Poetry Chinese

Fan Jinghua: The Sea of Clouds

2011-11-08T03:37:00.000+08:00

The Sea of Clouds

It is not about holding and letting go any more,
and I do not even care about how much time has flown between us.
Lucky sight-seers can always see the sea of clouds,
and they outnumbered themselves when they climbed the mountain.
The dazzling clouds that a younger me admired and touched
on the mountaintop had many names and forms,
and now they are clouds, flying low in my mindscape.
They had their days, their libertine tentacles blooming,
so bold and clear, so ingenuous and unartful, they swelled up,
and the closest one was lost in its whiteness.
An awesome fear that I could never have imagined
came like a beauty, tangible before I called out a name
to make sure the one standing by me was still there,
but with the sea of clouds something was gone forever.

　　　　云海
不再与抓紧或放手有关了，我甚至
不在乎已有多少时间从我们之间流过。
幸运的观景者总能看到云海，
他们爬山，数量超过了他们自己。
炫目的云曾令年轻时的我惊叹，在山顶
我也触摸过，它们有很多的名字与形状，
如今它们是云，在我心灵的风景中低飞。
它们也有当年之勇，放浪形骸的触须
如花盛开，爽朗，干净，毫无心机，
它们涌上来，于是最近的人就消失于一片白色。
一种我从未敢想象过的恐惧降临，那么慑人，
犹如一种美，在我喊出一个名字之前那么真切；
还没来得及确认站在身边的人是否还在，
有一种东西就已经永远随着云海的来去消失了。
　　　　　　　　　　　2011年11月8日夜

Fan Jinghua: Fragment

2011-10-24T03:05:00.001+08:00

Fragment
　　　　　(After Raymond Carver)

Did you hold in your heart
What you’ve desired for your life,
Without distortions?
No, I didn’t.
And what did you distort?
All but the easy flow of life,
And they have been zigzagging beneath a stony mountain.
How did people say?
Oh, they like those pools with bubbles rising from the depth
And the dazzling sunlight on the surface.
　　　　　　　　　　Oct. 14-15, 2011

　　断章
　　　　（仿雷蒙德- 卡佛）
你心中暗藏了
一生的欲求
而毫无扭曲吗？
不是的。
你扭曲了什么？
除了人生的自然流淌外，
一切都在一座山下扭着之字。
人们说了什么？
哦，他们喜欢那些潭水从深处冒出气泡，
还有水面上的阳光摇曳。
　　　　　　　2011年10月15日

Fan Jinghua: Then

2011-06-23T16:31:00.000+08:00

Then
In due time, they sat down, face to face
And for a moment they both looked
Outside the window
The teapot was refilled once more
And then it was left unrenewed, and untouched, and became lukewarm
And then there was what it followed
That is, they rose and went, one behind another, and respectively
They took their own bus
They did not hold hands, therefore there was
No separation, and till today he still remembers
How she…
　　　　　　　　　　March 2010

　　后来
然后，他们坐了下来，面对面
还在某个时候同时
望了望窗外
茶壶，续了一次后，没有再续，没有再碰，就变得温吞
后来，就是接下去的样子
就是说，他们起身离开，一个在前一个在后，然后各自
乘自己的公车
没有拉手，所以也就没有
分手，至今他还记得
她……
　　　　　　2010年3月原作

Fan Jinghua: A Moment of Eternity

2011-06-23T16:08:00.001+08:00

A Moment of Eternity
　　　　　　　　[To Someone]
A moment is a rubber band, and by moment only,
Many moments are stretched, tense and translucent,
Superimposing themselves over time,
While space is tightened and thickened, between us.

On the stretches of the sand that girdle a South Pacific island,
Small washed-away flowers of pale orange
Float back to reclaim the existential equilibrium
Between claw-prints and wave-teeth.

Yes, birds from Siberia come and go
Fluttering the same pairs of wings.
Who would be so bored as to discern the color difference
Between the tail-wind and head-wind flight?

Only you and I are still hoping to set our bare feet
On the vibrating chest of the ocean, asking for a tune.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 28, 2010

YUAN Mei: 3 Poems

2011-06-05T22:42:00.000+08:00

Impromptu (An Incidental Poem)
When a mind has a thing to rest on, it is constantly calm;
Flavors last longest if they are not sought after.
A child tries to snap the fluff of willows,
It matters nothing if he does not catch anything.

　　　　偶成
有寄心常静，无求味最长。
儿童擒柳絮，不得也何妨！

　　　　Moss
Where sunlight does not reach,
Moss chooses to settle down.
Its flowers tiny as grains of rice
Learn to bloom like peonies.

　　　　　苔
白日不到处，青春恰自来。
苔花如米小，也学牡丹开。

　　Sighted (What Enters my Eyes)
A cowherd riding a yellow cow,
The woods echo with his tunes.
Suddenly, he stands still, silent,
For he wants to catch a cicada.

　　　　所见
牧童骑黄牛，歌声振林樾。
意欲捕鸣蝉，忽然闭口立。

Fan Jinghua: Deceitful

2011-06-04T14:34:00.003+08:00

Deceitful

How sad the changes have not taken place
Despite our heartbeats surge for so many seasons.
People have learned to change paces, and nowadays
They can walk stately by rivers and hover over ragged roads,
And automatically they streamline their staccato steps.
There is wisdom in keeping feet dry when walking the sea-breeze,
And every little thing can turn into a fetish through touch and gaze,
If we choose not to put it into the two and two of big questions.

Dreams are too selfish, though; so let’s look up to clouds.
They are trailing out there in the evening sky for the moment,
Easygoing and unflappable, unrolling their colours and shades.
It is beauty that a day ends like this, and it is good that you are
Entranced by the sight; is it a virtue that I put you into perspective?
Still, it’s sad the changes have not taken place as we desired, isn’t it?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011-05-15

　　　　可欺
多么悲伤啊，变化从未发生在可以触及的地方，
而心跳如潮涌，过了一个又一个季节。
人们已学会调整步伐和姿态，在水边时
那么庄重，在坎坷的路面上又能悬浮起来，
自动地将断奏似的脚步连成一条流线。
走在海滩上还能双脚干爽，这无疑是一种智慧，
而假若小事不放到两两相关的大问题之间，
每一件俗物都值得赏玩和凝视。

不过，梦似乎有点自私，所以我们还是看云吧。
看，它们缓行于黄昏的天空，那么随和自若，
为了此刻，展示内在的色彩和色调。
一天如此结束，是美；你被此情此景迷住，是善；
而我将你的背影置入大大的背景中，是美德吗？
我们欲求的变化未能发生，这仍然是悲伤吧？
　　　　　　　　2011年5月15日

Today is the 22th anniversary of June 4 Tiananmen 1989

Fan Jinghua: Spent

2011-05-22T01:31:00.000+08:00

Spent
On the lotus leave, naked mercury
Rolls down from the huge green slope, polishing
The belly button of the small universe
A drop of coolness balances on the column head
Like a porcelain placenta opening to the above
It is not yet sacrificed to the love-shaped dragonflies
The sun throws out its poisonous rays
At the sinews of petals, and they suddenly let loose
Of their clutches on the ovary
And the dim water receives a fleet of colourful boats
　　　　　　　　　May 21, 2011

　　　落

荷叶上，赤裸的水银
从绿坡上滚落，将小宇宙的肚脐
抛光成一枚钮扣
一滴凉爽凝结在那挺拔的柱顶
瓷厚地压紧一盘向上的敞开
还没有被人类奉献
给蜻蜓的爱心，阳光的荼毒
刺扎花瓣之根，忽然的松开
幽暗的水面平添一排彩舟
　　　　　　　　　2011-5-21

Fan Jinghus: Seaside

2011-05-15T04:10:00.004+08:00

Seaside
The sun’s poison is still strong
When people are half awake to the stupor of a nap
At the end of the scaling alley stands a broad-leave tree

Thick breaths roll over the dam
And the busiest eyes will cast a look into the direction of sounds
Where holiday makers look like small crabs with whitish shells

The beach arches into an expanse of infinity
Vaster than imagination, making imagination empty
Rocks seem to sink deeper, but is there anyone who can tell why
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 15, 2011

　　　海滨

当人们半醒于午睡的瘫软中
阳光的余毒正强劲
小街斜坡的尽头，站着一棵阔叶的树

粗重的呼吸从海堤下翻滚过来
最匆忙的人也会循声一望
度假的人犹如小螃蟹驮着泛白的壳

而沙滩一扭身就无边无际了
比想象更加空旷，令想象忽然空旷
那些岩石似乎陷得更深了，那是因为什么
　　　　　　　　2011-05-15

Fan Jinghua: Making Sentences with Prepositions

2011-05-09T02:53:00.010+08:00

　Making Sentences with Prepositions

I sit by a desk, facing a white wall in a small room.
I am at home.
The sunrays are outside my window.
A group of boys are playing football on the green field across the residential quarter.
When I am not writing, I look up from the desk and look down at them running in the grass.
I know there are always people in the building beyond the green lot, although I can not see through the blue glass wall.
There must be people looking down at the players, whether I am looking or not.
I am not in the opposite building.
On Saturdays, many people go into that building, reading in the public library.
There are a boy and a girl now sitting at two sides of one of the long reading tables, separated by a frosted glass.
On each side of the glass there is a notice that reads “Please keep quiet.”
The warnings are stuck on the same position of the glass, as if they are one piece of paper with two faces to two directions like Janus.
The boy and the girl are each reading a book at the same table, not knowing what the other is reading.
Most of these are what I see when I am sitting by desk, and some are added on the basis of what I have seen.
I am still by the desk, at home, as this Saturday is going by with the sunrays,
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 8, 2011

　　用“在”字造句

我坐在桌前，在小房间里，对着一堵白墙。
我在家。
阳光在我的窗外。
一群大男孩在小区对面的草地上。
他们在踢球。
我不在写字的时候，我抬起头，低头看着他们在草地上追跑。
我知道总还有一些人在绿地那一边的楼里，不过我看不穿那蓝色的玻璃墙。
无论我是否在看，他们中肯定有些人也在看那些人踢球。
我不在对面的楼里。
在星期六，许多人会走进那座楼，在公共图书馆里阅读。
他们坐在那些长长的桌子两边，长桌中间隔着一块毛玻璃。
一个男孩和一个女孩坐在这样的一张桌子两边，被一块毛玻璃分开。
在玻璃的每一面，都贴着一张字条，上面写着“请保持安静”。
那两张告示贴在同一个位置，好像是同一张纸条，有两张脸，向着两个方向。
那男孩和那女孩在同一张桌子旁读书，不知道对方在读什么。
这些大多是我坐在桌前看到的，有一些是我在看到的基础上添加的。
我还在桌前，在家，周六正在随阳光消逝。
　　　　　　　　　　　　2011年5月8-9日

Black Hole

2011-05-07T01:44:00.000+08:00

Black Hole
　　　　　　　　For X
Inverted Babel, words interject into each other
Along the descending course, and radii of meaning intersect
No light, understanding takes place in darkness and becomes darkness
This is not a rabbit hole. No point turning your head
For marrow has long ceased dripping from the end of our spine
There is no free fall here, no balls
And we crawl, clicking to the cragged wall of the hole
Praising the body that glitters in memory
The union and pleasure that are almost perfected in imagination
And the bliss that makes us feel the eternal breeze over time’s tributary
Now, the present comprises of the past only, and the past has been filled
Only with the future, but have we reached that moment already?
In this black tunnel, my voice is all that is left of me, and you hear it
You take in my pervasion, my persistent resignation, through the soul’s membrane
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011-05-03

　　　　黑洞
　　　　　　　　　致X
倒垂的通天塔，语言在伸向深渊的途中
彼此插话，意思的半径开始交叠
没有光，理解在黑暗中，成为黑暗
这不是兔子洞，回头失去了意义
骨髓早已不再从我们的尾骨滴出
胆量，这里没有自由落体的球
我们吸附在嶙峋的石壁上
爬着，赞美记忆中闪烁的身体
以及想象很久才臻于完美的交融及欢愉
那福分令我们相信时间支流的岸上春风永远醉人
如今，现在只有过去，而过去曾一直充满着将来
此刻我们已经抵达那个时辰了吗
在这个黑隧道中，我的声音就是我的全部，你听到了
我的弥散，我执着的放弃，我的融入，透过灵魂的过滤膜
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011-05-03

A Boulder on the Riverbed

2011-05-07T01:43:00.001+08:00

A Boulder on the Riverbed
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　For Cheng Ying
A boulder is there on the riverbed, simplistic and plain
As sunrays fall down from the cliffs of clouds to scan it
It’s a matter of seconds, but even today it has been there
For more than half a day already; and it shows nothing
No expression of a still-water heart at the unchanging flow
Nor inner disturbance at the sun's fickle sports with clouds
The passer-by, if not going down there to touch it or kick it, will learn
To accept that its solitude is warm or cold solely for its own sake

A boulder on the riverbed is there, not for those drifting on the water
Nor for the vagabonds in search for a shelter on the earth
Whoever is intent on flowers and fruits won’t recognize the veins of stone
A boulder has a weight unknown to anyone, without gain or loss after birth
But everyone is free to attribute a growing awareness to it, as if it’s always had
The awareness that other boulders exist in sight at different distances
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011-05-02

　　　　河床上的大石头
　　　　　　　　　　　　（致成婴）
河床上有一块大石头，简朴，素白
阳光的瀑布从云的悬崖上泻下，扫描它
只是几秒钟的事，可今天，它就一直在那儿
已经半天多了，没显露任何表情
没因为流水不变的沉着而心如止水
没因为太阳与云朵亵戏而内心焦灼
经过的人若不去触摸或用脚踢踢，就得学会
接受，它的孤独是冷是暖，都只属于它自己

河床上的石头在河床上，不是为了弄潮逐水的人
不是为了在大地上寻求栖身之所的流浪者
谁执着于开花与结果，就注定认不出石头的纹脉
石头自有重量，不为人知，从出生就未曾增减
人人都可随意给它注入一种意识，犹如一直生长在它内部
意识到其它石头的存在，在视野之内，不同的距离
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011-05-03

Backlighting

2011-05-07T01:41:00.000+08:00

　Backlighting
　　　　　　[To—]
In the light cast down
Through the corridor window
You stand
Gold-lined hair against a black treetop
I see you unbutton your lilac cardigan
Standing still and sending out a strong beckoning power
Me sleepwalking to you
Like an arrow toward the centre of a shallow focus photo
Going through the wall, stepping into the air
And I fall
You are sitting on a branch of that black tree
With a winged figure, smiling at the distant
Oh, the last shade in my eyes, the etherealness of my love
　　　　　　　　　April 28, 2011

逆光
　　[致——]
走廊尽头的窗子
投下一方光柱
你站在其中
头发鎏金，背后是黑色的树冠
你解开丁香色的对襟毛衫
静立着，施放强烈的能量，召唤
我梦游向你
犹如一支箭航向一幅散景照的中心
穿过那堵墙，踏空
坠落
而你在那棵黑树的枝干上
与一个带翅的人形并坐，对着远方，微笑
哦，我眼中最后的影子，我爱的缥缈
　　　　　　　2011年4月28日下午

A Haiku for Japanese souls lost in tsunami

2011-05-07T01:40:00.000+08:00

A Haiku for Japanese souls lost in tsunami

Never lit a joss-stick before
Today my hair washes the toes of Buddha
For the lost souls in the tsunami

从未烧过一枝香
今天我以头发洗濯佛脚
为了海啸的亡魂

A Stolen Act in Three Scenes

2011-05-07T01:37:00.002+08:00

A Stolen Act in Three Scenes

From a shoulder of an artificial hill among the pines
The full moon could be seen rising by a white pagoda
The park’s gate was already closed, and that was a stolen scene
In a dangerous corner in 1980s when patrolling guards
And hoodlums were active at nights of the first open-door years

A couple of days earlier on the campus, by a stone table under wisteria
His hand forced its way into her bra, and one by one
It cupped her younger-than-a-palm breasts and she gradually gave up
When his fingers reached her pubes, she suddenly collapsed
Letting loose the tautness of legs, and sobs and shivers welled up

Then she woke in his arms from stiffness to suppleness
At the gush of morning sun, he came on the stony ground by her hand
They parted repressed before a momentous turmoil boiled
And years later, she, divorced in another country, wrote about her feminine youth

“We did not do, we did not do
We rotated at the eye of revolution
And orgasmed at a young man’s rude touch
And then we escaped
The faith we were inculcated in the trinity
Of polygamy, patriarchy and monarchy
Is cancerous even in my recollection
When I write this poem today
All those lads have become half old men
In the country behind my back
Whose flaccid drives can no long do
What should have been done in the bold youth
But all men will wither into history
Maturing into intact eunuchs…”
　　　　　　　　　　March 27, 2011

　　偷来一幕三场

从松树丛中的假山肩头
可以看到月亮从白塔身侧冉冉升起
公园已经关了门，那是偷来的
风景，在八十年代一个危险的角落
巡夜者与流氓共存于开放之初的深夜

几天之前，在校园紫藤廊下的小石桌旁
他将一只手强行塞入她的胸衣，逐一
捂过那对不足一握的乳房
当他的手指抚摸到了她的阴阜，她突然决堤
双腿的紧绷溃消，抽泣与颤抖随之翻涌于周身

然后她的冰冷在他的怀中苏醒，从僵硬到柔软
朝阳喷薄时，他借她的手泄精于坚硬的地面
一场骚乱前，他们怀着抑郁各自离去
多年后，她皈依女性主义，在异国写她的青春

“我们没做，我们没做
我们在革命公转中自转
小毛头生硬的触摸就已高潮
然后胆怯地逃跑
我们一贯被灌输
一夫多妻、父权与帝王制的三位一体
时至今日我写着这首诗
它仍如癌细胞一般在回忆中扩散
那些青涩的小伙子都已
在我背后的国度变成半拉老头
他们欲望依旧而动力疲软
不再做年轻气盛时该做的事情
可是所有男人最终都要枯萎着
进入历史，成熟为完整的阉人……”

Fan Jinghua: Memory of New York

2011-03-06T02:43:00.004+08:00

　　　Memory of New York

By the porchs of apartment houses along the drive
Snow from the day before yesterday heaps
White balls splash into sugar before and behind you
Their sound is so crystal clear
You are made to realize there must be a net above the tree branches
And winds have broken through it
Someone laughs behind you because a snow ball has hit you
On the head and shoulders
Strangers scattered in the alleys in the most supercilious city
Become so close when you walk alone

　　　纽约记忆

车道两旁，公寓房的门口还有前天的积雪
雪团不时在你的前后摔碎
那声音说出白色的重量，犹如糖霜般明确
你这才意识到树枝在高处结着网
而微风似乎已经刮过
有人在你身后笑出声来
因为雪团击中你的头与肩
散落在街巷深处的陌生人如此亲切
当你独自走在世界最冷漠的都市

Yuan Mei: Three Poems

2011-02-27T03:56:00.003+08:00

Yuan Mei: Three Poems

Yuan Mei (1716-1799) was one of the few great poet scholars in Qing Dynasty that I love. Whenever poeple talk about Classical Chinese poetry, the names such as LI Po, DU Fu, Bo Juyi, Tao Yuanming, Su Shi would pop up into their minds, and for good reasons, too. For the dynasties that came after the greatest poem dynasty Tang, regulated verse appeared to be in the decline. However, the regulated poetry has always been the most respected genre in China, even with the popularity of lyrics (ci-poem) in Song Dynasty that followed Tang. Yuan Mei's poetry is sometimes very colloquial, and almost every object in the daily life could enter his poetry, such as chopsticks etc. He was influenced by Zen Buddhism, and the following poems may exemplify the point.

　　Passing by

Passing by the Green Creek, by chance,
Where spring water runs through the misty wilderness,
I noticed a fishing rod on the ground
And saw no one around.

　　偶过
偶过青溪上，濛濛野水春。
钓鱼竿在地，不见钓鱼人。

　　偶accidental 过pass by
偶accidental 过pass by青Green溪Creek上over
濛濛misty 野wide 水water 春spring
钓to fish with a hook鱼fish竿rod在 (be/exist) on地ground
不not 见see钓fishing鱼fishing 人man

　　Call on someone
That night, I tried to call on someone
in the mountain, under the thick moonlight.
I knocked on the gate,
no one seemed to be alarmed,
and only a crane answered.

　　访客
夜访山中客，濛濛月色凝。
敲门人未觉，仙鹤一声应。

　　访visit客guest
夜night访visit山mountain中amid客guest
濛濛misty月moon色color凝thickening
敲know门gate人man未not yet觉sense
仙immortal鹤crane一one 声sound应respond

　　The Window Pushed Open
All the night, rain and wind are charging hard,
And my brushwood door has been shut tight.
The mountain must have been missing me for too long,
For it pushes open the window, coming at my face.

　　推窗
连宵风雨恶，蓬户不轻开。
山似相思久，推窗扑面来。

　　推push窗window
连link宵night风wind雨rain恶evil
蓬brushwood户door不not轻easily开open
山mountain似seem相思miss/long for久long
推push窗window扑throw at面face来come

Cheng Ying: Memory

2011-02-24T14:49:00.004+08:00

Cheng Ying: Memory

　　　Memory
　　　　　　　　　　by Cheng Ying tr. Fan Jinghua

Old women, do they recollect in the same way?
I’ve spent too much time remembering,
Not solely because life is boringly long—
I bring forth to my offspring what has been engraved on my body,
And what’s been written by the body, I deliver once and again
Till it frees itself through nerve-ends. At midday,
I pluck the berries of my hard work
To feed my diligent breasts;
As for the seeds of pain, I pick them out
And once every month I see them off to Lethe.

　　　记忆
　　　　　　　　　成婴

年老的女人，会这么回忆吗
我花费太多的时间，用以记忆
不尽然是生命冗长---
我将刻录到身体的，孕养给后代
身体所铭写的，一遍遍传送
直到逸出神经末梢。午间
我摘下辛勤劳获的浆果
喂养孜孜难倦的乳房
疼痛的籽实，拣择出来
每月一次，我亲自送往忘川

About the Author:
Cheng Ying, born in 1971 in Guangdong, is a researcher on architectural history and a documentary film director. She received her MA in architecture from Tsinghua University, focusing on the study of Confucian Temples and Schools. She has published a book of poetry Sitting on the Roof Beam. She now resides in Beijing.

成婴，71年生，广东人，获得硕士，主攻庙学，现居北京。建筑史研究者和纪录片导演，著有诗集《坐房梁》。

Fan Jinghua: Self-Distanciation

2011-02-21T10:10:00.003+08:00

Self-Distanciation

Pull me closer to rub off my desire for you, let me lean
Against your bubble; besiege me with those luscious Greek goddesses
Etched on the cold ground glass walls
Whitewash me with the paint of social conduct, layer upon layer, coating my
Self that has grown into my flesh and veins, until I am airtight
And bloated with the muzak of subliminal knowledge about the way of the world

My arms dare not open to let into my bosom
The lower fever of the surreality of your dream
This is also not geomantically auspicious for self-conservation
Blood-colored sunrays shower on the beach of your words and wishes
Untrodden, where I breeze-bathe, despairingly sad
And erect like a coconut tree arced toward the lonely sea

Shroud my faculty for feeling the wind, moonlight and the sound of the tide
Cast your spell, and feed me with lotus seeds and moly juice
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 20, 2011

　　　　自离歌

别松手，拉我，柔韧地，让我贴着你的泡泡
搓掉我对你的欲望，在我四周竖起隔音的毛玻璃墙
把我关在丰腴的古希腊女神的蚀刻中间

用社会准则的油漆涂抹那长进了我筋脉与肌肉的自我
一层又一层地粉刷，直到我密不透风，我的内脏鼓胀
如气球，人世之道的背景音乐从意识之下潜入

我的双臂再也不必向你的梦境张开
不必让它超现实的低烧涌入我的胸怀
这也不符合风水自养的吉利

残阳如血，斜照在你言词与愿望的沙滩
这儿人迹罕至，我赤裸于风中，绝望而悲伤地挺起
犹如一棵椰子树向着独孤的大海倾斜

恳请你蒙蔽我感受海风、月光和潮音的能力
降下你的咒，喂我莲子和魔草汁
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2011年2月21日

Fan Jinghua: Self Healing

2011-02-11T23:12:00.003+08:00

Self-Healing
Winter’s quilt falls on the earth, an enshrouding safety,
And Heaven’s arch door is locked by two latches.
A silkworm coils up in the semi-darkness, glowing as silk strings.
Imaginary matchsticks do not shed wax tears of a candle,
They are melting the mound and creek under the cupping hands.
In the cave of metaphor, Platonic roses bloom on the bed,
Coldness still lingers outside the window, and a prolonged drought
Is temporarily relieved with the first snow that comes late.
The earth’s blue veins swell like cobra roots of banyans,
And the queen of the night has a pot of tea ready for the summer sunset
To fall and steal into a dusky yard where the apparition of a peach flower
Reminds a once down-and-outer of a maiden from his past.
Expectation since the harvest moon is scarring over, itchy,
But it is healing by itself under the quilt of the winter.
　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 11, 2011

　　　　自愈
冬日的大被是安全的，天的拱门
插上了钌铞，蚕宝宝雌伏
在黑暗中，发出如丝如弦的幽光
想象的火柴棒不滴烛泪，融化双手覆盖的
山丘和溪水，柏拉图的春花开在隐喻的洞穴
而窗外依旧清冷，干旱因一场迟来的初雪
得到暂时缓解，大地靛青的静脉如菩提树根
暗潮纠结，昙花已备好一壶茶
为配合夏夜潜入庭院而预演一次桃花魅影
秋收以来的期待开始结疤，痒，但正在痊愈
　　　　　　　2011年2月11日

Plath: The Moon and the Yew Tree

2011-02-04T17:09:00.005+08:00

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 153

　　　The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky—
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness—
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　22 October 1961

普拉斯《诗全编》
第153首

　　　月亮与紫杉

这是心智的光，冷，飘忽。
心智的树都是黑的。光，是蓝的。
青草将哀伤卸在我脚下，似乎我就是上帝，
刺扎着我的足踝，低诉它们的谦卑。
灵性的袅袅的雾霭居住在这个地方，
与我的屋子仅有一排墓石相隔。
我实在看不出还有什么地方可去。

月亮绝非一扇门。它自身便是一张脸，
像指关节一样白，而且不安到了极点。
它拖着大海，像拖着一宗黑暗的罪行；它很安静，
有着彻底绝望的圆型哈欠。我住在这儿。
每个礼拜天，钟声两次震惊天空——
八只巨大的舌头确认着耶稣复活。
到最后，它们肃穆洪亮地念出自己的名字。

那株紫杉直指夜空，呈现哥特式形状。
眼睛沿树向上，便会发现那轮月亮。
月亮是我母亲。她不像玛丽亚那样甜美。
她的蓝罩衣释放出小蝙蝠和猫头鹰。
我多么愿意相信温情——
那张模拟像的脸，因为烛光竟也和蔼，
还特别对我垂下它温柔的眼睛。

我已在堕落之途走得很远。云正在绽放
蓝色与神秘的花朵，挡住了星星的脸。
教堂内，圣人们将会全身蓝色，
借助脆弱的双脚，漂浮于冷冷的长椅之上，
他们的手与脸，因神圣而僵硬。
这一切，月亮什么都没看见。她是光秃的，野生的。
而紫杉的信息是一片玄黑——玄黑和沉默。
　　　　　　　　　　　1961年10月22日

Mao Pang: Dawn of the New Year

2011-02-02T16:07:00.005+08:00

Today is the Eve of Chinese New Year (Lunar New Year), and I translate one classic Chinese ci-poem (song lyrics) and wish everyone who comes to visit me here a happy and prosperous Year of the Rabbit (2011).

元日（玉楼春）[宋]毛滂
一年滴尽莲花漏，碧井屠苏沉冻酒。
晓寒料峭尚欺人，春态苗条先到柳。
佳人重劝千长寿，柏叶椒花芬翠袖。
醉乡深处少相知，只与东君偏故旧。

元primordial日day（玉jade楼tower春spring）
[宋song (dynasty)]毛Mao (surname) 滂Pang (given name)
一one 年year滴drip 尽over 莲lotus 花flower漏waterclock
碧bluish green 井well 屠苏a kind of herb沉sink冻iced酒wine
晓morning 寒chillness 料峭cold尚still 欺bully 人people
春spring 态manner 苗条slender 先first 到come 柳willow
佳beautiful人people 重once and again 劝urge 千thousand 长寿longevity
柏cypress叶leave椒pepper花flower 芬sweet 翠bright green袖sleeve
醉drunken 乡country 深deep处place 少few 相each other知know
只only与with东君East Lord (the Sun) 偏to lean故旧old friend

My translation:
　　　Dawn of the New Year
　　　　　(to the Tune of Spring Befalling the Jade Pavilion)
　　　　　　　　[Song Dynasty] Mao Pang (1061?-?)
Another year is dripping to its end on the Lotus Water-clock,
My favorite herbal wine kept deep in the green well.
While the cold winter air is still bullying people,
The spring has been badgering with the willows with its light manners.
My women urge me to drink more of the tonic,
Their bright-patterned sleeves fanning out its aroma of cypress and pepper.
In the realm of wine and poetry, I have few bosom friends,
And the sun may be the only visitor as if like my own kith and kin.

Fan Jinghua: Three 3-Line Poems

2011-01-14T13:11:00.000+08:00

three 3-line poems
1
Under the file of trees on the other band of the river
Clothed figures moves with their own pace
Like corporeal ghosts float toward tangible past

河对岸的一列树下
一套套衣裳缓急自适
有形的灵魂漂向可辨的古代

2
That oracle comes from memory,
Ariadne’s cave half-open
The time of this life scrapes our skin like cold wind

那是谶语，来自记忆
阿里阿德涅的洞穴门扉半启
此世的时间寒风般擦刮我们的皮

3
Tahiti women offer their fruits with piety
For the fruits have their right time of ripening
Gauguin is ashamed for his impatience to pick

大溪地的女人捧出果子
以及对瓜熟蒂落的感恩
高更为曾经急于采摘而羞愧

Fan Jinghua: An Empty Chair

2010-12-11T11:19:00.003+08:00

An Empty Chair
The emptiness on a chair can be so huge, nothing can fill it up
Not any amount of cement or poultice, and your absence is bone-felt
I look into my bowl of porridge while chewing pickled mustard tuber slices
This kind of lightness is bearable
As taboo words are being written in the air
How many pupils are tracking the streamline of power? I will never know
When my heart will go numb from too much thought
No land surveyor could know what is going on in the separated souls

A traditional air on a western instrument brings to me my homeland
Where jasmine flowers bloom despite the winter there
Tonight I celebrate by masturbating hard, forgetting my heart
Tears come with spasms
Your moans are the supreme laudation, and when you turn away
Satisfied, my love wells up to charge my weak body and I get lonely and cold
　　　　　　　　　　　　Dec. 10, 2010

　　　　空椅子
一张椅子能承担如此巨大的空，什么也不能填满
无论用多少水泥和药膏，你的不在浸入我的骨头
我看着鼻子前的一碗稀饭，嘴里嚼着榨菜丝
这种清淡是可以忍受的
而当禁忌的言词在头脑中书空，有多少眼珠
会跟随那权力的流线？我永远也不会知道
何时我的心将会因为想得太多而麻木
土地测量员无从知道散居的灵魂中发生了什么

一曲传统小调在西方的乐器上将我的故土带到我的眼前
那儿正是寒冬，而茉莉花一直开放
今夜我以死命的自慰作为庆祝，忘掉自己的心
在痉挛中泪水涌出
你的呻吟是对我的至高赞赏，而当你满足地转身
我的爱从身体的柔软处泉涌而上，我又陷入孤独和冷
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年12月11日

Fan Jinghua: Miss You in the Cold Autumn

2010-11-17T19:45:00.007+08:00

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

2010-11-16T01:40:00.001+08:00

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

2010-11-14T19:27:00.003+08:00

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

2010-11-14T19:13:00.003+08:00

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

Fan Jinghua: Only Our Fingertips Touch

2010-10-31T17:53:00.001+08:00

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

Fan Jinghua: A Universe of One’s Own

2010-10-31T17:45:00.002+08:00

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

Plath: The Babysitters

2010-10-31T17:42:00.001+08:00

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

Fan Jinghua: The Hidden String

2010-10-12T09:58:00.006+08:00

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

Fan Jinghua: Gazing at Water

2010-10-06T16:41:00.001+08:00

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

Chuanghu: Two Poems

2010-10-06T13:44:00.008+08:00

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.

Fan Jinghua: To---

2010-10-05T21:00:00.000+08:00

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

Fan Jinghua: On Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night

2010-09-25T00:44:00.002+08:00

On the Postcard with Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night

Diamonds of night are beginning to soften now
The last round is not yet ordered
But my eyes have already gone intoxicated
They won’t be like a cut-off ear
That could fly to an untouchable lover
And make her panic and reject the craze
Creators inevitably create loneliness and send themselves
Strolling along the empty alleys
Where the flying ear takes in chilly chirps of autumn insects
And the sleep talks to be uttered
　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 24, 2010

　　题明信片
　　　　——梵高《阿尔勒的夜间露天咖啡馆》

夜的钻石开始柔软
最后一杯还没有叫
而我的眼睛已醉
不会像一只切下的耳朵
可以飞向触摸不得的情人
令她惊恐而拒绝这种痴狂
创造者自找的孤独
最终将自己送入深巷
逡巡中承接秋夜蛩音
和仍未发出的梦呓
　　　　　　　2010年9月24日

Plath: New Year on Dartmoor

2010-09-24T11:55:00.002+08:00

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 156

　　　New Year on Dartmoor

This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.

普拉斯《诗全编》
第156首

　　　达特穆尔高原的新年

这是新：每一道小屏障
都罩在玻璃中，花哨而奇特，
以圣人的假嗓子，闪烁，玎玲。只是
你不知道该如何应付那突然的溜滑，
那盲目、可怕、难以触及的白色倾斜。
你所知的言词，无法将它征服。
大象、车轮或者鞋子，也征服不了。
我们来，也只是看看。你新来初到，
还不能要到玻璃帽下面的那个世界。

Was SP so alienated when she got there and was forced to reflect on her own "newness"? How similar is the glass-wrapping (and the glass hat) with the bell jar and/or the "untouchable" snowscape in a childhood gadget?

Fan Jinghua: Catechism

2010-09-24T10:52:00.001+08:00

Catechism
Do you love the faraway ones more dearly than you love God?
--Yes, because that is what God does not care to know.
Do you despise and contemn your selling yourself?
--Yes, because whatever in me is sold won’t be bought again.
Do you enshrine your own creation?
--No, because I want to grow old with it.
Are your spiritual lust and carnal love united in equilibrium?
--Oh, yes. I fold emptiness into an umbrella and pile up nothingness into a bed,
And my spiritual lust hides in the shade while my carnal love lies on the sheet.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 23, 2010

　　　教义问答
　　　　　　　　　[To L]
你爱远方的人胜过爱上帝吗？
——是的，因为那是上帝并不在乎的。
你鄙视你自己的出卖行为吗？
——是的，因为一旦卖出就再不值得收买。
你供奉你自己的造物吗？
——不，因为我想与它一道变老。
你的精神之爱与肉体之欲统一吗？
——是的，我将空白折成一把伞，将虚无叠成一张床，
我的精神之欲躲在伞下，肉体之爱躺在床上。
　　　　　　　　2010年9月23日

Fan Jinghua: The Blue Room

2010-09-20T21:23:00.001+08:00

The Blue Room

At a time of uncertainty in the no-man’s land, they again put themselves back into the bed,
Their bodies touched by that Christmas tree guarding the corner of her corridor.
Love, after resuming itself once again, was dissipated like those faint glitters,
And eleven stories down, the steady yellowish light cuddled under the lampshades
Along the going-away road; at the crossing with three tulip trees, she told him,
A black romance writer she often saw during breakfast was killed by a truck.
Now she bowed herself up, facing that direction, falling into the tristesse of necessity,
On his right, as a golf-course was silent, rising and falling in the night air, all by itself.
A small white ball of life energy fluttered like a butterfly in the bluish light,
Creating a course for itself, and a course unchartered had its own free will.
The whiteness meandered from him to her, leaving a stirring inside one body
As if it was glaring, not ready to give up yet; his leg moved to touch hers, his hand
Fumbled upward from her thigh, till she lead it to her lips, her breath even and warm,
And she freed her hand to hold his warm softness, saying that stood for her love.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 18, 2010

　　　　蓝色房间

从凉苍苍的无人之地，他们再次回到床上而不知何时
走道的拐角，卫士般的圣诞树先后触摸了他们的身体
重燃之后，爱，有着反光似的散淡，缀满那礼赞的树身
十一层楼下，远去的路上，暖黄的光凝聚在一根根柱头下
那儿的一个路口，有三棵鹅掌楸，她说，也是在这样的夜里
一位言情小说家被卡车碾过，她再不会和他在早餐时相遇
此刻她侧身弓起，在他的右侧，沉入一阵必然的忧郁
窗下，静默的高尔夫球场微微起伏，在夜色中
生命力的小白球在这房间幽蓝的空气中蝴蝶般升降
自创一道并无章法的轨迹，沿着自己的自由意志
那白色蜿蜒着，从一人到另一人，他体内有它微动的气流
一种不甘，他犹豫之间抬腿压向她，手由下向上抚摸
直到她将它从胸前拿到唇边，她的呼吸均匀而温暖
而她腾出那只手，摸着他温暖的柔软，说那代表着她的爱
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年9月19日

Fan Jinghua: "Don’t let go of what you want to give out…”

2010-09-17T13:11:00.002+08:00

"Don’t let go of what you want to give out…”

Don’t let go of what you want to give out; stand still
Or pirouette, by a grass-kippahed wall or under a phoenix tree
Lock what you wish to give out to the pit of your neck like a new moon
And for a pendant, please use a glitter; you also know
When in the mountains one needs distractions to better understand
How clouds and mist embrace the intimate distance from the grave contours

It should be a guessing game that can prove
How real and tight an open palm can hold
I am neither a fish nor a butterfly; no need to cast a thread
To hook up a fatal communication or a net to capture my eternal prime

If you wish to indulge two souls, try your arsenal of classic tropes
To tease out another’s knowledge of a secret language
Or peel off your social wrappings and take a shower in the corner enclosure
Where a voyeur you exhibit to will be happily drowned in the ecstatic mist
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 15, 2010

　　　要送出去的，你请不要放手……

要送出去的，你请不要放手，伫立或单脚旋转
在梧桐的浓荫下，在青草覆额的墙边
要送出去的，你要系在锁骨上，像新月要平衡整个夜空
你要戴闪光的坠子，你也知道，身在山中的人需要干扰
才能了悟云雾为何那么疏远地拥抱山峦凝重的轮廓

张开的手能确凿而实在地拥有什么？这
需要一个心照不宣的猜谜游戏来验证
我不是鱼，无需一根线勾住一场致命的交流
也非蝴蝶，无需一张网捕捉我华年的永恒

若你想满足两个灵魂的渴求，尽管
从你隐秘的武库中选取古典的修辞格
试探另一个人对那秘密语言的知识，或者
一片一片褪去包裹身体的社会，走进那角落的
幽光，让你神会的偷窥者淹死在那极乐的雾气中
　　　　　　　　　　2010年9月16日

Fan Jinghua: Autumn

2010-08-23T22:18:00.000+08:00

Autumn
Leaves no longer shy from their speckles,
The dark green of the trunk is turning into dry black,
And between the wrinkles, cool air accumulates its cocoons.
The sun strikes its square steps on the earth,
Its slanting light calm and soft; the night is elongated
And grows flaccid, unable to reclaim upon cock-crows
The spirits that stole out of the bodies.
Those whose souls have taken their nocturnal flights are now preening
In front of a foggy mirror for a should-be image,
One soul shoveled into the flesh and the other auto-saved into a digital gadget;
Before fully awake, they have hurried down into the pedestrian crowd.
Last night, two shiny moths fly their bridal dance,
The beautifully crossed arches do not exist in the physical world,
And even memory cannot remember which one is hungry and which bloated.
　　　　　　　　　　　　100822 Autumn

　　　　　入秋
叶子不再遮掩自我蚕食的斑点，枝干的暗绿
转向黝黑，皱褶间，凉意开始凝滞、隆起、结茧
朝阳的方步按部就班地迟来，斜照大地的光
平静而柔和；夜，越来越长而疲软，已不能
在鸡鸣时分立竿见影地回收逸出肉身的精魄
灵魂出窍的人半睁着眼睛梳理应有的形象
将一颗灵魂从下身塞进肉体，另一颗
保存到电子玩意中，匆匆走进日常的人群
昨夜，有两只闪光的蛾子在脑中划着交汇的弧线
此刻一切都归于空白，忘了谁胀饱、谁饥渴
　　　　　　　　　2010年8月22日

Mindy Zhang: Sappho's Lover

2010-08-21T19:03:00.001+08:00

Sappho's Lover (From “Voice-Over: A Suite”)
　　　　　　by Mindy Zhang

Your sexuality is the last weapon you own.
You are wise, and you know
Less exposure means stronger killing power.
Let those eager to unfold show the secrets of their lesser tricks.

You stand, but not as a pose, your skirt-hem not flaring, hair in a bun,
eyes focused (yes, whoever watches you, you look back flat).
You do not even need to compose poems. You are a poem.
But those honey-skinned fresh souls, flying around,

with hungered eyes and lips, charming as yours,
with bouncy desires and burgeoning thirst for knowledge
resorting to no scheming, craftiness or worldly sophistication…
I can always find excuses to pardon them.

You are beaming as before, with a smile barely perceptible
and jealousy tucked into the pleats of your dress or into your dewlaps.
You do not toy with the trick of “-isms,” and yet
you are still the born killer, leaving me terminally unrecoverable.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　March 2010

　　　萨福的情人
　　　　　　　　　明迪
最后，你只剩下性别，这唯一的武器。
你很明智，知道越不展示，越有杀伤力。
而那些急于解开自己，亮出所谓秘密
的小把戏，一旦揭穿，就不再具有任何威力。

你不摆动裙衫，也不摆弄姿势，长发盘起，
目光专注（对，你直视那些注视你的人），
你甚至不用写诗，你就是一首诗。
但那些蜜色的，飞舞的，变幻的生命，

带着饥饿的，与你一样迷人的眼睛和嘴唇，
比你更有弹性的肌肤，还在发育中的求知欲，
没有心计，没有城府，没有世故的挑逗，
一个六尺男儿，怎会没有怜香惜玉的借口。

你仍然光鲜，步态优雅，不动声色地吟诗，
把嫉妒藏在裙子的褶缝中，或赘肉里。
你不轻易玩“主义”之类的剑法，
但我知道你有一个杀手锏，会令我一蹶不振。
　　　　　　2010.3.15.《画外音》组诗之七

About the Poet:
　Mindy is an emigre poet and media worker living in LA, US. She has published two books of poems, and this poems is from her newest book coming from The New Continent Press.
诗人简介：
　明迪，移居美国的诗人、媒体工作者。这首诗取自她由美国新大陆诗社即将出版的诗集。

Fan Jinghua: Simile

2010-08-21T18:53:00.001+08:00

Simile

The slow motion of clouds is eternal
Nonarrival, repetition. And it superimposes itself
As surfs eat and make the palimpsests on the shore
Who is fondling whose expectation of touch
While winds tiptoe across the grass.? A slope is always
A slope, no matter it rises or falls
Then the spring becomes the summer, and the autumn
Becomes gold, the winter silver
Whoever harvests the seed of waiting is doomed to
Disperses himself into the faraway field
The shoot to come is the eye of the storm, charged nothingness
Holding its centre very tight
　　　　　　　　　June 10, 2010

　　犹如
云的缓行是永远的
不达，一次又一次将次数融成一体
如波浪涂抹沙滩上的底本
可那是谁抚摩谁对于抚摸的期许
如风过草
坡儿没有上下，而春天就暖成了夏
然后秋天黄了，冬天白了
谁还收藏等待的种子，谁就注定
要将自己播种到远方
将来的苗儿，如风暴眼，坚强地
揪紧虚空的内心
　　　　　　2010年6月10日

Fan Jinghua: Solveig

2010-08-09T22:52:00.001+08:00

Solveig
　　　　　　　　　　　[To --]
When the sun sets at the initiation of autumn
And the mirrors of leaves deflect any daring eyes
She is impregnated with eternity
And has nowhere to go any more
The earthly Eden lies in the blind valley
Of human nature’s ruins
A chalet with a small window and a spinning-wheel is enough
For her to be a life-long amateur weaver
Counting the rebirths of flowers
And working on a poem with the invisible ink of hormone
　　　　　　　　　August 9, 2010

　　　索尔维格
　　　　　　　　[有赠]
立秋的夕照下，树叶的镜子炫目
而她身怀了永恒，已再无去处
人性遗迹的盲谷便是人间的伊甸
一只单窗小木屋配一架纺车
就足以令她满足，终生做一名业余织工
蘸着荷尔蒙写无字的诗，不想花儿又重生了几回
　　　　　　　　2010年8月9日

Fan Jinghua: Versions of Distance

2010-07-24T18:56:00.000+08:00

Versions of Distance
　　　　　　　For homebound Elaine
You’ve known between the south and the north
Different versions of distance, enough to see
How reason can be a spring working against or for
Commitment, passion and their future.
In the plastic bamboo grove, we always sit around a table, talking,
Once about whether oily words could drive at a meaning
Constant like the cholera-free ship mooring offshore.
Or, when enthralled by a show, do we need
To judge each role by the performer’s art or nature?
We sit still, the scenes flowing away before our eyes,
And as we sit still, the scenes flow within us;
This is the same as you, coming and leaving, breezy,
While people are continually revised by distance,
So that our lasting ache is shown as mortal happiness.
Yet, as we talk about tables in our childhood homes,
We each have a separate past to share, and we may believe
We must have known each other when, across time and space,
The first steps of our bare feet started to measure the world.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　July 13-14, 2010

　　　　叠映
　　　　（送许琨女士归国）
你走过南与北的多重版本，懂得理性
会以弹性对付情感、义务以及它们的可能。
在实心竹围出的竹林里，我们围着盘子说话；
油滑的言词能否指向不变的意思，如霍乱时的
那艘游船，终于没有了昏乱，在海岸线外停泊？
或如着迷于一场表演，是否要评判
那些角色是本色的呈现还是性格的创造？
我们坐着，那一幕幕径自从眼前流去，
而我们坐着，那一幕幕也就流经我们；
正如你来了又去，留下再来的期许如玉。
所有人都一再被距离划分成“我”的多个版本，
各自的短暂幸福都是一个长久的渴望。
当我们说起家乡的餐桌，我们才发现
你我的曾经那么相似；这或可令我们相信
人人都似曾相识：曾经，我们隔着时空
赤脚学步，从那儿开始衡量世界，至今。
　　　　　　　　2010年7月15日

Fan Jinghua: Interlude

2010-07-21T22:17:00.001+08:00

Interlude
—Now, we continue with the juncture and/or mutual proof between being and nonbeing.
Is it that being validates the necessity of nonbeing
Or that the self-depowerment of nonbeing projects the absoluteness of being?
Or in what affirmative way can nonbeing present …… Hi, John, your coffee,
Where did you get it? I have smelt of it before I knew you were coming.
Now you’ve come to prove that my sense of smell is so real.
—You smelt of coffee when I was absent, and then how do you prove that was my coffee?
Oh, you seemed to be saying something about the affirmativeness of nonbeing.
My presence now is the result of my absence just now, while coffee has always been present?
—Ah, Comrade St John, coffee was absent, but the smell of coffee is always present;
You know this, I know this, and now everyone present has smelt of it.
—And then you can proceed to talk about what coffee we each have smelt of.
—Good! You can finish your coffee first, while we can wait for those absent.
…..Hi, Mary, Christian, come in! You smell of the coffee in your hands or that John has finished?
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　July 13-14, 2010

　　　　　　　　插曲

——现在，我们继续讨论在与不在的接缝或互证。
是在确证了不在的必然，还是不在的自我消权凸显了在的绝对？
或者，不在是以何种积极的方式……嗨，约翰，你的咖啡
是从哪儿弄来的？我不知道你会来，可我早就闻到了
你的咖啡；现在你终于来证实了我的嗅觉不虚。
——我不在时你已闻到咖啡，那么你如何能确证
那是我的咖啡？对了，之前你似乎在说不在的肯定性。
此刻我在了，是因为我刚才不在？可咖啡一直都在？
——哈，圣约翰同志，咖啡不在，而味道一直都在；
这一点，你知我知，在座的各位现在也都闻到啦。
——那么我们讨论讨论我们闻到的是哪种咖啡吧。
——好！你先喝完你的咖啡，我们等一等不在的人。
……嗨，进来吧，玛丽亚，克里斯蒂安。告诉我，
你们闻到的咖啡是你们手上的还是约翰喝掉了的？
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年7月13-14日

Fan Jinghua: Going to Heavendale

2010-05-28T17:23:00.014+08:00

Going to Heavendale

Dear soul, cherished soul
I sent you a message telling you that I may go to Heavendale
Sometime at the end of September
I am not expecting you to fly from Westland to meet me
But if it happens you need to go there too around that time
Even if you are going there to meet someone
Maybe we can meet up, for a chat, maybe even for a glass of wine
But of course there is no obligation, no commitment of any kind
For us, flying takes much more than our everyday routine
Although the routine holds the dream of flying too
I have to admit when I got the news that I was accepted
To that symposium about bird anatomy
I felt a little un-self-composed for a few nights
Part of it being that I am not the least interested in it
I thought of this long before I sent in my proposal
For if chances favor me, I would be happy to quit the symposium when I go there
I have never cared about anatomy, the least of all about birds
But as I have a natural passion for the beauty of flying
I always have something to say, perhaps insightful, hopefully inspiring
And if you are around, I may even turn soulful
But even If you will not go, I won’t feel guilty of being a waste
Whatever said or unsaid, you are my soul, and whenever possible
I’d do everything to be with you, physically
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010-05-28

　　　去天堂谷

亲爱的灵魂，珍爱的灵魂
我前几天给你发了个信，说我可能会在九月末
去天堂谷
我并非指望你从西部飞来见我
而是想，假若你碰巧也需要在那个时候去那儿
哪怕是要去见什么人
或许我们可顺便见上一面，聊聊，甚至喝上一杯
当然，不要有什么压力或承诺，随性最好
对于我们而言，飞，总是日常之外的奢侈
尽管我们的日常本身也包含飞的梦想
我必须承认，得到通知说我已被接受去参加那个鸟类解剖研讨会
我有几个晚上都不够沉静，感到有点不像自己了
部分原因在于，我对这会议毫无兴趣
这一点我在递交申请前就早已想到
因为这样的话，一旦机会向我偏心，我去了那儿，就会乐于逃会
我从没对解剖学有过兴趣，更不用说还是鸟
但我对飞翔之美有着一种天性的激情
总还有点心得，希望不算陈腐，也许对人有所启发
如果你来了，我甚至还会充满深情
而即便你不来，我也不会感到疚愧
不管我们说过什么，否认过什么，你依然是我的灵魂
只要一有可能，我总会努力和你相聚
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年5月28日

Fan Jinghua: Rain over Partington

2010-05-08T15:41:00.002+08:00

Rain over Partington

The rain has stopped, and it is time for her to go out of the castle.
The slope before her is dustless, and walking down it may render her shoes
Mud-stained but not waterlogged.
There are no trees, no birds, not a soul in sight,
And she dangles a handbag by her side like a pendulum, to balance her gait.
She has broken the grandfather clock with her Swiss watch,
And now she carries the coin-like watch-face in her purse.
A post-castle souvenir, with Roman numbers.

The view has never been so vast. She felt a little horrified,
Pausing at the suspending bridge, below which the water runs cryptic
In the ditch between the inside and the outside. Half full.
Living took her in the pre-castle phase, and in the castle, she takes life,
While her soul stands out of her body, injecting stimulant.
Now, the world has taken on another face. She accepts everything,
As neither buds nor flowers can be kept fresh for long, even if they avoid direct sunlight.
Their promise may be time-conditioned, but the feel is real, better than the real.

The elastic suckers of the rain slipped on the windowpane;
Rain has a language of its own, onomatopoeic, atemporal, but it too becomes easily
Bored of its reiteration that beloved ones would invent a way to indulge and sustain,
And avoid the expression of love and longing.
Souls, once flown out of their hosts, can be tele-mated,
And a rain or window poses no hindrance, a slope not a slide.
Now they put talks into silence, and end up with a hackneyed joke
That the rain makes itself a better company by keeping overstaying guests.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 6, 2010

　　　　渭城朝雨

雨停了，她出城堡的时辰到了。
那下坡道上没有灰尘，走下去，她的鞋子
或许还会沾点污泥，但应该不会湿透。
不见树木、不见鸟、也不见一个人，她荡着
一只手袋，在身侧，如钟摆，平衡着她的步态。
城堡中的大座钟，已被她用手表砸坏。
此刻，她的钱包里收藏着那硬币似的表面，
一件后城堡时期的纪念品，有罗马数字。

在吊桥上，对着从未有过的浩广，她心中一阵恐慌；
脚下，护城的水涨到深沟一半，隐晦地流淌。
由此，世界分成内外。入城堡前，生活占有了她；
而在城堡中，她出窍的灵魂占有了人生，给身体注射亢奋剂。
如今，世界换上了一副陌生面孔。她必须坦然接受。
因为即便躲开阳光的辐射，花朵与蓓蕾也都不能保鲜多久；
它们的承诺或许只是应时应景，
而那感觉很真，比现实的还要真实。

雨的吸盘在窗子上打滑；雨有自己的语言，
拟声，独立于时间，可它很快就能学会应该如何厌倦
自己的一再重申，不再说分隔的密友都会
发明一种方式，沉溺于情，却绕开言辞，不提爱与思念。
出过窍的灵魂才会远距交合，淫雨和窗户
都不是封锁，下坡也非滑滑梯。
将说话插入沉默，最终只说陈腐的"下雨天留客"，留下的人
"相见时难别亦难"，留下该走的人，令雨天变成更好的伴。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年5月7-8日

Fan Jinghua: Love Song for T

2010-05-05T14:11:00.003+08:00

　Love Song for T
Your eyes can always make me believe
The wandering ghosts in this world have a string
Behind them, and I am always on the way home
Even by your side or deep in you.

At this moment, there is wind outside, but you
Want to drive it away with your voice,
Knowing for a fact that not only may I turn to you a deaf ear
But also I’d take a glimpse of the sky full of hesitation,
For the square of skyscape attracts me more.

Being allured by cloudscape is my nature, and you know this too well.
This knowledge of knowing is not for words, because for the most time
The core of love is wrapped by chores, and now we peel it no more.
A core that is too easily seen needs an estranging membrane.

When closeness and remoteness are undividable, all my wants
Are you combined, from the past to the present, and you allow me
The wildest dream about an alternative future followed by a self-mocking smile.
At this, you return to old days, bringing me a fit of wonderful shudders.

Little rococo shells fall and rise like flakes in a draught, songbirds
Swimming in the sunlight-scissored air in a gorged defined by an old knotted pine.
Above, a spread eagle is still, like a rivet in the sky.
There is eternity in this motion, and I see seasons change but not your eyes.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 4, 2010

　　　给T的情歌　　　
　　　　　　　　　　　　　
你的眼神能令我相信，这世界的游魂
都牵着线，我总在归途，在你身边或更深处

此刻，风在窗外，你却要以自己的声音撵走
明知我对你也会充耳不闻，还不时瞥一瞥窗外
那布满迟疑的天，是更令我沉迷的一方景致

看景，是一种习性，你懂得；这熟悉
之所以熟悉，大多数时候是因为它经得住
一层层剥开，而我们都不再去剥

熟悉的核，需要蒙上陌生的膜

当远与近不可鉴别，你叠印着我所有的欲望
从过去到现在，容我狂想未来，然后暗自嘲笑自己
你会立即回到从前，令我美妙地惊颤

洛可可的涡纹蜿蜒进入腹底，仰望与俯瞰交汇
每个悬崖都需要一棵拧着脖子的树构成风景
让世界有孤飞的大鸟，也有成群的斑雀

而我才能是那守望的人，看你的四季更替
　　　　　　　　　　　　2005年12月17-21日原稿

Fan Jinghua: Metamorphosis

2010-05-02T23:33:00.002+08:00

Metamorphosis

His tongue forks, but no denying
his form is human, mostly.
Oh, he has such an ivylike voice that can sound
to any ears unblocked with firewalls!
Crawling like invertebrates, it foists into
the grand blue-sky dreams of lesser mortals,
and the throbs of its erected tentacles can perforate
their gold-fringed clouds into honeycomb,
leaving the land of honey and milk
deluged with muddy water.

Distance caves in
and souls are nullified because they have never been
registered by names;
the King of Hades is an actor, lazy by nature,
and likes to recite obscure lines from famous playwrights,
therefore his Book of Numbers is understandably intercalated
with blank pages and red dates.

Statistics feed on fleshes and produce manure
of high potency, so rich in hormone
that the law of energy conservation is out-of-date day by day
in a gigantic hot balloon.

He can smile a smile, cry a tear and smile another tear or smile,
seamlessly as if there is no smoothing-out,
while those terror-driven arms cling
to the anesthetizing sucker of a super-size leech
that ripples toward the foggy other side of sound.

They cannot feel their own hands feeling for themselves.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 28-29, 2010

　　　　变形记

他舌头分岔，但不可否认
大多数时候他确实是人的模样
再说，他还有常青藤般的嗓音，能爬进
任何未被防火墙堵塞的耳朵，混入
次等凡人的青天白日梦
像无脊椎生物，而它勃起的触须
只需颤一颤
梦中的那些镶金云朵就会穿孔
成蜂窝，原本
流着蜂蜜与牛奶的大地也就浸泡在
一汪浑水之下

安全的距离塌了方，许多灵魂
被顿时取消，只因他们从未
按名字登记入册，而阎王
是个天性闲散的演员，略懂吟风弄月，善于引用
名家的冷僻字句，所以
他的账簿常有空白之页与血红的日子

统计学喜食鲜肉，拉出的肥料
也够劲，且富含荷尔蒙
足以令能量守恒定律
在蒸蒸日上的巨型热气球中
失效

他会笑一笑，流下一滴泪，再笑出一滴泪或笑出一声笑
过渡得极其自然犹如没有过渡
那些凡人之手却被恐惧驱动
吊在一只超级大水蛭致人麻醉的吸盘口，随着它
波浪般的起伏
隐入雾蒙蒙的声音彼岸

他们自己都摸不到自己
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年4月29-30日

Chuanghu: To--

2010-05-02T23:28:00.001+08:00

To—
　　　　　　By Chuanghu (Window)　tr. Fan Jinghua

Hold up an umbrella
For rain is about to fall from above

Do not sit on the balcony watching the moon
Go back to your room

What’s the point holding a lute in your unaccompanied arms
If spring can still make you lonely

　　致
　　　　窗户　作
打开伞吧
天就要下雨了

别坐在阳台上看月亮
走回房间吧

一个人抱着琵琶有什么意思
如果春天还使你孤单

　　　　如果春天还使你孤单……　　　　　　　　
　　　　　　　　——窗户《致》的读法　　　

赠诗主要有两种，一种是豁达豪迈的赠寄，一种是回肠九曲的私语。对于前者，我们恐怕立即会想到李白们的唱和酬答，而后一种则常见于感怀伤情的欲说还休之作。在我们的文化传统中，男女私情很少会被放置在公共空间中宣扬，不像西方，他们甚至乐于将原本是公共空间的情感以一种私情的方式抒写出来，然后再放置到公共空间中去弘扬。我们即便是有了相悦之情却总还要犹抱琵琶，我们的情诗总是隐晦曲折，而西方则似乎只有写了情诗诏告社会才能显示自己对他人的欣赏，于是语言也就浓烈奔放。我这样笼统概括的中西之别实际上是自找麻烦，因为任何一种文化常模中令人惊喜的效果往往是要结合某种otherness另类性；新异性的效果则还是因为它与常规的疏而不离才能显示出来，也就是，一首诗的新颖在于它能被普遍接受而同时又能触发敏锐细致型的读者。
读窗户的诗，令人感到一个本质上很心细的男人，心细到为了表现一种洒脱而故作随意，有时我甚至觉得那是他在掩饰作为诗人的腼腆。当这种故作随意出现在赠诗中的时候，那个说话人就有点“顾左右而言他”的感觉，然而这种“言他”却留下了巨大的意蕴空间。这首小诗是赠人的，而赠给谁连诗人自己也不觉得有必要哪怕用一个代号指示出来，因此那个被赠对象就具有了两种可能：一个只能是两个人心知肚明的人，或者，任何一个能够读懂他的人。这便是赠诗或情诗的本质，即：这首诗永远处于被赠送而待接受的状态。
任何赠诗或情诗必然没有一个终结点，而是一个永远的过程，一直在等待着被接受；它的意义在于再一次被阐释，犹如音乐存在于乐谱的被演奏中。赠诗或情诗的文本是读的，而它的意义则永在途中。这样界定赠诗或情诗也许会引起人们的争执，似乎所有诗歌都是如此的（这一点可能正确，条件是你承认所有诗都是情诗），因此我先岔开一下。
诗，曾是史，也就是描述，是为了用语言令人见到，这又发展为描述和叙述；而描述，无论是对人情还是事态，都还存在于人们对于诗歌的一般定义中，亦即诗歌是语言的艺术作品，一种文本product成品。对于文本产品的阐释不是过程性的，而是一种按照艺术作品的通用语法来抽丝剥茧，条分缕析。这样的阐释阅读往往针对于经典作品（无论是当代的还是古典的），其一个原因是要将它距离化，读者与文本往往不是平等的，读者必须承认文本的权威。
赠诗之所以是一个永远的过程，正在于它内置了一些只有被赠对象才可以破解的机心；而这种机心在经典作品中即便被当代人读出来了，也因为不会获得原作者的默认而早已失效。而反过来讲，赠诗和情诗则又永远是当下的，因为它的原作者一直暗暗摇晃着一支透明的火把，灼伤某个循着温度掬手去承接的人。阐释的历时性就在于此，而历时性的阐释中那个作者早已死亡，巴特所谓的作者已死论说的就是作者不过是一个功能。文本本身承担了作者的意图，而读者在阐释文本时成为了那个意图的终点。文本常在，作者已去，读者陆续趋前，一再将那个终点延伸或者使之蔓生。
窗户的这首诗所涉及的各方角色可以如此界定。窗户是这首诗的作者，是将这些文字写出来的人，而他却可以说只是一个功能，他说了这些话，在写的时候注入了情感；我们不可以说窗户这个人是以自己的经历入诗，而是说他能够体验个中情感。因为情感的某种普适性，因而我们可以欣赏这首诗并分享这种情感，于是我们一方面可以成为那个作者，一方面也可以成为那个被赠对象。那个被赠对象其实也只是一个功能，令这首诗具有一个可以落实的对象；一个对象(an object)当然不是惟一的那个对象(the object)。当然，这样说，并没有否认这首诗可能具有的个人经验色彩。即便我们说这首诗是窗户的个人体验，这体验也更应该从精神心理层面上来说，因为实在有太多的人可能具有相似的经历而无法写出如此的诗。因而，写诗的窗户肯定高于那个经历这种事件的窗户，那个高于具体生活中的窗户才是作为功能的诗作者，是一个永在当下的角色。
这首赠诗甚至没有写出那个被赠者，可以说这个作者表现了某种无奈，要么无须说，要么不可说、只能在想象中说，亦即心有灵犀或者隔山打牛。这首诗说得很少，没有说话人露面的主语之我，而且只是到了最后一行才将受话人的宾语之你说出来，亦即，人都是隐匿的，这也算是一种曲隐吧。隐匿人称这一点也与这首诗中的几个关键意象相辅相成。前四行是祈使句，伞和房间是一种覆盖或遮蔽。这首诗就在遮蔽与敞开的交错中展开，而与这种展开一致的是这首诗的空间指向，从开放空间（“天”）到封闭空间（“屋里”）再到开放空间（“春天”），与此对照的变化则是物理空间（户外）到心理空间（春）的变化。
劝人家打开伞，无异于说风雨欲来而我无法为你遮风避雨，你好自为之；而我们都知道“天要下雨”与“娘要嫁人”之后是一种无奈。第二节则是进一步劝那人回屋去，不出户是为了要那人不可感物伤情。阳台，是私人空间与公共空间的交界处，一个危险的场域；这是令说话人最敏感的地方，正如晨暮时分灵魂的脆弱。这里，我有一点没有看懂作者的用意，因此我也可以说作者无法令我明白。从古典意象看，这里的“坐在阳台上”通常是“倚（危栏）”，也就是“独上西楼月如钩”的情景，我认为这里有一种化用，然而“坐看”的闲适在此却是不很适切的；而这个“坐”与下一行的“走回”之间的动静对比显得有点太人为，因为这里劝的关键是“回”，而不是“走”。琵琶在我们的诗歌与文化传统中有很多指涉，在此我想列出最常见的两条。其一，“犹抱琵琶半遮面”所写的，第一层是要“说尽心中无限事”，而更进一层则是“同是天涯沦落人”；其二，“琵琶别抱归南浦，负却当年鸾锦书”。这两者都可能隐含在字面背后，然而“一个人抱着琵琶”写的是孤独自怜，这种孤独来自春情。说话人的态度是矛盾的，从一开始他就非常明确自己的无奈，因而只能劝慰那人躲避，少一点感伤，而他又说自怜或者“琵琶独奏”是无意义的，可他却也无力给出什么“有意义的”答案。作者创造了一个真正恋恋不舍的无奈之人。
有关翻译似乎也还需要讲一点。由于我对于人称的读解，因此第一行中没有翻译成“打开open你的伞”而是“撑起一把伞”，这是因为hold up（举起来）要与下一行的from above（从天上）对应；而第二行必须考虑rain（雨）这个关键词具有的隐喻意味，因此没有翻译成it is going to rain“将要下雨了”这样的无主句，而是翻译成了“雨就要从上面落下”，而“上面”是天、是神、是命运、是凡人只能躲闪的力量。作为译者，我自然不能改变原作，因此第二节依旧翻译成“坐在阳台上看”，好在英文的go back本身并没有强调go的方式是“走”，因此这样的翻译不像汉语原文那么显得突出。第三节第一行的翻译我自感不错，holding（抱）与整首诗第一行的hold（撑）遥相呼应，但意义不同，这种对应能够加强整首诗结构上的完整；而unaccompanied arms有两层意义，即：无人陪伴的怀抱，无人伴奏的双臂；前者指原话中的“一个人”，后者则指向“琵琶”；若整句话只能用一句来回译，我只能翻译成“怀抱琵琶而无人伴奏有什么意思呢？”因为最后一个词是lonely孤单，因而这里的unaccompanied 按理就不应是同义反复的“无人陪”，而会更多地被理解为“无人和（鸣）”。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年4月16日下午，18日深夜

Fan Jinghua: Unfriend

2010-04-19T03:14:00.004+08:00

Unfriend

Glancing through the titles alone, I re-suffer
Each of those moments I had dragged out to drown myself
Often in wee hours when nothing could feel anything and nothingness
But I did make all those poems
In spite of a love too hard to make

Then ellipses dripping from a ceiling
Trailed behind everywhere our minds diverted
There was too much death in the mute dots
I had to use an exclamation mark to throw them away
Into a life-freeing pond before the Cock-Crow Nunnery
Late into a stormy night
I cried out “I love you” to the downpour and scared away
Two pairs of lovers lurking in the pavilion
I might have been a nerd, a jackass
And who would be jackass enough to prove I was not and am not

Now, you surface, with a smiley hi
And stand away, still there
I could not unfriend you
For I have too much distracted mind for you
And you do not sink

You are word-necking with some stranger you picked up from nowhere
And added to the list to which I am overqualified
But only I know I am still a nerd
The only thing a jackass could do to you is
To set the status to “Do Not Disturb”
　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 19, 2010

　　　非朋友

瞄过那些标题，我再次承受每一个时刻
我曾过分地拉长，每次将自己淹个半死
在更绝漏尽的时分
再没有什么能够感受什么，甚至感受不到虚空
而我做了那些诗，尽管那份爱太难做成

然后是省略号像漏水的天花板
尾随我们的分歧，我无法甩掉
那六个无言的点包含着太多的死
我必须用一个感叹号像链球一样将它们抛到
一个放生池

那是一个倾盆大雨之夜
我在鸡鸣庵前大喊“我爱你”
吓走了两对潜伏在凉亭中的情人
我很可能真的是一个怪胎，一个傻逼
而又有哪个傻逼会来证明我那时不是，现在也不是

如今，你会浮出来，吐出一个微笑表情
接着便站开，可仍在那儿，一个符号而已
我只能将你插在朋友中，无法去除
我早已为你分心太多
你不会沉没

你在和某个你不知从何处搭到的陌生人暧昧
那人所在的列表我已不够格
惟有我知道我还是那个怪胎
而一个傻逼能够对你做的，不过是
将状态设置为“请勿打扰”
　　　　　　　2010年4月19日凌晨

Fan Jinghua: Love Poem

2010-04-15T09:52:00.000+08:00

Love Poem

To live blindness, we have picked out the world most flamboyant silk for our eyes
Then we sit down, only a sea apart, and think of those great dead lovers
Till the hands of imagination can feel lines of a poem on each of our faces
There is really no unpenetrable darkness in this world or the next
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 14, 2010

　　　　　情诗

为了体验盲目，我们挑选了世界最艳丽细柔的丝绸蒙住眼睛
然后我们坐下，稍微隔开一座海，想着那些死去的情人们
直到我们的想象之手抚摸出彼此脸上的诗行
这世界真的没有穿透不了的黑暗，来世也没有
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年4月14日

Fan Jinghua: Later

2010-04-10T11:39:00.002+08:00

Later
In due time, they sit down, face to face
And also for a moment they watch outside
The window, as fresh hot water is refilled to the teapot
Once, and left unrenewed
And then they go back, respectively
They have not held hands, and there is
No separation

　　　后来
然后，他们坐了下来，面对面
还望了望窗外
茶，续了一次，没有再续
后来，他们各自回去
没有拉手，所以也就没有
分手

Fan Jinghua: Dewdrops

2010-04-10T11:29:00.000+08:00

Dewdrops
The leaf not even tilting, its veins
Girdle themselves to the thinner jaw
Where dewdrops accumulate
Their clear thickness
This is not even touched by the morning sunlight

　　　露水　
叶子没有倾斜，而脉纹
一直涌向它颀瘦的下巴，露水
已在那儿增厚了
这是连朝阳也不曾感到的

Fan Jinghua: Imagination

2010-04-06T23:07:00.001+08:00

Imagination

How enviable—she
At his right, so much
A waterlily in her that blooms like a still whirlpool
And his left hand stretches out
Like a dike and locks itself to her right collarbone
—A floodgate
That man, your other, as an imagined figure, always hurts you
As someone said, as the world hurts God

　　想象

多么令人妒慕啊——
她，在那人的右侧，那般
莲花，静止的流淌
那人的左手像堤岸伸出去
还在她的右锁骨下
扣下一道闸
那人，你的他者，作为想象，总在伤害你
有人早就说过，犹如这世界伤害着上帝

Fan Jinghua: Confirmation and Negation

2010-04-06T23:06:00.001+08:00

Confirmation and Negation

He is unable to stop her from leaving
Even the threat of death is only an exaggerated imagination, non-existence
In the world of the real, and oh how real
She is. The she he brings with him
Is her unreality, and he has taken her whole-heartedly, repeatedly
But she knows nothing of the fact
That the relation between them is that between life and death

　　肯定与否定

他阻止不了她的离去
甚至死也不过是虚张的想象，不存在
于真实的世界，而她
多么真实，他带走了的她
是她的不真，他一意占有，一再地
而她不知
她和他的关系，是生与死

Fan Jinghua: Weak Pillars

2010-04-06T23:04:00.000+08:00

Weak Pillars
　　　　　　　In Memory of “a few” children
Those children, jaws in palms, eyelids heavy
As if the whole world is for their arms to pillar
Fall to sleep behind their own windows
When the structure collapses
Then, daylight pierces the square eyes of the institutional mansions
And doves fly across the sky, mutely
As men, bustling around, believe in progress and necessary forgetfulness
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　　弱的栋梁
　　　　　[纪念一些孩子]
用手撑住下巴，而眼皮将世界压在那手臂的栋梁上
在整座大厦的坍塌下
等待天明的孩子
睡在自己的窗后
当昼光开始刺扎机构楼宇的方眼
鸽子无言地划过天际
人，营营碌碌，便是向前，犹如忘却一样必然

Fan Jinghua: The Southern Mountain

2010-03-14T18:09:00.003+08:00

The Southern Mountain
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　In Memory of Zhang Zao (1962-2010)
I am moving my books these days, and every morning I drag along
my wheeled suitcase, from home to new office
with BBC world news hanging on my ears, some updates being non-updates
and some uttered merely to be forgotten
My automatic movements in one breath: opening the door, switching on the lights, flipping on the air-con,
and pushing the window open to drive away the stale overnight air…
Then, in the pantry I make my first coffee for the day
among the bubbles of good-mornings, as my sweaty shirt dries
Back to the desk between the closed door and window, within the increasingly stagnant air of today

This is a tropical island state, all the climates in the world far away…
My day starts with one or two ancient Chinese poems, usually in English translation
without the original, and I uses the foreign tongue to lick out of my inner-body my mother tongue
There is in this an interflow between the light and the heavy, and their alternation sends my day adrift
This morning session collides with these lines:
“The melancholy of the Southern Mountain,
Ghostly rain drizzling on desolate grass!
Back in Chang-an, this autumn midnight,
How many men are withering in this wind? ……
Lacquer torches are out to welcome newcomers,
Over lonely tombs the fireflies are flickering.”
I am imagining the short-lived genius in ancient Chang-an who was in the dead midnight of autumn imagining
Those clay steamed-buns in the Southern Mountain with ghostly winds wandering between
(Some said the stuffing of those buns were alive in the city, withering like vegetables)
and many invisible arms holding faint torches, will o’ the wisp
But whose solitude is ogling whom? What kind of troops are hiding behind the immortal pines?

This morning of mine starts with a little sadness…
My coffee is merely half done, getting colder and colder

The computer is on: Zhang Zao is dead…

I haven’t met you, Zhang Zao, and you have not even heard of me, but I know you
I read your poems, but have never read in the morning yet
Today I read Li He’s “How sad is the Southern Mountain,” not the least realizing
That news of your death would carry your sentences
And out of blue weld and clutch unto my favourite Li He—
“Whenever something regretful in my life strikes me,
Plum petals will scatter all over the Southern Mountain”
(A sentence, in English, also means a pronouncement of conviction;
My semantic domain too covers more than one language, but both you and I dwell in Chinese)
Ever since now the ghosts welcoming newcomers become the arms embracing you, those torches…

I am walking to and fro on the carpet, feet shoeless but socked, with ghostly raindrops in my mind
And a sip of coffee crawls down like a freezing rillet along my gullet…
How I wish I could light a cigarette—not for you
but I want to loosen the curtains and turn off the lights so I will suck out some glisters like fireflies
to cast some drops of light on the desolate grass. Are they your plum petals or my traceless footprints?

Standing still before the shelves, I look at these books transferred from home to office, from one shelf to another
seeing that they have lost their former neighbours and taken a new space
and that they are still holding the same mass and content. Still but have to…

I can pick out any of them, read it, and then put it back to any place
Thus, I may be their god, unless they link themselves together with strong captions on their backbones
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　March 11, 2010

Notes:
1. Zhang Zao, male, was born in 1962 in Hunan Province and got his BA in English in Chongqing and then went in 1988 to teach in Tubingen German where he died for lung cancer on March 8, 2010. He was a great poet who helped contributing to the concept of a post-Mao contemporary Chinese poetry. The quoted two lines are from his early famous poem entitled “Mirror.”
2. Li He ()was one of the best romantic Gothic poet in late Tang period. The quoted lines are translated by J D Fordsham in his Goddesses, Ghosts and Demons: The Collected Poems of Li He. The translation is, of course, not “literal,” and the original Chinese reads as:
　　南south 山mountain何how其such 悲sad
　　鬼ghost雨rain洒sprinkle空blank草grass
　　长安Chang-an (literally “eternal peace,” capital of Tang China, now Xi’an) 夜night半middle秋autumn
　　风wind前front, before几how many人person老old ……
　　漆lacquer 炬torch 迎welcome新new人person
　　幽faint, dim圹tomb 萤firefly扰扰a state of harassing & disturbing
3. The Southern Mountain, also known as Zhongnan Mountain, is said to be a place for tombs, where grow a lot of pines. Pines are believed to a long-living trees, with their wrinkled barks. Pine is a symbol of longevity. Hence, Chinese people still say the auspicious couplet to an elderly on his/her birthday party: May bliss bestow upon you like the water in the Eastern Sea and longevity outlive the pines in the Southern Mountain (愿你福如东海寿比南山).

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　　　　诗书人生亦断魂　
　　　　　　　　　　——悼张枣
　
我在搬书，每个早晨，拖着行李车，从家到办公室
耳朵上挂着BBC的世界新闻，有些是并无进展的更新，有些将会一闪而逝
我的惯性动作：开门、开灯、开空调、开窗
然后在茶点间冲泡我一天的第一杯咖啡
在水泡般的早安声中，我的衬衣逐渐干了
回到办公室，关门，关窗，将自己关进了今天的空气
这是一个永远夏天的岛国，世界各地的气候都很遥远

我的每天从一两首中国古诗开始，通常是一本英译，没有原文
我以此勾引我体内的母语
这是一种浮与沉的交流，它们的轮流颠簸我的每一天
今晨的早读是如下诗行：
The melancholy of the Southern Mountain,
Ghostly rain drizzling on desolate grass!
Back in Chang-an, this autumn midnight,
How many men are withering in this wind? ……
Lacquer torches are out to welcome newcomers,
Over lonely tombs the fireflies are flickering.
我想象着长安城里的鬼才在深秋之夜的孤寂中想象着
终南山的馒头阵有一阵阵阴风游走
（有人说那馒头的馅儿都在城里，如草在枯萎）
一只只无影之臂举起幽幽的小火炬，鬼鬼祟祟
呵，谁的孤独在勾引着谁？那些不老松之间驻扎着怎样的军队？

我的今晨开始得有点哀伤……
咖啡只喝了一半，越来越凉

打开电脑：张枣去世了……

我没见过你，张枣，你更不认识我，但我认识你
我读你的诗，但还从未在早晨读过你
今晨，我读到李贺的“南山何其悲”，绝没有想到
你的死讯裹挟着你的诗句“只要想到一生中后悔的事，梅花便落满南山”
突然紧紧地焊接在我的李贺之后
（句子，英文是sentence，还意味着判决……
我的语义也跨越两种语言，但我们共享汉语）
从此在他诗中迎接新人的鬼变成了迎接你的双手，那两支火炬……

此刻我脱了皮鞋的脚在地毯上踱来踱去，脑子里有“鬼雨洒空草”
我呷了一口残余的咖啡，很凉了，我勉强咽下，一食道的冷……
我多想抽一支烟——
不是为了你，只是想拉下窗帘关掉灯，吸出一明一灭的火星
照一照那洒在草上的鬼雨，是不是你的梅花，是不是我踱步而未留下的足印

书架前，我站定了，看这些书从家到了办公室，从书架到另一个书架
它们失去了原来的邻居，占领着新的空间
它们各自守持原有的体积与内容，依然而只能如此
我可以随意抽出一本，读，然后就可以随意插入另一个地方
这样，我就可能是它们的神，除非它们以脊梁上强大的标题将自己联系在一起
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年3月11日上午，新加坡

注：诗中所引英文摘自J. D. Frodsham所译的Goddess, Ghosts, and Demons: The Collected Poems of Li He 《女神、鬼魂与恶魔：李贺诗全集》。这几行诗的原文如下：
南山何其悲？鬼雨洒空草。长安夜半秋，风前几人老！……漆炬迎新人，幽圹萤扰扰。

Fan Jinghua: A Sheet of Paper

2010-03-05T19:37:00.003+08:00

A Sheet of Paper

You look up and see the sky, and the sky is empty.
Your index fingernail draws an arch across the paper, and you see the trail.
When you look up again, the wild geese have gone,
And you use a blue pen to trace the weight-losing line.

Eventually, the paper will be crunched, the initial intent of the line lost,
And you feel the uncleanness and hurt welling up already;
But an exit is hidden there as a tunnel, unfathomable.
Your eyes squint into a depth, and the thought of winds brings you trembles.
　　　　　　　　　　　　March 5, 2010

　　一张纸
　　　　　　　[赠人]
你抬头，你看到天空，天空是空的
你的指尖划过纸面，你低头看到暗痕
再抬头时，雁阵不见了
于是你的蓝水笔描出了正在失去的痕迹

最终，那张纸会被揉皱，线条失去原有的意图
你已感到龌龊与疼由内涌起
可那里隐藏了一个入口，你不知其深浅
你向往，于是一阵阵风令你惊颤
　　　　　　　　　　2010年3月5日

Fan Jinghua: Moments of Eternity

2010-03-02T00:09:00.001+08:00

Moments of Eternity
　　　　　　　　[To Someone]
The rubber band of moments, and by moment only,
Is stretched and tensed, translucently
Superimposing itself over time,
While space is tightened and thickened.

On the stretches of the sand that girdle the South Pacific islands,
Small flowers of pale orange
Are washed away and float back
To preserve the existential equilibrium between claw-prints and wave-teeth.

Yes, birds from Siberia
Come and go, fluttering the same pairs of wings.
Who would be so bored as to trace
Their color difference between the tail-wind and head-wind flight?

Only we hope to set our bare feet on every moment
To pedal the vibrating chest of the ocean.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Feb. 28, 2010

　　　有时的永恒
　　　　　　　[赠人]

只是有时，有时的橡皮带
拉长的薄，半透明地
叠映在时间之上
而空间被束紧

围起南太平洋小岛的一条条沙滩上
浅橘色的小碎花
洗去又漂上来
在爪痕与浪齿间守持生命的恒态

是的，西伯利亚的鸟儿
来了又去，鼓振的都是同一双翅膀
有谁会闲到追测
它们在顺风与逆风中的色泽

只是我们想裸足于有时
踩响大海的九曲回肠
　　　　　　　2010年2月28日

Fan Jinghua: Aching Coldness

2010-01-15T22:00:00.001+08:00

Aching Coldness

The intruder sends with the acupuncture needle
A sour pain into another whose tear droplets seep as his ache

From the beginning, the shadow has been with them and now it peels off
And shows its transparent body of shivering gel

Night sky silently washes the distant islands
As if it is a huge creased-up blue bed-sheet with fat peonies

The city lengthens its face into a Gothic cathedral, no window exempted
While the sleepless stand saintly, accumulating humbleness

Under overpasses, jobless peasant workers scatter like germs
Germs under a microscope or non-motile sperm cells induced by a Viagra

　　　疼与冷

闯入者以毫针般的察觉力
将酸痛捻送给另一位，继而有液珠渗出他的疼

相随始终的影子蜕去了皮
那透明的身体如啫喱一样展现其颤悠

夜空默默冲洗久远的岛屿
如蓝底丝绸的床单上印着丰腴的牡丹

城市将面孔拉成哥特式教堂，没有例外的窗户后
失眠的人坚持圣洁，将卑微聚集成自信

立交桥下，散落的流民像显微镜下的细菌
或者小蓝丸催出的疲乏的精虫
　　　　　　　　　　　2010年1月15日

Amang: Beautiful Is Love

2010-01-15T07:51:00.006+08:00

　　　　Beautiful Is Love
　　　　　　　　　　by Amang　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
　　Not out of her will, but still
　　She climbs down the ladder, saying:
　　Love.

　　Saying the word makes her mouth pleased
　　And pleases the opposite mouth,
　　Enabling one kiss
　　To be joined to another:
　　An iron wire forces in lithely,
　　Fiddling with the lively narrow keyhole. Able

　　To steal:

　　0 becomes ∞, though very distant
　　Though not out of her will,
　　She still use it to drill, to lay
　　A landmine.

　　Doing this fills her hands with compliments and
　　The opposite hands with gratitude,
　　Enabling them
　　To embrace:
　　Four snakes intertwine,
　　Bathing in the mid-air.
　　Steeping in the tub, she blows 0 into ∞:
　　Steady,
　　Balanced,
　　Able to double
　　With ease
　　Their capacity to bear,

　　With a way
　　Very pleasant to eyes.

　　　　爱情真美丽
　　　　　　　　　　阿芒
　　　她不情愿但她
　　　爬下梯子说
　　　爱

　　　如此说令嘴巴欢喜而
　　　对面的嘴巴喜欢
　　　可以
　　　接吻了：
　　　用一根铁丝灵巧地侵入
　　　搬弄生动细小的锁孔。可以

　　　偷了

　　　0变成∞，虽然很远
　　　虽然她不情愿
　　　她仍然用它钻洞，用它
　　　埋下地雷
　　　如此做令手赞叹而
　　　对面的手感激
　　　可以
　　　拥抱了：
　　　四条蛇，扭曲起来
　　　到空中洗澡
　　　泡在浴缸把0吹成∞，吹出：
　　　稳重
　　　均衡
　　　可以
　　　非常能
　　　双倍承受的
　　　样子
　　　很好看

　　　　　　　　Amang, born in Hualien, Taiwan, lives now in Taipei.

解读阿芒的《爱情真美丽》

　　以身体贴近爱情，这不是问题；问题在于如何在被身体充斥了的世界，让爱情提升身体。这么说，就是首先要近乎承认，爱情之美是有点超验的，是要登上梯子去摘的。阿芒的这首诗在开始的时候已经将“她”预设到了那个高度。阿芒将几首诗的英译给我，想问问我翻译得如何。而我呢，因为某种在人看来有些狂妄的自信，从来都要对他人的翻译说出个一二来；但是，这不是说我看不出或者看不得别人翻译得好，而是说如果要我翻译的话，我会扣紧哪些细节，而且反复摩挲。这时候，我经常会发现别人的翻译和我琢磨的要点相去较远，要么根本不像原文那样经得住琢磨。我知道这是一个误识，因为我赋予了原文以本质的作者权威，而赋予译文的则更多的是一种阐释信度。就是说，我是一个欺软怕硬、迎合权威的译评者；因此，我已经将我的自信本身置于任人质疑的位置。但是，我当然也是有备而来的，我早已给自己一个合适的台阶：译者的职业道德要求他不可以改变原文，而又要永远质疑已有和将有的译文。因此，译者可以说与阿芒这首诗一开始的她站在了同样的梯子上了；从此，我的文字必须走下梯子，阐释、翻译。
　　“她不情愿”。情愿，是说情之所愿，出于情的愿。姑且将这里的情称之为宽泛意义上的爱情，毕竟这是主题词。情本来也就是一种愿，但并非就是（性本能的）爱欲。在此，她不情愿，就可以理解为：她所做的并非出于内心情感的愿欲。这个站在梯子上的女人，下落到凡尘一样地，很动物地“爬下”那个梯子，“说爱”。说爱，令人想到的是习语“谈情说爱”，所谓习语就是说得太习惯了的词汇，恐怕有失去了新意的倾向；然而，阿芒打破了这样的惯性，将“说爱”分行，变成了一种提醒。这里的爱，不过就是动动嘴皮而已的行为，这是另一种惯性：有口无心。
　　正如我们习惯于恭维一个女子为“美女”一样，这种恭维不过是一种润滑剂，或者是彼此都乐于接受的软调情。有口无心地这样说着，可以令嘴巴欢喜，而且以嘴巴说出的，会得到对应的回报。内心的“情愿”落入口惠也流于口惠，可以接吻了。接吻，不仅仅是吻（如礼节性的），而是吻之相接，因此不是一般意义上的爱之吻（如亲人间的），更是性之吻（情人间的）。爱之吻是一种真情流露，而性之吻则有可能是一种欲望手段。我真不知道我将“接吻”翻译成“将一个吻join连接/加入到另一个吻上”是多么地滑稽，但是英文join hands也想汉语 “牵手”一样有结婚的意思，不过在此，不过是将吻堆叠到另一个吻上而已，犹如一个性器媾连到另一个性器。
　　有口无心的最高境界是“巧舌如簧”得自动化发声。我读到阿芒用了这么一个令我咋舌称奇的意象：铁丝灵巧地侵入锁孔。当然，巧舌之“簧”不是铁丝权起的弹簧之“簧”，更不是锁簧，然而我似乎立即看到蛇信般的尖舌塞进了另一道犬牙交错的锁孔。我必须承认如果我读出了这一个意象的色情，完全是我个人的曲解。然而，伊甸园里那个女人的堕落正是因为听信了蛇的巧舌。蛇，终而变成了性欲诱惑的象征。我一再提到蛇，事实也是因为诗歌自身的明示。
　　生动的锁孔，那活色生香的，因为巧舌之簧的侵入，而随之打开。那扇门，被破了：“可以偷了”。偷的不是情，能偷的不过是性，那必须是可以侵入占有的东西，而情来自内心。假若情之所愿，那情就不是偷情。那活色生香的，我们称之为腥。0是孔，是空，还是那种有口无心的嘴，两张嘴合在一起，这是接吻（更应该称之为“亲嘴”），从洞开到洞开，从一次到无穷，这是万劫不复的开始，而终结遥遥无期，而两张嘴的相接并不是心心相映。她还是不情愿。
　　“虽然她不情愿，她仍然……”。何为万劫不复？明明不愿意，还在继续做着，按照惯性与加速度。她用舌头钻洞，埋下危险的种子。由口舌的喜欢到手的自愧不如与感激，拥抱；他们出手了，纠缠了，如四条蛇的扭曲。蛇纠结在一起，当然是性的象征。原本只是说说而已的爱，变成了扭曲缠结的性；人从梯子上的悬空状态，落实到了泡在稳稳飘荡于空中的浴缸中吹泡泡的状态。肥皂泡，从一只一只吹成了一串一串，也是永无休止的，看起来很美。这里，美变成了一种样子，也就是一种姿态，给人看的pose，那个从梯子上下来的女人，犹如终于开眼了的夏娃，落入“社会”，更加能够承受凡尘了。对于俗世的认知、接受和参与，将情愿交给了身体，说是“真美丽”，这是进步还是堕落？
　　阿芒的这首诗写得很反讽，一如她的很多诗作中都可以读出这样的语气，有一种特有的女性（主义）视角的嘲讽。我不知道她的汉语前辈有那些人，但是我似乎能看到英语作家如简.奥斯汀和普拉斯的影子。
　　基于我的解读，我如是翻译。不过呢，解与读有可能指的是两个方面的经验。解，是将完整的篇章一一拆解，将一字一句的各层意义指出来，于是一个似乎是线性的篇章构成就成了一个多维的立体空间，而且各个字词的阐释可能还并不能构成一个平滑的界面，而事实是绝大多数值得咀嚼的文本都是充满歧义甚至矛盾的，例如阿芒的反讽口吻到底是否也表明了诗人自己的态度？我最后的提问也就是一种不确定。
　　再说读。读，既是视觉的也是声音的，而这两者都具有一种节奏。对于很口语的诗歌，自然首先是要保证一种直白的流畅口语，但流畅自然只能是很表面的一个层面，节奏不仅仅是流畅。每个字的选择本身也必须考虑语音语义与词形，翻译也同样要经得住新批评式的研读。译文要再现的也不仅仅是流畅度，而是基于解读而来的各种可能；当然，没有翻译能够传达得了对于原文的解读，但如果译者不是从条分缕析的解读中构筑一个译文，而仅仅就字面来对照，显然是很难说是在翻译诗歌的。然而，这种从很多阐释中抽取一个路径的翻译本身也就需要读者质疑起译者的阐释信度了；对此，我的自信只能是一种狂妄，谁都有理由质疑。因此，我的翻译终究只是我个人的翻译；无论你的词典多大，也别拿它来质疑我。

Fan Jinghua: An Elegy for a Living Being

2010-01-07T06:48:00.007+08:00

An Elegy for A Living Being

As a gesture of homage to you, I take out a digital Bach and make it
Lie in a sound machine. The organ blows its pipes loudly for your passing,
As if a glowing tree takes two 14-minite sessions to bud and defoliate.

On a certain day in the certain month in the certain year, you stand at one end
Of a long line of poplars, and time stutters for once and disperses some spittle;
One droplet falls on the lineal narration of history and dilutes out a dot.

You calculate in your mind what function will be able to
Express the trajectory of change in the spacing of those trees in relation with
The relation between the crowd and you. This is not that complicated, but
You have to be squatted down and draw the curves on the earth with your little knife.

At the end of the row, there is also your deity over a bodiless tree that glisters
Like an optical Christmas tree, and all the hanging faces on gold-layered baubles
Have huge mouths, menacing noses and dwindling eyes.
Florescent veins grow into unignitable low fever in the untouchable body.

You have been led away into the crowd by a big powerful hand, and like a child too
You’ve handed in your little knife to be used as evidence against you when you grow up.
But of course, you usually grow into anonymity,
Forgetting your bright knife or being forgotten all together.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 7, 2010

Notes:
　　Ordinary Chinese people before the power that be have in recent years invented many phrases to express their “unorthodox” ideas, among which is the passive voice of many non-passive verbs. E.g. be committed suicide (an example is that an assumed suspect commits suicide after opening his handcuffs with a one-dollar note in the closely watched cctv cell with shoelaces during his inmates are taking a nap), be obtained a job (graduates can only have their scrolls when they signed a memo of job offer with some company, for the university authority needs the employment rate of their graduates). Hence, I use the expression: have to be squatted down.
　　Two 14-minute sessions: a famous dissident, who taught me a course of Introduction to Literature for a semester when I was in university, was sentenced for 11 years’ imprisonment for “inciting subversion of state power” on Christmas 2009. On the court, the defender was given 14 minutes because the prosecutor used 14 minutes, and they said this was to show that they had equal rights.

　　　为一活物而作的挽歌

为了向那个你致意，我让一张数码巴赫
躺进虔诚的声音器，管风琴弘扬你的经过
发光的树从发芽到叶落的过场走了两个十四分钟

某年某月某一天，你站在这排白杨的一端
令时间口吃一次，一星唾沫溅出
在历史的线性叙述上稀释出一个虚点

你心算了该以怎样的函数
表达株距的变化轨迹对应人群与你的关系之间的关系
这其实不算复杂，但如今你必须被蹲下，用小刀在地上画着曲线

你的神也在这排树的尽头，那之外的树像光纤的圣诞树一样
挂满了带金的彩球，将笑脸都映照得圆浑
荧光的脉络在你触摸不着的身体上闷烧

你已经被有力的大手领进人群，也像孩子一样
你的小刀交了出来，作为你成人后备用的呈堂证供
可通常说来，你长大了就是无名小卒
你会忘记那闪亮的小刀也会被人彻底遗忘
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010年1月7日

Fan Jinghua: Insomnia

2010-01-06T22:36:00.002+08:00

Insomnia

If insomnia is uprooted from the brain trees, what else is left for the night?
I know there are stars, but I can only put my feet in the slippers,
Walk for a few steps, and take them out, and then walk barefooted for a few more steps
Before taking the slippers with my feet to the bedroom.
This woman is my love. Her contours are like mountains and flowing waters,
Or whatever meandering in the semi-darkness that I do not resort to words.
What is between us, love deducted? At this moment, she does not even have
Reasons or dreams to demand me any more, while I stand watching her, mute.
When she is sleeping, no one will know what I am thinking about,
Or how in my mind one person splits into many and how distance transforms.
Worms of insomnia somersault in the water of thoughts; aren’t they lives?
How grave is the problem that so many clocks cannot have
Peaceful sleep in the quilted bosom of the winter,
While birds wake up so early to hunger, crying like babies.
　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 2010

　　　失眠症
摘除了失眠，夜的脑树还剩什么？
我知道总归有星星，可我只能将脚放进拖鞋，走几步，
拿出来，再走几步，又放进去，走进卧室。
这女人是我的爱，她的轮廓像山峦和流水，或者其它什么
延绵于半黑暗中，我不必诉诸于描述；
除了爱，我们还有什么？
此刻，她甚至没有理由或者梦希求我更多，
我看着她，无言。
当她在沉睡，无人知我想着什么，
将一个人想成了无数，将距离想得变形。
不眠之虫在思绪的水中翻着跟头，可否称为生命？
这是何等严重的问题，那么多时钟
在隆冬应该裹紧棉被的怀里不得安眠，
而娃娃腔的鸟儿这么快就饿了。
　　　　　　　　2010年1月

Fan Jinghua: So I take delight in you...

2010-01-03T12:22:00.001+08:00

　　　　So I take delight in you...

So I take delight in you like this, nothing spectacular

You may see it everywhere if you love my ignorance

A lamb raising its head while grazing and seeing another, and then

It resumes its grazing till the evening comes, not knowing desert is impending by night

Two trees not thriving to outbrave the woods, leaning toward each other

When toward the sun, not knowing the forest is being communally beheaded

Clouds stroll across the beams of sunlight, their shadows gliding fast

Over the valleys and hills as if along a thousand acres of flatland, as duckweeds in time

We no longer brood those rootless instants into sprouts of nightmares

The Ocean of Words enumerates all that are needed to express

Even what cannot be expressed, but there are what dictation will never catch

While the true meaning is in the ocean of men, between those who love each other

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 2, 2010

　　　就这么喜爱着你

我呢，就这么喜爱着你，没什么可惊可叹

若你也喜爱，你会处处看到我的无知

一只小羊吃草时不时抬头，看看另一只，然后

低头继续，直到黄昏来临，不知沙漠漏夜逼近

两棵树并不勇于超越树林，倾身于阳光时

亦倾向彼此，不知森林正在被集体斩杀

云漫步在阳光的梯子上，阴影掠过沟壑如驶过千里平川

消失得那么快，也是时间中的浮萍

而我们都不再将那无根的瞬间发成噩梦的芽

可用来诉说的一切字词，罗列在《辞海》

却无法包罗一个人欲说还休的空白，有些意思无法听写

词义在人海中，在两相喜爱的人之间

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010/1/2

Fan Jinghua: Poetry

2010-01-03T12:20:00.001+08:00

Poetry

This ancient heartache is so familiar that it does not hurt any more.
You, I’ve lost twice and a half, and twice, I become what I was.
　　　　　　　　　　　Sept. 15, 2007

　　　　诗

这种古老的心痛太令人熟悉，已经再不能伤害谁。
你，我失去了两次半，而两次我都变成曾经的自己。
　　　　　　　　　　2007年9月15日

Fan Jinghua: Love of Life

2010-01-02T18:07:00.002+08:00

Love of Life

Shared days, we engrave in our palms
There, three lines are linked by another one. A bloodstone of memory

Grows in the clasped hands into a small universe of its own;
Retrospection, however minute, will not locate where the stars
The primitive low fever burns into are embedded on the domes

When a drop of emptiness at a night trickles in the morning,
Is it a beginning or an end? In Time’s whirlpool we breathe
　　　　　　　　　　　　Jan. 2, 2010

　　　一生

共有的日子，我们将它们映在各自的掌心
三条线被另一条断续地连接。记忆的鸡血石

从相携的手中长成小小的宇宙，回顾
再细致也无法确认那最原始的低烧
灼成了哪两颗星，镶在手掌的穹拱

当某夜的一颗空寂在翌晨沥沥，那是始还是终
在时间的漩涡中我们呼吸
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2010/1/2

Once, A Pool of Words...

2009-12-22T18:47:00.002+08:00

Once, A Pool of Words...

In books, the water between one continent and another is shallow
Moonlight soaks the wrinkles of wavelets, lawns and beaches
I refrain myself from stepping on them, but I look at them
And turn to look at them again, thinking of mailing them to the distant

I can be happy to become a leaf, like a small punt, lying under
The sky far and blue, not knowing where the water runs
But you should not recline on the couch in your big balcony
For who knows what poisonous dust the meteors may drop

I have given up many habits, and still keep some
And I do not spell them out, so you may think about them
And want to share the happiness upon touching the intangible tangibility

There are words that are meant to be read in different time and space only
They are the islands of cloud, when you read yours and I read mine
Sometimes after a dream, sometimes before the darkness shrouds all
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Dec. 22, 2009

　　曾经一片文字
　　　　　　　　　[To --]
书上的大陆与大陆之间，水很浅
月光洇透了细浪、草坪与沙滩
我忍足不去，却看了又看
还转头再看，想着可以寄给远方

其实，我乐于是一片叶子的平底船
不问水的方向，只是仰卧在杳阔的天下
但你可不能倚躺在阳台上
谁知道流星会丢落怎样有毒的尘埃

我戒了很多习惯，还留一些不说出来
也留给你想一想什么叫若有若无的灰色
抚摸到不可触及的实在而渴望分享喜悦

有些字生来就是为了在不同的时空读的
那是云的岛屿，你看你的，我看我的
有时在梦醒后，有时在夜幕蒙住一切之前
　　　　　　　　　　2009年12月22日

My Poetry Book: Faltering Words

2009-12-09T03:40:00.010+08:00

My poetry book:
The book of poems is a selection of poem suites, most of which are written in Chinese only. If I have English versions, they usually come first in English as drafts, then I work in Chinese, and at the same time I may revise the English. But there are differences between the two versions. Especially, when the English one comes first, I become too lazy to work my Chinese.

Imprints:
Copyright © 2009 by Fan Jinghua
All rights reserved.

Title: Faltering Words
Author: Fan Jinghua
Edited and Designed by Jiang Hao
Dickinson Poetry Series, Volume IV.
Published by Dickinson Publishing Co., Los Angeles , USA
ISBN: 978-0-9823459-1-7
Fan Jinghua (1965-)
Chinese Poetry. I. Title. II. Series.
First Edition 2009

*****
　　　Contents

Faltering Words (100 quatrains in four parts)

When Memory Becomes the Past

Kyrie [English version to be posted]

Sonnets (A Sequence)

Affinity [for English]

Far Away (a Suite)

The Art of Master Cool

Childhood [for parts in English see, part1, part2, part3, part4]

Eleven Ways to Name a Killer-Lady [English version]

Follow the Bits of Bread [for English, see part1, part2, part3, part4, part5]

Variations on “The Love Song of a Fictive Poet” [English]

Fan Jinghua: Affinity [for my wife]

2009-12-09T03:38:00.000+08:00

　　　Affinity 契合

　　For Tina 献给婷

　　　* * * *

The bell’s sudden toll

startled the birds, and what followed

scattered them away like sounds.

Lighter colors were being absorbed by the spire.

while you looked for anything everywhere to get connected.

And I did not reach for you.

We would be merged in darkness,

after the echoes.

　　　　　　　　June 24, 2007

　　　　　　　　July 27, 2007

记否，那突然的钟响

先是将鸟儿惊起，接着的

将它们如同声音一般撒了出去。

当塔尖将较轻的颜色一抹一抹地吸收，

你环顾四周，寻找任何可以凝目的东西。

而我没有向你伸手。

回响消逝后，黑暗

自会把我们融进一体。

　　　　　　　2007年7月27日

　　　* * * *

You lift the cover of the bamboo steamer,

let the right hand zip into the opening of vapor.

Only you know your forefinger has touched

the delicate dough skin,

like a monkey snatching chestnuts from a fire.

After tapping the juicy dumpling, you pinch your earlobe

and smile, and I can always see in you the girl holding a hot bun,

whose ponytail bouncing as you hopscotch.

You, so cool, will be good at retrieving stars

from the Lethe, while I am in the thin white mist

sailing paper boats from the other side.

　　　　　　　　June 25, 2007

你左手掀开蒸笼，右手

探进扑面而来的热气，

只有你知道你的食指已经

触试了包子皮的嫩薄；

好像猴子火中取栗。

你仍然会捏着耳垂，微笑，

而我总能看到那个拿着热馒头的小女孩，

那么会跳房子，像那马尾小辫一样。

你将很会在奈何桥头

捞星星，而我就在对岸的

一片薄雾中，朝着你放纸船。

　　　　　　　2007年7月28日

　　　* * * *

When we are old, both of us will be brazen-faced.

I will use my palm to tell you

how for the first time my palm tried to cup your breast

but could not.

And you laugh, saying the hand was so different.

And I laugh too, saying the breast was so different.

Everything about us grows with time and weather,

and we grow with each other.

　　　　　　　July 27, 2007

当我们老了，两人的脸都会变厚。

我会用手掌告诉你

我的手掌第一次怎样捂你的乳房

而没捂住。

你笑着说，那时的手很不一样。

我也笑道，那时的乳房很不一样。

有关我们的一切都随着时间改变，

而我们随着对方改变。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

　　　* * * *

When autumn inevitably turns into winter,

her body becomes drier,

and his hands are callous and coarse as ever.

She says they are perfect for soothing her back.

He does not scratch with fingertips, but sweeps with his palm.

　　　　　　　July 26, 2007

当秋天不可避免地转成冬天，

她的皮肤越来越干燥，

而他手上的老茧一如既往地粗糙。

她说那双粗手挠她的后背最好，

而他不用指尖去抓，而是用手掌轻轻地扫。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

　　　* * * *

Words will be used between you and me

less and less, and so will be our doings.

Would we leave more for the young?

I will be conservative, silent about love

and never telling you goodbye,

but grunting about those intimacies of young lovers.

So I do not want to be away from you.

Whatever I say to whomever, I will no longer

glance at you, for you will be listening if you can.

I may not say I love you

just as I will take care of my health not for fear of death

but because I am more familiar with this world and you.

I will not ask what you remember,

and I’d fall into reveries when alone,

and let the past come to visit me.

And I will be friendly with the black guy

who has been following me for so many years.

　　　　　　　July 28, 2007

语言，我们越用越少，

就像我们的行动。

我们会多留一些给年少的人么？

我的言行变得保守，再不谈论爱情、

出门时绝口不对你道别；

看到年轻恋人们的亲昵，

我会在喉咙里咕哝。

于是，我开始不愿离你太远。

无论我和谁在一起、无论说什么，我都不再

偷眼瞄着你，因为如果你能听见，你肯定会听。

我将不再说我爱你，

就像我会爱惜身体，不是害怕死亡，

而是有你的世界，我更为熟悉。

我也不会问你记得些什么，

当我独自一人，我便会沉入遐想，

任凭过去随意来访。

我将对那个黑衣人更加友善，

毕竟他从过去到现在已追随我一生。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

　　　　* * * *

When your hearing dims, I may shout at you

and you will nod and smile.

When all your teeth fall, our kiss

will be soft and full.

When your sight fails, I can hold you

during the day, and you can take it for night;

when I am blind too,

we will not care about time, feeling for each other

and thinking about another life.

　　　　　　　July 27, 2007

当你耳背了，我便对你大吼，

而你还会点头微笑。

当你牙齿掉了，我们的亲吻

将会更加柔软而充分。

当你视力衰退，我就总要拥着你，

而你可以将白天当作黑夜；

当我也瞎了，我们便再也不管什么时间，

一直抚摸着对方，心里想着另一生。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

　　　* * * *

Beyond two tiny lions with tinier bells, inside the gate,

the old couple sit, by the doors, each

on a bamboo stool, staring at the ground.

They are trying to capture every ant that crawls over the threshold,

and pulverize them between their thumb and forefinger.

One is heard saying:

when I lie dying,

remember to clear ants around my cooling bed.

Do not let me itch when I can no longer move.

In the yard, the sun is fierce

and the phoenix-tree is bonelessly lethargic.

　　　　　　　　June 27, 2007

两只小石狮挂着旧铃铛，守着身后

敞开的大门，两扇门旁，一对老夫妻

各自坐着一只小竹凳，盯着地面。

他们试图捏起爬进门槛的每一只蚂蚁，

用拇指和食指将它们捻死。

有一个说：

我死的时候，

不能让蚂蚁爬上我的冷铺。

不要让我不能动的时候感到痒痒。

院子里，太阳很辣，

梧桐树没骨头似的懒。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

　　　* * * *

Summer’s end. Harvest month.

By the pile, he tires out into snoring.

She unfolds a bale and carefully

spreads the stalks over his body.

Lying two arms away, she stares at the stars,

and the breeze seems still.

Morning breaks. Nothing happens.

She wakes up, finding his coat on her.

The man is reaping.

“Oh, I have overslept,” she says as if to herself,

feeling guiltily happy, like every time

she gets up later than he.

　　　　　　　July 24, 2007

夏夜。麦收时节。

他累倒在麦垛下，进入鼾声。

她解开一捆麦子，仔细地

铺在他的身上。

她躺在两臂之外，盯着星星，

明明有夜风，她却感到了静止。

一切都未曾发生，清晨便来临了。

她醒来，发现身上盖着他的褂子。

他已经在割麦。

“啊，我睡过头了”，她宛若自语，

带着内疚的幸福，就像

每次她起得比他迟的时候。

　　　　　　　2007年7月27日

　　　* * * *

All the roads they’ve ever walked together

are ridges and dikes in the fields and unpaved lanes.

For better than half a life, they walk,

one behind the other.

They go to bed one after the other;

only on bed, they lie side by side.

Like the way they die.

　　　　　　　　June 28, 2007

他们一起走过的路

都是田垄和沟渠、没有铺面的土路。

他们这么走过了大半生，

一前一后。

他们上床也总是一前一后，

只有在床上，他们才并排

躺着。就像他们的死。

　　　　　　　2007年7月27日

　　　* * * *

The refrain will be repeated

for a few times before a song comes to

its end as if there is no end.

Some like the verses for the development,

some the refrain for its easy attunement.

But the melody only runs once and the same,

and although the lyrics may differ,

it follows a common chord progression

or comes with little variation.

Then, a short break of silence follows

like an elongated caesura, and no one knows

what marks the complete dying-away of the previous song.

As the next one begins, it sounds

with pronounced differences,

but the underlying structure varies little.

　　　　　　　June 30, 2007

　　　　　　　July 27, 2007

副歌，总会重叠几回，

在一首歌结束之前，它使得一首歌

犹如要萦回成一千阕。

有人喜欢听主歌，因为那些词展开一个故事；

有人喜欢副歌，因为便于记忆也易于上口。

虽然填进了不同的词句，曲调却只有一轮，

旋律所依的，仍是通用的和弦行进，至多稍加变奏。

然后，一个短暂的沉默，犹如拉长了的

休止，但无人能确定

前一首歌在何时彻底消音。

下一首歌开始，

一切都显然不同。

但声音下的结构几无差别。

　　　　　　　2007年7月29日

"I am a sensitive man" and "What are Poets for"

2009-12-05T03:23:00.008+08:00

　　In March 2000, I started reading Al Purdy’s Room for Rent in the Outer Planets. When I finished the first reading, he died. Of course, I did not learn that he was dying when I was reading. Reading starts with rereading, this I believe without doubt, especially in terms of poetry. A few months later, I finished his selected poems, together with two thin critical essays concerning him. As usual, I would put him aside for some time, giving myself a period to ruminate and reflect, till one day when I am brought back to him, say, by reading of anyone who happens to write or talk about him somewhere in my virtual eyeshot or earshot. By the end of 2000, I learned of his death, and the next year I read his Collected Poems.
　　Purdy had a poem, quite popular among his readers, At the Quinte Hotel, which was made into a video, with himself featuring the voice: “I am drinking/ I am drinking beer yellow flowers/ in underground sunlight/ and you can see I am a sensitive man.” Yes, a man sees what defines himself.
　　Legend says that the Chinese poet Su Shih (Su Tung-po 1037-1101) once met Zen Master Fo-yin. They talked, and then Su asked Foyin what he was in Foyin’s eyes. Foyin replied “a flower,” while Su retorted that “but I saw you as a pile of shit in this gold kasaya (Buddhist cassock). Upon returning, he told his younger sister Su Xiaomei (fictional younger sister Su) what he and Zen Master had conversed. That gave his sister a good laugh. She told Su that in Buddhism, what one sees in things is the reflection of the beholder (The object mirrors the subject). Su was very ashamed.
　　Purdy said “I am a sensitive man” and told the bartender, but the bartender was “not quite/ so sensitive as I supposed he was.” Eventually, in the chaotic but lovely bar, Purdy was challenged with a fight, but he tried to dodge, saying “Violence will get nowhere this time… I am a sensitive man/ and would you believe I write poems?” This interested beer-drinkers (not as dramatic as strip-teaser “I” to the peanut-crunching crowd in Plath’s “Lady Lazarus”). Anyway, I was egged on to “tell a poem,” so I read this poem. “They crowed around me with tears/ in their eyes …/ It was heart-warming moment for Literature” and then “I remarked/ ‘—the poem oughta be worth some beer.” Silence froze the tavern. “poems will not really buy beer…/ and I was sad/ for I am a sensitive man.”
　　Yeats was a sensitive man, and wrote in “When You Are Old” that “but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you” when he could not get the present woman at the present time. He chose to write about this woman being deserted in her senility and murmuring how love fled. He was overpowered by the refusal, and did not venture to pursue any longer. He turned to love and appreciate his own love instead. What he saw in that woman became what defined him, and that became his poetry (the poeticness out of unsatisfaction). The quality that never changed over time in her was not her soul, for that soul did not appease him; it was the thing that he found as a byproduct that had lasting power.
　　He who loves finds a special charm in another and becomes the charmer through his finding too. He who loves is hurt not because he cannot get what he loves but because his finding is never been appreciated. When whoever he loves is hijacked by another, he is hurt the deepest for the hijacker wastes what he values most. What else could Yeats do but write all his life over what he loved deepest, trying hard to abstract(ize) and mythologize the concrete one?
　　He had a chance to visit her, in a distant city. Before he actually made the trip, he had some much to brood over. He is a sensitive man. He had started all his premeditations. He would be go with her side by side through the avenues and backstreets and alleys of that ancient city, but how close would they keep their distance so that he can still feel the intimacy? He would sit with her face to face in a café or a teahouse or a small inn for some local odd dishes and delicacies, but how often could he raise his eyes to gaze her eyebrows and forehead? Most of all, what if he feels the static head between what he expected from her and what he perceives from her about their affection? He was phobic of being replied and refused with friendly face-giving appropriate politeness, and he was afraid of being misunderstood by socially conventional wisdom, i.e. a man goes to his old flame for nothing but illusionary “dangerous complement” (not Rousseau’s but Derrida’s). Now, he is a sensitive man, and he chose not to embark on that trip.
　　Auden wrote in “In Memory of W. B. Yeats”:
　　　　　　　You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
　　　　　　　The parish of rich women, physical decay,
　　　　　　　Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
　　　　　　　Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
　　　　　　　For poetry makes nothing happen…
　　Auden saw Yeats’ futile political endeavors not in those efforts themselves but in Yeats’ belief that he could really make things happen (just like his love poems for a woman). Maybe Auden thought it better not to believe that he could do anything. If one was hurt into poetry, then the poet would be hurt more, for poetry could not provide any external salvation. If a poet demands solace which is external to poetry itself, then poetry may be no shelter for the poet. But,… after all, Auden wrote an elegy for Yeats.
　　What are poets for in a destitute time? Or what is poetry for in the affluent society in a destitute time? Poetry-writing is not persuasive expository. It is not necessarily performative. A phrase like “I love you” may imply an action, and it is actually a verb, transitive, demanding or entailing an object. If the object can be an objectified into something like an objet d’art, then the object following the verb “love” becomes an absent presence. It is then the mirror that reflects the viewer, and the viewer sees the reflection and forgets the materiality of the mirror. The mirror is the precondition by which the viewer’s self is presented as an image. The poet writes down a word such as “you” in “I love you,” and he proceeds to love this word. The word “you” has its own life and can absorb all the emotions from the poet. A poet is an ouroboros.
　　A poem is written, not for performative reasons, but for exhibitive values. It is a silent call, by which whoever hears it recognize the quality in her- himself and realizes that s/he shares with a secret fraternity. That mute sound resounds only to those whose invisible heartstrings are struck by the faith that there are sensitive men and women who use such a secret code to convey their call. That call does not make things surface; the things may happen invisibly. The moment Purdy claims for a beer out of the poem, the poem’s value falls zero and dead.
　　A poem is a monologue of a sensitive man; oh, he may soliloquize before a mirror, but never face an audience, not the least on a stage. Silly, like us. Anne Sexton said she was “a possessed witch” and had been her kind. This is better than Plath's blunt question “are you our sort of a person?” There should be and really is “a special language” that secretly brands them as intimates, so that they can appreciate whatever “tools” the others use but “never ask why.”
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Dec. 04, 2009

SU Qian 4 Poems

2009-12-03T09:20:00.001+08:00

Stuck in a Poem
　　　　　　　　by Su Qian 　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Reading Dickinson, ready the prairie
She made
I too
Have day-dreams, also open my wings
And am also buried breast-deep among clovers
At a quiet nightfall
Once my head lowered
I am too distanced from the crowd
　　　　　　　　March 14, 2006

　　　陷在一首诗里
　　　　　　　　　　　苏浅
读狄金森，读她
造就的草原
我也
有白日梦，也张开了翅膀
被深深的苜蓿埋到胸口
也一低头
就远离了人群
　　　　　　　2006.3.14

　　　Deeper Blue
　　　　　　　　by Su Qian 　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
This moment, I miss the sea, especially
Its moist blueness
If I keep missing it like this and keep like this
It will be the same as
Missing you

　　更深的蓝
　　　　　　苏浅
现在，我特别想念，海
它湿润的蓝
如果我一直想下去一直想下去就和
想你
一样了

　　　A Life
Imagine you are in a canvas, being copied by a master
When he starts painting your eyes, the night falls
He rises and leaves
Never coming back again

　　　一生
设想你在画布上，被一个大师临摹
画到眼睛时，夜晚来临
他起身离开
再也没有回来

　　Sheep Sheep Sheep
Counting sheep to sleep. On a hillslope
One here, one there, and there is a little one hidden behind the hill
Till I fall into sleep, it is still uncounted

　　　羊羊羊
失眠时数羊，在山坡上
东一只，西一只，有一只小的藏在山后面
直到睡着了，也没数到

Li Yiliang: Age

2009-11-30T04:49:00.002+08:00

Age
　　　(To “Little Fish”)
　　　　　　　　　by Li Yiliang　　tr. Fan Jinghua
It is at this age
Poets write you one poem after another
And you do not know sneer yet

The day you’ve learn how to sneer
You will be old
Be you twenty or sixty
　　　　　　Nov. 17, 2009

　　年龄
　　　——给小小鱼
　　　　　　　　　李以亮　

是这样的年龄
诗人们纷纷给你献诗
而你还不会耻笑

等到学会耻笑的时候
小小鱼，你就老了
无论二十岁还是六十岁
　　　　2009/11/17

　　Let’s suppose this “Little Fish” is the speaker’s teenage daughter, at an age when so called poets would write poems to please her and please themselves. Let’s suppose that “Little Fish” is someone even poets may degrade themselves by pleasing her and degrading poetry. Does or will “Little Fish” learn that poetry is not to please one person, especially not by so many poets who write one poem after another for one person even that person is herself. Yes, when she learns this, she will be too wise to be fooled by that kind of “sneerable” poets. How about the poet who write this poem for “Little Fish”? I love reading this poet, Li Yiliang, from the central provincial capital Wuhan on the mid-stream of the Yangtze River.

Fan Jinghua: Winter Sun and Beyond

2009-11-30T04:02:00.000+08:00

Winter Sun and Beyond

The sunlight is fine, and under the reflection of brown glass shutters,
The usually dusky corner of my room becomes lighter, as if lightened by itself.
I’ve taken my mattress to the corridor, and I can expect
Tonight I will breathe in the erotic dry odor of sunlight, unable to sleep
Or able to dream of the vernal season, sans your scent.
Now, I am listening to Bach’s well-tempered clavier, and think of
The old Chinaberry in front of the house I was born. What can I write about it?
Those inedible dates hang on the forgotten top, lonely together,
Glittering under the winter sun. If I can write words as simple and blunt,
I may be a much happier person, unbent as sunlight.
The snow-patches wait quietly in the field for the sun to go west
So that they will melt, with or without anyone to watch.
Afterwards, there will be green on the roadside, and then there will be
People who are confined to the grass-lined white path, lauding the summer.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 25, 2009

　　　冬阳以及之后

天气晴好，棕色窗玻璃的折射
令室内荫蔽的地方也暗自亮了一些。
我将席梦思戗在廊下，可以期待
今夜，我将会呼吸着干燥刺激的阳光味，不能入眠
或者可能做春日的梦，而没有你的味道。
此刻，我听着巴赫的平均律；想到我出生的房子，
那门外有一棵苦楝树；关于它，我能写出什么？
楝枣子明晃晃地挂在峭寒的枝头，孤零零地一小撮，
偶尔闪碎碎的光，而无人在意；假若我能写出
与它们一样朴素直白的话，我会变成一个更开怀的人，
犹如阳光没有弯曲，所以冬天的田野上
积雪的补丁，静静地等着日头的转移，寂寞地化掉。
这之后，小路的边将开始泛起绿晕，再之后，路人
被郁郁的青草习惯性地限制于一道白，赞美着盛夏。
　　　　　　　　　　2009年11月25日

Plath: Little Fugue

2009-11-30T03:52:00.002+08:00

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No.158

　　　Little Fugue

The yew's black fingers wag;
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal the blind, and are ignored.

I like black statements.
The featurelessness of that cloud, now!
White as an eye all over!
The eye of the blind pianist

At my table on the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
I couldn't stop looking.

He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps---a tumult of keys.

Empty and silly as plates,
So the blind smile.
I envy the big noises,
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.

Deafness is something else.
Such a dark funnel, my father!
I see your voice
Black and leafy, as in my childhood,

A yew hedge of orders,
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I am guilty of nothing.

The yew my Christ, then.
Is it not as tortured?
And you, during the Great War
In the California delicatessen

Lopping the sausages!
They color my sleep,
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
There was a silence!

Great silence of another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.

Now similar clouds
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I am lame in the memory.

I remember a blue eye,
A briefcase of tangerines.
This was a man, then!
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.

I survive the while,
Arranging my morning.
These are my fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are a marriage dress, of that pallor.
　　　　　　　　　　2 April 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第158首

　　小赋格

紫杉的黑手指摇摆着；
冷冷的云朵从上方行走。
聋子和哑巴就这样
给瞎子发出信号，但都被忽视。

我喜欢黑色的申述。
此刻，那云的特征——无！
白得像一只全白的眼！
船上，盲钢琴师的眼睛

在我的桌子上。
他摸着食物，
手指有黄鼠狼的鼻子。
我无法不盯着看。

他能够听懂贝多芬：
黑色紫杉，白色的云，
令人悚然的蕴意。
手指的陷阱——琴键的骚乱。

空，愚蠢，像盘子，
所以那瞎子笑了。
我羡慕那些盛大的噪音，
《大赋格》的紫杉树篱。

耳聋，是另一回事。
一支暗黑的烟囱，我的父亲！
我看见了你的嗓音，
黑的，长了很多树叶，和我童年时一样，

等级严明的紫杉树篱，
哥特式的，野蛮的，纯粹德国人。
那儿传来死人的哭叫。
没有事令我有犯罪感。

那么，紫杉是我的基督。
它不也同样经受折磨？
而你，当世界大战时，
却在加州的熟食店，

剁着香肠！
它们为我的梦着色，
红色，杂色，像砍断的脖子。
一片死寂！

另一种等级的巨大死寂。
我当年七岁，懵懂无知。
世界生发。
你有一条腿，以及一个普鲁士头脑。

现在，相似的云朵
正在铺展它们茫然的床单。
你什么也没说吧？
在记忆中，我瘸腿。

我记得一只蓝眼睛，
一公文包的金橘。
那么，这是一个男人！
黑黑地，死亡打开，像一株黑树。

我挺过了这段时光，
安排着我的清晨。
这些是我的手指，这是我的小孩。
云朵是一件婚纱，有那种苍白。
　　　　　　　1962年4月2日

Fan Jinghua: Standing in the Car Park at 2 am

2009-11-29T15:10:00.004+08:00

Standing in the Car Park at 2 am.

Yesterday night at two o’clock I went downstairs to take a walk
In the parking lot under yellowish light, where cars crouched like tired animals.
That reminded me of a late return from a concert some years ago,
With my lover friend, and we stood by the car, talking about
How one interpretation about a piece of absolute music could be popularized
And something absolute was named, so that a title
Could finally violate the body, its texture and unique contours.
She’s faded out almost entirely from my life, with occasional emails
Saying hi, with the same old intimate salutation.
I could only imagine the craziness we created and shared.
Actually, I’ve inclined to believe she has been an illusion from my younger years,
Or a fantasy which has evolved into a memory in the present emotion-draining life of mine,
Just like the scene from Larkin’s high window, a perspective
Which I did often take with some unspeakable grudge, while thinking of
A girl, proud, prude and pretty, whom I wooed and failed, for she had fallen
For a man more handsome and mature with what she said “a stronger sense of security.”
That was something at once striking me dumbfounded.
Now I feel even worse, learning that the man has become richer and richer
And she keeps the house intact as long as he sticks to the family and does not
Make her see his women or carry home unspeakable diseases.
I do have her number in my mobile phone, saved as an alternative number of a colleague,
And if it had not been so late, I might have called her, although
I absolutely had no idea what to say except for perhaps
“Oh, sorry! After the second ring I’ve realized it is not a good time and this is not polite,
But you can just say ‘Wrong number!’ and hang up.”
If it had not been so late, how could I have the impulse to call?
I stood by the car-park exit which was a covered bridge over the drainage ditch,
And for a while I saw the water was washing back. So the sea was rising.
That was something given up to time but still time had no control.
When a crazy car raced by the road with loud rock-n-roll, I looked up and found
The waning moon hanging low over the contour of treetops to the west.
So many had been written about the moon in different phases that no more word
About it would not seem hackneyed. I turned my head and turned my thought.
It was for quite a while before I saw the stars that I had expected to see,
And the more I stared into the navy darkness, the more stars greeted my eyes.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 28, 2009

　　　　深夜两点站在停车场

昨夜两点，我下楼走走；停车场上，灯光有点偏黄，
车子趴着，犹如疲倦慵懒的动物。
我想起数年前的某个月夜，我和情人朋友
从一场音乐会归来，站在车旁谈绝对音乐如何被某个人解读，
进而被普及，阐释变成了界定，绝对被命名，
终而，标题强暴了原作、它的肌理与它的独特。
如今，她已几乎从我的生活中隐去，除了偶尔
发一封电邮，打个招呼而已，还是用那么亲密的称呼。
我只能想象那曾有的狂热，我们为自己创造，分享。
事实上，我如今已倾向于相信她一直是我更年少时的幻觉，
或者一个幻想，进化成记忆，支撑我情感日渐枯竭的生活，
正如拉金从高窗上所见的景象。那是一个视角，
我也时常取那样的角度，带着难以明言的嫉恨，
想到一个女孩，美丽、骄傲，还正经，我追求很久而不得，
因为她更喜欢一个更成熟英俊的，那男人具有她所说的
“更强的安全感”。那句话一出口，我就被堵得哑口无言。
而今想起她，我感觉更加糟糕，知道她的老公越来越有钱，
而她越来越懂得将家守得紧紧，
只要他不离不弃，别令她撞见那些女人，也别带回说不出口的脏病。
我的手机里有她的电话，保存为我一个同事的备用号码；
要不是太晚了，我可能就按一下键拨通，可我实在不知道会说什么，
也许就是“哦，对不起，响了第二声我就意识到
我打得不是时候而且还很不礼貌；你可以说‘打错了’然后挂掉”。
要不是这么晚的夜里，我又怎么会有与她说话的冲动？
停车场的出口处是一座有盖的桥，建在排水沟上，犹如廊桥，
我站在桥头，看到水在回流。那是海在涨潮。
大海将自己交付给时间，而时间却无力制约海水。
一辆车神经病似地在外面的路上飞驰而过，留下一段摇滚乐的吼叫，
我抬头发现亏损的月亮悬在西边树梢轮廓线的上方。
无论月亮处于什么项位，都已被写得太多，再难有什么字句
会显得不是陈词滥调。于是，我转头，也就转了念头。
过了好一阵子，我的眼睛才看到我意料中的星星，
盯着那深海蓝色的夜空越久，看到的星星就越多。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　2009年11月28日