Fan Jinghua: Miss You in the Cold Autumn

　　　Miss You in the Cold Autumn

As the night deepens,
The seasons in one day have turned to autumn.
The marrow-level tilts like a seesaw, one end
Down to the ground, the other pointing to somewhere mid-air.
The Milky Way lies bare;
You lie below.

On which layer of the darkness
Will a body of boneless warmth float?
A thousand foggy hands of night wrap and lap
With pale tongues of fire, cocooning the tender one,
Billowing inside itself—
But how can this tense silk hold itself up to fingertip and warmth?

The inn of time is neat as a crypt, and this is
Another city, a magic carpet that takes you for one night’s flight;
You, sleepless on a new bed, resign yourself to the distant clouds,
Unable to set loose a dove.
Counting the green-eyed lambs; searching for a particular one,
You turn and twist or lie in a crucified posture in the hammock of a love song.

Imagination, however tenacious, cannot spring forth a lotus flower
From the mud; poetry is nothing but refined feculence.
If this poem can bend and fold up the space—
Like two photos brought together to touch foreheads—
It must be for the suffocating attraction
Between the ends of distance; words alone cannot make it.

Breath keeps breathing creatures apart, and desire is fermented
In their respective memory; love without rubbing
Has nothing but waiting and aging as the pigments appear.
We speak but not know who is listening,
We have bodies and they are alive; we smell of ourselves,
And we see phantoms of flowers in the dark.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 13-17, 2010

(Thank you, George)

　　冷秋之念

一天的四季，至此，夜已入秋，
骨头的水平仪
倾斜，这条跷跷板一端下沉，另一端
伸向稀薄的远方。
银河依旧，横陈于天；
你，在下面。

那一团温软会在哪一层幽暗上漂浮？
夜的如烟的
千只手，缠绕，以苍白的火苗；
一个蚕茧的空间，自己
在体内涌动，
这欲裂之帛该如何承受指尖和温度？

时间的旅店，墓穴似的整洁，这是
另一座城，你栖宿的飞毯，一夜的航行；
认床的人，渴望远方，泛滥着，放不出鸽子。
云朵后，绿眼睛的羊时隐时现，
你要找到一只，同眠
在一首情诗的吊床上，蜻蜓点水。

再坚韧的想象力
也不能将一支荷花从污泥中撺出，
诗，只是提炼了的云气。
假若有一首能将空间弯曲、折叠，如两张照片
吸在一起，拥吻，那是因为
距离太浓稠，言语不能独自承受。

呼吸，将人分开，在各自的记忆中
发酵欲望，而爱没有了
厮磨，色素从毛发中沉积成老年斑。
我们说，而不知谁会听见，
我们有可触的肉体，我们嗅闻自己，
想象着黑夜中的花。
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年11月13-17日

Fan Jinghua: An Accidental Leave-Watcher

　　　An Accidental Leave-Watcher
It is a dark road, in the drizzle, like an oil-shining boa,
Mysterious, profound and tranquil, witnessing leave-watchers
Of various colors and somewhat accordant sentiment,
But the road harbors no pride in its witnessing even miracles
Like a love-at-the-first-sight affair
Between an oriental man and a Celtic woman
In this small mid-West town.

Those extravagant caps and hats over stately jackets,
Some rain-proof,
Display their understated readiness
For ordinary spectacle of autumn.
This is All Souls’ Day. Invisible apertures take in so many souls,
But these visitors have all planned their return journey
Before their coming.

Unexpected encounters are proofs of hidden expectations,
And whoever comes
Comes to meet the destined moment.
The town does not have to exist, as long as
The roles capture the people and the scenario becomes.
It is the tears from separating lovers that turn the leaves red,
As an ancient Chinese romantic drama renders.

Ever since, no road does not eat its own tail.

Fan Jinghua: Scholar Stones

　　　　　　Scholar Stones

These cavity-permeated rocks were once kelps and sponge,
Salt and waves grown into their muscles and bones.
In their instinctive intimacy with water, they cannot hide their memory of home.
Border-crossers, bracketed in between two opposing waves
Of ocean and land, they have never learned how to roll;
No matter how distinctive, they are not of any kind.
A hill is formed at their remotely possible curves, shins to shoulders, feet on collarbones,
As if eggs are piled up, glued by droppings that fertilize the grasses.
In the cornucopias, grasses raise their blades and play in warm breezes,
Tickling the fossilized nerves of the stones.
Human beings have never been part of all this, and there were times
When people posed in front of them, and now they watch distantly,
Rarely framing their faces with the holes.
Yes, what else is worthy of memory except for the texture of one’s own?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 11, 2010



　　　　太湖石

这些穿了孔的石头生为史前的海带与海绵
盐与浪蚀入肌骨，保持为嶙峋的轮廓
故乡的记忆只剩下与水本能的亲近
逾界者都是不善滚的，它们有别而无类
只在不多的平滑处相依相叠，如累卵，积留一点泥
于是最柔的小草爬上来，与蜗牛一道躲风避雨
或借着和煦的小风搔弄它们已成化石 的痒神经
人，从来都外界于它们，曾经在前后相依而弄姿
而如今更多的人只是远观，不会从中探出头来留影
除了自己的质地，再没什么值得纪念的历史
　　　　　　　　　　2010年9月11日

Plath: Mirror

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 154

　　　Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
　　　　　　　　　23 October 1961


普拉斯《诗全编》
第154首

　　　镜子

我，银质，精确。绝无先入之见。
无论看到什么，我都立即吞下，
原封不动，不因爱憎喜恶而蒙上雾气。
我并非残忍，只不过实话实说——
一个小神的眼睛，四角方正。
大多数时间，我沉思默想着对面的墙。
它是粉红的，有褐斑。我已盯着它很久了，
以为那是我心地的一部分。但它会闪动。
人脸和黑暗再三再四地将我们分隔。

如今我是一潭湖水。一个女人弯身就我，
搜遍我的幅员，查证她自己究竟是什么。
然后，她转向那些说谎者、蜡烛或月亮。
我看到她的后背，忠实地将它呈现。
她对我报以泪水，以及双手的激愤。
我对她至关重要。她来来往往。
每个清晨总是她的脸取代那片黑暗。
在我深处她已淹没一个少女，而自我深处
一位老妇日复一日向她浮现，像一条可怕的鱼。
　　　　　　　　　　　　1961年10月23日