王家新 | Wang Jiaxin

 

 

中文

 

八月十七日,雨

 

 

雨已下了一夜,雨中人难眠

雨带来了盛夏的第一阵凉意

雨仍在下,从屋檐下倾下

从石阶上溅起,从木头门缝里朝里漫溢

 

向日葵的光辉在雨中熄灭

铁在雨中腐烂

小蛤蟆在雨中的门口接连出现

而我听着这雨

在这个灰蒙蒙的低垂的早晨

在这座昏暗、清凉的屋子里

在我的身体里,一个人在哗哗的雨声中

出走

一路向南

 

向南,是雨雾笼罩的北京,是贫困的早年

是雨中槐花焕发的清香

是在风雨中骤然敞开的一扇窗户

是另一个裹着旧雨衣的人,在胡同口永远消失

(下水道的水声仍响彻不息)

是受阻的车流,是绝望的雨刮器

在倾盆大雨中来回晃动

 

就在一个人死后多年,雨下下来了

 

雨泼溅在你的屋顶上,雨

将你的凝望再一次打入泥土

雨中,那棵开满沉重花朵的木槿剧烈地摇晃

那曾盛满夏日光辉的屋子

在雨中变暗

 

每年都会有雷声从山头上响起

每年都有这样的雨声来到我们中间

每天都有人在我们之中死亡

 

雨中的石头长出了青苔

 

English

 

AUGUST 17th, RAIN

 

 

Rain through the night, hard to sleep,

but the first cool breath all summer,

pouring from the eaves,

splattering the front steps,

seeping past the threshold.

 

Rain drowns the sunflower’s blaze,

wastes wrought iron to rust.

Little toads appear

one and another,

hopping by the door.

 

I listen to the rain

in a low, gray dawn

in a cool, dim room.

The man inside me

takes the rainbeaten road

straight south.

 

South lies Beijing, shrouded in mist, those years

of poverty, its balm wafting

from flowering pagoda trees, the latched window

banging open in storms, someone wrapped

in an old raincoat vanishing forever

at the end of an alley. Drains awash,

stalled cars on the road in the downpour,

the useless sweep of their wipers.

 

Rain never falls

until one’s dead

many years.

 

Rain hammers your roof

and drives your gaze to ground.

Hibiscus, laden with blooms,

sway heavily.

The room once bathed in summer glow

glooms in the rain.

 

Each year thunder booms from the mountaintops.

Each year the sound of rain enters our bodies.

Each day some of us die.

 

In rain the stones sprout moss.

 

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

 

more by Wang Jiaxin

转变 | Transformation

孤堡札记 | Notes from the Castle of Solitude

田园诗 | Pastoral

晚年的帕斯 | The Last Days of Octavio Paz

变暗的镜子 | Darkening Mirror

第一场雪 | First Snow

悼亡友 | Mourning a Friend

桔子 | Tangerines

哥特兰的黄昏 | Gotland’s Dusk

Spring 2013

黄灿然 | Huang Canran

Linda Pastan | 琳达·帕斯坦

Images © 莫非 | Mo Fei