老殖民地建築

這麼多的灰塵揚起在陽光和
陰影之間到處搭起棚架圍上
木板圍攏古老的殖民地建築
彷彿要把一磚一木拆去也許
到頭來基本的形態仍然保留
也許翻出泥土中深藏的苦酸
神氣的圓頂和寬敞的走廊仍
對著堵塞的牆壁也許劈開拆毀
梯級也許通向更多尋常的屋宇

我走過廊道有時開放得燦爛
有時收藏起來的盆花走下去
影印論文看一眼荷花池歪曲
的倒影尖塔的國窗漂成浮萍
經過早晚淘洗不再是無知的
清白可能已經混濁天真的金魚
四處碰撞探索垂死根枝仍然
僵纏橙紅色的鱗片時暗時亮
微張的鰓葉在窗格那兒呼吸

把廢墟的意象重新組合可否
併成新的建築頭像是荒謬的
權力總那麼可笑相遇在走廊
偶然看一眼荷花池在變化中
思考不避波動也不隨風輕折
我知你不信旗幟或滿天烟花
我給你文字破碎不自稱寫實
不是高樓圍繞的中心只是一池
粼粼的水聚散着游動的符號

AN OLD COLONIAL BUILDING

1.
Through sunlight and shadow dust swirls,
through the scaffolding raised-up around
the colonial edifice, over the wooden planks
men live on to raise it brick by brick, the imperial
image of it persisting right down, sometimes,
to the bitter soil in the foundation, sometimes finding, too,
the noble height of a rotunda, the wide, hollow corridors
leading sometimes to blocked places, which, sometimes,
knocked open, are stairs down to ordinary streets.

2.
Down familiar alcoves sometimes brimming
with blooms sometimes barren I go to xerox
glancing at the images caught in the circular pond,
now showing the round window in the cupola as duckweed drifting,
day and night caught in the surface, no longer textbook
clean, but murky, the naive goldfish searching
mindlessly around in it, shaking the pliant lotus stems
and the roots feeling for earth, swirling orange and white,
gills opening and leeching, in and out of the high window bars.

3.
Might all the pieces of ruins put together present
yet another architecture? Ridiculous the great heads on money,
laughable the straight faces running things. We pass in this corridor
in the changing surface of the pond by chance
our reflections rippling a little. We’d rather not bend;
neither of us is in love with flags or fireworks.
So what’s left are these fragmentary, unrepresentative words,
not uttered amidst the buildings of chrome and glass, but beside
a circular pond riddled with patterns of moving signs.

trans. © Gordon Osing

煉葉

停車場旁邊銀樹上，我這街頭路燈
照見你蒼白的光影，濕冷而曖昧
是隨傍晚逐漸明亮起來的鋁質抒情
附和大厦的疲倦有時又遊離它
永遠空虛的一截距離不知如何填補

不知如何跨越，有時想把你燃亮
好讓你能感覺，不，我不是要
傷害你，只是想把那團漆黑的委屈
化作光明，不知如何可以令金屬熔化
死去重生，不再習慣地隨車流晃動

你冷柔的反映，常常笑徒勞的街燈
有局限亦不能璀璨，你已倦於顏色
曾經熾紅的在刹那冷凝中嘶叫無淚
只盡冒白煙，與其悽悽戚戚不如賞玩
糜爛的光影，空幻裏不會有痛楚糾纏

STREETLAMP AND TIN LEAF

Nightly here by the public garage I
shine your pale sheen to cold, slick life.
So cautiously your glimmerings begin flashing from
the metal you’re made of, that fatigues like the look of the buildings
in the empty, perfect distance nothing can fill

and nothing crosses. I’d like to brighten
you to real-life feelings. I’d never harm you;
I’d just like to turn your mesh of sharp
grievances to steady shining. But I don’t know how
to melt you down to live again, not trembling in rush hours.

Your blurred, wet reflections laugh at simple me,
unlikely to dazzle, and yet you’re so tired of shimmering.
Once in white heat you melted and formed a tearless tear
and a puff of white smoke. Against despair you played
in shattered light. Emptiness held neither struggle nor pain.

What comfort am I, dim shining that I am.
I’d dry the raindrops on your skin, pass
the dank evenings with you, not fire and scar.
I just want to talk until your original love of light
is not a mistake, to glow with you against the hectic dark.

trans. © Gordon Osing

染葉

茶太苦了，我撈起茶包隨手放在旁邊的
餐巾上。再低頭時，只見白色的雪地
緩緩滲染了一片棕色葉子，逐漸擴大
像一個無可阻擋的黃昏，像流瀉的音樂
和燈色，逐漸淹沒窗外眼睛可見的冬天

再沒法還原為一張白紙了，自從寫下字
寄出去，壓斂成為岩層，撕裂成為
山丘，更破碎也更豐富，寄出的信
走過迂迴的小巷尋找地址，信上的字
畫畫的人把它顛倒在鏡上，跳舞的人

把它反映在牆上，染滿了剝落和花影
收到時不再是原來的字了，自由漂浮
在一片水上，沾滿了波光的動盪和瀲灔
是瓶中的稿給你拾起，當你徐徐展讀
我不免帶着在場的尷尬，不知如何期待

你凝視前面，不知在想什麽，垂下頭
又抬起來，好像笑過也好像哭過
好像不明紙紋縱橫又像懂得茶的苦澀
手擱在駕駛盤上，眼看前邊又似回顧
仿佛帶着我的心情，你默默地離去

STAININGS

The tea is bitter; I remove the bag casually
to the napkin by my cup, and soon enough find its white field, too,
staining steadily as a browning edge of leaf, spreading
like the inevitable twilight, like an awareness of music,
like the lamp light that is drowning in the known winter outside.

A blank page gets ruined like this, soon as words are put down
and sealed, pressed into layers, or torn carefully
into shapes fragmentary and suggestive. Or say a letter does pass through winding alleys to a secret address, where the words
are reversed in a painter’s mirror, in the shadow of a dance

that is the silhouette of flowers on a peeling wall.
Delivered so, they are no longer the same words; they drift
on an expanse of water, held in the surges and ripples of waves.
Like a note in a bottle, my words are found and unravelled
right in front of my eyes and I’m all but undone.

You stare out, then down, recalling—what?
When you look up at me, your eyes both laugh and cry.
You haven’t seen between my lines but read easily the bitterness in the tea.
Hands on the wheel and looking straight ahead in the mirror,
you take the past born between us and in silence drive off.

trans. © Gordon Osing

抽獎

他得到一套北歐家私
他得到一個耳塞
他得到一頭假髮
他得到一枚浮瓜
他得到一襲睡袍
和一個跌打醫生
他得到兩個富有的姑母
和一頭鸚鵡
他得到一副電腦
以及紅橙黃綠青藍寶
他得到公積金
佣金、禮金和帛金
他得到戲院的贈券
酒會的請卡
特別折扣的二手牙刷
他得到自動清理的文件櫃
永不停嘴的鬧鐘
他得到兩打英國人
組成的調查委員會
他得到哲學學會主席的椅子
他得到鄉土藝術的專利權
他得到一隻不斷上升的股票
一所不斷下沉的大厦

只有我
仍然兩手空空
每次仰望
就仿佛聽見
有人在遠處發笑
迂迴穿過
陰雲和陣雨
撒下的骰子
是最少的點數
買了報紙
卻錯過渡輪
坐在碼頭
用香煙罐子釣魚
在錯誤的火車站
等候下一班車
在高速公路上
做一匹馬

她得到一個罐頭丈夫
和一群電動的親戚
她得到一套全新的指甲
眉毛和鼻子
她得到一切聯會
副主席的名銜
她得到四尾會唱歌的鱷魚
準時送花的河馬
守候在街角的犀牛
可資談論的大毛龜
她得到一個髪罩
她得到兩顆血淋淋的心
她得到鄰居阿秀上周買的
那種吸塵機
她得到那種灰塵
她得到十二種官方認的
大學入學試的資格
她得到所有不同牌子醬油
送出的小碟

只有我
仍然兩手空空
坐在淤塞的河邊
唱一支藍色的歌
天氣這麼冷
卻忘了大衣
空的籐椅上
已經坐着個人
圍上圍巾
戴上鮮花
並且投擲銀幣
幸運是頭像
開出的是字
我總排錯了隊
買到最壞的麵包
時髦的鄰居
借去鮮花參加盛宴
留下我替他做各種討厭的差使

人們捧着抽到的東西
趕着跑去把獎品收藏
我仍在這裏
慢慢地走
再會了先生
再會了
女士
我在後面叫
再會了
南瓜和玉蜀黍
捧着這麼多東西走路
小心不要摔倒
但他們以為我要趕上去
卻都跑得更快了

LUCKY DRAW

He gets a Scandinavian living room set.
He gets an earplug.
He gets a wig.
He gets a floating watermelon.
He gets a nightgown,
and a Chinese chiropractor.
He gets two rich aunts,
and a parrot.
He gets a computer screen,
and a world of red, orange, yellow, blue and green.
He gets a pension,
commissions, wedding and funeral booties.
He gets complimentary tickets to the movies,
invitations to cocktail parties,
second-hand toothbrushes at special discount.
He gets a self-cleaning file-cabinet,
an alarm clock that never stops ringing.
He gets his own investigating committee
formed by two dozen Englishmen.
He gets the chair of the chairman of the Philosophical Society.
He gets the exclusive right of indigenous arts.
He gets a stock that keeps rising
and a building that keeps on sinking.

I am left empty-handed.
Every time I look up,
I seem to hear
people laughing in the distance.
I wander through
dark clouds and intermittent rain.
The dice I throw
score the lowest total.
I buy a newspaper
and miss my ferry.
I sit at the pier
and fish with cigarette tins.
I wait for the next train at the wrong station.
I am a horse
on a highway.

She gets a canned husband,
and a bunch of motorized relatives.
She gets a new set of fingernails,
eyebrows and nose.
She gets the title of vice-chairman
of all associations.
She gets four crocodiles that can sing,
a hippopotamus that sends flowers regularly,
a big hairy tortoise that requires talk.
She gets a hair net.
She gets two bloody hearts.
She gets the kind of vacuum cleaner
her neighbor Asou bought just last week.
She gets identical dust to go with it.
She gets twelve certified university entrance examination approvals.
She gets as bonus
small dishes offered by all the different brands of soy sauces

I am empty handed
sitting by the clogged up river
singing a song off-key.
It is cold
and I forget an overcoat.
In the empty wicker chair
now sits someone
wearing a scarf,
and a flower.
We are tossing coins.
luck is head
and I get the tail.
I am always in the wrong queue,
getting the worst kind of bread.
Our neighbour trendy and smart
has borrowed our flowers for the occasion
and left us the tedious jobs.

People carry off their winnings
and hurry to hide them.
I am still here, walking slowly.
Goodbye, sir.
Goodbye,
madam.
I shout from behind,
goodbye,
pumpkin and corn,
take care not to trip
carrying so many things walking.
But they think I am trying to catch up
and walk all the faster.

trans. © Gordon Osing

木瓜

你把說話寫在紙上送給我
我沒有甚麼可送，寫下：

「木瓜！」切開來，那麼多
點點黑色的不確定的東西

你說過喜歡吃，但我不知道
話說出以後有沒有改變了主意

我每次買了木瓜放在冰箱裏
總碰上你不在，是言語的問題

還是木瓜的問題？我祗能從
眼見的青黃色的瓜皮上去挑選

我祗能在那個青黃色的層次上
回答，並不知道你裏面還有甚麼

裏面是什麽？認定是甜甜的瓜肉
依普通常識都知道了，剖開來

卻總出現了纍纍的種籽，你不
喜歡，你說最好甚麼也沒有

不要牽連了甚麼，黏著了揮不去
有時又捉摸不住不知滑往何方

不要有那麼多糾纏，不要說
那麼多話，我們吃無言的木瓜

好，好！但總有甚麼在嘴裏
咀嚼，吐出一個詞：木瓜

你抗議了，說我說了太多話
表皮斑駁，瓤里充滿象徵

不，真的，我祗是想與你
好好的吃個木瓜，但你我過去

吃過的木瓜在眼前這個木瓜裏
剖開來又看見了許多新的種籽

PAPAYA

I have your words, that you put down on paper,
but nothing at hand to return, so I write down

papaya. I cut one open: so many
dark points, so many undefined things.

You said you love papaya, but how do I know
you haven’t changed since you said it?

Every time I bring one home to the refrigerator
you are not around. Is language the problem

or papaya? I can only choose
among the greenish-yellow skins;

I have to respond to that greenish-yellow skin
before knowing what you expect inside.

Can’t we trust inside is sweet melon flesh?
It’s only common sense. Then we cut it

and see only seeds that you hate.
You say it’s better to find nothing,

better to avoid complications you can’t get rid of.
They are hard to get hold of, slippery. They shoot everywhere.

Better not to get entangled. Better just don’t say
so many words. Let’s have our papaya without words.

Sure, but there’s still this stuff in the mouth
that we chew and spit out: papaya.

Immediately you protest that one word too many;
its skin is motley and its pulp thick with suggestions.

Forget it, then; I only want to make time,
to dine on papaya with you. I can’t help it,

all the past papayas we’ve had are, of course, in this one too.
Slice it and here we are again, in a world of fresh seeds.

trans. © Gordon Osing

灰白色拖把

在不是最疲累的時刻
還是可以寫詩
在這方面來說
詩對我們還是仁慈的

夾在白木板間的勞工手套
線織指掌或是合上，或是攤開
展示命運的紋理
有哪一處崩斷了嗎？
攤開，告訴你沒有什麽需要隱藏
合上，拒絕與你繼續對話

拖把用久了也變成灰白
擱在欄干上，擱在窗旁
變成我們遺忘的戀人
壓抑了的遺憾
癌細胞在陰暗中滋長

治療的時候人變得疲累
詩對我們還是仁慈的
累了也還可以寫詩

THE GRAY MOP

if not utterly exhausted
one can still write
in this
poetry shows us mercy

between white boards, work gloves,
their woven hands closed or laid open
demonstrate the texture of destiny
is there somewhere a broken thread?
they open to say nothing to hide
they close to end conversation

a mop used time after time goes gray
propped against a rail or window
it becomes a forgotten lover
repressed regret
cancer thriving in the dark

during treatment people feel drained
poetry shows us mercy
though weary, one can write

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

遙望燈色璀燦

細嚐你從溫泉順手摘來
一枚小小的甜柑
遠望對岸燈色璀燦
中間隔著一大片黑暗
恰似病人艱難的日子

蕃薯苖和百合
每日與鄰居碰頭
若到了中午
素菜館旁依舊燒響午炮
也無人圍聚
盤中是腰果和腐皮
澆上橘紅醬汁會更誘人？

路過無酒招待
望從素菜啖出百味
遠道而來的客人
我們回首曾在那麽多城市碰頭
你跟著還要去北京、開羅、才回到首爾
我讓你坐這兒眺望燈光
通過來往客人晃動
但見窗下黑暗拆建裏也有光影

桌上剝開的柑皮
在這刻
舒成一朵橘色小花

GLEAMING LIGHTS FAR OFF

the small sweet tangerine
you plucked casually near a hot spring
I taste with care
as light glitters from the far shore
the vast black sheet between
so like the days a patient bears

sweetpotato leaves and lilies
a brief nod to neighbors
near the vegetarian restaurant at 12
the Noonday Gun will fire
crowd or not
cashews and tofu skin in the dish
tastier with a dash of that vermilion sauce?

no wine for the passerby
may the vegetables unfold a hundred flavors
guest from faraway
we’ve met in so many cities
now you’re bound for Beijing, Cairo, then back to Seoul
I ask you to sit with me and see the lights
diners come and go
beyond the glass, glint and shadow
shift through a gutted building

at this moment
on the table
the peels of the tangerine
open into bloom

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

在城市的後院

公立醫院病房裏兩排椅子
坐著進行化療的病人

陳舊黑紫外套似肝膽的藍綠
喉管裏恍惚聽見吐痰聲音
滿臉上生命劃下筆筆痕跡
每人一副機器
藥液從膠管
流入手臂針口中

滴答滴答的聲音
這量度生命的節拍

帶毒的藥液運進去
攻擊有毒的癌細胞
混濁的空氣帶菌的食物
在城市的血管裏打仗
經歷了許多事情的病人
坐在自己座位上安靜聽著

滴答滴答的聲音
這牽動生命的節拍

不同的病毒爬進城市的後院
紫藍琥珀或是孔雀石綠
城市聆聽著自己的脈膊

IN THE CITY’S BACKYARD

in the ward of the public hospital two rows of chairs
where patients take their chemo

their dated coats the liverish
purpled blues and greens of gall
from their throats a phlegmy rattle
faces racked by life
each one’s machine
runs fluid down a tube
to a needle in the arm

ticktack ticktack
life meters out its beat

poisons seeping in
attack the metastases
foul air, tainted food
war in the city’s veins
the patients endure
sitting quietly, listening

ticktack ticktack
the measure drawn from life

through backyards crawls the virus
purple, blue, amber, Malachite green
the city hears its pulse

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

白上加白

白色裏沒有了其他顏色嗎？
你要追尋那白中之白
那純粹的，無人知道的
秘密？至清的水裏
沒有魚，凝結的冷空氣裏
如何可以找到糾纏不清的熱情？
白減去白，並不會變得更白

白加上白，白色可會
抹煞了另一種白色？
還是孵生了不同的天鵝和茉莉？

失眠的夜到了盡頭輾轉化成
黎明的魚肚白，老人走過的灰塵
轉成白髮，是柔軟的白雲舒展
宵來的露水結成晶瑩的霜雪了
白豆煑沸磨漿凝成新的生命
春天的光影在白石上嬉戲

WHITE ON WHITE

what colors hide in white?
would you pursue
the white within white,
its purest, unknowable
secret? in the clearest water,
what fish? in the iciest air,
what passions might entwine?
white drawn from white
will not whiten

does one more white
efface another? or do they breed
new swans, new jasmines?

sleepless night finds its end
in the white scales of dawn, dust the old walk through
silvers their hair, white clouds softly sprawling
night’s dews stiffen into frost
boiled white beans, crushed, yield life’s new milk
dappled on white stones
spring’s lights and shadows

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

冥鏹

祝融在跳舞
從灰燼裏
開出詭麗的花朵
她總可以婀娜走過
彷彿一切與他無關

紅色的眼晴
從土地的深處凝望你
透過散落滿地的
腐葉和枯枝
看進你我的未來

臘燭垂淚到天明
一滴比一滴濃重
漣漪盪開，連起此去
無盡的天涯路
從今生到來世
你可報答得了
湛藍波濤的深情？

紫色是我們的遺憾
沒法擺脫的
人世的包袱
招貼殘舊的符籤
委棄於野地
可又長出叢叢綠葉

他供奉歷史的怪獸
敗柳和蒲葵砌成
映像的雜草光影
澆上祭祀的白酒
在無人注意的角落
焦黃枯葉上長出一朵嫣紅
用無人聽見的話語歌唱

GHOST MONEY

the fire god dances in the ash
the black petals
a strange alluring flower
her own grace
nothing of his

from earth’s depths
from mouldering leaves the strew
of twigs’ decay, red eyes behold
your future, mine

candles drip their tears till daybreak
one bead after another the slow ripple
spreading, thickening, joining this journey
to sky’s end, down an endless road
from one life to the next
how can you repay
water’s blue affections?

purple’s our regret
the world’s human baggage
impossible to cast off
the faded paper fortunes
discarded in wilderness
where leaves again sprout green

he worships history’s beasts
wan willows, fan palms weave
a thatch of weeds and shadow
in an obscure corner
pour wine for sacrifice
among yellow withered leaves a bright burst of red
sings words no one hears

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

椅上的青色

苔痕爬上了台階
                胖婦人坐在椅上吹乾頭髮
        潮濕溽熱逐漸變成涼爽
池塘生長了春草
        技工坐在長凳上抽一根煙
        半天的勞累在空氣中舒散
圓柳變成了鳴禽
        白領午休拿起几上的漢堡
        抬頭在高樓夾縫尋找飛鳥影子
草色映進了眼簾
        打字小姐修理呆鈍的電腦
                等待從鋼灰心懷裏泛出嫩葉
坐看青色爬上衣裳

ON THE BENCH, GREEN

moss climbs the steps
        the fat woman sits and dries her hair
        sultry the heat slowly cools
spring grass thrives by a pond
        on a bench the mechanic draws on his cigarette
        half the day’s labors slip free through air
the willow rounds to a songbird
        noon, the secretary lifts her burger,
        tilts back her head, scanning the gaps of tall buildings
                    for the shadowed flights of birds
her eyes the color of grass
        the typist restarts the slow computer
        her steel-grey heart awaits the tremble of tender leaves
how green ascends one’s clothes

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

區區肥皂

能從一塊肥皂改變
一個世界嗎？
把新鮮植物油混入
鹼水，稀釋
冷凝，不一定能變出

一個芬芳的新世界
除非我們有更多的時間
洗淨世間的塵垢，有芳香衣被
覆蓋工作扭曲的軀體
不要讓勞動霸佔了身心

一塊一塊的，那麼具體
不管是不是放進薰衣草
香橙、玉桂、火麻仁
不是要給你更多泡沫的幻像

是一羣人一起合作做出來
一瓶一瓶的，盛載流動的訊息：
母親洗澡後的味道
嬰兒皮膚的氣息

ONLY SOAP

can a cake of soap change
a world? just stir
fresh plant oil
into lye, cool
until firm, though it may not invoke

a fragrant new realm
without more time
to scrub clean the soils of this earth,
without perfumed garments
to veil the limbs warped by labor
the souls and bodies crushed by work

cake after cake, so solid
neither lavender
nor sweet orange, cassia nor hemp
yields more fanciful lather

one and another
bottle after bottle, floating their own notes:
after a bath, mother’s scent,
from baby’s skin, this breath

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

路上的浪蕩者

我一步一步在路上走
不管周圍的人怎樣怱怱忙忙
我有我的速度
不管汽車怎樣左彎右拐
我有我的方向
有大魚在水族箱游過
食檔有巨大的魚蛋模型
都不能吸引我
有推著手推車上的厚紙皮箱向前
有踏著自行車向前
有司機駕駛著勞斯萊斯向前
都有一定的方向。風過處
花花綠綠的衣裳
逐漸變成萬花筒片片碎片
我不必看得太清楚
我在逐漸走向內心的路上
外面變得朦朧了
不要以為我乖離了正途
不要以為我在兜圈子
我只是不再走每個人走的路
不再匆匆忙忙趕前去
不再排上這條那條隊伍
走入這個陣營攻擊那個陣營
我的左腳
我的右腳
沉重拍打地面
按照心中地圖
慢慢地走
偶然張開眼睛
攝入城市的五光十色
太亮了，避開它
我繼續走我的路

ON THE ROAD, A WANDERER

step by step, I walk the road
no matter how rushed those around me
I take my own time
whether cars turn left or right
I choose my own direction
big fish glide in the aquariums
food stalls sell whopper fishballs
I’m not lured
some shove handcarts stacked with huge boxes
some pedal bikes
some steer a Rolls
all going somewhere. wind drifts
flowery clothes
into soft kaleidoscopes
I don’t have to see so clearly
heading slowly toward my heart’s core
what’s outside mists over
don’t think I took a wrong turn
don’t think I’m walking circles
I no longer follow the paths of others
no longer hurry to catch up
no longer in line for this group or that
joining one camp, attacking another
my left foot
right foot
meet the pavement
tracing my own mind’s map
walking slow
if by chance the city glare
blinds me
I glance away,
keeping my own pace

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell