應該做一個製造者

有一年他們命我製作麥子。
我只有手臂成熟
臉上生芒。
又有一年他們命我製造麻繩。
有許多時間
思想纏繞亂飛。
現在，我坐在天亮前寫詩。
你說我臉色不好。
得了病了。

得這病的時候
你正從國南跑到國北。
你說
你在變輕
我看見，我的病太重

全因為喜歡上
從失血時節飄來的
一把降落傘。
我的所有強勁
全變成下落。

我寫世界
世界才肯垂著頭顯現。
我寫你
你才摘下眼鏡看我。
我寫自己時
看見頭發陰鬱，應該剪了。
能製作出剪刀
那才是真正了不起。

請你眯一下眼
然後別回頭地遠遠走開。
我要寫詩了
我是
我狹隘房間裏
固執的製作者。

OUGHT TO BE A MAKER

One year they ordered me to make wheat.
Only my arms ripened,
wheat heads grew from my face.
Another year they ordered me to make hemp rope.
For a long time
thoughts twined and scattered.
Now, I sit before dawn writing poems.
You say my color’s not good,
that I look sick.

When I got this illness
you were heading from the south of the country to the north.
You say
you’re getting thin.
I see my malady is grave

because I fell in love with
a parachute
floating over from the season of blood.
All my strengths
became downfalls.

Only when I write about the world
does it appear, head drooping.
Only when I write about you
do you slip off your glasses and look at me.
When I write about myself
I see my gloomy hair needs a cut.
If could make scissors
that would be splendid.

Please squint for once,
walk away and don’t look back.
I’m writing poems.
I am
in my narrow room
a stubborn maker.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

不要把你所想的告訴別人

人群傻鳥般雀躍
你的臉
漸漸接近了紅色的帷幕。
世界被你注視得全面輝煌。
可我告訴你
輝煌
是一種最深的洞。

無數手向你舞噪時
會場是敗園
在你的風裏頹響飄搖。
想到我的提醒了嗎。
穿透我的白紙
就能看見
你那雪原灰兔的眼睛。

不能原諒那些人
縈繞住你
盤纏住你。
他們想從你集聚的
奕奕神態裏
得到活著的挽救。

不要走過去。
不要走近講壇。
不要把你所想的告訴別人。
語言什麼也不能表達。

拉緊你的手
在你的手裏我說：
除了我倆
沒人想聽別人的話。

由我珍藏你
一起繞開光榮
無聲地
走過正在凍結的人群。

但是，那是誰的聲音
正從空中襲來。

DON’T TELL OTHERS WHAT YOU THINK

The crowd bobs like stupid birds.
Your face
approaches the red curtain.
In your eyes the world grows wholly glorious.
But I tell you
glory
is one of the deepest pits.

When so many hands dance and chirp for you
the hall’s a withered garden,
in the breath of your words tottering, rustling.
Remember what I said.
Inside my white pages
I see at once
your eyes gray as a hare’s in a snowfield.

Unforgivable those people
hovering near you,
entwining you.
From your live essence
they crave
their own salvation.

Don’t get any closer.
Don’t step to the rostrum.
Don’t tell others what you think.
Language says nothing.

I grip your hand,
speak into it:
beyond ourselves
no one hears another.

Let me keep you close,
sheering off from glory together,
walking silent
past the frigid crowd.

But all around, waiting
to attack, whose voice.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

重新做一個詩人

在一個世紀最短的末尾
大地彈跳著
人類忙得像樹間的猴子。

而我的兩隻手
閑置在中國的空中。
桌面和風
都是質地純白的好紙。
我讓我的意義
只發生在我的家裏。

淘洗白米的時候
米漿像奶滴在我的紙上。
瓜類為新生出手指
而驚叫。
窗外，陽光帶著刀傷
天堂走滿冷雪。

每天從早到晚
緊閉家門。
把太陽懸在我需要的角度
有人說，這城裏
住了一個不工作的人。

關緊四壁
世界在兩小片玻璃之間自燃。
沉默的蝴蝶四處翻飛
萬物在不知不覺中泄露。
我預知四周最微小的風吹草動
不用眼睛。
不用手。
不用耳朵。

每天只寫幾個字
像刀
劃開橘子細密噴湧的汁水。
讓一層層藍光
進入從未描述的世界。

沒人看見我
一縷縷細密如絲的光。
我在這城裏
無聲地做著一個詩人。

BE A POET ANEW

At the tail end of the century
the big earth bounces,
people busy as monkeys up a tree.

Yet my two hands
float idle in China.
The desktop and a breeze, both
the pure white texture of good paper.
In my house alone
I make my meaning.

I wash rice,
and the milky rinsewater drips on my paper.
The melon shrieks
at new-grown fingers.
Past the window, sunlight bears its stab wounds.
All over heaven shifts cold snow.

Each day, early to late,
my door’s shut tight.
Sunlight hangs at the necessary angle.
In this city, someone says,
lives a layabout.

Squeeze four walls
between two small panes
and the world self-ignites.
Silent butterflies flitter everywhere.
All things leak imperceptibly.
From every side, I predict
the faintest trembling of a grassblade,
without looking
without touching
without hearing.

Each day, a few written words
like knives
slice open the orange, spurting its juice.
Let bands of blue light
enter an unspoken world.

The threads of my dense, silky luster
are invisible.

I dwell in this city,
soundless and a poet.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

一塊布的背叛

我沒有想到
把玻璃擦淨以後
全世界立刻滲透進來。
最後的遮擋跟著水走了
連樹葉也為今後的窺視
紋濃了眉線。

我完全沒有想到
只是兩個小時和一塊布
勞動，居然也能犯下大錯。

什麼東西都精通背叛。
這最古老的手藝
輕易地通過了一塊柔軟的髒布。
現在我被困在它的暴露之中。

別人最大的自由
是看的自由。
在這個複雜又明媚的春天
立體主義走下畫布。
每一個人都獲得了剖開障礙的神力
我的日子正被一層層看穿。

躲在家的最深處
卻袒露在四壁以外的人
我只是裸露無遺的物體。
一張橫豎交錯的桃木椅子
我藏在木條之內
心思走動。
世上應該突然大降塵土
我寧願退回到
那桃木的種子之核。

只有人才要隱秘
除了人
現在我什麼都想冒充。

BETRAYAL BY A SCRAP OF CLOTH

Wiping clean the windowpanes,
I never thought
how the world could walk right in,
the last veil gone with the rinsewater,
even the leaves’ eyebrows darkened,
all the better to peep.

I never guessed
a square of cloth and two hours’ labor
could yield such a grave mistake.

Everything masters betrayal.
This ancient craft
transmuted through a rag.
Now I’m trapped, exposed.

Others’ greatest freedom
is the freedom to look.
In this complex and enchanting spring,
cubism strides free of the canvas.
Everyone has the power to break in.
Layer by layer, my days are stripped bare.

In my house hidden deep,
but beyond the walls unclothed,
I’m just a naked object,
a chair of crisscrossed peachwood.
Deep within its slats,
my mind paces.
If dust drowned the earth,
I’d retreat
to the core of that peach seed.

Only humans crave secrets.
Now I’ll pretend to be anything
but human.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

白紙的內部

陽光走在家以外
家裏只有我
一個心平氣坦的閑人。

一日三餐
理著溫順的菜心
我的手
漂浮在半透明的白瓷盆裏。
在我的氣息悠遠之際
白色的米
被煮成了白色的飯。

紗門像風中直立的書童
望著我睡過忽明忽暗的下午。
我的信箱裏
只有蝙蝠的絨毛們。
人在家裏
什麼也不等待。

房子的四周
是危險轉彎的管道。
分別注入了水和電流
它們把我親密無間地圍繞。
隨手扭動一隻開關
我的前後
撲動起恰到好處的
水和火。

日和月都在天上
這是一串顯不出痕跡的日子。
在醬色的農民身後
我低俯著拍一只長圓西瓜
背上微黃
那是我以外弧形的落日。

不為了什麼
只是活著。
像隨手打開一縷自來水。
米飯的香氣走在家裏
只有我試到了
那香裏面的險峻不定。
有哪一把刀
正劃開這世界的表層。

一呼一吸地活著
在我的紙裏
永遠包藏著我的火。

INSIDE THE WHITE PAPER

The sun treads outside the house.
I’m the only one home,
an idler at my ease.

Each day, three meals.
I rinse the frail bok choi,
my hands
afloat in the sink’s pale translucence.
My breath is far off
while the pot’s white grains
steam to cooked rice.

The screen door stands straight as a boy attendant,
watching me sleep
through the afternoon’s lights and shadows.
In my mailbox
only fine strands of bat-hair.
At home
one waits for nothing.

Pipes turn tight around the house gripping, menacing,
packed with water and power,
surrounding my whole being.
Flip a switch,
and before me, behind me
flick perfect fire, perfect water.

The sun and moon hang in the sky,
day after trackless day.
Beside tanned farmers
I bend and thump the oval watermelon,
the yellow blush on its back
a sunset arcing outside me.

Not for anything
but to live.
Like twisting on a trickle of tapwater.
The fragrance of steamed rice walks through the house,
its precipice and uncertainty
known to me alone.

Which knife
slices the skin of this world.

To live, exhaling after inhaling,
my fire
wrapped forever in my paper.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

清晨

那些整夜
蜷曲在舊草席上的人們
憑藉什麼悟性
睜開了兩隻泥沼一樣的眼睛。

睡的味兒還縮在屋角。
靠哪個部件的力氣
他們直立起來
准確無誤地
拿到了食物和水。

需要多麼大的智慧
他們在昨天的褲子裏
取出與他有關的一串鑰匙。
需要什麼樣的連貫力
他們上路出門
每一個交叉路口
都不能使他們迷失。

我坐在理性的清晨。
我看見在我以外

是人的河水。
沒有一個人向我問路
雖然我從沒遇到
大過拇指甲的智慧。

金屬的質地顯然太軟。
是什麼念頭支撐了他們
頭也不回地
走進太陽那傷人的灰塵。

災害和幸運
都懸在那最細的線上。
太陽，像膽囊
升起來了。

EARLY MORNING

Those people
curled all night on old straw mats,
by what epiphany
do they open their marshlike eyes.

The smell of sleep still crouches
in the corner of the room.
What clockwork
makes them straighten up,
fetching food and water
so precisely.

How much wisdom does it take
to fish a string of keys
from yesterday’s trousers.
What momentum
gets each one on the road,
not missing a single intersection.

I dwell in the morning of reason,
looking past myself.

A river of people.
Not one asks me for directions,
though I never met wisdom
much bigger than a thumbnail.

Steel’s too soft
for what braces them,
striding into the dust of that wounding sun,
their faces straight ahead.

Calamities and felicities
hang by the thinnest threads.
The sun, like a gallbladder,
rises.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

飛是不允許的

我已經一次又一次地試過
天空從來不歡迎人

我貼近它的時候
它臉色驟變
緊張得像傷口上
塗抹了大量的龍膽紫

連詩人都已經放低了
嘩嘩翻響過的心
因為飛是最不被允許的

轉動身體的空間漸漸稀少
我看見西半球的上空
兩隻鋼鐵的鳥架在下墜中燃燒
就像我在夜裏
撞在我的穿衣鏡上
我的眼睛裏
濺起了毀壞的光斑

又有飛機穿過頭頂
我欽佩那些
把生命當做火柴杆的人
多麼危急的洪水猛獸逼著它們
上了天

我們的自由
只裝在不堪一擊裏
讓頭腦出走
就已經幅員無邊。

FLYING NOT ALLOWED

I’ve tried over and over
but the sky never welcomes us.

When I press close to it
its complexion suddenly shifts
tense as a wound
daubed with gentian violet.

Even a poet would lower
the noisy leafings through his heart
since flying’s so forbidden.

Room to turn the body shrinks.
In this air above the western hemisphere
I saw two metal birds aflame, falling,
just like that night
I walked into my dressing mirror,
a splash of shattered light.

Whenever a plane passes over
I admire those
taking their lives as matchsticks.
What desperate floods and beasts
must force them into the sky

Our freedom. boxed in,
can’t withstand one blow.
The mind, let out,
covers a boundless region.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

不認識的就不想再認識了

到今天還不認識的人
就遠遠地敬著他。
三十年中
我的朋友和敵人都足夠了。

行人一縷縷地經過
揣著簡單明白的感情。
向東向西
他們都是無辜。
我要留出我的今後。
以我的方式
專心地去愛他們。

誰也不注視我。
行人不會看一眼我的表情。
望著四面八方。
他們生來
就不是單獨的一個
注定向東向西地走。

一個人掏出自己的心
扔進人群
實在太真實太幼稚。

從今以後
崇高的容器都空著。
比如我
比如我蕩來蕩去的
後一半生命。

I’D RATHER NOT KNOW ANYONE I DON’T

From now on, I’d rather not know
anyone I don’t,
but simply respect them from afar.
After thirty years, my friends
are enough, and my enemies.

Passersby come in clumps,
hearts transparent in their pockets,
from east to west
all innocent.
I’ve set the future aside,
loving them intently
my own way.

Looking everywhere, no one sees me,
never catching my expression.
Not born to be alone, they’re fated,
going one way or another.

Someone pulls his own heart out,
so true, so naïve,
tossed to the crowd.

From now on
all sublime vessels are empty.
Like me, adrift.
Like my life’s
second half.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

我和土豆

盤子裏
只放一個土豆
我舉著它穿堂過室。

盡量走得慢
我要給一隻威爾士土豆做廣告。
這是世上的好東西
生長在土地內部的糧食。

走在古老繁瑣的穹頂下面
曾經做彌撒的地方。
沒有人注意土豆的榮耀
它讓上億的人類沒被餓死。
在中國它叫洋芋
還叫山藥蛋。

陽光從高處照下來
粗麻的臉上均勻地布撒了鹽。

THE POTATO AND I

On the plate,
one potato.
I carry it from room to room.

I try to walk stately,
honoring a fine Welsh potato,
this goodness of earth
nourished in its soil.

Beneath the ancient, embellished vault
where Masses once were held,
the potato’s glory goes unseen.
It’s saved millions from starving.
In China named “foreign taro”
and “yam egg”.

Sunlight pours from the heavens.
On this coarse, pocked face,
sprinkle salt.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

半個我正在疼痛

有一隻漂亮的小蟲
情願蛀我的牙。
世界
它的右側驟然動人。
身體原來
只是一棟爛房子。

半個我裏蹦跳出黑火。
半個我裝滿了藥水聲。

你伸出雙手
一隻抓到我
另一隻抓到不透明的空氣。
疼痛也是生命。
我們永遠按不住它。

坐著再站著
讓風這邊那邊地吹。
疼痛閃爍的時候
才發現這世界並不平凡。
我們不健康
但是
還想走來走去。

用不疼的半邊
迷戀你。
用左手替你推動著門。
世界的右部
燦爛明亮。
疼痛的長髮
飄散成叢林。
那也是我
那是另外一個好女人。

HALF OF ME IS ACHING

A pretty little microbe
is happily boring my tooth.

The right side of the world
turns suddenly poignant.
The body, after all,
is just a rotting house.

From the half of me aslosh with liquid painkillers
black fire leaps.

You hold out both your hands,
one catches me,
one grabs at opaque air.
Pain is also life
we can never suppress.

Sit down, stand up,
let the wind blow this side and that.
Only when pain flares
do I see the world’s not ordinary.
We’re unhealthy
yet still want to walk here and there.

My painfree half
is obsessed with you.
My left hand opens the door for you.
The right side of the world
dazzlingly bright.
Pain’s long hair
whirls into a jungle.
That ‘s me too,
another good woman.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell