Fan Jinghua: Inviting a Friend to a Mental Cruise

　　Inviting a Friend to a Mental Cruise at a Riverside Town

There must be a way to encode words so that sense may sieves through all the sounds
and send you swimming in it, motionless for distance denies embrace
and makes it an inner feeling, like a kite flying in the high air.
If not for the tail, I would not notice that you are looking down from there
at those who, among banners, balloons and confetti, cluster forward
like hyacinth floating to the hall of the Great Temple.

Zigzagging corridors connecting pavilions, travelers stringing up entrances and exits,
who among them may look up through the barred gate in the wall
at the clouds that drift over the black tiles and white ridge
but are stuck by a few foxtails? On the bridge
at the throat to the most haunted spots, postures are arranged for lens,
while the only possibility capable of appeasing my imagination
hides in an ordinary back lane—

In the most desolate afternoon, I browse a teahouse book
over a jug of green tea accompanied by a saucer of salty green beans
(there is no service charge at this time before the popular Happy Hour)
as if keeping the opposite seat for you
and I was told your train is scheduled to arrive late at night
I do not dream that you’ve decided to come one day earlier than me
so at times when I look up
I am only admiring the rise and fall of the blooming tealeaves

It happens that you have half a day free to loiter away, the perfect time
to be obsessed by a chrysanthemum and feel its body heat in the March sun
in the southern riverside town where you unbutton your overcoat
and allocate your weight to the tripod of two butts and an elbow on the deck.
A supine figure against light into the cabin faces the absent me,
a gold-lined silhouette holding a mass of darkness in its bosom.

Oars stitch together two expanses of water-like languages,
one being noisy silence which flows through you,
and the other being silent noise which you flows on,
while I think of the fragilest sentence from a demonic poet
"You should have a softer pillow than my heart."
At this moment the boat is cleaving through a bridge,
everything is heaving, and I bear in heart a gladness like a poem like you.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 18, 2009


　　以诗邀友神游江南

我私自想能用什么编码使言外之意
从词语的噪音中渗出，抵达你
你游于其中，不动声色（太遥远了，
拥抱只能心领）像风筝，要不是有尾巴
我也不会注意到你将自己放到半空中俯瞰
他们，在横幅、气球、彩幡之下，簇拥
水葫芦一样涌向庙堂的大殿

游廊连接着亭子，游人串起进口出口
有谁会望见围墙的侧门外
云，飘在青瓦白脊之上
被几株狗尾巴草羁绊
而闹市咽喉上的桥头摆满了姿势
一个只符合想象的可能隐藏在后街某个寻常小巷

最门前冷落的午后，我叫了一壶雨前茶
就着青豆，翻一本闲书
（呵呵，即使在诗中也只是最低消费）
犹如虚席以待深夜才到来的你
而你却早已决定要先我一天到达
你当然不知
我的茶壶中已经有沉浮、绽开的意象

你想着这半日无聊，恰好用来温习
野菊花侧身抹着阳光的风骚
在江南的三月，你将外套与体重解开，匀称地
分配给两瓣屁股和一只手肘
船舱口，你斜倚着，逆光，面向并不在场的我
你的轮廓披金，胸前一片幽暗

欸乃声声，犹如针脚缝合着两幅语言
一幅是沉默的喧闹，它流经你
一幅是喧闹的沉默，你流经它
而我想到一个恶魔诗人最脆弱的句子
“你应该有一个比我的心更柔软的枕头”
此刻，小船正穿过桥洞，一切都微微起伏
我按捺着欣喜，就像按着这些诗句和你
　　　　　　　　2009年2月18日

按：恶魔诗人指拜伦，这句话出自他给妻子的一封信：You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

Fan Jinghua: A Sculpture

　　　A Sculpture

It is already too mature the day it was chiseled out
And then it stands here against bird shits and human gazes.
Nothing softens or hardens for it is

Mere stone.

The unnoticeable change is the dirt on its shoulder,
Thickening and growing to be its flesh,
While the tubers on its knees are kept smoother

By unwanted touches.
　　　　　　　　　Feb. 23, 2009

　　　　雕像
凿刻出来那天，它就已经太老成了
然后一直站在这儿，承受鸟屎和人的眼光
从未变软或者变硬过

它只是石头

无人看到的变化是它肩头的肮脏
越积越厚，正在变成它的肉
而它膝盖的突起日渐光滑

那些触摸它无法躲避
　　　　　　　2009年2月23日

Fan Jinghua: Some Want to Dream of the Sun

　　Some Want to Dream of the Sun

They look at the clouds, retreating.
But the rain is still too far. I cannot say this,
For I am water by nature, and inhabit in wetland and starry sky.
Who knows when season will be brought in when the wind comes?
They do not brood on this, and the first thing flashes across their mind is
They’d better cover their mat shed with linoleum
And wash off the fuss and dust on the sunflower’s stem and leaves
Before moving the plant in by the bedside clothes stand.
To dream of the sun, they have kept their bed
Dry, and the petals should be reflecting light even at night.
Seascape is too empty to stimulate their sleep.
　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 22, 2009

　　有人想梦见太阳

他们两眼望着云，后撤。
可雨还远着呢。我可不能这样说，
因为我属水，性喜潮湿和星空。
谁知道风来的时候，会带来什么季节。
他们不想这个问题，所以才首先要将门前的凉棚
罩上油布，冲洗掉向日葵茎叶上的茸毛
和灰尘，搬到床前。
他们想梦到太阳，床
就得干燥，花瓣最好能反光。
海边的风景太空旷了，夜里，他们不需要。
　　　　　　　　　2009年2月22日

ZANG Di: Golden Secret Series

　　　Golden Secret Series
　　　　　　　　　　　By ZANG Di (1964-)　　tr. FAN Jinghua
Head bent, I can see this chrysanthemum alone,
A golden guide, small curving arms extending like tentacles of a mollusc.
Only a glance unfocused may find them in the shape of yellow petals.

Now I am sensitive as if my mind is a broken string.
So well-nurtured, it must be savvy in politics,
And hence in the decorum of a plant lies the occult message of the cosmos.

Head up, I catch a glimpse of a figure that is watering the flower.
She is no gardener, and yet it appears she is equipped with a better way,
Knowing how to introduce water to the point.

A casual comparison may tell, most people have uncountable secrets behind their back,
But her secret is not hidden behind. It is there, between the flower and me. Voila,
Yes! Her secret is always there on her façade.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　December, 2008


　　　金色秘密丛书
　　　　　　　　　　　　臧棣
低头时，我只看见这菊花，
金色向导，小小的手臂曲张着，像软体动物的触须。
粗心看，才貌合成艳黄的花瓣。

而我现在心细得就像一根断弦。
养得这么好，一定懂政治，
于是，植物的礼貌就有了宇宙的深意。

一抬头，我瞥见了给它浇水的人。
她不是园丁，不过看起来她有更好的方法，
知道如何把水浇到点子上。

稍一比较，多数人的背后都有无数的秘密。
而她的秘密不在她身后，在我和菊花之间，
没错，她的秘密永远在她的前面。
　　　　　　　　　　　　2008.12.

Commentary
　　When one lowers his head to look at a flower, the gesture is a way to positioning the object. Lowering one’s head is a way of approaching, getting close and enlarging the object, therefore the seen flower here becomes not only a small world in itself (the cosmos in the forthcoming stanza) but also a guide for the world. This expression itself is discursive, which implies numerous (false) directions. Numerous hands (as of the thousand-handed kuanyin bodhisattva), numerous tentacles or receivers require one to distance himself in order to get a better view of the picture. Otherwise, he will only see the trees instead of the forest. Only when a flower is not a flower, can that flower become a(ny) flower or flowers, so that the flower carries the meaning of all the flowers.
　　The opening line of the second stanza proves a little slippery to translate. Literally, 而我现在心细得就像一根断弦 can be rendered as “And I now am thin-hearted (careful, meticulous) just like a broken string.” But it is obvious that the phrase bears more than this. On the one hand, it emphasizes that the gazer focuses on the details of the object; on the other hand, it implies that the gazer himself is made to be sensitive by the adjustment in the course of gazing. Of course, the visual implication is also suggested in the comparison between the flower with many thin arms and the heart. However, in Chinese, 心refers to both heart and mind, as in the ancient people believe that heart is responsible for emotion and thinking.
　　The phrase “so well-nurtured” is a little ambiguous as to what it refers. There, it can be understood as referring to the wisdom “sound mind in a sound body,” which I take as a step to understand the word politics, as politics is so abruptly brought into the poem. Here, I take politics as an ability to be graceful and easy in any situation. That is, politics may be understood as the decorum of a plant, which is the result of the shaping power of the cosmos, and the beauty of a flower is the embodiment of the occult meaning.
　　In the first two stanzas, the gazer is into or inside the flower, whereas in the coming two stanzas the gazer is distancing himself from the flower or standing outside of it. Now, he sees another person, and he claims that she is not a gardener though she is watering the flower. That is, the person does not belong to the garden (not a laborer or slave to the garden). When one looks at a flower (“I see this chrysanthemum alone”), he sees only that flower or at most the flower and subjectified flower (me into the flower, empathized flower or my flower). When he looks up and contextualizes the flower, he sees another (the other). Once one sees between the object and the subject the third party, he sees more than three.
　　Therefore, the gazer comes out from inside or behind the flower to the front, and the meaning between or behind them becomes explicit. This is the explication of meaning: meaning lies upon things, not behind. When the flower is not the flower, any flower is the flower. A flower is a flower, after all.

评读：
　　　　　俯仰、曲直、显隐与前后
　　观看者头的俯仰，作为一个外部动作，其实暗示了一种将被观看者positioning定位的方式。在此，俯视，成为一种凝视、专注、放大，因此一朵花不仅可以成为一个世界（后文的宇宙），而且还是这个世界的向导。这无疑是一种曲折的方式，无穷的手（千手观音）、无穷的方向、无穷的感应器管（软体动物的触须），这需要人们一定的距离化，否则便只见树木不见森林。花非花，一朵花便具有了所有花的意义。
　　心细，一方面是自己俯视时的专注，而同时也是一种对软体动物的触须的神入（empathy移情、共感），这里的心，可以是心软或者心思细腻。
　　养得这么好，心的健康要有身的健康，sound mind in a sound body，这本身就是一种政治。我在此将政治理解为一种游刃有余、进退自然的能力，可以说是下一行中的植物的礼貌、decorum得体，这一切是大自然的奥义，the occult message of the cosmos宇宙的玄妙寓意。
　　前两节观看者入花，后两节观者跳出花外。
　　这位浇花者并非园丁，亦即此人不附属于花，正因如此，她才有更好的方法。观看者抬头见到“他人”，此乃是说观者永远不止一人。一个人凝注的时候，只见客体或者被主体化的客体（花、我移情其中的花），这时候的花还不是所有花，只是我的花。但是抬头看到另一个人，观看者变成了技术化的批判性的抽象观者。一旦当一个人在观看的主体与客体之间看到第三者，那么他看到的就远不止三者了。
　　因此，观者从花的背后走到了前面，意义从隐变显，这是发现意义就在物本身，不必在物背后。花非花之后，花还是花；有人拈花一笑，有人看到有人拈花一笑。

Saigyo Hoshi’s Mountain Home (Winter)

　　　　Saigyo Hoshi’s Mountain Home (Winter)
　　　　　　西行法师《山家集》之冬
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　English translaton by Burton Watson英译

Regret as I may,
even the bell
has a different sound now,
and soon frost will fall
in place of morning dew
甚至钟声
也音色有异
怎么惋惜都无奈哦
很快
晨露将被寒霜替代
　　　　　　　　　　Woodcutter
　　　　　　　　　　sleeping all alone
　　　　　　　　　　in his pine bough shelter,
　　　　　　　　　　the only sound,
　　　　　　　　　　his only visitor, the hail
　　　　　　　　　　啄木鸟
　　　　　　　　　　独自睡
　　　　　　　　　　在松树洞里
　　　　　　　　　　惟一的访客，
　　　　　　　　　　惟一的声音，来自冰雹
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　If only there were
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　someone else
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　willing to bear this loneliness—
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　side by side we’d build our huts
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　for winter in a mountain village
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　多么想除我之外
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　还有人
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　愿意来承担孤独——
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　我们一道各自搭一只小屋
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　在这山村过冬
Heaped with snow,
bamboos in the garden
bend and topple—
flocks of sparrows hunting
for another roost
园中竹子
积厚厚的雪
弯着腰、斜着身——
一群群麻雀钻来钻去
找一个新窝
　　　　　　At the first snowfall, yes,
　　　　　　some visitors pushed their way through,
　　　　　　but now all trails
　　　　　　are cut off
　　　　　　to this village deep in the mountains
　　　　　　是的，第一场雪时，
　　　　　　还有一些客人跋涉来访
　　　　　　如今，所有通往这个
　　　　　　深山小村的小径
　　　　　　都已封断
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Living alone
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　in the shade of a remote mountain,
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　I have you for my companion
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　now the storm has passed,
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　moon of the winter night!
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　独自隐居
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　在这深山的草棚
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　只有你是我的伴儿
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　冬夜的月亮
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　在暴雪之后

Fan Jinghua: Her Weeping

　　　Her Weeping
Small wind takes itself away from her side
As if it is an elfin
And leaves behind an empty coldness
She lowers her face, not knowing how to hold out
Hands to take the falling
In front of her breast
This is not a field where flowers are scattered in the spring rains
Or leaves are being dallied by autumn winds
As if she is losing control of her flight, diving into salty water
The splashing wets the sight
And no way out
No matter how liquid love can be
It is curdling
Incapable of giving it to her tonight
　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 16, 2009

　　她流泪了
犹如另一个人从身侧窜了出来
小风被抽走
留下空空的凉
她低下头来，不知道手
在低曲的胸前
能否接住某种凋零
而这并不是春残花败、也不是秋风戏弄着落叶
她的心情突然俯冲、击水
溅湿目光
这是最难以躲避的，再脉脉的
也已经凝滞、郁积
今夜，我无法将爱注入蜷曲的她
　　　　　　　2009年2月17日

Fan Jinghua: Apple

　　Apple
　　　　　　For X
The taste, after puberty and before pregnancy,
Belongs to the visual,
Inspiring special liquid
Instant on my palates.
I remember the primary spring of the name
As a word mentioned,
And it is a private wonder
That no other eyes brighten or ears heighten.
The universe then enters a phase of slowness,
When night flicks away with countless invisible hands
The white dust of maturity.
Translucent paper dress softly opens
Cool fragrance, inviolable by fingers with nails.
Metaphors kill, all the time.
　　　　　　　　Feb. 15, 2009

　　苹果
　　　　　致——
那味道，在青涩之后，
妊娠纹之前，属于视觉，
激发出灵感的液体
渗起在我的腭上。
我记得那最初的泉，
仅仅是作为一个词被提起。
这是一个私人惊喜，竟然
没有眼睛为之一亮、没有耳朵为之一振。
然后，世界进入缓慢期，
成熟的白色浮尘
被夜的数不尽的看不见的凉手拂去；
半透明的纸衣软软地展露
清幽的香。有指甲的手指不可触摸它，
而比喻就是谋杀，一贯如此。
　　　　　　2009年2月15日

Fan Jinghua: Honesty

　　Honesty
The smile is too casual,
And after soundless and shadowless repetitions,
It is like the fluttering of a white feather
Crossing a river.
Every agile gesture grows
Out of the artful.
It is up to you then.
No matter how noble, skepticism is not to shine
On the prevailing wisdom.
In it is enshrined
Not a soul but an unstoppable echo
Of complaints.
Look at the reflection of your face on its copper face.
Say you have never seen a face like this.
　　　　　　Feb. 15, 2009

　　诚
那笑，太随意，
经过无声无影的重复，
如振颤的羽毛
飞过河水。
每个轻松的姿态
都源自机巧。
这就看你自己了：
无论多么高贵，疑心
都不是为了照耀
流行的智慧；那是神龛，
封存的
不是一颗灵魂而是抱怨声
无法停歇的回响。
盯着它黄铜脸上映出的
你的脸，说
你从未看过如此的脸。
　　　　　2009年2月15日

Fan Jinghua: Visiting a Cave or Hidden Bliss

　　Visiting a Cave or Hidden Bliss

This is not for anyone to have, share or cling to.
The arrival of absence silences
All the sounds and stirrings.
The brightest brass and the most resilient vocal cord
Cannot announce the impregnated oracle.

Thoughts overflow,
Soundless and shiny like silk,
But flow as an undercurrent below the mountain,
Unknown to all those rustling climbers.

This boat is the last divining rod,
Of the softest jade,
Which makes the most rugged and secretive gut within the earth
Ruffleless and round.

On the ceiling of the cave,
Warm drops and warm drops hang abreast
Like compound eyes that never blink
And that enshrine numerous candles against the dome of night,
Gazing at each other, yet not eye to eye,
Till black wings of bats join
To build a floating bridge on this Milky River
Which reflects a cold flow of boundless stillness.
　　　　　　　　Feb. 13-14, 2009


　　溶洞 或 隐秘的喜悦

那不是任何人的等待，
拥有或分享。缺失的抵临
沉默了声音和荡漾。
最铮亮的铜、最纤韧的声带
亦不能宣布那神谕般的饱满。

明水，却潜流于
大山之下、弃绝尘土，
涓涓的，闪着丝绸的波光；
山上，攀爬的人发出不同缓急的声响。

这只小舟是世间仅存的
最软柔的
一支占卜玉杖，
令大地上最逼仄崎曲的水道
圆浑而通达。

溶洞的天花板上，暖水珠与暖水珠
比肩倒垂，如不眨的复眼
罩着一支支烛光，在夜幕上
对视，却看不透彼此，
直到蝙蝠的黑翅膀搭起舟桥
横跨这条银河，倒映着
一泓冷水、无限的静。
　　　　　　2009年2月13-14日

Note：Listen to Mozart Piano Concerto No.23 (K.488) when reading the poem.
读此诗歌时，可以听莫扎特的钢琴协奏曲第23号（K.488）

Huang Jingren: Song of a Youth

　　　Song of a Youth
(One of the earliest poems by Huang Jingren)

Original Poem (Quatrain in seven characters) 七言绝句

　　少年行
　　　　黄景仁
男儿作健向沙场，
自爱登台不望乡。
太白高高天尺五，
宝刀明月共辉光。

注释：
乾隆三十一年（1766年）冬，十八岁的诗人离家，到扬州游学。这是诗人旅途所作。
作健：用典自古乐府《企喻歌》：男儿欲作健，结伴不须多。
台：指单于台，在今内蒙古呼和浩特市西。在此用典《资治通鉴·汉纪》，汉武帝元封元年（前110年）“出长城，北登单于台”。登台指古代征人久戍不归，登高怀念家乡。
太白，是秦岭主峰，山顶终年积雪不化。

Word-by-word Exegesis:

　　少Young　年Year/Age 行Song
男儿man　作to be/act　健valorous　向toward　沙sand　场field
自by self　爱love　登climb　台terrace/tower　不not　望look at　乡hometown
太白Taibai (Mount)　高high　高high　天sky　尺a foot　五five
宝precious　刀sword　明bright　月moon　共together　辉radiance　光light

My Rendition 我的翻译

　　Song of a Youth
　　　　　　　　HUANG Jingren (1749-1783 Qing Dynasty)
A man should be valorous and gallant,
Always ready for the battlefield;
His passion for climbing is never
To be squandered on the ache for hearth.
Five feet more, the Ethereal Blanc Mount
Will touch the sky, and he, atop there,
Alone, marvels at his precious sword
That shines cold under the moonlight.

This is a poem written when the poet was 18 years old in 1766. He was to Yangzhou, at a study journey. One dusk, he climbed a hill, looking around, and found nothing inspiring.

Back-Translation 回译：

　　青年的歌

男人，该勇武、豪侠，
随时准备上战场。
他热衷于登高，这激情
绝不浪费于家居生活。
太白山再高五尺
就会碰到天空，而他
独立其上，把玩宝剑，
欣赏它在月下闪着寒光。

Fan Jinghua: In the Office

　　　In the Office
Another usual afternoon, sunrays ooze down, growing
Impotent. A glass of fruit shake reminds me of the outside
Warmth and this moment of luxurious nothingness.
I am here, alone with all the authors, mostly dead,
And among the few alive, some friends remote as fish.

Trees erect defiantly, their leaves fingering the air
Like touching an invisible instrument. This music, so familiar,
Exists as echoes only, syncopated by Platonic sighs from caves.

Something precarious is brought out of me, yet still around,
Like a cloud, itchy, rubbing its back against the windowpane.
A seascape shimmers in distance. This is a beautiful office.
The dead authors, shelved, coerce the living who are dying
To make a standing in this wall of fame but lust for fresh life.

My arms propping on the desk and feet space-walking the floor,
A face between the splints of hands haunts the LCD widescreen,
As mermaids with hula skirts rustle by, outside, in the corridor.

As an email alert rises like a fish, I almost cry out:
Hi! Do not catch me here. I am absent in a space
I don’t know where. It is elsewhere, as you might know,
Where pure love is possible. Come to drown in my sound there,
Or when darkness falls, we make eyeless love a pair of bats or owls.
　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 5, 2009

　　　　在办公室

又一个寻常的下午，阳光从高处浓浓地涌下，
软塌塌的。桌子的左首，一杯水果奶昔
提醒我，外面很温暖，而此刻的虚无有点奢侈。
我一人在此，与众多的作者为伴，大多数都是死人，
为数不多的活人中，有几位是朋友，很遥远。

窗外，树示威般地挺着，叶子的手指在空气中弹动，
像演奏某件不可见的乐器。这音乐如此熟悉，
只存在于回音中，被洞穴里柏拉图式的叹息切分。

有一种危如累卵的东西，被这音乐带了出来，
没有消散，像一朵发痒的云，在玻璃窗上蹭来蹭去。
远处，大海闪烁碎光。这间办公室景色宽阔。
沿墙的书架上，活人被死人挟持着，他们拼死
也要插入这面名人墙，可我知道他们欲望生猛。

我的手臂墩在桌面上，双脚在桌下搓揉太空步，
一张被双手夹紧的脸从宽屏液晶桌面深处浮现，
仅穿着草裙的美人鱼从门外的走廊中飒飒地游过。

电邮提示像一条小鱼的尾巴扫出水面，我几乎喊出声来：
嗨，别！你别来这儿找我。我并不在此，我自己
也不知在何处。你或许也听说过，只有他处才可能有
生活。来吧，淹死在我的水域，或者，当夜幕降临，
我们化作一对蝙蝠或者猫头鹰，偷欢，不用眼睛，暗自幸福。
　　　　　　　　　　　2009年2月6日

Fan Jinghua: Window Politics

　　Window Politics
No one will see. The words from those at windows are ink-stains
Dissolving into the night.
They stand to hold themselves, to fly with the wings of hope and pains.
By the cliff of the night, they look down, up or away into the distance,
Or merely at the windowsill, and a firmness takes root in them.
This triggers my mind.

When standing still, it is a painting;
When in motion, it is a tableau.
Reveries, meditations, fantasies, nostalgia, visions, illusions…
Every word can turn on my heart.

There is too much noisy brightness in this world, and even in the wintertime
It is a rare chance to see a star-studded sky.
The blinking warm lights have long been grafted onto human bodies
So as to ogle in the artificial darkness,
Or maybe they are wrapped in black velvet, encased,
Like eyes that are shielded with reflective film, eyes of freshly dead fish.

The moon is still, full of white and water,
And loaded with the poverty of half the world.
Its roundedness is a medium, a well
That ferments the most beautiful pretense:
Tonight, it is cold, so you have to love me,
And keep my company but keep an arm’s distance.
I cannot stand a human hug.

If it is dark and moonless and windy outside your window, then pull close
All the curtains and roll over on the bed;
Something has to be sealed to be fermented, like the moods sutured in a body.

I have been with you when you are so curled up, heavy with yourself,
But my hands cannot scoop away your loneliness.
When you wake up, you may search for words between the lines,
Feeling the laconic warmth of my melancholy that is meant
To deliver you from the pre-dawn desolation to the mid-morning sunlight.

Only children still love to press faces against the windowpane, looking at
Winds waving silently on the treetops that canopy the yard wall,
And every dog marks its territory with pisses over there.
Children blow breaths on the glass, and look at the outside through the blurring,
And then their fingers coo and coo like pigeons,
When a line sketch of a smiling face makes the flat world
Rise and fall as a country landscape.
So they keep on breathing to the face until it is blurred again,
And then they track the lines once more to keep the laugh.
They breathe and track, over and over, until they grow tired of their fiddle,
And as everything becomes so transiently unreal,
They cut out a paper face, glue it against the glass.
Unflattened as it is, the wax-paper face keeps faithful watch over their sleep and dreams,
Even keep wake for the empty room,
Till it is aged and faded by the sunlight,
Till they forget that they cut it because they wanted to keep their own breath.

People can only stand for a while,
Going away is pre-destined.
There is no lack of sound to easily carry away even the most determined one,
Or, soundless sleep may prevail, not by its inner power but by borrowed power
Of weariness that rises from the dull wall-base and cold feet.

Insidiousness is an injection of anesthetic, and once done, the life is left
Alone, like the leaves of a window hinged to the frame
Whose agitated thrashing only solidifies their unbreakable relation.
The hinge grips their strength, sucks their life, and they may
Do sit-ups or push-ups, but could never take a free walk.

Where there is a wall, there is at least a window.
A window is a transcendental existence, inherent to a wall,
Even prior to the door.
A window is God’s last remedy for a dead exit,
For the last jump of life.

One may debar the cries outside the door but can never play deaf
To the call that seeps in through the window.
A fleeting shadow across there will snatch the soul
From the spread-eagle body of the once vertical one by window.
Black cats squad on the windowsill,
Half-closed eyes shiny like stars, and reveal
There are incarcerated spirits behind the holes on the wall.

Through the lens of scientific instruments, their body heat
Always lingers there, taking the form of human bodies,
Never dissolved. It is a thermo thing,
Which I have never figured out.
Only danger-inducing possibility incites mortal interest.

(A secluded little woman wrote from her garden—
You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir—
She said she was a load gun, but I know
No one had really put his finger at the trigger, or the gun
Did not have a trigger at all.)

They are encased in glass and concrete, so
I have been circling around like a phantom outside night after night,
And not a hair is impaired or grayed.
How safe I am!
I have never planned or been hired to kill them.
Bullets, arrows, staggers or matches can touch them
For only once, and it can never last longer than a breath.

In my imaginary gaze, I can see their hands holding their upper-arms
For warmth, and I see myself as a tiny snake
On a laurel branch, wriggling like fear,
For a never fulfilled rape.

I try to persuade myself that even voyeurism is not a sin
Or shame. Any individual who is intent on an act
Exhibits to a world of unconsciousness
And performs for the world in dark.
To be a hidden audience, to commune with the incidental performer
In a way unregistered in the world of physics;
This is a supreme art, like the mind-mind exchange between the blind.

(The performaniacs don’t stand by window;
They see even in rainy days stars peeping and their mouths watering,
So they turn their daily routine into stripteases.
They pull open and close windows, roll up and let loose curtains,
And flick on and off the switch. In the end,
They will scatter confetti on their naked bodies.
—Oh, these lines should be deleted.)

Night flows into rooms without anyone’s notice,
Seeping into those standing at window, and through their words
I am saturated with night and made flesh.
Their breathing tickles my nerves, and my body is taken by spasms;
To read them, I have to hide behind curtains
From the blaze of the sun.
Like a garden eel into liquid and sand,
The rear half sucked by sand, the upper half dangling in the undercurrent.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 21-30, 2009


　　　窗户政治

没人看到，凭窗人的字
是融进夜色的墨滴
他们以伫立凝聚自我，以希望和苦难作为翅膀
悬在夜的边缘，俯瞰、仰望或远眺
或者哪怕仅仅是看着窗框，一股坚定
就已令我神往

静，如一幅油画
动，则是一幅戏剧场景
浮想、冥想、狂想、怀想、期想、非分之想……
每个词都能令我兴奋地心不在焉

这世界已闪亮得足够喧闹，甚至在冬季
人也很少能看到星斗满天
那殷殷的光，被焊接到人的身体上
用来在人为幽暗的地方勾引目光
或者有更为精致的黑丝绒将它们藏匿起来
正如眼睛，都覆盖着一层反光的膜
失水之鱼的眼

惟有月亮依旧静如止水，满载的白
倒映着半个世界的贫乏
它的圆满，是一眼触媒，一口井
发酵出最美的温软——
今夜，你要爱我，在寒意中陪我，但保持一臂距离
我，经不住人的拥抱

如果你的窗前月黑风高，那么
拉上帘子，蜷曲在床上
有些东西需要密封才能充分发酵
犹如心情需要缝合在身体中

在你只与自己抱成一团的时候，我就在你身侧
但我的双手无法掬走你沉重的孤独
你醒来，掰开我的诗行，我的忧郁
将以你似曾相识的字眼散发简洁的热度，超度你晨起时的落寞
送你进入晌午的阳光

白日，孩子会将脸贴在玻璃上，看风
无言地摇曳在遮挡围墙的树梢上
每条狗都在那儿标注自己的领地
孩子们哈气，透过一小片模糊望着外面
然后手指在玻璃上发出咕咕的鸽音
于是一张粗线条、最简单的脸
令平薄的世界像乡村风景一样起伏
他们一再哈气维持着那张脸、那张脸后的风景
直到它们再次模糊，他们再次描出原来的痕迹，恢复着笑脸
直到他们腻味了，于是那一切都变得虚假
他们剪蜡纸，粘贴在玻璃上
蜡纸脸并不伏贴，却忠诚地守着他们的熟睡与梦呓，甚至
面对空屋
直到阳光令它苍老退色
直到他们也忘记了当初是为了保持他们自己的气息才剪出了那张笑脸

人，都只能站一会儿
离开早已注定
有很多声音能很轻易地将最会伫立的人带走
或者，无声的睡眠最终得胜，不是靠其本身的内力，而是巧借
因无趣而从墙基和脚底升起的疲倦

阴，无需着力，只是注入一针麻醉剂，然后若无其事
似乎窗扇被赋予了自由，而它们所有的蹦腾
只是证明铰链紧固，挟持它们的精力，吸留它们的生命
而它们围着它仰卧起坐或者俯卧撑，可是不得随意散步

有墙，必有窗
它是一个先验的存在，内置于墙
甚至先于门。上帝私留着它
为了弥补对凡人关闭的大门
为了让生命最后跳跃一次

人，或许会躲避门外的呼喊，却不能装聋作哑
抵制渗进窗缝的呼唤
一丝动静就会将凭窗者的魂魄从横陈的肉身中唤走
如一只只黑猫蹲在窗台上
只要睁眼，就会发光
向墙外的人显示闪烁的被禁闭的灵

在科学仪器的监视下，他们的体热
滞留不散，在那儿聚集着人的形状
那似乎叫热敏感应，可具体叫什么
术语，我从不记得——
没有危险，便难以激发致命的兴趣

（一个隐于人世的小女人在花园中写道——
“你认为我的步态‘有如痉挛’—我居于危险啊，大先生”
她说她是一只装了火药的枪——只是
从没有人扣动她的扳机，或许从未安装）

他们被玻璃与混凝土封罩着，所以我
时常在窗外的半空中盘旋，像幻影一样
我多么安全啊，毫发无损
甚至没有为他们愁出白头
没有人雇用我刺杀他们，我也从未有此意图
子弹、箭矢、匕首、火柴
都只能与他们接触一次，绝不会比一口气更长

而在我想象的凝注中，他们双手抱紧双臂
取暖，而我自己像一条小蛇
在桂树枝上，扭动着一种恐惧
一次永远没能满足的强暴

我一直试图说服自己，即便偷窥也不必感到羞耻
和疚愧。任何人一旦专注于一个动作
就暴露给了无意识的世界，为黑暗裹挟着的整个世界
表演。能够做
一个隐匿的观众，以非物理学的联系
与那无意的表演者互动而独立，这是至高的技艺
犹如盲者间的心传

（表演症患从不看窗外，他们在阴雨天
也能看见星星正目不转睛地垂涎三尺
所以一直忙于将日常俗务做成一场场脱衣舞
时而推拉窗牖、时而将帷幕帘帐撩起、放下
开关开开关关。最后，他们赤裸了
他们就会朝身上洒节庆的彩纸屑
——哦，我应该删除这一节）

夜，没人知道地涌进室内，流经凭窗者，再流经我
我的神经因他们的气息而敏感，肉身不时被痉挛攥紧
这令我在阳光普照时也必须隐匿在窗帘后
犹如浸泡于一种液体
夜，在我白昼的台灯下沉积，我如一条园鳗
下半截让沙土吮吸、裹束，上半身悬荡于涌动的暗流
　　　　　　　　2009年1月21-31日

按：“你认为我的步态是‘痉挛式的’—我居于危险，先生” (You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir) 摘自艾米莉·狄金森给希金森的信。“装了火药的枪”出自狄金森的一首诗：My Life had stood—a loaded gun--/ In Corners—till a Day/ The Owner passed—identified—/ And carried Me away—// (我的人生伫立--装了火药的枪--/ 在墙角--直到一天/ 主人路过--认出来--/ 将我带走)