夢李白

從夢你的夢中醒來
我在三峽的船上
猿啼止了
千年來只有隨你
吟頌的風聲
吹開我的耳朵
我的眼睛
醒來，仰看你看過
白帝城頭
的雲彩
江水，如常向前流去
向所有的堤岸
向大海
而你，始終沒有靠岸
轉過峭壁
撫平了
岩塊
轉過一重山
又一重山
擱在亂石的淺灘
迴旋折騰
你轉身涉足
就過去了
回響，激起浪花
我在船緣接聽
我醒在時空透明的江水間

DREAMING OF LI BAI

In the boat at Three Gorges
I wake from dreaming you,
the monkeys’ cries gone
a thousand years, now only
the wind that follows you,
its chants of praise
opening my ears,
my eyes.
Roused, I see
as you did
clouds over Baidicheng.
The current sweeps as always
by the banks
unto the sea.
You never pull ashore
but round each cliff face,
big rocks sliding past,
one curtain of mountains
opening to the next.
The boat grounds on a pebbled shoal
amid unending eddies.
You step off,
vanishing
into these echoes, this spray.
Through the hull
audible time,
clear river water.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

在一塊舒服的木頭上午餐

節日後，你把桌布收起來
讓木桌子重現木的紋理
木的感覺，那感覺真好
我說像流水奔瀉出大小耳朵
你說那來這許多話題不過是斷斷續續
的水墨雲海有人走進其中隱居
中間一條分界線，兩岸
縮成一面團圓
這裏那裏也有過刀痕什麼時候
我們在桌上剪剪貼貼可忘了
下面的木頭在淌血
下面，不起眼的手和足撐起臉面
當其他東西靠攏的木椅分崩離析
那天把一位訪客翻倒
它何曾對你說倦了？
木頭自有木頭的尊嚴，是的
聽到木頭的密語嗎？你說
你不要成為另一頭麻木的
只會喝紅酒的啄木鳥，好不好？
早不作興製造這種木桌子了
陳列室裏各有一副自我的形象
鋼鐵硬漢子卻盤曲纖巧
在墻上表演後空翻
或者是玻璃纖維的冰冷
遲早要給你好看
做為木頭，只能穩實地生長
但木頭也有木頭的想像
比如這雲煙，你不高興的時候
那是鬱結比如那些消失了的腳迹
是人間的滄桑曲折委婉
你還是欣賞自己把漩渦當耳朵
的比喻？難怪你蒸的魚過時
蔬菜，不是生澀就是熟爛
連食物也帶一點點木頭的味道
這些你都同意？不過說說笑
你還是繼續你的木頭聯想好了
試想想，在一塊舒服的木頭上午餐
在一塊舒服的木頭上寫詩
我倒要在木頭上午睡
夢到一大片青葱的樹林

LUNCH AT A WOOD TABLE

Holiday over, you slip off the tablecloth,
revealing the wood’s own grain.
Cascading earshapes, big and small.
You say they’re inky, shifting clouds
where hermits dwell.
A line down the middle, two split halves
mirrored as riverbanks. Here and there,
knife marks where we’ve sliced,
careless what’s beneath.
Simple legs hold up a face.
Some things collapse, like the wooden chair
that yesterday capsized its guest,
yet this table never tires.
Its wood retains a certain grace.
What could it murmur?
Don’t be a numb woodpecker, you say,
don’t drink more red wine.
These tables long out of style,
the stores selling now
hard steel, slim or twisted,
doing back flips on the wall,
cold sheets of glass
that sooner or later betray.
But wood carries on,
feeds imagination,
like this misty cloud, when we’re glum
a melancholy knot, footprints of the lost
amid the world’s shifts and turns.
Your own figure of these swirls
as ears. No wonder you steam the fish
too long, the vegetables raw or overcooked,
tasting a bit like wood.
Think of lunch at a wooden table,
perhaps a poem.
I’d rather sleep,
dreaming of green forests.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

夜宿吐魯番

夏夜在纍纍的葡萄棚下
成熟，穿過繁急的熱瓦甫
與日本人美國人
咔擦的攝影
我捕捉到你顧盼
的眼睛

那是一雙
異域的眸子
深邃而又晶瑩
像流水，在什麼地方邂逅過
像交河
流過孤懸的小島
分兩路
在砂礫下，潛藏
流過戈壁灘
流過歲月
又重會纏抱了
呵交河
那可是時空的倒錯？

半夜裏繁絃聲啞去了
葡萄棚下，纍纍
散落一地的音符
一個維族人向自己的影子灑水
另一個用布抹長筒皮靴
我起來抹汗
我把頭仰向水龍喉，等候
來自天山的冰涼
這時，我看到一雙
駱駝的大眼睛半閉上
彷彿告別了
而又開始反芻沙漠……

A NIGHT IN TURPAN

The summer night ripens
beneath a clustered grape arbor,
amid intricate notes of the rubab, and the snaps
of cameras—Americans, Japanese.
I catch
your drifting gaze.

Your foreign glance
deep and glistening
as the waters of the River Jiao
forked around the Gobi plateau,
gliding like separate years
that once again embrace.

Midnight beneath the arbor,
the weaving strings gone mute,
their maze of notes
strewn across the earth.
A Uighur scatters cool water in his shadow.
Another wipes his horseboots.
As I rinse, turning my head
in the tap’s cool Tian Shan stream,
I see a camel’s eyes, big,
half closed as in farewell,
digesting the whole desert.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

rubab: A multi-stringed lute, the national instrument of Afghanistan, but played throughout Central Asia and in the Muslim regions of N.W. China. Its music, plucked rather than bowed, is often a complex and rapid labyrinth of notes.

River Jiao: Near the city of Turpan in Xinjiang, China, at the edge of the Gobi Desert, the Jiao River splits around a natural plateau, rejoining downstream.

Tian Shan: The high mountain range from which Turpan’s water is channeled.

我心裏有巍峨的一座殿堂

翻開羅斯金的威尼斯石頭
就想起我的心裏
那巍峨的一座殿堂
撐了六百年
是否再經不起負荷
日漸沒入水裏呢？
海水參觀了所有的窄胡同
帶來擅唱的貢多拉
然後匯集在殿堂外
天長地久
撫摸堂下累了的腿
叫石頭也動搖意志
先溶解地面的雲石
拉歪了喬托當年
畫得好圓的光環
金漆紛紛
落下，來不及承接
來不及，就來不及了
威尼斯人關上銹蝕的窗子
向更高的三、四樓發展
灰鴿站在教堂的頂尖
把頭收入羽毛裏

我們坐在聖馬可廣場
十二時過後，樂隊離去了
留下一排排的空座椅
仍然聽到隱隱約約
的琴弦，難道
是日漸漂近
層層的鱗浪麼？
教堂上浮貼
斗大昏黃
的月光

廣場裏，一個流浪漢吹奏長笛
另外幾個走來，放下睡袋
他們跟水的關係
正常化了
大家盤腿圍坐；吹完
許久許久還不敢鼓掌
是怕還有些遲到的音符
猶疑，害羞
躲藏在茫茫，不可知的
石柱後面？

但我心裏永遠屹立
那麼的一座殿堂，雖然
翻開羅斯金的威尼斯石頭
我就聽到由遠而近
的洶湧了

MY HEART KEEPS A GREAT PALACE

Opening Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice
calls up that palatial city
still in my heart.
The weight of six hundred years
sinks it deeper by the day,
as the sea invades each alley
with the songs of gondoliers,
laps the palace steps,
strokes the worn foundations,
breaks the will of stones.
It rots marble pavement,
bends Giotto’s perfect halos.
Gold leaf peels
too late to save.
Venetians latch their rusting windows,
move to upper floors.
On church domes, gray pigeons
tuck their heads beneath their wings.

In the Piazza San Marco
the band retires at midnight—
rows of empty chairs,
the faintest echoing of strings.
Ripple by ripple,
scaling waves
edge close.
Pale yellow moonlight
clings to the basilica.

On the square, one homeless man plays flute
as more arrive, their sleeping bags
simply unrolled by the water.
They sit crosslegged in a ring,
not applauding after the music,
as if some shy notes were yet to come,
hidden among columns of stone.

My heart retains this great palace,
but when I open The Stones of Venice
a far off sea creeps near.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

如果落向牛頓腦袋的不是蘋果

如果落向牛頓腦袋的
不是蘋果
如果蘋果降落的姿態不準確
如果蘋果是一種雪花
的灑落，那麼
輕柔的音符
同時襲向牛頓的耳朵
牛頓就開始哆嗦了
唱沒有韻的歌
又如果蘋果墜落
以沉雄的撼動
挾沙石俱來
那麼牛頓甦醒
是另一天的日落了
腦袋隱隱發痛
如果蘋果樹上
沒有蘋果
牛頓夜夜仍向
滿天星斗處仰望

這，只能怪牛頓自己

IF NO APPLE FELL ON NEWTON’S HEAD

If no apple fell
on Newton’s head,
or it hadn’t dropped just so,
but drifted
like a snowflake,
like soft notes
flooding Newton’s ears,
maybe he’d have only shivered
and sung a rhymeless tune.
If the apple had descended
like a whirlwind
flinging sand and stones,
Newton might awaken
at the sunset of another day
with an aching pate.
If the tree
had grown no apple,
Newton might have kept staring upward
night after starry night,

with nothing to blame
but himself.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

搖晃的燭光

羅馬有地上羅馬，也有地下羅馬。地上羅馬，新和舊的文化並存，比對；地下羅馬，同樣是新與舊，予人強烈的今昔之感。俗云：條條大路通羅馬；但羅馬的起點，也許得從地下開始，由下而上。我不是教徒，走下黯黑曲折的羅馬地窟，竟也產生一種虔誠、敬仰之情，遙想當年拓荒期的信徒，忠於所信，為了逃避地上的逼害，走向地下，而地上，還不知道什麼叫多元共存……

一種鼬鼠的生活
入夜后
排列單行搖晃的燭光
從各個狹長的通道
蜿蜒走向地窟
大家默默不語，是由於
空氣太稀薄
是由於地面上
羅馬的士兵
雖然閉上眼睛
發出不安的囈語
他們守夜的刀和矛
閃著警戒的光芒
攝聽來自天上以及
地下一切的聲音
用嗜血的嘴巴翻譯
所以綠，成為禁忌的色素
只有在競技場裏
我們才看見赤熱的太陽
聽到飢餓的獅子老虎
最後的咆叫

我們來自不同的角落
在同一的時間
向地窟，同一的方向
走累了，絆倒了
再站起來
可不能阻礙後面的行列
真的不能再走
就在兩旁堅實的白土層
選一個空隙
我們的好兄弟，我們說：
終於走完了人間的旅程
他如今安息
我們害怕逼害
一如常人，可我們
灌溉，用自己的血
小小的芥子
必需深深地播下
期待破土，茁長
高大的枝幹
讓倦鳥棲息
讓所有人得到蔭護

灰泥落下來了
又深掘
把地下都掘通
條條通向地下的心臟
在那裏，我們心手相連
朗讀、頌歌
我們在石頭上浮雕
魚和餅
記載年月
姓名
和死亡
也刻畫地面上
葡萄和橄欖樹
飛翔的白鴿
在深沉陰冷的地底下
我們出發
每個人一枚燭光

FLICKERING CANDLE

One Rome’s above ground, another below. At the surface, new cultures live with old. Underground, stark contrast. If the cliché’s still true, all roads lead to Rome, and today’s Rome rests on Roman bones. I’m not religious, but passing through the dark, twisting catacombs, I feel an odd piety, a respect. I can’t help but imagine early Christians fleeing persecution above, practicing their faith below.

Night after night
lines of flickering candles
trace like moles the winding catacombs.
All silent, the air gone thin,
Roman soldiers overhead,
eyes closed, muttering dreams,
their glinting spears and blades
can turn any whisper
from heaven or earth
to blood.
In the arena, not a patch of green,
only a pitiless red sun, the roar
of tigers, lions.

From the world’s far corners
we tred these catacombs together,
facing the same direction.
We tire, stumble, rise again,
a ceaseless procession.
The weary find on either side
a niche carved from white chalk.
Good brother, we say,
earthly trek over,
now at rest.
Though human and afraid,
we know our blood
irrigates.
A seed set deep
shall rise, branch and trunk
thriving, in its shade
sleeping birds.

Through crumbling soil,
we hack the pathways to our cells,
join hands for praiseful song,
cut in stone these loaves and fish,
the names, the years, the dead.
We paint the floor
with grapes and olive trees,
the white dove flying.
From this gloom,
chill, subterranean,
we ascend, one flame
and another.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

在巴黎某畫廊看畫

在寬闊的畫廊
我看到你的畫
隨著時空的變化
不斷更換著內容
濃墨重彩的
原來是觀眾
他們從戶外帶來
清新的空氣
走進你的畫框裏
聚集在畫的上方
忽而溶解了，只留下
流動的光芒
我聽到畫對自己的
評論，然後
色彩和聲音散去
你開始再畫，重新出發

多麼奇妙的畫
但我翻了畫廊的目錄
可沒有你的名字
是你突破了畫
牢固的框框
釋放了那一雙雙
一度暈眩的眼睛
重新讚頌水流
白楊樹、乾草堆
教堂逐步走進世俗
的喧嘩裏，而火車站
就是我們乘車瞥見的模樣？
是你把心靈的歷程
轉化成風景
它們愉快地顫動
彷彿也思想起來？
還是，你的畫
必需從更遠的距離
讓我們進出畫裏畫外
觀看？

在畫廊的門口
當夕陽穿過窗簾
我看見你倚坐在畫的一角
剛完成了一幅寫生：
日落·印象

VIEWING A PAINTING IN A PARIS GALLERY

In the spacious gallery
I spot your painting
from a different time, different place,
shifting with the change.
Viewers carry in
outdoor air, its freshness
somehow entering the frame,
strengthening its colors,
which suddenly dissolve
into pure, flowing light.
I almost hear the painting
murmur, its colors
fleeing voices, as once again
you paint a new journey.

Such marvelous art,
yet thumbing through the catalog
I don’t find your name.
The frame cannot hold your gaze,
giddy at the watercourse,
white poplars, these mounds of hay.
The church melds
with all the world’s clamor,
from our train the station hardly changed.
You turn the mind
to landscape
so flecked with pleasure
it might even know itself.
Paintings need a space
the eye can enter and depart.

Through the gallery’s door, evening light
thins the curtains. I see you then,
in one corner of the canvas,
finishing a sketch:
Sunset Impression.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

回音壁

把耳朵這樣緊貼著圍墻
難道就接通了
那些失去言辭的嘴巴？
重重的泥層把我們截斷
你聽到什麼呢？通話器的另一頭
多麼巧合啊接駁了祈年殿上
黃燦燦的金光，一頂大傘覆蓋了
眩目深藍的琉璃瓦
所有的請願都收在傘下
收進殿前山水屏風裏
松和柏凝定，山川靜安
輕柔的聲音貼附著圍墻
繞過北面的皇穹宇
向你的耳膜折射，聽到了
你聽到皇帝感謝五穀豐收
年年同樣的禱告，不斷傳來
三音石上掌聲激盪
多麼整齊啊受圍墻反射又回集中央
天圓地方，墻內從來是世界的核心
這美麗的木房子，四周牢靠
只要圍墻再加高只要
把這裏那裏的墻洞修補
那麼墻外，泥塊下塌的撼動
塵沙翻滾由遠逼近，拉響
地下的共鳴箱，我們所有的
申訴聚結成為風暴
誰知道呢？都收進傘下
層層覆叠的琉璃瓦
那一塊塊眩麗的隔聲板

把耳朵緊貼這圍墻，緊貼些
難道就接通了震源
原來來自你足下？

ECHOING WALL

Put your ear against the wall.
Can you catch
the words of the muted?
Bands of fired clay cut them off.
What is there to hear? The other end
extends by happenstance
to the Temple of Good Harvest,
filled with gold light, its great umbrella roofs mantling
a deep blue dazzle of tiles.
In its shade, petitions are received
before the landscape screen,
calm pine and cypress, still waters, mountains.

Soft voices hug the north wall
rounding the Imperial Vault of Heaven,
curving toward your ear.
Year after year, the emperor
gives thanks for the five crop harvest,
his palmclaps circling
above the Three Echo Stone.
How fine their sound runs along the wall,
ringing, recentering.
Round sky, square earth, within this wall its core.
A grand wood mansion, stout sided,
but only if the wall grows higher,
the gaps stay patched.
Beyond, earth trembles, clay cracks,
dust clouds roil from afar.
Foundations shake, petitions
whirl in a storm, all of them
received under the umbrella,
its rows of blue glazed tiles,
the rich hush of gilded panels.

Put your ear against the wall. Closer.
To that quivering epicenter
just beneath your feet.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Echoing Wall: Along with other features mentioned in the poem, this curved wall remains part of the Tian Tan temple compound in Beijing. Here emperors gave ritual thanks to the gods for each year’s harvest.

屏風

這原不是我劃定的界限
請你把外面灼灼的目光
先在畫屏的松蔭間歇歇
你就想像自己進入了古代的花園
扮演一種遊戲；你當然不可能
成為古人：紙面木骨，遁隱在凝定
的時間，謝病屏居？更不等於說
你再無須關心眼前從此紛紜變亂
你不受干擾；我們只是
需要一點點矜持
多一點點餘裕
不願把所有東西一氣看完
所有話語都未經篩選
你試唸唸：「壅閼風邪，霧露是抗」
你聽到屏外的風聲么你是否
把濕重的露水也帶來了呢
或者你只有風聲露水的想像了吧
當你繞到背後可有新的發現？

FOLDING SCREEN

I mean to set no boundary,
but kindly rest your gaze outside,
amid the pine shade of this painted screen.
Though your face can’t be paper, wood your bones,
imagine entering this ancient garden
from a frozen age, excused from court
for “illness” to the hermit’s life
behind the screen.
No unsettling upheavals, at peace
with a safe margin,
not caring to see all of anything.
No need to sift each word.
It’s written ”Block evil wind, stop mist and fog”.
Beyond, wind passes.
Does it bring a damp and heavy dew?
Or just seem to?
If you look past the screen, what’s there?

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

感時十四行

過暖的天氣催木棉早開
而枯葉還沒有褪盡
那掌的複叠
靠攏成一團團枯黃
仍然纏繞著瘡刺的枝椏
抽取素養：陽光、水分……

但你已把禦寒的衣服收妥
彷彿對時令失去敏覺
它忽而又刮來一陣寒風
叫試探的棉蕊抖擻
說：冬日終會過去，且再守待

奇怪這會是花和葉的吵嘴
在同一株樹上，你仰起頭迎接
三兩燦爛的紅綻落自穹蒼

SENSING THE SHIFT, A SONNET

Spring too soon, the cotton tree flowering
scarlet before its dry leaves fall,
their palmlike clumps
bunched dead yellow,
still bound to oozing branches
pumping sap and sunlight.

I’ve put my winter clothes away
as if outside of time.
A sudden, chilling gust
shakes the cotton’s pistils,
saying wait, winter yet will end.

How strange a single tree
where flowers and leaves contend.
I raise my head, the vaulted sky
spilling bright red flames.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell