非靜夜思

——給靖和

看著你卻不知如何閱讀你
呼吸的信息，時而平緩，時而
急喘，午夜窗外
船舶引擎在聒噪
人的聲響通過擴音器
不分晝夜，侵入
私人的空間
你側過頭來，眼微開
彷彿想起一些遙遠的事情……

隔著嬰床井然的木欄
我仍在閱讀你的呼吸
長或短句，無韻，並不鏗鏘
引擎在窗外
不斷擾亂我的思維
你偶然的咳嗽
彷彿質疑
夜的一切與必然
夜在窗外？
窗內呢？
我在船舶的浮泛中看著你
看到波浪中彷彿一點光芒

THOUGHTS ON A TROUBLED NIGHT

for Jinghe

Watching you, not knowing how to read
the syntax of your breath, now peaceful, now
quick, past midnight’s window
a boat motor gnawing,
night or day these human sounds
a trespass on our private space.
You turn your head, eyes half open
as if reaching a far-off realm.

Through the bars of your crib
I keep measuring your breaths,
long or short, unrhymed, softly rhythmic.
The motor eats my thoughts.
Your cough seems to doubt
the dark’s unstoppable totality.
If night’s outside
what’s in?
From the swaying boat I watch you.
Something glints amid the waves.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Note: “Thoughts on A Tranquil Night” is a widely known poem by Tang dynasty poet Li Bai.

米

我喜歡把手藏在米裏的感覺
散發一種禾稻的氣味
在雜貨店門前，記憶的邊緣
還有未完全磨去的穀粒
偶然的沙石，有榖牛在攀爬
一座隨時而變的小丘
有顆粒自指縫流瀉
如時間的沙漏

如今觸手是塑料的微涼
空間都除去了，珍珠似的顆粒
並排，如一首誰的詩
將沙石統統剔除
放在架上，讓人認取品牌
買一種安全的品味

淘洗大可隨意了
按時圍讀一種飯香
筷子抑揚間
便說有了溫暖的感覺

RICE

I recall, in front of the grocery,
sinking my hand in dry rice,
the sack’s faint whiff of paddy,
some grains partly husked,
fine sand against the fingers,
the wriggling speck of a grain weevil.
I’d shift the mound,
rice slipping from my palm
like sand through an hourglass.

Now I touch cool plastic,
vacuum slabbed,
grit sieved, pearly grains
packed as characters in a poem.
From a shelf,
buyers choose safe brands.

Rinsed if you like,
we still gather round the warmth,
and as the chopsticks rise and fall
breathe the old fragrance.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

橘子

路旁看見，彷彿陽光
浸潤久了的風景
渾成，猶帶一葉青青
塵埃中靜處，聽車流激激
而不聞

夜燈朦朧，沐浴後
合指，溫柔地，翻開
連瓣成圓，精神內斂
皮層與肉身之間，了無癡礙
空為一個小小的宇宙

TANGERINE

Along the road,
steeped in sunlight,
still graced with one green leaf,
it squats silent as the dust
beside the racing traffic.

Later, beneath a dim lamp,
my fingers split the skin
onto this hub of segments,
sweet flesh
no less than a small cosmos.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

油

在生活的縫隙中想起
那年在上海
倥偬間的一點油光
在寒冷的空氣裏泛著異彩
讓我們停下來
鑽進一爿小店
在升騰的霧氣裏
呷一大碗
雞鴨血湯
感覺舌底甜甜
有一股微腥氣味
抬頭見彼此
唇間的光點
不停地眨著眼睛

如今遍嘗城市的味道
道旁的塵埃壓成時間的頁岩
難忍的又豈是浮游的腥膻呢
館肆叫囂的膏脂
糾結來回的步履
有時我想沉著
如一碗素淨的湯
不起漪淪
只守住
懷抱的所有

卻見你捧來一大碗
榨菜肉絲蛋花湯
平和的味道裏有微辛
靜靜的水面浮著
兩瓣油彩
透過重重年月向我
不停地眨著眼睛

OIL

In an off moment, I remember
Shanghai’s frigid air, steam
shimmered iridescent with cooking oil.
We’d ducked into a small restaurant,
amid its vapors
sipping a big bowl
of chicken-duck-blood soup.
Sweet on the tongue,
but underneath, something bloody.
We raised our heads,
lips glittering.

Now we’ve tasted all the city flavors,
the roadside dust of those days
pressed to shale,
still that bloody taste,
the loud, greasy fat,
uncertain, hurried steps.

Sometimes I want serenity,
a simple bowl of soup,
no ripples,
holding close
all it embraces.

In your hands a tureen,
eggdrop soup with pickle and minced pork,
a little heat lurking in the placid taste,
on its calm surface
two gleams of tinted oil.
Through curtained years,
a shining gaze.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

織草為蜢的人

你從利園山道那邊轉出來
把輪椅熟練地退至花槽一隅
然後像你微微抽搐的面容
在午後的時光中，停下來

風也停在輪椅前的綠色中
一絲懸掛，那些垂垂以草
織為蜢的手藝，在大廈和人
不斷交織又拆解的陰影中

看著你，你從不看著人
自顧自用噴壺向蜢群灑水
草葉的脊骨屈折再挺拔
探出去的化為顫顫的觸鬚

有小孩剛停步伸出手去
又被母親急步趕來硬生生
拖走，你的面容沒有一絲變化
草綠的眼神停在不息身影中

THE WEAVER OF GRASSHOPPERS

At the corner of Lee Garden Road
your wheelchair slips between potted plants,
afternoon’s hours suspended
with your cheek’s faint twitch.

Leaves snag a thready wind
as your slow craft weaves
grasshoppers from grassblades,
as these shadows braid
buildings and people.

Watched, you don’t watch others,
your sure hands spritzing bunched hoppers.
How the spiny blade, bent once,
springs as a trembling antenna.

When the boy stops, hand held out,
and his mother drags him on,
you’re unperturbed, your gaze grass-green,
cool in the restless shade.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

馬纓丹

童年時常見你，在籬下路邊
成長，綻開叢叢小小的花朵
紅的，黃的和紫的，親密地聚集
美麗和謙卑，我們都慢慢學曉了
不忘恭敬地採下，串成花環
掛在夥伴的頸項，然後看你
笑開了村裏每一個路口

有時我們忘卻了，粗暴地
摘你一把猶青的果實
向壁壘外的小孩還擊
有時我們摘不到
高墻後的葡萄
就胡亂摘你一片葉
放在拳洞上打破
你的傷口裏，有時
會伸出一顆青刺
但隨即掩來片片沉厚的綠色
面對外來的暴行，你只不過
微微透露一種不快的氣味
然後是一片更寬廣的容色
並存的花果，日月和風雨

注：馬纓丹，又名如意草，是香港鄉村常見的灌木。花果成叢簇生，全年開花結果；樹身有刺，樹葉破爛時會發出使人不快的氣味。

LANTANA

I’d see it coming up
beside a road, a fence,
its spray of fleurets
in intimate assembly:
red, purple, yellow,
pretty and humble. We learned
to pluck them with respect,
string a garland round a friend’s neck,
each village crossroads an abundance.

Sometimes we’d tear handfuls
of the fruit, still green,
to wing at other kids
behind their ramparts.
If grapes beyond a wall
were too far to grasp,
we’d snatch a lantana leaf
and mash it on a fist.
Green thorns lurked
amid the foliage.
In the face of all this wrath
it gave off an unpleasant scent,
its long vines extending
to its blossoms, to the sun,
the moon, the rain, the wind.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Note: Lantana camara is commonly seen in Hong Kong. One of its Chinese names connotes good luck. It yields clustered flowers and fruit year round. Its vine is thorned, and the leaves, when crushed, emit a disagreeable odor.

電腦寫作

仿宋體從十指間流出
彷彿十條支流匯成了
廣闊的河道
速度已非往日
抖抖搖晃的筆桿
右手拇指
食指和中指
革去了專利
仍在默默參與勞動
歡呼這個字詞
由左手尾指完成
同意那個感喟
從右手無名指開始
字詞在左右穿插
互換位置

拉過來推過去
沒有過去鉛字
放不下的尊嚴
沒有過去分行
那麼想後思前
沒有過去分段

那麼順理成章
沒有過去收結
那樣毫不
突兀

WRITING ON THE COMPUTER

From ten fingers flows a style
in homage to the Song dynasty,
ten streams joining
one broad current.
Today much faster than yesterday,
when the pen trembled.
Right thumb,
index, middle fingers,
less in charge,
but still taking up their labor.
The characters for cheer
end with the left little finger.
That interjection suggesting agreement
arriving from the right’s ring finger.
Words shift to and fro,
shuttling position.

Pulling closer, shoving back,
no dignity the old lead type
could not convey.
Line breaks
less hesitant than before,
stanza breaks falling
less smoothly into place,
endings more abrupt.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

葡萄

又是那一顆一顆的眼睛
凝看樓叢之間的太陽
正午是梨，黃昏墜落
為柑，餘光過處
眸裏塵埃歷歷……

同枝相連，該掩藏或坦露
底層的糜爛，還是等待
夜幕襲來，一切了無分別
讓溶入黑暗的眼神
教路過的微風變酸

GRAPES

Again those eyeballs
staring sunward amid groves of buildings.
If noon’s a pear, sunset drops
like an orange, its refulgence
speckled with dust.

One vine, plain or hid
from what rots beneath.
Night’s drape closes on it all.
Eyes dissolve in darkness,
souring the breeze.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

聲音

——寄女兒

隱約是窗外
潮水的聲音
逝去的人語
月亮移遠
兒子夢裏翻身
衣裳窸窣
你醒來
扶著床欄
細看睡塌上的我
忽然哼起
無調的歌
像小鴨子
在房子裏悠悠
游遠
又回來
我的耳彎
還帶回一些
我的過去
讓我重認
一些單音節
在字詞出現之前
然後按潮水
起落
月移方向
一一分行
記下
讓你將來
閱讀
拾回一些
你的過去
如潮水退了
又再回來

SOUND

for my daughter

Faint sounds beyond the window,
outgoing tide,
passing voices.
The moon retreats.
My son, shirt rustling,
turns over in his dream.
You wake, fist on the crib rail,
see me on the couch.
You hum a toneless song
like a duckling
swims across the room
and back. My ears
catch something from my past,
slim recognition, monosyllables
not yet words.
I write them down
in rhythms, line breaks
of the lunar tide.
Someday you might read
and claim again
these moments of your past
as the tide recedes,
advances.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

船程

不記得何時啟碇，何時泊岸
不記得水手把繩圈拋向
碼頭還是甲板，不記得
束緊還是鬆開，漸漸
不記得水氣撲面的感覺
海風的味道，霧的形狀
不記得穿過寬闊還是狹窄
兩島之間，青青還是墨墨
不記得躍起的水花
何時跌落，退遠，變色

浮蕩的生涯，記憶
隨跫音在船末戛止
只剩下欄杆木然的感覺
還記得你獨特的容姿嗎
探身俯望，徒自掙扎的白色
是一連串被源源丟棄的
無人再細加分辨的日子

VOYAGE

Just when they cast the hawsers from the pier
I cannot say, when what held tight
was loosened. I can’t recall
the mist against my cheeks,
on my tongue the salt of sea air,
what shape the fogbank.

I can’t recall how wide the pass
between two islands, or whether
they were green or dark.
Nor even if the foam arcing from the bow
rose or fell in color.

Life drifts with memory
as if standing at the stern rail
faintly lost. Who remembers
how you looked, leaning out,
gazing down at the white tumult
as if at the wake of days
abandoned, impossible to count.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

分傘

我不期待雨季
雨季開始了我便要打開
未完的傘的故事

而雨季真的開始了
一把傘打開
另一把就要摺藏
你喜歡我的左手
把你一整季的雨
擋在外面
內彎的手柄向你移靠
讓你成為中心
雨的淅瀝或滂沱
需要我的左耳聆聽
天色晦明
需要我的左側面
雨打在道旁積水
浮光映在你的右側
如果你的步伐沒有加快
我的只好放緩
你又說起第一個雨季了
我竟愛上
傘沿淌下的雨滴

雨季開始了
便沒有兩把傘子
雨一開始便沒有停下來
你和我繼續向前走
消失了兩面的風景

SHARING AN UMBRELLA

The rainy season always catches me
by surprise. Again I take up
the ongoing tale of the umbrella.

When the rains come,
one gets opened,
the other stays shut.
You’re pleased if my left hand
blocks the whole downpour,
ribs centered right above your head.
Drizzle or deluge,
night or day,
my one ear works for both.
Rain strafes the roadside puddles
shining on your right.
If your steps don’t quicken,
mine must slow.
You tell once more
how I fell in love
our first rainy season
with the dripping at the umbrella’s edge.

Rain still falls
on one umbrella.
Through ceaseless torrents,
through a vanished landscape,
you and I walk on.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell