汉诗英译 欧阳江河:玻璃工厂

 

Translated by w. Austin Woerner...





Translated by w. Austin Woerner

 

欧阳江河欧阳江河(1956- ),原名江河,四川泸州人。著名诗人,诗学、音乐及文化批评家,知识分子写作倡导者。

1975年高中毕业后下乡插队。不久到军队服役。1979年开始发表诗歌作品,1983年至1984年间,他创作了长诗《悬棺》,1986年到四川省社科院工作。1993年至1997年初在美国生活。1997年3月至9月在斯图加特生活、创作。多次应邀赴美国,德国,英国,荷兰,法国,意大利等国的二十余所大学及多个文学基金会讲学,朗诵诗歌,访问写作。后定居北京。

欧阳江河被国际诗歌界誉为“最好的中国诗人”,其代表作有长诗《悬棺》,《玻璃工厂》,《计划经济时代的爱情》,《傍晚穿过广场》,《最后的幻象》,《椅中人的倾听与交谈》,《咖啡馆》,《雪》等。作为诗人,欧阳江河的诗歌写作强调思辩上的奇崛复杂及语言上的异质混成,强调个人经验与公共现实的深度联系。作为诗学批评家,他在当代中国诗歌的整体理论及文本细读两方面均有独特建树。欧阳江河的写作实践深具当代特征,在同时代人中产生了广泛的、持续的影响,被视为80年代以来中国最重要的代表性诗人。

迄今为止,欧阳江河已发表诗歌作品200余首,诗学理论文章及当代美术、音乐、电影、戏剧批评文章25万字。在国内出版诗集《透过词语的玻璃》(1997年,中国改革出版社),诗作及诗学文论集《谁去谁留》(1997年,湖南文艺出版社),文论及随笔集《站在虚构这边》(2000年,三联书店),诗集《事物的眼泪》(2008年,作家出版社)。


目 录

玻璃工厂

Glass Factory

汉英之间

Between Chinese and English

星期日的钥匙

Key to Sunday

谁去谁留

Who is Gone, and Who Remains

毕加索画牛

Picasso Paints a Bull

53岁生日

on turning 53 in Vermont

母亲,厨房

Mother, Kitchen
Glass Factory

1

The thing between seeing and seeing is glass.

The separation not seen

between face and face.

But glass, as a thing, is not transparent.

A glass factory is a massive eyeball,

labor at its center, whose darkness is daylight

glinting at the cores of things.

A thing persists in its initial tear.

As a bird in pure light persists in its shadow.

Gathers light into darkness, offers it back.

Where glass is everywhere, glass is not itself

but spirit.

As air seems not to exist, where all is air.

2

The glass factory is not far from the sea.

To know water is to know glass.

Cold, solid, fragile: this is the price

at which a thing attains transparence.

Transparence, strange language of seeing waves:

by speaking it I have already left it.

Left behind wineglasses, pictures in frames, the changing-room mirror, all these

specific, mass-produced things.

But I live in things, enveloped by things, a life brimming with want.

Language is overflow, evaporation.

And finally, transparence.

Language is flying: void to void, lightning to lightning. So much sky

outside the body of a flying bird,

and its shadow: a nick of light on the surface of the sea.

A thing cannot leave a mark on glass unless

it is lighter than shadow, deeper than a cut, sheerer than a blade.

A crack cannot be seen.

3

I come, I see, I speak.

Language is clouded with time,

the glimmer sinks with the sediment,

a haze of blindness disperses from the center.

This is the process that occurs within glass.

Flame’s heart, flame’s breath.

In flame, water experiences a change of perspective.

Two spirits meet, two obliterations become one

eternity.

Water passes through flame and is glass:

a subzero burning, like reason or feeling,

shallow, lucid, rejecting flow.

In fruit, in the depths of the sea, water never flows.

4

So, this the glass is I see—

still stone, but never strong again,

still flame, but never hot again,

still water, but never gentle, never flowing.

A wound that does not bleed.

A sound that does not pass through silence.

Glass is the thing between loss and loss,

permitting light

like language and time

at a towering price.

5

In one factory I see three kinds of glass.

Substance, ornament, symbol.

They tell me glass is the child of muddled stone.

In the void that is stone, death is not ending

but original, mutable fact.

Stone crumbles, glass is born.

This is real.

But there is another reality that lifts me from this height

to another height, where glass is nothing

but water, a fluid made boned and unflowable,

where flame is a bonechilling cold,

where for a thing to be beautiful it must also be fragile.

All lofty things of this earth

and their tears.

玻璃工厂

1

从看见到看见,中间只有玻璃。

从脸到脸

隔开是看不见的。

在玻璃中,物质并不透明。

整个玻璃工厂是一只巨大的眼珠,

劳动是其中最黑的部分,

它的白天在事物的核心闪耀。

事物坚持了最初的泪水,

就像鸟在一片纯光中坚持了阴影。

以黑暗方式收回光芒,然后奉献。

在到处都是玻璃的地方,

玻璃已经不是它自己,而是

一种精神。

就像到处都是空气,空气近乎不存在。

2

工厂附近是大海。

对水的认识就是对玻璃的认识。

凝固,寒冷,易碎,

这些都是透明的代价。

透明是一种神秘的、能看见波浪的语言,

我在说出它的时候已经脱离了它,

脱离了杯子、茶几、穿衣镜,所有这些

具体的、成批生产的物质。

但我又置身于物质的包围之中,生命被欲望充满。

语言溢出,枯竭,在透明之前。

语言就是飞翔,就是

以空旷对空旷,以闪电对闪电。

如此多的天空在飞鸟的身体之外,

而一只孤鸟的影子

可以是光在海上的轻轻的擦痕。

有什么东西从玻璃上划过,比影子更轻,

比切口更深,比刀锋更难逾越。

裂缝是看不见的。

3

我来了,我看见,我说出。

语言和时间浑浊,泥沙俱下,

一片盲目从中心散开。

同样的经验也发生在玻璃内部。

火焰的呼吸,火焰的心脏。

所谓玻璃就是水在火焰里改变态度,

就是两种精神相遇,

两次毁灭进入同一永生。

水经过火焰变成玻璃,

变成零度以下的冷漠的燃烧,

像一个真理或一种感情

浅显,清晰,拒绝流动。

在果实里,在大海深处,水从不流动。

4

那么这就是我看到的玻璃——

依旧是石头,但已不再坚固。

依旧是火焰,但已不复温暖。

依旧是水,但既不柔软也不流逝。

它是一些伤口但从不流血。

它是一种声音但从不经过寂静。

从失去到失去,这就是玻璃。

语言和时间透明,

付出高代价。

5

在同一工厂我看见三种玻璃:

物态的,装饰的,象征的。

人们告诉我玻璃的父亲是一些混乱的石头。

在石头的空虚里,死亡并非终结,

而是一种可改变的原始的事实。

石头粉碎,玻璃诞生。

这是真实的。但还有另一种真实

把我引入另一种境界:从高处到高处。

在那种真实里玻璃仅仅是水,是已经

或正在变硬的、有骨头的、泼不掉的水,

而火焰是彻骨的寒冷,

并且最美丽的也最容易破碎。

世间一切崇高的事物,以及

事物的眼泪。

1987.9.6于山海关

Between Chinese and English

I live between the bricks of Chinese characters,

in glances exchanged between image and image.

They’re separate but continuous, with shifting limbs

and a rhythm uniform as gunfire.

The dust settles: Chinese is simplified.

Off tumble legs, arms, eyes.

But my language still runs, still reaches, sees.

These mysteries give birth to hunger.

And there are plenty of suns and moons left

to linger over with my comrades-in-tongue.

In this vast crystal aggregate of accents and dialects,

this murky admixture of ancient and new,

my mouth is a circular ruin,

teeth plunging into space,

never hitting bone.

Such vistas, such meat: Chinese is a banquet for all.

I eat up my suns and moons, and the ancients’ too, till

one evening I walk through the English corner, and see

a bunch of Chinese mobbing an American kid: it seems

they want to make their homes in English.

But in China, English has no sovereign turf.

It’s a class, a test, a TV show,

a way of speaking, words on paper.

On paper, we behold our penciled nature.

A sketch, a life of worn erasers.

After centuries of inkwells, spectacles, typewriters,

after years of accumulated lead,

how could English be so light, folded and tucked in our corner?

Now we speak diplospeak, acronyms,

muffins, aspirin, forks and knives.

But these changes do not affect the nose, the skin:

like the toothbrush you pick up in the morning, English

glides lightly over the teeth, whitening language.

With so much ink caked in my gums, I’d better

brush every day: this requires water, a cleaning agent, and perspective.

It gives rise to theories of taste, and countless

disparities in everyday usage.

It also requires a hand, reaching into English,

two fingers apart, a letter, a triumph,

a Nazi experiment upon the self.

A cigarette falls to the ground still burning

like history, which after all

is what happens when one nation eats another’s words.

One step forward, you’ve got the Third Reich, Hitler.

I don’t know if that madman gunned down English,

massacred Shakespeare and Keats.

But I do know that English comes in two flavors:

the noble, alphabetized English of Oxford,

and the English of Churchill and Roosevelt, armed to the teeth.

Its metaphors, its science, its obliterating aesthetics

landed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I watched Chinese characters become Japanese corpses—

but outside of language, our nations are allies.

I’ve read this history, and I’m suspicious.

I don’t know which is crazier, history or me.

What’s happened, this past hundred years, between Chinese and English?

Why are so many Chinese streaming into English,

trying hard as they can to blanche their own skin?

Why do they treat their language like an estranged wife,

a home in a broken mirror?

I live alone amid my stacked bricks, conversing

with paper dolls, dreaming in English, while all around me

Chinese mount the steps to English, turning

from people of pictures to people of sound.

汉英之间

我居住在汉字的块垒里,

在这些和那些形象的顾盼之间。

它们孤立而贯穿,肢体摇晃不定,

节奏单一如连续的枪。

一片响声之后,汉字变得简单。

掉下了一些胳膊,腿,眼睛。

但语言依然在行走,伸出,以及看见。

那样一种神秘养育了饥饿。

并且,省下很多好吃的日子,

让我和同一种族的人分食,挑剔。

在本地口音中,在团结如一个晶体的方言

在古代和现代汉语的混为一谈中,

我的嘴唇像是圆形废墟,

牙齿陷入空旷

没碰到一根骨头。

如此风景,如此肉,汉语盛宴天下。

我吃完我那份日子,又吃古人的,直到

一天傍晚,我去英语角散步,看见

一群中国人围住一个美国佬,我猜他们

想迁居到英语里面。但英语在中国没有领地。

它只是一门课,一种会话方式,电视节目,

大学的一个系,考试和纸。

在纸上我感到中国人和铅笔的酷似。

轻描淡写,磨损橡皮的一生。

经历了太多的墨水,眼镜,打字机

以及铅的沉重之后,

英语已经轻松自如,卷起在中国的一角。

它使我们习惯了缩写和外交辞令,

还有西餐,刀叉,阿司匹林。

这样的变化不涉及鼻子

和皮肤,像每天早晨的牙刷

英语在牙齿上走着,使汉语变白。

从前吃书吃死人,因此

我天天刷牙,这关系到水,卫生和比较。

由此产生了口感,滋味说

以及日常用语的种种差异。

还关系到一只手,它伸进英语

中指和食指分开,模拟

一个字母,一次胜利,一种

对自我的纳粹式体验。

一支烟落地,只燃到一半就熄灭了

像一段历史。历史就是苦于口吃的

战争,再往前是第三帝国,是希特勒。

我不知道这个狂人是否枪杀过英语,枪杀过

莎士比亚和济慈。

但我知道,有牛津辞典里的、贵族的英语,

也有武装到牙齿的、邱吉尔或罗斯福的英语。

它的隐喻,它的物质,它的破坏的美学

在广岛和长崎爆炸。

我看见一堆堆汉字在日语中变成尸首——

但在语言之外,中国和英美结盟。

我读过这段历史,感到极为可疑。

我不知道历史和我谁更荒谬。

一百多年了,汉英之间,究竟发生了什么?

为什么如此多的中国人移居英语,

努力成为黄种白人,而把汉语

看作离婚的前妻,看作破镜里的家园?究竟

发生了什么?我独自一人在汉语中幽居

与众多纸人对话,空想着英语。

并看着更多的中国人跻身其间

从一个象形的人变为一个拼音的人。

1987.7.于成都Key to Sunday

A key glints in the Sunday morning light.

A returning traveler is locked out in the dark.

A knock on the door is always more faint than

the rasp of metal in the keyhole.

Only a dreamed address is reliable.

As I bike down a quiet street

all the headlights go out at once.

In the night sky above, a hand clenches a brake.

I hear a clink. A key has fallen to the ground.

I see a ring of keys, keys of years past

glinting in the light. I pick them up.

But where are the hands that hide behind them?

A row of closed days, ending in Saturday—

but I do not know which to unlock.

Now it is Sunday. All the doors on the street

stand open. I toss the keys away.

No need to knock. Just walk right in.

Such a crowded world, and no one at home.

星期日的钥匙

钥匙在星期日早上的阳光中晃动。

深夜归来的人回不了自己的家。

钥匙进入锁孔的声音,不像敲门声

那么遥远,梦中的地址更为可靠。

当我横穿郊外公路,所有车灯

突然熄灭。在我头上的无限星空里

有人捏住了自行车的刹把。倾斜,

一秒钟的倾斜,我听到钥匙掉在地上。

许多年前的一串钥匙在阳光中晃动。

我拾起了它,但不知它后面的手

隐匿在何处?星期六之前的所有日子

都上了锁,我不知道该打开哪一把。

现在是星期日。所有房间

全部神秘地敞开。我扔掉钥匙。

走进任何一间房屋都用不着敲门。

世界如此拥挤,屋里却空无一人。

1991.8.23于成都

 

Who is Gone, and Who Remains

Dusk: the boy secrets himself in a tree-root,

eavesdropping on the innards of insects.

What he hears is not the world of insects

but the world outside: for example, innards of machines.

The setting sun turns beneath his feet like the wheel of a truck,

the boy’s father drives a truck

the truck is empty

parked in an empty field.

The father gets out, and the soundless beauty of the sunset strikes him dumb.

He turns off his crying cell phone, says to the boy:

all things turning at the edge of the sky

have lips, have tongues. But they speak only amongst themselves,

erecting their ears upon this speech.

The boy, refusing to believe in the ears of things, listens to the ears

of his heart.

In truth, he is not listening at all,

but, by not listening, he overhears

a different kind of hearing—

he invents his own deafness, and soars,

rising on mute updrafts of imagination.

Behind our everyday sunset, could there be

a miracle-world alive with voices?

Could there be another boy listening, another sun

sinking in the west?

Staggering sky—

The world has fallen silent: a telephone rings on, unanswered.

Machines and insects cannot hear each other’s heartbeats,

and the root has been ripped from the soil.

The boy’s deafness becomes dream-vision, protocol, brogue.

The truck is broken

his father buries his head under the hood

and his mother sleeps, sunset cradled in her arms, unaware

of the coming of night, the coming of age.

谁去谁留

黄昏,那小男孩躲在一株植物里

偷听昆虫的内脏。他实际听到的

是昆虫以外的世界:比如,机器的内脏。

落日在男孩脚下滚动有如卡车轮子,

男孩的父亲是卡车司机,

卡车卸空了

停在旷野上。

父亲走到车外,被落日的一声不吭的美惊呆了。

他挂掉响个不停的行动电话,

对男孩说:天边滚动的万事万物都有嘴唇,

但它们只对物自身说话,

只在这些话上建立耳朵和词。

男孩为否定物的耳朵而偷听了内心的耳朵。

他实际上不在听,

却意外听到了一种完全不同的听法—

那男孩发明了自己身上的聋,

他成了飞翔的、幻想的聋子。

会不会在凡人的落日后面

另有一个众声喧哗的神迹世界?

会不会另有一个人在听,另有一个落日

在沉落?

哦踉跄的天空

大地因没人接听的电话而异常安静。

机器和昆虫彼此没听见心跳,

植物也已连根拔起。

那小男孩的聋变成了梦境,秩序,乡音。

卡车开不动了

父亲在埋头修理。

而母亲怀抱落日睡了一会,只是一会,

不知天之将黑,不知老之将至。

1997.4.12于斯图加特

Picasso Paints a Bull

Over the course of the next two weeks Picasso will paint a bull.

A bull whose body seems possessed by a strange reality:

the more Picasso paints, the less there is.

“Can less”—the artist asks—“become more?”

“Right on,” Picasso replies.

The critic waits to see the painter’s more.

But Picasso’s bull just keeps getting less and less.

The hooves are first to go—then the horns,

then the skin itself drops off like a retina,

revealing the joints between empty spaces.

“How less does it have to get before it becomes more?”

“That depends on the name you give to more.”

The critic is confused. “Would you say that in this work

you are committing moral violence on the bovine body,

shearing off every scrap of flesh with your Mediterranean wind?”

“Don’t blame the wind—look at that butcher shop

across the way. Every day I watch lovely young ladies

walk home with a few dozen pounds of his meat.”

“Whose meat? The meat of the bull on your canvas?”

“Now that depends on which knife you use.”

“Is this a contest between the ethics of aesthetics and the ethics of life?”

“All cut up, how’d he have energy for that?”

“And what’s left over? Anything?”

“No, no spirit remains. Praise waste.”

“Is your bull an act of subtraction upon the world?”

“Why not addition? I imagine that butcher is

counting his cash right now.” Sure enough, the next day,

the butcher’s wife comes with her life savings to buy Picasso’s bull.

But all she sees is a couple lines.

“Where’s the bull?” she asks, indignant.

毕加索画牛

接下来的两个星期毕加索在画牛。

那牛身上似乎有一种越画得多

也就越少的古怪现象。

“少”艺术家问,“能变成多吗?”

“一点不错,”毕加索回答说。

批评家等着看画家的多。

但那牛每天看上去都更加稀少。

先是蹄子不见了,跟着牛角没了,

然后牛皮像视网膜一样脱落,

露出空白之间的一些接榫。

“少,要少到什么地步才会多起来?”

“那要看你给多起什么名字。”

批评家感到迷惑。

“是不是你在牛身上拷打一种品质,

让地中海的风把肉体刮得零零落落?”

“不单是风在刮,瞧对面街角

那间肉铺子,花枝招展的女士们,

每天都从那儿割走几磅牛肉。”

“从牛身上,还是从你的画布上割?”

“那得看你用什么刀子。”

“是否美学和生活的伦理学在较量?”

“挨了那么多刀,哪来的力气。”

“有什么东西被剩下了?”

“不,精神从不剩下。赞美浪费吧。”

“你的牛对世界是一道减法吗?“

“为什么不是加法?我想那肉店老板

正在演算金钱。”第二天老板的妻子

带着毕生积蓄来买毕加索画的牛。

但她看到的只是几根简单的线条。

“牛在哪儿呢?”她感到受了冒犯。

1998.9.17于北京

On turning 53 in Vermont

1

A long-awaited August, arriving in September.

An ancient moon, rising in Vermont.

Memories, moving in the light from Friday.

Zhuangzi approaches

with receding footsteps.

Footsteps of cloud patterns, unfolding petals, postal systems.

2

A letter written in an ancient autumn

has not yet found its way into my hand.

The postman is winging through the blue.

On the other side of the earth, you’re reading a letter I’ve yet to write.

You’ve yet to send

a letter I’ve already opened twice.

Preflowered, unbroken, empty voices.

3

I pick up your call. I hear your lilting voice.

A sound to open blossoms in lamps, that voice.

I say hello, you answer wei?

In the background, the din of a Chinese banquet hall.

The guests are starving, but the chef is an artist

who paints ribeyes in ink, serves them on a scroll.

Is the concept of cow worth more than the meat?

A weaning mother crams the teat of Marx

between her infant’s lips, suppressing the milk’s

proletarian yelps, while a banker

at the ATM machine inside his own head

presses the button to empty his heart.

4

When we’ve hung up on the voice of money,

will we hear poetry’s voice?

An invisible finger presses a button:

the world is on speakerphone.

Will King Lear hear Shakespeare calling?

Will Li Bai hear, in Sappho’s moon,

the wind-blown snow of a butterfly’s dream?

Will I hear my other me?

In the minutes before my cell phone rings—

astral, primordial silence.

5

Strike a match, light an anti-me.

Send the paper flames of your postcards express

from ancient China to twilit Vermont.

Blow lightly, light as wings turned to dust.

Blow out my heart.

Brittle heart, billowing heart, which together with the universe

composes a point:

a smallness of infinite size,

the million light years of fifty-three years.

6

If I have only one past, I am that past.

But if I have five hundreds pasts

then I don’t have a single present.

Do you have another present?

Perhaps you are not where you are, and I am not

who I am. I have two past selves, one of them

newborn: a 53-year old

no one at all.

7

A fish lies on a dinner plate,

cut by knife, cooked by flame.

This can happen. The same fish swims up out of the river and onto my keyboard, where it studies me with surreal eyes—

this can also happen.

Can a human play the music of the fish,

play an inversion against the parallel motion of species?

Play a chef out of the fish on the plate,

a philosopher out of the fish in the river?

But Zhuangzi is playing at something far stranger:

a cooked fish, swimming to life in the sky.

8

The universe is an elderly scientist’s toy.

A kid stands on the globe, demanding a lollipop.

An engineer spins the world in his hand,

then turns, hands paradise to a crane beyond the sky.

A crane, even of paper, remains in flight—

and despite its steel cousin, continues

to dance, stand on tiptoe: crane-stance of the heart.

Zhuangzi follows the crane’s example.

He stands tall, looks far, unbridles his spirit.

And you give motionless poise to the thunder of horses,

balance the foundation of a dream atop the stem of a narcissus.

9

When we set foot in paradise, peach blossoms wither.

Time fades, worn by beginnings and endings.

Pain fades. A jackhammer

bores into the teeth of the earth.

The ache of human ears: an endodontist’s chair

placed in the hushed nave of the planet.

Every day, we bore a few inches deeper.

Any deeper, and our hearts would touch.

And an underground sky would gush forth, fountain-like,

pyrotechnic flowers unfolding in space.

10

The beard of Zhuangzi, moving in the wind—

this is just a picture in the mind of Stevens.

I offer them both an electric razor.

Now, our three chins

have the same small battery-powered heart:

time turns, anti-time turns.

An ancient moon, returned to China unanswered—

every day, I use my razor.

The past is my present.

I’m a reproduction.

11

Beneath the moon of a different world

I pause, listening for your footsteps, waiting

for the moment from which eternity will spill.

Am I really in Vermont?

A distance of an inch puts you in another country.

I can’t see the pine trees in the dark,

but pine cones are falling everywhere.

Life is falling, like a porcelain urn.

Empty, falling.

I stoop, gather the shards of its emptiness.

Every shard, both instance and idea,

word and flesh, past and future.

Pieced together, they make a finality.

And the world is once again fragile and full,

the night unmarred.

Though this is not the last time the urn will fall.

53岁生日

1.

等待一生的八月,九月之后才到来。

先秦的月亮,在弗尔蒙特升起。

一个退思,在光的星期五移动。

庄子朝我走来,

以离我而去的脚步。

云移的脚步,花开的脚步,邮政系统的脚步。

2.

一封春秋来信,

至今没有投递到我的手上。

邮差在天空中飞来飞去。

地球那边,你在读信。

还没写的信,你已经读到了我。

一封我拆开了两次的信,你一次也没寄出。

一些预先开花的,将要破土的,空的声音。

3.

电话里传来落花般的女高音。

那是你么,把花开到灯里去的声音?

打给HELLO的电话,接听的是一个喂。

喂的外面,中餐馆人声鼎沸,

一群食客饿坏了,但厨师是画师,

他将牛排画成水墨,端给看客吃。

一头观念的牛比真的更值钱吗?

刚断奶的单身母亲,把马克思

像奶嘴一样塞进婴儿嘴里,

阻止牛奶发出无产者的尖叫声。

而银行家用头脑里的提款机

一夜之间,提空了内心。

4.

在金钱的声音被挂断之后,

诗的声音是什么?

一只神秘的手按下免提键。

现在,手机是广播,

全世界都在听这个声音。

李尔王能听到他的莎士比亚吗?

萨福的月亮,能从李白的月亮

听到庄子化蝶的风吹雪吗?

我能听到另一个我吗?

但在你的铃声响起之前,

只有无止境的,宇宙洪荒般的寂静。

5.

可以用生日蜡烛点燃一个无我。

可以把明信片上的纸火焰

从古中国快递到黄昏的弗尔蒙特。

可以借蝴蝶夜的灰尘,轻盈一吹。

可以吹灭我的心。

心那么易碎,那么澎湃,可以和宇宙

构成一个尖锐,

一个小,无限大的极小。

一个53年的十亿光年。

6.

如果只有一个过去,我就是这个过去。

如果我的现在有五百个过去,

那么一个现在我都没有。

你呢,你有第二个现在吗?

或许,你在你不在的地方,而我不是

我是的人。我有两个旧我,其中一个

刚刚新生:一个53岁的

吾丧我。

7.

一条鱼躺在晚餐的盘子里,

被刀切过,被炉火烤过。

这是一个发生。

同一条鱼从河里游到电脑界面,

以超现实的目光看着我。

这也是一个发生。

人可以演奏鱼的音乐么,

从物种的同一性演奏出一个悖反?

比如,将盘子里的鱼演奏成厨师,

将水中鱼演奏成一个哲学家。

但是庄子在演奏更神秘的生命,

一条烤熟的鱼,在天空中游动起来。

8.

宇宙是科学老人的玩具。

孩子们站在地球仪上要糖吃。

一个梦的工程师,转动这只地球仪,

并将乌托邦转手给天边外的鹤。

一只鹤,即使是纸的,也在天空中飞,

即使看起来像工程吊臂,也在舞蹈,

用足尖踮起心之鹤形。

庄子骋怀纵目,以鹤作为引导。

而你将鹤止步放进万马齐奔,

并以水仙般的鹤立,支起一个梦工地。

9.

人置身于桃花源,桃花就凋落了。

拥有太多末日和诞生,时间就消失了。

痛,也消失了。一只电钻

在大地的龉齿上钻洞。

神经末梢的听觉之痛,将牙科诊所

安放在地球的寂静深处。

每天,钻头,在痛的深处加深几毫米。

要是再深一些,人心,就能深及地心,

喷泉般,喷涌出一个璀璨的地下天空,

一株天体物理的火树银花。

10.

庄子的胡须在秋风中飘动。

这只是史蒂文斯头脑里的一个幻象。

我递过一个电动剃须刀。

现在,我们三个人的三个下巴

有了同一颗电池的心:时间转动,

反时间也在转动。庄子的月亮

被退回先秦。我每天使用剃须刀。

古代是我的现代,而我只是一个仿古。

11.

驻足于隔世的月光,我等待你的足音,

等待一个刹那溢出终极性。

我真的到过弗尔蒙特吗?

一米之遥,人已在千里外的异乡。

夜空中,我看不见一棵松树,

但松果漫天掉落。生命

也这样掉落,像一只中国古瓮。

空,落地,我俯身拾起无限多的空。

每一片具体的碎片里,都有一个抽象。

词和肉体,已逝和重现,拼凑

并粘连起来,形成一个透彻。

世界回复最初的脆弱

和圆满,今夜深梦无痕。

但古瓮将又一次摔落。

2009,9,18于弗尔蒙特Mother, Kitchen

Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear.

Through the opening: a door, crack of light.

Behind the door, a kitchen.

Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse.

A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut

in two: halves of a sun, of slowness.

Halves of a turnip.

A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts.

A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers,

a fish, cut along its leaping curves,

laid on the table

still yearning for the pond.

Summer’s tofu

cut into premonitions of snow.

A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint

of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes:

self and thing, halves of nothing

at the center of time.

Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls.

But this mother is not holding a knife.

What she has been given is not a knife

but a few fallen leaves.

The fish leaps over the blade from the sea

to the stars. The table is in the sky now,

the market has been crammed into the refrigerator,

and she cannot open cold time.

母亲,厨房

在万古与一瞬之间,出现了开合与渺茫。

在开合之际,出现了一道门缝。

门后面,被推开的是海阔天空。

没有手,只有推的动作。

被推开的是大地的一个厨房。

菜刀起落处,云卷云舒。

光速般合拢的生死

被切成星球的两半,慢的两半。

萝卜也切成了两半。

在厨房,母亲切了悠悠一生,

一盘凉拌三丝,切得千山万水,

一条鱼,切成逃离刀刃的样子,

端上餐桌还不肯离开池塘。

暑天的豆腐,被切出了雪意。

土豆听见了洋葱的刀法

和对位法,一种如花吐瓣的剥落,

一种时间内部的物我两空。

去留之间,刀起刀落。

但母亲手上并没有拿刀。

天使们递到母亲手上的

不是刀,是几片落叶。

医生拿着听诊器在听秋风。

深海里的秋刀鱼

越过刀锋,朝星空游去。

如今晚餐在天上,

整个菜市场被塞进冰箱,

而母亲,已无力打开冷时间。
一百年来,汉语新诗的发展与外国诗歌及其翻译的影响密不可分,但双方的互动也始终存在不对等的问题。随着中国当代文学的崛起,当代汉语诗歌期待在更广阔的语境中发声,同世界文学达成愈加丰富的交流与对话。

为进一步繁荣新时代诗歌,推动汉语诗歌走向世界,激励本土诗人们创作出具有世界影响力的优秀作品,中国诗歌网与美国华盛顿PATHSHARERS BOOKS(出版有季刊21st Century Chinese Poetry)合作开展汉诗英译活动。《诗刊》每期刊登的诗作及中国诗歌网“每日好诗”中的佳作,将有机会被译成英语,刊于21st Century Chinese Poetry,并在中国诗歌网做专题展示。
“汉诗英译”栏目编委会
主编:金石开、朱涛
责编:王美富、王家铭、罗曼、
丁鹏


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