轉變

季節在一夜間
徹底轉變
你還沒有來得及准備
風已撲面而來
風已冷得使人邁不出院子
你回轉身來，天空
在風的鼓蕩下
出奇地發藍

你一下子就老了
衰竭，面目全非
在落葉的打旋中步履艱難
僅僅一個狂風之夜
身體裏的木桶已是那樣的空
一走動
就晃蕩出聲音

而風仍不息地從季節裏穿過
風鼓蕩著白雲
風使天空更高、更遠
風一刻不停地運送著什麼
風在瓦縫裏，在聽不見的任何地方
吹著，是那樣急迫

剩下的日子已經不多了
落葉紛飛
風中樹的聲音
從遠方濺起的人聲、車輛聲
都朝著一個方向

如此逼人
風已徹底吹進你的骨頭縫裏
僅僅一個晚上
一切全變了
這不禁使你暗自驚心
把自己穩住，是到了在風中堅持
或徹底放棄的時候了

TRANSFORMATION

Seasons change overnight,
before you know it
the wind against your face so cold
you turn back in the yard,
the buffeting sky
impossibly blue.

Suddenly you’re old,
withered, utterly changed,
shuffling through a swirl of fallen leaves.
After the night’s storm
the cask of the heart, half empty,
sloshes at each step.

Yet wind thrills through the season,
tearing at the clouds,
the sky lofting higher, vaster,
always carrying something off,
the smallest chink in the rooftiles
filling with moans, voicing what was still,
urgent, blowing.

Few days left.
The dead leaves whirl,
in the distance
parched whispers of the trees,
the murmuring human surf, traffic
heading in one direction.

The wind’s weight
finds your bones,
in a single night
changing everything,
snatching up your heart.
Hold on tight.
It’s time to stand in the wind
or surrender.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

孤堡札記

1.
森林的緘默迫使我們
從一條羊腸小路上退回來，
（練騎術的人從花園一側無聲地駛過）
正午的黑暗加深。
在這裏你是時間的囚徒，
同時你又取消了時間。
早上的德式面包，中午的中式面條，
晚上的夢把你帶回到北京——
在那裏騎者消失，
你恍然來到一個不再認識的國度，
言詞的黑暗太深。

2.
一個修辭學意義上的詩人
將如何修辭？一陣陣香水味飄過之後，
在露天酒吧刀叉杯盞的碰撞中，
形成的並不是詩的音韻。
而你生來是個唱輓歌的人，為了
從古堡上空再次展開的秋天，
為預先失去的愛情；
為黃昏時一輛亮起金色燈火，到達、
        離去的公共汽車，
為再次前來找你的記憶……

3.
一瓶從中國帶來的駝鳥墨水
培養了我的迷信，一支英雄牌鋼筆
一天要喝三次它的奶汁。
「漢語」，你對自己說「我得
養活它。在這裏它是我可憐的啞巴，
它說不出話來，但它要吃……」
而墨在歷史中閃耀。墨比金子
珍貴。一瓶從故國帶來的中國墨水
吸收了時間的黑，血液的黑，
它甚至迫使死者拿起筆來
——它傾刻就會分娩出你的懷鄉病
和一個個與你相望的詞……

4.
帝國的版圖日漸收縮，
        像從天上掉下來的一件衣服，
穿起來仍嫌過大。
為了讚美你需要學會諷刺。
為了滿天飛雪有一個馬廄就必須變黑。
為了杜甫你還必須是卡夫卡。
合上書本，或是撕下那些你寫下的
        蒼白文字時，你會看到一個孩子
在懸岩的威脅下開始了他的路程，
而冬天也會跟著他向你走來。

5.
在起風的日子裏我又想起你
杜甫！仍在萬里悲秋裏做客，登高望北
或獨自飄搖在一隻烏蓬船裏……
起風了，我的詩人！你身體中的
那匹老馬是否正發出嗚咽？你的李白
和岑參又到哪裏去了？
茅屋破了，你索性投身於天地的無窮裏。
你把漢語帶入了一個永久的暮年。
你所到之處，把所有詩人變成你的孩子。
你到我這裏來吧——酒與燭火備下，
我將不與你爭執，也不與你談論
砍頭的利斧或桂冠。
你已漂泊了千年，你到我這裏來吧——
你的夢中山河和老妻
都早已在荒草中安歇……

6.
漸漸地，在大理石臺階上眺望星空
與在古堡的地窖裏出沒的，
已不是同一個人。在這裏轉身
                                       向西或向東
經歷著飛雪與日落的人，
已知道怎樣化恐懼為平靜。
黑暗的中世紀，仍擁有它不朽的兵器。
愛神，被削去臉和雙乳
仍被供奉在那裏，為人類的絕望作證。
而你，在結束與一位金髮女孩的羅曼史後發現，
原來她是從一幅畫中向你走來。
哦漸漸地，夏天轉向了另外的國度，
而橡樹在雪後顯出黑色。

7.
在我寫完這首詩後，冬天
就會順著林中大道徑直向我走來，
堅硬的冰碴也將從夏日的花園裏滲出。
大雪封山之前，
人們還會紛紛離去。
但是那尊石像仍會留下，偶爾的黃昏，
也會塗亮古堡的最後一扇窗戶。
如果你仍會做夢，你夢到的會是一匹馬，
艱難地陷在半山腰的積雪裏；
如果你發信，它將永不到達；
如果你想呼喊——為人類的孤獨，雪
就會更大、更黑地降下來……

8.
穿行在這些大理石的頭像
和胸像之間，似乎只一步，就回到
兩千年前；這些古希臘的武士、智者
或詭辯家，注視著我
卻不問我從什麼地方來。
我來自一個你們不曾想像的國度，
在那裏智者來自黃土，歸於黃土，
在那裏女皇只給自己留下一座無字碑……
而一尊青銅或大理石塑像能否戰勝時間？
我想問。哦，當我發問，我看見
時間的深淵正照亮你們靜默的額頭……
我像一個遲到的孩子又潛回到早年的
課堂，並在那裏聽到一聲：「噓——」

9.
這是無數個冬天中的一個，
這是冬天中的冬天。
你寫到雪，雪就要落下，
你迎接什麼，什麼就會到來。
這是滯留者的歌，一會兒就要響起，
這些是詞，已充分吸收了降雪前的黑暗；
這是在樓梯上嗡嗡作響的吸塵器，一會兒
就會移入你昏暗的室內，
這將是另一首詩：伐木者在死後醒來。
這已是我分辨不清的馬廄，正從古堡那邊
的草地向我靠近，
這些是無辜的過冬的畜牲，
在聚來的昏暗中，在我的內心裏
它們已緊緊地偎在了一起……

1982年2月 斯圖加特Solitude古堡

NOTES FROM THE CASTLE OF SOLITUDE

1.
The hush of the forest turned us back
from the footpath.
As mid-day’s darkness deepened,
a silent rider passed the mouth of the garden.
Though a prisoner of time
it was time you escaped.
German bread in the morning,
Chinese noodles at noon;
dreams each night take you back to Beijing,
where the rider disappears,
where you come to a country
you suddenly no longer know,
the language too dark, too deep.

2.
How does a poet
deal with rhetoric?
The perfumed breeze from outdoor bars,
the clinks of fork and glass
bear no rhythmic notes.
You were born to sing
autumn’s elegies
unfurling again above the ancient castle
for love that must be lost,
for the bus, its windows softly lit,
pulling in at dusk,
and for its heading off.
For once more wandering through your memory.

3.
Ostrich ink drawn from its Chinese bottle
stirs my superstitions.
Thrice a day, the Hero pen
drinks its black milk.
“Chinese,” I say to myself,
“I must nourish it,
my poor dummy
who eats but says nothing.”
This ink refracts a history
more precious than gold,
a well of Chinese ink
deep with black time, black blood,
driving even the dead to raise the pen.
Soon it will contrive your homesickness
as lines of words
staring back at you.

4.
The empire’s map shrank daily
like a coat dropped from heaven,
still too big to wear.
To praise, you must learn irony.
For a skyful of snow,
one stable must be black.
To be Du Fu, you must also be Kafka.
Close the book, or shred
the pale words you wrote,
as if a child
setting out on a journey
beneath a threatening crag,
while winter follows
straight for you.

5.
Windy days, I think of you,
Du Fu, gazing north,
a thousand miles from home,
sad autumns on high mountains,
or drifting alone
beneath the black canopy
of a bobbing skiff.
The wind rises.
The old mare in your body,
did she whimper?
Your Li Bai and Cen Shen, where were they?
When your shack fell apart, you flung yourself
toward the infinitude of the universe.
You brought Chinese to an undying ripeness.
No matter where you go, every poet is your heir.
Come—here’s wine and lit candles,
we’ll speak neither of the headsman’s axe
nor of laurels. We won’t argue.
You’ve wandered all these centuries,
come with me now—
your dreams of mountains and rivers
and your old wife
have found rest
in brittle weeds.

6.
Soon the man gazing at the stars
from the marble steps
will no longer be recognized
as one who lurked in the cellars
of the ancient castle.
Face east or west,
he who has seen driving snow and sunset
already knows how to turn panic into peace.
The Dark Ages retained their immortal weapons.
Aphrodite, face and breasts sliced off,
still worshipped,
proof of man’s despair.
Only after your romance with the blond girl
did you see she stepped from a painting.
Day by day, summer leads
to another country, and oaks
gone black against the snow.

7.
When I finish the poem,
winter will advance
down the forest path,
and jagged frost arise
from summer’s garden.
People leave one after another
before snow seals the mountain.
But that stone statue stays,
occasional evenings
flaring on the last window
of the ancient castle.
If you could, you’d dream of a horse
floundering in deep snow
halfway up the mountain.
If you sent a letter,
it would never arrive.
If you cried out in human solitude,
snow would fall heavier, darker.

8.
Walking among the marble busts,
it seems one step
could erase two thousand years.
Greek warriors, wise men or sophists,
gaze at me, but never ask
where I’m from.
From a land they’d never imagine,
where philosophers sprang from earth
and returned to earth.
Where one empress left her own monument
completely uninscribed.
Can bronze or marble statues vanquish time?
I’d like to know. When I ask,
I see the gulf of time pour light
onto their silent foreheads.
Like a child late for class,
I hear “Shh…”

9.
One winter among many—
winter of winters.
When you write about snow,
snow falls;
whatever you invite arrives.
Such is the song soon to be sung
of someone left behind.
These are its lyrics, steeped in the dark before snowfall.
This the buzz of the maid’s vacuum mounting the stairs,
soon to enter your dim room,
and then to enter a poem:
the woodcutter wakes
after death. There stands the stable,
dim shadow on the castle grounds,
these the innocent beasts, wintering
in the heart’s sudden gloom,
leaning close.

Solitude Castle, Stuttgart, February 1998

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Ostrich: A Chinese brand of bottled ink.
Hero: A well-known line of Chinese fountain pens.
Li Bai (Li Po) and Cen Shen: Great poets of the Tang dynasty, as well as Du Fu’s friends and contemporaries.

田園詩

如果你在京郊的鄉村路上漫遊
你會經常遇見羊群
牠們在田野中散開，像不化的雪
像膨脹的綻開的花朵
或是縮成一團穿過公路，被吆喝著
滾下塵土飛揚的溝渠

我從來沒有注意過牠們
直到有一次我開車開到一輛卡車的後面
在一個飄雪的下午
這一次我看清了牠們的眼睛
（而牠們也在上面看著我）
那樣溫良，那樣安靜
像是全然不知牠們將被帶到什麼地方
對於我的到來甚至懷有
幾分孩子似的好奇

我放慢了車速
我看著牠們
消失在愈來愈大的雪花中

PASTORAL

On the country roads outside Beijing
you’re sure to spot sheep
scattered over fields, like unmelted snow
or swollen blooms burst open.
They cross the road in clumps,
the herdsman barking them down
a weedy ditch, tripping and tumbling
through the dust.

I never paid much attention
until one afternoon
in flurries of snow
I nosed close behind a sheep truck,
the dark eyes gazing down
gentle and quiet, not knowing
where they were headed.
They turned toward me then,
curious as children.

I let the car drift back
through the thickening curtain of snow
and watched them disappear.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

晚年的帕斯

去年他眼睜睜地看著
傍晚的一場大火
燒掉了他在墨西哥城的家
燒掉了他一生的珍藏
那多年的手稿和未完成的詩
那古老的墨西哥面具
和畢加索的繪畫
那祖傳的家具和童年以來
所有的照片、信件
那歡樂的拱頂，肋骨似的
屋椽，一切的一切
在一場沖天而起的火中
化為灰燼

那火仍在燒
在黑暗中燒
燒焦了從他詩中起飛的群鳥的翅膀
燒掉了一個人的前生
燒掉了多年來的負擔
也燒掉了虛無和灰燼本身
人生的虛妄、愛欲
和未了的雄心
都在一場晚年的火中劈啪作響
那救火的人
仍在嗆人的黑暗中呼喊
如影子一般跑動

現在他自由了
像從一場漫長的拷打中解脫出來
他重又在巴黎的街頭坐下
落葉在腳下無聲地翻捲
而他的額頭，被一道更遙遠的光照亮

THE LAST DAYS OF OCTAVIO PAZ

Mexico City, dusk,
he watches wide eyed
as a great conflagration
devours his house, his life’s
possessions, the years
of manuscripts, poems finished
and unfinished, the Aztec mask,
the Picasso, chairs
of his ancestors, photos from childhood,
the joyous dome, its ribbed beams and rafters,
everything turning to ash
in a whirling column of fire.

The flames blaze on,
charring night,
lick the black wings
soaring from his poems,
consume the leaden hours,
human illusion, human desire,
wish and ambition,
emptiness and ash—
all crackling in a fire
come late in life,
as the firemen shout in the choking dark,
fleeting shadows.

So late, so late
but now set free
from long affliction,
Octavio Paz will sit once more
beside a Paris street,
dry leaves scuttling silent at his feet,
a far off light
dawning on his brow.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

八月十七日，雨

雨已下了一夜，雨中人難眠
雨帶來了盛夏的第一陣涼意
雨仍在下，從屋簷下傾下
從石階上濺起，從木頭門縫裏朝裏漫溢

向日葵的光輝在雨中熄滅
鐵在雨中腐爛
小蛤蟆在雨中的門口接連出現
而我聽著這雨
在這個灰濛濛的低垂的早晨
在這座昏暗、清涼的屋子裏
在我的身體裏，一個人在嘩嘩的雨聲中
出走
一路向南

向南，是雨霧籠罩的北京，是貧困的早年
是雨中槐花煥發的清香
是在風雨中驟然敞開的一扇窗戶
是另一個裹著舊雨衣的人，在胡同口永遠消失
（下水道的水聲仍響徹不息）
是受阻的車流，是絕望的雨刮器
在傾盆大雨中來回晃動

就在一個人死後多年，雨下下來了

雨潑濺在你的屋頂上，雨
將你的凝望再一次打入泥土
雨中，那棵開滿沉重花朵的木槿劇烈地搖晃
那曾盛滿夏日光輝的屋子
在雨中變暗

每年都會有雷聲從山頭上響起
每年都有這樣的雨聲來到我們中間
每天都有人在我們之中死亡

雨中的石頭長出了青苔

AUGUST 17th, RAIN

Rain through the night, hard to sleep,
but the first cool breath all summer,
pouring from the eaves,
splattering the front steps,
seeping past the threshold.

Rain drowns the sunflower’s blaze,
wastes wrought iron to rust.
Little toads appear
one and another,
hopping by the door.

I listen to the rain
in a low, gray dawn
in a cool, dim room.
The man inside me
takes the rainbeaten road
straight south.

South lies Beijing, shrouded in mist, those years
of poverty, its balm wafting
from flowering pagoda trees, the latched window
banging open in storms, someone wrapped
in an old raincoat vanishing forever
at the end of an alley. Drains awash,
stalled cars on the road in the downpour,
the useless sweep of their wipers.

Rain never falls
until one’s dead
many years.

Rain hammers your roof
and drives your gaze to ground.
Hibiscus, laden with blooms,
sway heavily.
The room once bathed in summer glow
glooms in the rain.

Each year thunder booms from the mountaintops.
Each year the sound of rain enters our bodies.
Each day some of us die.

In rain the stones sprout moss.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

變暗的鏡子

1
熱愛樹木和石頭：道德的最低限度。

2
時代在進步，傍晚時分在路邊招手的染髮女孩也多了起來。為什麼你不把車停
下？你還有什麼可驕傲的？難道你高貴的靈魂真的會比一把她們的梳子更為不
朽？

3
葡萄酒沉睡在你的頭腦裏，而忘卻的痛苦有時比一枚釘子尖銳。

4
終有一天，你會憶起京郊的那家蒼蠅亂飛的小餐館：坐在那裏，望著遠處希爾頓
大飯店頂層的輝煌燈火，你第一次知道了什麼叫做對貧苦人類的侮辱。

5
機場關閉，暴風雪仍在發瘋地填著大海；不是回家，而是一種對話變得更困難了。

6
那些已知道在嚴寒中生活是怎麼一回事的人，將從院子裏騰出一小塊地來，種上
他們的向日葵。

7
是到了從牆上取下從前女友的畫的時候了，但，在新女主人投來的目光中，該把
它放在何處呢？

8
活到今天，要去信仰是困難的，而不去信仰是可怕的。

9
發黴的金黃玉米，爛在地裏的莊稼，在綿綿秋雨中坐在門口發楞的老人。為什麼你要避開他們眼中的辛酸？為什麼你總是羞於在你的詩中訴說人類的徒勞？

10
如果一頭驢子說牠是偉大詩人，你要肅然起敬，因為這是在一個詩的國度。

11
當你變老，開始接受兒子眼中那一絲譏諷的眼光，就像在一個等待已久的節日裏，卻得到一份最不應有的禮物。

12
我喜歡聽這樣的音樂，在大師的演奏中總是響起幾聲聽眾的咳嗽：它使我重又在黑暗中坐下。

13
不是你老了，而是你的鏡子變暗了。

14
不是你在變老，而是你獨自用餐的時間變長了。

15
不是家鄉的女人不貞，而是那個在風暴中歸來的水手已瞎了多年。

16
你每天都在擦拭著房間裏的松木地板，是為了和你的永不降臨的赤足天使生活在
一起？沒有天使。在你的牆角上方，一隻大蜘蛛下凡。

17
早上起來聽管風琴，黃昏時聽小提琴，晚上聽鋼琴；而在夜半醒來後，你聽到的，
是這無邊的寂靜。

18
再一次獲得對生活的確信，就像一個在冰雪中用力跺腳的人，在溫暖自己後，又大步向更遠處的雪走去。

19
多年之後重遊動物園：她仍一如既往地迷戀於蛇館，而你想看到的已不再是老虎或天鵝，現在，你走向被孩子們圍住的猴山。

20
當他像苦役犯一樣完成這一生的寫作，我想他將走出屋子，對著遠方這樣喃喃自語地說：孩子，現在，我可以感受到溫暖的陽光了，我可以聽到從你的花園裏傳來的你的女兒的笑聲了……

DARKENING MIRROR

1
Loving trees and stones: the root of all ethics.

2
The Age advances, and at dusk more girls appear, with tinted hair, beckoning from the roadside. Why not pull over? What have you left to be proud of? Do you really think your noble soul, compared to one of their combs, is more enduring?

3
Though the wine lies heavy on your mind, forgotten wounds stab sharper than a spike.

4
Someday you’ll recall the little restaurant buzzing with flies on the edge of Beijing: how we sat gazing at the glorious lights of the far-off Hilton, seeing for the first time how humiliation smites the destitute.

5
Airport shut down, a blizzard madly filling in the sea; no homecoming, but one kind of dialogue, grown difficult.

6
Those who know how to live in deep cold save a plot of earth in the yard to sow sunflowers.

7
Time to take down your ex-lover’s painting, but under the eye of the new mistress of the house, where can you put it?

8
Having lived from then till now, belief is hard, but disbelief is terror.

9
Gold corn mouldering, crops rotting in the field. Old man on the doorstep, staring in the soft autumn rain. What makes you turn from bitter glances? Why are you always ashamed to write poems about fruitless human labor?

10
If a donkey claims he’s a Great Poet, you bow solemnly, for this is The Land of Poetry.

11
As you grow old, that first thin gleam of scorn in your son’s eyes comes like an undeserved gift on a long awaited holiday.

12
This is the music I love, coughs from the audience as the master performs: I resume my seat in darkness.

13
It’s not that you’re any older; your mirror’s just grown dim.

14
It’s not that you’re any older; dining alone just takes longer.

15
It’s not that the hometown girls are loose; just that the sailor back from the storm went blind long ago.

16
Daily you polish your room’s pine floor. To prepare for life with a barefoot angel who never appears? There is no angel. From a corner of your ceiling descends a fat spider.

17
You arise in the morning and listen to the organ, at dusk the violin, and evening the piano; but awakened at night, you hear unending silence.

18
Restoring faith in life is like stamping your feet in winter; warmth returns, then you stride off further in the snow.

19
Years since your last trip to the zoo: she’s still drawn to the Hall of Snakes, but as you no longer wish to see tigers or swans, you head straight for Monkey Hill, thronged with children.

20
When his lifetime of writing is finished like a term of hard labor, I think he’ll step from the room and look far away, murmuring to himself: Child, now I feel the sun’s warmth, and from your garden hear your daughter’s laughter.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

第一場雪

第一場雪帶給你的激動
早已平息了，現在，是無休無止的雪，
落在紐約州。
窗外，雪被雪覆蓋，
肯定被肯定否定。
你不得不和雪一起過日子。
一個從來沒有穿過靴子的人，
在這裏出門都有些困難；
妻子帶著孩子
去睡他們甜蜜的午覺去了，
那輛歪在門口的紅色岩石牌兒童自行車
已被落雪掩到一半；
現在，在洗衣機的攪拌和轟鳴聲中，
餐桌上的蘋果寂靜，
英漢詞典寂靜，
你那測量寂靜的步子，
更為寂靜。
擡頭望去，遠山起了雪霧。

FIRST SNOW

Whatever joy the first snow brought
has long subsided. Falling without end
across upstate New York,
beyond the window
snow mantles snow,
white fact cancels white fact.
Your days fill with snow.
For one unaccustomed to boots,
just stepping outside is trouble.
My wife and son head off for their sweet nap,
his bike,“Red Rock-It”,
propped at the stoop,
half-buried.
The washer thrums and spins,
the apples on the table at peace,
the English-Chinese dictionary, at peace.
My steps,
measuring the stillness,
more silent.
A glance toward the snowy hills, distant, veiled.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

悼亡友

你被免除的債務，我盡力來還。
你找回的愛，會由冬日落下的雪
和故鄉的野菊花照料。
你的笑容從那一刻
成了一個謎。
從紐約到漢密爾頓，長途大巴
仍是那麼不快不慢地開，
我已寫不出半句
哀歌的詩行。

我的行李箱拖著我，
轟隆隆地走在異國十二月結冰的路上。

MOURNING A FRIEND

What debts your death erased, I’ll pay.
Snow falling through a winter afternoon
and the wild chrysanthemums of home
will look after what love you recovered.
In a single moment, your smile
has set into a cipher.
The overland bus from Manhattan to Hamilton
keeps its usual pace,
but writing
even half a line of elegy
escapes me.

Down the frozen December road
of this far country
my suitcase
tugs and rumbles.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

桔子

整個冬天他都在吃著桔子，
有時是在餐桌上吃，有時是在公共汽車上吃，
有時吃著吃著
雪就從書櫥的內部下下來了；
有時他不吃，只是慢慢地剝著，
彷彿有什麼在那裏面居住。

整個冬天他就這樣吃著桔子，
吃著吃著他就想起了在一部什麼小說中
女主人公也曾端上來一盤桔子，
其中一個一直滾落到故事的結尾……
但他已記不清那是誰寫的。
他只是默默地吃著桔子。
他窗臺上的桔子皮愈積愈厚。

他終於想起了小時候的醫院床頭
擺放著的那幾個桔子，
那是母親不知從什麼地方給他弄來的；
弟弟嚷嚷著要吃，媽媽不讓，
是他分給了弟弟；
但最後一個他和弟弟都捨不得吃，
一直擺放在床頭櫃上。

（那最後一個桔子，後來又怎樣了呢？）

整個冬天他就這樣吃著桔子，
尤其是在下雪天，或灰濛濛的天氣裏；
他吃得特別慢，彷彿
他有的是時間，
彷彿，他在吞食著黑暗；
他就這樣吃著、剝著桔子，擡起頭來，
窗口閃耀雪的光芒。

TANGERINES

All winter he eats tangerines,
sometimes at the table,
sometimes on a bus.
Sometimes, as he’s eating,
snow falls inside the bookcase.
Sometimes instead of eating,
he simply peels, slowly,
as if something lives within.

So he eats tangerines, all winter long,
and while eating recalls a novel
in which the heroine also brought to the table
a dish of tangerines. One kept rolling
till the end of the story.
But he can’t name the author.
He simply eats the tangerine in silence.
The peels on his windowsill rise higher.

At last an image comes, several tangerines,
in childhood, placed near his hospital bed.
His mother had found them somewhere.
Though his little brother begged one, mother refused.
He shared, but neither
would eat the last tangerine,
which stayed on the night stand.

Who knows what became of it?

So he eats tangerines all winter,
especially on snowy days, gray days.
He eats slowly, as if
there’s plenty of time,
as if he’s devouring darkness.
He eats, peels, and when he lifts his head,
snow glitters at the window.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

哥特蘭的黃昏

哥特蘭的黃昏平靜如鏡
哥特蘭的黃昏波光輕濺，彷彿有什麼
在那裏喃喃自語
哥特蘭的黃昏把人的目光再一次引向天外
哥特蘭的黃昏鍍亮
一抹鄉愁的帆影

哥特蘭的黃昏美得讓人絕望
哥特蘭的黃昏不屬於你
哥特蘭的黃昏屬於那些戴著頭盔
從你的身邊歡快騎車而過的孩子們
哥特蘭的黃昏屬於那個在岸邊披衣而坐的少女
哥特蘭的黃昏屬於那些一代代
長眠在這裏的
死者

哥特蘭的黃昏有點涼
哥特蘭的黃昏正從那些向海駐立的
岩石的身上消褪
哥特蘭的黃昏不屬於你
哥特蘭的黃昏屬於那幾隻在礁石間、在變暗的
空氣中發出清脆鳴叫的水鳥
哥特蘭的黃昏屬於那大海
它轉瞬就要把這暗下去的一切
喝盡

哥特蘭的黃昏
注定要瓦解一個人的餘生

GOTLAND’S DUSK

Gotland’s dusk, calm as a mirror
Gotland’s dusk, its spatter of lights
rippling, murmuring
Gotland’s dusk, once more luring one’s gaze
toward the sky’s farthest edge
Gotland’s dusk, its homesick blush
burnishing a shadowed sail

Gotland’s dusk, its grace hopelessly stunning
Gotland’s dusk belongs not to you
but to those kids cycling by,
helmeted, laughing
Gotland’s dusk belongs to that young woman on the bank,
coat over her shoulders,
to generations of the dead
long at peace here

Gotland’s dusk a little chilly,
ebbing from the rocks
standing by the shore
Gotland’s dusk belongs not to you
but to those seabirds on the reefs
in the dimming air, their calls crisp and musical
Gotland’s dusk belongs to the ocean
swallowing in a moment
all that darkens

Gotland’s dusk, enough to shatter your life

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell