AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL IN ENGLISH & CHINESE
Winter 2015-16 | Issue 10
Zhang Shuguang, born 1956 in Wangkui County, Heilongjiang Province, China, began writing poetry in the late ‘70s, influenced by western Romanticism. In the early ‘80s his work shifted toward the harder edge of Modernism. Among his collections are The Clown’s Checkered Jacket; Snowfall in the Afternoon; and The Haunted House. A prolific translator of western poetry, his major translated works include Selected Poems of Czeslaw Milosz and Dante’s Divine Comedy. He’s also the author of The Phantom of Don Quixote, a collection of literary essays and criticism. A recipient of the Liu Li’an Poetry Prize, the Poetry and People Prize, and the Poetry Construction Award, he is currently a faculty member at Heilongjiang University’s College of Literature in Harbin, northern China.
卡桑德拉
沒有人相信我說出的一切
沒有人。在我說話的時候，人們
只是在笑，談論著天氣，或漫不經心地
注視著廣場的鴿子，牠們在啄食
或發出咕咕的求偶聲。沒有人相信
我說出的一切。孩子們跟在我的後面
投擲石子，像當初對待年老的塞尚
當黃昏收攏起橄欖樹的葉子
城牆上的石頭陷入對曆史的沉思
牧人們細數歸來的羊群，酒吧裏
彌漫著濃烈的煙草氣味，但沒有人
沒有人相信我說出或正在說出的
一切。人們議論著電視中
很久以前的那次墜毀，花花公子
誘拐了某位石油大亨的妻子，議論著
性醜聞，科隆香水，花椰菜和薩義德
他們歷數著過去像翻開一冊
珍藏的相冊。但沒有人相信
我說出或正在說出的一切
現在夜晚包圍著我們
像鎧甲，沒有箭鏃能夠穿透
它堅硬的黑暗。天沒有下雨，沒有洪水
沖擊著堤岸，電影院裏上演著
七十年前的那次沉船事件
我在另一個場合（或一首詩中）說過
這只是出於一種票房的需要
用淚水換取鈔票。沒有希望正像同樣
沒有恐懼。旋轉木馬的陰影靜臥在
花叢中，像一個古老的預言
CASSANDRA
No one believes what I say,
no one. When I speak, they
just laugh, talk about weather, or idly
watch pigeons on the square, pecking,
cooing for a mate. No one believes
anything I say. Children hang back,
tossing stones, how they treated old Cézanne.
When dusk absolves the leaves of olive trees,
stones on the city wall incline toward history.
Herdsmen number their returning sheep, the bars
breathe out tobacco smoke, but no one,
no one believes me. They chatter on
about that crash long ago, seen on TV,
the playboy making off with the wife of that oil tycoon,
sex scandals, eau de cologne, cauliflowers, Edward Said.
Fingering the past like a precious photo album,
no one believes what I say.
Night cloaks with an armor no arrow can pierce.
Neither rain nor flood lashes our shores.
The cinema unspools that sinking
seventy years ago. As I said
on another occasion, or maybe in a poem,
we need only a box office, someplace
to trade banknotes for tears. Neither hope
nor fear. The shadow of a carousel horse
crouches silent in the flowerbed,
archaic prophet.
存在與虛無
雨聲並不帶給我們什麼。或許
雨聲是一種存在。或許
我看到的不是事物本身
不是月亮，托起春天和洋槐的
廣場。紅色的搖滾樂和火烈鳥
以及扭傷的屁股，短裙和陌生的臉
以及一本書——
透過一行行文字
我們無法認識上帝
他是否耽於幻想是否快樂或大聲哭泣
甚至無法觸摸到白楊樹的葉子
它們正排列在街道的兩旁
在雨絲和收錄機播放的樂曲中熠熠閃亮
我讀了很多書，仍然
無法詮釋死亡的風景
海德格爾和伽達默爾蒼白的
臉像雨中沖洗乾淨的街道
1980年薩特逝世時很多人
參加他的葬禮而如今
他在哪裏他們又在哪裏？
多少年一直爭論著莎士比亞的真偽
我是否存在，還有桑丘，卡爾·馬克思和弗洛伊德
過去了的就是死亡
就是一片虛無的風景
而如今薩特只是一個空洞的名詞，一部書的作者
就像一個被蛀空的蠶蛹
BEING AND NOTHINGNESS
The sound of rain offers little. Maybe
a kind of being. Maybe
I can’t see anything itself,
not the moon, the square lofting spring
and black locust trees; red rock music, flamingoes,
sprained buttocks, short skirts, strange faces,
this book. Lines of characters
hardly reveal God. Does he indulge
in fantasies, take pleasure, weep aloud?
We can’t even know the leaves of white poplars,
arrayed beside the road, gleaming
in thready rain through a radio sonata.
I read many books, still
can’t describe death’s landscape,
Heidegger and Gadamer’s faces
pale as rainwashed streets.
1980: so many at Sartre’s funeral.
Where is he now,
where are they?
For years, debates over Shakespeare’s truth.
Do I exist, does Sancho, Karl Marx, or Freud?
The past‘s dead, oblivious terrain,
Sartre an empty name, the author of a book,
husk of a silkworm pupa.
我們拿什麼和這個世界對抗
一片水窪的反光，一團模糊的霧
一隻鳥飛過的影子，甚至一粒鈕扣
都被時間鎖定，封存進永恒的記憶的甕
那麼，你憂鬱的目光為什麼注視著
那無法詮釋的終極風景？似乎
困擾於白色睡蓮的舞姿，它以瞬間的
美麗，對抗著時間的鋒刃
不屈的側影倒映在藍色的湖畔
遠處是秋天了。雲在天空中趕路
棲息在枯黃的草叢中的風
即將獅子般吼叫著捲過原野
而這些在你的腦圖中集結孕育
它將會成為一場風暴嗎？或許
這只是一種姿態而已
WITH WHAT WE CONFRONT THIS WORLD
Glistening puddle, wooly fog,
bird’s swift shadow, or just this button,
bound in time, sealed in the mind’s urn.
Why then this gloomy gaze
on the final unknown landscape? As if puzzled
by the stem of a white lotus, one exquisite
instant facing time’s blade,
its pure, still profile mirrored in blue water.
Autumn lurks far off, clouds hurrying the sky.
Wind that roosts in withered grass
soon snarls, a lion raking plains.
In the country of your brain, all may assemble
to breed their own storm. Or only spawn
mere posture.
月亮
我乘車經過西大直街
在陰影的巨大廢墟上升起
二十世紀的月亮
蒼白得像夢遊者的臉
輕輕叩擊
會發出瓷器般的聲響
使我想到生命如此脆弱
一個人靜靜躺在車輪下
月亮目擊過無數次死亡
MOON
My bus heads down Xidazhi Street.
Beyond a huge ruin of shadows
climbs the twentieth-century moon,
pale as the face of a sleepwalker.
At a fingerflick
it would ting like porcelain.
How fragile our life.
How much death the moon has witnessed.
Even now, in the wheels’ path,
someone quietly reclines.
人類的工作
用整整一個上午劈著木柴。
貯存過冬的蔬菜。
封閉好門窗，
不讓一絲風雪進來。
窗前的樹脫盡的美麗的葉子
我不知道它是否會因此悲哀。
土撥鼠的工作人類都得去做
還要學會長時間的等待。
HUMAN LABOR
A whole morning to split wood.
Stack vegetables for winter.
Seal the doors, the panes
against the faintest thread of wind or snow.
Beyond the glass, the tree’s stripped off its leaves.
Who can say it grieves.
All the groundhog work we do,
learning how to wait.
進入睡眠
打開一本書
讀著，我驚訝地發現
裏面的字句被雪淹沒。
四壁緩緩移動，傾斜
鋪展成一片迷惘的雪野。
向北，去捕捉鱒魚和月亮，
一整個下午，我在雪地上跋涉。
我失去手表和地圖，並且忘記
家園，和有關的一切。
直至進入睡眠——
一卷歷史中空白的一頁。
FALLING ASLEEP
Reading a book, I’m surprised
how snow sifts over the words.
The walls lean in, tilting
toward a vast, white, unsteady moor.
I trudge north all day
to catch trout or the moon.
My watch disappears, my map, I forget
all about home, and everything it touches.
Entering sleep—
inside a volume of history,
an empty page.
在酒吧
除了詩歌我們還能談論什麼
除了生存，死亡，女人和性，除了
明亮而柔韌的形式，我們還能談論什麼
革命是對舌頭的放縱。早春的夜晚
我，幾個朋友，煙霧和談話——
我注視著那個搖滾歌星的面孔
車輛從外面堅硬的柏油路上駛過
杯子在我們手中，沒有奇跡發生
IN A BAR
Besides poetry, what more can we talk about?
Besides existence, death, women and sex,
besides bright and sinuous forms, what more can we talk about?
Revolution is the tongue’s indulgence. Early spring night,
a few friends and I, smoke and conversation.
My gaze fixed on that rock star’s face.
Outside, cars stream past on the asphalt.
Glasses in our hands, no miracles.
石頭
它突然在道路中間出現。
冷漠而孤獨，凝塑我們驚奇的目光
像發怒的公牛，襯出天空和冷杉的風景。
在暴風雨的前夕，我們從車窗裏望著，彷彿
它濃縮了所有時間的悲哀
敵意，以及欲望難以抑止的力量
BOULDER
Amid the storm, this boulder
looming sudden in the road,
detached, solitary, like a bull
raging at the sky, these firs,
commanding our amazement.
There, just past the windshield,
as if the concretion of all suffering,
all enmity, all irrepressible desire.
一條舊時的街：外國街，1989，11
每天，幾乎每天，我在這條街上
匆匆走過。僻靜而肮髒
舊式俄羅斯建築和黝黑的樹木，以及
一間間新開的美容廳和小吃店
掛著漂亮的招牌和清冷的生意
一本沒人翻閱的舊雜誌——
歷史，逝去的繁華和悲哀
在白晝和變化的街景中沉積
如果你願意，那些老人會告訴你
流亡的白俄貴婦和窮音樂家的軼事
但現在衰老了，他們和這條街
在初冬麻痹的陽光中
像中了魔法的石頭，坐著
沉默，孤獨，而且憂鬱
A STREET OF OTHER DAYS
Foreign Street, November 1989
Mornings, afternoons,
I cut through this street,
past drab, neglected Russian buildings,
dingy trees, here and there a beauty shop,
snack bars. Flashy signs, business slow,
a tattered magazine no one reads.
Glories gone amid the shifting light,
the changing scenes, its miseries accrued.
If you like, those pensioners can spin a tale—
White Russian ladies, exiles,
indigent musicians.
Feeble now, the old hunch in late autumn sunlight,
lulled with this street, solitary,
mute stones beneath a spell.
trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell
Foreign Street: Street in Harbin, N. China, a hub of early 20th c. Chinese-Russian railways, and later haven for White Russian and other exiles after 1917. Until WW2, Harbin enjoyed a thriving, diverse international community and culture.
紀念我的舅舅（1937—1988）
在這個雪天
我無法寫出悲悼的詩句
當坐在返回哈市的公共汽車上
一路上穿過寒冷和距離
望著窗外一閃而過的積雪Q
我並沒有意識到正在永遠離開你
不，是你在永遠離開我們——
車上擁擠，有人咳嗽著
老式馬達像濁重的呼吸
你臉色蠟黃，如同後來蓋著的壽布
在極度痛苦中度過生命最後的日子
50歲。當我細細回味著你的一生
記起了一段早已遺忘的往事
有一次我們去看電影
突然斷電，你說，「真掃興
留下一個空白的結局。」
但這一次沒有人向你退票，以後的情節
也無法預知
REMEMBERING MY UNCLE
(1937—1988)
Snowy day—
I can’t write mournful lines.
On the bus back to Harbin
all those icy miles,
snowbanks flashing past,
I can’t grasp I’m leaving you forever,
or rather you’re forever leaving us.
Someone coughs on the crowded bus,
its old engine’s breath drones thick and heavy.
Your face yellow wax, like the death-veil after.
In agony you passed the last days
of your fiftieth. Going over your life
I recall something long forgotten,
that time at a movie
when the power cut,
you said how shattering
to leave the end unfinished.
Now no one to refund your ticket,
nor can the possible plot
be told.
自白
我無法告訴你
有關我的一切——
很多往事已經遺忘
死去的時間和人們
也不會開口講話；
而活著的
則感到茫然
在閣樓上踱步
或喃喃自語。
我無法告訴你
當風從平原上刮過
白楊樹的葉子
翻動而閃亮
展示出宇宙的寂寥。
CONFESSION
I can’t tell you
everything—
too much forgotten.
The past and the dead
won’t open their mouths.
The living,
though at a loss,
pace the attic
or mutter to themselves.
I can’t tell you
when wind scours the plains
the white poplar leaves
glint and swivel,
speaking for the desolate universe.
