AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL IN ENGLISH & CHINESE

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Winter 2015-16Issue 10

Liu Wai-tong, born 1975 in Guangdong Province, China, moved to Hong Kong in 1997. Poet, writer, and photographer, his honors from both Hong Kong and Taiwan include the Hong Kong Biennial Award for Chinese Literature, the China Times Literary Award, the United Daily News Prize, and the Hong Kong Arts Development Council Award for Best Literary Artist. Among his twelve poetry collections are Bitter AngelBlack Rain Must Fall; and Barbarous Night Songs. He has also published a short story collection, War Game in Eighteen Alleys, as well as numerous volumes of essays, criticism, and photography. After five years in Beijing, he returned to Hong Kong in 2005.

廖偉棠,詩人、作家、攝影師。1975年出生於廣東,後移居香港,曾在北京生活5年。曾獲香港文學獎雙年獎,臺灣時報文學獎,聯合報文學獎等,香港藝術發展獎2012年度最佳藝術家(文學),2011年臺北國際詩歌節、2013年鹿特丹國際詩歌節等受邀詩人。曾出版詩集《苦天使》、《少年游》、《黑雨將至》、《和幽靈一起的香港漫遊》、《野蠻夜歌》、《八尺雪意》、《半簿鬼語》等十二種,小說集《十八條小巷的戰爭遊戲》,散文集《衣錦夜行》和《有情枝》,雜文及攝影集《我們從此撤離,只留下光》、《波希香港.嬉皮中國》、《尋找倉央嘉措》,攝影集《孤獨的中國》、《巴黎無題劇照》,攝影評論集《遊目記》,讀書隨筆集《深夜讀罷一本虛構的宇宙史》,音樂隨筆集《反調》等。

有人在火焰裏捉迷藏

有人在黑暗中求光明;
有人擎花走,走進尼姑庵;
有人昨夜渡輪上,看驟雨海面上升騰;
有人轉工轉車,頻頻更換證件相;
有人把舊銅像磨出了光;
有人掀起一段鐵路尋找一粒草芥;
有人在紅布包上畫臉,星星點點;
有人深呼吸,被大霧淹斃;
有人傾囊而出,放煙花叢叢;
有人乘興遊山從此不見;
有人垂釣,因為一個夢而升官;
有人赤條條來去,大雪落滿身;
有人捕獲了雷公打算作為佳餚;
有人興建了樂園,表演舔刀刃;
有人下煤窯四個月,得小說一篇;
有人要在臨汾興建天安門;
有人甘掏五萬與史瓦辛格進餐;
有人為藝術隆胸并拒絕富商出價五百萬;
有人戴黑紗到政府總部上班;
有人把自己當飛機把蝴蝶結當螺旋槳;
有人摸黑掄斧,不惜自傷;
有人晝闖銀行,得鏽鏡一枚;
有人恩愛後翻臉,出示警官證;
有人瞎眼攀上通天藤;
有人在暴雨中酌酒獨飲;
有人辭官歸故里;
有人漏夜趕科場;
有人,在火焰裏捉迷藏,
全都,在火焰裏捉迷藏,
一個兵、一個賊,一個賊、一個兵……
夢裏不知風吹血,醒來方覺梟噬心。

注:「有人在黑暗中求光明,有人在火焰裏捉迷藏。」是電影《危樓春曉》中唱詞。

 

HIDE AND SEEK AMID FLAMES

Someone seeks light in darkness;
someone enters a nunnery, flowers in humble hands;
someone on the night ferry sees sudden rain leap from the surface;
someone changes jobs, changes buses, changes ID photos;
someone shines an old bronze statue;
someone hoists a section of railway, searching for grass seed;
someone draws faces on a red-cloth bag; they scatter like stars;
someone takes a deep breath in dense fog, drowning;
someone empties his wallet for bouquets of fireworks;
on an impulse, someone roams the mountain and vanishes forever;
someone fishing gets promoted in a dream;
someone born with nothing dies with nothing, drifts over with snow;
someone pickles the thunder god for a tasty dish;
someone builds a paradise, licking the knife edge in performance;
in a coal mine, someone descends four months, rises with a short story;
someone longs to build a Tiananmen in Linfen;
someone will pay fifty thousand to have dinner with Schwarzenegger;
someone with breast implants refuses a rich man’s bid of 5 million;
someone at government headquarters wears a black veil to work;
someone thinks he’s an airplane, his bow tie the propeller;
someone feels in the dark for an axe, careless his swings will gash himself;
someone breaks into a bank in daylight, steals only a tarnished mirror;
someone falls in love then falls out, showing his police badge;
someone blind climbs a vine that leads to heaven;
in a rainstorm, someone drinks alone, pouring his own wine;
someone resigns from a high position and goes home;
someone hurries overnight to the imperial exam;
someone plays hide and seek amid flames;
everyone plays hide and seek amid flames;
the soldier, the thief; the thief, the soldier.
A dream. Wind howls blood, oblivion. Wake to gnawing at the heart.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Note: Lyrics from the 1953 Hong Kong film In the Face of Demolition: “In darkness, someone seeks light; amid flames, someone plays hide and seek.”

皇后碼頭歌謠

共你淒風苦雨
共你披星戴月
——周耀輝《皇后大盜》

那夜我看見一垂釣者把一根白燭
放進碼頭前深水,給鬼魂們引路。
嗚嗚,我是一陣風,在此縈繞不肯去。

那夜我看見一弈棋者把棋盤填字,
似是九龍墨蹟家譜零碎然而字字天書。
嗚嗚,我是一陣風,在此縈繞不肯去。

那夜我看見一舞者把一襲白裙
舞成流雲,雲上有金猴怒目切齒。
吁吁,我是一陣雨,在此淅瀝不肯去。

那夜我看見一喪妻者鼓盆而歌,
歌聲清越仿如四十年前一少年無忌。
吁吁,我是一陣雨,在此淅瀝不肯去。

「共你披星戴月……」今夜我在碼頭燒信,
羣魔在都市的千座針尖上升騰,
我共你煮雨焚風,喚一場熔爐中的飛霜。

咄咄,我是一個人,在此咬指、書空。

 

BALLAD OF QUEEN’S PIER

Together we suffer cold wind, harsh rain.
Together we’re cloaked by stars, crowned by the moon.
—Chao Yiu-fai “The Queen’s Knaves”

That night I saw a fisherman lower a white candle
in deep water off the pier, lighting a path for the spirits.
Woo-oo, I’m a breath of wind, loitering a moment, don’t want to leave.

That night I saw a chess player scrawl characters on a chessboard,
like a Kowloon calligrapher’s sprawling script, each a mystery.
Woo-oo, I’m a breath of wind, loitering a moment, don’t want to leave.

That night I saw a dancer dance, her white dress
a flowing cloud, but overhead a gold monkey, glaring eyes, gnashing teeth.
Hoo-oosh, I’m a drizzle of rain, pattering, don’t want to leave.

That night I saw a widower drum a pot and sing,
clear and strong as forty years ago, a young man with no qualms.
Hoo-oosh, I’m a drizzle of rain, pattering, don’t want to leave.

“Together we’re cloaked by stars, crowned by the moon.”
Tonight I’m burning letters at the pier,
from a thousand building spires demons rise.
Together we boil the rain, ignite the wind, conjure from a furnace winged frost.

How absurd! I’m just one man, gnawing my fingers, scribbling in air.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

我曾經接觸過幸福

靈魂如野獸般陰霾
——曼德爾斯塔姆

我曾經接觸過幸福,
沿著生活的鋒刃拐彎。
黑鳥在冬夜裏婉轉鳴唱,
枯葉卻像天使們夾緊了翅膀。

我曾經走過春光明媚的河堤,
李花背後塞壬的歌聲兇猛。
就讓那些命運的姐妹懲罰我吧,
我仍然傾聽,讓黑夜把我捆綁。

傷口中最疼痛的是來自愛人的傷害,
我讀過一句最不幸的詩:
「我把殘酷的羞辱當作幸福,
我生活著,然而我身在夢境。」

今天的早晨不叫做早晨,叫做淪陷;
床也不叫做床,叫做荊棘叢林。
人卻不叫做天使,也許叫做餅乾,
我粉碎了,被冬天的胃消化吞嚥。

但是啊,我卻曾經接觸過幸福,
那些舊雪曾經新鮮,輕撫過我的臉。
我曾經穿著生活的冰刀滑冰,
那麼短暫,在天堂的陷阱上劃了個半圓。

 

I ONCE TOUCHED HAPPINESS

The soul’s dark as a wild beast.
—Mandelstam

Along life’s blade,
I turned once toward happiness.
Blackbirds trilled sweetly winter nights,
dead leaves the folded wings of angels.

I walked spring’s bright riverbank once,
the Sirens singing beyond plum blossoms.
I hear them still. May fate’s sisters punish me,
may night bind me.

One’s beloved wounds deepest;
I’ve read the darkest line:
“Delighting in cruel injury,
I live as in a dream.”

This morning is no morning, but a lost battle;
the bed no bed, but a thicket of thorns.
Man is no angel, but may be a biscuit,
crumbled, gulped, digested by winter.

I once touched happiness,
when old snow was fresh, stroking my face.
I once wore life’s ice skates,
around heaven’s pit
etching my brief half circle.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

登封羈旅有作

一回頭,窗外是金色的雪絮
紛落。原來是旅館霓虹映照。
他一個人,不知道為什麼在此地看雪。
在登封,明天的節慶可能因大雪而終止,
他明天的工作可能因大雪而烏有,
明天的他可能裹紅裘入大雪中
醉唱僧謠。「五里外哪——是少林……」

電話響,那一頭是暗淡的醫院
點滴。原來整個世界已成沙漏,點滴
坍塌又堆起。她一個人在點滴,
已經第八天,在北京、哈爾濱,又在北京。
搖晃的藥瓶中,葡萄糖積成了雪,
雪中陰霾,又明亮,有山有水有小路,
小路上,人佇立。「任那風霜——風霜撲面乾……」

 

A VISITOR IN DENGFENG

Past the window, snow blossoms
glide down, gilded in hotel neon.
He stares alone in Dengfeng, uncertain why.
Should heavy snow stop tomorrow’s festival,
he’ll have to do nothing
but throw the red fur coat across his shoulders
and wade through drifts, tipsy,
singing like a monk: “Five li off—lies Shaolin…”

The phone rings. The gloomy hospital,
the IV drip. The world’s an hourglass, grain by grain
caving in, piling up. She’s alone,
eight days already on the drip,
first Beijing, then Harbin, then again Beijing.
The glass bottle tilts, glucose sways like snow.
In snow, there’s shadow, light, mountain, water, and a path.
On the path, someone stands waiting.
“Let the cold wind—the cold wind blow upon a clean face.”

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

蘇格蘭雨四章

1
它來得急速、準確
可稱之為「捕快」,如蘇格蘭場
黑風衣騎警夜夜馳巡。
蘇格蘭的芭蕾花也連夜換妝
盜取雨的私情。

2
雨周圍卻是馬戲、人為末日。
岩石般的雨拼命洗,也洗不去
朱門血味:被絞死的瑪麗女王、
海盜、銀行……讓今日龐克
享樂「藝術」的獻媚。

3
另一地雨更兇猛了,另一地的
憤怒,卻已把目的忘記。

4
我聞之颯颯,舊修院旁夜夜,
把雨比之刀斧、我曾受弒的過去。

 

SCOTLAND’S RAIN, FOUR CHAPTERS

1
It comes in a rush, quick
as a mounted cop in black
swoops down. Overnight,
Scottish blooms alter their attire
for the rain’s affections.

2
Rain falls on the great circus, the doomscape wrought by men.
Rain pelts hard as stones, but can’t wash off
the blood on noble doors. Queen Mary
to the block, pirates, bankers. Today’s punks
relish “art’s” flattery.

3
Elsewhere, the rain’s ferocity,
elsewhere, aimless fury.

4
Night after night I hear it, rustling beside the old seminary,
as if rain were sword, were axe, slaughtering my past.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

讀中唐史

突然半夜裏下起雪來,
有人在青色的雪地上易子而食。
去年今天,我在這裏
為即將死在返鄉途中的長官寫過一首壯行詩。

叛軍打著火把走過江邊
走過我的身邊并唱著胡人的歌。
唱就唱吧,反正我也聽不懂,
如今我的白衫破爛但我更像一朵花了。

 

MID-TANG HISTORY

Midnight, suddenly more snow
on snow-blue ground. To eat,
some exchange dead babies.
Last year to the day, I was here
composing a cheery farewell verse
for an officer who’d die going home.

On the riverbank, the rebel army
passing with torches,
singing some barbaric tune.
Let them; I can’t make out a word.
Today, my white shift tattered,
I’m more like a flower.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

some exchange dead babies: In periods of war, siege, and famine throughout Chinese history, it was said that starving and desperate parents, whose infants had just died, might exchange the small corpses with those from other families, not wishing to eat their own. In this way, survivors might live. The Tang dynasty lasted from 618-906 AD.

十四行

來生我願意做一個安達露西亞女子,
跳著佛拉明高撕碎、拋散自己的一片海。

或者庫爾德高地上的一株櫻桃樹,
看著黑馬來去、花瓣落向老詩人的窗戶。

要麼乾脆是塔爾寺上空的一朵雲,
清淨空中的微雷、旋生旋滅的咒語。

現在我是空餘鐵甲的騎兵,在中國東北
枕戈待旦,聽聞怒雪落滿了黃河以南。

就像上個世紀一個叛變的白俄,流放營中
聽那年輕的西亞人回憶他的妻子和烏德琴。

八千人在積雪上灑著工業鹽,八個電工
在冰封的電塔上過冬,再也不下來這莽莽人間。

我空餘鐵甲、孤獨魚的鱗片——
一片作為燒水的烙鐵,另一片徹夜敲響。

 

SONNET

Next life I want to be an Andalusian woman,
dancing flamenco, shredding my own patch of sea.

Or a cherry tree in the Kurdish highlands, seeing a black horse
come and go, seeing petals waft past an old poet’s window.

Or just a cloud over Kumbum Monastery,
mild thunder in cool air, an incantation vanished in a breath.

Or I’ll be a cavalryman, armored, in Manchuria, my pillow a halberd,
waiting for dawn. Snow heaps its fury south of the Yellow River.

Or a White Russian, last century, banished to a camp,
hearing a West Asian remember his wife, his oud.

Eight thousand spread industrial salt on drifted snow. Eight electricians
all night on frozen high tension lines, never more to set foot on this earth.

I’m alone with my armor, its big fishlike scales;
on one I scald water, on another I hammer night’s tune.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

oud: Lute-like instrument played across Arabic and Muslim regions of Africa, the Mediterranean, and Central Asia.

夜行獸

古城燭火道,
烈夜帶著濁水舔我的眉毛。
一隊白衣人笑喪。

一隊死人送活漢……
我甚至已經聞到了他們城外的饅頭。
我幾乎是貼著墻上畫疾走——
不,我簡直是一把摸黑的剃刀!

中國在這裏,一塊街上的髒冰,
眾生皆滑倒。完了,
不再是彩繪呂布,刀劍畫戟已朽。

在這裏,就是在這裏!
他們吮著我的利爪,
聖人沒,麒麟出,萬箭齊發,
可惜我不是。猶在煤車狂燈間傾軋。

旅人思夜,終無益,
噩夢燒壞了懷中書。

一個刺客翻身跳回雕梁,
萬年後不知可有劫世大火?一眨眼。

 

NIGHT WALKING BEAST

Ancient city, path lit by candles;
dark miasma licks my brows.
A cortège, clothed in white, all smiling.

Thus the dead lead on the living.
I can almost smell steamed bread, graveyard offerings.
I race along the city wall,
slicing night.

This is China, a sooty ice chunk on the street,
tumbling anyone. It’s all over,
no more Lü Bu in color, his sword, his painted halberd rusted through.

Here, right here!
The mourners taste my slashing claws.
Sages vanish, a qilin appears, ten thousand arrows shoot at once.
Phantom lights amid coal cars, endless discord.

A night traveler longs pointlessly;
dark dreams ignite the letter in his breast.

An assassin vaults for the ridge beam.
In ten thousand years, a great conflagration may scour the world.
One blink away.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

qilin: A mythical Chinese animal, hooved and horned, but scaled and with a tiger’s head. Qilin are said to appear at the arrival or death of sages and important persons.

讀廖亦武獄中詩集《古拉格情歌》

這麼多人,一九九〇年的中國這麼多人,
這麼多人卻空空如也。
——廖亦武

想像是不必的,隱喻是不必的,
寫作也不必。然而我們寫著。
即使我們的筆頭不碰上鐵,鐵
最終也要來折斷我們。

比喻為獸是不必的,呼喚為兄
也不必——儘管十年前我曾呼喚,
十年前我也曾蘸骨灰寫信:
死亡是不必的,血落上雪卻是必然。

苛求詩藝亦不必,只有龐德
才能把鐵欄想為五線譜:明亮上揚。
撰寫文學史的筆觸及不了歷史,
觸及也是不必的,記憶的高貴並不需要。

這麼多人,從一九九〇年的中國
湧向二〇〇二年的中國,我被虛無撞傷。
烈士或商人,古拉格或北京:
將有另一些人重新執筆,書寫鬼魂。

療傷是不必的,從傷中取墨卻是必然。

 

READING LIAO YIWU’S GULAG BALLADS

So many people in 1990 China. So many people, so empty.
—Liao Yiwu

No need to imagine. No need for metaphor.
No need to write. Yet we still create.
Our pens can’t sway the iron hand, the hand
that will one day break us.

No need to find a simile for beast, no need
to show respect. Ten years ago I tried,
my pen dipped in ash:
no need to die, but blood must spill on snow.

No need to demand poetic art, Pound alone
saw steel bars as staves for music: brightness ascends.
The pen composes literature, not history;
no need to touch—memory’s nobility doesn’t require it.

In China, so many people from 1990
surging toward 2002. Nihilism hurts me.
Martyrs or businessmen, Gulag or Beijing:
someone else takes up the pen, inscribing ghosts.

No need to heal. Ink seeps from wounds.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

孫悟空

空無的寺院,迴廊包圍,禪修夜。
我有我自己的心魔浩蕩
狂暴來襲。那呆子還不知道
只是驚慌逃命:「悟空!悟空!
快來救我!」他以為自己是師父不成?
在重疊廊柱後我能窺見他笨拙身影,
我默不作聲,藏自己於穿堂風。
「悟空!你不出來,我只好變成你了!」
於是我看見他變了嵌金花帽、黃袍、虎皮裙,
暗火一般在茫茫黑夜中前進,
這是另一個我在抵擋那個更兇悍的我:
他大、且無形。惡風四起,竹葉似刀撲面。
我只能跑、跑、跑!那呆子卻彷彿跟緊,
「救我!」那是另一個我在向我呼叫,
我回頭還能看見他的金睛火眼。
我只能跑、跑、跑!穿過屏風、紙門、
枯山水和大盆景,穿過舊朝代、停車場、
所有空無的汽車,我稍一邁步就騰空了,
再一使勁就上了筋斗雲。一眨眼就是高空萬丈,
明月照遍寒雲,千里眼也看不見,這青青世界
在我下方洶湧。月光不知道從哪裏流溢滿這世界,
我飄浮其中,滿身是悲觀。
我看見遠處飄來幾架戰鬥機的殘骸也彷彿鬼魂,
不禁怒從心生,揮動金箍棒
世界隨即無從遁形,隨著破碎而出現:
那些光輝燦爛的城市聳起、傾斜、顛倒於我四面八方。
那些光輝燦爛的城市啊,多年後當我回來我將不見,
如今我卻是目睹末日廢墟的唯一一人。
這是我二十九歲的最後一天,我夢見我是孫悟空,
就在這一剎那驚醒。

 

SUN WUKONG

Empty temple, winding cloisters, night of zen meditations.
But my own frenzied heart
swells with mischief. That moron monk knows nothing,
fleeing for his life, shouting in panic: ”Wukong! Help!
Wukong!”, thinking he’s master.
Through the forest of pillars I spot his clumsy form,
but stay silent, hiding in the shadowy draft.
“Wukong! Show yourself or I’ll turn into you!”
He conjures my magic hat, my golden robe, my tiger-skin,
like a dim flame advancing in vast darkness,
another me fighting the more vicious me,
huge, invisible. Evil wind roars from four directions.
Like daggers, bamboo leaves rake my face.
Run! I can only run, that blockhead at my heels, crying
“Save me!”, self calling out to self,
behind me his flaming eyes, golden gaze.
I run through folding screens, paper doors,
withered mountains, waters, fake landscapes,
old dynasties, modern parking lots,
their vacant cars. With one more step
I’m walking on air, with another vaulting onto clouds.
In a single blink, ten thousand zhang aloft,
where moonlight shines through frigid heights,
where thousand-li eyes can’t even see
this fresh green earth pulsing below.
From nowhere, moonlight spills across the globe.
I drift through it, filled with gloom.
Far off, a few damaged fighter planes rise like ghosts.
Furious, I wave my gold-banded staff,
shattering the world to fragments. No place to hide:
the fabled cities rise, sway, tumble down.
Years later, if I came back, they’d still be gone,
myself the final witness to their ruin. This last day
of my twenty-ninth year, I dream I’m Sun Wukong,
until the moment I wake shivering.

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

Sun Wukong: The legendary Monkey King from the classic Chinese novel Journey to the West, recounting the adventures of a Tang-dynasty monk traveling overland to India for Buddhist sutras. The Monkey, endowed with various supernatural powers, is bound by the goddess Guanyin to protect the monk on this journey, though his nature brings on both rebellious and picaresque escapades. Various filmed versions have been broadcast across Asia.