Wu Qingshui: My 2004

　　My 2004
　　　　　　by Wu Qingshui　tr. Fan Jinghua

　　　　　…mir aber ist die Ferne voll Figur
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　--- Rilke, Der Einsame

Except for the year, my love comes too, but no one comes to share yet.
Not able to sort out my thoughts, not able to find the one who lends an ear
For me to whisper into, I surrender my heart to the days passing irretrievably by.
The lonely steps of the passer-by are not what light can illuminate
Bound to the incomplete things and have to stagger on
This augury is Rilke’s lament; … there would be never another here being trodden…
Is this the world we are pre-settled in?

The lily on the windowsill is withering. No one can hold her hand,
And from the pliable waist ooze out crystal teardrops,
That roll down all the way from her flossy legs.
Dented leaves hold some of their moisture, and air takes away
Some of their glittering.
Thrown off the eyesight,
Over the window,
It rests in the net of the entertainers’ toot.

And a solitary traveler always arrives easily,
Just like time would never vanish.

The poet’s note (rephrased by me, original at the end of this posting)
　　Poetry, as the oldest way of human existence, is a sun-flower-like vegetable in the form of words breathing the sunshine. Its potential to multiply and grow is remarkable. Poetry is a two-fold discovery of both language and spirit, and of a demystification of human existence. Poets have always been foreigners from another world, who clean the language windows of the lighthouse during stormy nights and rediscover and reaffirm the vast field of meaning and meaningful sound of words.
　　In this poem, I have tried to make the language clear and pure as well as ambiguous and veiled. What I hope for the language is the quicksilver quality that looks transparent but essentially still and elusive. I try to achieve in this poem is the maximum opening-up and presentation of the imaginary sphere, as if by using an engraving knife to mould a shape. The artistry of a poet is neither cutting nor etching. Maybe both or between.
　　诗作为一门古老的人类生存方式，其语言是充满呼吸的向阳生长之物，它的繁殖和增生能力是惊人的。诗是对语言与灵魂的双重涉险与发现，是对存在的澄明去蔽。诗人，是从外乡跋涉而来，在黑暗冰冷的雨夜擦亮语言灯塔之窗的人，他重新发现了语言背后阔大场阈中被遮蔽的意义和声音的指向。
　　在这首诗歌的创作中，我试图让语言做到澄澈、明净，但同时也是隐晦的、朦胧的、多义的。这正如水银看似透明静止实则隐晦，变动不居。我在这首诗中期待将想象的世界得以最大限度地呈现和敞亮出来，犹如用一把雕刀给诗歌塑型。诗人之艺既非刻划又非剥啄。也许都是，也是介于其间。

Original

　　　2004年
　　　　　　　　吴情水

　　充盈的形象却是我的远方
　　　　　　　　　　——里尔克

除此以外这一年出现了我的爱情，没有分享，没有能整理我的思想
没有找到与我秘密耳语的那一个
我向沿途的日子交出的心，没有可归回的地点。往者如许孤独
的步容也不是光所能照耀的
“捆绑于未完成的事物，而且还要继续蹒跚”
这句谶语的悲叹声来于里尔克；……再没有如此走过的这里……
就是为我们所设席的世界？

窗台的百合渐渐枯萎，没有人能握住她的手。这形体多变的腰肢
几滴闪亮的泪珠沁出来
从她闭拢、绒毛浮动的长腿上
一直下滑，被齿叶挽留住一点顺便湿润它，空气再带走一点
闪动。
向眼外荡去。
直到越出那道窗户，
鼓手的吹拉弹唱衔接住它。

而一个人上路总归是最好的抵达
而时间不会消失。

创作附言：
　“诗作为一门古老的人类生存方式，其语言是充满呼吸的向阳生长之物，它的繁殖和增生能力是惊人的。诗是对语言与灵魂的双重涉险与发现，是对存在的澄明去蔽。诗人，是从外乡跋涉而来，在黑暗冰冷的雨夜擦亮语言灯盏的人，他重新发现了语言背后阔大场阈中被遮蔽的意义和声音的指向。诗人，是在板结梗硬的寒冬，撬开冰层和土壤，在不懈的挖掘中提早与语言在鲜活的春天照面和打量的挥汗者。在这个长久而可贵的语言向度和弯身劳作的姿势上，诗人才维持了诗之为诗的本体依据和可能性诉求，才持有了一个手艺人的道德良知和基本责任感。
　在这首诗歌的创作中，我试图让语言做到澄澈、明净，但同时也是隐晦的、朦胧的、多义的。这正如水银看似透明静止实则隐晦，变动不居。如《2004》的语言就是力图使其精准而到位的，这犹如有一把雕刀，在刻划和剥啄间，真实的想象的世界得以最大限度地呈现和敞亮出来。”

WU Qingshui: Mute

　　《哑巴》
　　　　　　　　　吴情水

至少该想些什么说些什么
倘若，劳作终不能完成此生积压的事物
当死亡阴险地迫近
今晚我们去哪里献演呢？
我又没有力量像佩索阿那样，在想象的小阁楼里
思考悲苦的宇宙；与自己一个可以触摸的门

哈姆雷特、彗星、天体与自由、美女和野兽……
多少词，兔子般踊跃的心
与我绝缘，也感受不到语言蕴涵的魔法
而我，上帝呀！难道无论我怎样痛伤仍在继续收回我曾秘密接待着
是我需要知晓的、理解的、又是秘密需要我的欢乐？又是

你精心制作的
一个虚幻的、假面出现的、无处不在的、还是随意安插的日常节目
否则又如何阻止这种事发生。
而我，不就是那些浅薄的一代人中间的一个？！

　　　Mute
　　　　　　by Wu Qingshui tr. Fan Jinghua
If labor proves itself a failure
And cannot finish a whole life’s things-to-do
Let there be at least something on your mind and for the tongue
When death menaces, where should we go to publicize a show
I am no Pessoa. Not capable of reflecting upon the suffering universe
In an imaginary attic, and unable to provide myself a tangible door

Or a Hamlet, a comet, a heavenly body and its freedom, a beauty and her beast…
So many words, with pouncing heart like rabbits
Are so non-active to me that the magic of language does not filter through
Oh, me, my god! Is pain reclaiming my joy despite anything I try? The joy
I once secretly received, the joy I need to learn and understand,
The joy that secretly needs me. Is it just another routine program

That you have meticulously produced, one that is like
A plug-and-play, illusionary and omnipresent, and appears in a masquerade?
Or, if it is not, how can this be stopped?
And I, am I one among the shallow generation?

About the author:
WU Qingshui was born in 1977, one of the many young men aspiring to a life devoted to poetry. He has worked at different times for different perionds of time as an editor to different magazines. Now he is an editor of a newspaper in an enterprise. He publishes a book of poetry Where Does the Snow Wake (2003).