Only Our Fingertips Touch
by Fan Jinghua
In each other’s secret garden we plant saplings of exaltation
And what we have never expected appease us with soul tonics
A beautiful flower or two human forms interface
Between us with a crystal-like screen, sliding or superimposing
Our hands stretched out, only fingertips could touch
And out of forked tongues fog hisses, the ethereal liquid
Cold and temperate, emulsified with light and darkness
Yes, when fingertips touch, our eyes have to be closed
So that all the times melt into the present
And all the distances curdle into a remote island
When your thumbs and forefingers couple and frame out an empty heart
You lower your heart and find it a home, your womb
Sucking the flowing water and straying clouds of my imagination
As if a tornado is taking water from the sky, writhing without pain
Oct. 25, 2010
惟有指尖相触
在彼此的秘园中栽种一棵棵喜悦
原非我们不期的，滋养我们的灵
另外，还有两个人或者一朵花
将我们隔开，纯粹而澄明
我们伸手，只能触及彼此的指尖
嘶嘶地吐出芯子和烟雾，那幻化的乳剂
平、冷、硬，内含着光与黑暗的游动
是的，指尖相触时惟有倜然闭目
所有的时间便凝聚为此刻
所有的空间都融化为天涯
你的拇指与食指成对，圈起一颗心形的框子
将心放低，进住它的新居，你的子宫
吸取我流水行云的想象，犹如我头顶着
一条吸水龙，扭曲但不是痛苦
2010年10月25日
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Fan Jinghua: A Universe of One’s Own
A Universe of One’s Own
by Fan Jinghua
It is the upturned eyes that have no balls.
Behind the balcony windowpanes, a statue
With an ancient silhouette, and the antique green
Of potted plants with golden contours.
The sun is mincing on ten hundred thousand feathers,
Its soft pads like litters of the mackerel sky.
Weed leaves unhinge themselves from the stalks,
The fluffy white heads drooping toward the water
Pursuing the memory of spring and the heaviness of reflection.
Crow cries fly the flags, yearning for the far,
And the sky is the only darkness, all colors hidden,
Changes changing within itself, unperceivable to eyes.
Yes, what changes and wavers is mind, always.
Warmth of the wall is dissipating from the lower part,
And the silkworms of narcissus fold up their reveries,
Blooming from nightfall to the depth of the night.
Oct. 20, 2010
一个人的宇宙学
那仰脸者的眼珠才是凿空的
阳台玻璃后，雕像苍而不朽
盆栽的侧影鎏着金
阳光短促，缩起九万道
羽毛的柔脚，偶尔迂缓如卷云
芦柴叶从骨节上自我剥离
白头蓬松而黯淡，低垂着
向水中寻找失去的重量和春风
鸦声拉起怀远的旗幡，这惟一的
恢恢的色彩，变幻着
是的，动的一直是人心
墙壁的余温正在散去
蚕宝宝的水仙将幻想卷起
又从入夜独自开到夜深
2010年10月20日
by Fan Jinghua
It is the upturned eyes that have no balls.
Behind the balcony windowpanes, a statue
With an ancient silhouette, and the antique green
Of potted plants with golden contours.
The sun is mincing on ten hundred thousand feathers,
Its soft pads like litters of the mackerel sky.
Weed leaves unhinge themselves from the stalks,
The fluffy white heads drooping toward the water
Pursuing the memory of spring and the heaviness of reflection.
Crow cries fly the flags, yearning for the far,
And the sky is the only darkness, all colors hidden,
Changes changing within itself, unperceivable to eyes.
Yes, what changes and wavers is mind, always.
Warmth of the wall is dissipating from the lower part,
And the silkworms of narcissus fold up their reveries,
Blooming from nightfall to the depth of the night.
Oct. 20, 2010
一个人的宇宙学
那仰脸者的眼珠才是凿空的
阳台玻璃后，雕像苍而不朽
盆栽的侧影鎏着金
阳光短促，缩起九万道
羽毛的柔脚，偶尔迂缓如卷云
芦柴叶从骨节上自我剥离
白头蓬松而黯淡，低垂着
向水中寻找失去的重量和春风
鸦声拉起怀远的旗幡，这惟一的
恢恢的色彩，变幻着
是的，动的一直是人心
墙壁的余温正在散去
蚕宝宝的水仙将幻想卷起
又从入夜独自开到夜深
2010年10月20日
Plath: The Babysitters
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 155
The Babysitters
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.
O it was richness!---eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection',
And a small Dalmatian.
In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing 'Ja Da' in a pink piqué dress
On the gameroom piano, when the 'big people' were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green-shaded lamp.
The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.
O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, crosslegged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted—
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing,
But ten years dead.
The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
29 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第155首
陪玩保姆
已有十年，自从我们划船去儿童岛。
中午，太阳的火焰垂落在马宝岬的水面。
那个夏天，我们带墨镜遮住眼睛。
我们总是在哭，两个被利用了的姐妹，在给我们的空房间，
在斯沃姆斯科的两栋漂亮的白色豪宅。
当那个英国甜心来了，那奶白的肌肤，涂雅得丽化妆品，
我就得和小孩睡在一间，那实在太短的小床，
那七岁的小东西绝不出门，除非他的条纹运动衫
有配套的条纹棉袜。
哦，那就是富有！——十一个房间，一条游艇，
抛光的红木台阶一直通到海里，
还有随船侍者懂得如何给蛋糕装饰六彩糖霜。
可我还不会烹饪，小孩令我沮丧。
每夜，我都恶毒地写日记，手指通红，
熨斗的三角形伤痕，因为熨烫细小的褶饰和花式袖口。
当那爱运动的老婆与她的医生老公去周游，
他们借来一个女佣陪我，叫做埃伦，说是“为了保护”，
还留下一条花斑狗。
在你那家，那个主宅，你比我好过。
你有玫瑰园，待客小屋，很像样的小药房，
还有厨子和女佣，你也知道酒柜的钥匙。
我记得“大人”出去的时候，你穿着粉红色
单珠地裙子，在游艺室那架钢琴上演奏佳答爵士，
而女佣抽着烟，在绿色灯罩下撞桌球。
厨子有一只眼角膜白斑，睡不着觉，她很是紧张。
她从爱尔兰来，试用，烤焦了一炉又一炉糕点，
终于被炒掉。
哦，我们怎会有如此遭遇，我的姐妹！
我们哭着闹着才得到一天休息，
两人提着甜味火腿和菠萝，装在成人们的冰盒里，
租了一条绿色旧船，我划，你盘腿
坐在船尾座位上，高声朗读《蛇蝎世代》。
我们就这么颠簸着去了小岛。那儿已人去楼空——
一个长廊，入口吱吱作响，内部死寂一片，
一切早已停止，可怕，犹如一幅照片，拍的笑脸
已经死了十年。
海鸥放肆地俯冲而来，似乎它们拥有一切。
我们捡起浮木小棍，赶走它们，
然后一步一步走下陡峭的海滩岩床，进入水中。
我们撩起水，说话。浓浓的盐分逼着我们上岸。
可我仍看见我们漂浮在那儿，彼此不分——两只软木玩偶。
我们穿过了怎样的锁孔，那关闭的是什么门？
青草的影子慢慢移动，犹如一面钟的指针，
而我们挥手，招呼，从两个相对的大陆。
一切都已发生。
1961年10月29日
No. 155
The Babysitters
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.
O it was richness!---eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection',
And a small Dalmatian.
In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing 'Ja Da' in a pink piqué dress
On the gameroom piano, when the 'big people' were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green-shaded lamp.
The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.
O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, crosslegged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted—
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing,
But ten years dead.
The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
29 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第155首
陪玩保姆
已有十年，自从我们划船去儿童岛。
中午，太阳的火焰垂落在马宝岬的水面。
那个夏天，我们带墨镜遮住眼睛。
我们总是在哭，两个被利用了的姐妹，在给我们的空房间，
在斯沃姆斯科的两栋漂亮的白色豪宅。
当那个英国甜心来了，那奶白的肌肤，涂雅得丽化妆品，
我就得和小孩睡在一间，那实在太短的小床，
那七岁的小东西绝不出门，除非他的条纹运动衫
有配套的条纹棉袜。
哦，那就是富有！——十一个房间，一条游艇，
抛光的红木台阶一直通到海里，
还有随船侍者懂得如何给蛋糕装饰六彩糖霜。
可我还不会烹饪，小孩令我沮丧。
每夜，我都恶毒地写日记，手指通红，
熨斗的三角形伤痕，因为熨烫细小的褶饰和花式袖口。
当那爱运动的老婆与她的医生老公去周游，
他们借来一个女佣陪我，叫做埃伦，说是“为了保护”，
还留下一条花斑狗。
在你那家，那个主宅，你比我好过。
你有玫瑰园，待客小屋，很像样的小药房，
还有厨子和女佣，你也知道酒柜的钥匙。
我记得“大人”出去的时候，你穿着粉红色
单珠地裙子，在游艺室那架钢琴上演奏佳答爵士，
而女佣抽着烟，在绿色灯罩下撞桌球。
厨子有一只眼角膜白斑，睡不着觉，她很是紧张。
她从爱尔兰来，试用，烤焦了一炉又一炉糕点，
终于被炒掉。
哦，我们怎会有如此遭遇，我的姐妹！
我们哭着闹着才得到一天休息，
两人提着甜味火腿和菠萝，装在成人们的冰盒里，
租了一条绿色旧船，我划，你盘腿
坐在船尾座位上，高声朗读《蛇蝎世代》。
我们就这么颠簸着去了小岛。那儿已人去楼空——
一个长廊，入口吱吱作响，内部死寂一片，
一切早已停止，可怕，犹如一幅照片，拍的笑脸
已经死了十年。
海鸥放肆地俯冲而来，似乎它们拥有一切。
我们捡起浮木小棍，赶走它们，
然后一步一步走下陡峭的海滩岩床，进入水中。
我们撩起水，说话。浓浓的盐分逼着我们上岸。
可我仍看见我们漂浮在那儿，彼此不分——两只软木玩偶。
我们穿过了怎样的锁孔，那关闭的是什么门？
青草的影子慢慢移动，犹如一面钟的指针，
而我们挥手，招呼，从两个相对的大陆。
一切都已发生。
1961年10月29日
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Fan Jinghua: The Hidden String
This poem was written for my teacher of An Introduction to Literary Theory in Beijing Normal University. He has recently been awarded a "Noble" prize but most probably could not go to the ceremony due to his imprisonment. If anyone in mainland China searches his name in the Internet, there would be nothing. If anyone tries to publish to his name in the internet space, the characters of his name would be ***.
这首诗献给我北京师范大学时的《文学概论》老师，他最近获得了一个大奖，但是他无法去领取，因为他在监狱中服刑。
The Hidden String
To ***
It is something that has a name but denies any word,
It lies somewhere, tense, but eludes human touch and eyesight,
And it sounds and resounds with mysterious beauty
Even in the plain field and on the water.
If there is any playing, it is only purposely accidental,
And people who hear it do not hear with ears,
For no voice can imitate a single note that fits for a song for dead souls.
A conscientious one knows
The knowing of it is not an end but an endlessly approaching,
But whoever knows this smiles a bitter sweet smile,
Like the arch striding the nose bridge when one looks into another’s eyes.
If one recognizes in another the long lost unrequited love,
What else can one hope for?
Separate lovers in deep love need the embrace of darkness to sleep tight,
And the skylight can be sealed in the morning light.
10 Oct. 2010
隐弦
致***
它有一个名字，却没有字能够表示，
它在某处，紧绷，
但人的视觉和触觉不能见证，
甚至在平远之野和浩荡的水面上，
它也会发出玄妙之音。
假若它显示为一种演奏，
那肯定是故作偶然而弹给了亡灵。
一位有良心的人知道
有关它的知识从不是一种抵达
而是一种无限的接近；
无论是谁，一旦知晓这一点，
都会荡漾出苦涩而甜美的微笑，
正如一双眼凝视着另一双眼，
跨在鼻梁两边的弧线，原是一条。
如果一个人从另一个人那儿
认出了失去已久的苦恋，一生
更有何求？分离的情人
相爱太深，需要黑暗的拥抱才能沉睡，
从此，天窗可在晨曦中封起。
2010年10月11日
这首诗献给我北京师范大学时的《文学概论》老师，他最近获得了一个大奖，但是他无法去领取，因为他在监狱中服刑。
The Hidden String
To ***
It is something that has a name but denies any word,
It lies somewhere, tense, but eludes human touch and eyesight,
And it sounds and resounds with mysterious beauty
Even in the plain field and on the water.
If there is any playing, it is only purposely accidental,
And people who hear it do not hear with ears,
For no voice can imitate a single note that fits for a song for dead souls.
A conscientious one knows
The knowing of it is not an end but an endlessly approaching,
But whoever knows this smiles a bitter sweet smile,
Like the arch striding the nose bridge when one looks into another’s eyes.
If one recognizes in another the long lost unrequited love,
What else can one hope for?
Separate lovers in deep love need the embrace of darkness to sleep tight,
And the skylight can be sealed in the morning light.
10 Oct. 2010
隐弦
致***
它有一个名字，却没有字能够表示，
它在某处，紧绷，
但人的视觉和触觉不能见证，
甚至在平远之野和浩荡的水面上，
它也会发出玄妙之音。
假若它显示为一种演奏，
那肯定是故作偶然而弹给了亡灵。
一位有良心的人知道
有关它的知识从不是一种抵达
而是一种无限的接近；
无论是谁，一旦知晓这一点，
都会荡漾出苦涩而甜美的微笑，
正如一双眼凝视着另一双眼，
跨在鼻梁两边的弧线，原是一条。
如果一个人从另一个人那儿
认出了失去已久的苦恋，一生
更有何求？分离的情人
相爱太深，需要黑暗的拥抱才能沉睡，
从此，天窗可在晨曦中封起。
2010年10月11日
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fan Jinghua: Gazing at Water
Gazing At Water
Only in a riverbed, when one faces the morning sun or the setting sun,
The river water can be lavishly colorful. Before the eyes,
Beneath the feet, it is an expanse of muddy flow, apparently still,
Almost regal.
The evil of being deep.
Boats do not present themselves, but are perceived
As leaves which drift along, hardly cutting a trail behind.
They are swallowed by whirlpools before the river bend,
As if night flowers rise from the dark earth,
And hook the human vision.
When they appear again, it is in the downstream calm water
That they present their death to the sun.
Oct. 4, 2010
观水
只有在河谷，向着朝霞与夕阳远望
这河水才是艳丽的。可眼前，
脚下，一片浑浊宽广得近乎雍容。
深水之恶。
往来的船只都是飘摇的叶子，
在河湾之前没入漩涡，
犹如夜的大地涌现出昙花，
将人的目光吸收。
当它以死亡自曝于阳光，
那已在下游，坦荡的流水上一片安宁。
2010年10月4日
Only in a riverbed, when one faces the morning sun or the setting sun,
The river water can be lavishly colorful. Before the eyes,
Beneath the feet, it is an expanse of muddy flow, apparently still,
Almost regal.
The evil of being deep.
Boats do not present themselves, but are perceived
As leaves which drift along, hardly cutting a trail behind.
They are swallowed by whirlpools before the river bend,
As if night flowers rise from the dark earth,
And hook the human vision.
When they appear again, it is in the downstream calm water
That they present their death to the sun.
Oct. 4, 2010
观水
只有在河谷，向着朝霞与夕阳远望
这河水才是艳丽的。可眼前，
脚下，一片浑浊宽广得近乎雍容。
深水之恶。
往来的船只都是飘摇的叶子，
在河湾之前没入漩涡，
犹如夜的大地涌现出昙花，
将人的目光吸收。
当它以死亡自曝于阳光，
那已在下游，坦荡的流水上一片安宁。
2010年10月4日
Chuanghu: Two Poems
窗户：诗两首 Two Poems by Chuanghu
Depression
By Chuanghu (Window) tr. Fan Jinghua
The same dusk. I came out of a multi-storey building
Into a road-side eating-house.
I sat alone, eating there.
The sky. Drizzle began a little while earlier.
The place was bright and spacious,
And a few waiters leaned against the counter, doing nothing.
This is a scene I must have seen,
Either years ago or years from now;
Even after my death, it may happen to another one, all over again.
Oct. 2010
忧郁症
窗户
一样的黄昏。我从楼房里出来
走进路边的一家餐厅
一个人坐在那里吃饭
天，刚刚下起小雨
餐厅明亮而空阔
几个服务员站在柜台旁无所事事
这情形，我似曾经历
不是多年之前就是在多年之后
甚至在我死后，还将在另一个人身上，重复
The Sky over the Plateau
By Chuanghu (Window) tr. Fan Jinghua
Meager as if it’s been washed,
And yet it has unlimited allure.
Turn your head for any times,
There are as many times of resurrections—
Painters will die of visions. We will die of praising it,
The eagles, of solitude and freedom.
Oct. 2010
高原的天空
窗户
一贫如洗
却有着无穷诱惑
多少次转身
就有多少次复活——
画家们死于幻象。我们死于赞美
而大鹰死于孤独和自由
译读窗户的两首诗
窗户的诗写得看似轻松随意，语言晓白，却蕴意深厚，有时力透纸背。这两首诗显示出两个完全不同的心境，虽然我们不能将诗中的我与诗人对等，但还是可以说只有当诗人有那种心境感受力的时候，他才能写出那样的诗。
《忧郁症》中意境的细密是以语言上的一种疏松呈现出来的，这是窗户诗歌的特强处。以“一样的黄昏”开篇，起句就展示那暗含的大片背景。当没有另一个参照项的时候，说黄昏是一样的，那么要么就是说“依旧是那一成不变的老样子”，这里就包含一种厌倦感；或者说，这个题目与“一样的黄昏”是连起来读的，就是“忧郁症一样的黄昏”。无论怎么说，统领这首诗的，还是作为标题的“忧郁症”。厌倦感，本质上是不可写出来的，因为对于厌倦感的表述本身就是厌倦得不再有表达它的心情，犹如人们说“别和我比懒，我懒得比”一样。厌倦，包含着“一成不变”，最一成不变的就是日常，于是“我”很日常地从楼房到餐厅，犹如从睡到吃。没有约人，没有人约，所以这吃是最日常的吃。所以，这吃是没必要将食物进入视野（描述）的，这吃不过就是为了吃，不是什么享受，所以“我”就看到了天下小雨，服务员无所事事。小雨，没有什么动静，人也恹恹的。
前两节的描述很客观，甚至有点普泛，“我”的动作没什么特别的：“出来”、“走进”，“坐在那里”。第三节用了“这情形”，将第一节中远距离的“那里”变成了一个眼前，一个“我”需要面对的或反思的情境。一个曾经的或者经常性的情境，也就是一个“一成不变”的情境，是否给“我”留下了一些心理上的痕迹？若有，那么就不算什么毫无意义，哪怕是重复。重复若能产生意义，主体就必须有独立的自我意识，是不可替代的独立个体；而《忧郁症》中的“我”既不是作为一个独立个体之我经历如此情境，也没能在经验如此情境时成为一个独立个体。“我”对于这一切毫无意义，这情境可以在任何“另一个”身上重复。
当“我”无法赋予自己的经验以任何意义的时候，“我”也不可能为任何一次重复赋予意义。从这个角度，再看作为过渡和连接的中间一节。第一节写的是一个作为“他者”的我，一个“客观的我”，一个作为任何个体的我。第二节对于餐厅的描述是“明亮而空阔”。空阔，不仅是人少，更是因为人毫无走动，没有生气；明亮，从光学的角度来看，令其中的人越发孤单。当然，明亮更令“我”看得明白透彻，对此对应的是那几个服务员的无所事事。因此，中间一节既是将上一节中的“我”映射到他人身上，使得具体的一个人可以变成泛指的所有人，也为下一节中“我”的反思提供了一个基础。忧郁症需要一个走不出来的思维陷阱。
《高原的天空》写得天阔云淡，秋高气爽，恢弘幽邃。在“高原”，我们看到的不是植物的繁盛，在高原的天空中我们看到的是一顷碧蓝，再近的云也会很遥远，背景太深邃。在此，诗人将地境与天境集中在人境中，说“一贫如洗”。贫，是植被稀少的贫，是天空杳阔的贫，是人到达此境时自感渺小的贫或身家辎重都已抛弃的贫。洗，也来自天空如洗；诱惑来自深邃。当心境一贫如洗或净洁如洗，那就有无穷的可能，因而转身就是复活。画家所为便是描绘所见，无论所见的属于物象，还是心象，当他们到了高原，无论在天空描绘，还是在画布上，他们都只能哀叹自己作为技术人的窘迫与困顿。我们普通人，面对高原的非人类的景象，甚至不如画家，无法以个人卑微的创造或再现来验证或折射上帝的大创造，惟有叹服至死。飞翔，是我们最能想象得到的超越人间的方式，而大鹰正是以飞翔代替我们接近着上帝，从而成为我们的精神之象征。它们不是在肉体上与同类沟通，而是独立地死去而进入永恒。这首诗所写的是那最高的高原吗？这大鹰是带走了人的肉身的鹰吗？
About the Poet诗人简介:
Chuanghu is the pronunciation of the name but it means “Window.” I read his poems and like them much. We occasionally exchange a few words through the “comments” button in our blogs. His real name, I don’t know; his age, I don’t know; his profession, I don’t know. He constantly brands his poetry writing as “taking notes,” with which I’d also frequently refer to my own writing.
Depression
By Chuanghu (Window) tr. Fan Jinghua
The same dusk. I came out of a multi-storey building
Into a road-side eating-house.
I sat alone, eating there.
The sky. Drizzle began a little while earlier.
The place was bright and spacious,
And a few waiters leaned against the counter, doing nothing.
This is a scene I must have seen,
Either years ago or years from now;
Even after my death, it may happen to another one, all over again.
Oct. 2010
忧郁症
窗户
一样的黄昏。我从楼房里出来
走进路边的一家餐厅
一个人坐在那里吃饭
天，刚刚下起小雨
餐厅明亮而空阔
几个服务员站在柜台旁无所事事
这情形，我似曾经历
不是多年之前就是在多年之后
甚至在我死后，还将在另一个人身上，重复
The Sky over the Plateau
By Chuanghu (Window) tr. Fan Jinghua
Meager as if it’s been washed,
And yet it has unlimited allure.
Turn your head for any times,
There are as many times of resurrections—
Painters will die of visions. We will die of praising it,
The eagles, of solitude and freedom.
Oct. 2010
高原的天空
窗户
一贫如洗
却有着无穷诱惑
多少次转身
就有多少次复活——
画家们死于幻象。我们死于赞美
而大鹰死于孤独和自由
译读窗户的两首诗
窗户的诗写得看似轻松随意，语言晓白，却蕴意深厚，有时力透纸背。这两首诗显示出两个完全不同的心境，虽然我们不能将诗中的我与诗人对等，但还是可以说只有当诗人有那种心境感受力的时候，他才能写出那样的诗。
《忧郁症》中意境的细密是以语言上的一种疏松呈现出来的，这是窗户诗歌的特强处。以“一样的黄昏”开篇，起句就展示那暗含的大片背景。当没有另一个参照项的时候，说黄昏是一样的，那么要么就是说“依旧是那一成不变的老样子”，这里就包含一种厌倦感；或者说，这个题目与“一样的黄昏”是连起来读的，就是“忧郁症一样的黄昏”。无论怎么说，统领这首诗的，还是作为标题的“忧郁症”。厌倦感，本质上是不可写出来的，因为对于厌倦感的表述本身就是厌倦得不再有表达它的心情，犹如人们说“别和我比懒，我懒得比”一样。厌倦，包含着“一成不变”，最一成不变的就是日常，于是“我”很日常地从楼房到餐厅，犹如从睡到吃。没有约人，没有人约，所以这吃是最日常的吃。所以，这吃是没必要将食物进入视野（描述）的，这吃不过就是为了吃，不是什么享受，所以“我”就看到了天下小雨，服务员无所事事。小雨，没有什么动静，人也恹恹的。
前两节的描述很客观，甚至有点普泛，“我”的动作没什么特别的：“出来”、“走进”，“坐在那里”。第三节用了“这情形”，将第一节中远距离的“那里”变成了一个眼前，一个“我”需要面对的或反思的情境。一个曾经的或者经常性的情境，也就是一个“一成不变”的情境，是否给“我”留下了一些心理上的痕迹？若有，那么就不算什么毫无意义，哪怕是重复。重复若能产生意义，主体就必须有独立的自我意识，是不可替代的独立个体；而《忧郁症》中的“我”既不是作为一个独立个体之我经历如此情境，也没能在经验如此情境时成为一个独立个体。“我”对于这一切毫无意义，这情境可以在任何“另一个”身上重复。
当“我”无法赋予自己的经验以任何意义的时候，“我”也不可能为任何一次重复赋予意义。从这个角度，再看作为过渡和连接的中间一节。第一节写的是一个作为“他者”的我，一个“客观的我”，一个作为任何个体的我。第二节对于餐厅的描述是“明亮而空阔”。空阔，不仅是人少，更是因为人毫无走动，没有生气；明亮，从光学的角度来看，令其中的人越发孤单。当然，明亮更令“我”看得明白透彻，对此对应的是那几个服务员的无所事事。因此，中间一节既是将上一节中的“我”映射到他人身上，使得具体的一个人可以变成泛指的所有人，也为下一节中“我”的反思提供了一个基础。忧郁症需要一个走不出来的思维陷阱。
《高原的天空》写得天阔云淡，秋高气爽，恢弘幽邃。在“高原”，我们看到的不是植物的繁盛，在高原的天空中我们看到的是一顷碧蓝，再近的云也会很遥远，背景太深邃。在此，诗人将地境与天境集中在人境中，说“一贫如洗”。贫，是植被稀少的贫，是天空杳阔的贫，是人到达此境时自感渺小的贫或身家辎重都已抛弃的贫。洗，也来自天空如洗；诱惑来自深邃。当心境一贫如洗或净洁如洗，那就有无穷的可能，因而转身就是复活。画家所为便是描绘所见，无论所见的属于物象，还是心象，当他们到了高原，无论在天空描绘，还是在画布上，他们都只能哀叹自己作为技术人的窘迫与困顿。我们普通人，面对高原的非人类的景象，甚至不如画家，无法以个人卑微的创造或再现来验证或折射上帝的大创造，惟有叹服至死。飞翔，是我们最能想象得到的超越人间的方式，而大鹰正是以飞翔代替我们接近着上帝，从而成为我们的精神之象征。它们不是在肉体上与同类沟通，而是独立地死去而进入永恒。这首诗所写的是那最高的高原吗？这大鹰是带走了人的肉身的鹰吗？
About the Poet诗人简介:
Chuanghu is the pronunciation of the name but it means “Window.” I read his poems and like them much. We occasionally exchange a few words through the “comments” button in our blogs. His real name, I don’t know; his age, I don’t know; his profession, I don’t know. He constantly brands his poetry writing as “taking notes,” with which I’d also frequently refer to my own writing.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Fan Jinghua: To---
To--
When we forget the world,
The world is left with you and me only.
The sky and the earth are still themselves, round or square.
Clouds fly over our heads, and your voice speaks.
I do not turn to where the sound comes,
For I have a bliss of my own.
Oct. 4, 2010
有赠——
我们忘记世界时
世界就只剩下我们
如此，天自圆，地自方
云从头顶飞过，你的嗓音传来
而我不必循声看你
我心中自有喜悦
2010年10月4日
When we forget the world,
The world is left with you and me only.
The sky and the earth are still themselves, round or square.
Clouds fly over our heads, and your voice speaks.
I do not turn to where the sound comes,
For I have a bliss of my own.
Oct. 4, 2010
有赠——
我们忘记世界时
世界就只剩下我们
如此，天自圆，地自方
云从头顶飞过，你的嗓音传来
而我不必循声看你
我心中自有喜悦
2010年10月4日
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