有声。
它僵化着意志。这些孤立的、迟缓的缺陷
能够致命，致命，致命。
1962年4月19日
No. 163
Elm
For Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—
Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
19 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第163首
榆树
——致茹丝•芬莱特
我了解那底部，她说。我以巨大的主根了解它：
那是你的恐惧所在。
我不怕它：我已去过。
你在我深处听到的可是大海，
以及它的不满？
或是虚空之声，你的疯狂？
爱是一个影子。
你撒着谎，哭喊着穷追不舍。
听啊：它的蹄声。它已经跑开，像一匹马。
我也将彻夜这样奔腾，狂野地，
直到你的头化为石头，枕头化为一方小小的赛马场，
回响，回响。
或者，我应给你带来毒药的声音？
它现在化作雨了，这巨大的静寂。
这就是它的果实：锡白色，像砒霜。
我已饱经日落的暴行。
我红色的丝
烤焦到根部，燃烧，竖起，一只铁丝的手。
现在，我断成碎片，棍棒似地飞散出去。
如此暴力的风
不会容忍旁观：我必须尖叫。
月亮也绝不仁慈：她会拖住我，
残酷地，因为她不育。
她的辐射灼伤了我。或许，是我不放过她。
我放她走了。我放走了她，
萎缩了，干瘪了，像经过了彻底的手术。
你的恶梦占有了我，也馈赠我。
我被一种啼哭附了身。
它夜夜扑闪而出，
以它的钩爪，寻找值得一爱的东西。
这黑暗的东西睡在我的体内，
吓得我魂不附体；
我整天都感到它轻柔的羽毛似的转动，它的恶毒。
云朵飘过，云朵疏散。
那些一去不回的苍白，都是爱的面孔吗？
我心神不宁，是否因为这一切？
我无力承受更多知识。
这是什么，这张充满杀机
被树枝掐住的脸，是什么？——
它毒蛇的酸液嘶嘶有声。
它僵化着意志。这些孤立的、迟缓的缺陷
能够致命，致命，致命。
1962年4月19日
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Looking for a Hermit (by Qiwu Qian and Jia Dao)
Qiwu Qian: Passing by Venerable Rong’s Retreat 綦毋潛《过融上人兰若》
Jia Dao: Looking For a Hermit and In Vain 贾岛《寻隐者不遇》
过融上人兰若
綦毋潛
山头禅室挂僧衣，窗外无人溪鸟飞。
黄昏半在下山路，却听泉声恋翠微。
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
过pass 融Rong 上upper 人man 兰若a Buddhist’s retreat [transliteration of Sanskrit aranya]
綦毋潛 [Qiwu Qian, 691-756, Tang Dynasty]
山mountain 头top 禅Zen 室house 挂hang 僧monk 衣clothe
窗window 外outside 无no 人people 溪creek 鸟bird 飞fly
黄yellow 昏dusk 半half 在on 下down 山mountain 路road
却but 听hear 泉spring 声sound 恋linger 翠green 微reclusion
This poem was written from a speaker’s point of view, as in most of Chinese classical poems the speaker can be identified as the poet. That is why most Chinese critics would take poetry as the expression of personal sentiments (Western mimesis vs Chinese expressionism).
The poem reads like this: I passed by Master Rong’s retreat on the mountain top, and saw there a monk’s clothe hanging outside. No one was in, and there were water birds flying across the window. As I was going away, down the hill, I saw the last rays of sunlight lingering on the path, and from behind the green trees came the gurgling of a spring.
To seek a hermit is a motif in classical Chinese poetry, and it had almost the import of the pursuit of the Grail in the West; but of course Chinese pursuit was much secular. The seeker had to be a secular person, and the urge to transcend the secular was also secular and even secularly worshiped or sublimated. A secular person tried to sublimate his secularity by the desire to transcend the secular, and as a result, in the poems the seeking for a hermit was never successful. The seeking itself became an end in itself; the desire to seek proved to be a remedy to appease the desire, temporarily, and writing it out was a follow-up, an after-effect, both a suppression and a titillation for another surge of the desire to “go again.”
There is another famous poem by Jia Dao (779-843 Tang Dynasty) entitled “To Seek A Hermit and In Vain”:
寻隐者不遇 (寻seek 隐者hermit不not遇meet)
贾岛 贾岛Jia Dao
松下问童子 (松pine trees 下below 问ask 童子page, child)
言师采药去 (言say 师master, teacher 采gather, pick up 药herb 去gone)
只在此山中 (只only 在in此this 山mountain中amid)
云 深不知处 (云clouds 深deep不not 知know 处location)
This poem reads like this: I ask the page below the pine trees, and he says his teacher has gone gathering herbs. He is amid the mountain, below the deep clouds but no one can tell where he can be located. This poem uses the page (boy attendant) as a naïve “objective correlative” of the speaker.
My rewriting tries to highlight the atmosphere of “no man’s land” in the universe:
A Hermitage
A patched cassock hanging on a bamboo sticking out
From the window of this hermitage,
And on the mountain top, there are water birds flying to and fro.
Are they from the creek below, for this human being? Down there,
Dusk is full already,
Climbing up halfway to the path
By which I am going down, back to the society.
Water bubbling behind the thick layers of trees and shrubs.
我改写的《过融上人兰若》：
一个隐居所
一件百衲袍挂在竹竿上，
从这隐居所的窗外伸出
在这山顶上，竟有水鸟飞来飞去。
它们从下面的小溪处飞来的吧，因为这儿住着人？那儿，
已经盛满了黄昏，
正沿着小径向上爬，
而我将会借它返回人尘。
层叠的高树矮树背后，有水声淙淙。
寻隐者或者寻仙是中国古诗中的一个关键主题，和西方的追寻圣杯意义近似，然而我们的古诗中没有那种外在的宗教意义，这种追寻实际上是很世俗的。首先，寻隐者或者大道人高僧之类的世外人，是完全反映了寻访者的世俗性的，这种世俗性就在于我要以仍然有这种寻访之心来证明自己要求超俗的欲望，而这欲望本身正是世俗的表现。因此，这里的寻访就是一个悖论，或者寻访的冲动本身就是终点。我们看到中国古诗中的这种寻访必然“不遇”。中国古诗中的说话人往往可以被视为诗人本身，因为汉语美学倾向于抒发表现，这自然也和西方摹仿美学相对，但是很难说这和汉语文化中超验宗教比较弱不无关系。也许是因为缺少这种超验性的或者说是外在于人性本身的宗教性，因此汉语诗一个技巧就是用一个天真的“客观对应物”来表现自己。例如贾岛的著名诗作《寻隐者不遇》中的那个对答童子，实际上就可以说是代表着说话人的另一个自我，是一个“天真”的等待者。等待，可说是“侍候”，这也是书童的作用。同样，我在綦毋潛的《过融上人兰若》中看到“溪鸟”也起到了如此作用。本来是溪水中的鸟，却高飞到山头的禅室这儿；也许人们可以按照科学说这是鸟的特性，然而在读诗的时候，我们或许应该说这是因为禅室这儿是惟一有人气的地方，这刚好就与我的寻访形成了一种对应。
Jia Dao: Looking For a Hermit and In Vain 贾岛《寻隐者不遇》
过融上人兰若
綦毋潛
山头禅室挂僧衣，窗外无人溪鸟飞。
黄昏半在下山路，却听泉声恋翠微。
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
过pass 融Rong 上upper 人man 兰若a Buddhist’s retreat [transliteration of Sanskrit aranya]
綦毋潛 [Qiwu Qian, 691-756, Tang Dynasty]
山mountain 头top 禅Zen 室house 挂hang 僧monk 衣clothe
窗window 外outside 无no 人people 溪creek 鸟bird 飞fly
黄yellow 昏dusk 半half 在on 下down 山mountain 路road
却but 听hear 泉spring 声sound 恋linger 翠green 微reclusion
This poem was written from a speaker’s point of view, as in most of Chinese classical poems the speaker can be identified as the poet. That is why most Chinese critics would take poetry as the expression of personal sentiments (Western mimesis vs Chinese expressionism).
The poem reads like this: I passed by Master Rong’s retreat on the mountain top, and saw there a monk’s clothe hanging outside. No one was in, and there were water birds flying across the window. As I was going away, down the hill, I saw the last rays of sunlight lingering on the path, and from behind the green trees came the gurgling of a spring.
To seek a hermit is a motif in classical Chinese poetry, and it had almost the import of the pursuit of the Grail in the West; but of course Chinese pursuit was much secular. The seeker had to be a secular person, and the urge to transcend the secular was also secular and even secularly worshiped or sublimated. A secular person tried to sublimate his secularity by the desire to transcend the secular, and as a result, in the poems the seeking for a hermit was never successful. The seeking itself became an end in itself; the desire to seek proved to be a remedy to appease the desire, temporarily, and writing it out was a follow-up, an after-effect, both a suppression and a titillation for another surge of the desire to “go again.”
There is another famous poem by Jia Dao (779-843 Tang Dynasty) entitled “To Seek A Hermit and In Vain”:
寻隐者不遇 (寻seek 隐者hermit不not遇meet)
贾岛 贾岛Jia Dao
松下问童子 (松pine trees 下below 问ask 童子page, child)
言师采药去 (言say 师master, teacher 采gather, pick up 药herb 去gone)
只在此山中 (只only 在in此this 山mountain中amid)
云 深不知处 (云clouds 深deep不not 知know 处location)
This poem reads like this: I ask the page below the pine trees, and he says his teacher has gone gathering herbs. He is amid the mountain, below the deep clouds but no one can tell where he can be located. This poem uses the page (boy attendant) as a naïve “objective correlative” of the speaker.
My rewriting tries to highlight the atmosphere of “no man’s land” in the universe:
A Hermitage
A patched cassock hanging on a bamboo sticking out
From the window of this hermitage,
And on the mountain top, there are water birds flying to and fro.
Are they from the creek below, for this human being? Down there,
Dusk is full already,
Climbing up halfway to the path
By which I am going down, back to the society.
Water bubbling behind the thick layers of trees and shrubs.
我改写的《过融上人兰若》：
一个隐居所
一件百衲袍挂在竹竿上，
从这隐居所的窗外伸出
在这山顶上，竟有水鸟飞来飞去。
它们从下面的小溪处飞来的吧，因为这儿住着人？那儿，
已经盛满了黄昏，
正沿着小径向上爬，
而我将会借它返回人尘。
层叠的高树矮树背后，有水声淙淙。
寻隐者或者寻仙是中国古诗中的一个关键主题，和西方的追寻圣杯意义近似，然而我们的古诗中没有那种外在的宗教意义，这种追寻实际上是很世俗的。首先，寻隐者或者大道人高僧之类的世外人，是完全反映了寻访者的世俗性的，这种世俗性就在于我要以仍然有这种寻访之心来证明自己要求超俗的欲望，而这欲望本身正是世俗的表现。因此，这里的寻访就是一个悖论，或者寻访的冲动本身就是终点。我们看到中国古诗中的这种寻访必然“不遇”。中国古诗中的说话人往往可以被视为诗人本身，因为汉语美学倾向于抒发表现，这自然也和西方摹仿美学相对，但是很难说这和汉语文化中超验宗教比较弱不无关系。也许是因为缺少这种超验性的或者说是外在于人性本身的宗教性，因此汉语诗一个技巧就是用一个天真的“客观对应物”来表现自己。例如贾岛的著名诗作《寻隐者不遇》中的那个对答童子，实际上就可以说是代表着说话人的另一个自我，是一个“天真”的等待者。等待，可说是“侍候”，这也是书童的作用。同样，我在綦毋潛的《过融上人兰若》中看到“溪鸟”也起到了如此作用。本来是溪水中的鸟，却高飞到山头的禅室这儿；也许人们可以按照科学说这是鸟的特性，然而在读诗的时候，我们或许应该说这是因为禅室这儿是惟一有人气的地方，这刚好就与我的寻访形成了一种对应。
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Celestial Flowers
Celestial Flowers
Fan Jinghua
They only speak once to words, like Wordsworth
Or Li Po, and their promises are clouds and moons.
The tendrils of their freedom from attachment,
Unable to stand the wind, coil up into themselves.
Driftingness, who can capture it and own?
But all these loners in a crowd take hold of me
And make themselves one of the only ones, diffusing me.
So many selves stay up by a dimmed desklamp,
And image a candle burning in the midair,
As the night grows thicker and thicker, its vanishing sluggish.
Along the road you and I met or will meet, red spider lilies
Bloom and droop by themselves;
This is a colonnade to the atrium of hope,
On each column Manju dances with Saka into an egg-and-dart.
Oct. 18, 2009
Notes: I did never learn the name of the flower when I was in the countryside. My native people called it something like "flowers out of nowhere" since they bloom without anything else connected with a plant flower, most notably the leaves or buds. They just appear and perhaps due to their water-content, their disappearance is also quick, without remains of fallen petals. They are definitely "ghostly," and also they mostly grow in shady places. I came to learn of this flower after I graduated from university and began interested in Buddhism. Anyway, info about this flower can be easily found in wiki after the entry "Lycoris (plant)" or this address.
蔓珠莎华
它们只对词语说出心声，只说一次，
如沃兹华斯或李白，它们的承诺是云与月。
无所依恋的卷须是醉眼中的水波，
经不住风，自我蜷曲或折断。
漂泊，谁能占取，拥有？
而这些喜爱群居的独立者占有了我，
我的这群惟一，令我六神无主。
这么多的我坐在调暗了的台灯下，
想象一支蜡烛悬着空气中燃烧，
夜，越来越浓，如此滞怠地消逝着。
你我相遇或将会相遇的路上，
彼岸花各自盛开，凋谢；
那是一条通往希望前庭的柱廊，
柱头饰有卵与飞镖，如蔓珠与莎华共舞。
2009年10月18日
Fan Jinghua
They only speak once to words, like Wordsworth
Or Li Po, and their promises are clouds and moons.
The tendrils of their freedom from attachment,
Unable to stand the wind, coil up into themselves.
Driftingness, who can capture it and own?
But all these loners in a crowd take hold of me
And make themselves one of the only ones, diffusing me.
So many selves stay up by a dimmed desklamp,
And image a candle burning in the midair,
As the night grows thicker and thicker, its vanishing sluggish.
Along the road you and I met or will meet, red spider lilies
Bloom and droop by themselves;
This is a colonnade to the atrium of hope,
On each column Manju dances with Saka into an egg-and-dart.
Oct. 18, 2009
Notes: I did never learn the name of the flower when I was in the countryside. My native people called it something like "flowers out of nowhere" since they bloom without anything else connected with a plant flower, most notably the leaves or buds. They just appear and perhaps due to their water-content, their disappearance is also quick, without remains of fallen petals. They are definitely "ghostly," and also they mostly grow in shady places. I came to learn of this flower after I graduated from university and began interested in Buddhism. Anyway, info about this flower can be easily found in wiki after the entry "Lycoris (plant)" or this address.
蔓珠莎华
它们只对词语说出心声，只说一次，
如沃兹华斯或李白，它们的承诺是云与月。
无所依恋的卷须是醉眼中的水波，
经不住风，自我蜷曲或折断。
漂泊，谁能占取，拥有？
而这些喜爱群居的独立者占有了我，
我的这群惟一，令我六神无主。
这么多的我坐在调暗了的台灯下，
想象一支蜡烛悬着空气中燃烧，
夜，越来越浓，如此滞怠地消逝着。
你我相遇或将会相遇的路上，
彼岸花各自盛开，凋谢；
那是一条通往希望前庭的柱廊，
柱头饰有卵与飞镖，如蔓珠与莎华共舞。
2009年10月18日
Plath: The Rabbit Catcher
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 164
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves--
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship--
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第164首
捕兔器
它是力量之所在——
风，以我飘乱的头发，堵我的嘴，
撕开我的声音，而大海
用它的光击瞎了我，死者的生命
在海中卷开，铺展，像油一样。
我尝过荆豆的恶毒，
它的黑色荚果，
那黄色蜡烛花给临死者涂抹的油。
它们有一种效率，一种雄伟的美，
并且铺张恣纵，就像折磨。
只有一个地方可去。
文火煨，加了香料，
小径都变窄，进了那个窟窿。
诱捕器几乎都隐去了面目——
所有的零，关闭着虚空，
缩紧，如分娩的阵痛。
尖叫的缺失
在大热天制造一个窟窿，一个空档。
玻璃似的光，是一堵清澈的墙，
灌木沉静。
我感到一种凝滞的忙碌，一个意图。
我感到双手捧着茶缸，迟钝而生硬，
围握着这白瓷。
而它们等啊，等着他，那些小小的死！
它们像情人一样等他。令他兴奋。
而我们，我们也有一层关系——
绷紧的线牵着我们，
木栓插得很深，难以拔起，还有一种指环似的心思，
滑落，套紧在某个极快的东西上，
那一紧缩也杀死了我。
1962年5月21日
No. 164
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves--
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship--
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第164首
捕兔器
它是力量之所在——
风，以我飘乱的头发，堵我的嘴，
撕开我的声音，而大海
用它的光击瞎了我，死者的生命
在海中卷开，铺展，像油一样。
我尝过荆豆的恶毒，
它的黑色荚果，
那黄色蜡烛花给临死者涂抹的油。
它们有一种效率，一种雄伟的美，
并且铺张恣纵，就像折磨。
只有一个地方可去。
文火煨，加了香料，
小径都变窄，进了那个窟窿。
诱捕器几乎都隐去了面目——
所有的零，关闭着虚空，
缩紧，如分娩的阵痛。
尖叫的缺失
在大热天制造一个窟窿，一个空档。
玻璃似的光，是一堵清澈的墙，
灌木沉静。
我感到一种凝滞的忙碌，一个意图。
我感到双手捧着茶缸，迟钝而生硬，
围握着这白瓷。
而它们等啊，等着他，那些小小的死！
它们像情人一样等他。令他兴奋。
而我们，我们也有一层关系——
绷紧的线牵着我们，
木栓插得很深，难以拔起，还有一种指环似的心思，
滑落，套紧在某个极快的东西上，
那一紧缩也杀死了我。
1962年5月21日
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Introversion
Introversion
There must be an inward bent before an opening shows itself,
Like a file of trees, the broad-leaved like poplars or the coniferous like firs.
They stand still in the wind
To feel
Fissures or cave-ins,
And an invisible wall or ever-reliable road has already had its resistance
Lost
There was nothing, and now nothing is seen
They drop in themselves, making their skin-sack bulging
And a membrane holding them
In one piece that contains a bellyful of clinking faith
Like a hole on ice
The sway has floating crystals and no water overflows
That is a most sensational suspension
And before its stillness there is already a suspending horror
Whoever resorts to breath for description
Can only speak out unwrapped air
But bubbles pop, making plosives
As in "Baby"
And even leaves slap against each other may also make these sounds
To charge the tiniest mote of dust with static
Waiting for the inevitable discharge
Of light that cleaves its way through the air
And then all returns to the primary state
Oct. 17, 2009
内倾
没有开口之前，必有一个倾向
如一排树，阔叶如白杨，针叶如水杉，立定在没来的风中
体会裂缝或者塌陷，然后
一堵隐形的墙或一贯可信的路就已经失去阻力
本来就没有，现在依然不见
它们掉进了自己，外皮撑开，又被一层油皮薄薄地拢着
一肚子的信念沉下去，玲玲的
有如冰窟窿上浮冰涌动，没有将水压出来
那是一个最耸动的静止
静止之前就已令人心慌
如果企图描述的人，还是借助于呼吸，那么一切都还是空气
而气泡才会有破裂声，如“宝贝”有爆破音，如树叶碰撞树叶
将静电充入尘埃，一颗颗的等待
直到终有一次闪光，切开空气，然后回到开口之前
2009年10月17日
There must be an inward bent before an opening shows itself,
Like a file of trees, the broad-leaved like poplars or the coniferous like firs.
They stand still in the wind
To feel
Fissures or cave-ins,
And an invisible wall or ever-reliable road has already had its resistance
Lost
There was nothing, and now nothing is seen
They drop in themselves, making their skin-sack bulging
And a membrane holding them
In one piece that contains a bellyful of clinking faith
Like a hole on ice
The sway has floating crystals and no water overflows
That is a most sensational suspension
And before its stillness there is already a suspending horror
Whoever resorts to breath for description
Can only speak out unwrapped air
But bubbles pop, making plosives
As in "Baby"
And even leaves slap against each other may also make these sounds
To charge the tiniest mote of dust with static
Waiting for the inevitable discharge
Of light that cleaves its way through the air
And then all returns to the primary state
Oct. 17, 2009
内倾
没有开口之前，必有一个倾向
如一排树，阔叶如白杨，针叶如水杉，立定在没来的风中
体会裂缝或者塌陷，然后
一堵隐形的墙或一贯可信的路就已经失去阻力
本来就没有，现在依然不见
它们掉进了自己，外皮撑开，又被一层油皮薄薄地拢着
一肚子的信念沉下去，玲玲的
有如冰窟窿上浮冰涌动，没有将水压出来
那是一个最耸动的静止
静止之前就已令人心慌
如果企图描述的人，还是借助于呼吸，那么一切都还是空气
而气泡才会有破裂声，如“宝贝”有爆破音，如树叶碰撞树叶
将静电充入尘埃，一颗颗的等待
直到终有一次闪光，切开空气，然后回到开口之前
2009年10月17日
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Fluttering Petals of Heart
Fluttering Petals of Heart
Beyond two arms' reach, it is always there
For a gazer and upon the gaze, buoyant
And coy, coiling up at a fingertip
Smiles of this kind never go when the gazer's eyes are closed
And never stay when the dreams are clearing up
They are there for the body
To harvest under the skin and they will foam and nuzzle
Against the ceiling like balloons' ventriloquy, clear distant sizzle
Their feathers oar a face on
In a mulberry field
Along the spaces between lines that are pouncing in stanzas
With twin deer grazing
A vers libre in a cool breeze that scissors the damask of the setting sun
A lover's naughty happiness with a buzz
Oct. 2009
心花习习
两臂之外，它总在那儿
为了一个凝视的人而抵住凝视，以浮标似的
羞怯，在一根手指下蜷缩
这样的微笑不因凝视者转身而消逝
不因梦中人醒来而停留
它们的从容暗藏着期待，等着身体将它们
收获，藏于皮下，它们将会泛起泡沫，推拥着
贴着天花板，如气球的腹音，收藏着远方清晰的咝咝声
它们的羽毛桨划走了一只脸庞
沿着桑田的流水
阡陌围起参差的诗句
一对小鹿觅食着
一首自由诗，而凉风习习，正在剪着夕照的锦缎
一只蜜蜂嗡嗡，一个爱人坏坏的开心
2009年10月
Beyond two arms' reach, it is always there
For a gazer and upon the gaze, buoyant
And coy, coiling up at a fingertip
Smiles of this kind never go when the gazer's eyes are closed
And never stay when the dreams are clearing up
They are there for the body
To harvest under the skin and they will foam and nuzzle
Against the ceiling like balloons' ventriloquy, clear distant sizzle
Their feathers oar a face on
In a mulberry field
Along the spaces between lines that are pouncing in stanzas
With twin deer grazing
A vers libre in a cool breeze that scissors the damask of the setting sun
A lover's naughty happiness with a buzz
Oct. 2009
心花习习
两臂之外，它总在那儿
为了一个凝视的人而抵住凝视，以浮标似的
羞怯，在一根手指下蜷缩
这样的微笑不因凝视者转身而消逝
不因梦中人醒来而停留
它们的从容暗藏着期待，等着身体将它们
收获，藏于皮下，它们将会泛起泡沫，推拥着
贴着天花板，如气球的腹音，收藏着远方清晰的咝咝声
它们的羽毛桨划走了一只脸庞
沿着桑田的流水
阡陌围起参差的诗句
一对小鹿觅食着
一首自由诗，而凉风习习，正在剪着夕照的锦缎
一只蜜蜂嗡嗡，一个爱人坏坏的开心
2009年10月
Monday, October 12, 2009
Chang Jian: On Broken Mountain Zen Retreat
Chang Jian: On Broken Mountain Zen Retreat
常建《题破山寺后禅院》
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
题inscribe 破broken 山mountain 寺temple 后behind禅Zen 院yard
清clear 晨morning 入enter 古ancient 寺temple
初beginning 日sun 照shine 高high 林forest
曲winding 径path 通leading to 幽seclude 处place
禅Zen 房house 花flower 木tree 深deep
山mountain 光light 悦enjoy, please 鸟bird 性nature
潭pool 影shadow 空empty 人human 心heart
万ten thousand 籁sound 此here 俱all 寂quiet
惟only 闻hear 钟bell 磬inverted bell 声sound
My translation我译：
On a Zen Retreat behind Broken-Mountain Temple
Chang Jian (708-765? Tang Dynasty)
Early morning has entered the old temple,
The rising sun is shining over the high trees.
A winding path leads to a secluded site,
Deep in the flowers and woods, a Zen retreat.
Light over the mountain plays with the bird flight,
Shadows on the pool empty the human heart.
Ten thousand natural sounds are dead here,
Except for the chanting of bells over there.
Original 原文：
题破山寺后禅院
常建
清晨入古寺，初日照高林。
曲径通幽处，禅房花木深。
山光悦鸟性，潭影空人心。
万籁此俱寂，惟闻钟磬声。
Chinese calligraphy should read from right to left vertically.
Commentary评注：
Among the stellar poets of the high Tang, Chang Jian (708-765?) was not famous, except for, perhaps, a few poems, with this one the most popularly admired. Tang poetry was usually periodized into the early, the high, the middle and the late. Formally, the early Tang poetry was basically trying to test out the best positioning of words (Chinese characters) in terms of metric scheme and sound system, but there was much echo of the antique "rawness" (to borrow Robert Lowell's raw and cooked poetry, which may be an echo of Levi Strauss’ structural anthropological terms). The ruggedness in the early period gave way to the colloquial in the High Tang, when such poets as Li Bai (Li Po 701-762), Wang Wei (701-761) and Du Fu (712-770) would write about almost anything in their lives in a very plain language. The plainness of language, however, does not mean that the poets did not pay attention to diction. In fact, an everyday word only came into the poems when it was proved to be irreplaceably appropriate in the linguistic and thematic context. When the High Tang appeared to have exhausted the whole range of language, it was the middle Tang poets who suffered most. Therefore, the following period produced some of the most miserable craftsmen, an example of "the influence of anxiety" in ancient China.
Among the bitter poet craftsmen was a poet called Jia Dao (779-843), who once wrote a poem with such lines "Birds nestle on the tree by the pool, / A monk pushes the door in the moonlight." He was not sure whether to use "push" or "knock at" the door, and on his donkey to Chang'an (Xi'an, then capital of Tang) he was still buried with the thought and doing the gesture of “pushing” and “knocking,” not aware that he had broken into the file of honor guards of Han Yu (768-824), then the famous poet who would always consider himself a master (teacher). Han Yu decided "knocking" was better. Jia Dao was then a down-and-out scholar unsuccessful with imperial examination and considering becoming a monk. Maybe he was only trying to “borrow the light” from Han Yu. Anyway, since then, he was appointed as a low official, because of Han Yu's recommendation. Now,in Chinese, "push (or) knock" become a phrase, meaning "weighing and mulling over."
Generally, the late Tang poets had overcome the anxiety, and although fewer poets (poems) were produced at that time, the subtlety of the late Tang poetry was incomparable. Poets like Li Ho, Du Mu and Li Shangyin were composing pearls and gems. To use Chang Jian's lines, the late Tang poetry was "Follow a zigzagging path to the secluded sight, we find deep in the flowers and woods a poetic retreat."
常建《题破山寺后禅院》
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
题inscribe 破broken 山mountain 寺temple 后behind禅Zen 院yard
清clear 晨morning 入enter 古ancient 寺temple
初beginning 日sun 照shine 高high 林forest
曲winding 径path 通leading to 幽seclude 处place
禅Zen 房house 花flower 木tree 深deep
山mountain 光light 悦enjoy, please 鸟bird 性nature
潭pool 影shadow 空empty 人human 心heart
万ten thousand 籁sound 此here 俱all 寂quiet
惟only 闻hear 钟bell 磬inverted bell 声sound
My translation我译：
On a Zen Retreat behind Broken-Mountain Temple
Chang Jian (708-765? Tang Dynasty)
Early morning has entered the old temple,
The rising sun is shining over the high trees.
A winding path leads to a secluded site,
Deep in the flowers and woods, a Zen retreat.
Light over the mountain plays with the bird flight,
Shadows on the pool empty the human heart.
Ten thousand natural sounds are dead here,
Except for the chanting of bells over there.
Original 原文：
题破山寺后禅院
常建
清晨入古寺，初日照高林。
曲径通幽处，禅房花木深。
山光悦鸟性，潭影空人心。
万籁此俱寂，惟闻钟磬声。
Chinese calligraphy should read from right to left vertically.
Commentary评注：
Among the stellar poets of the high Tang, Chang Jian (708-765?) was not famous, except for, perhaps, a few poems, with this one the most popularly admired. Tang poetry was usually periodized into the early, the high, the middle and the late. Formally, the early Tang poetry was basically trying to test out the best positioning of words (Chinese characters) in terms of metric scheme and sound system, but there was much echo of the antique "rawness" (to borrow Robert Lowell's raw and cooked poetry, which may be an echo of Levi Strauss’ structural anthropological terms). The ruggedness in the early period gave way to the colloquial in the High Tang, when such poets as Li Bai (Li Po 701-762), Wang Wei (701-761) and Du Fu (712-770) would write about almost anything in their lives in a very plain language. The plainness of language, however, does not mean that the poets did not pay attention to diction. In fact, an everyday word only came into the poems when it was proved to be irreplaceably appropriate in the linguistic and thematic context. When the High Tang appeared to have exhausted the whole range of language, it was the middle Tang poets who suffered most. Therefore, the following period produced some of the most miserable craftsmen, an example of "the influence of anxiety" in ancient China.
Among the bitter poet craftsmen was a poet called Jia Dao (779-843), who once wrote a poem with such lines "Birds nestle on the tree by the pool, / A monk pushes the door in the moonlight." He was not sure whether to use "push" or "knock at" the door, and on his donkey to Chang'an (Xi'an, then capital of Tang) he was still buried with the thought and doing the gesture of “pushing” and “knocking,” not aware that he had broken into the file of honor guards of Han Yu (768-824), then the famous poet who would always consider himself a master (teacher). Han Yu decided "knocking" was better. Jia Dao was then a down-and-out scholar unsuccessful with imperial examination and considering becoming a monk. Maybe he was only trying to “borrow the light” from Han Yu. Anyway, since then, he was appointed as a low official, because of Han Yu's recommendation. Now,in Chinese, "push (or) knock" become a phrase, meaning "weighing and mulling over."
Generally, the late Tang poets had overcome the anxiety, and although fewer poets (poems) were produced at that time, the subtlety of the late Tang poetry was incomparable. Poets like Li Ho, Du Mu and Li Shangyin were composing pearls and gems. To use Chang Jian's lines, the late Tang poetry was "Follow a zigzagging path to the secluded sight, we find deep in the flowers and woods a poetic retreat."
Plath: Event
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 165
Event
How the elements solidify!—
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I hear an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
Then there are the stars---ineradicable, hard.
One touch: it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.
Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第165首
事件
元素这般凝聚！——
月光，这白垩的绝壁，
它的裂缝之间躺着我们，
背对着背。我听到一声猫头鹰的哀叫
从它冷冷的靛蓝中传来。
难忍的元音扎入我心底。
白色摇篮中，孩子翻着身，叹息，
此刻正张着嘴，乞求着。
他的小脸映刻在痛苦的红木上。
而又有星星纷呈——抹不掉，坚硬。
一碰：它便焚烧，病倒。
我不能看你的眼睛。
在苹果花冻结了夜晚之地，
我在指环中绕圈子，
古老缺陷的槽沟，很深，很苦。
爱情到不了这里。
黑色缺口自我暴露。
在对面的嘴唇上，
白色小生灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
1962年5月21日
Diary 070521
We Touch Like Cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸
写了一首诗，写了一篇日记，突然又想到普拉斯的一首诗，于是在写这个日记。这首诗叫做Event《事件》，其中有这样的句子：
爱情不可能来到这里。
暗黑的缺口彰显了自身。
在对面的嘴唇上
娇小的白色精灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也同样弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗正在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
原文：
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
两个无法相爱的人，彼此之间的爱犹如消失在黑洞一般的空隙中。而那曾有的在嘴唇上蠕动的生机（爱意）如今犹如小肉虫（小蛆）。关键的是，她觉得似乎面对着正在流走的黑暗（也就是之前的黑色距离中的物质），感到那融化的黑暗也融化了自己的肢体（“我的四肢，同样地，也弃我而去”）。而她却无法说出到底是谁到底为何（“是谁肢解了我们？”）。我不知道她是否有一种反思？
我写自己的那首诗时，美国一个画家的一幅画在脑子里。怀斯Andrew Wyeth的Christina's World《克里斯蒂娜的世界》，描述的是一个残疾姑娘，怅望着阳光普照的山坡顶上的房屋。
我想到的关键却是，如何接近一个残疾人。而这里的残疾实际上更是一种心灵状态。这是一种很悖论的说法。心中有爱，因此残疾的世界也可以充满感恩之心。然而，之所以残疾，却又是因为爱的未能满足。
普拉斯说的是：We touch like cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸。我们被爱情致残，然而因为有爱，所以又能克服残障。自古就有人说：爱情是一种病。如果用身体来表达，爱情就是残障。或者，如果按照另一种创世神话来说，男人女人原本是一个人，因为雌雄同体太完美了，于是被剖成两半，注定要一生寻找另一半。于是，人都是残缺的。
小时候，还听到家乡的老人讲，神造人的时候，用的是泥捏的，捏好后，放在太阳底下晒，突然下起了雷暴雨，于是神便用大扫帚扫，结果有的眼睛被戳下了，就成瞎子了，有的脸上被戳得斑斑点点，于是就变成了麻子，而有的小鸡鸡被扫掉下来，就成了女孩了。哈哈，这倒是和弗洛伊德的说法很接近了。实际上，所有的神话都将女人视为缺少了某个部件的男人。这是否说明从神话文化角度看，女人一直被认为不可以主动去爱，而男人必然因为器官的突出而采取主动呢？
昨天另一首诗的草稿中有这样的句子：
I fall into slumber and wake to the cold dampness
which my protruding limbs linger to warm
like a hen brooding a nest egg.
中文意思：
我沉入睡眠，然后醒于一片冷湿
我突出的肢体流连不去
犹如一只抱窝的母鸡焐暖了引蛋。
此刻写成中文，突然觉得不敢去睡觉了；犹如一场爱情事件是一个引蛋（养鸡人用假的鸡蛋吸引母鸡到鸡窝里下蛋）。普拉斯的《事件》或许也是如此，她也认识到了爱情不过是一只引蛋，因此她说我们像没有突出的器官一样的两个女人彼此触摸，然而这种的触摸不正是彰显了我们的缺失么？
亲爱的，我们都是瘸子。
No. 165
Event
How the elements solidify!—
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I hear an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
Then there are the stars---ineradicable, hard.
One touch: it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.
Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第165首
事件
元素这般凝聚！——
月光，这白垩的绝壁，
它的裂缝之间躺着我们，
背对着背。我听到一声猫头鹰的哀叫
从它冷冷的靛蓝中传来。
难忍的元音扎入我心底。
白色摇篮中，孩子翻着身，叹息，
此刻正张着嘴，乞求着。
他的小脸映刻在痛苦的红木上。
而又有星星纷呈——抹不掉，坚硬。
一碰：它便焚烧，病倒。
我不能看你的眼睛。
在苹果花冻结了夜晚之地，
我在指环中绕圈子，
古老缺陷的槽沟，很深，很苦。
爱情到不了这里。
黑色缺口自我暴露。
在对面的嘴唇上，
白色小生灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
1962年5月21日
Diary 070521
We Touch Like Cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸
写了一首诗，写了一篇日记，突然又想到普拉斯的一首诗，于是在写这个日记。这首诗叫做Event《事件》，其中有这样的句子：
爱情不可能来到这里。
暗黑的缺口彰显了自身。
在对面的嘴唇上
娇小的白色精灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也同样弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗正在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
原文：
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
两个无法相爱的人，彼此之间的爱犹如消失在黑洞一般的空隙中。而那曾有的在嘴唇上蠕动的生机（爱意）如今犹如小肉虫（小蛆）。关键的是，她觉得似乎面对着正在流走的黑暗（也就是之前的黑色距离中的物质），感到那融化的黑暗也融化了自己的肢体（“我的四肢，同样地，也弃我而去”）。而她却无法说出到底是谁到底为何（“是谁肢解了我们？”）。我不知道她是否有一种反思？
我写自己的那首诗时，美国一个画家的一幅画在脑子里。怀斯Andrew Wyeth的Christina's World《克里斯蒂娜的世界》，描述的是一个残疾姑娘，怅望着阳光普照的山坡顶上的房屋。
我想到的关键却是，如何接近一个残疾人。而这里的残疾实际上更是一种心灵状态。这是一种很悖论的说法。心中有爱，因此残疾的世界也可以充满感恩之心。然而，之所以残疾，却又是因为爱的未能满足。
普拉斯说的是：We touch like cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸。我们被爱情致残，然而因为有爱，所以又能克服残障。自古就有人说：爱情是一种病。如果用身体来表达，爱情就是残障。或者，如果按照另一种创世神话来说，男人女人原本是一个人，因为雌雄同体太完美了，于是被剖成两半，注定要一生寻找另一半。于是，人都是残缺的。
小时候，还听到家乡的老人讲，神造人的时候，用的是泥捏的，捏好后，放在太阳底下晒，突然下起了雷暴雨，于是神便用大扫帚扫，结果有的眼睛被戳下了，就成瞎子了，有的脸上被戳得斑斑点点，于是就变成了麻子，而有的小鸡鸡被扫掉下来，就成了女孩了。哈哈，这倒是和弗洛伊德的说法很接近了。实际上，所有的神话都将女人视为缺少了某个部件的男人。这是否说明从神话文化角度看，女人一直被认为不可以主动去爱，而男人必然因为器官的突出而采取主动呢？
昨天另一首诗的草稿中有这样的句子：
I fall into slumber and wake to the cold dampness
which my protruding limbs linger to warm
like a hen brooding a nest egg.
中文意思：
我沉入睡眠，然后醒于一片冷湿
我突出的肢体流连不去
犹如一只抱窝的母鸡焐暖了引蛋。
此刻写成中文，突然觉得不敢去睡觉了；犹如一场爱情事件是一个引蛋（养鸡人用假的鸡蛋吸引母鸡到鸡窝里下蛋）。普拉斯的《事件》或许也是如此，她也认识到了爱情不过是一只引蛋，因此她说我们像没有突出的器官一样的两个女人彼此触摸，然而这种的触摸不正是彰显了我们的缺失么？
亲爱的，我们都是瘸子。
Friday, October 9, 2009
Yi Sha: Melancholy of Vietnam
Yi Sha Melancholy of Vietnam
伊沙《越南的忧郁》
The Melancholy of Vietnam (excerpts)
Yi Sha (1966-) tr. Fan Jinghua
I
Raindrops on banana leaves
No teardrops falling
Only wet still objects
Are left for the sight
Vietnam is melancholic
II
Deep in the night
I watched a Tran Anh Hung’s film
And found
A melancholic Vietnam
Reminding me of those black & white movies
Deep in my memory
Drizzling on the screen
III
I once wrote in a long poem
"Isn’t a war really romantic
The way she holds a gun looks awesome
As if she is playing a harp"
I was writing about Road Back to Mother
About my downcast mind and heartache
For Vietnamese beauties
VI
Someone compares the Red River
To a wet vagina
The most splendid follows: America
Is a dick that thrusts everywhere
But in here it suffered a fracture
And ever since this pride-swollen man
Took on the sequelae of serious ED
Like Earnest Hemingway
VII
How can I look down on
The men in there
Their militia could fell many of my countrymen and women
As graves all over those mountain slopes
It was us who caused all this
I won't say "The oppressed is bound to win"
I'd say: melancholic men are
The bravest fighters
VIII
Vietnam is melancholic
Raindrops on banana leaves
No teardrops falling
Only wet still objects
Are left for the sight
Notes to the text:
Road Back to Mother (Đường về quê mẹ) is a northern Vietnam film produced in 1971 and dubbed immediately into Chinese as Road Back to Hometown. The film was one of the few and frequently screened Vietnam movies in China.
The original Chinese poem has eight sections, and I omit Section 4 & 5 because they are over-colloquial and the weakest. There is always something on the verge of bad taste in Yi Sha's poetry, which he might have meant to be a ridicule on the political correctness or "the sublime."
越南的忧郁
伊沙（1966-）
一
雨打芭蕉
不见有泪滴落
只留下这些
湿漉漉的静物
越南是忧郁的
二
我在深夜里
看陈英雄的电影
发现一个
忧郁的越南
想起我记忆深处的
那些黑白影片
银幕上下着雨
三
我曾在一首长诗中写道：
“战争是否真的浪漫
她握枪的姿势很好看
像在弹一把竖琴”
写的是《回故乡之路》
写的是令我黯然神伤的
越南美人
四
我想向我的一位
去过越南的朋友
求证越南的忧郁
想一想又做罢了
我的朋友
不是一个忧郁的人
关键是他不是一个
能够感知忧郁的人
五
说什么“云的南方”
越南是云的南方的南方
是云之国的边疆
云之下
一条大河奔流入海
六
有人将此比喻成
一条湿润的阴道
精彩的是：美国
这根到处乱戳的鸡巴
在此遭遇的那次骨折
从此那个自命不凡的男人
便有了严重的性功能障碍
一如欧内斯特?海明威
七
我岂敢小瞧
这里的男人
只派民兵就把我多少的同胞兄弟
打成了一山坡一山坡的墓地
那全是我们自找的呀
我不说“哀兵必胜”
我想说：忧郁的男人
是最勇敢的战士
八
越南是忧郁的
雨打芭蕉
不见有泪滴落
只留下这些
湿漉漉的静物
About the Author (copied from Amazon author product description for his book published in UK by Bloodaxe Books)
Yi Sha is the most controversial Chinese poet of the past 20 years, a member of the extreme avant-garde whose work has changed the face of Chinese poetry. His anti-lyrical poetry is minimal, unadorned, - dramatizing with facts, not painting emotional pictures - in plain, colloquial language. His poems present pared-down descriptions of seemingly banal incidents, or dramatic incidents described in an ironically banal manner. Born in the southern Chinese city of Chengdu in 1966 three days after the start of the Cultural Revolution, he grew up in the Maoist era. He came to prominence as a writer in the 1990s, publishing fiction and essays as well as poetry, all of which have been criticized, attacked, and reviled by detractors, including many fellow writers.
Yi Sha was born in 1966 in Chengdu, and moved with his family at the age of two to the central Chinese city of Xi'an in Shaanxi province. He published his first poems while still at school, studied Chinese at Beijing Normal University, and became a noted figure among China's university student poets. He has worked on literary magazines, as a TV presenter and independent publisher, and is now an assistant professor at the Xi'an International Studies University.In 1988 he published a mimeographed first collection, Lonely Street, but found an official publisher for his next collection, Starve the Poets! (1994). His other poetry and prose titles have included Vagabond Wharves (1996), This Devil Yi Sha (1998), The Bastard's Songs (1999), Blaspheming Idols (1999), Fashion Assassin (2000), Critique of 10 Poets (2001), My Hero (2003), Whoever Hurts, Nows (2005) and Shameless Are the Ignorant (2005). His poetry has been translated into several languages, but he has been refused permission to give readings outside China on a number of occasions. His Selected Short Poems was published in a bilingual Chinese-English edition in Hong Kong in 2003. Starve the Poets! (Bloodaxe Books, 2008) is his first English publication outside China.
伊沙《越南的忧郁》
The Melancholy of Vietnam (excerpts)
Yi Sha (1966-) tr. Fan Jinghua
I
Raindrops on banana leaves
No teardrops falling
Only wet still objects
Are left for the sight
Vietnam is melancholic
II
Deep in the night
I watched a Tran Anh Hung’s film
And found
A melancholic Vietnam
Reminding me of those black & white movies
Deep in my memory
Drizzling on the screen
III
I once wrote in a long poem
"Isn’t a war really romantic
The way she holds a gun looks awesome
As if she is playing a harp"
I was writing about Road Back to Mother
About my downcast mind and heartache
For Vietnamese beauties
VI
Someone compares the Red River
To a wet vagina
The most splendid follows: America
Is a dick that thrusts everywhere
But in here it suffered a fracture
And ever since this pride-swollen man
Took on the sequelae of serious ED
Like Earnest Hemingway
VII
How can I look down on
The men in there
Their militia could fell many of my countrymen and women
As graves all over those mountain slopes
It was us who caused all this
I won't say "The oppressed is bound to win"
I'd say: melancholic men are
The bravest fighters
VIII
Vietnam is melancholic
Raindrops on banana leaves
No teardrops falling
Only wet still objects
Are left for the sight
Notes to the text:
Road Back to Mother (Đường về quê mẹ) is a northern Vietnam film produced in 1971 and dubbed immediately into Chinese as Road Back to Hometown. The film was one of the few and frequently screened Vietnam movies in China.
The original Chinese poem has eight sections, and I omit Section 4 & 5 because they are over-colloquial and the weakest. There is always something on the verge of bad taste in Yi Sha's poetry, which he might have meant to be a ridicule on the political correctness or "the sublime."
越南的忧郁
伊沙（1966-）
一
雨打芭蕉
不见有泪滴落
只留下这些
湿漉漉的静物
越南是忧郁的
二
我在深夜里
看陈英雄的电影
发现一个
忧郁的越南
想起我记忆深处的
那些黑白影片
银幕上下着雨
三
我曾在一首长诗中写道：
“战争是否真的浪漫
她握枪的姿势很好看
像在弹一把竖琴”
写的是《回故乡之路》
写的是令我黯然神伤的
越南美人
四
我想向我的一位
去过越南的朋友
求证越南的忧郁
想一想又做罢了
我的朋友
不是一个忧郁的人
关键是他不是一个
能够感知忧郁的人
五
说什么“云的南方”
越南是云的南方的南方
是云之国的边疆
云之下
一条大河奔流入海
六
有人将此比喻成
一条湿润的阴道
精彩的是：美国
这根到处乱戳的鸡巴
在此遭遇的那次骨折
从此那个自命不凡的男人
便有了严重的性功能障碍
一如欧内斯特?海明威
七
我岂敢小瞧
这里的男人
只派民兵就把我多少的同胞兄弟
打成了一山坡一山坡的墓地
那全是我们自找的呀
我不说“哀兵必胜”
我想说：忧郁的男人
是最勇敢的战士
八
越南是忧郁的
雨打芭蕉
不见有泪滴落
只留下这些
湿漉漉的静物
About the Author (copied from Amazon author product description for his book published in UK by Bloodaxe Books)
Yi Sha is the most controversial Chinese poet of the past 20 years, a member of the extreme avant-garde whose work has changed the face of Chinese poetry. His anti-lyrical poetry is minimal, unadorned, - dramatizing with facts, not painting emotional pictures - in plain, colloquial language. His poems present pared-down descriptions of seemingly banal incidents, or dramatic incidents described in an ironically banal manner. Born in the southern Chinese city of Chengdu in 1966 three days after the start of the Cultural Revolution, he grew up in the Maoist era. He came to prominence as a writer in the 1990s, publishing fiction and essays as well as poetry, all of which have been criticized, attacked, and reviled by detractors, including many fellow writers.
Yi Sha was born in 1966 in Chengdu, and moved with his family at the age of two to the central Chinese city of Xi'an in Shaanxi province. He published his first poems while still at school, studied Chinese at Beijing Normal University, and became a noted figure among China's university student poets. He has worked on literary magazines, as a TV presenter and independent publisher, and is now an assistant professor at the Xi'an International Studies University.In 1988 he published a mimeographed first collection, Lonely Street, but found an official publisher for his next collection, Starve the Poets! (1994). His other poetry and prose titles have included Vagabond Wharves (1996), This Devil Yi Sha (1998), The Bastard's Songs (1999), Blaspheming Idols (1999), Fashion Assassin (2000), Critique of 10 Poets (2001), My Hero (2003), Whoever Hurts, Nows (2005) and Shameless Are the Ignorant (2005). His poetry has been translated into several languages, but he has been refused permission to give readings outside China on a number of occasions. His Selected Short Poems was published in a bilingual Chinese-English edition in Hong Kong in 2003. Starve the Poets! (Bloodaxe Books, 2008) is his first English publication outside China.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Zhou Bangyan: A Lad on the Road
Zhou Bangyan: A Lad on the Road
周邦彦:《少年游. 并刀如水》
少年游
周邦彦
并刀如水，吴盐胜雪，
纤手破新橙。
锦幄初温，兽烟不断，
相对坐调笙。
低声问：向谁行宿？
城上已三更。
马滑霜浓，不如休去，
直是少人行。
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
少young年age游wandering
周Zhou 邦彦 Bangyan
并Bing (prefecture) 刀knife如like (adj.) 水water
吴Wu (prefecture) 盐salt 胜better than 雪snow
纤fine, slender 手hand 破open, break up 新new, fresh 橙orange
锦brocade 幄curtains (as a partition) 初beginning to温 warm
兽beast 烟 (incense)smoke 不not断 stop
相对opposite to坐sit 调adjust 笙bamboo panpipe
低low 声voice 问ask 向to 谁who 行go 宿dwell
城city 上over 已already 三the third更 two-hour unit of the night (five in one night)
马horse 滑slip 霜frost 浓 thick不no如better休not去go
直really 是there are少few 人people 行walking
A Lad on the Road
Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121 Song Dynasty) tr. Fan Jinghua
A knife from Bing is waterlike, salt from Wu is whiter than snow,
Slender hands cut clean a fresh orange.
Brocade curtains are warming, incense is curling up from the beast-head,
The two sit opposite, tuning a panpipe.
One whisper asks: To whom are you going?
Upon the city predawn dark is falling.
Frosty road is slippery for the horse; better not go now,
There are few souls on the road.
Commentary 评注:
Tang Dynasty was noted for its poems (such as five-character or seven-character quatrain or regulated eight-line poems, rhymed), while the succeeding Song Dynasty was famous for its lyrics to set tunes. This title is itself a tune, to which lyrics were “filled” (as Chinese distinguish between “filling in a ci-poem aka lyrics and composing a poem). Hence, while a poem may usually have a title of its own (of course it can be titled as "untitled"), the title of a ci-poem (lyrics) usually appears in the form of a tune with the first few words of the poem.
Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121 Song Dynasty) was very famous lyrist. This is one of the best example of restraint and simplicity of a love poem, although my translation may appear to be a little overdone. The first part is the time when a woman is welcoming the man. But the welcome is done with low-keyed in terms of “action.” The woman does not say anything, but takes out the best things. Using a particular knife and particular salt to prepare fresh oranges. The only decisive action is her “cutting clean” an orange, and this implies her neat and quick character. Her intention and efforts are also shown in the setting. Since it is a cold season, there has been an oven to warm the room, and there is also an exquisite incense burner of a beast-head shape. In the rococo setting are sitting two people, face to face, no words, alternatively tuning a bamboo panpipe. Everything and everyone seem to be what they should be, like a genre painting.
The second part suddenly turns to a very late time, and the in-between time is omitted. We do not know what they have been doing, or maybe they have been playing music, without much to say to each other. The woman who is perhaps quite quick and decisive is now whispering to ask, hesitating, as if she only wants to pick up a small talk. Then she makes a few cautions: it is dark, cold and late, the road too slippery, and the horse risky. At last she suddenly blurts out: Do not go.
抒情的下一站
铮铮亮的刀子，如水；晶晶亮的盐，胜雪；很女性，很净洁。一双手看似柔细，下刀果断，爽落，橙子破开。破的不是瓜。而那个氛围倒恰恰有氤氲气的，锦缎的帘子用来隔开内室外室，闪着浓厚温暖的光，兽首的香炉烟气袅袅，简直洛可可，再加上两个人默默或说默契地调弄笙管，宛若温香的风俗画。无语，更是因为无需多语；来，犹如满足期待，那一切都是为你而备；不来，这场景就依然在未来，to-come（将来而未来）的状态是时间空间的，等待将to-be的状态具体化，to-be（将是的存在）早已形成在期待之中。因此，这个此刻的空间，这个相对而坐的时候是超越时空的，所以我们不知道这之后或者这之中他们做了什么。两个人如此见面了，符合期待，便是早已见了面，做什么说什么都是次要的。
于是，时间已经过去。三更了，她才意识到有关“宿”的问题，却只能以看似不经意的低声，问一句：下一站是谁？
这是个痴心的女子。她也知道下一站那个该和她一样吧。百般理由，夜深了，天太黑，霜很滑，马儿危险，路上孤单……说到底，就是不好说自己不愿他离去。
情，深切真挚到这份上，是懂得心疼下一站的那个人的。张爱玲和胡兰成结婚，写的帖子是：因为懂得，所以慈悲。
周邦彦:《少年游. 并刀如水》
少年游
周邦彦
并刀如水，吴盐胜雪，
纤手破新橙。
锦幄初温，兽烟不断，
相对坐调笙。
低声问：向谁行宿？
城上已三更。
马滑霜浓，不如休去，
直是少人行。
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注：
少young年age游wandering
周Zhou 邦彦 Bangyan
并Bing (prefecture) 刀knife如like (adj.) 水water
吴Wu (prefecture) 盐salt 胜better than 雪snow
纤fine, slender 手hand 破open, break up 新new, fresh 橙orange
锦brocade 幄curtains (as a partition) 初beginning to温 warm
兽beast 烟 (incense)smoke 不not断 stop
相对opposite to坐sit 调adjust 笙bamboo panpipe
低low 声voice 问ask 向to 谁who 行go 宿dwell
城city 上over 已already 三the third更 two-hour unit of the night (five in one night)
马horse 滑slip 霜frost 浓 thick不no如better休not去go
直really 是there are少few 人people 行walking
A Lad on the Road
Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121 Song Dynasty) tr. Fan Jinghua
A knife from Bing is waterlike, salt from Wu is whiter than snow,
Slender hands cut clean a fresh orange.
Brocade curtains are warming, incense is curling up from the beast-head,
The two sit opposite, tuning a panpipe.
One whisper asks: To whom are you going?
Upon the city predawn dark is falling.
Frosty road is slippery for the horse; better not go now,
There are few souls on the road.
Commentary 评注:
Tang Dynasty was noted for its poems (such as five-character or seven-character quatrain or regulated eight-line poems, rhymed), while the succeeding Song Dynasty was famous for its lyrics to set tunes. This title is itself a tune, to which lyrics were “filled” (as Chinese distinguish between “filling in a ci-poem aka lyrics and composing a poem). Hence, while a poem may usually have a title of its own (of course it can be titled as "untitled"), the title of a ci-poem (lyrics) usually appears in the form of a tune with the first few words of the poem.
Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121 Song Dynasty) was very famous lyrist. This is one of the best example of restraint and simplicity of a love poem, although my translation may appear to be a little overdone. The first part is the time when a woman is welcoming the man. But the welcome is done with low-keyed in terms of “action.” The woman does not say anything, but takes out the best things. Using a particular knife and particular salt to prepare fresh oranges. The only decisive action is her “cutting clean” an orange, and this implies her neat and quick character. Her intention and efforts are also shown in the setting. Since it is a cold season, there has been an oven to warm the room, and there is also an exquisite incense burner of a beast-head shape. In the rococo setting are sitting two people, face to face, no words, alternatively tuning a bamboo panpipe. Everything and everyone seem to be what they should be, like a genre painting.
The second part suddenly turns to a very late time, and the in-between time is omitted. We do not know what they have been doing, or maybe they have been playing music, without much to say to each other. The woman who is perhaps quite quick and decisive is now whispering to ask, hesitating, as if she only wants to pick up a small talk. Then she makes a few cautions: it is dark, cold and late, the road too slippery, and the horse risky. At last she suddenly blurts out: Do not go.
抒情的下一站
铮铮亮的刀子，如水；晶晶亮的盐，胜雪；很女性，很净洁。一双手看似柔细，下刀果断，爽落，橙子破开。破的不是瓜。而那个氛围倒恰恰有氤氲气的，锦缎的帘子用来隔开内室外室，闪着浓厚温暖的光，兽首的香炉烟气袅袅，简直洛可可，再加上两个人默默或说默契地调弄笙管，宛若温香的风俗画。无语，更是因为无需多语；来，犹如满足期待，那一切都是为你而备；不来，这场景就依然在未来，to-come（将来而未来）的状态是时间空间的，等待将to-be的状态具体化，to-be（将是的存在）早已形成在期待之中。因此，这个此刻的空间，这个相对而坐的时候是超越时空的，所以我们不知道这之后或者这之中他们做了什么。两个人如此见面了，符合期待，便是早已见了面，做什么说什么都是次要的。
于是，时间已经过去。三更了，她才意识到有关“宿”的问题，却只能以看似不经意的低声，问一句：下一站是谁？
这是个痴心的女子。她也知道下一站那个该和她一样吧。百般理由，夜深了，天太黑，霜很滑，马儿危险，路上孤单……说到底，就是不好说自己不愿他离去。
情，深切真挚到这份上，是懂得心疼下一站的那个人的。张爱玲和胡兰成结婚，写的帖子是：因为懂得，所以慈悲。
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Fan Jinghua: City of Flowing Water
City of Flowing Water
Fan Jinghua
Its noises estranged us, that city of flowing water,
The windows could open even bigger;
For the sky did not cave in or leak through,
The moon not come for the twilight.
It would be centuries of detours before a love comes
To shake our worlds and make ghosts cry.
The alley of night was not a thoroughfare,
But it was not narrow either;
Too many boats jammed up the course,
Lamps and dancing music were bloated,
And a swallow’s coos broke into howls in a bamboo forest
And let out sounds of pleasure.
Water ghosts grumbled by,
But it was still early for us to sigh.
On the gallows in the net-ground, no one
Was nailed or hung in the subsiding wind;
The moment the red sun was seen floating in the mist,
The dock was already a plaster
Patching the wound of a dream, and the next quay was preparing
A monsoon in the distance.
A shrike on the mast tucked in its neck and proud wings,
Cautioning a lamb on the bank:
Upturned look shall not be long,
Downcast gaze has to be short.
From now on, the moon will close its cyclops
To check the realness and weight of dreams,
The eyelids of stars will make a milkshake out of Farewell Song
And we drink it and ejaculate.
Oct. 5, 2009
流水之城
得一忘二
那座城，因为喧闹而与我们无关，
窗口可以再大一些，反正天没有空，月光今夜不来；
可以载入史册的爱情，还有几个世纪的弯子要拐。
夜的巷子不是通衢，可也不算窄了，
只是船儿太多，灯影与歌舞声纷杂，
本可如燕子般喃喃的，却要像独坐竹林一样长啸；
水鬼从舷下咕哝而去，我们还不必叹息。
晒网场的十字架上，一个吊着的人也没有；
旭日刚浮出江雾，码头已是一块膏药，封贴着梦的裂口，
而下一个渡口，正在远方准备一场淫雨。
桅杆上的劳伯鸟缩着脖子和骄傲的翅膀，告示岸上的羊：
仰望不必长久，俯瞰只能短暂。
今后，明月可以闭目验证梦幻的真伪及其轻重，
星星的眼睑挤出骊歌的奶昔，流进我们体内。
2009年10月5日
Fan Jinghua
Its noises estranged us, that city of flowing water,
The windows could open even bigger;
For the sky did not cave in or leak through,
The moon not come for the twilight.
It would be centuries of detours before a love comes
To shake our worlds and make ghosts cry.
The alley of night was not a thoroughfare,
But it was not narrow either;
Too many boats jammed up the course,
Lamps and dancing music were bloated,
And a swallow’s coos broke into howls in a bamboo forest
And let out sounds of pleasure.
Water ghosts grumbled by,
But it was still early for us to sigh.
On the gallows in the net-ground, no one
Was nailed or hung in the subsiding wind;
The moment the red sun was seen floating in the mist,
The dock was already a plaster
Patching the wound of a dream, and the next quay was preparing
A monsoon in the distance.
A shrike on the mast tucked in its neck and proud wings,
Cautioning a lamb on the bank:
Upturned look shall not be long,
Downcast gaze has to be short.
From now on, the moon will close its cyclops
To check the realness and weight of dreams,
The eyelids of stars will make a milkshake out of Farewell Song
And we drink it and ejaculate.
Oct. 5, 2009
流水之城
得一忘二
那座城，因为喧闹而与我们无关，
窗口可以再大一些，反正天没有空，月光今夜不来；
可以载入史册的爱情，还有几个世纪的弯子要拐。
夜的巷子不是通衢，可也不算窄了，
只是船儿太多，灯影与歌舞声纷杂，
本可如燕子般喃喃的，却要像独坐竹林一样长啸；
水鬼从舷下咕哝而去，我们还不必叹息。
晒网场的十字架上，一个吊着的人也没有；
旭日刚浮出江雾，码头已是一块膏药，封贴着梦的裂口，
而下一个渡口，正在远方准备一场淫雨。
桅杆上的劳伯鸟缩着脖子和骄傲的翅膀，告示岸上的羊：
仰望不必长久，俯瞰只能短暂。
今后，明月可以闭目验证梦幻的真伪及其轻重，
星星的眼睑挤出骊歌的奶昔，流进我们体内。
2009年10月5日
Plath: Apprehensions
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 166
Apprehensions
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags—
This is what I am made of, this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietàs.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
28 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第166首
忧惧
这儿是堵白墙，天空在其上方创造自身——
无限、幽绿、绝对不可触及。
天使们游弋其中，星星也同样，漠然。
它们是我的灵媒。
太阳在这堵墙上消融，出血似地流出光。
现在是一堵灰墙，长着爪子，血迹斑斑。
难道就没门道可走出这种心境？
我脊背的旋梯，通向一口井。
这个世界里，没有树，也没有鸟，
只有一种酸涩。
这堵红墙退缩又退缩：
一只红拳头，张开又捏紧，
两只灰色的、薄纸的袋子——
我便由这一切制成，除了这一切再加上恐惧，
怕自己被压在十字架和圣殇图下用轮车推走。
一堵黑墙上，无人认识的鸟儿
旋转着头，一圈圈地，凄鸣。
它们之间，绝无永生这个话题！
冷漠的空茫逼近我们：
它们移动得很仓促。
1962年5月28日
No. 166
Apprehensions
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags—
This is what I am made of, this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietàs.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
28 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第166首
忧惧
这儿是堵白墙，天空在其上方创造自身——
无限、幽绿、绝对不可触及。
天使们游弋其中，星星也同样，漠然。
它们是我的灵媒。
太阳在这堵墙上消融，出血似地流出光。
现在是一堵灰墙，长着爪子，血迹斑斑。
难道就没门道可走出这种心境？
我脊背的旋梯，通向一口井。
这个世界里，没有树，也没有鸟，
只有一种酸涩。
这堵红墙退缩又退缩：
一只红拳头，张开又捏紧，
两只灰色的、薄纸的袋子——
我便由这一切制成，除了这一切再加上恐惧，
怕自己被压在十字架和圣殇图下用轮车推走。
一堵黑墙上，无人认识的鸟儿
旋转着头，一圈圈地，凄鸣。
它们之间，绝无永生这个话题！
冷漠的空茫逼近我们：
它们移动得很仓促。
1962年5月28日
Monday, October 5, 2009
HAN Wo: Night on the Cold Food Day
HAN Wo： Night on the Cold Food Day
寒食夜
【唐】韩偓
恻恻轻寒翦翦风，杏花飘雪小桃红。
夜深斜搭秋千索，楼阁蒙胧细雨中。
Word-for-word exegesis 逐字注：
寒cold食food夜night
By Han Wo [Tang Dynasty]
恻恻dejected 轻slight 寒cold 翦翦chilly and fluttering like scissors 风wind
杏apricot 花flower 飘waft 雪snow 小tiny 桃peach 红red
夜night 深deep 斜slanting 搭hang 秋千swing 索rope
楼tower 阁pavilion 蒙胧hazy 细fine 雨rain (drizzle)中amid
My translation我译:
Night on the Cold Food Day
by HAN Wo [Tang Dynasty]
Dejected and chilly is the wind, fluttering like scissors’ blades,
Apricot flowers white like snowflakes, tiny red are peach buds.
The night is deep, the swing ropes are left alone and still,
Pavilions and towers are only half, floating in the misty drizzle.
Back-Translation 回译：
寒食节之夜
沉郁清冷的风，轻跃如剪刀的刃，
杏花白似雪片，桃花蓓蕾小而红。
夜已深，只有秋千索被留下，一动不动，
亭子与楼阁只有一半，浮在凄迷的细雨中。
Notes：
In traditional Chinese lunar calendar, a year is divided into 24 seasonal division points 二十四节气. Each season is divided into 6 points, marked by 15 degrees of the sun’s position at ecliptic. The first is of course Beginning of Spring (立春), February 4 or 5 on Gregorian calendar. Pure Brightness (清明) is fifteen days after Vernal Equinox (春分), with 15 degree of the sun’s position at ecliptic. Folk customs for Pure Brightness are mostly associated with memorial ceremony for the ancestry. On the day before Pure Brightness, no cooking smoke is allowed, for back in Spring and Autumn Period 春秋时代 (770-476 BC) there was a man called Jie Tui 介推 (or Tui of Jie 介之推) who, once accompanied the dethroned Jin Emperor Wengong 晋文公in exile, declined to come out of hermitage when Wengong took power again. Wengong set fire to the woods Jie Tui secluded, in hope of chasing him out, but Jie Tui, clasping a tree, was burnt to death. Emperor Wengong ordered that on the day Jie Tui died the whole nation should have no fire.
In this poem, the allusion of Cold Food Day is in the third line, which is usually the thematically most significant line in the classical quatrain. Swings were the allusion to the festival because from very early days there was a custom that on this day women would play the swing (of course when they played for fun they were also playing to provide pleasure for the watching male eyes). It was said that swing playing had evolved from the northern nations on horsebacks and gradually been taken on by women. The ropes became colorful. In the book Anecdotes from Kaiyuan and Tianbao Reigns (from714-741 and 742-755 A.D. under the famous lover-emperor Xuanzong)of Tang Dynasty, a book mainly about the everyday activities not recorded in the official history, there is such a note: “When Cold Food Day comes, many swings are erected in the palace, and womenfolk including concubines and royal maids receive orders to play when there are banquets and music.”
It has been generally expected that the line of a quatrain renders the most significant message, and here in this poem it implies the theme. This appears to be a poem purely about the sight of a yard, and the third line tells us that there is the speaker looking at the empty swings late at night. Thus, this poem becomes a poem of grievance and love. In Chinese, spring is almost always implies the wakening of love, and the phrases like spring intention (春意) or spring feeling (春情) all have a double meaning referring to love or desire, which is just a little less explicit that spring heart (春心), meaning the stirring of a mind for sexual love. This, again, was a typical poem by Han Wo who was famous for his book entitled “Fragrant Casket” with many poems about “spring feeling” and “spring heart” of womenfolk.
寒食夜
【唐】韩偓
恻恻轻寒翦翦风，杏花飘雪小桃红。
夜深斜搭秋千索，楼阁蒙胧细雨中。
Word-for-word exegesis 逐字注：
寒cold食food夜night
By Han Wo [Tang Dynasty]
恻恻dejected 轻slight 寒cold 翦翦chilly and fluttering like scissors 风wind
杏apricot 花flower 飘waft 雪snow 小tiny 桃peach 红red
夜night 深deep 斜slanting 搭hang 秋千swing 索rope
楼tower 阁pavilion 蒙胧hazy 细fine 雨rain (drizzle)中amid
My translation我译:
Night on the Cold Food Day
by HAN Wo [Tang Dynasty]
Dejected and chilly is the wind, fluttering like scissors’ blades,
Apricot flowers white like snowflakes, tiny red are peach buds.
The night is deep, the swing ropes are left alone and still,
Pavilions and towers are only half, floating in the misty drizzle.
Back-Translation 回译：
寒食节之夜
沉郁清冷的风，轻跃如剪刀的刃，
杏花白似雪片，桃花蓓蕾小而红。
夜已深，只有秋千索被留下，一动不动，
亭子与楼阁只有一半，浮在凄迷的细雨中。
Notes：
In traditional Chinese lunar calendar, a year is divided into 24 seasonal division points 二十四节气. Each season is divided into 6 points, marked by 15 degrees of the sun’s position at ecliptic. The first is of course Beginning of Spring (立春), February 4 or 5 on Gregorian calendar. Pure Brightness (清明) is fifteen days after Vernal Equinox (春分), with 15 degree of the sun’s position at ecliptic. Folk customs for Pure Brightness are mostly associated with memorial ceremony for the ancestry. On the day before Pure Brightness, no cooking smoke is allowed, for back in Spring and Autumn Period 春秋时代 (770-476 BC) there was a man called Jie Tui 介推 (or Tui of Jie 介之推) who, once accompanied the dethroned Jin Emperor Wengong 晋文公in exile, declined to come out of hermitage when Wengong took power again. Wengong set fire to the woods Jie Tui secluded, in hope of chasing him out, but Jie Tui, clasping a tree, was burnt to death. Emperor Wengong ordered that on the day Jie Tui died the whole nation should have no fire.
In this poem, the allusion of Cold Food Day is in the third line, which is usually the thematically most significant line in the classical quatrain. Swings were the allusion to the festival because from very early days there was a custom that on this day women would play the swing (of course when they played for fun they were also playing to provide pleasure for the watching male eyes). It was said that swing playing had evolved from the northern nations on horsebacks and gradually been taken on by women. The ropes became colorful. In the book Anecdotes from Kaiyuan and Tianbao Reigns (from714-741 and 742-755 A.D. under the famous lover-emperor Xuanzong)of Tang Dynasty, a book mainly about the everyday activities not recorded in the official history, there is such a note: “When Cold Food Day comes, many swings are erected in the palace, and womenfolk including concubines and royal maids receive orders to play when there are banquets and music.”
It has been generally expected that the line of a quatrain renders the most significant message, and here in this poem it implies the theme. This appears to be a poem purely about the sight of a yard, and the third line tells us that there is the speaker looking at the empty swings late at night. Thus, this poem becomes a poem of grievance and love. In Chinese, spring is almost always implies the wakening of love, and the phrases like spring intention (春意) or spring feeling (春情) all have a double meaning referring to love or desire, which is just a little less explicit that spring heart (春心), meaning the stirring of a mind for sexual love. This, again, was a typical poem by Han Wo who was famous for his book entitled “Fragrant Casket” with many poems about “spring feeling” and “spring heart” of womenfolk.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Reading Concentration Camp Poems
Reading Concentration Camp Poems
Fan Jinghua
They have no women around, and their vision pierces darkness
And turns the memory of bodies into an ephemeral ecstasy of mind.
Something feminine in them is squeezed out, and they drink it
To the clinking of ice cubes of loneliness against an illusionary glass.
Once stirred and waken, every woman can gobble down many souls.
They are already dead, and can no longer sleep or make human noises,
Like islands in the sea; each of them is inhabited by a monster,
That emerges like an inverted whirlpool, the waterline between its nostrils and mouth
And then there are fogs rising up and foams rolling away. Only a few breaths after,
It’ll submerge into itself own depth, unless a falling star holds it up with the afterimage.
My armchair has wheels, and I, sunk in it, slide in and out of
The lighted cone, so smooth that nothing is broken or scratched.
My depression is the water molested by the morning sun, with flakes of gold foil,
Mute, low and distant, like my next door neighbor, a charming Polish lady
Who sprinkles our doorway with her solitude, body aroma and smile, morning and night.
At irregular intervals I tap our shared wall as if I were an out-of-order clock
To tell her that a new day is crawling along the ladder of roofs to deliver us.
Oct. 2, 2009
读集中营诗篇
得一忘二
没有女人，他们的灵视刺破黑暗
将身体的记忆转化成蜉蝣般的灵魂高潮
内部，有一种女性被挤压出液汁，他们喝着
听孤独的冰块触碰想象的酒杯，玉石声令他们醉意酽酽
每个女人一旦被摇醒，都能吞噬很多灵魂
而他们都是已死的人，无法睡眠，发不出人声
犹如海上的每一座岛都驻守着一个妖
像颠倒的漩涡一样冒上来，水面落在鼻孔与与嘴唇之间
于是雾气升腾而泡沫滚涌而去。他们只呼吸几次，
然后再无声地沉入自己，偶尔因为看到流星坠落而迟疑
我的扶手椅有轮子，我在沉陷中滑进滑出
落地灯投下的圆锥体，光滑得没有任何擦伤或破碎
此刻，我的忧郁是被旭日猥亵的大海，金箔纷扬
低落得无声，迷茫，犹如我对门那个性感的波兰女人
将她的孤独、体香和微笑洒在我们的门道，早上，晚上
我不定时地碰一碰我们公用的墙壁，让失眠的她知道
新的一天正踏着这座时尚之都陈旧的屋顶，来超度我们
2009年10月2日
Fan Jinghua
They have no women around, and their vision pierces darkness
And turns the memory of bodies into an ephemeral ecstasy of mind.
Something feminine in them is squeezed out, and they drink it
To the clinking of ice cubes of loneliness against an illusionary glass.
Once stirred and waken, every woman can gobble down many souls.
They are already dead, and can no longer sleep or make human noises,
Like islands in the sea; each of them is inhabited by a monster,
That emerges like an inverted whirlpool, the waterline between its nostrils and mouth
And then there are fogs rising up and foams rolling away. Only a few breaths after,
It’ll submerge into itself own depth, unless a falling star holds it up with the afterimage.
My armchair has wheels, and I, sunk in it, slide in and out of
The lighted cone, so smooth that nothing is broken or scratched.
My depression is the water molested by the morning sun, with flakes of gold foil,
Mute, low and distant, like my next door neighbor, a charming Polish lady
Who sprinkles our doorway with her solitude, body aroma and smile, morning and night.
At irregular intervals I tap our shared wall as if I were an out-of-order clock
To tell her that a new day is crawling along the ladder of roofs to deliver us.
Oct. 2, 2009
读集中营诗篇
得一忘二
没有女人，他们的灵视刺破黑暗
将身体的记忆转化成蜉蝣般的灵魂高潮
内部，有一种女性被挤压出液汁，他们喝着
听孤独的冰块触碰想象的酒杯，玉石声令他们醉意酽酽
每个女人一旦被摇醒，都能吞噬很多灵魂
而他们都是已死的人，无法睡眠，发不出人声
犹如海上的每一座岛都驻守着一个妖
像颠倒的漩涡一样冒上来，水面落在鼻孔与与嘴唇之间
于是雾气升腾而泡沫滚涌而去。他们只呼吸几次，
然后再无声地沉入自己，偶尔因为看到流星坠落而迟疑
我的扶手椅有轮子，我在沉陷中滑进滑出
落地灯投下的圆锥体，光滑得没有任何擦伤或破碎
此刻，我的忧郁是被旭日猥亵的大海，金箔纷扬
低落得无声，迷茫，犹如我对门那个性感的波兰女人
将她的孤独、体香和微笑洒在我们的门道，早上，晚上
我不定时地碰一碰我们公用的墙壁，让失眠的她知道
新的一天正踏着这座时尚之都陈旧的屋顶，来超度我们
2009年10月2日
Plaht: Berck-Plage 6&7
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(6)
The natural fatness of these lime leaves!—
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.
The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,
Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glitter of wheat and crude earth.
What is the name of that color?—
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,
Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her face like fine linen,
Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,
Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,
And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（六）
这些酸橙叶，自然的富态！——
修剪成绿球状的灌木，向教堂行进。
牧师的嗓音，在稀薄的空气中，
与尸体相遇在大门口，
对它致辞，而群山涌起丧钟的音符；
麦子的闪烁应和古朴的大地。
那种颜色有什么名字？——
太阳治愈了裂墙的旧血污，
残肢的旧血污，烧焦的心。
那寡妇带着黑色袖珍书和三个女儿，
花丛中必需的，
她把脸折叠起来，像精纺的麻布，
再不让它展开。
而天空，蠕动着弃置的笑容，
飘出一朵又一朵云。
新娘的花已耗尽了鲜气，
灵魂便是一个新娘，
幽居于静谧之所，新郎则鲜红而健忘，没有五官。
(7)
Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.
And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.
And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,
Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips
Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children
Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,
Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing—
Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.
For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
30 June 1962
（七）
这辆车的玻璃后，
那世界嘟嘟哝哝，隔绝而雍雅。
我一身黑礼服，静默，这场聚会的一员，
挂着低档，跟在灵车后滑步。
牧师是一条船，
一块涂了柏油的布，忧戚、呆滞，
跟着棺材，而那辆花车就像一个漂亮女人，
乳房、眼帘与嘴唇的浪峰
如风暴抽打山巅。
然后，木栅隔开的庭院里，孩子们
闻到黑鞋油熔化的味道，
他们背过脸去，无言，迟缓，
眼睛睁大，盯着
一件奇妙的东西——
草地里的六顶黑色圆帽，一块菱形的木头，
还有一张裸露的嘴，鲜红而笨拙。
恍惚间，天空像血浆一般泻进那个洞穴。
毫无希望了，已彻底放弃。
1962年6月30日
原编者注：伯克海滨是诺曼底海岸的一个海滩，普拉斯曾在1961年6月去过。那儿有一所医院俯瞰大海，供伤残老兵和交通事故的受害者在沙滩上锻炼疗养。诗中提到的葬礼是指Percy Key。Key死于1962年6月，离普拉斯去伯克海滨刚好一年。
译按：Percy Key是诗人住在Devon时的隔壁邻居。他得癌症去世时诗人一直在他身边。另外有一首诗《水仙丛中》也是写他的。
第7节第7行中的“花车”是指老式葬礼上的手推车。手推车上放着棺材，棺材上堆放花圈花环，走在送葬车队的前面。
第7节第16行中的“嘴，鲜红而笨拙”：这是指墓穴。当地墓园中的土和底土都是红色的。
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(6)
The natural fatness of these lime leaves!—
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.
The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,
Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glitter of wheat and crude earth.
What is the name of that color?—
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,
Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her face like fine linen,
Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,
Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,
And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（六）
这些酸橙叶，自然的富态！——
修剪成绿球状的灌木，向教堂行进。
牧师的嗓音，在稀薄的空气中，
与尸体相遇在大门口，
对它致辞，而群山涌起丧钟的音符；
麦子的闪烁应和古朴的大地。
那种颜色有什么名字？——
太阳治愈了裂墙的旧血污，
残肢的旧血污，烧焦的心。
那寡妇带着黑色袖珍书和三个女儿，
花丛中必需的，
她把脸折叠起来，像精纺的麻布，
再不让它展开。
而天空，蠕动着弃置的笑容，
飘出一朵又一朵云。
新娘的花已耗尽了鲜气，
灵魂便是一个新娘，
幽居于静谧之所，新郎则鲜红而健忘，没有五官。
(7)
Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.
And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.
And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,
Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips
Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children
Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,
Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing—
Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.
For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
30 June 1962
（七）
这辆车的玻璃后，
那世界嘟嘟哝哝，隔绝而雍雅。
我一身黑礼服，静默，这场聚会的一员，
挂着低档，跟在灵车后滑步。
牧师是一条船，
一块涂了柏油的布，忧戚、呆滞，
跟着棺材，而那辆花车就像一个漂亮女人，
乳房、眼帘与嘴唇的浪峰
如风暴抽打山巅。
然后，木栅隔开的庭院里，孩子们
闻到黑鞋油熔化的味道，
他们背过脸去，无言，迟缓，
眼睛睁大，盯着
一件奇妙的东西——
草地里的六顶黑色圆帽，一块菱形的木头，
还有一张裸露的嘴，鲜红而笨拙。
恍惚间，天空像血浆一般泻进那个洞穴。
毫无希望了，已彻底放弃。
1962年6月30日
原编者注：伯克海滨是诺曼底海岸的一个海滩，普拉斯曾在1961年6月去过。那儿有一所医院俯瞰大海，供伤残老兵和交通事故的受害者在沙滩上锻炼疗养。诗中提到的葬礼是指Percy Key。Key死于1962年6月，离普拉斯去伯克海滨刚好一年。
译按：Percy Key是诗人住在Devon时的隔壁邻居。他得癌症去世时诗人一直在他身边。另外有一首诗《水仙丛中》也是写他的。
第7节第7行中的“花车”是指老式葬礼上的手推车。手推车上放着棺材，棺材上堆放花圈花环，走在送葬车队的前面。
第7节第16行中的“嘴，鲜红而笨拙”：这是指墓穴。当地墓园中的土和底土都是红色的。
Plath: Berck-Plage 3, 4&5
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(3)
On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things------
Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk
Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,
I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,
And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man: his red ribs,
The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye—
A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room
An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.
Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（三）
宾馆阳台上，有些物件光闪闪的。
物件，物件——
钢管做的轮椅，铝制的拐杖。
如此咸涩的甜味。我为何要走到
防波堤的另一边？堤坝叮满了藤壶。
我不是洁白而周到的护士，
我不是一脸微笑。
这些孩子在追逐着什么，带着钩爪，大呼小叫，
可我的心太小，兜不了他们可怕的过错。
这是一个男人的侧身：他的红肋骨，
神经像树木般迸发，而这是手术师：
一只镜子般的眼睛——
知识的一个侧面。
在某个房间的条纹床垫上，
一个老头正在消亡。
他老妻的哭泣于事无补。
它们哪去了？镇眼石，那黄色的贵重物，
以及舌头，那灰烬的蓝宝石。
(4)
A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.
It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;
They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.
This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit
Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?
They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye.
Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.
It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,
The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.
（四）
一张结婚蛋糕的脸，围着纸的荷叶花边。
现在，他多么高人一等。
就像借身于圣人。
戴无沿帽的护士，不再那么漂亮了；
她们在枯黄，像被碰过了的栀子花。
床，已从墙边卷起。
这便是所谓的完整了。真可怕。
他穿睡衣还是晚装？
在浆洗过的床单下，他那粉化的喙
撑着，苍白得不堪一击了。
他们用一本书顶住他的下巴，等它僵硬，
他们折起他的双手，它们摆动着：别了，别了。
现在，清洗了的床单在阳光下飘，
枕套开始有了香味。
这是一种福分，一种福分：
那皂色的橡木长棺，
好奇的抬棺人，还有那生涩的日期
将自己铭刻成银色，平静得令人惊叹。
(5)
The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,
The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife—
Blunt, practical boats
Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house
One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions
Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather—
The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.
They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble façades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.
（五）
阴沉的天空低垂，群山如一顷碧海，
一波叠起一波，向远处滚涌，掩藏着山中的峡谷，
那妻子的情愫在谷中摇曳——
峡谷，如粗拙而实用的船，
满载着衣衫、帽子、瓷器和嫁出去的女儿。
石屋的客厅里，
一道帘子从敞开的窗里飘闪着，
飘闪，泻出一支可怜的烛光。
这是那个死者的舌头：牢记啊，牢记。
现在，他已远去了，他的行为
萦回在他周围，如起居室的家具，如室内背景。
当蜡黄色在聚集——
双手的蜡黄、邻居似的面孔的蜡黄、
飞扬的彩虹得意洋洋的蜡黄。
它们飞去了，飞向虚无：牢记我们。
记忆空荡荡的长凳俯瞰碑石，
大理石立面有蓝色纹理，水仙花装满了几个果冻杯。
这边，如此之美：这是令人驻留之地。
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(3)
On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things------
Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk
Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,
I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,
And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man: his red ribs,
The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye—
A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room
An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.
Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（三）
宾馆阳台上，有些物件光闪闪的。
物件，物件——
钢管做的轮椅，铝制的拐杖。
如此咸涩的甜味。我为何要走到
防波堤的另一边？堤坝叮满了藤壶。
我不是洁白而周到的护士，
我不是一脸微笑。
这些孩子在追逐着什么，带着钩爪，大呼小叫，
可我的心太小，兜不了他们可怕的过错。
这是一个男人的侧身：他的红肋骨，
神经像树木般迸发，而这是手术师：
一只镜子般的眼睛——
知识的一个侧面。
在某个房间的条纹床垫上，
一个老头正在消亡。
他老妻的哭泣于事无补。
它们哪去了？镇眼石，那黄色的贵重物，
以及舌头，那灰烬的蓝宝石。
(4)
A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.
It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;
They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.
This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit
Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?
They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye.
Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.
It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,
The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.
（四）
一张结婚蛋糕的脸，围着纸的荷叶花边。
现在，他多么高人一等。
就像借身于圣人。
戴无沿帽的护士，不再那么漂亮了；
她们在枯黄，像被碰过了的栀子花。
床，已从墙边卷起。
这便是所谓的完整了。真可怕。
他穿睡衣还是晚装？
在浆洗过的床单下，他那粉化的喙
撑着，苍白得不堪一击了。
他们用一本书顶住他的下巴，等它僵硬，
他们折起他的双手，它们摆动着：别了，别了。
现在，清洗了的床单在阳光下飘，
枕套开始有了香味。
这是一种福分，一种福分：
那皂色的橡木长棺，
好奇的抬棺人，还有那生涩的日期
将自己铭刻成银色，平静得令人惊叹。
(5)
The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,
The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife—
Blunt, practical boats
Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house
One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions
Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather—
The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.
They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble façades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.
（五）
阴沉的天空低垂，群山如一顷碧海，
一波叠起一波，向远处滚涌，掩藏着山中的峡谷，
那妻子的情愫在谷中摇曳——
峡谷，如粗拙而实用的船，
满载着衣衫、帽子、瓷器和嫁出去的女儿。
石屋的客厅里，
一道帘子从敞开的窗里飘闪着，
飘闪，泻出一支可怜的烛光。
这是那个死者的舌头：牢记啊，牢记。
现在，他已远去了，他的行为
萦回在他周围，如起居室的家具，如室内背景。
当蜡黄色在聚集——
双手的蜡黄、邻居似的面孔的蜡黄、
飞扬的彩虹得意洋洋的蜡黄。
它们飞去了，飞向虚无：牢记我们。
记忆空荡荡的长凳俯瞰碑石，
大理石立面有蓝色纹理，水仙花装满了几个果冻杯。
这边，如此之美：这是令人驻留之地。
Plath: Berck-Plage 1&2
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.
Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.
Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly.
A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,
Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?
Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers
Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
一
这，便是海了，这宏大的搁置。
太阳的药膏就这么吸我的炎症。
冰冻果露有触电的颜色，被苍白的女孩
从冰柜中舀出，在烫伤的手中穿行于空气。
为什么如此安静，她们隐藏了什么？
我双腿俱全，笑盈盈地随处走动。
沙土缓波堤抑止了波振；
它延伸数哩，嗓音萎缩，
漂浮着，没有支撑，只剩原来的一半。
一排排眼睛，被这些光秃的外表灼伤，
弹去又弹回，像锚定的橡皮，伤及主人。
他戴墨镜，这还会令人吃惊吗？
他一身黑，冒充法衣，还会令人吃惊吗？
现在，他走来了，穿过鲐鱼贩子，
他们的后背排成墙壁，挡开他。
他们在搬弄那些菱形块，黑的、绿的，像是身体部件。
大海，将这一切化为晶体，
爬开，若许多条蛇，发出长长的怅然的嘶嘶声。
(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dead foot,
The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hide in the dunes,
Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,
While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed—
Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.
O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.
（二）
这只黑靴子对谁都毫不仁慈。
它有何必要，它只是一只死人脚的灵车，
这是牧师的脚，高傲，死板，没脚趾。
他铅锤般坠入他那本书的井底，
弯曲的字符在眼前隆起，像风景。
淫荡的比基尼掩藏在沙丘中，
乳房和屁股，是糖果店里的
小小的结晶糖块，逗得光线发痒，
而一池绿水大睁着眼睛，
因为吞下的东西而呕心——
肢体、图像、尖叫。在混凝土掩体后面，
两位情侣分开了粘在一起的身体。
哦，白色的海洋陶器，
几多杯状的叹息、喉咙中有几多的盐……
旁观者，颤颤悠悠，
像一种长长的材料，拖拽着
穿过一片静止的恶毒，
而一株野草，毛茸茸的，有如下体。
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.
Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.
Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly.
A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,
Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?
Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers
Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
一
这，便是海了，这宏大的搁置。
太阳的药膏就这么吸我的炎症。
冰冻果露有触电的颜色，被苍白的女孩
从冰柜中舀出，在烫伤的手中穿行于空气。
为什么如此安静，她们隐藏了什么？
我双腿俱全，笑盈盈地随处走动。
沙土缓波堤抑止了波振；
它延伸数哩，嗓音萎缩，
漂浮着，没有支撑，只剩原来的一半。
一排排眼睛，被这些光秃的外表灼伤，
弹去又弹回，像锚定的橡皮，伤及主人。
他戴墨镜，这还会令人吃惊吗？
他一身黑，冒充法衣，还会令人吃惊吗？
现在，他走来了，穿过鲐鱼贩子，
他们的后背排成墙壁，挡开他。
他们在搬弄那些菱形块，黑的、绿的，像是身体部件。
大海，将这一切化为晶体，
爬开，若许多条蛇，发出长长的怅然的嘶嘶声。
(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dead foot,
The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hide in the dunes,
Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,
While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed—
Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.
O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.
（二）
这只黑靴子对谁都毫不仁慈。
它有何必要，它只是一只死人脚的灵车，
这是牧师的脚，高傲，死板，没脚趾。
他铅锤般坠入他那本书的井底，
弯曲的字符在眼前隆起，像风景。
淫荡的比基尼掩藏在沙丘中，
乳房和屁股，是糖果店里的
小小的结晶糖块，逗得光线发痒，
而一池绿水大睁着眼睛，
因为吞下的东西而呕心——
肢体、图像、尖叫。在混凝土掩体后面，
两位情侣分开了粘在一起的身体。
哦，白色的海洋陶器，
几多杯状的叹息、喉咙中有几多的盐……
旁观者，颤颤悠悠，
像一种长长的材料，拖拽着
穿过一片静止的恶毒，
而一株野草，毛茸茸的，有如下体。
Friday, October 2, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Claire de Lune
Claire de Lune
I can invest more time on waiting and love than those
Younger than the man resurrected at 33.
Now, I can finally try not to point at a man among men,
But at a white-headed springy reed in the wind, not feeling guilty
For not remembering a single parable when my mind suddenly goes blank.
No, I will not point at the empty reed and say "Look! There is a bird!"
Instead, I'll hum a spontaneous variation to the tune of "Claire de Lune,"
With nasals and teeth clinks, as if on a string and piano ensemble.
Yes, I hear my own bones, but there is something that, alone and invisible,
Remains whole, like a deaf grandmother's smile.
When you are back at your childhood home, you naturally forget
Your friends are far away. They are everywhere.
October 1, 2009
月光清朗
我能花更长的时间用于爱与等待，
小于三十三岁的人将无法
与我相比。那是复活的门槛。
如今，我已能不再总想指着人中的人，
而会指着一棵在风中起伏的一头白发的芦苇，
哪怕头脑突然一片空白，无法说出
任何一个譬喻，我也毫无羞愧。
我已不会指着那空白的芦苇杆：
“看啊！那儿有一只鸟”，我会哼一个曲子，
对德彪西的《月光清朗》即兴变奏，
鼻音和磕牙声，犹如钢琴与小型乐队。
是的，我所听到的只是我的骨头
在我体内传递，但我肯定，有某些东西，
不可见，却独自完整，犹如失聪祖母的微笑。
当你回到童年的家，你自然会忘记
你的朋友在远方。他们无处不在。
2009年10月2日
I can invest more time on waiting and love than those
Younger than the man resurrected at 33.
Now, I can finally try not to point at a man among men,
But at a white-headed springy reed in the wind, not feeling guilty
For not remembering a single parable when my mind suddenly goes blank.
No, I will not point at the empty reed and say "Look! There is a bird!"
Instead, I'll hum a spontaneous variation to the tune of "Claire de Lune,"
With nasals and teeth clinks, as if on a string and piano ensemble.
Yes, I hear my own bones, but there is something that, alone and invisible,
Remains whole, like a deaf grandmother's smile.
When you are back at your childhood home, you naturally forget
Your friends are far away. They are everywhere.
October 1, 2009
月光清朗
我能花更长的时间用于爱与等待，
小于三十三岁的人将无法
与我相比。那是复活的门槛。
如今，我已能不再总想指着人中的人，
而会指着一棵在风中起伏的一头白发的芦苇，
哪怕头脑突然一片空白，无法说出
任何一个譬喻，我也毫无羞愧。
我已不会指着那空白的芦苇杆：
“看啊！那儿有一只鸟”，我会哼一个曲子，
对德彪西的《月光清朗》即兴变奏，
鼻音和磕牙声，犹如钢琴与小型乐队。
是的，我所听到的只是我的骨头
在我体内传递，但我肯定，有某些东西，
不可见，却独自完整，犹如失聪祖母的微笑。
当你回到童年的家，你自然会忘记
你的朋友在远方。他们无处不在。
2009年10月2日
Plath: The Other
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 168
The Other
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep--
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit--
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
2 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第168首
另一个人
你回来吃了，抹着嘴唇。
我放在门阶上没人碰过的是什么——
白色的胜利女神，
从我的墙壁之间流出？
蓝色闪电，笑盈盈地，
想象着他各部位的沉重，像挂肉的钩子。
警察喜欢你，一切你都坦白。
闪亮的头发，鞋子的黑，旧塑料，
我的生活这么引人好奇吗？
就因为这一点，你才眼圈大开？
就因这一点，空气的尘粒便会消散？
它们不是空气的尘粒，是血球微粒。
打开你的手袋。那恶心的味道是什么？
是你的毛线活，匆忙之间，
自己钩住了自己。
那是你已经粘手的糖果。
我的墙上有你的头。
脐带，蓝红色，剔透，
从我腹中尖啸而出，像箭一样，而我乘着它们奔驰。
月亮的幽光啊，病着的人啊，
被盗走的良马，大理石的
子宫被通奸行径围绕。
你要到哪里去？
——你吸一口气就像吞掉好几英里。
奸情散发硫磺味，在梦中悲痛。
冷玻璃，你究竟如何
插入我的自己与自己之间。
我像猫一样乱抓。
流淌的鲜血是暗黑的果实——
一种效果，一种化妆品。
你微笑着。
不，这并不能致命。
1962年7月2日
No. 168
The Other
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep--
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit--
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
2 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第168首
另一个人
你回来吃了，抹着嘴唇。
我放在门阶上没人碰过的是什么——
白色的胜利女神，
从我的墙壁之间流出？
蓝色闪电，笑盈盈地，
想象着他各部位的沉重，像挂肉的钩子。
警察喜欢你，一切你都坦白。
闪亮的头发，鞋子的黑，旧塑料，
我的生活这么引人好奇吗？
就因为这一点，你才眼圈大开？
就因这一点，空气的尘粒便会消散？
它们不是空气的尘粒，是血球微粒。
打开你的手袋。那恶心的味道是什么？
是你的毛线活，匆忙之间，
自己钩住了自己。
那是你已经粘手的糖果。
我的墙上有你的头。
脐带，蓝红色，剔透，
从我腹中尖啸而出，像箭一样，而我乘着它们奔驰。
月亮的幽光啊，病着的人啊，
被盗走的良马，大理石的
子宫被通奸行径围绕。
你要到哪里去？
——你吸一口气就像吞掉好几英里。
奸情散发硫磺味，在梦中悲痛。
冷玻璃，你究竟如何
插入我的自己与自己之间。
我像猫一样乱抓。
流淌的鲜血是暗黑的果实——
一种效果，一种化妆品。
你微笑着。
不，这并不能致命。
1962年7月2日
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