蛇蛻

有人在我
聽不到的地方
叫我
看不到的地方
閃爍
牆外是
踟躕的風
牆內是
薜茘的青光

示我以
最美的
皮紋
一格格透明的
蜂巢
說害羞
痛
都是蜜
不完整的
斷裂
也是

說龍柏香
埋伏
在小山丘
有人
蛻皮
不說
有蛇
在洞口
風輕輕
嗅聞

一點點生辛
我知道
一寸寸剝解
有人
醞釀血色
在黑夜
閃爍一條
害羞的青光

SNAKESKIN

Something calls me
where I can’t hear,
shimmering beyond the wall
where I can’t see.
Out there, impulsive wind.
Here, green figs climbing.

Show me
the exquisite skin,
transparent, each scale hexagonal,
vulnerable to pain,
incomplete,
fractured,
alive.

Scented junipers
hide ambush in the hills.
Something sheds its flesh
but does not speak.
Where a snake enters earth
the breeze tastes sharpened air.

I’ve come to know
little by little
a blood red being
in the dark of night
flashing dimly green.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell with NTU Poetry Translation Workshop

歌哭

起初我是不妒的
我既是男孩也是女孩
在河中身為鴛鴦
在陸地身為鳳凰
在夢裡以三顆頭三雙翅膀
飛翔

聽見嬰兒的聲音那是狐
聽見老人的聲音那是鹿
聽見詈罵的聲音那是貍
聽見呻吟的聲音那是禺

俯瞰山谷有丹沙如粟
仰望山巔雲煙似歌謠
我還不能辨識的山谷雲煙啊
只覺是一條條龍的身體
群山都在行拜祀之禮

起初我是不懼的
我捏過蟻蠶拍過青蠅
追打一條花蛇掏空一窩鳥蛋
無情如鴟哀傷如鳧
慾望似蜉蝣淺海的紫螺
我唱的歌無人會意
竟以哭字作我的歌名

LAMENT

At first, no envy,
being neither boy nor girl
but a mandarin duck in the river,
on shore a phoenix
I dreamt I grew three heads
soaring on three pairs of wings

Hearing a baby, it seemed a fox,
if an old man’s moan, a deer,
if a curse, the bark of a raccoon dog,
a groan the complaint of a mythic monkey

Across the valley, red sand strewn like foxtail millet,
above the peak, smoky clouds, ballads
I can’t remember,
coiled dragons, mountain peaks
all in ritual worship

Fearless at first
I squeezed silkworms, smashed flies,
chased a many-banded krait, rifled a bird’s nest,
heartless as an owl, sad as a dabbling duck,
my desires mayflies, violet sea-snails
beside a shallow sea,
this song I sing no one understands
so call it lamentation

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

坐在霧動的屋瓦上
——寫於花蓮老厝火燒後

每逢起霧就想起
那棟老厝，在花蓮
重慶街，浸在火焚的煙霧裡
看不清楚，像曝光的照片只露出
一列屋瓦

三歲的我坐在霧動的屋瓦上
霧在花蓮的清晨裡
迷濛的眼睛看不到火車，從山巒
蜿蜒而來的鐵路，只隱隱感到震動
自遠而近，自天外而來

河，似乎也從天外來
暴雨的流勢湍急，皮娃他潛入波中
藏住頭，久久不出來
河又向天外流去，於是
哥哥那班人拾起他的衣褲，大聲哭了
排著隊從花崗山的方向走回來

一個挨一個
走入時間的負片，家的盡頭
走入一扇扇關起的門
坐在霧動的屋瓦上
曝了光

像遲遲不褪的閃電那場火
黑夜開始，怒衝的火苗使花崗山也曝了光
天亮，四十歲的我拎著一具四十年前的
老相機，獨自在二月的下午
孤零零走回去
在重慶街，門前鋪了蓋的河面上

走過來走過去
聽遠處鋸木廠的電鋸聲，火車空隆隆響
火舌在鏡頭裡突突向高空衝
有人著慌地吼：六號，是六號嗎……
其實，四周安安靜靜什麼聲音也沒有
下午，陽光斜照在馬路右側按摩院

我想著那棟消失的老厝
屬於清晨霧中的那顆心，便又坐上
曝光後竄起濃煙的
一列屋瓦

FOG CLIMBS THE ROOFTOP
in memory of the old Hualien house, burned down

Whenever fog arrives, I remember
the old Hualien house on Chongqing Street,
so cloaked in white smoke it disappeared
but for the roofline,
like an overexposed photo.

How I’d sit there, three years old,
as fog at dawn crept across the rooftiles,
muffling the mountain train
that snaked down the rails,
invisible, the sky both near and far
faintly trembling.

Rivers flow from heaven
and return. This one too,
rain-swollen when Piwa dove in,
went under, and didn’t come up.
His friends and brother gathered his clothes,
walked weeping single file up Huagang mountain,

each entering the past’s
undeveloped film.
On the rooftop where fog shifts,
the door to one image opens on another.

Like a lightning flash that never fades,
the house burns till daybreak,
its flames bright against Huagang Mountain.
At forty, alone one February afternoon
with my forty year old camera,
I walk Chongqing Street
where the river used to flow.

Far off, the whine of the sawmill,
the grumbling train.
Through the camera
leaping teeth of flame,
a frantic shout: number six, is it six?
Then silence,
and across the road
slant sunlight
on a massage parlor.

My heart possessed by dawn fog
rises like smoke from the rooftop
of a house that is no more.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell with NTU Poetry Translation Workshop

輓歌之什

把家園覆罩在暴雨的鐵籠
隨千里轟轟的土石流而流

有戰慄的鞭條撕裂，在海口
瘋狗浪撲殺夢的垂釣者

把名字埋在侵晨頭版新聞的睡眼裡
隨彈藥車翻滾，到夢境外爆炸

死亡沒有性別，只揭去一張張面皮
上帝說這與我無關

用煙囪潰爛的肌膚向城市乞討陽光
塵灰如落葉拋灑秋的冥紙

冬天是一把劫色的鎖鑰
打開了一畝畝虛無的心田

用稚齡的女體去當霓虹牲禮
祭悼野鬼處處的黑街

恐嚇驚叱畏怯的蚊蠅
槍聲又飄起姦殺的迷霧

是肉蛆，不論生死，恒被一雙手撥弄
如賓果的彈珠狠叩命運之門

人間傷慟怎撫平？默默流向天河
一千支白燭光搖曳的夜

ELEGY

Caught in the storm’s iron cage, miles
of the motherland’s crumbling earth and stone.

Terror whips slash at the harbors,
waves roll rogue over boats that fish for dreams.

Names lie buried in the sleepy morning news,
rumble with ammo trucks at the border, waiting to explode.

Death is sexless, peeling face after face.
God’s washed his hands of it.

The chimney’s flaking skin propitiates the sun.
Autumn dust drifts like leaves of spirit cash,

winter a stolen key
opening acres of emptied souls.

The flesh of young women gleams, sacrifice
for the dark lanes of ghosts.

Flies of fear, rattle of gunshots,
smoke, rape.

Maggots gorge on life or death.
Bingo numbers knock the gates of fate.

Heaven smooths the scar, night’s river
gliding a thousand candleflames.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell with NTU Poetry Translation Workshop

金色的雕塑
——玉山金絲桃

穿過陌生雲霧
我是天空降下的雨滴
高山的美麗陽性的空虛
降落在野山羊發情的
針林岩屑地

以花絲花柱
生殖的圖騰招搖
向藍天陽光的住所
跟著黑熊排遺，蒴果攜帶
未命名的家譜

穿過陌生雲霧
我是盛夏金色的雕塑
遊走在神話裸露的高冷地
像祖靈石碑燙金的字
夜空閃亮的星

以陽性的腺體不安
找尋疾風披過的花豹皮
俯瞰人間複雜的病
險惡的病，找尋醫治我
深陷於你的病

SCULPTED GOLD
—St. John’s Wort, Jade Mountain 

Through strange clouds and mist
like rain it descends 
past proud heights of peaks 
to the stones and scrub trees 
where wild goats rear in heat

Stamen and pistil
lift life’s totems 
toward blue sky and sun,
their fruited seeds borne on
in black bear scat 

Through strange clouds and mist
midsummer’s gold 
splays the highlands of fable and myth,
hillside stele of all that came before,
small starlike brilliance

Hormone-stirred 
I seek the wind’s leopard skin 
to outrun the tortured sickness of this human world,
to release
my own entrapment

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

迷路
——寄玉真公主

今古一相接，長歌懷舊遊。
              ──李白

妳隨秋風來
白馬在月下不停奔馳
風在林梢彈著琴
一縷縷，一絲絲
如曲折的道路飄忽的雲煙

未乾的露珠沾在草上
未滅的星芒掛在天上
妳隨秋風來像別枝的落葉
迴旋，飄墜
踩踏今夜零亂的節拍

我是什麼時候走的妳是什麼時候來的
已經過了千年
我還是妳癡心等待的夜雨嗎
已經過了千年
我還是妳不忍遺忘的燈魂嗎

白馬總是不停奔馳啊，暗中呼喚
讓我為妳採藥在雲深的小徑
讓我為妳煉丹在彩虹的橋頭
為妳，像秋蟬隱遁地底
像春燕巢泥一棟新的家屋

然而時間已晚了
山門已關閉
丹池只氤氳一團青夢
月色只搖曳滿山的亂髮
空空的叩門聲響是誰在秋風裡

是誰說過，鸞與鸞本該同枝
然而星空之外不再有星空
長松之下不再有簟蓆
只有人所不知的傳說在傳說
繚繞妳最終住過的山房

妳是什麼時候來的我是什麼時候走的
華年已如懸崖滾落的石子
思念仍是一無底的深谷
今夜，我遙憶千年的敬亭山
憂傷彷彿昨日

ASTRAY
      for Princess Yuzhen

When today meets yesterday,
sing of those who traveled
                        —Li Bai

You arrive on autumn winds,
those white horses racing the moon
down curved roads, zithery tree limbs,
cloud scud

If dew still clings to grassblades
and stars hang deathless in the sky
you come in a leaftorn whirl
of your pulse and the night’s own
tumbling

When did I leave? When did you appear?
Am I the night rain you awaited
for a thousand years,
the flame you could not forget?

Those hoofbeats summon me
to pluck herbs for you from the path beyond the clouds,
roll pills of immortality beside a rainbow,
to become for you a cicada hidden underground since autumn,
a swallow mud-daubing its spring nest

But I am too late
the mountain gate closed
the red water fogged to green hallucinations
If the moon sways a mountainful of loose hair
for whom does the wind at the door knock?

Can two luan birds perch on one branch?
There’s no starry sky beyond this one,
no bamboo mat opened under tall pines
Mysteries and legends coil upward
from the mountain house where you lived

When did you arrive? When did I leave?
The sweet years of our lives, their yearning,
roll like stones from a cliffside
toward a bottomless valley
Tonight, I remember a thousand-year-old Jingting Mountain
as if its fog were only yesterday

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

蓮池肉身

如天鵝的頸子伸出水面
日照的蓮蓬是肉身
水底的蓮藕
也是

蜻蜓頡頏於心頭
預感將至的雨訊
蕈菇野生
在無邊際的黃昏

西天壓低了暗紅帷幕
危顫著
水上最後一枚音律
自一圓寂的靈魂

重生，彷彿是
滅絕的魚龍

LOTUS POND, LIVING BODY

Like a swan’s neck arched above the surface
this seedpod bathed in sunset
alive as its deeper root

Dragonflies hover in the heart
and descend, foretelling rain
Mushrooms proliferate
in boundless dusk

To the west the sky
lets fall its red curtain
while a final note
primordial as a lizard fish
trembles over water

and ascends,
one soul for nirvana

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

炊煙三題

簷

雨水的腳步在頭頂上輕輕踩著：
睡吧，睡吧
庭前的水滴在夢裡呼喚：
醒來，醒來

灶

把草的頭髮放進去
把樹的手臂放進去
歲月，是灰燼
放出煙的脾氣
火的骨氣

棧

畫兩根柱子一截橫木
旅人被拋進夢的墓穴
畫一條懸空小路
遠方被預告
但時間還未到盡頭

THREE POEMS FOR CHIMNEY SMOKE

Eaves

Rainwater tiptoes overhead:
sleep, sleep
In the courtyard, water drips from the dream:
wake up, wake up

Stove

Feed dry grass or straw,
split tree limbs
Spines of fire
convey smoke’s disposition
Time turns to ashes

Hanging Pathway

Draw two beams with a third crossing
so travelers might tumble toward a tomb of dreams
Draw a path hung in air
where the far land fabled
lies ahead

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

木門

輕輕敲叩，剝啄妳厚重的木門
以無聲的語言如霧，行過長廊
在寂靜的天猶未亮的夜裡

敲叩，剝啄，為夢中
我們說好要履行的約定
去到那難以抵達的天地盡頭

暗黑的長廊，我穿越
如推開三千扇門，緜亙
三千年的暗夜

以鬼魅般空空的腳步當風
自窗外欺身，破曉冰涼
惟大理石雕像光滑的胸臀反光

俯瞰洪荒一彎細細的
月色在床，光點不斷被撫觸
被包裹，裸露歡喜與哀愁

彷彿夢中搖擺，又像是時間遞嬗的
上弦月與下弦月交替，持續演練
一些情節，今日復明日

穿越暗黑的長廊，我是霧
而妳厚重的木門彷彿
天地盡頭，無聲，過完此生

WOODEN DOOR

Tapping softly at your massive door
my words slip silent as mist down the long corridor
of night’s mute end,

tapping for that oath
we said we’d make
where earth meets heaven

This corridor long and dark
its three thousand doors
open to a night of three thousand years

My silent footsteps haunt like wind
leans daybreak’s chill against a window,
and dawn skims a statue’s marble chest

On the bed, last moonlight, its arc primordial,
dapples soft embrace
both joy and sorrow

As if swaying in a dream or cycling through time
the first quarter moon and the last quarter moon
dance a duet, their refrain
of today become tomorrow

Down the long deep corridor, I become fog,
and your great door
the silent exit from heaven and earth, from life

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

詩經流域

我聽見女子的泣訴
像風吹進竹林削薄竹葉
四處尋找發燙的耳朵
眼淚結冰的冬天
她哭戰爭的絕望
黃鶯啼鳴的原野
她哭春天的迷惘

日照下那女子
像河邊的蘆葦林中的葛藤
與季節一同呼吸
翻過山岡
牽掛是懸崖上的一條葛藤
跨越棧橋
悲傷是溪流中的一根蘆葦

一日不見，如三月兮
一日不見，如三秋兮
一日不見，如三歲兮

你問我往哪裡去
風在城門樓上來來回回
有人採荇有人採薇
在愛與被愛的地方
小草撫觸肌膚般的土壤
我的情人與我相會
又與我相別

你問我何時歸來
兵士不再群聚干戈
絲綢不再片片撕裂
有人蠶桑有人浣衣
星光交擊晨光的音符
我的情人啊天黑與我共眠
天亮為我相思

SHI JING VALLEY

I hear a woman weep
like wind thinning leaves in a bamboo grove,
a sound to be remembered
Tears may freeze in winter
when she cries for war’s despair,
or in spring, as black-naped orioles
sing golden on the plains
and she laments lost seasons

That woman in sunshine
like kudzu along a riverbank
breathes with the light
On the mountain, care’s green vine
descends from a cliff edge
By the jetty
sorrow bends like a reed in the river

A day without seeing you is three months
A day three autumns
A day three years

You ask where I’m going
as wind flows this way or that
through the gates of the city
Someone gathers yellow waterlilies, fern-shoots
in places to love and be loved
Short grasses stroke the soil’s soft skin
I meet my lover
then we part

You ask when I may return
When troops no longer take weapons
and silk’s not torn to threads
Some plant mulberry, raise silkworms
Some wash clothes
Starlight ebbs at dawn’s music
Lover, lie with me at dusk
and for me yearn at daybreak

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Translator’s note: This poem shows various images from The Book of Songs (Shih-Ching), the quoted section is from “Cai Ge” in “Odes of Wang”.

封印
——回到西漢獅子山楚王墓

我把你縮小了帶在身邊
食官衛士都在
服侍的丫鬟各以一枚小小的印
也留在身邊

我想你的印
如指紋是我的玉握
私語是我的玉枕
暖風是我的玉衣
黑夜使我不醒

為了想你
我把秦磚拆卸漢瓦疊來
已著人造好一座新的陶樓
養了陶雞陶鴨
畜了陶豬陶狗

更喚來翹袖折腰的舞孃
作我們愛情的瓦當
任檐前的春色淅淅瀝瀝
傳呼陶盤與壺觴
延續那未盡的歡宴

生生繼之以世世
為了想你
日月昭昭其光明
風雷震震其號泣

度盡兵馬寫生的殘日
我在傾頹的城垣找你的眼神
掲去酒甕的泥封
用一枚龜裂的小印
為你舌間那一字落款

沒有任何封土能大過
這一枚小小印圖
即使是彩霞燃燒的野天
從此也沒有任何文獻
能蓋住這一點銘刻的朱紅

後記：二〇〇八年春走訪徐州博物館，最引我注目的
是西漢楚王墓掘出的陪葬品，除了陶燒的杯盤、小巧
的家畜造型，還有一堆職官、衛士與丫鬟的印章。

SEALS
      King of Chu’s tomb at Lion Mountain

Here, I’ve shrunk you down to join me:
cooks, royal guards, chambermaids,
each small as a seal stone.

I imagine yours, my lady,
as if your fingerprint were my amulet,
your murmurs my jade pillow,
your breath my own jade suit.
Sleep and darkness hold me close.

For you, I took Qin bricks, Han tiles
to build a citadel of clay:
clay hens, clay ducks,
clay pigs, clay dogs.

I summoned lithe dancers
swaying from the waist
to wreathe our affections.
As spring rain dripped from eaves,
bowls and winecups sang
a feast unending.

Century on century, life after life,
under scorching suns, chill moons,
thunder and mournful winds,
I think of you.

All my last years, troops and horses,
I found your gaze amid cities’ ruins.
Break the wine jar’s seal, your kiss
the stamp that seals my lips.

No kingdom’s larger
than this tiny chop.
Not the fiery skies of sunset
nor the archives of the dynasties
can erase its scarlet dot.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell with NTU Poetry Translation Workshop

Poet’s note: In spring 2008, at the Xuzhou Museum in Jiangsu Province, China, I viewed grave goods from a King of Chu’s tomb, either Liu Yingke or Liu Wu, Western Han dynasty, ca. 174 BC. Aside from clay cups, dishes, and delicate livestock figures, the tomb contained seals for numerous officials, guards, household staff, and female attendants.

僧衣

縫一件僧衣給老農
縫一件僧衣給頑童
縫一件僧衣給村婦
縫一件僧衣給浪子

年幼的他一步步離了家
在經書的紋路尋找
另一雙手另一雙眼
另一顆頭顱另一座乾坤
用千萬個心跳一針針

縫補無形的僧衣
給瞋恨的人
貪得的人
癡昧的人
數不盡憂愁的人

十方行走他把十方的
自己也縫成了僧衣
縫成一卷肉身的教義
把人間的顛倒縫進
壞空的皺摺

時候到了。他盤腿坐入陶缸
以琉璃的肌膚照明
用垂長的鬚髮指點
把一生縫製的僧衣齊齊掛在
彌勒舍利的內院

MONKS’ ROBES

Sew one monk’s robe for the old farmer
one for the naughty child
one for the village woman
another for the wanderer

Leave home when young, step by step
seeking the scriptures’ patterns
for a pair of hands, eyes,
a new head, a new heaven and earth
Thousands of heartbeats, stitch by stitch

Mend invisible robes
for the hateful
the greedy
the ignorant
for those of endless worry

Set out in all directions,
sew the self into a robe,
a shell of mortal doctrine
inverting the human
within empty seams

When finally it’s time, descend
cross-legged into a clay pot,
glazed skin reflecting
long hair, beard highlighting
the robes that seal one life
into a relic finally pure

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

永嘉訪靈運

那水色，是垂柳遮不住扁舟載不走的
那柑香，是雨水洗不去蜜蜂吸不盡的

登上山頭，頂上的石塔空空不見人
藍天總以爲是太平盛世

行至山後，石階下傳來一片喧譁
風吹過誤認爲一群山賊

古牆上的青苔不見任何可辨識的線索
塔簷的風鈴間歇發出無人懂的聲響

江邊斷槳棄置擱淺的竹筏
薄霧陪伴一棵橫倒的老樹奮力生長

我想著池塘生春草，園柳變鳴禽的詩句
全世界的都市入夜變成了他說的金罍

船行水上，一籃子金黃甌柑都剝皮入了肚
也沒聽人談什麼謝客而只爭說著政客

註：二〇一六年四月參加溫州詩會，遊觀謝靈運山水，同行有詩人王家新、池凌雲、顧彬等。

IN YONGJIA, SEEKING XIE LINGYUN

Willows can’t change this water’s color, nor a skiff float its shades away
Rain can’t erase the scent of island oranges, nor bees sip all their fragrance

On the mountain top, no one’s in the stone pagoda
The sky’s blue says all prospers in peace

Below these stone steps, gusts
clamor like mountain bandits

On ancient walls, mosses write no history
From pagoda eaves, wind chimes impossible to understand

Far below, a bamboo raft, oars snapped, lies stranded
Thin mist shrouds an old tree tilted yet still upstriving

Xie Lingyun wrote “Spring grass sprouts by the pond, new birds sing in the willows”
Cities at night, he said, were golden chalices

Our boat slips down the river, oranges skinned and swallowed,
yet we discuss politicians only, never Xie Lingyun

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Poet’s note: April 2016, I attended a Wenzhou poetry event, visiting the landscape where Song dynasty poet Xie Lingyun (385-433) once lived. With me were Chinese poets Wang Jiaxin, Chi Lingyun, German sinologist Wolfgang Kubin, and others.

Yongjia: Now Wenzhou, the Chinese coastal city where Xie Lingyun, also known as Xie Ke, served in exile as a local prefect. He is considered the father of Shanshui, literally “mountains and waters” landscape poetry. The quoted line is from his famous poem “Climbing a Lakeside Tower” (登池上樓). Wenzhou mandarin oranges, famous across Asia, are still grown on its tiny channel islands.

讓茶樹繼續等待

石壁是鼓
落葉是鐃鈸
行人佇停半山腰
傾聽流水的
提琴音

問嬉戲的雲霧
崎嶇的山路
藍山似近實不近
綠山一座座
橫臥在眼前

問遠處的人影
風說不如問竹林
問抄來的地址
雨說不如問瀑布
最終要問誰

鳥啼殷勤
那人野放在山裡
彷彿茶樹散步
一幢小木屋
叢林半遮掩

綠隨山勢高低
狗吠聲起
細雨中他搖搖頭
沒有茶賣
讓茶樹繼續等待

TEA TREES WAIT

The rock face is a drum
these fallen leaves cymbals
Halfway to the mountain
the traveler stops, hearing water
play violin,

asks guidance from the jostling clouds,
from the steep and rugged road
The blue mountain seems so close
yet more green hills
still ahead

Maybe shout to a distant figure
but wind says ask the forest of bamboo
Instead of smudged directions
rain says the waterfall
may know where

Birds sing eagerly
while someplace on these wild slopes
a man lives like a tea plant,
his small wooden cottage
half-hidden in leaves

Green falls and rises,
then dogbarks,
and in the drizzle
tea-man shakes his head
not yet

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

有贈

我原只是一縷野煙
妳給我騰空的風

原只是一隻野鳥
妳給我降身的沙島

只是一匹野馬
放足於天邊

只是一隻野蜂
踟躕於花園

偶然擁有了閃電
神的誓言

一個野人從此
寄身於妳的山洞

A GIFT

I was only a thread of wild smoke
till you brought me the wind to ride on

only a feral bird
you beckoned to your sandbar

one wild horse
galloping the skyline

a single bee
dawdling through a garden

then the chance to snatch lightning
like an oath of god

a savage
at home in your shelter

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell with NTU Poetry Translation Workshop