王家新 | Wang Jiaxin

 

 

中文

 

孤堡札记

 

 

1.

森林的缄默迫使我们

从一条羊肠小路上退回来,

(练骑术的人从花园一侧无声地驶过)

正午的黑暗加深。

在这里你是时间的囚徒,

同时你又取消了时间。

早上的德式面包,中午的中式面条,

晚上的梦把你带回到北京——

在那里骑者消失,

你恍然来到一个不再认识的国度,

言词的黑暗太深。

 

2.

一个修辞学意义上的诗人

将如何修辞?一阵阵香水味飘过之后,

在露天酒吧刀叉杯盏的碰撞中,

形成的并不是诗的音韵。

而你生来是个唱挽歌的人,为了

从古堡上空再次展开的秋天,

为预先失去的爱情;

为黄昏时一辆亮起金色灯火,到达、

离去的公共汽车,

为再次前来找你的记忆……

 

3.

一瓶从中国带来的驼鸟墨水

培养了我的迷信,一支英雄牌钢笔

一天要喝三次它的奶汁。

“汉语”,你对自己说“我得

养活它。在这里它是我可怜的哑巴,

它说不出话来,但它要吃……”

而墨在历史中闪耀。墨比金子

珍贵。一瓶从故国带来的中国墨水

吸收了时间的黑,血液的黑,

它甚至迫使死者拿起笔来

——它倾刻就会分娩出你的怀乡病

和一个个与你相望的词……

 

4.

帝国的版图日渐收缩,

像从天上掉下来的一件衣服,

穿起来仍嫌过大。

为了赞美你需要学会讽刺。

为了满天飞雪有一个马厩就必须变黑。

为了杜甫你还必须是卡夫卡。

合上书本,或是撕下那些你写下的

苍白文字时,你会看到一个孩子

在悬岩的威胁下开始了他的路程,

而冬天也会跟着他向你走来。

 

5.

在起风的日子里我又想起你

杜甫!仍在万里悲秋里做客,登高望北

或独自飘摇在一只乌蓬船里……

起风了,我的诗人!你身体中的

那匹老马是否正发出呜咽?你的李白

和岑参又到哪里去了?

茅屋破了,你索性投身于天地的无穷里。

你把汉语带入了一个永久的暮年。

你所到之处,把所有诗人变成你的孩子。

你到我这里来吧——酒与烛火备下,

我将不与你争执,也不与你谈论

砍头的利斧或桂冠。

你已漂泊了千年,你到我这里来吧——

你的梦中山河和老妻

都早已在荒草中安歇……

 

6.

渐渐地,在大理石台阶上眺望星空

与在古堡的地窖里出没的,

已不是同一个人。在这里转身

向西或向东

经历着飞雪与日落的人,

已知道怎样化恐惧为平静。

黑暗的中世纪,仍拥有它不朽的兵器。

爱神,被削去脸和双乳

仍被供奉在那里,为人类的绝望作证。

而你,在结束与一位金发女孩的罗曼史后发现,

原来她是从一幅画中向你走来。

哦渐渐地,夏天转向了另外的国度,

而橡树在雪后显出黑色。

 

7.

在我写完这首诗后,冬天

就会顺着林中大道径直向我走来,

坚硬的冰碴也将从夏日的花园里渗出。

大雪封山之前,

人们还会纷纷离去。

但是那尊石像仍会留下,偶尔的黄昏,

也会涂亮古堡的最后一扇窗户。

如果你仍会做梦,你梦到的会是一匹马,

艰难地陷在半山腰的积雪里;

如果你发信,它将永不到达;

如果你想呼喊——为人类的孤独,雪

就会更大、更黑地降下来……

 

8.

穿行在这些大理石的头像

和胸像之间,似乎只一步,就回到

两千年前;这些古希腊的武士、智者

或诡辩家,注视着我

却不问我从什么地方来。

我来自一个你们不曾想象的国度,

在那里智者来自黄土,归于黄土,

在那里女皇只给自己留下一座无字碑……

而一尊青铜或大理石塑像能否战胜时间?

我想问。哦,当我发问,我看见

时间的深渊正照亮你们静默的额头……

我像一个迟到的孩子又潜回到早年的

课堂,并在那里听到一声:“嘘——”

 

9.

这是无数个冬天中的一个,

这是冬天中的冬天。

你写到雪,雪就要落下,

你迎接什么,什么就会到来。

这是滞留者的歌,一会儿就要响起,

这些是词,已充分吸收了降雪前的黑暗;

这是在楼梯上嗡嗡作响的吸尘器,一会儿

就会移入你昏暗的室内,

这将是另一首诗:伐木者在死后醒来。

这已是我分辨不清的马厩,正从古堡那边

的草地向我靠近,

这些是无辜的过冬的畜牲,

在聚来的昏暗中,在我的内心里

它们已紧紧地偎在了一起……

 

1998年2月,斯图加特Solitude古堡

 

English

 

NOTES FROM THE CASTLE OF SOLITUDE

Solitude Castle, Stuttgart

 

1.

The hush of the forest turned us back

from the footpath.

As mid-day’s darkness deepened,

a silent rider passed the mouth of the garden.

Though a prisoner of time

it was time you escaped.

German bread in the morning,

Chinese noodles at noon;

dreams each night take you back to Beijing,

where the rider disappears,

where you come to a country

you suddenly no longer know,

the language too dark, too deep.

 

2.

How does a poet

deal with rhetoric?

The perfumed breeze from outdoor bars,

the clinks of fork and glass

bear no rhythmic notes.

You were born to sing

autumn’s elegies

unfurling again above the ancient castle

for love that must be lost,

for the bus, its windows softly lit,

pulling in at dusk,

and for its heading off.

For once more wandering through your memory.

 

3.

Ostrich ink drawn from its Chinese bottle

stirs my superstitions.

Thrice a day, the Hero pen

drinks its black milk.

“Chinese,” I say to myself,

“I must nourish it,

my poor dummy

who eats but says nothing.”

This ink refracts a history

more precious than gold,

a well of Chinese ink

deep with black time, black blood,

driving even the dead to raise the pen.

Soon it will contrive your homesickness

as lines of words

staring back at you.

 

4.

The empire’s map shrank daily

like a coat dropped from heaven,

still too big to wear.

To praise, you must learn irony.

For a skyful of snow,

one stable must be black.

To be Du Fu, you must also be Kafka.

Close the book, or shred

the pale words you wrote,

as if a child

setting out on a journey

beneath a threatening crag,

while winter follows

straight for you.

 

5.

Windy days, I think of you,

Du Fu, gazing north,

a thousand miles from home,

sad autumns on high mountains,

or drifting alone

beneath the black canopy

of a bobbing skiff.

The wind rises.

The old mare in your body,

did she whimper?

Your Li Bai and Cen Shen, where were they?

When your shack fell apart, you flung yourself

toward the infinitude of the universe.

You brought Chinese to an undying ripeness.

No matter where you go, every poet is your heir.

Come—here’s wine and lit candles,

we’ll speak neither of the headsman’s axe

nor of laurels. We won’t argue.

You’ve wandered all these centuries,

come with me now—

your dreams of mountains and rivers

and your old wife

have found rest

in brittle weeds.

 

6.

Soon the man gazing at the stars

from the marble steps

will no longer be recognized

as one who lurked in the cellars

of the ancient castle.

Face east or west,

he who has seen driving snow and sunset

already knows how to turn panic into peace.

The Dark Ages retained their immortal weapons.

Aphrodite, face and breasts sliced off,

still worshipped,

proof of man’s despair.

Only after your romance with the blond girl

did you see she stepped from a painting.

Day by day, summer leads

to another country, and oaks

gone black against the snow.

 

7.

When I finish the poem,

winter will advance

down the forest path,

and jagged frost arise

from summer’s garden.

People leave one after another

before snow seals the mountain.

But that stone statue stays,

occasional evenings

flaring on the last window

of the ancient castle.

If you could, you’d dream of a horse

floundering in deep snow

halfway up the mountain.

If you sent a letter,

it would never arrive.

If you cried out in human solitude,

snow would fall heavier, darker.

 

8.

Walking among the marble busts,

it seems one step

could erase two thousand years.

Greek warriors, wise men or sophists,

gaze at me, but never ask

where I’m from.

From a land they’d never imagine,

where philosophers sprang from earth

and returned to earth.

Where one empress left her own monument

completely uninscribed.

Can bronze or marble statues vanquish time?

I’d like to know. When I ask,

I see the gulf of time pour light

onto their silent foreheads.

Like a child late for class,

I hear “Shh…”

 

9.

One winter among many—

winter of winters.

When you write about snow,

snow falls;

whatever you invite arrives.

Such is the song soon to be sung

of someone left behind.

These are its lyrics, steeped in the dark before snowfall.

This the buzz of the maid’s vacuum mounting the stairs,

soon to enter your dim room,

and then to enter a poem:

the woodcutter wakes

after death. There stands the stable,

dim shadow on the castle grounds,

these the innocent beasts, wintering

in the heart’s sudden gloom,

leaning close.

 

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

 

Ostrich: A Chinese brand of bottled ink.

Hero: A well-known line of Chinese fountain pens.

Li Bai (Li Po) and Cen Shen: Great poets of the Tang dynasty, as well as Du Fu’s friends and contemporaries.

 

more by Wang Jiaxin

转变 | Transformation

田园诗 | Pastoral

晚年的帕斯 | The Last Days of Octavio Paz

八月十七日,雨 | August 17th, Rain

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