AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL IN ENGLISH & CHINESE
Winter 2013-14 | Issue 4
Sun Wenbo, born in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, was raised by his grandfather in rural Huayin, Shanxi Province, and finished middle school in Chengdu. During the Cultural Revolution, he was “sent down” at 17 to three years of countryside labor. Following army service as a vehicle mechanic, he worked as a factory lathe operator in Chengdu, where he also began reading and eventually writing poetry. Later he became a correspondence teacher for a poetry magazine, then a newspaper editor. Co-founder of several poetry journals, notably Red Flag, The Nineties, Against, and Little Magazine, he co-edited Chinese Poetry: Recalling the Nineties, and Chinese Poetry Criticism. He is currently chief editor of Contemporary Poetry.
His poetry volumes include Traveling on a Map (1997), Love Song for Xiao Bei (1998), Poetry of Sun Wenbo (2001), Regarding the Unregarded (2011), and New Landscape Poems (2012). His literary essays are collected in Writing Amid Change (2010), while his poems have been anthologized in Collected Post-Misty Poetry, The Great Collection of Chinese 20th Century New Poetry, and Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China (Copper Canyon, U.S.). He’s appeared at the Rotterdam International Poetry Festival and Berlin’s Literature House Chinese Poetry Festival, and his work has been translated into English, Spanish, Dutch, and Swedish. Among his honors are the first Liu Li’an Poetry Prize, the Pearl River Poetry Prize, the first Changyu Poetry Prize, and “The First Reader” Poetry Prize. After 13 years in Beijing, he returned to Chengdu in 2009.
孫文波。1956年出生。四川成都人。從小隨祖父在陝西華陰農村生活,在成都讀完中學。1973年2月下放四川廣元農村當「知青」三年。1976年2月由下放之地應征在陝西西安服兵役三年,做汽車修理工作。1979年3月退役,因父母關係回到成都。1979年10月進入當地一家工廠從事車工工作。1987年自動辭職離開工廠。1988年應聘一家詩歌雜誌為函授教師。1992年應聘於一家報社任編輯。1997年離開該報社。1996年至2009年生活在北京。2009年至今生活在成都。孫文波在工廠時開始接觸文學,在大量閱讀的基礎上於1985年開始詩歌寫作。1986年起在國內外多種刊物發表作品。1990年以後亦開始詩歌批評的寫作。作品被收入《後朦朧詩全集》、《中國二十世紀新詩大典》等多種選本。被翻譯成英語、西班牙語、荷蘭語、瑞典語。曾與詩人傅維等人共同創辦詩歌刊物《紅旗》;與詩人肖開愚、張曙光共同創辦詩歌刊物《九十年代》、《反對》;與詩人林木共同創辦詩歌刊物《小雜志》,與詩人肖開愚、臧棣共同主編《中國詩歌評論》,與詩人王家新共同主編《中國詩歌:九十年代備忘錄》。主編《當代詩》。1996年獲首屆「劉麗安詩歌獎」,2009年獲「珠江國際詩歌節大獎」,2011年獲「首屆暢語詩歌獎」,2013年獲「第一朗讀者詩歌成就獎」。1998年6月受邀參加第29屆荷蘭「鹿特丹國際詩歌節」,2002年受邀參加德國文學宮「中國詩歌節」。迄今已著有詩集《地圖上的旅行》(1997)、《給小蓓的儷歌》(1998)、《孫文波的詩》(2001)、《與無關有關》(2011)、《新山水詩》(2012),文論集《在相對性中寫作》(2010)。
孫文波是中國少有幾位從上個世紀80年代開始寫詩到2000年後仍然保持旺盛創作力的實力詩人之一,而且越寫越有高度。對年輕一代詩人產生了深遠的影響。
夜泳之歌
深夜,到京密引水渠游泳,
只有這時可以不穿游泳褲,
無比舒服!輕輕劃水靜靜地想。
累了,躺在水裏,抬頭望夜空,
一顆顆星星,明亮。感歎自己不懂
星象學,惟一認識的只是北斗七星
——一把大勺掛在虛無之中央。
胡亂猜測人馬是哪一個,天秤又是哪一個。
覺得一片像柔美天鵝,另一片像雄壯獅子。
突然感到水中有什麼東西在腿上輕碰,
低下頭,透過水看見好像是魚。
這是多麼愜意的事情!
水與天空彷彿屬於我一人——幾句詩
就此跳出來——深夜,赤裸身體游泳,
我希望游得靈魂像星光出竅,
在水是天鵝,在天是人面獅。
NIGHT SWIM, A SONG
Midnight,
swimming in the Jing-Mi canal,
the only time you don’t need trunks.
Incomparable! Paddling in silent thought,
or tired, floating on my back.
Night sky, bright stars.
The only thing I know about astronomy
is the Big Dipper
in the void, scooping emptiness.
I make wild guesses
which is Sagittarius,
which Libra,
there the graceful swan,
the mighty lion.
Something lightly taps my leg—
I put my head in the water, looking for a fish.
How marvelous
to be emperor
of water and sky!
At once some lines leap out—
deep night, nude swim,
if only the soul could slip free
like starlight,
swan on the water,
sphinx in the sky.
記憶中的奶牛場
它在鐵路新村後面的竹林中,
我和同伴經常翻柵欄進去,
那裏,一頭公牛與成群母牛隔開。
我們喜歡圍著工人看他擠奶,
聽奶水射入桶中發出的哧哧聲。
有一次,我和同伴站在柵欄外
用彈弓打那隻公牛,牠
發出痛苦吼叫,驚動了飼養員,
他衝出想抓我們,而我們
鑽進竹林跑掉。就是在那裏,
我目睹了生殖和死亡的過程——
牛犢熱漉漉的從母牛體內落下
很快便站立,看得我目瞪口呆。
更讓我目瞪口呆的是生下公牛,
飼養員會把牠們殺死,當
尖利的刀刺入牛犢體內又拔出,
噴湧的血像地毯,鋪滿一地。
THE DAIRY FARM REMEMBERED
Past the bamboo grove behind New Railway Village
my pals and I used to jump the fence
that kept the bull from the cows.
We’d bunch around the dairyman
and hear the milk chirr into the pail.
Once, outside the wire,
we stung the bull with slingshots—
when it bellowed, the dairyman
chased us off, but we watched
from the bamboo while a calf,
steaming hot, slipped free of its mother’s body
and stood up. We saw
it was a male, and males
were killed at birth. When the bright blade
slid into its throat and out,
blood gushed,
covering the earth like a carpet.
文革鏡像
一場武鬥之後,二十幾輛卡車
放下擋板,載著屍體在街上緩緩前進。
我懷著好奇的心情站在街角,
加入觀望的人群,聽人們談論
子彈鑽進人體如何像花一樣炸開。
我眼前出現幻景:一朵朵花
從人的頭頂、胸前、背部綻放。
我還注意到:在一輛車上,
從包裹的屍布露出的腳,一隻穿著鞋,
另一隻襪子爛著洞,露出腳趾。
它使我想起爺爺有一次告訴
我的話:人死時穿著什麼,
到了陰朝地府,會一直那樣穿戴。
注:一九六七年五月二十三日,成都一三二廠發生了四川省第一起動用槍支的大規模的武鬥,死者好像達六十多人。我所看到的屍體遊行就是這次武鬥後的事。
REFLECTIONS ON THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION
After a firefight, scores of trucks
came slowly down the street,
tailgates dropped, stacked with bodies.
I stood at the corner with a curious heart,
watching the others, listening to the talk
of how bullet wounds bloom.
I had a vision of many flowers
blossoming from heads, chests, backs.
On one truck, a pair of feet
stuck out from beneath the canvas,
the left in its shoe, the toes of the other
poking through a sock.
I thought of my grandfather
saying people in hell
had to wear forever
the clothes they died in.
七月半
他們要出來了,那些鬼,
子夜他們會回到人世在路上狂奔。
很多年前一個老農民告訴我:
如果懷抱紅公雞坐在三岔路口就能看見他們,
其中有親人——祖父或者曾祖父,
或者上溯到十八代的先人——
我從不敢這樣做,我害怕。
我無法想像看見一個個面目猙獰的鬼,
——眼睛淌血,臉皮撕開——會不會駭得昏倒?
我能夠做到的是在家裏,
最多在院子裏為他們燒一燒紙錢,
祈祝他們在陰間過得好。
而我更真實的願望是他們在暗中護佑我,
使我在人世的生活安靜、圓滿,
就像七月半的圓月一樣。
GHOST NIGHT
They’re here, the ghosts
come back at midnight,
raving through the streets.
Years ago, an old farmer said
if you held a red rooster
where three roads meet,
you could see them,
grandfathers, great grandfathers,
eighteen generations of family.
A coward, I never dared!
To see their grisly visages,
torn flesh, eyes streaming blood,
I’d faint. I’ll stay at home,
burn ghost money in the courtyard,
pray they’re alright in the underworld,
and ask their silent blessing
on my ordinary life, peaceful
as the full summer moon.
trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell
Ghost Day falls in the middle of the seventh lunar month, usually August or September.
在夢中見到祖父
你拿著棒槌敲我腦殼。
昏眩中我看見火花落在體內。
我記得你曾說我像猴子,
貪食、懶惰,寫詩賺取別人眼淚。
現在不啦!我已從現實學會蔑視現實。
或許,我應該告訴你,
我如今是在後退:倒著走。
如果你看到我的家就能明白;
遠離城市,滿足有院子,
可以關起門來三天不出門。
我坐在窗前,實際上就像石碾。
我希望你能在雲端坐著。
直到月亮從院中椿樹梢升起,
我看見你就是月亮。
直到我能夠確定你就掛在我的身體裏。
IN MY DREAM, GRANDFATHER
You whack me on the head with a washing stick—
stars flood my giddy skull.
You’ve said I’m like a monkey,
greedy, lazy, earning others’ tears by writing poems.
No longer! Reality taught me to despise reality.
Or should I tell you
I’ve slid backwards, gotten worse.
If you see my house, you’ll understand,
far from the city, contented with my yard,
I can stay three days indoors,
sit at the window, still as a millstone.
I think you should sit on a cloud
till the moon in the yard
clears the limbs of the juniper,
till I can be sure
the moon suspended in my body
is you.
防空壕
讓我怎麼說呢?報紙上強調
威脅來自北方和南方,來自天空。
在居委會老太太帶領下,我們在院子中
挖防空壕。儘管我們的心裏懷疑
這幾米深的壕溝能否保護生命,
仍然挖掘不停。直到有一天,
在我們的挖掘中一具棺材浮現出來,
它已經腐朽,在鐵鎬的輕碰下頃刻間便破碎了。
躺在棺材中的沒有皮肉的骷髏暴露
在我們的眼裏:肋骨已經散架,
頭顱上兩個眼眶的黑洞彷彿
深不可測的枯井。這是我第一次
看見棺材和死亡的形象。空氣被它散發
的惡臭彌漫,使我丟掉鐵鎬,
跑得遠遠的。我把這看作不祥遭遇。
那以後,路過這段防空壕,
我都要繞道,似乎這樣能繞開死者。
注:二十世紀六十年代,在報紙的不斷報道中,對戰爭隨時會降臨的擔憂,使挖防空壕成為當時全民必須參預的任務。如今,我們仍能看到一些廢棄的防空壕。
AIR RAID SHELTER
How should I tell it? The papers warned
of danger north and south,
and from the sky. The block leaders,
old women, showed how to dig
a shelter in the yard, though we doubted
a three meter ditch could save anyone.
But we kept digging
till one day we struck a coffin,
the rotten lid giving way
at the first touch of the spade.
Inside, a leathery skeleton,
tumbled ribs, eyes like dark dry wells.
My first real taste of death,
its stench. I dropped the spade and ran.
After that, I steered clear of the place
as if I could shun the dead.
櫻桃熟了
從黃到紅,自然的變化不露聲色
——我也不露。只是每天晚飯後,
站在院子裏安靜地打量。不安靜的是
麻雀,牠們嘰嘰喳喳在空中飛來飛去。
牠們的心思我明白,無非想啄食櫻桃。
只是嚇於我家的狗兒不敢貿然行為
——不要小瞧這一點,幾天前我看到
狗兒猛衝到樹下幾聲狂吼,一隻麻雀
立馬倒栽蔥掉到地面,成為狗兒的美食。
我雖然不同意狗兒這種狂暴的做法,
不過,沒有呵叱牠。我希望樹上的果實
能夠完美成熟(這是重要的)。掛滿
果實的樹是美麗風景。尤其今年夏天,
當遠方傳來大地震的消息,讓人看到,
不少人死於地動山搖。我再次感到
每天望著果樹的變化,無疑是幸運。
RIPE CHERRIES
Yellow to red, things change
unnoticed, even me. Each day
after dinner I stand in the courtyard,
quiet, watching. Sparrows chirp and twitter,
flying back and forth. I know
they like to peck cherries,
but are skittish of my dog.
Just a few days ago
he rushed the tree barking,
snapped a sparrow in his teeth,
and ate. Cruel enough,
but I didn’t scold. It seems important
the cherries are fully ripe. Lovely,
a heavy-fruited tree. Even more this year,
after news of the big quake,
so many dead far off when earth
and mountains shook. For me
how fortunate each day,
watching fruit grow ripe.
與白雲無關
白雲陣陣,猶如天空之咒語……
我可否說它隱藏人生奧秘:聚散無形。
我在兩分鐘內看到它變幻五種形象:
先是蝴蝶,再是牡丹……現在是寶塔
——雲非雲。我想起古人的言辭;
那是多少思想得出的結論?對耶否耶,
我無從知道——科學日日無中生有,
告訴我新事。但我仍然沒勘透眾多秘密
——我不懂我的身體,為什麼夜晚疼痛
白晝又安然無恙;也沒搞清楚
為什麼夢中總是出現同一個死去的同學
——複雜!就像我看到蝴蝶,總是驚異
牠花紋美麗;看到天鵝,總是驚異
牠飛翔時,比國家儀仗隊還要整齊。
IGNORING CLOUDS
Clouds come and go, sky incantations.
You might say they hide life’s secret, a slow drift
converging, dispersing.
Five shapes in two minutes,
butterfly to peony, now a pagoda.
I recall the ancient line: clouds are not clouds.
How many thoughts to earn such wisdom? Right, wrong,
no way to know—each day science invents from nothing,
saying something new. Through all this fog,
I still don’t understand my body, why night’s pains
vanish in daylight. Why in my dreams
the same dead classmate reappears.
Perplexing! Like seeing a butterfly, startled
at its patterns’ splendor, or astonished
by a flight of swans, in their array
more order than an honor guard.
與友人郊遊記,自大的詩
登山在山腳終止,不是不想
攀上山頂,是被守山人攔住,
理由是你我像潛在縱火者
——我們為什麼縱火?變態的懷疑,
說明制度從小處反對人——
不得已我們只好改走水庫大壩,
沿壩溜達——觀察,任何地方都能帶來
樂趣——一座乾涸水庫也有不凡的境界:
它的荒涼等待著由想像改造
——我看碧綠千頃,上下都是浮雲;
看自己正淩波微步,逍遙等於仙人
——當然,有沒有這些不重要。
重要的是如果退後一步,我和你也成為風景,
融入自然成為它的一部分——更廣大的部分,
譬如風搖晃樹木送來沁人肺腑的清香,
野花星星點點,猶如大地閃爍的瞳仁,
不過是襯托你我;同時也告訴我們,
人間事沒有什麼了不起,不管是友誼消失,
還是灰飛煙滅的婚姻,都是可拋棄的過去
——我不知道你怎樣——我的確
已拋棄很多過去。最近,我看山是山,
又不是山;看水是水,又不是水。
AN OUTING WITH FRIENDS, A POEM OF SELF
At the foot of the mountain, we stop climbing.
We’d go higher, but the guard at the reservoir
says we look like arsonists.
—Why should we start a fire? Perverse suspicion,
a system against people at every turn.
We change our route to the dam,
strolling along, eyes open for any joy.
A dry reservoir’s extraordinary,
its desolation a blank screen
—huge sweeps of green adrift with clouds.
I might walk on water, casual as the immortals
—well, no matter. What counts
is this: one step back, we’re just landscape,
dissolved into nature—joining vastness,
the shuddering wind that bears sweet fragrance.
Wildflowers, scattered like glittering, starry eyes of earth,
only mark us off, saying
nothing human’s so important, neither the fading friendship
nor the marriage burned to ash, all past.
Not sure about you—what was finished
I cast loose. These days
I see the mountain as mountain,
yet not mountain; I see water as water,
yet not water.
胡謅詩之二
你的雪不是我的雪,我的雪
在院子裏。一大早,我推門
出去,看到鋪在地上的雪已經被狗
踩出很多印痕——它因此不能被比喻
成一張白紙,倒像無意中由我家的狗,
在雪上繪出的山水寫意——
為什麼是山水寫意?原因是我看到了山,
也看到了水;而且山是峨嵋山,水是岷江水;
其中有雲霧的繚繞,和浣紗的大美人。
也許,你要說我牽強附會。我的確牽強附會。
你知道嗎?如果我再牽強附會一些,
我還要說在雪中看到了哲學;不是康德的
理性哲學,也不是克爾凱郭爾的存在哲學,
我看到的是轉瞬即逝的哲學——你是否
有過這種經力:瞪大眼睛緊盯住一個東西看,
它卻悄無聲息地消失。現在情況就是這樣;
我在門口的臺階上站了不到一個小時,
已有一半地面露出來——從哪裏來,
又回到哪裏。我的雪也許根本不是雪,
只是要讓我見到消失,和消失的本義。
NONSENSE POEM NO. 2
Your snow is not my snow. Mine’s
in the courtyard. Early this morning,
I pushed open the door
and went out, the snow
no blank sheet, but tracked
with dog prints—freehand
brushstrokes on snowscape. The dog
had his own intentions,
but I saw a mountain,
and water—Emei Shan,
the river Min,
clouds and mist curved and wreathed,
a beauty rinsing silk.
Far-fetched, oh yes.
I’d even say a philosophy
in snow; neither Kant’s
pure reason, nor Kierkegaard’s existentialism,
but a doctrine of departures. You know
the moment: eyes fix wide on something,
then silently it fades. Less than an hour
I’ve stood by the door, and already
half the dark earth’s showing through.
Things return from whence they came.
Maybe my snow is not snow at all,
but only disappearance, and its fact.
在南方之三
說水,就是說溫柔:女人在岸邊
捶洗衣裳;劃竹筏的男人用魚鷹打魚。
我漫步石砌的堤壩,無所事事地打量他們
——說水,也是說古舊的廊橋,夜晚,
燈火亮起來,猶如一片燦爛銀河,人民
在燈火下歡天喜地載歌載舞——說水,
更主要是說心情;這個冬天,我以隱逸的方式
打發寒冷,覺得自己就像水上靜靜飛翔的鷺鳥,
看起來形影孤單,卻很驕傲——說水,
也是說歲月,一年又一年,不管是洪流滾滾,
還是波平如鏡,都消失在歷史的長河中,
而未來,不知道會出現什麼——說水,
因此也是說一種認識:應該向捶洗衣服的女人,
打魚的男人,燈火下舞蹈的人民學習
——他們平淡地對待生活,不想高深的問題
(不想哲學、文學,也不想天文、地理)
——當然,說水很可能最後什麼都不說,
只面對著水中的倒影發呆:向下的白色房屋,
向下的幢幢樹影——當微風突然吹皺水面,
它們不停地搖晃著,呈現出破碎的美麗。
IN THE SOUTH, NO. 3
Talk about water is talk about gentleness,
women washing clothes by the riverbank,
on bamboo rafts, men poling, fishing with cormorants.
I stroll the stone dam, idling, watching.
Talk about water is talk of the ancient bridge,
night, lamps, the bright Milky Way,
people singing, dancing their joy. Talk about water
is talk about mood—this winter, secluded
from the cold, I’m like a heron gliding above the surface,
alone with its shadow, self-possessed. Talk about water
is talk about time, year after year
rolling in torrent or smooth as glass,
all of it sliding down the long river of history,
the unknowable future in wait. Talk about water
is talk about knowledge: one may learn
from women beating laundry,
from fishermen, from those who dance in lamplight,
to live casually, without great questions,
thinking neither of philosophy nor literature,
astronomy nor geography. But of course
talk about water may end
as talk about nothing,
merely gazing at water’s inversions in a trance,
trees, white houses pitched upside down,
until a breeze wrinkles the surface
and unceasing, everything undulates,
a kind of shattered beauty.