AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL IN ENGLISH & CHINESE
Spring 2016 | Issue 11
Poet and translator Shu Cai (Chen Shucai) was born in Fenghua, Zhejiang province, China, in 1965. He graduated in 1987 from the French Department of Beijing Foreign Studies University, then joined the Chinese diplomatic corps, serving from 1990 to 1994 in the Republic of Senegal. In 1999, with Chinese contemporary poetry splitting between “Intellectual” and ”Folk” strains, he and fellow poets Mo Fei and Che Qianzi initiated the “The Third Way”, believing each poet should find his or her individual path. His published work includes the poetry collections Alone; Short Poems; Selected Poems; and Rhythm Practice, along with Glimpse, a volume of essays. His books of translations are Selected Poems of Pierre Reverdy; Selected Poems of René Char; Selected Poems of Yves Bonnefoy (co-translated with Guo Hong’an); Selected Greek Poems (co-translated with Ma Gaoming); and Nine French Poets. Among his honors are the 2005 Xu Zhimo Poetry Prize and the 2011 Laurel Translation Award of China. In 2008, he received the France’s “Médaille du Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Palmes Académiques”. Recently he has taken special interest in children’s literary education, teaching poetry classes through the internet. A literature Ph.D., and member of the Foreign Literature Institute at the Chinese Academy of Social Science, Shu Cai lives in Beijing, Dali (Yunnan Province), and Paris.
樹才（1965—），原名陳樹才，浙江奉化人。詩人，翻譯家。文學博士。在北京、大理、巴黎三地生活。1987年畢業於北京外國語大學法語系。1990-1994年在中國駐塞內加爾使館任外交官。現就職於中國社會科學院外國文學研究所。大學期間開始詩歌創作。1999年與莫非、車前子一起提出並倡導「第三條道路寫作」，以揚棄「知識分子寫作」與「民間立場寫作」之間的二元對立。他把「第三條道路寫作」闡釋為「每一位詩人都有自己的路可走」。著有作品：詩集《單獨者》、《樹才短詩選》、《樹才詩選》、《節奏練習》等，隨筆集《窺》，譯詩集《勒韋爾迪詩選》、《夏爾詩選》、《博納富瓦詩選》（與郭宏安合譯）、《希臘詩選》（與馬高明合譯）、《法國九人詩選》等。2005年獲首屆「徐志摩詩歌獎」。2011年獲首屆「中國桂冠詩歌翻譯獎」。2008年獲法國政府授予的「教育騎士勳章」。自2014年起，通過網絡視頻授課，致力於「兒童詩歌寫作」教育。
馬甸橋
24小時。連續24小時——
這是晝和夜加在一起的分量。
在橋邊，一個人滋生危險的念頭。
一天一天，你傷害了多少時光！
在每一個路口，危險和危險擦肩而過。
橋上所見的紛亂，
橋下所承受的震動……
生活，在路上。家庭只是
停靠站。輪胎冒煙，出汗，滾燙……
遲早的車禍粉碎了對前途的算計。
從這邊看，又從那邊看，
馬甸橋沒有內部，只是空穴。
過路的紅裙，上下顫動的乳房，
松柏的生長缺乏氧氣……
茶樹用渾圓理解形式主義。
24小時。連續24小時——
小轎車，自行車，馬車，重型卡車……
危險的預感逼迫人一次次出門。
推遲那個夢，或在夢中醒著！
有什麼更好的辦法對付這噪音？
還得把生活掙來，
還得把肉和蔬菜拎上樓……
MADIAN BRIDGE
24 hours. Hour after hour,
each day’s weight, each night’s.
At the bridge rail, someone breeds dark thoughts.
Day after day, so much wounded time!
At each crossroads, danger rubs shoulders with danger.
On the bridge, traffic’s turmoil.
Below, tremor and rumbling load.
Life, a highway. Family
a brief stop. Tires smoldering, sweating, scalding hot.
Sooner or later, an accident smashes the plan.
From this side or that
Madian Bridge has no interior, only an empty arch.
The red skirt passing by, the trembling breasts;
for pine and cypress, not enough air.
Tea trees embrace their formal spheres.
24 hours. Hour after hour,
cars, bicycles, horse carts, heavy trucks.
Again and again fear drives us from the house.
Put off your dream, or wake in it.
How else to deal with this racket?
Still have to make a living.
Still have to lug upstairs the vegetables, the meat.
某個人
某個人？可以是你，是我，是他。
某個人躲在某個名字下。
某個人喃喃低語，對風說話。
某個人不知道自己叫什麼。
某個人死了！臉過渡為面具。
有幾種面具不能讓婦女看見。
但在人類的廚房裏，時間的
菜刀，需要死亡這塊磨刀石。
某個人，見過面的，說過話的，
死了的，還未出生的……
某個人正迎面走來，
某個人已擦肩而過。
據說某個人生來清白，
據說柏拉圖經曆了蘇格拉底之死，
通過他的嘴，死亡唾沫四濺，
通過他的筆，死者重返街道。
某個人，生於XXX，
死於XXX。
生死之間，夾著一小段生活。
而生活，是負債的過程。
死亡是中斷。某個人繼續……
SOMEONE
Someone, maybe you, maybe him, maybe me.
Someone hides behind a title.
Someone mutters to the wind.
Someone doesn’t know his name.
Someone’s dead, his face become a mask.
Some masks are kept from women.
In this human kitchen, the knife of time
craves its fatal stone.
Someone’s met once, spoken to,
dead or not yet born.
Someone walks toward other faces.
Someone brushes past.
It’s said someone’s born innocent.
It’s said Plato’s words
relive the death of Socrates.
His mouth spews death’s spittle,
he writes, and a dead man walks the street.
Someone born one year
dies another. Pinched
between birth and death, this interlude’s
a process of arrears.
Death takes a breather. Someone presses on.
閱讀
上午的閱讀
下午的苦悶
每一本書是一隻口袋
摸到底，感覺是空的
站立的是一棵棵樹
坐著的是沉默的土地
走來走去的人類，走累了
躺在樹蔭下閱讀
青菜一壟，昨天剛種下
「怎樣才能讓它們
在生長的同時，接受
走向菜刀的宗教？」
READING
Read in the morning,
depressed by afternoon,
each book an empty pocket,
holed.
Trees one beside another,
silent land. We pace up and down,
reclining, weary, reading in the shade.
A row of vegetables, just sown—
as they grow, how to say
they must accept
the doctrine of the knife?
虛無也結束不了
虛無也結束不了……
到時候，這世界還會有
高過人類頭頂的風，還會有
比愛情更晚熄滅的火，還會有
比自由還要自由的……“沒有”
虛無是一隻殼
更是殼裏的空空
嶄新的苔蘚又綠成一片
那些唱出的歌已經入雲
那些做詩的人正拿起筷子
虛無也結束不了……
那戳破窗紙的人只瞥了
一眼，後半生已經變了
活不下去？還得活下去
虛——無，這中間有一條縫
虛無能結束那當然好……
你也就沒機會再寫什麼
高矮胖瘦，都過去了
我們也會過去的！拐彎處
虛無翻了翻我的襯衣角
EVEN NOTHINGNESS WON’T END
Even nothingness won’t end.
Winds surge on
overhead. If love’s extinguished,
something burns still.
Beyond freedom
nothing is more free.
Nothing is the husk
of emptiness.
New moss extends its green.
Syllables of songs pierce clouds.
Poets raise their chopsticks.
Even nothingness won’t end.
With a glance, someone perforates a paper window,
changing his whole life.
Can’t keep living? In the space
between nothing and ness
you must.
If nothingness ends, fine,
no chance to write anything.
Tall, fat, short, skinny, it all concludes
as we will! At this streetcorner
nothingness flips my shirt-tail.
葉落
現在。一切又靜止下來
比如老人，盡情地
忘掉自身，沐浴著
陽光的沙粒
比如我隔窗觀賞
葉落紛紛。沒有風吹來
又比如掃街的人
清理大地上的落葉，把它們堆在一起
你以為他們要掏出火柴來燒
他們卻置身生命的秋天，沉吟
一陣風吹來
秋天含滿了街道
落葉單薄的身影
貼在時間乾淨的牆上
FALLING LEAVES
Now. Everything once more goes silent,
like the old, trying hard to forget themselves,
basking in the granules of sunlight,
like me at the window, pleased
at the leaves’ one-by-one descent. No wind.
Like those sweepers
raking the broad earth into leafpiles.
You think they’ll fish out matches and start the burn,
but they pause in this fall moment, speaking softly.
A gust strews
autumn all over the street;
shapes of dry leaves, thin and frail,
stick to time’s clean wall.
這枯瘦肉身
我該拿這枯瘦肉身
怎麼辦呢？
答案或決定權
似乎都不在我手中。
手心空寂，如這秋風
一吹，掌紋能不顫動？
太陽出來一曬，
落葉們都服服帖帖。
牽掛這塵世，只欠
一位母親的溫暖——
比火焰低調，比愛綿長，
挽留著這枯瘦肉身。
任你逃到哪裏，房屋
仍把你囚於四牆。
只好看天，漫不經心，
天色可由不得你。
走著出家的路，
走著回家的路……
我該拿什麼來比喻
我與這枯瘦肉身的關系呢？
一滴水？不。一片葉？
不。一朵雲？也不！
也許只是一堆乾柴，
落日未必能點燃它，
但一個溫暖的眼神，
沒准就能讓它燒起來，
燒成灰，燒成塵，
沿著樹梢，飛天上去……
THIS WITHERING BODY
What should I do
with this withering body?
Not in my hands,
neither the answer nor the right to decide.
Open and quiet, in autumn breeze
how can the palm not tremble?
Sunlight,
these docile fallen leaves.
I worry at this dusty world,
indebted to a mother’s warmth—
humbler than flame, steadier than love—
cradling this withering body.
Wherever you run, houses
lock you in four walls.
Glance at the sky:
that tint’s not up to you.
The road to the temple,
the road home.
What figure should I use
for my own withering flesh?
A water bead, a leaf,
a cloud in bloom?
Maybe a cord of dry firewood
sunset won’t ignite,
but with one sharp look
could burn
to ash, to dust
rising past the treetops.
魚
看那些聰明的魚
我想它肚子裏一定有人
那個人就縮在魚尾裏
指揮魚頭的智慧
看那些聰明的魚
我不敢想吃了它能長肉
而它被剁進碗裏
有時是整條端上
看那些聰明的魚
我常一個人，坐在水邊羨慕
它們不費力氣
卻在水的土裏潛入很深
FISH
Such clever fish.
Hunched in each belly
or curled in each tail,
someone must steer
the wise head.
Such clever fish.
Don’t think I’d gain strength if I ate one,
but here it comes, chopped in a tureen
or whole on the platter.
Such clever fish.
I sit by the water sometimes,
alone, envious. How they slip
without effort to the depths.
登高
在山頂上，當你回首
你一下子累垮了——
這罕有的高度使你暗自吃驚
走過的路像一條漫長的河
你，源頭，感到心血流空
你朝下看，一直看進記憶深處
山坡上空然跑滿了羚羊
你祈禱牠們抵達山頂
但很快，牠們就消失在陰影中
像一隻握有秘密的手
在你眼前忽地一晃
這些羚羊，頃刻間
又回歸虛無
你走過的路，在黃昏中
像一條河，閃閃發光
CLIMBING THE HEIGHTS
At the peak, you glance back
and finally collapse.
This great height amazes,
the trail upward a long stream,
yourself, your heart’s blood,
the freshet.
You gaze down through deep memory.
On the slope, out of nowhere, clambering antelopes.
You hope they reach the summit
but they slip into shadow.
Like a hand bearing a secret
flashed once before your eyes,
they melt
into emptiness.
This road you walked, like a river
at evening, gleams with trembled light.
失去的統一
他需要一個王國，
就像需要水。
沒有水，他乾渴。
沒有王國，他不幸。
鄉野上，他彎腰，
種田，割稻。
如今，這雙勞動者的手
撫摸著虛無的大風。
他需要一個王國，
就像需要自身。
沒有自身，他無法生存。
沒有王國，他該去哪裏？
時間是大海：完整，粉碎。
到處是將行的路。
他坐在海邊，
眺望遙遠的王國。
但他不是國王，
他甚至在王國之外，
就像在記憶中，想像是主人
而在想像中，記憶找回
失去的主人。
ONENESS LOST
He needs a kingdom
as the living need water.
Without water, thirst.
Without a kingdom, misfortune.
In the farm field, he bends,
tilling, sickling rice.
Like wind his big hands
weave emptiness.
He needs a kingdom
as the living need a self.
Without self, nonexistence.
Without a kingdom, what road?
Time is a sea shattered whole,
paths at every point.
Perched by the high shore,
he scans for the distant realm.
No king,
he’s past all kingdoms.
Imagination may rule memory’s ocean,
but in what’s imagined, memory claims
the mastery it’s lost.
日子
日子光長葉，不開花
時間的碎塊，
日常生活的粉末，
灰塵和臭味，可觸，可聞……
日子光長葉，不開花
一些人被洪水捲走了，
另一些上岸換鞋，
就是沒工夫看一眼周圍……
日子光長葉，不開花
趕路的腦袋上下錯動，
平板車上的家禽站都站不穩，
有一棵樹因缺氧而頭疼……
日子光長葉，不開花
造不完的大樓，
數不清的燈，
夜空的廣告牌上月亮
被標上價出售……
日子光長葉，不開花
時間的碎塊，
日常生活的粉末，
這代人正把下一代往
懸崖上推……
懸崖上的日子光長葉，
不開花。
DAYS
Days grow only leaves, never blooming
Shards of hours,
dust of daily life,
grit, palpable stinks
Days grow only leaves, never blooming
Some lives swept away by floods,
others make the shore, change shoes,
no time to look around
Days grow only leaves, never blooming
Pressed on the journey, heads bob up and down
In the cart, even chickens lose their footing
Starved for oxygen, the trees’ heads ache
Days grow only leaves, never blooming
Huge mansions going up,
countless lights,
the moon on that billboard
stamped with a price
Days grow only leaves, never blooming
Shards of hours,
dust of daily life,
one generation shoves the next
toward the precipice
Days on the cliff grow only leaves,
never blooming
單獨者
這是正午！心靈確認了。
太陽直射進我的心靈。
沒有一棵樹投下陰影。
我的體內，冥想的煙散盡，
只剩下藍，佛教的藍，統一……
把塵世當作天庭照耀。
我在大地的一隅走著，
但比太陽走得要慢，
我總是遇到風……
我走著，我的心靈就產生風，
我的衣襟就產生飄動。
鳥落進樹叢。石頭不再拒絕。
因為什麼，我成了單獨者？
在陽光的溫暖中，石頭敞亮著，
像暮年的老人在無言中敘說……
傾聽者少。聽到者更少。
石頭畢竟不是鳥。
誰能真正生活得快樂而簡單？
不是地上的石頭，不是天上的太陽……
ALONE
Noon! The soul affirmed.
Sunlight arrows through my heart
and not one tree casts shadows.
Inside my body, smoky depths of thought
thinned blue, Buddhist blue, all oneness,
this dusty world ashine as heaven’s mansions.
I walk one edge of earth,
my slow pace slower than the sun,
the wind always there to meet me.
Each step, wind rises in my heart,
my coat drifts open to the air.
Birds let down to branches. Stones refuse no longer.
What brings me to such solitude?
In sunlight this stone seems welcoming,
like someone in the dusk of life speaking through silence.
Few listen. Fewer hear.
No stone can be a bird.
Who lives simply, happily?
Not a stone on earth, not the sun in the sky.
安寧
我想寫出此刻的安寧
我心中枯草一樣馴服的安寧
被風吹送著一直升向天庭的安寧
我想寫出這住宅小區的安寧
汽車開走了停車場空蕩蕩的安寧
兒童們奔跑奶奶們閑聊的安寧
我想寫出這風中的清亮的安寧
草莖顫動著噝噝響的安寧
老人褲管裏瘦骨的安寧
我想寫出這泥地上濕乎乎的安寧
陽光鋪出的淡黃色的安寧
斷枝裂隙間乾巴巴的安寧
我想寫出這樹影籠罩著的安寧
以及樹影之外的安寧
以及天地間青藍色的安寧
我這麼想著沒功夫再想別的
我這麼想著一路都這麼想著
佔據我全身心的，就是這
——安寧
TRANQUILITY
I want to set down the tranquility of this moment,
tranquility tame as the grass withered in my heart,
tranquility lofted by wind toward heaven.
I want to set down the tranquility of this compound,
the tranquility of its parking lot emptied of cars,
the tranquility of children running, grandmothers chatting.
I want to set down the clear and bright tranquility of the breeze,
the whispered tranquility of the weedstalk, shivering,
the bony tranquility of old people’s pantlegs.
I want to set down the damp tranquility of muddy ground,
the flaxen tranquility of spread sunlight,
the dry tranquility within the splintered branch.
I want to set down the tranquility shrouded by tree shade,
and the tranquility beyond the shade,
from earth to sky this green-to-blue tranquility.
Thinking this, I think of nothing else.
Thinking this, it overwhelms me,
soul and body, this
—tranquility.
