四合院

滯留於屋簷的雨滴
提醒，晚秋時節，故人故事
撞開過幾代家門的橡實

滿院都是

每一陣風劫掠梳齒一次
牛血漆成的櫃子
可做頭飾的鼠牙，一股老味兒

揮之不去

老屋藏秤不藏鐘，卻藏有
多少神話，唯瓦拾回到
身上，姓比名更重

許多樂器

不在塵世演奏已久，五把鋸
收入抽屜，十只金碗碰響額頭
不借鐘聲，不能傳送

頂著杏花

互編髮辮，四位姑娘
圍著一棵垂柳，早年見過的
神，已隨魚缸移走

指著石馬

枝上的櫻花，不用
一一數淨，唯有與母親
於同一時光中的投影

月滿床頭

在作夢就是讀報的年齡
秋梨按舊譜相撞時，曾
有人截住它，串為詞

石棺木車古道城基

越過一片平房屋脊，四合院的
邏輯，縱橫的街巷，是
從誰的掌紋上預言了一個廣場

一陣扣錯衣襟的冷

掌心的零錢，散於桌上
按舊城塌垮的石階碼齊
便一邊拾撿著，一邊

又漏掉更多的欣喜

把晚年的父親輕輕抱上膝頭
朝向先人朝晨洗面的方向
胡同裏磨刀人的吆喝聲傳來

張望，又一次提高了圍牆……

COURTYARD

Raindrops linger on the eaves
recalling in late autumn old people, old stories.
These acorns all over the yard

knocked at the doors of many generations.

Each gust of wind plunders the wardrobe
painted with ox blood,
headdresses of rat’s teeth, the unerasable

fragrance of age.

Old houses store scales, not bells, yet hide
how many myths, only to restore house-tiles
to the body, family names more important than given names.

Many musical instruments

in the dust, unplayed forever, five saws
slid into drawers, ten golden bowls that bump the forehead with a note
forever echoing a bell-toll.

Four young girls around a willow,

apricot flowers on their heads,
plaiting each other’s braids;
the gods of those days
moved off with the fish urn.

Pointing to the stone horse

the many-flowered branch, too many
to count, only mother’s shadow
cast at the same moment

moonlight flooded the bed.

When dreaming was like reading a newspaper,
when the autumn pears touched according to the old calendar,
and someone stopped to string them into words.

Stone coffins, wooden carts, ancient paths, city walls;

beyond a range of roofpeaks, the courtyards’
logic crisscrossing streets and lanes
whose palmlines prophesied a square.

A cold draft as if a coat were misbuttoned,

coins from the hand scattered on the table,
stacked like the old city’s tumblestone steps
so while gathering them in,

joy after joy escapes.

Set the old man gently on your knees,
facing where ancestors faced each morning to wash,
where from the alley lifts the cry of the knifegrinder.

The more you long to see, the higher the wall rises.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

阿姆斯特丹的河流

十一月入夜的城市
唯有阿姆斯特丹的河流

突然

我家樹上的桔子
在秋風中晃動

我關上窗戶，也沒有用
河流倒流，也沒有用
那鑲滿珍珠的太陽，升起來了

也沒有用
鴿群像鐵屑散落
沒有男孩子的街道突然顯得空闊

秋雨過後
那爬滿蝸牛的屋頂
——我的祖國

從阿姆斯特丹的河上，緩緩駛過……

AMSTERDAM’S RIVER

The city entering a November night
has only Amsterdam’s river.

Suddenly

the fruit of my orange tree at home
sways in autumn wind.

Useless to close the window,
useless to reverse the river’s current,
useless that the pearl-studded sun is rising.

Pigeons fly off like shattered iron,
the street without boys suddenly seems vast and empty.

After autumn’s rain
snails all over the roof.
—My country

on Amsterdam’s river sails slowly by.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

同居

他們將在街頭同人生的三個意向相遇
老人菸斗的餘火、兒童塗寫在牆上的筆跡
和濕漉漉的雨中行走的女人的小腿

他們徘徊了一整夜
圍繞小白房子尋找標記
太陽升起來了，歸宿仍不能斷決
錯誤就從這時發生
沒有經過祈禱
他們就合睡到一張床上
並且毫不顧忌室外光線
在晚些時候的殘酷照射
因而能夠帶著動人的笑容睡去
像故去一樣
竟然連再溫柔的事情
也懶得回憶
就起身穿行街道
一直走進那
毫無標記的樓房大門
他們因此而消失
同母親臨終前
預言過的一模一樣

其實在他們內心
時時都在尋找
穿插那段往事的機會
時時都在用暗語交談
就像雪天
用輕柔的步子從霧裏歸來
剝餵病人橘子時的心情一樣
那花房的花
透過紫紅的霜霧
肯定給他們留下難忘的印象
讓他們的情調
就此熾烈起來
那就讓他們
再短暫地昏迷一下吧
——去
給他們一個拍節
但不要給他們以覺察
不要讓他們同居的窗口
因此變得昏暗
不要讓他們因此失去
眺望原野的印象力量

當他們向黎明的街心走去
他們看到了生活。生活
就是那個停住勞動
看著他們走近的清道夫
他穿著藍色的工作服
還叼著一支菸斗，站在早晨——

COHABITATION

They’ll meet life’s three intentions on a streetcorner:
an old man’s tobacco pipe, still smoking, children’s graffiti smeared across a wall,
the damp calves of women walking in the rain.

They’ve wandered the whole night
looking for the signboard of the small white hotel—
no luck till sunrise.
Then a mistake:
without praying
they sleep together in one bed,
indifferent to the sunlight outside
and later its cruel rays,
falling asleep with a smile
as touching as if dead,
too lazy even to recall
anything tender,
then rise and walk through the streets
until they come to the tall door
of an unmarked building.
So they vanish
just as mother prophesied
before dying.
Yet their hearts
still crave the chance
to interpose that moment from the past,
their talk all the time hinting
like a snowy day
tiptoeing in from the mist
to peel and feed an orange to a patient.
Those flowers in the greenhouse
blooming through red and purple frost
ignite the unforgettable.
Let this ambience blaze.
Let them
swoon awhile longer.
—Go
give them the rhythm
but not awareness.
Don’t let this dim
the window of their cohabitation.
Don’t let them lose
that stunning vision of the empty field.

When they stroll down the middle of the street toward dawn,
they see life. Life
is that streetsweeper pausing
to watch them pass.
In blue coveralls,
pipe set in his teeth, he stands upright at morning—

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

在英格蘭

當教堂的尖頂與城市的煙囪沉下地平線後
英格蘭的天空，比情人的低語聲還要陰暗
兩個盲人手風琴演奏者，垂首走過

沒有農夫，便不會有晚禱
沒有墓碑，便不會有朗誦者
兩行新栽的蘋果樹，刺痛我的心

是我的翅膀使我出名，是英格蘭
使我到達我被失去的地點
記憶，但不再留下犁溝

恥辱，那是我的地址
整個英格蘭，沒有一個女人不會親嘴
整個英格蘭，容不下我的驕傲

從指甲縫中隱藏的泥土，我
認出我的祖國——母親
已被打進一個小包裹，遠遠寄走……

IN ENGLAND

Its steeples, its city chimneys slide below the horizon
as England’s sky turns grayer than a lover’s murmur.
Two blind accordionists stroll by, head down.

Without farmers, no evening prayers.
Without headstones, no recitations.
Twin rows of apple saplings stab my heart.

My wings hold up my name
and England takes me where I’m tossed.
The furrows of memory flatten.

Shame, that’s my address.
In all England, not a woman who can’t kiss.
All England can’t contain my ego.

Dirt under my fingernails,
what’s left of my homeland—my mother
parceled up, shipped off.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

語言的製作來自廚房

要是語言的製作來自廚房
內心就是臥室。他們說
內心要是臥室
妄想，就是臥室的主人

從鳥兒眼睛表達過的妄想裏
擺弄弱音器的男孩子
承認：騷動
正像韻律

不會做夢的腦子
只是一塊時間的荒地
擺弄弱音器的男孩子承認
但不懂得：

被避孕的種子
並不生產形象
每一粒種子是一個原因……
想要說出的

原因，正像地址
不說。抽菸的野蠻人
不說就把核桃
按進桌面。他們說

一切一切議論
應當停止——當
四周的馬匹是那樣安靜
當牠們，在觀察人的眼睛……

LANGUAGE IS MADE IN THE KITCHEN

If language is made in the kitchen,
the heart, they say, is the bedroom.
If the heart is the bedroom,
delirium’s its master.

Birds’ eyes transmit delirium;
the boy playing with the trumpet-mute
confessing turmoil
is merely the rhythm

the brain can’t dream,
one parcel of time’s wasteland.
The boy toying with the mute admits
yet doesn’t understand:

sterile seeds
produce no forms.
Each seed is a reason
wanting to say

reason, like a street address,
says nothing. The cigarette-smoking barbarians
wordlessly crush walnuts
on the tabletop. They say

all discussion
should stop—when
horses go silent,
gazing at human eyes.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

我始終欣喜有一道光在黑夜裏

我始終欣喜有一道光在黑夜裏
在風聲與鐘聲中我等待那道光
在直到中午才醒來的那個早晨
最後的樹葉作夢般地懸著
大量的樹葉進入了冬天
落葉從四面把樹圍攏
樹，從傾斜的城市邊緣集中了四季的風——

誰讓風一直被誤解為迷失的中心
誰讓我堅持傾聽樹重新擋住風的聲音
為迫使風再度成為收獲時節被迫張開的五指
風的陰影從死人手上長出了新葉
指甲被拔出來了，被手。被手中的工具
攥緊，一種酷似人而又被人所唾棄的
像人的陰影，被人走過
是它，驅散了死人臉上最後那道光
卻把砍進樹林的光，磨得越來越亮

逆著春天的光我走進天亮之前的光裏
我認出了那恨我並記住我的唯一的一棵樹
在樹下，在那棵蘋果樹下
我記憶中的桌子綠了
骨頭被翅膀驚醒的五月的光華，向我展開了
我回頭，背上長滿青草
我醒著，而天空已經移動
寫在臉上的死亡進入了字
被習慣於死亡的星辰所照耀
死亡，射進了光
使孤獨的教堂成為測量星光的最後一根柱子
使漏掉的，被剩下。

A LITTLE LIGHT ENCHANTS ME ALWAYS IN THE DARK

A little light enchants me always in the dark:
through notes of wind and bell, I wait for it.
I woke before noon this morning
to last leaves suspended in a dream,
their masses gliding down toward winter,
each trunk besieged, the trees and slant city
bearing every season’s breeze—

Who sees wind at the heart of loss?
Who leads me to listen
for the strains of these branches,
five claws of the harvest wind splayed open?
Wind and its shadow draw young leaves
from the hands of the dead, fingernails
extracted one by one. This implement,
this manlike shadow spurned by men
though they walk through it,
how it drains the light from a dying face
as its burnished gleam cuts forests.

Against spring’s light I walked toward dawn,
under a tree that hates and recalls me, that apple
where memory’s shelf went green.
The wings of May awaken bones,
a wide sheen spread before me.
On this lush grass I lie awake,
turning as the sky turns,
death’s inscriptions on my face,
the flickering celestial
accustomed to collapse.
If death is pierced by luminescence,
this solitary church must be the last column
to gauge the failing light of stars.
What’s missing’s what’s left out.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

病人

三年前樂音停止
空指環劃過玻璃表面
一小塊兒天空
從窗上栽下
講話

但不再發出聲音
話語在窗外散開
看它們它們就變成蘋果
聲音浸透了果肉
煙，老是想回到冒出它們的地方

三年來在坑裏
我栽下了樹
有著很美麗面孔的人
常在樹前站立
看到要譏笑我的人走來
落葉，就把坑覆蓋……

PATIENT

Three years ago the music stopped,
an empty ring appeared on the glass,
a small patch of sky
grew from the window.
Speak

yet make no sound.
Beyond the window, scattered words,
as soon as I see them, become apples,
their flesh soaked through by sound.
Smoke wants always to seek its own source.

Three years ago, I planted
a tree in a hole.
Before it stands often
someone with a beautiful face.
Others come to mock me.
Fallen leaves blanket the hole.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

白沙門

臺球桌對著殘破的雕像，無人
巨型漁網架在斷牆上，無人
自行車鎖在石柱上，無人
柱上的天使已被射倒三個，無人
柏油大海很快湧到這裏，無人
沙灘上還有一匹馬，但是無人
你站到那裏就被多了出來，無人
無人，無人把看守當家園——

BAI SHA MEN

The pool table faces shattered statues. Nobody.
Broad fishnets drape crumbling walls. Nobody.
Bikes chained to pillars. Nobody.
The asphalt sea will surge here soon. Nobody.
Three caryatids gunned down. Nobody.
On the beach, one horse. Nobody.
If you stand here, you’re an extra, nobody.
Nobody, nobody keeps watch at home

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Bai Sha Men: Literally “White Sand Gate”, a neglected park in Haikou, main city of Hainan Island, China’s southernrnost point, now a resort destination. The poem was written in 2005, around the time Bai Sha Men underwent renovation.

諾言

我愛，我愛我的影子
是一隻鸚鵡，我愛吃
它愛吃的，我愛給你我沒有的
我愛問：你還愛我嗎
我愛你的耳廓，它愛聽：我愛冒險

我愛動情的房屋邀我們躺下做它的頂
我愛側臥，為一條直線留下投影
為一個豐滿的身體留下一串小村莊
我要讓你離你的唇最近的那顆痣
知道，這就是我的諾言

我愛我夢中的智力是個滿懷野心的新郎
我愛吃生肉，直視地獄
但我還是愛在你懷裏偷偷拉動小提琴
我愛早早熄滅燈，等待
你的身體再次照亮這房間

我愛我睡去時，枕上全是李子
醒來時，李子回到枝頭
我愛整夜波濤吸引前甲板
我愛喊：你會歸來
我愛如此折磨港口，折磨詞語

我愛在桌前控制自己
我愛把手插入大海
我愛我的五指同時張開
緊緊抓住麥田的邊緣
我愛我的五指仍是你的五個男友

我愛回憶是一種生活，少
但比一個女人向我走來時
漏掉的還要多，就像三十年前
夕光中，街道上，背著琴匣的姑娘
仍在無端地向我微笑

我就更愛我們仍是一對魚雷
等待誰把我們再次發射出去
我愛在大海深處與你匯合，你
是我的，只是我的，我
還是愛這麼說，這麼唱我的諾言——

PROMISE

I love, I love my shadow,
this parrot, I love to eat
what it loves to eat, I love to give you what I have not
I love to ask if you still love me
I love your auricle, it loves to hear: I love adventure

I love the beloved house inviting us to lie down, become its roof
I love to lie on my side, straightening my shadow,
my plump body a string of small villages
I want that mole close to your lip
to understand, this is my promise

I love that the wisdom of my dreams is packed with a bridegroom’s ambitions
I love eating raw meat, gazing straight at hell
but I still love to play the violin in your breast
I love to turn the lights off early, waiting
for your body to make this room glow

I love when I’m asleep, my pillow all plums
when I wake, all back on their branches
I love that through the whole night the foredeck lures sea waves
I love to shout: you’ll come back
I love to disturb harbors, twist words

I love restraining myself at the desk
I love sliding my hand into the ocean
I love spreading all five fingers at once
clinging to the edge of a wheatfield
I love that my five fingers are still your lovers

I love memory as a kind of life, small
but more than a woman misses
when she walks toward me, like thirty years ago
on a street at sunset, a young woman with an instrument case
smiling at me for no reason

I love most that we’re still a pair of torpedoes
waiting for someone to launch
I love to meet you in the depths, you
who are mine, mine alone, I
say this still, and sing my promise—

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

維米爾的光

按禪境的比例，一架小秤
稱著光線中的塵埃
以及塵埃中意義過重的重量

粒粒細小的珍珠，經
金色瞳仁姑娘的觸摸
帶來更為細小的光亮

以此提煉數，教數
學會歌——至多晚，至多久
抵達維米爾的光

從未言說，因此是至美

VERMEER’S LIGHT

For Zen, a small scale
weighing dustmotes in a sunbeam,
their meaning much too dense

Grainlike pearls, touched
by a gold-eyed girl,
yield purer luster

to sift song from numbers
and now or then
in Vermeer’s light assemble,

too fine to speak of

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell