有所思

觀念在反對藝術，一根木頭
在反對一棵樹。在這裏
娛樂和晚會反對呻吟
一道籬笆阻擋著整座森林。

藝術在園子裏漫步，並非意味著
園子就是藝術。何其相似
所有面孔在暴政下就是一張面孔
這一切取決於權利和黃金
市場的比率

為此可以再多一些小便盆
印刷的梵高比麥田更真實
他們無需因為沒認出一條微小的裂縫而羞愧
他們，他們。
波德萊爾為何要把窮人打昏
——包括你？

交易期待著觀念整齊的流水線
帶著無知，或許更可怕的陰謀。
因為在這裏
沒有誰理會無名的流浪漢

被虎口鉗緊緊夾住的一根手指的叫喊。

SOME THOUGHTS

The idea of opposing art, a stick of lumber
confronting a tree. Here entertainment and soirees
refuse the sounds of misery.
A fence hedging out a whole forest.

Art roaming the garden does not mean
the garden is art. How similar,
all faces under tyranny are one.
Everything comes down to power and gold,
the market’s rate of exchange.

For this let’s have more urinals.
The printed van Gogh’s truer than the wheatfield.
No need for shame at missing the small difference.
They, they.
Baudelaire wanted to beat up the poor
and maybe you, for what?

Trade demands a smooth assembly line of concepts
from the ignorant, or a devious plot. No one
hears the nameless wanderer’s cry,
his finger caught in the jaws of the vise.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

木匠在刨花裏……

木匠在刨花裏砍出他的臉而
鐵匠在鐮刀和麥稈間彎腰藏著。

白髮老婦在破舊的織機上
織出窈窕的腰身和花朵的大紅。

在鄉間，一株白楊就是
一股升起的炊煙，為了讓
晚歸的羊群遠遠看見。

我寫著單純的詩句，沿著
筆直的田畦，一溜剛播下的麥種
領著我渾身碧綠地閃出
        感覺的無線電。

CARPENTER AMID WOODSHAVINGS

The carpenter’s face as he chisels amid woodshavings,
the blacksmith stooped behind wheatstalks and scythes.

At her unsteady treadle, the white-haired woman
weaves slender waistlines, scarlet blooms.

A single country poplar
just a rising thread of cooksmoke
homecoming sheep see far off.

I write simple lines, beside
perfectly straight acres, this row of wheat shoots
tugging my whole body green, a jolt
        of voltage, no wires.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

未完成的途中

……午夜。一行字呼嘯著
衝出黑暗的隧道。幽藍的信號燈
閃過。一列拖著臍帶的火車
穿越橋梁，枕木下
我凹陷的前胸不斷震顫。它緊抵
俯身降落的天空，碾平，伸展
——你知道，我

總是這樣，搖晃著
在深夜起身，喝口水
坐下。信。電話線中嗡嗡的雪原。躺在
鍵盤上被自己的雙手運走。翻山越嶺
從水杉的尖頂上沉沉掃過，枝條
劃破饑渴的臉。或者，貼著地面
冰碴掛上眉毛，你知道，有時

我走在緯四路的楝樹下，提著青菜
推門，彷彿看到你的背影，孩子們快樂尖叫
衝過來抱著我的腿。雨從玻璃上滴落。
屋子晃動起來，輪子無聲地滑行
拖著傍晚的炊煙。那時，市聲壓低了

樓下的釘鞋匠，取出含在嘴裏的釘子
掄起鐵錘，狠狠地楔進生活的鞋底，毫不
猶豫。這些拾荒的人
拉著破爛的架子車，藏起撿到的分幣
粗大的骨節從未被摧毀。你知道，端午時節

蒿草濃烈的香氣中，我們停靠的地方
布穀鳥從深夜一直叫到天亮，在遠處的林子裏
躲在樹蔭下面。你睫毛長長的眼睛
閉著。手邊是放涼的水杯和灰燼的餘煙。站在窗前，
我想：我愛這個世界。在那
裂開的縫隙裏，我有過機會。
它緩緩駛來，拐了彎……

我總是這樣。盯著熒屏，長久地
一行字跳出黑暗。黝黝的田野。礦燈飛快地向後
丘陵。水塘。夜晚從我的四肢碾過。
淒涼。單調。永不絕望
你知道，此時我低垂的額頭亮起
一顆星：端著米缽。搖動鐵輪的手臂
被活塞催起——火苗竄上來。一扇窗口
飄著晾曬的嬰兒尿布，慢慢升高了……

UNFINISHED JOURNEY

Midnight. A string of words roars
streaking from the dark tunnel, dim blue signal light
flashing by. A train drags its umbilicus
through the trestle, my hollow chest
still trembling beneath the sleepers, pressed tight
to the arc of sky, crushed, flattened out.
You know, I

am always this way, wobbling
up at midnight, sipping water,
sitting. Letters. In the phone a droning snowfield.
Spread across the keyboard, shipped off by my own hands. Crossing mountains,
the tips of redwoods scuffing my thirsty face,
their boughs rasping. Or on the ground
shattered ice in my eyebrows. You know, sometimes

I walk beneath the cape lilac on Weisi road, carrying green vegetables.
I shove open the door, imagining your shadow. The children squeal with joy
and rush my legs. Rain slips down the windowglass.
The house starts to shake, the glide of silent wheels
towing night’s chimneysmoke. Sounds of the city hush.

Downstairs the cobbler plucks a nail from his mouth,
swings the hammer, drives hard through life’s sole, no
hesitation. These junkmen
haul cartloads of scrap, pocketing small coins,
their joints strong. You know, that festival

of fragrant weeds, where we anchored,
till dawn the cuckoos calling from distant woods,
from shadowed trees. Your long lashed eyes
shutting. At my hand, a glass of cool water,
the wisps of dying coals. Standing by the window
I think: I love this world. Once,
in the cleft of a moment, I had a chance.
It steered slowly close, then turned the corner.

I’m always this way. Staring forever at the screen,
a string of words leaping from darkness. A dusky field.
A miner’s lamp racing backward.
Hills. Ponds. Night grinds my limbs.
Misery. Monotony. Never despair.
You know, at this moment one star illuminates
my bowed head: lifting the alms-bowl for rice.
An iron arm drives the iron wheel driven by a piston
—a tongue of flame shoots up. Past the window
a hung diaper, slowly rising.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

歇晌

午間。村莊慢慢沉入
        明亮的深夜。

穿堂風掠過歇晌漢子的脊梁
躺在炕席上的母親奶著孩子
芬芳的身體與大地平行。

知了叫著。驢子在槽頭
甩動尾巴驅趕蚊蠅。

絲瓜架下，一群雛雞臥在陰影裏
間或骨碌著金色的眼珠。

這一切細小的響動——
——世界深沉的寂靜。

SIESTA

Noon. The village sinks
into bright midnight.

In the room, a draft coasts the spine of a dozing man,
the woman lying on a kang-mat, her child at her breast,
their fragrant bodies aligned with earth.

Cicadas drone. At the head of the trough a donkey
flicks its tail at mosquitoes and flies.

Under a squash trellis, a covey of chicks loll in the shadows,
their gold eyes now and then revolving.

The faint sounds of such motions—
the deepest silence in the world.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Kang: A brick platform, heated in winter, on which people in country houses sleep, first laying down a quilted cushion. In summer, the cushion is replaced with a cool, soft mat of woven grass or bamboo.

風

風從他身體裏吹走一些東西。

木橋。雀舌草葉上露珠礦燈的夜晚
一隻手臂    臉    以及眼眶中
蒲公英花蕊的森林。
吹走他身體裏的峽谷。
一座空房子。和多年留在
牆壁上沉默的聲音。

風吹走他的內臟    親人的地平線。
風把他一點點掏空。
他變成沙粒    一堆粉末
    風使他永遠活下去——

WIND

Wind blows things from the body.

Wooden bridge. On sparrow-tongue leaves, night dew
and the light of a miner’s lamp.
One arm, one face, in the eyes
a forest of dandelion pistils.
Wind blows clear the canyon in his body,
an empty house, silent on the wall
its years of voices.

Wind blows clean his viscera,
the horizon-line of kin.
Bit by bit, he’s emptied,
reduced to sandgrains, a handful of dust
the wind lets live forever.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

野葵花

野葵花到了秋天就要被
砍下頭顱。
打她身邊走過的人會突然
回來。天色已近黃昏，
她的臉，隨夕陽化為
金色的煙塵，
連同整個無邊無際的夏天。

穿越誰？穿越蕎麥花的天邊？
為憂傷所掩蓋的舊事，我
替誰又死了一次？

不真實的野葵花。不真實的
歌聲。
扎疼我胸膛的秋風的毒刺。

WILD SUNFLOWER

Come autumn, this wild sunflower’s head
will be severed,
someone passing by
suddenly recalling in the early dusk
her face melding
with the sunset’s golden smoke
the whole boundless summer.

What passage then? What crossed horizons of buckwheat blooms?
Old tales drowned in grief
for which once more I perish.

Unreal wild sunflower. Unreal
voice, singing.
Autumn wind the poison thorn stabbing in my chest.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

我的姐妹們

「一個女人，」她說，「我的姐妹們
難道不是同一個？

妳們蒼白的嘴唇，被愛情
撐起的驕傲的乳房
妳們被男人愛過的悲傷的大腿
種植了多少春天的樹林？而那衰老
乾癟的胸腹裏，歲月的河流正通過沉沉黃昏。

當孩子長大，男人們也離開
妳們向著死亡和深夜行走
當年輕的白楊腰肢彎成朽木
妳們在傷害和寬恕中將愛完成。

啊，嬌嫩的嘴唇，黃金的皮膚！
願你們詛咒那石頭裏的永生——
和一個從未鬆開的懷抱相比，碑上的銘文
難道不比頭髮間的泥土更黑、更冰冷？」

MY SISTERS

“My sisters,” she says,
“aren’t you one woman?”

Your pale lips, proud breasts
propped by love,
your sad thighs men adored,
the woods where so many springs were planted. Now in that ancient
withered chest, the river of years drifts through heavy dusk.

With children grown, men leave.
You walk toward death and deep night.
As a slim poplar bends its youth into decay
your love fulfills itself in pain and absolution.

Ah, tender lips, golden skin!
Damn the pebble’s immortality—
compared to perpetual embrace, isn’t the inscription on a stone
darker, colder than earth mixed with your hair?

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

死者

沒有永垂不朽。沒有那些
大理石臺階不被蒙上苔蘚的
永存。二月柔軟的苞芽會刺破墨水的堅硬
在注定要坍塌的石碑下。

但歷史不會提到這些細節：一個人
如何慢慢死去。黑暗壓上眼瞼。
它曾哭過，為著和所有人
    毫無二致的痛苦。

讀書的少年，抑或老人。
無論是誰，此刻
作為一個人，他曾經
有過童年，蹣跚學步
在這個和昆蟲、鳥群一同
被召喚來使世界美麗的大地。

而活著的人在恐懼中失去雙唇
它們曾是真實的，像死者化為灰燼的手指
像無名的事物轉瞬消失——

沒有指證者，因此
也沒有幸存的人。

THE DEAD

There’s no immortality, no marble steps
not covered in moss, no
perpetuation. February’s soft shoots
will pierce the ink-dark names
on fallen monuments.

History omits such details: how we
slowly die. Darkness presses down those lids
that wept the common griefs.

Young or old
whoever lies here
was a child once, tottering
on this great earth where insects and birds
are called to make it pretty.

In fear the living lose their lips
that once were true, like the fingers of the dead
reduced to ash, nameless things
that vanish in a wink—

no survivors,
no witnesses.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

真實
——獻給石漫灘75·8垮壩數十萬死者

死人知道我們的謊言。在清晨
林間的鳥知道風。

果實知道大地之血的灌溉
哭聲知道高腳杯的體面。

喉嚨間的石頭意味著亡靈在場
喝下它！猛獸的車輪需要它的潤滑——

碾碎人，以及牙齒企圖說出的真實。
世界在盲人腦袋的裂口裏扭動

……黑暗從那裏來

TRUTH

for the 200,000 killed below Shimantan Dam, August 1975

The dead know our lies. Forest birds
know the wind at dawn.

Fruits know how earth’s blood slakes.
Keening knows the grandeur of stemware.

Stones in the throat say the souls of the dead
are with us. Drink up! The wheels of the beasts need oil–

crush the people, and those teeth trying to speak truth.
The world writhes in the cleft of blind men’s heads,

from whence pours darkness.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

詩人的工作

一整夜，鐵匠鋪裏的火
呼呼燃燒著。

影子掄圓胳膊，把那人
一寸一寸砸進
鐵砧的沉默。

A POET’S WORK

All night long, the blacksmith’s fire
burns and whirls.

A shadow arm swings its arc,
stroke by stroke hammering the man
into the silence of the anvil.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

其他……

我選中了一條孤零零的
消失在玉米地深處的小路。
我選中一座隱藏在槐林和
        野豌豆叢裏的房屋，那裏
一彎無聲的渠水安靜穿過。
樹影    幽幽飄落的葉子
在水面上輕輕蕩了一下
又沉入長長的睡鄉。

我疑惑，它們都是什麼？
一條路？一座房屋？還是
映照過奧菲麗雅臉龐的波光？

我要求全部。全部的。
這飄著輕塵的小徑    久無人拜訪的
看林人長滿綠苔的房屋的牆角
以及死一樣寂寞的渠水——全部的。
如此清晰    無邊無際。

現在我坐下來：面對
        瘋狂繁殖的景色——
——金黃的飛蝶    幾片槐葉
在紙上的樂園中修築
        它們最後的安眠——

THE REST OF IT

I took the solitary path
trailing off into the deep cornfield.
I chose a house hidden in a forest
of pagoda trees and wild pea,
where canal water slid quietly past a bend.
The shadows of the trees, the softfallen leaves
stirred a little on the surface
then sank deep into dream.

What were they, I wondered.
A road? A house? The light
rippling Ophelia’s face?

I needed everything. Everything.
The trail hazy with dust, the forestkeeper’s house
unvisited, overgrown with green moss,
the ditch water silent as death—all
so clear, so endless.

Now I sit down, facing
a landscape spawning crazily—
golden butterflies, pagoda tree leaves
in a paper Eden
building their last tranquil slumber.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell