漢詩英譯｜歐陽江河：玻璃工廠

Translated by w. Austin Woerner

歐陽江河

歐陽江河（1956- ），原名江河，四川瀘州人。著名詩人，詩學、音樂及文化批評家，知識分子寫作倡導者。

1975年高中畢業後下鄉插隊。不久到軍隊服役。1979年開始發表詩歌作品，1983年至1984年間，他創作了長詩《懸棺》，1986年到四川省社科院工作。1993年至1997年初在美國生活。1997年3月至9月在斯圖加特生活、創作。多次應邀赴美國，德國，英國，荷蘭，法國，義大利等國的二十餘所大學及多個文學基金會講學，朗誦詩歌，訪問寫作。後定居北京。

歐陽江河被國際詩歌界譽為「最好的中國詩人」，其代表作有長詩《懸棺》，《玻璃工廠》，《計劃經濟時代的愛情》，《傍晚穿過廣場》，《最後的幻象》，《椅中人的傾聽與交談》，《咖啡館》，《雪》等。作為詩人，歐陽江河的詩歌寫作強調思辯上的奇崛複雜及語言上的異質混成，強調個人經驗與公共現實的深度聯繫。作為詩學批評家，他在當代中國詩歌的整體理論及文本細讀兩方面均有獨特建樹。歐陽江河的寫作實踐深具當代特徵，在同時代人中產生了廣泛的、持續的影響，被視為80年代以來中國最重要的代表性詩人。

迄今為止，歐陽江河已發表詩歌作品200餘首，詩學理論文章及當代美術、音樂、電影、戲劇批評文章25萬字。在國內出版詩集《透過詞語的玻璃》(1997年，中國改革出版社)，詩作及詩學文論集《誰去誰留》(1997年，湖南文藝出版社)，文論及隨筆集《站在虛構這邊》(2000年，三聯書店)，詩集《事物的眼淚》（2008年，作家出版社）。

目 錄

玻璃工廠

Glass Factory

漢英之間

Between Chinese and English

星期日的鑰匙

Key to Sunday

誰去誰留

Who is Gone, and Who Remains

畢加索畫牛

Picasso Paints a Bull

53歲生日

on turning 53 in Vermont

母親，廚房

Mother, Kitchen

Glass Factory

1

The thing between seeing and seeing is glass.

The separation not seen

between face and face.

But glass, as a thing, is not transparent.

A glass factory is a massive eyeball,

labor at its center, whose darkness is daylight

glinting at the cores of things.

A thing persists in its initial tear.

As a bird in pure light persists in its shadow.

Gathers light into darkness, offers it back.

Where glass is everywhere, glass is not itself

but spirit.

As air seems not to exist, where all is air.

2

The glass factory is not far from the sea.

To know water is to know glass.

Cold, solid, fragile: this is the price

at which a thing attains transparence.

Transparence, strange language of seeing waves:

by speaking it I have already left it.

Left behind wineglasses, pictures in frames, the changing-room mirror, all these

specific, mass-produced things.

But I live in things, enveloped by things, a life brimming with want.

Language is overflow, evaporation.

And finally, transparence.

Language is flying: void to void, lightning to lightning. So much sky

outside the body of a flying bird,

and its shadow: a nick of light on the surface of the sea.

A thing cannot leave a mark on glass unless

it is lighter than shadow, deeper than a cut, sheerer than a blade.

A crack cannot be seen.

3

I come, I see, I speak.

Language is clouded with time,

the glimmer sinks with the sediment,

a haze of blindness disperses from the center.

This is the process that occurs within glass.

Flame』s heart, flame』s breath.

In flame, water experiences a change of perspective.

Two spirits meet, two obliterations become one

eternity.

Water passes through flame and is glass:

a subzero burning, like reason or feeling,

shallow, lucid, rejecting flow.

In fruit, in the depths of the sea, water never flows.

4

So, this the glass is I see—

still stone, but never strong again,

still flame, but never hot again,

still water, but never gentle, never flowing.

A wound that does not bleed.

A sound that does not pass through silence.

Glass is the thing between loss and loss,

permitting light

like language and time

at a towering price.

5

In one factory I see three kinds of glass.

Substance, ornament, symbol.

They tell me glass is the child of muddled stone.

In the void that is stone, death is not ending

but original, mutable fact.

Stone crumbles, glass is born.

This is real.

But there is another reality that lifts me from this height

to another height, where glass is nothing

but water, a fluid made boned and unflowable,

where flame is a bonechilling cold,

where for a thing to be beautiful it must also be fragile.

All lofty things of this earth

and their tears.

玻璃工廠

1

從看見到看見，中間只有玻璃。

從臉到臉

隔開是看不見的。

在玻璃中，物質並不透明。

整個玻璃工廠是一隻巨大的眼珠，

勞動是其中最黑的部分，

它的白天在事物的核心閃耀。

事物堅持了最初的淚水，

就像鳥在一片純光中堅持了陰影。

以黑暗方式收回光芒，然後奉獻。

在到處都是玻璃的地方，

玻璃已經不是它自己，而是

一種精神。

就像到處都是空氣，空氣近乎不存在。

2

工廠附近是大海。

對水的認識就是對玻璃的認識。

凝固，寒冷，易碎，

這些都是透明的代價。

透明是一種神秘的、能看見波浪的語言，

我在說出它的時候已經脫離了它，

脫離了杯子、茶几、穿衣鏡，所有這些

具體的、成批生產的物質。

但我又置身於物質的包圍之中，生命被慾望充滿。

語言溢出，枯竭，在透明之前。

語言就是飛翔，就是

以空曠對空曠，以閃電對閃電。

如此多的天空在飛鳥的身體之外，

而一隻孤鳥的影子

可以是光在海上的輕輕的擦痕。

有什麼東西從玻璃上划過，比影子更輕，

比切口更深，比刀鋒更難逾越。

裂縫是看不見的。

3

我來了，我看見，我說出。

語言和時間渾濁，泥沙俱下，

一片盲目從中心散開。

同樣的經驗也發生在玻璃內部。

火焰的呼吸，火焰的心臟。

所謂玻璃就是水在火焰里改變態度，

就是兩種精神相遇，

兩次毀滅進入同一永生。

水經過火焰變成玻璃，

變成零度以下的冷漠的燃燒，

像一個真理或一種感情

淺顯，清晰，拒絕流動。

在果實里，在大海深處，水從不流動。

4

那麼這就是我看到的玻璃——

依舊是石頭，但已不再堅固。

依舊是火焰，但已不復溫暖。

依舊是水，但既不柔軟也不流逝。

它是一些傷口但從不流血。

它是一種聲音但從不經過寂靜。

從失去到失去，這就是玻璃。

語言和時間透明，

付出高代價。

5

在同一工廠我看見三種玻璃：

物態的，裝飾的，象徵的。

人們告訴我玻璃的父親是一些混亂的石頭。

在石頭的空虛里，死亡並非終結，

而是一種可改變的原始的事實。

石頭粉碎，玻璃誕生。

這是真實的。但還有另一種真實

把我引入另一種境界：從高處到高處。

在那種真實里玻璃僅僅是水，是已經

或正在變硬的、有骨頭的、潑不掉的水，

而火焰是徹骨的寒冷，

並且最美麗的也最容易破碎。

世間一切崇高的事物，以及

事物的眼淚。

1987．9．6于山海關

Between Chinese and English

I live between the bricks of Chinese characters,

in glances exchanged between image and image.

They』re separate but continuous, with shifting limbs

and a rhythm uniform as gunfire.

The dust settles: Chinese is simplified.

Off tumble legs, arms, eyes.

But my language still runs, still reaches, sees.

These mysteries give birth to hunger.

And there are plenty of suns and moons left

to linger over with my comrades-in-tongue.

In this vast crystal aggregate of accents and dialects,

this murky admixture of ancient and new,

my mouth is a circular ruin,

teeth plunging into space,

never hitting bone.

Such vistas, such meat: Chinese is a banquet for all.

I eat up my suns and moons, and the ancients』 too, till

one evening I walk through the English corner, and see

a bunch of Chinese mobbing an American kid: it seems

they want to make their homes in English.

But in China, English has no sovereign turf.

It』s a class, a test, a TV show,

a way of speaking, words on paper.

On paper, we behold our penciled nature.

A sketch, a life of worn erasers.

After centuries of inkwells, spectacles, typewriters,

after years of accumulated lead,

how could English be so light, folded and tucked in our corner?

Now we speak diplospeak, acronyms,

muffins, aspirin, forks and knives.

But these changes do not affect the nose, the skin:

like the toothbrush you pick up in the morning, English

glides lightly over the teeth, whitening language.

With so much ink caked in my gums, I』d better

brush every day: this requires water, a cleaning agent, and perspective.

It gives rise to theories of taste, and countless

disparities in everyday usage.

It also requires a hand, reaching into English,

two fingers apart, a letter, a triumph,

a Nazi experiment upon the self.

A cigarette falls to the ground still burning

like history, which after all

is what happens when one nation eats another』s words.

One step forward, you』ve got the Third Reich, Hitler.

I don』t know if that madman gunned down English,

massacred Shakespeare and Keats.

But I do know that English comes in two flavors:

the noble, alphabetized English of Oxford,

and the English of Churchill and Roosevelt, armed to the teeth.

Its metaphors, its science, its obliterating aesthetics

landed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I watched Chinese characters become Japanese corpses—

but outside of language, our nations are allies.

I』ve read this history, and I』m suspicious.

I don』t know which is crazier, history or me.

What』s happened, this past hundred years, between Chinese and English?

Why are so many Chinese streaming into English,

trying hard as they can to blanche their own skin?

Why do they treat their language like an estranged wife,

a home in a broken mirror?

I live alone amid my stacked bricks, conversing

with paper dolls, dreaming in English, while all around me

Chinese mount the steps to English, turning

from people of pictures to people of sound.

漢英之間

我居住在漢字的塊壘里，

在這些和那些形象的顧盼之間。

它們孤立而貫穿，肢體搖晃不定，

節奏單一如連續的槍。

一片響聲之後，漢字變得簡單。

掉下了一些胳膊，腿，眼睛。

但語言依然在行走，伸出，以及看見。

那樣一種神秘養育了飢餓。

並且，省下很多好吃的日子，

讓我和同一種族的人分食，挑剔。

在本地口音中，在團結如一個晶體的方言

在古代和現代漢語的混為一談中，

我的嘴唇像是圓形廢墟，

牙齒陷入空曠

沒碰到一根骨頭。

如此風景，如此肉，漢語盛宴天下。

我吃完我那份日子，又吃古人的，直到

一天傍晚，我去英語角散步，看見

一群中國人圍住一個美國佬，我猜他們

想遷居到英語裡面。但英語在中國沒有領地。

它只是一門課，一種會話方式，電視節目，

大學的一個系，考試和紙。

在紙上我感到中國人和鉛筆的酷似。

輕描淡寫，磨損橡皮的一生。

經歷了太多的墨水，眼鏡，打字機

以及鉛的沉重之後，

英語已經輕鬆自如，捲起在中國的一角。

它使我們習慣了縮寫和外交辭令，

還有西餐，刀叉，阿司匹林。

這樣的變化不涉及鼻子

和皮膚，像每天早晨的牙刷

英語在牙齒上走著，使漢語變白。

從前吃書吃死人，因此

我天天刷牙，這關係到水，衛生和比較。

由此產生了口感，滋味說

以及日常用語的種種差異。

還關係到一隻手，它伸進英語

中指和食指分開，模擬

一個字母，一次勝利，一種

對自我的納粹式體驗。

一支煙落地，只燃到一半就熄滅了

像一段歷史。歷史就是苦於口吃的

戰爭，再往前是第三帝國，是希特勒。

我不知道這個狂人是否槍殺過英語，槍殺過

莎士比亞和濟慈。

但我知道，有牛津辭典里的、貴族的英語，

也有武裝到牙齒的、邱吉爾或羅斯福的英語。

它的隱喻，它的物質，它的破壞的美學

在廣島和長崎爆炸。

我看見一堆堆漢字在日語中變成屍首——

但在語言之外，中國和英美結盟。

我讀過這段歷史，感到極為可疑。

我不知道歷史和我誰更荒謬。

一百多年了，漢英之間，究竟發生了什麼？

為什麼如此多的中國人移居英語，

努力成為黃種白人，而把漢語

看作離婚的前妻，看作破鏡里的家園？究竟

發生了什麼？我獨自一人在漢語中幽居

與眾多紙人對話，空想著英語。

並看著更多的中國人躋身其間

從一個象形的人變為一個拼音的人。

1987．7．於成都

Key to Sunday

A key glints in the Sunday morning light.

A returning traveler is locked out in the dark.

A knock on the door is always more faint than

the rasp of metal in the keyhole.

Only a dreamed address is reliable.

As I bike down a quiet street

all the headlights go out at once.

In the night sky above, a hand clenches a brake.

I hear a clink. A key has fallen to the ground.

I see a ring of keys, keys of years past

glinting in the light. I pick them up.

But where are the hands that hide behind them?

A row of closed days, ending in Saturday—

but I do not know which to unlock.

Now it is Sunday. All the doors on the street

stand open. I toss the keys away.

No need to knock. Just walk right in.

Such a crowded world, and no one at home.

星期日的鑰匙

鑰匙在星期日早上的陽光中晃動。

深夜歸來的人回不了自己的家。

鑰匙進入鎖孔的聲音，不像敲門聲

那麼遙遠，夢中的地址更為可靠。

當我橫穿郊外公路，所有車燈

突然熄滅。在我頭上的無限星空里

有人捏住了自行車的剎把。傾斜，

一秒鐘的傾斜，我聽到鑰匙掉在地上。

許多年前的一串鑰匙在陽光中晃動。

我拾起了它，但不知它後面的手

隱匿在何處？星期六之前的所有日子

都上了鎖，我不知道該打開哪一把。

現在是星期日。所有房間

全部神秘地敞開。我扔掉鑰匙。

走進任何一間房屋都用不著敲門。

世界如此擁擠，屋裡卻空無一人。

1991．8．23於成都

Who is Gone, and Who Remains

Dusk: the boy secrets himself in a tree-root,

eavesdropping on the innards of insects.

What he hears is not the world of insects

but the world outside: for example, innards of machines.

The setting sun turns beneath his feet like the wheel of a truck,

the boy』s father drives a truck

the truck is empty

parked in an empty field.

The father gets out, and the soundless beauty of the sunset strikes him dumb.

He turns off his crying cell phone, says to the boy:

all things turning at the edge of the sky

have lips, have tongues. But they speak only amongst themselves,

erecting their ears upon this speech.

The boy, refusing to believe in the ears of things, listens to the ears

of his heart.

In truth, he is not listening at all,

but, by not listening, he overhears

a different kind of hearing—

he invents his own deafness, and soars,

rising on mute updrafts of imagination.

Behind our everyday sunset, could there be

a miracle-world alive with voices?

Could there be another boy listening, another sun

sinking in the west?

Staggering sky—

The world has fallen silent: a telephone rings on, unanswered.

Machines and insects cannot hear each other』s heartbeats,

and the root has been ripped from the soil.

The boy』s deafness becomes dream-vision, protocol, brogue.

The truck is broken

his father buries his head under the hood

and his mother sleeps, sunset cradled in her arms, unaware

of the coming of night, the coming of age.

誰去誰留

黃昏，那小男孩躲在一株植物里

偷聽昆蟲的內臟。他實際聽到的

是昆蟲以外的世界：比如，機器的內臟。

落日在男孩腳下滾動有如卡車輪子，

男孩的父親是卡車司機，

卡車卸空了

停在曠野上。

父親走到車外，被落日的一聲不吭的美驚呆了。

他掛掉響個不停的行動電話，

對男孩說：天邊滾動的萬事萬物都有嘴唇，

但它們只對物自身說話，

只在這些話上建立耳朵和詞。

男孩為否定物的耳朵而偷聽了內心的耳朵。

他實際上不在聽，

卻意外聽到了一種完全不同的聽法—

那男孩發明了自己身上的聾，

他成了飛翔的、幻想的聾子。

會不會在凡人的落日後面

另有一個眾聲喧嘩的神跡世界？

會不會另有一個人在聽，另有一個落日

在沉落？

哦踉蹌的天空

大地因沒人接聽的電話而異常安靜。

機器和昆蟲彼此沒聽見心跳，

植物也已連根拔起。

那小男孩的聾變成了夢境，秩序，鄉音。

卡車開不動了

父親在埋頭修理。

而母親懷抱落日睡了一會，只是一會，

不知天之將黑，不知老之將至。

1997.4.12於斯圖加特

Picasso Paints a Bull

Over the course of the next two weeks Picasso will paint a bull.

A bull whose body seems possessed by a strange reality:

the more Picasso paints, the less there is.

「Can less」—the artist asks—「become more?」

「Right on,」 Picasso replies.

The critic waits to see the painter』s more.

But Picasso』s bull just keeps getting less and less.

The hooves are first to go—then the horns,

then the skin itself drops off like a retina,

revealing the joints between empty spaces.

「How less does it have to get before it becomes more?」

「That depends on the name you give to more.」

The critic is confused. 「Would you say that in this work

you are committing moral violence on the bovine body,

shearing off every scrap of flesh with your Mediterranean wind?」

「Don』t blame the wind—look at that butcher shop

across the way. Every day I watch lovely young ladies

walk home with a few dozen pounds of his meat.」

「Whose meat? The meat of the bull on your canvas?」

「Now that depends on which knife you use.」

「Is this a contest between the ethics of aesthetics and the ethics of life?」

「All cut up, how』d he have energy for that?」

「And what』s left over? Anything?」

「No, no spirit remains. Praise waste.」

「Is your bull an act of subtraction upon the world?」

「Why not addition? I imagine that butcher is

counting his cash right now.」 Sure enough, the next day,

the butcher』s wife comes with her life savings to buy Picasso』s bull.

But all she sees is a couple lines.

「Where』s the bull?」 she asks, indignant.

畢加索畫牛

接下來的兩個星期畢加索在畫牛。

那牛身上似乎有一種越畫得多

也就越少的古怪現象。

「少」藝術家問，「能變成多嗎？」

「一點不錯，」畢加索回答說。

批評家等著看畫家的多。

但那牛每天看上去都更加稀少。

先是蹄子不見了，跟著牛角沒了，

然後牛皮像視網膜一樣脫落，

露出空白之間的一些接榫。

「少，要少到什麼地步才會多起來？」

「那要看你給多起什麼名字。」

批評家感到迷惑。

「是不是你在牛身上拷打一種品質，

讓地中海的風把肉體颳得零零落落？」

「不單是風在刮，瞧對面街角

那間肉鋪子，花枝招展的女士們，

每天都從那兒割走幾磅牛肉。」

「從牛身上，還是從你的畫布上割？」

「那得看你用什麼刀子。」

「是否美學和生活的倫理學在較量？」

「挨了那麼多刀，哪來的力氣。」

「有什麼東西被剩下了？」

「不，精神從不剩下。讚美浪費吧。」

「你的牛對世界是一道減法嗎？「

「為什麼不是加法？我想那肉店老闆

正在演算金錢。」第二天老闆的妻子

帶著畢生積蓄來買畢加索畫的牛。

但她看到的只是幾根簡單的線條。

「牛在哪兒呢？」她感到受了冒犯。

1998．9．17於北京

On turning 53 in Vermont

1

A long-awaited August, arriving in September.

An ancient moon, rising in Vermont.

Memories, moving in the light from Friday.

Zhuangzi approaches

with receding footsteps.

Footsteps of cloud patterns, unfolding petals, postal systems.

2

A letter written in an ancient autumn

has not yet found its way into my hand.

The postman is winging through the blue.

On the other side of the earth, you』re reading a letter I』ve yet to write.

You』ve yet to send

a letter I』ve already opened twice.

Preflowered, unbroken, empty voices.

3

I pick up your call. I hear your lilting voice.

A sound to open blossoms in lamps, that voice.

I say hello, you answer wei?

In the background, the din of a Chinese banquet hall.

The guests are starving, but the chef is an artist

who paints ribeyes in ink, serves them on a scroll.

Is the concept of cow worth more than the meat?

A weaning mother crams the teat of Marx

between her infant』s lips, suppressing the milk』s

proletarian yelps, while a banker

at the ATM machine inside his own head

presses the button to empty his heart.

4

When we』ve hung up on the voice of money,

will we hear poetry』s voice?

An invisible finger presses a button:

the world is on speakerphone.

Will King Lear hear Shakespeare calling?

Will Li Bai hear, in Sappho』s moon,

the wind-blown snow of a butterfly』s dream?

Will I hear my other me?

In the minutes before my cell phone rings—

astral, primordial silence.

5

Strike a match, light an anti-me.

Send the paper flames of your postcards express

from ancient China to twilit Vermont.

Blow lightly, light as wings turned to dust.

Blow out my heart.

Brittle heart, billowing heart, which together with the universe

composes a point:

a smallness of infinite size,

the million light years of fifty-three years.

6

If I have only one past, I am that past.

But if I have five hundreds pasts

then I don』t have a single present.

Do you have another present?

Perhaps you are not where you are, and I am not

who I am. I have two past selves, one of them

newborn: a 53-year old

no one at all.

7

A fish lies on a dinner plate,

cut by knife, cooked by flame.

This can happen. The same fish swims up out of the river and onto my keyboard, where it studies me with surreal eyes—

this can also happen.

Can a human play the music of the fish,

play an inversion against the parallel motion of species?

Play a chef out of the fish on the plate,

a philosopher out of the fish in the river?

But Zhuangzi is playing at something far stranger:

a cooked fish, swimming to life in the sky.

8

The universe is an elderly scientist』s toy.

A kid stands on the globe, demanding a lollipop.

An engineer spins the world in his hand,

then turns, hands paradise to a crane beyond the sky.

A crane, even of paper, remains in flight—

and despite its steel cousin, continues

to dance, stand on tiptoe: crane-stance of the heart.

Zhuangzi follows the crane』s example.

He stands tall, looks far, unbridles his spirit.

And you give motionless poise to the thunder of horses,

balance the foundation of a dream atop the stem of a narcissus.

9

When we set foot in paradise, peach blossoms wither.

Time fades, worn by beginnings and endings.

Pain fades. A jackhammer

bores into the teeth of the earth.

The ache of human ears: an endodontist』s chair

placed in the hushed nave of the planet.

Every day, we bore a few inches deeper.

Any deeper, and our hearts would touch.

And an underground sky would gush forth, fountain-like,

pyrotechnic flowers unfolding in space.

10

The beard of Zhuangzi, moving in the wind—

this is just a picture in the mind of Stevens.

I offer them both an electric razor.

Now, our three chins

have the same small battery-powered heart:

time turns, anti-time turns.

An ancient moon, returned to China unanswered—

every day, I use my razor.

The past is my present.

I』m a reproduction.

11

Beneath the moon of a different world

I pause, listening for your footsteps, waiting

for the moment from which eternity will spill.

Am I really in Vermont?

A distance of an inch puts you in another country.

I can』t see the pine trees in the dark,

but pine cones are falling everywhere.

Life is falling, like a porcelain urn.

Empty, falling.

I stoop, gather the shards of its emptiness.

Every shard, both instance and idea,

word and flesh, past and future.

Pieced together, they make a finality.

And the world is once again fragile and full,

the night unmarred.

Though this is not the last time the urn will fall.

53歲生日

1.

等待一生的八月，九月之後才到來。

先秦的月亮，在弗爾蒙特升起。

一個退思，在光的星期五移動。

莊子朝我走來，

以離我而去的腳步。

雲移的腳步，花開的腳步，郵政系統的腳步。

2.

一封春秋來信，

至今沒有投遞到我的手上。

郵差在天空中飛來飛去。

地球那邊，你在讀信。

還沒寫的信，你已經讀到了我。

一封我拆開了兩次的信，你一次也沒寄出。

一些預先開花的，將要破土的，空的聲音。

3.

電話里傳來落花般的女高音。

那是你么，把花開到燈里去的聲音？

打給HELLO的電話，接聽的是一個喂。

喂的外面，中餐館人聲鼎沸，

一群食客餓壞了，但廚師是畫師，

他將牛排畫成水墨，端給看客吃。

一頭觀念的牛比真的更值錢嗎？

剛斷奶的單身母親，把馬克思

像奶嘴一樣塞進嬰兒嘴裡，

阻止牛奶發出無產者的尖叫聲。

而銀行家用頭腦里的提款機

一夜之間，提空了內心。

4.

在金錢的聲音被掛斷之後，

詩的聲音是什麼？

一隻神秘的手按下免提鍵。

現在，手機是廣播，

全世界都在聽這個聲音。

李爾王能聽到他的莎士比亞嗎？

薩福的月亮，能從李白的月亮

聽到莊子化蝶的風吹雪嗎？

我能聽到另一個我嗎？

但在你的鈴聲響起之前，

只有無止境的，宇宙洪荒般的寂靜。

5.

可以用生日蠟燭點燃一個無我。

可以把明信片上的紙火焰

從古中國快遞到黃昏的弗爾蒙特。

可以借蝴蝶夜的灰塵，輕盈一吹。

可以吹滅我的心。

心那麼易碎，那麼澎湃，可以和宇宙

構成一個尖銳，

一個小，無限大的極小。

一個53年的十億光年。

6.

如果只有一個過去，我就是這個過去。

如果我的現在有五百個過去，

那麼一個現在我都沒有。

你呢，你有第二個現在嗎？

或許，你在你不在的地方，而我不是

我是的人。我有兩個舊我，其中一個

剛剛新生：一個53歲的

吾喪我。

7.

一條魚躺在晚餐的盤子里，

被刀切過，被爐火烤過。

這是一個發生。

同一條魚從河裡游到電腦界面，

以超現實的目光看著我。

這也是一個發生。

人可以演奏魚的音樂么，

從物種的同一性演奏出一個悖反？

比如，將盤子里的魚演奏成廚師，

將水中魚演奏成一個哲學家。

但是莊子在演奏更神秘的生命，

一條烤熟的魚，在天空中遊動起來。

8.

宇宙是科學老人的玩具。

孩子們站在地球儀上要糖吃。

一個夢的工程師，轉動這隻地球儀，

並將烏托邦轉手給天邊外的鶴。

一隻鶴，即使是紙的，也在天空中飛，

即使看起來像工程吊臂，也在舞蹈，

用足尖踮起心之鶴形。

莊子騁懷縱目，以鶴作為引導。

而你將鶴止步放進萬馬齊奔，

並以水仙般的鶴立，支起一個夢工地。

9.

人置身於桃花源，桃花就凋落了。

擁有太多末日和誕生，時間就消失了。

痛，也消失了。一隻電鑽

在大地的齬齒上鑽洞。

神經末梢的聽覺之痛，將牙科診所

安放在地球的寂靜深處。

每天，鑽頭，在痛的深處加深幾毫米。

要是再深一些，人心，就能深及地心，

噴泉般，噴湧出一個璀璨的地下天空，

一株天體物理的火樹銀花。

10.

莊子的鬍鬚在秋風中飄動。

這只是史蒂文斯頭腦里的一個幻象。

我遞過一個電動剃鬚刀。

現在，我們三個人的三個下巴

有了同一顆電池的心：時間轉動，

反時間也在轉動。莊子的月亮

被退回先秦。我每天使用剃鬚刀。

古代是我的現代，而我只是一個仿古。

11.

駐足於隔世的月光，我等待你的足音，

等待一個剎那溢出終極性。

我真的到過弗爾蒙特嗎？

一米之遙，人已在千里外的異鄉。

夜空中，我看不見一棵松樹，

但松果漫天掉落。生命

也這樣掉落，像一隻中國古瓮。

空，落地，我俯身拾起無限多的空。

每一片具體的碎片里，都有一個抽象。

詞和肉體，已逝和重現，拼湊

並粘連起來，形成一個透徹。

世界回復最初的脆弱

和圓滿，今夜深夢無痕。

但古瓮將又一次摔落。

2009，9，18於弗爾蒙特

Mother, Kitchen

Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear.

Through the opening: a door, crack of light.

Behind the door, a kitchen.

Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse.

A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut

in two: halves of a sun, of slowness.

Halves of a turnip.

A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts.

A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers,

a fish, cut along its leaping curves,

laid on the table

still yearning for the pond.

Summer』s tofu

cut into premonitions of snow.

A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint

of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes:

self and thing, halves of nothing

at the center of time.

Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls.

But this mother is not holding a knife.

What she has been given is not a knife

but a few fallen leaves.

The fish leaps over the blade from the sea

to the stars. The table is in the sky now,

the market has been crammed into the refrigerator,

and she cannot open cold time.

母親，廚房

在萬古與一瞬之間，出現了開合與渺茫。

在開合之際，出現了一道門縫。

門後面，被推開的是海闊天空。

沒有手，只有推的動作。

被推開的是大地的一個廚房。

菜刀起落處，雲捲雲舒。

光速般合攏的生死

被切成星球的兩半，慢的兩半。

蘿蔔也切成了兩半。

在廚房，母親切了悠悠一生，

一盤涼拌三絲，切得千山萬水，

一條魚，切成逃離刀刃的樣子，

端上餐桌還不肯離開池塘。

暑天的豆腐，被切出了雪意。

土豆聽見了洋蔥的刀法

和對位法，一種如花吐瓣的剝落，

一種時間內部的物我兩空。

去留之間，刀起刀落。

但母親手上並沒有拿刀。

天使們遞到母親手上的

不是刀，是幾片落葉。

醫生拿著聽診器在聽秋風。

深海里的秋刀魚

越過刀鋒，朝星空游去。

如今晚餐在天上，

整個菜市場被塞進冰箱，

而母親，已無力打開冷時間。

一百年來，漢語新詩的發展與外國詩歌及其翻譯的影響密不可分，但雙方的互動也始終存在不對等的問題。隨著中國當代文學的崛起，當代漢語詩歌期待在更廣闊的語境中發聲，同世界文學達成愈加豐富的交流與對話。

為進一步繁榮新時代詩歌，推動漢語詩歌走向世界，激勵本土詩人們創作出具有世界影響力的優秀作品，中國詩歌網與美國華盛頓PATHSHARERS BOOKS（出版有季刊21st Century Chinese Poetry）合作開展漢詩英譯活動。《詩刊》每期刊登的詩作及中國詩歌網「每日好詩」中的佳作，將有機會被譯成英語，刊於21st Century Chinese Poetry，並在中國詩歌網做專題展示。

「漢詩英譯」欄目編委會

主編：金石開、朱濤

責編：王美富、王家銘、羅曼、丁鵬

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