生死戀

一個人死後的生活
是活人對他的回憶……
當他死去很久以後，
他用過的鏡子開口說話了，
他坐過的椅子喃喃低語了，
連小路也在回想著他的腳步。

在窗外，
緩緩的落日，
是他慣用的語調。
一個活人的生活，
是對死人的回憶……

在過了很久以後，
活人的語調，動作，
跟死去的人一樣了。

THE PACT BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

When someone dies,
the living remember.
Much later her mirror
opens its mouth to speak,
his chair starts to murmur,
even the paths recall their steps.

Beyond the window,
a slow sunset
acquires their habitual tone.
Thus the living abide
in terms of the departed.

And so in time
does the manner, the motion
of the living
begin to resemble the dead.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

清明節

叔侄倆，一前一後
在油菜花田裡走著，
鳥叫聲好似心坎裡抽出的細絲。
燒紙錢的火太大了，
他們的身體向後移了移。

回去的路上，
他們用鐵鍬鏟掉鞋幫上的濕土。
村裡人遠遠地望著：
「這是誰家的兒子
又回來上墳了。」

TOMB SWEEPING DAY

Uncle and nephew, one behind the other,
wade the field of rapeflowers, birdsong
like silk thread drawing through their hearts.
The blaze of ghost money
so big they step back.

Heading home,
they slice mud from their shoes with a shovel.
Villagers watch at a distance—
Whose sons are these,
come to visit graves?

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Ghost money: paper “money” burned as an offering to the dead.

迷路

在森林裡
一個迷路的人，
開始恐懼起來，
他的心不由自主地
變出了老虎和獅子。
小時候聽到的，
陰曹地府的鬼魂，
也從記憶裡，
活靈活現地跑出來了。
他先是慢慢地走著，
裝做若無其事的樣子
走著，走著
身後簌簌響起的聲音，
就像有一個人在追趕。
他快速地走了起來，
連頭也不敢回一下。
森林裡漸漸暗下來，
他心裡的老虎、獅子和鬼魂，
越來越生動。
這樣，
他就跑起來了，
一會兒向東，
一會兒向西。
隨後，
他再也不知道路在哪裡了。
他會被真的老虎吃掉，
也會被自己的恐懼嚇死。
而森林還跟往常一樣，
籠罩著金黃的夕光。
一條小路乾淨地臥在那裡，
亮晃晃的，
只有很少的人，
看到了，
並且走了出去。

LOST

In the forest
a man who loses his way
gets frightened;
his heart can’t help
breeding tigers and lions.
Hellish ghosts
from childhood tales
begin taking shape.
At first he walks slowly,
pretending nothing’s wrong,
but soon, from behind,
faint sounds,
something following.
He walks faster,
not daring to look back.
The forest darkens,
in his heart beasts and ghouls
come to vivid life.
Once he starts running,
first east,
then west,
he gets farther from the trail.
Now he’ll be eaten by real tigers,
or devoured by his own terror.
Yet just as before, the forest’s
bathed in gold evening,
and still there, the narrow path
shimmering with light,
though few
can see it
and walk out.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

老人的死亡

他的腳趾甲，
又尖又黃，
像牆角邊
枯萎的槐樹花。

他的肚子，
腫得很大，
像食堂裡
翻扣的大鐵鍋。

不少人哭了，
為又尖又黃的腳趾甲，
為腫得很大的肚子，
不少人哭了。

幾只蒼蠅，
幽靈一樣，
歇在老人的眼皮上，
趕跑了又飛回來。

AN OLD MAN’S DEATH

His toenails
sharp and yellow
like flowers of the pagoda tree, withered
at the bottom of the wall.

His belly
so swollen
like the big iron pan in the dining hall
turned over.

Many wept
for the sharp and yellow toenails,
for the swollen flesh,
many wept.

Like ghosts,
a few flies
rest on his eyelids.
Driven off, they fly back.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

暮晚

馬兒在草棚裡踢著樹樁，
魚兒在籃子裡蹦跳，
狗兒在院子裡吠叫，
他們是多麼愛惜自己，
但這正是痛苦的根源，
像月亮一樣清晰，
像江水一樣奔流不止……

DUSK

In the thatched shed,
a horse kicks at a tree stump,
fish flip in the basket,
a dog barks in the yard.
How they cling to themselves,
the wellspring of misery
clear as the moon,
running ceaseless as the river.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

古鐘

渾身長滿青苔的死豬，
沉睡著，好像一口古鐘。

牠要把腐爛呈現在這條河流上，
不允許我們把牠掩埋。

偶爾，一隻路過的細鳥站在牠身上，
嘴裡銜著一枚金黃的楝樹果。

教堂裡，頭髮花白的黃牧師
正在講授耶穌上十字架時講的那句話：

「他們幹了什麼，他們自己也不曉得」。
農婦們默默聆聽，好像扶在船幫上落水人的手臂。

ANCIENT BELL

The dead pig, moss-cloaked,
sleeps deep as an ancient bell.

Afloat, refusing burial,
it offers the river its rot.

A slim bird lands on the hide,
in its beak the gold fruit of the chinaberry.

In the church, greyhaired Father Huang
speaks Christ’s words on the cross:
“They know not what they do.”

The farm women listen, silent
as the hands of those gone overboard
clutching a boatside.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

一個繡花的鄉下婦女

冬日午後的陽光，
特別舒坦，
照著她手上的金線，
她正在繡兩條龍。
她的腳，
擺在草焐窠裡。
牆壁上，
掛著各種蔬菜的種子。
桐油漆過的大門，
散著悶悶的光。
一陣清風，
吹落了杉樹的葉子，
如果我有這一陣清風的坦蕩就好了。
幾根老絲瓜懸在木架上，
她繡得兩條龍的綢子布，
要供在菩薩前的香案上，
為了死的時候像樹葉一樣悄然。
在她的家門口，
走了幾輩子的條石路，
像一塊老銀子在薄暮裡伸展。
一陣清風吹過，
如果我有這一陣清風的安詳，
我就好了。

COUNTRYSIDE WOMAN EMBROIDERING

Winter afternoon, her feet
snug in a grass basket,
late sunlight glimmering the two dragons
she embroiders with gold thread.
On the wall, strung seedstalks;
the big door’s luster of tung oil.
Chill wind shivers the pines;
oh for such cold truth.
A few gourds hang from a wooden rack.
The silk with two dragons
will drape Guanyin’s altar
so this woman may die easy as a leaf.
Outside, the stone path trod forever
extends from her threshold,
its sheen in the dusk
soft as worn silver.
When the breeze lifts,
I desire
only this peace.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

再悼二哥

你死之後，
田，犁到一半的時候，
牛死了，
犁田人在地裡大喊一聲，
村裡人循聲趕來，
把血放乾淨了，
再開始分。
四十分鐘後，
一頭牛無影無蹤了。
但它犁了一半的地，
還在那裡，
在一彎新月下邊。

你死之後，
一只喜鵲飛進我們家屋簷。
十一年了，我還沒有脫胎換骨，
我還沒有把松樹種活，
等於還是流離失所，
你回來又有何用？
一片樹葉如同你溫熱的淚打在院子裡，
我是愧對你的死了。

你死之後，
一根壓彎的枯草站起身來，
用什麼也不期待的眼神，
看見萬家燈火亮了。
成群結隊時它孤身一人，
在河堤上時，
還是孤身一人。

你死之後，
這些，
宛如我在江南的一座老橋上
看見的煙雨。

MOURNING MY ELDER BROTHER

After you died,
when the field was half plowed,
the ox collapsed
and the plowman shouted.
Soon villagers appeared,
bled the corpse,
then started cutting.
In forty minutes
a whole ox gone.
The field remained
half plowed
beneath a horned new moon.

After you died,
a magpie flew under our eaves.
Eleven years and I’m still wandering,
neither reborn
nor have I planted a living pine.
What use if you returned?
A leaf spins down to the yard.
I’m ashamed to face your death.

After you died,
a blade of yellow grass stood
hopeless before the lamps of a thousand houses.
Amidst other grass, alone,
or alone on the riverbank.

After you died,
all this
smoky as rain on an old bridge
south of the Yangtze.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

小幅山水

我的「凈玻璃」的月色，
我的真身……
湖水平緩，不可接近。
松樹的影子晃動。

隱約的山嶺，月光
重現了瓦片的無垠，
隨意編排的柵欄，
恰好道出古老的玄機。

無盡的深陷，無盡的忠貞，
這出了神的奉獻，就像冬日
偉大的簡陋，擅長枯筆
與荒蕪的大地，共通血脈……

樸素的石板，
古意蒼蒼的小路，
我們沒有喪失山野的潮濕，
松樹在山頂

把街道的喧囂平息。
在豬棚和紅墻之間，
這些外地來的鄉下人，
在苦楝樹下吃晚飯。

A SHORT SCROLL OF MOUNTAINS AND WATERS

This “clear glass” moon’s
my real body,
this calm lake untouched,
shadows of swaying pines.

Moonlight blurs the mountaintops
but conveys an expanse of rooftiles
and loose-wattled fences
murmuring ancient ways.

Slow decline amid tradition,
these offerings spellbound
as winter’s grand simplicity,
spare brushwork across barren earth,
a shared vein.

Plain flagstones,
paths of old enchantment;
we’ve not lost the damp wilderness.
Pines along the ridgeline

quiet the clamor of the streets.
Beside a hog shed and the redbrick wall,
beneath the leaves of a chinaberry tree,
hired men dine.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

一首枯枝敗葉的歌

我回來了，現在來講一下我漂泊在外的教訓：

「我就像風一樣走遍了大江南北，
我看見人們的房子散發著聖者已逝的氣息，
他們被外在的事物耗盡的腦汁，
猶如落葉吐在運河上的血。」

「死亡也沒有辦法把他們變得謙卑，腳踏實地，
我看見怨恨給人們的臉上帶去的不祥和尖刻，
衰微的城墻難以再傳達竹林的迴響，
人們在獄中吃喝拉撒，目光不超過眼前三寸。」

「沒有悲痛的能力，也沒有歡樂的能力，
我們把土地，也就是靈魂，丟了。
唉，真悲慘，我們的處境就像是廣漠荒野上的孤魂，
被風聲吹到這兒，吹到那兒，彼此仇恨，忌妒……」

「我已遺忘了落日的光輝和它的陰影，
我已遺忘了臭水河和破損的墻頭也是我的化身。
因為我一看見她們就痛苦，
我遺忘了，我們本是一棵樹上兩片對稱的葉子。」

「我們用了太多精力來對抗暴戾，
忘記了自身美德的建立，目光呆滯，
還有一些喪失了戒律，又乾又硬……
星光呀！請快快刺破這一切在我心中形成的淤血。」

SONG OF THE WITHERED LEAF

Returned to tell of the larger world,
I rode the wind north and south beside the great river,
houses desolate as if the saints had all vanished,
people’s brains dwindled by trivia
to dead twigs, dark as coughed-up blood.

Death cannot humble them,
nor set their feet upon the earth
while spite casts dark rancor across their faces.
Behind the walls of the crumbling city
one cannot hear the whispers of bamboo.
People eat, drink, shit, and piss imprisoned, seeing only
three inches from their nose.

Compassion’s lost with joy,
our land lost with our spirits.
We’re miserable, lonely ghosts
roaming a vast wilderness,
blown here, blown there,
hating each other, envying.

I’ve forgotten the radiance of sunset amid shadows,
forgotten the pungent rivers, these walls, broken like us,
painful to behold. Forgotten
we were leaves once, paired on a single tree.

So much life spent under cruelty, tyranny,
our gaze gone blank, our virtue famished.
Strayed from the path, so many souls dried hard.

Pierce, sharp stars, these bloodclots in my heart.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

繼續

荷塘上的殘枝敗梗為我們保留了忠實，
一片葉子，滿含眷戀飄向大地。

大地，變成一個人淒苦的腳步聲……
為我們保留了壓迫下的夢。

白茫茫的寒冷攥緊了雙眼，
為我們保留了勇敢！

灰色的鐵索橋，
用它上空的飛鳥為我們保留了愛！

一縷投在運河上的光
為我們保留了繼續！

PERSIST

On the lotus pond, weathered stems keep faith for us.
One leaf, heavy with memory, drifts toward earth.

The great globe shrinks to our miserable footfalls
over a buried dream.

Vast white cold freezes the gaze
but carries our courage.

Beneath a sky of mounting birds the iron chain bridge
bears its grey affection.

A single lightbeam spans the canal,
joining the near bank with the far.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

甄山禪寺

芭蕉的樣子多麼舒展，
狗跳著，咬身上的蝨子。
當牠叫累了，牠會睡去。

小女孩翻看著睡蓮葉子，
她的弟弟送一桶水去菜地，
在四周，群山像一件展開的僧人的袈裟。

幾個農民刨開蒜苗地，
陽光湧入，
死者正是這樣得到幸福的。

池塘裡掏出來的淤泥，
擺在路邊，
我們處在一個充分暴露的偉大的時期。

ZHEN MOUNTAIN TEMPLE

So slowly a banana leaf unfurls.
The dog jumps, nips at fleas.
Tired of barking, it soon sleeps.

A young girl stares at a lilypad,
her brother lugging waterbuckets to the field.
Around them, mountains fold like a monk’s robe.

A few farmers hoe among the garlic sprouts,
sunlight gushing.
How the dead gain happiness.

Muck scooped from the pond
lies beside the footpath.
Our days are lived in utter revelation.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell