A Mang: If Someday My Memory Gets Better

　　If Someday My Memory Gets Better 

　　　　　　　　by [Taiwan] A Mang　　tr. Fan Jinghua


It gets so great that I don't need to see you
and since I don't want to anyway
we don't ever need to meet

Don't feel bad
for stockpiling supplies in my garage
It's enough
for however many years
to face each famine that suddenly strikes

My stockpile fears no darkness
won't grow mold and rot, nor sprout
(become poison)

it won't run out no matter how you eat it
and I'll never tire of eating

Some day my memory gets better than it already is
but I've already said my memory is poor
How many years has it been –
we've seen one another just once
were together only one day
(take a whole number, not a fraction)

You seemed to say something off color
Your memory is no better than mine

How about some day you remember better?

　　如果有一天我的记忆力变好了
　　　　　　　　[台湾]阿芒
好到我不必去看你

也不想

我们可以永远不相见
一点也不会感到遗憾

只用一天
我在仓库里囤积的粮食
已经足够
对付不管多少年间
每一次突然降临的饥荒

这些存粮不怕黑暗
不会受潮不腐烂也不发芽
（芽是有毒的）

怎么吃都吃不完
也不腻

如果有一天我的记忆力变好了

我说过我的记性很差
到目前为止，多少年了
我们只见过：一次
我们只在一起：一天
（四舍五入，取整数计算）

那时你好像也顺便提了一下
你的记性不会比我好

万一有一天你的记忆力变好了呢

Poet: A Mang, born in Hualien, Taiwan, lives in Taipei.
诗人：阿芒，生于台湾花莲，现居台北。

Cheng Ying: Hand in Hand We Sit on the Roof Beam

　　Hand in Hand We Sit on the Roof Beam
　　　　　　　　　　by Cheng Ying tr. Fan Jinghua

The one I’ve been feeding is exhausted
I sit with her on the roof beam
Tears of farewell barely contained in her eyes
She begrudges the way I’ve kept distance from things
But held attachment for her
What a wonder is her head that keeps lowered for me
She even stoops to draw herself near things, striving to plant
Their love for peace into my heart, while I watch her attentively
And observe her consumed face
Her live experience has been solely for me
No soul mates, no sisters
My shameless curiosity wants to find out
How she is humiliated and deceived
By her inner loss and confusion
And how her proud head is battered by fresh eggs

Now we sit hand in hand under the beam
She counts the number of times love flashes at me
Its bewitching colors and broken utensils
Her hands emulate the industry of an old grandma’s
Her eyes perform more than merely gaze or look around, her lips
Become fuller due to the passion for kissing
Things are allowed to permeate her bowels, rising and falling
And also she wants to permeate me. She says
That’s freedom, but I, insatiable, grow
Lighter and lighter on the only warm tree branch over the cloud
Scattering her tears on my skin and taking them for
My own wounds, bleeding
She is fed with my cereals and grains
And I attempt over-indulged carnal pleasure to accelerate her aging
But she gleams like the most delicate flower

Now she is worn out
Her smiles fainter and fainter
She hopped onto the roof beam, sitting by me
“You dodge from our issue
For love is doomed to be a clandestine career
My body is far from ripeness
But its desire has long outgrown the age”
Her legs dangling in sorrow, in exaltation
(They have measured many roads)
Her eyes downcast
She leans inward and bends to another one
An inexplicable film clouds up her eyes
What does she use to feed? To what end is she so carried away?—
No longer does she speak to me
No longer does her bright face turn to me


　　我们手拉手坐到房梁　　　　　　　　　　成婴
我喂养的人已经疲倦
我与她坐到房梁
她眼中噙着告别的泪水
她开始怨恨我与事物的距离
却想与她相依为命
她美妙的头颅，为我一低再低
她去亲近事物，她努力把它们的平静之爱
放到我的胸中，而我专情地注视
观察她被磨损、消耗的面容
她为我经历
没有知己不再有姐妹
我不知羞耻的好奇心, 是想看她
被内心的迷乱怎样羞辱和欺骗
被新鲜的鸡蛋砸到骄傲的头

现在我们手拉手坐在房梁下
她数出为我闪现过的爱情
巫合的色彩, 破碎的器具
她的双手学习老祖母的勤劳
眼睛从来不只是凝视、张望，嘴唇
因为热爱亲吻而变得宽阔了
她让事物穿透自己的脏腑, 此起彼伏
同时她想穿透我，她说
这才是自由。而我不知餍足
愈发轻盈, 在云端这唯一温暖的枝杈上
把她的眼泪蘸到皮肤，当成自己身体上
有了伤口流出了血
我的五谷杂粮喂养她
我用皮肉过度的欢悦催促她衰老
她却长得更像了一朵娇嫩的花

如今她是疲惫了
她开始淡淡微笑
和我一跃坐上房梁
“你顾左右而言它
原来爱情注定是一项隐秘的事业
我的身体远未成熟
欲望却已变得古老”
摇晃着走过很多路的双腿
既是悲伤又是欢欣
她低垂下眼睛
她向内俯向另一个人
她的眼神变得扑朔迷离
她用什么喂养，她为什么而沉醉
----她不再与我说话
她不再明亮地面向我


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》。
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.

Plath: The Moon and the Yew Tree

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

Plath: The Babysitters

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 155

　　　The Babysitters

It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.

O it was richness!---eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection',
And a small Dalmatian.

In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing 'Ja Da' in a pink piqué dress
On the gameroom piano, when the 'big people' were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green-shaded lamp.
The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.

O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, crosslegged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted—
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing,
But ten years dead.

The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　29 October 1961


普拉斯《诗全编》
第155首

　　　陪玩保姆

已有十年，自从我们划船去儿童岛。
中午，太阳的火焰垂落在马宝岬的水面。
那个夏天，我们带墨镜遮住眼睛。
我们总是在哭，两个被利用了的姐妹，在给我们的空房间，
在斯沃姆斯科的两栋漂亮的白色豪宅。
当那个英国甜心来了，那奶白的肌肤，涂雅得丽化妆品，
我就得和小孩睡在一间，那实在太短的小床，
那七岁的小东西绝不出门，除非他的条纹运动衫
有配套的条纹棉袜。

哦，那就是富有！——十一个房间，一条游艇，
抛光的红木台阶一直通到海里，
还有随船侍者懂得如何给蛋糕装饰六彩糖霜。
可我还不会烹饪，小孩令我沮丧。
每夜，我都恶毒地写日记，手指通红，
熨斗的三角形伤痕，因为熨烫细小的褶饰和花式袖口。
当那爱运动的老婆与她的医生老公去周游，
他们借来一个女佣陪我，叫做埃伦，说是“为了保护”，
还留下一条花斑狗。

在你那家，那个主宅，你比我好过。
你有玫瑰园，待客小屋，很像样的小药房，
还有厨子和女佣，你也知道酒柜的钥匙。
我记得“大人”出去的时候，你穿着粉红色
单珠地裙子，在游艺室那架钢琴上演奏佳答爵士，
而女佣抽着烟，在绿色灯罩下撞桌球。
厨子有一只眼角膜白斑，睡不着觉，她很是紧张。
她从爱尔兰来，试用，烤焦了一炉又一炉糕点，
终于被炒掉。

哦，我们怎会有如此遭遇，我的姐妹！
我们哭着闹着才得到一天休息，
两人提着甜味火腿和菠萝，装在成人们的冰盒里，
租了一条绿色旧船，我划，你盘腿
坐在船尾座位上，高声朗读《蛇蝎世代》。
我们就这么颠簸着去了小岛。那儿已人去楼空——
一个长廊，入口吱吱作响，内部死寂一片，
一切早已停止，可怕，犹如一幅照片，拍的笑脸
已经死了十年。

海鸥放肆地俯冲而来，似乎它们拥有一切。
我们捡起浮木小棍，赶走它们，
然后一步一步走下陡峭的海滩岩床，进入水中。
我们撩起水，说话。浓浓的盐分逼着我们上岸。
可我仍看见我们漂浮在那儿，彼此不分——两只软木玩偶。
我们穿过了怎样的锁孔，那关闭的是什么门？
青草的影子慢慢移动，犹如一面钟的指针，
而我们挥手，招呼，从两个相对的大陆。
一切都已发生。
　　　　　　　　　　　1961年10月29日

Amang: Beautiful Is Love

　　　　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。

Lü Yue: The Son of Woman Cannot Understand

　The Son of Woman Cannot Understand
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　by Lü Yue　　tr. Fan Jinghua

The son of woman cannot understand
The woman’s ankle bruised by new slippers
He points his plumpy hands and cry: blood, blood

The ankle that is bruised when God tries on the new world
God wishes his own son to understand
But no permission to point at it
Much less to cry


　　女人的儿子不能理解
　　　　　　　吕约

女人的儿子不能理解
女人被新凉鞋磨破的脚踝
他伸出胖乎乎的小手喊：血，血

上帝为试穿新世界磨破的脚踝
上帝希望自己的小儿子理解
但不许指着它
更不能喊



Lü Yue at an old temple on the outskirt of Beijing in Sept 2009

Lü Yue: Sitting

Lü Yue: Sitting
吕约《坐着》

　　Sitting
　　　　　By Lü Yue (1972-)　　tr. Fan Jinghua

All that have butts
And no wings
Sit
And need to sit
Love to sit
Have to sit
Cannot but sit
They sit comfortably, beautifully
Gravely
Securely
And forget that they were not born with the ability
To sit
The vertebrate cannot sit, nor the arthropod
The first time to sit steady
Pays the price of blood
With teeth knocking at the chair-back
And one becomes sworn brothers
With all the chairs
And become bosom friends
With all that sit
Whenever pushing open a door, one’d look
First of all with one eye
For the one who sits
And the other eye looks for a chair
Wishing that all the chairs ogling at oneself
The most pleasing chair will walk up by itself
Asking you to sit down and putting a yellow cushion for you

The most friendly one coughs
Or nods
Indicating that you may sit
You and he both understand
As long as you sit
There are chances
No matter you are cleaning shoes, fishing or biting nails

Sitting is required to write poems
Sitting is required to negotiate
Sitting is required to undersign a mandate
The most wonderful is to sit on someone’s laps
But this could not be long
For he would worry that you might finally sit on his head

To say right or wrong when you are sitting
Is more powerful
Than when you stand
For there will be people running to propagate it
To those who are standing or kneeling
There may be a little inconvenience in sitting
But it would make other hard to breathe

If everyone is sitting
While you alone are standing
There is much danger in this
It would be better that everyone stand while you sit
But there is danger in this too

To walk or run is to search answers
To lie down is to abandon answers
But to sit means you know where the answers are
For sitting is the answer

Dear friends
I remember your sitting postures
You sit beautifully
Securely
Sitting down is an authorized right
Sitting down is a power
From sitting down
To sudden standing up
There is also a power
But that power is still not comparable
To sitting all the time

The most dreadful for the most powerful one
Is for the enemy to take a chair
And sit down in front of him
The only persons who do not fear are the children
Who do not like to sit down

To sit at the street corner waiting for no one is also an authorized right
To sit by a tomb is another kind of right
To sit on a toilet bowl is the least right
Like a reverent monk waiting for nirvana
Is this the supreme right?
To sit on a portrait
In an artwork saleroom to wait for the highest bid from a Dubai man
Is the highest state one can achieve
But what if a child who refuses to sit down
Sets fire on the portrait?

When sitting, the tail is under the rear
And this can modify one’s physique and blood type
So the legs become shorter and feet grow smaller
While the belly and head are turning bigger and bigger
Like those half-bodied family in a pact of pokers
All the vitality and ignorance one was born to
Expands during sitting

One sits down to nod
To count money
To make love
To kill others, to make up
To wait for death
And forgets that when sitting one can fly
With the gunpowder from the earliest dynasty or the rocket of the latest model
To launch oneself away
To a crater in the southeastern corner on the Pluto
And when landing one still keeps a sitting posture

If you want to keep that posture to the last minute
God will bring a chair
And let you sit before him
The rest from His Creation will not object
They would stand, squat, lie face up or down
In the corridor outside God’s office
Their eyes dull
Like a pile of rocks
They are neither sitting nor not sitting
Are they intending to crack down those who are sitting like sitting?
Will they punish all those who sit
And force them to pay tax?
Or to force them to sit in a circle and sing a nursery song?
Are they designing the plan?

Some people sit so straight
As if sitting is not necessary at all


About the author:
Lü Yue (surname or family name is read as /lju:/, and her name is read as /jue/) was born in 1972, and graduated from East China Normal University in SShanghai. She wrote with a very colloquial style, and sometimes is grouped with the so-called "The Lower Part of a Body" poets, but she is more gender conscious.





　坐着
　　　　　吕约
所有没翅膀
有屁股的东西
都坐着
需要坐着
热爱坐着
不得不坐着
不坐不行
坐得舒服，坐得漂亮
坐得庄严
坐得安稳
以至于忘了自己不是一生下来
就能坐的
脊椎动物不能,节肢动物也不能
第一次坐稳
付出了血的代价
牙磕在椅背上
从此与所有的椅子
成了拜把兄弟
与所有坐着的东西
成了知己
无论推开哪扇门，首先
一只眼睛找那个
坐着的人
一只眼睛找椅子
渴望所有的椅子都只对自己使眼色
最热情的椅子自己走到跟前
请你坐下，还给你递上一只黄色靠垫

最友善的人咳嗽一声
或点点头
暗示你坐下
你和他都相信
只要坐下来
就有了机会
哪怕是坐着擦鞋，钓鱼或啃指甲

写诗需要坐着
谈判需要坐着
签署命令坐着
最美妙的是坐在另一个人腿上
这种好事是不长久的
因为他担心你最后坐到他头上

坐着说“对”或“错”
比站着说
更有力量
马上就有人跑着去传达
给另一些站着或跪着的
坐着虽然行动不便
但足以让别人呼吸困难

所有人都坐着
只有你站着
这很危险
最好是所有人都站着只有你坐着
这也危险

走或跑是寻找答案
躺下是放弃答案
坐着是知道哪里有答案
坐着就是答案

亲爱的朋友们
我记得你们坐着的姿态
你们坐得漂亮
坐得稳
坐着就是一种权力
坐着就是力量
坐着坐着
突然站起来
也能产生一种力量
但还是不如坐着
有力量

最有力量的人最害怕
敌人搬一把椅子
在你对面坐着
只有那些不肯坐下来的孩子
不害怕

坐在街角无人可等也是一种权力
坐在坟边是另一种权力
坐在马桶上是最低权力
像高僧一样坐在瓮里等待涅槃
是最高权力吗?
坐在画像上
在潘家园市场等待高价拍卖给一个迪拜人
是最高境界
但万一被一个不肯坐的孩子
放火烧掉呢?

坐着，尾巴压在屁股底下
改变了你的体态和血型
腿越来越短脚越来越小
肚子和脑袋越来越大
像扑克牌上的半身家族
与生俱来的活力与无知
在坐之中膨胀

坐着点头
坐着数钱
坐着做爱
坐着杀人，坐着化妆
坐着等死
忘了可以坐着飞
坐在一把高背椅上
用商代的火药或长江八号火箭
把自己发射出去
降落在冥王星东南角的一个坑里
着陆时保持坐姿

如果你想将坐姿保持到最后一刻
上帝会搬一把椅子
让你坐在他对面
其他的造物群不会发表意见
它们在上帝办公室门口的走廊上
站着，蹲着，躺着，趴着
眼神无光
像一堆石头
似坐非坐
它们是想打击那些坐得太像坐着的人吗？
它们会罚所有坐着的
向它们纳税吗？
会罚他们坐成一圈合唱一支幼儿园的歌吗？
它们是不是在策划？

有些人坐得如此笔直
仿佛坐着根本没有必要

Xiao Maxian: Socks & An Empty Alley

Xiao Maxian: Socks & An Empty Alley

These two tiny poems are the first ones that Xiao Maxian takes me by surprise and I still believe they are among her best and the most representative. “They do not imitate themselves, and yet they have already become so much like themselves”. These poems are too elusive to be translated.


　　Socks
　　　　　　　　By Xiao Maxian　　tr. Fan Jinghua
White socks dripping water
Ears hanging down

Necks on clips
Down and out

Not yet imitating, they already become themselves
With a small wind
They are so smug

With swaggering
Unkindness
　
　　袜子
　　　　　小玛仙
白袜子滴水
耷着头

脖子被夹住
落魄样

没学自己就惟妙惟肖
小风一吹
又得意

摇头晃脚的
不厚道

　　An Empty Alley
　　　　　　　　By Xiao Maxian　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Just rained
Limestone slates become sassy
Eyes keen and brows clean-cut

Thin bamboo poles springy
Wet clothes hiding

No shoes hitting it
It dissipates by itself

　　空巷
　　　　　小玛仙
刚下雨　　　　　　
青石板俏起来　　　　　
眉眼清晰
　　　　　　
小竹竿晃呀晃　　　　　
湿衣服躲起来
　　　　　　
没有鞋子敲它　　　　　
自己浪


我读：
“耷”，本意“大耳朵”，一下子将一只白袜子等同于一只大白兔，于是生机顿时盎然，紧接着袜脖子被夹住，简直就是被吊死一样的“落魄”。诗人没有说为何，因为在当今的这个社会上（我们假设有一种“后现代的不确定性”），人的情绪等等恐怕再也没有了可以期待的“恒定性”，因此“落魄”实在可以是一种可消费的情绪。这样的状态自可用自身来界定，无须模仿他人，无须模仿历史，只需要随着自己的情绪就已经是对于自己的一次模仿了。
这令我想到一个叫做Simulacrum“拟像”的术语。这是一种随着时间（风尚）滑动的像，最终甚至连原来的像是什么也最终消失。于是，“小风一吹”，表情犹如橱窗上的滚动广告，令你眼中的afterimage余象还没来得及消失在眼底，它已经又是一副嘴脸了。面对如此“不确定性”的人或事，你如何应对？然而，诗人并没有呼吁什么，诗人生活于其中，和它一样高，看着它，笑。不是人情纸薄，只是不厚道而已。然而这“不厚道”并非什么指责，而是一种新的看的方式；在这种观看中，生机就是美。

《空巷》和上一首所指的差不多。在上面一首，诗人将一只袜子注入了生机，然后让它在风中成为空间的焦点，一个凝聚点。这首诗则反过来，让空间自己成为焦点，诗人抽调了里面本可以成为焦点的物。这诗中的景象多少令人想到戴望舒那首著名的诗，然而那首诗先将个人情感强加到一个视觉形象，然后借助一个无限延伸的空间“雨巷”（也是时间、情感），迫使读者先在视觉上紧接着在情感上与诗人认同。勿容置疑，戴望舒做得非常成功，那是一种古典的方式（当然意义层面可以是另一回事）。
　　诗人在这里将巷子腾空了，她的视点就是巷子本身，“青石板俏起来”，“俏”得犹如女子刚刚抹了保湿摩丝，湿湿的，更映衬出轮廓来了，巷子变成了一个眉目清秀的女人。这是一个很大胆的隐喻，骨肉分明，性感荡漾。这里有一种内爆似的张狂，毫不咄咄逼人；感觉敏锐的自然会感到，感觉不到的，它才不屑于撩拨。它“自己浪”，就是这种状态，自为的/自慰的游戏性。"看"就是参与了美的构建，"看到"使得眼下被充满。

Plath: Pheasant

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 162

　　　Pheasant

You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court—

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill—green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　7 April 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第162首

　　　野鸡

你说你会在今天早晨将它杀掉。
不要杀吧。它至今仍令我震惊，
那奇怪的黑头顶上的突起，缓步

穿过榆树山上没人修剪的草坪。
拥有一只野鸡，算是有点特别，
哪怕只是供人参观。

我不信什么神秘主义：它也并非
如我所想象的那样拥有灵魂。
那只是在于它的元素。

那赋予它一种君王的威严，一种权利。
去年冬天，它大脚的印记，
尾巴的痕迹，在我们院子的雪上——

它的惊艳，带着那样的苍白，
映衬着麻雀与八哥交叉飞过的阴影。
这不正是它的难得么？它确实难得。

但一打之数还是值得拥有，
一百只，在那座小山上——有绿有红，
走来又走去：一种优美的生灵！

它有那么美妙的身形，如此生动。
它是一只小小的丰饶角。
它扑闪着收起翅膀，有叶子的褐色，嘹亮，

栖息在榆树上，怡然自得。
它在水仙丛中晒太阳。
我傻兮兮地侵入。放过它，放过它。
　　　　　　　　　　　1962年4月7日

Plath: The Rabbit Catcher

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 164

　　　The Rabbit Catcher

It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.

I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.

There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves--
Zeros, shutting on nothing,

Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.

I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.

And we, too, had a relationship--
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
　　　　　　　　　　　21 May 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第164首

　　　捕兔器

它是力量之所在——
风，以我飘乱的头发，堵我的嘴，
撕开我的声音，而大海
用它的光击瞎了我，死者的生命
在海中卷开，铺展，像油一样。

我尝过荆豆的恶毒，
它的黑色荚果，
那黄色蜡烛花给临死者涂抹的油。
它们有一种效率，一种雄伟的美，
并且铺张恣纵，就像折磨。

只有一个地方可去。
文火煨，加了香料，
小径都变窄，进了那个窟窿。
诱捕器几乎都隐去了面目——
所有的零，关闭着虚空，

缩紧，如分娩的阵痛。
尖叫的缺失
在大热天制造一个窟窿，一个空档。
玻璃似的光，是一堵清澈的墙，
灌木沉静。

我感到一种凝滞的忙碌，一个意图。
我感到双手捧着茶缸，迟钝而生硬，
围握着这白瓷。
而它们等啊，等着他，那些小小的死！
它们像情人一样等他。令他兴奋。

而我们，我们也有一层关系——
绷紧的线牵着我们，
木栓插得很深，难以拔起，还有一种指环似的心思，
滑落，套紧在某个极快的东西上，
那一紧缩也杀死了我。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　1962年5月21日

Plath: The Other

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 168

　　　The Other

You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep--

White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?

Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.

The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,

Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.

Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily

Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.

I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,

Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,

The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.

Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?

Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself

Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.

The blood that runs is dark fruit--
An effect, a cosmetic.

You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
　　　　　　　　　　2 July 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第168首

　　　　另一个人

你回来吃了，抹着嘴唇。
我放在门阶上没人碰过的是什么——

白色的胜利女神，
从我的墙壁之间流出？

蓝色闪电，笑盈盈地，
想象着他各部位的沉重，像挂肉的钩子。

警察喜欢你，一切你都坦白。
闪亮的头发，鞋子的黑，旧塑料，

我的生活这么引人好奇吗？
就因为这一点，你才眼圈大开？

就因这一点，空气的尘粒便会消散？
它们不是空气的尘粒，是血球微粒。

打开你的手袋。那恶心的味道是什么？
是你的毛线活，匆忙之间，

自己钩住了自己。
那是你已经粘手的糖果。

我的墙上有你的头。
脐带，蓝红色，剔透，

从我腹中尖啸而出，像箭一样，而我乘着它们奔驰。
月亮的幽光啊，病着的人啊，

被盗走的良马，大理石的
子宫被通奸行径围绕。

你要到哪里去？
——你吸一口气就像吞掉好几英里。

奸情散发硫磺味，在梦中悲痛。
冷玻璃，你究竟如何

插入我的自己与自己之间。
我像猫一样乱抓。

流淌的鲜血是暗黑的果实——
一种效果，一种化妆品。

你微笑着。
不，这并不能致命。
　　　　　　　　　　1962年7月2日

Qiao: The Next Page

Qiao: The Next Page
桥：下一页


　　The Next Page
　　　　　　　　　　　　by Qiao　　tr. Fan Jinghua　
On the next page there are lemon trees you planted
On the next page I can touch the trees and close my eyes
On the next page birds fly away from the riverside reeds
On the next page bullets whizz by the ears of roses
On the next page there are purely white feathers
On the next page I open my eyes and see nothing but snowflakes

On the next page all the tiles shine on the roof
On the next page wooden windows creak all night long
On the next page there is rainwater sprawling everywhere
On the next page frogs jump to the other bank and knock grandma’s door
On the next page rice stalks stand like generals to fight sparrows in the field
On the next page anyone with a bowl in hand will cry like a shower

On the next page I sit on bamboos and weave you a winter clothe
On the next page I put coal to the stove and lemon into wine
On the next page I let loose my hair and bury my face in your cottonfield
On the next page I climb over you to welcome the winter
On the next page I turn over another page and turn over you
On the next page the Winter Solstice follows you and the Great Cold Day comes

On the next page lemon trees are covered with flowers
On the next page lemon trees are heavy with fruits
On the next page I shoulder a pair of buckets to the river
On the next page I wash off the dirt on the hem of my skirt
On the next page the riverside willow tells its long story
On the next page firewood is ready and dead trees lean against each other

On the next page you and I hold each other
On the next page you and I lie together


　　下一页
　　　　　　　　作者： 桥
下一页就可以看到你种的柠檬树
下一页摸摸这棵树就闭上眼睛
下一页鸟都飞离河边芦苇
下一页气枪子弹在玫瑰的耳边呼啸
下一页夹着纯洁的羽毛
下一页我就要睁开眼睛
下一页都是雪花

下一页
瓦片发亮，木窗整夜吱吱作响
下一页整页都是雨水
青蛙跳到河的对岸，敲老奶奶的门
下一页
稻草变成将军在田里大战麻雀
下一页端起碗就会泪如雨下

下一页坐在竹子上织冬衣
下一页
往炉里添炭，柠檬加入酒
下一页将头发放下
笑容埋在你的棉花地
下一页翻过你
下一页翻过你就是冬至，翻过冬至就是大寒

下一页柠檬树开花了
下一页柠檬树结果吧
下一页我挑上木桶走到河边
下一页我洗我衣角的泥土
下一页河边的杨柳在讲它的故事
下一页砍柴
下一页死亡的树都抱在一起
我和你抱在一起

Qiao: The Crops Are Blown Away

Qiao: The Crops Are Blown Away
桥《粮食都被风吹走了》


　　The Crops Are Blown Away
　　　　　　　　　　　　by Qiao　　tr. Fan Jinghua
Let’s go for a booze, to a booze-up
Come on, caterpillar
The cereals are blown away in the wind
There is wine left in the cellar
Let’s bend over the bar counter in this rat-hole
And exchange our summer with the rat
For a cup of sweet-potato liquor
We have to face its bad
And our fingers are interlocked in the dark
So I can feel your little thumb and it’s soft like an angel’s lip

Stumble me, caterpillar, stumble me
With your green color
The crops are blown away in the wind
Paradise is one meter underground
Let’s follow the cricket
And exchange our lamp with it for a piano
In the bleakest lot of grass let me play for you
The darkest tune in my body
I’ll play it like a shower of falling leaves
And play it so it may die away at the height of autumn

Come on, caterpillar, let’s go for a booze
I’ll fall like a bundle of straw
Let mice laugh at my rotting
Let’s exchange my patched bones with it for a clean table
You sit down
And I’ll wash your hands with the purest liquor
My ears will turn deaf to the wind
And I can see the rice growing taller and taller after the summer
Come on, caterpillar
Plant me in the paddy field



　　粮食都被风吹走了
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　作者：桥　
让我们去喝酒吧喝酒吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
地窑里只剩下酒
让我们趴在那只老鼠肮脏的吧台上
用我们的夏天跟它交换
一小杯地瓜烧
面对它的卑鄙
我们把手指勾在一起
在黑暗处你的小姆指象天使的嘴唇一样柔软

你用你的绿色拌倒我吧
虫子
粮食都被风吹走了
天堂在地下一米
跟着那只蟋蟀
我们用灯跟它交换钢琴
在荒凉的草丛里让我为你弹奏我身体里最黑暗的曲子
把它弹成枫树叶
让它在秋天的最高处死去

来吧虫子，来吧我们喝酒
我象稻草那样倒下
老鼠在笑我腐烂
用我的补丁骨头跟它交换一张干净的桌子吧
你坐着
我用最纯洁的酒为你洗手
我听不到风吹的声音了
我就要看到我们种了一个夏天的稻子
来吧虫子
把我种下去

Plath: Poppies in July

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 170

　　　Poppies in July

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep!--
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.
　　　　　　　　　　　20 July 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第170首

　　七月的罂粟花

小小的罂粟花，地狱的小火舌，
你于人无害？

你闪烁。我不能触摸。
我将双手置于火舌间。没烫着手。

看着你，我感到心力交瘁，
你如此闪烁，多皱而鲜红，像某张嘴的皮。

刚刚流过血的嘴。
血呼呼的小裙子！

到处是我不能触及的气味。
你的鸦片酊哪去了，那些催吐的荚果？

但愿我能流血，或者入睡！——
但愿我的嘴能像你那样委身于伤口！

要么，你的烈酒渗进我，在这玻璃荚果中，
一直变味、走气。

但没有颜色。没有颜色。
　　　　　　　　　1962年7月20日

Plath: Burning the Letters

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 171
　　　
　　　Burning the Letters

I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.

This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.

So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges

Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　13 August 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首

　　　焚信

我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。

这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。

所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字

在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
　　　　　　　　　　　1962 年8月13日

Qiao: Falling into a Good Guy

Qiao: Falling into a Good Guy
桥：《和好人恋爱 》

　　Falling into a Good Guy
　　　　　　　　　　　　　by Qiao [Bridge]　　 tr. Fan Jinghua

Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
It is getting cold, soon
Cold current is rolling southward
I live in a cave
A good guy takes hold of my hand, and he says: Let’s fall into love
Ah, the sun rises from the west
Ah, the sun rises from the east

Three dwarf boxwood trees, they are running backward
The rain chases the leaves
There is no moon in this cave
A good guy gropes in and takes hold of my hand
And he says: Let’s fall into love
He turns away and no moon is found
He sticks his tongue out

This is a good guy I can fall into
He stands in the dark and I cannot see his face
Cotton grows between us
So between so close



　　和好人恋爱
　　　　　　　　　原作：桥　　　

三根小黄杨木向后跑
天气就要转凉
有冷空气南下
我住在洞里
一个好人牵我的手，他说：和我恋爱吧
太阳从西面出来
太阳从东面出来

三根小黄杨木向后奔跑
雨追着树叶
洞里从来没有月亮
一个好人摸黑走了进来，他握住我的手
他说：和我恋爱吧，转过身去
转过身去还是没有月亮
他吐了吐舌头
一个好人
他站在黑暗里我没有看见他的脸
有棉花在我们中间生长
那么近

Plath: For a Fatherless Son

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 172

　　　For a Fatherless Son

You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree—
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.

But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me

To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　26 September 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第172首

　　致没父亲的儿子

很快，你将感到一种缺失，
在你身边生长，像一棵树，
一棵死树，退了色，一棵澳洲胶树——
正在秃顶，被闪电阉了——一种幻像，
一顷天空，如猪的后腰背，注意力彻底丧失。

但你现在还是哑巴。
而我爱你的傻气，
它的盲镜。我照了照，
没发现别的脸，只有我自己，而你觉得好玩。
这对我有益，

能有你来抓我的鼻子，一把梯子的横档。
终有一天，你会摸到出差错的东西，
小脑壳，破碎的蓝色山丘，令人惶恐的沉寂。
到那时，你的微笑将是失而复得的钱财。
　　　　　　　　　　1962年9月26日

Qiao: I Need A Hammer

Qiao: I Need A Hammer
桥：《我需要一把铁锤》

　　I Need A Hammer
　　　　　　　　　　　　by Qiao　　tr. Fan Jinghua
It’s seven a.m. in Hangchou
And I’ve moved the bed to another direction
The quilt to my left covers nobody
Where has the mosquito gone
Last night it sucked enough blood and its life must be a happy one
I am hungry and I sit on the bed
A blank face at a blank wall
There are bones struggling behind the whitish plaster
All night a voice chants to my ears
“You need a hammer”

Oh, I need a hammer
To strike a nail into the cement wall
So I can hang my towel, my white nightgown,
My pompous hats and a straw handbag
I need a hammer to strike into the wall
A painting and three butterflies I’ve embroidered for three years
One blue, one red and the other without eyes
Then I’ll strike into it a pale face
The face of the one who once held me in his arms
And he is now eaglespread like a cross

I am still single
So I nail my right hand into the wall



　　我需要一把铁锤
　　　　　　　　　　　　作者：桥
杭州的早晨，我把床移了一个方向
七点钟，左边的被子是空的
昨天晚上蚊子躺在那里
它吸够了血，它的人生十分美满
我非常饥饿
坐起来，看到一面空的墙
雪白的墙灰后面，有骨头在里面挣扎
有个声音不停地在墙里说话
一个晚上，它重复告诉我：
“你，需要一把铁锤”

我需要一把铁锤
把一颗水泥钉钉进墙里
毛巾、白色睡衣、虚伪的帽子、麦秸杆手袋挂在墙上
一幅画钉进去
三只蝴蝶钉进去
我绣了三年的蝴蝶
一只兰，一只红，另一只没有眼睛
接着我钉进去一张惨白的脸
那个曾经抱过我的人
在墙上，张开十字的手臂
我未婚
把右手钉了上去

Qiao: The One Who Huddles Under A Tree

Asked by a friend to translate some poems of her friend Qiao (meaning "Bridge", penname of He Zhuangning). Qiao was born in Hangzhou and now lives in Shenzhen, Guangdong (Canton). The translation is for a Denish rock band, so I take some liberty and make the words a little prosaic and change the form of the poem a little.

　　The One Who Huddles Under A Tree
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　by Qiao 　　　　tr. Fan Jinghua
The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
Yesterday he bloomed as a white flower
On a camphor tree by the roadside
The day before he hid in an electronic guitar
Charged all the night
A week before that he grew a long beard of cares
He had fallen into a cherry
So he put that week in his mouth and shut his teeth

The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He peels off his bark for the night
The dewdrops fondle his bare trunk
And he is made an oil-lamp
With a handful of snow I wipe my face
And from the fissure between us the sprout of time shoots up

The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He is my root and I am a tree
All winter long, our fingers are interlocked
And we press the spring down with our body
Sometimes he jumps into the lake to catch fish
And in passing picks up a bundle of time too

The one who has a cutting edge usually hides
He pushes open a cherrywood window and jumps into the night
He is escaping with a reaper on his back
He is covered with moss from top to bottom
The day after tomorrow he will come to a village called Prosperity
The crops are waiting to be reaped and stolen out there




　　那个藏在树下的人
　　　　　　　　　　　　作者：桥
那个深藏不露的人
昨天在北山路的樟树上开了一朵小白花
前天他藏在一把吉他里
整个晚上都插着电
再往前一个星期
他长出胡子
心事重重
爱上一颗樱桃
他把那个星期都含在嘴里

那个深藏不露的人
他剥光了自己的树皮
深夜露水摸着他的瘦躯干
他像油灯一样
我往脸上抹了一把雪
时间在我们两个人之间的缝隙里长出芽

那个深藏不露的人
其实他就是我的树根
整个冬天我们十指交叉把春天压在身体下面
偶尔他跳进湖里
摸鱼
顺便摘一把时间

那个深藏不露的人
今夜即将推开一扇樱桃木窗跳进黑夜
他背着一把镰刀逃跑
他的肉体长满了青苔
后天他即将到达一个叫昌化的地方
在那里一大片农田等着收割
偷走整个村庄

Plath: A Birthday Present

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 173

　　　　A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am to appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed---I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine—

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece in purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　30 September 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第173首

　　　　生日礼物

这是什么，在这面纱下，丑陋还是美丽？
它波光闪闪，有乳房吗？有锋刃吗？

我肯定它很独特，我肯定它正是我所求之物。
当我静静地埋头做饭，我能感到它在看，感到它在思索。

“这就是我要为之出面争取的那个？
这就是被选中的那人，有黑洞洞的眼窝和一道伤疤？

用量杯量面粉，去掉多余的，
谨守着标准，标准，标准。

就是这个人去迎接天使报喜？
我的上帝，真是好笑！”

但它熠熠闪光，并不停止，我想它想要我。
它就是骨头架子或一只珍珠纽扣，我也不会介意。

今年，我反正并没指望要什么礼物。
说到底，我活着，仅仅是靠一场意外。

那一次，任何可能的方式，都能兴冲冲地自杀。
现在，有这些面纱，像帘子一样熠熠闪光，

一月的窗上挂着精细的缎子，
白得像婴儿的被单，闪烁着死的气息。哦，象牙！

那肯定是一只长牙，一只幽灵柱。
难道你看不出，我并不在乎它是什么，

难道你会不给我？
别不好意思——我不介意它是否很小。

别那么小器，再大我也有受得住。
那我们就近坐下吧，各守一边，赏玩那闪光，

它的光泽、它镜子般的特质。
让我们对着它举行最后的晚餐，像一只医院托盘。

我晓得你为何不把它送给我，
你心惊胆战，

怕这世界会随着一声尖叫腾起，而你的头也会随之而去，
一张有浮雕的铜盾牌，一件古董，

你曾孙们的奇珍异宝。
不要战战兢兢，没那么了不得。

我只会收下它，静静走开。
你甚至不会听到我打开，不会有纸的嚓嚓声，

不会有扔掉的丝带，不会有那最后一声惊喜。
我想你不值得我花这么多心思。

可你从来不懂那些面纱怎么谋害我的日子。
对你来说，它们只是些透明纸，清净的空气。

但是，我的上帝，云朵也像棉花啊。
它们如军队集结。它们是一氧化碳。

我舒服地，舒服地，吸着，
将那些看不见的、数以万计的几乎确凿的

尘埃，填进我的脉管，将岁月勾销出我的生命。
你为这个日子穿上了银色套装。哦，计算器——

你有没有可能放手，让事情过去，不折不扣？
你必须将每一片都盖上紫色的印戳吗？

你必须手刃你能杀的一切？
这是我今天想要的惟一，只有你才能给我。

它就站在我的窗口，像天空一样恢弘。
它从我的床单中呼吸，那冷酷的死亡中心，

破裂的生活在那里凝结，僵化成历史。
别让它随着邮件而来，手指连着手指。

别让它口头传来，等到它全部传到，
恐怕我已是六十老太，麻木得用不了。

尽管放下那面纱，面纱，面纱。
假如是死亡，

我也会欣赏它深沉的重力，它永恒的眼睛。
我会知道你用心严肃。

那么就会有一种尊严，就会有一次生日。
那刀子就不会雕刻，而是切入，

纯粹而利落，像婴儿的啼哭。
宇宙，从我身侧一掠而过。
　　　　　　　　　　1962年9月30日