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Spring 2015Issue 8

Born 1961, Han Dong lives in Nanjing. In his youth, during the Cultural Revolution, he was sent down with his parents to the North Jiangsu countryside. In 1982 he graduated from Shandong University, then taught political philosophy at universities in Xi’an and Nanjing before resigning in 1993. A leading poet of contemporary China’s “Third Poetry Movement”, he co-founded/co-edited the literary journal They.

Among his published volumes are the poetry collections White Stones; Dad Sees Me from the Sky; A Reinvented Life; They; Poems by Han Dong; and You’ve Seen the Ocean. His essay collections include Essays of Han Dong; The Mechanics of Love; The Path to Happiness; Night Traveler; A Dog Named Wangcai; and Runs Intersect, a volume of mixed essays and poetry. His novella and short story collections are Moon Over a Forked Tree; Our Bodies; My Plato; Bright Scars; The Dollar Beats the RMB; In the Western Sky; and This Moron’s Dead.  His novels are Banished!; Me and You; A Chinese Lover; The Small Town Hero Strides Forth; Metamorphosis of a Sent-down Youth; and Delighted and Hidden. He has also composed scripts for the films In the Qing Dynasty; Beijing Time; and I’ll Love You Ten Thousand Years.

Among his many honors are Youth magazine’s Literature Award, the Liu Li’an Poetry Prize, the Novel Prize of Media Awards for Chinese Literature, the Gao Li Gong Literary Festival Chairman’s Prize, the Jinling Literature Prize, and nomination for the Man Asian Literary Prize.

韓東,1961年5月17出生,現居南京。早年隨父母下放蘇北農村,1982年畢業於山東大學哲學系,1982—1993年在西安、南京等地高校任馬列主義哲學教員,1993年辭去公職。為「第三代詩歌運動」中最具代表性的詩人之一,曾主編文學民刊《他們》。2000年以後主要致力於長篇小說寫作。

著有詩集《白色的石頭》、《爸爸在天上看我》、《重新做人》、《他們》、《韓東的詩》、《你見過大海》。散文隨筆集《韓東散文》、《愛情力學》、《幸福之道》、《夜行人》、《一條叫旺財的狗》,詩文集《交叉跑動》。中、短篇小說集《樹杈上的月亮》、《我們的身體》、《我的柏拉圖》、《明亮的疤痕》、《美元硬過人民幣》、《西天上》、《此呆已死》,長篇小說《紮根》、《我和你》、《小城好漢之英特邁往》、《知青變形記》、《中國情人》、《歡樂而隱蔽》。電影劇本《在清朝》、《北京時間》、《愛你一萬年》等。

曾獲《青春》雜志文學獎、劉麗安詩歌獎、華語文學傳媒大獎長篇小說獎、高黎貢文學節主席獎、金陵文學大獎以及曼氏亞洲文學獎提名。

你的手

你的手擱在我的身上
安心睡去
我因此而無法入眠
輕微的重量
逐漸變成了鉛
夜晚又很長
你的姿態毫不改變
這隻手象征著愛情
也許還另有深意
我不敢推動它
或驚醒你
等到我習慣並且喜歡
你在夢中又突然把手抽回
並對一切無從知曉

 

YOUR HAND

You drift off, your hand’s slight
weight on my body
grown slowly leaden,
so I can’t sleep.
The night is long,
your posture unchanging.
This hand expresses love,
or something like it.
I dare not move
nor wake you
until I get used to this weight
and enjoy it.
Dreaming, you suddenly draw your hand back,
missing all this.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

一些人不愛說話

一些人不愛說話
既不是啞巴,也不內向
只說必要的話
只是禮節
只浮在說話的上面
一生就這樣過去
寥寥數語即可概括
一些人活著就像墓誌銘
漫長但言辭簡短
像墓碑那樣地佇立著
與我們冷靜相對

 

SOME SAY LITTLE

Neither mute nor shy,
they don’t say much,
speaking only the indispensable.
Out of courtesy, perhaps,
they skate the surface,
a whole life’s talley
summed in brief.
Like epitaphs,
long lives with short inscriptions.
Calm as gravestones
they look us in the face.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

黝黑的太陽

天氣真好,陽光燦爛
你去樓下走一走,證實確有其事
可我的心裏有一團陰影
不能像被子一樣拿出去晾曬
不能像那輛開過去的汽車
三拐兩拐就不見了

這不是陽光下的陰影
就像黑暗的中心
某種密實而中空的東西
就像光明的中心是太陽
它是黑暗的中心

踩著腳下灰淡的影子
我心中的影子卻縮回去了
就像老鼠進洞
蟄伏在我裏面

它展開的時候將是一個黑夜
黝黑的太陽升起,不可阻擋

 

DARK SUN

Fine weather, sunlight pouring,
I head downstairs for a walk to prove it.
But in my heart’s a knot of shadows,
neither a quilt to air,
nor that car at the corner
vanishing as it turns.

Unlike the sun’s shade,
it dwells in its own dark core,
dense yet empty.
If the sun’s heart’s bright,
this is the yolk of darkness.

My feet stand in ashes,
the shadow in my heart
curled like a rat
in winter’s burrow.

When it wakes
black night unfurls,
its dark sun relentless, ascendant.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

O

人,可以來自
一塊石頭
一隻鳥蛋
可以和
被想像的嬰兒
無關

單數的沙粒
沒有特征
如果用它們
堆積沙丘,沙丘
就將生長
同樣,一棵樹
留在原地並逐漸占有了
樹的形象

而一個
詞語以前的時刻
記憶的極點
也無法抵達
當我們穿過
完美而空洞的
O

 

O

Man may spring
from a stone
or a bird’s egg,
quite unlike
the image of an infant.

A single sandgrain
is nothing special,
but heaped up
makes a dune.
Just so, a tree staying put
moves into
a treeshape.

Yet
the moment before we find a word
memory’s pinpoint
cannot reach
we enter
the perfect vacancy of
O

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

降雪以前的天空
湖水的適當深度

穿過雲層的機翼
是另一種銀灰

小學生玩弄一塊柔軟的泥巴
詩人在燈下欣賞食指的投影

第三種生物——灰母雞
她的裝束陰晴不變

當我們面對面包上的黴點
以及愛人病弱的臉頰

灰色是一種曖昧的感情
在一張紙上

你也許調不出任何顏色
但最後的灰已確定無疑

現在我可以說
灰色的太陽、灰色的家
一切不可能的鮮豔的灰色

 

GREY

the sky before a snowfall
a lake’s proper depth

a plane’s wing, another silver grey
passing through layers of cloud

soft clay squeezed by a child
a poet appreciating the shadow of his index finger beneath a lamp

a third being—the grey hen,
whose costume, sunny or overcast, never changes

mildew on bread
a lover’s pallid cheeks

on paper
grey is a vague feeling

whatever color you blend
grey will surely have its part

now may I say
grey sun, grey home,
all greys, impossibly vivid

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

等等

灌木中放出的鉤子鉤住了我的肉
我以花朵的名義流血
如果有一萬人在海面打撈
我只對你吐露珍珠
堅信道路的孩子幻想
地球是圓的,而距離
一再加長

 

ETC.

Weed barbs hook my flesh;
I bleed in the name of their blossoming.
Ten thousand may fish the sea,
but I show only you the pearl.
The child puts faith in roads, guessing
the earth is round, but distance
reaches even farther.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

豐收的比喻

五月的一天有著涼爽的兩端
像伸向火焰的平底鍋,我握住它金屬的柄
時機已經成熟,我是那個站在樹下被選擇的人
果實選擇我,還有正午、雨點和目光
松軟的泥土裏埋藏著我的腳,而我
正攪和一片泥濘

在收獲的前夕離去,走向更高產的果園
面對一塊著名的坡地,你將錯過一個季節
我們都知道富裕不能分享,也不好瓜分
在幼苗長成大樹以前就已經知道
我離開你和你的生活。你離開我和果園
因此不再懷念

在此之前我們就已知道五月的來臨
我們應邀扮演勞動中合作並沉默的男女
最後的果實入倉——一個命運的奇數
我愛一個人和一個關於豐收的比喻
並做好准備從最高的枝頭降落

 

HARVEST TROPE

A fifth month day has two cool ends.
I hold it like a pan above the flame.
The time is ripe to stand beneath one tree,
chosen by its fruit, by this noon,
by raindrops and another’s gaze.
Below my muddy shoes,
more earth.

Before the harvest, you head for a richer orchard,
its famous slope, losing one season.
We know wealth’s not easy to share, nor easy to divide.
We know it before the seedling rises.
I leave you with your life, you leave me with my orchard.
No more yearning.

We’ve long sensed May was coming.
Invited to play the couple, we kept silent in our work.
Good luck if the fruit makes the warehouse.
I’m in love with someone, with a trope of harvest,
and set to drop from the highest bough.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

三月到四月

三月到四月
我記得你多次離開
船頭離開了原來的水面
船尾壓平湧起的浪
又激起另一些

五月,我的房屋
就要從水上漂走
像一根斷木或新枝
我們中的一個將成為
另一個離去的標誌

或許不動的是我
在聽覺的時間中
我已固定了多年
島上垂下折斷的枝條
抓住你後又被水流帶走

回想四月,我怎樣沉浸於
綠色的水域,觀察
某種發光物的游動
你的閃爍帶給我熄滅後的黑暗
我已被水擊傷

六月前面是更開闊的海洋
我只能從星辰的高度愛你
像月亮愛下面最小的船隻
一去不返但始終是
海洋上的船隻

 

MARCH TO APRIL

March to April
you shoved off a few times,
the water closing smoothly
at the passage of the bow,
the stern a troubled wake.

By May, my house
drifts farther,
a snapped branch or newly budded bough,
one of us a marker
for the other’s loss.

Maybe it’s me who’s moored.
By the ear’s measure
I’ve been still for years.
On this island, a splintered branch hangs,
snatching you, then sweeps off with the current.

When I think of April, I see myself
submerged in green water
where something swims and glitters,
your flickering the dusk of my extinguishment,
water wounded.

June’s a wider ocean,
where I can love from the height of stars,
as the the smallest skiff enchants the moon,
never returning, forever
one hull on the water.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

人類之詩

附近的菜市場裏有人在巨大的汽油桶裏殺雞
後面的大樓上一個詩人苦思冥想要寫一首人類之詩
下面的棚戶區裏兩個女人為爭奪一個酒鬼的愛而不惜大打出手
謾罵聲如煤爐裏的黑煙高高升起
高過了那棵寧靜的大樹
只有它庇護著我們的安全,掩飾了我們的恥辱

 

POEM FOR MANKIND

In the neighborhood wet market,
someone bleeds a chicken over an oil drum.
A poet in the tenement beats out a poem for mankind.
Two women squabble in the alley for a drunkard’s love.
Their curses rise like black smoke coils from a coal stove
through the boughs of that tall, silent tree,
its leaves shading our disgrace.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

西蒙娜·薇依

要長成一棵沒有葉子的樹
為了向上,不浪費精力
為了最後的果實不開花
為了開花而不結被動物吃掉的果子
不要強壯,要向上長
彎曲和枝杈都是毫無必要的
這是一棵多麼可怕的樹呀
沒有鳥兒築巢,也沒有蟲蟻
它否定了樹
卻長成了一根不朽之木

 

SIMONE WEIL

To rise as a leafless tree,
reaching higher, wasting nothing.
For the last fruits to skip the blooming,
to yield no fruit for the animal.
Grown not for strength but height,
no bends, no branches.
A fearsome tree,
with neither nests nor ants.
Denying its treeness,
making immortal timber.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

冬至節

冬至節到了
有人在路上燒紙
火光映亮了街邊的樹幹
這些活著的人變成了一些影子
去親近消逝的死者
在街邊,在牆角,在親人生活過的院子裏
損失和愧疚使他們得知
另一個世界的存在
像大地一樣黑沉沉
像火苗一樣靈敏熱烈

 

WINTER SOLSTICE

Winter solstice,
ghost money burning in the street.
Firelight on the tree trunks,
the living turned to shadows
reaching for the dead.
The walls, the corners, the courtyards
where those they knew once lived.
Guilt and sorrow
unveil the other world,
dark and heavy as the great earth,
sharp as these ardent flames.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

從白色的石頭間穿過

從白色的石頭間穿過,死者
不離我們更遠,也不更近
墓地總是這樣茂盛
作為風景,總是這樣獨立
春天它更綠,石頭更白

我的父親,今天是一頭水牛
在林間空地上吃草
比生前要強壯、隔絕
那些更小的動物
可能是我的祖父、祖母

我的外公,像山羊一樣順從
一隻小鳥飛過,或一隻蝴蝶
它們是更遠的祖先
地上闔上的棺木就像
手邊的這個豆莢

墓地在郊外提醒著人們
用它山頭的形狀
我從山坡上下來或站在原地
像草木間的另一件東西
既不同於草木也不同於墓碑

 

AMONG WHITE STONES

When I walk beside their white stones, these dead
seem no closer, but no farther,
the cemetery so luxuriant,
its own landscape
green with spring, the stones even whiter.

Today, my father’s a water buffalo
grazing forest glades,
stronger, more solitary than before.
Those smaller creatures
could be grandfather, grandmother.

Grandpa’s gone docile as a goat.
A small bird passes, a butterfly,
older ancestors,
their coffins underground
like bean-pods in the palm.

At the edge of town, the cemetery knoll
stands to remind. I stop a moment
on its downward slope,
unlike the grass or gravestones,
yet one thing more among them.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

善始善終

從床上開始的人生
在一張床上結束
儘量長久地呆在床上
儘管不一定睡得著
放松身體,向床學習
逐漸地便有了它的
麻木和淫蕩
而它也像我們一樣
呻吟或沉默

 

START WELL, END WELL

Life starts in bed
and ends there.
Try to stay in bed long enough
even if you can’t sleep.
Relax the body, learn from the bed.
Slowly one may attain
its numbness, its lechery.
Groaning or silent,
how like us.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell