王小妮 | Wang Xiaoni

 

 

中文

 

重新做一个诗人

 

 

在一个世纪最短的末尾

大地弹跳着

人类忙得像树间的猴子。

 

而我的两只手

闲置在中国的空中。

桌面和风

都是质地纯白的好纸。

我让我的意义

只发生在我的家里。

 

淘洗白米的时候

米浆像奶滴在我的纸上。

瓜类为新生出手指

而惊叫。

窗外,阳光带着刀伤

天堂走满冷雪。

 

每天从早到晚

紧闭家门。

把太阳悬在我需要的角度

有人说,这城里

住了一个不工作的人。

 

关紧四壁

世界在两小片玻璃之间自燃。

沉默的蝴蝶四处翻飞

万物在不知不觉中泄露。

我预知四周最微小的风吹草动

不用眼睛。

不用手。

不用耳朵。

 

每天只写几个字

像刀

划开橘子细密喷涌的汁水。

让一层层蓝光

进入从未描述的世界。

 

没人看见我

一缕缕细密如丝的光。

我在这城里

无声地做着一个诗人。

 

English

 

BE A POET ANEW

 

 

At the tail end of the century

the big earth bounces,

people busy as monkeys up a tree.

 

Yet my two hands

float idle in China.

The desktop and a breeze, both

the pure white texture of good paper.

In my house alone

I make my meaning.

 

I wash rice,

and the milky rinsewater drips on my paper.

The melon shrieks

at new-grown fingers.

Past the window, sunlight bears its stab wounds.

All over heaven shifts cold snow.

 

Each day, early to late,

my door’s shut tight.

Sunlight hangs at the necessary angle.

In this city, someone says,

lives a layabout.

 

Squeeze four walls

between two small panes

and the world self-ignites.

Silent butterflies flitter everywhere.

All things leak imperceptibly.

From every side, I predict

the faintest trembling of a grassblade,

without looking

without touching

without hearing.

 

Each day, a few written words

like knives

slice open the orange, spurting its juice.

Let bands of blue light

enter an unspoken world.

 

The threads of my dense, silky luster

are invisible.

 

I dwell in this city,

soundless and a poet.

 

trans. © Diana Shi & George O’Connell

 

more by Wang Xiaoni

应该做一个制造者 | Ought to Be a Maker

不要把你所想的告诉别人 | Don’t Tell Others What You Think

一块布的背叛 | Betrayal by a Scrap of Cloth

白纸的内部 | Inside the White Paper

清晨 | Early Morning

飞是不允许的 | Flying Not Allowed

不认识的就不想再认识了 | I’d Rather Not Know Anyone I Don’t

我和土豆 | The Potato and I

半个我正在疼痛 | Half of Me Is Aching

Summer/Fall 2013

Ted Kooser | 泰德·库瑟

曹疏影 | Cao Shuying

Calligraphy © 盧漢耀 | Lo Hon-yiu