多多：我爱在大海深处与你汇合
题图：Edward Hopper
多多的诗
Poetry by Duo Duo
Translated from the Chinese by Ming Di（英译：明迪）
Living together
They’ll meet the three intents of life
around the corner: embers from an old men’s pipe,
children's graffiti on the wall,
and a woman’s wet leg in the rain.
They wander around a whole night
near the small white house for signs.
The sun rises, a place to stay is still not settled.
From this point on, things start to go wrong.
Without praying they cuddle in a bed.
They pay no attention to the light outside that brutally breaks in
later on, and fall asleep with a hearty smile
as if dead.
They get up and leave—not even bother to recall
the tender moments—they walk through streets
and enter a building with no marks—
disappearing in there—
in the same way
his mother predicted before she died.
In fact they have every intention
to look for the moment
that intersperses with memories of the past.
From time to time
they carry on conversations in code,
as on a snow day
walking back from the fog with a gentle pace,
in the same mood as peeling an orange for a patient.
The flowers from that greenhouse
must have left them, through the purple fog,
a memorable impression.
They start to cheer up
and blaze.
Let it be. Let them
stay unconscious briefly.
—Go
whisper a beat
but do not stir them.
Do not let the window of where they live together
go dim.
Do not let them lose
the strength to overlook the impressionistic wilderness.
When they walk to the street center at dawn
they see life. Life
is the cleaning man in blue overalls
who stops working
to watch them approach. A pipe in his mouth,
he stands in the morning—
1976
同居
他们将在街头同人生的三个意向相遇：
老人烟斗的余火、儿童涂写在墙上的笔迹
和湿漉漉的雨中行走的女人的小腿
他们徘徊了一整夜
围绕小白房子寻找标记
太阳升起来了，归宿仍不能断决
错误就从这时发生
没有经过祈祷
他们就会睡到一张床上
并且毫不顾忌室外光线
在晚些时候的残酷照射
因而能够带着动人的笑容睡去
像故去一样
竟然连再温柔的事情
也懒得回忆
就起身穿行街道
一直走进那
毫无标记的楼房大门
他们因此而消失
同母亲！临终前
预言过的一模一样
其实在他们内心
时时都在寻找
穿插那段往事的机会
时时都在用暗语交谈
就像雪天
用轻柔的步子从雾里归来
剥喂病人桔子时的心情一样
那花房的花
透过紫红的霜雾
肯定给他们留下难忘的印象
让他们的情调
就此炽烈起来
那就让他们
再短暂地昏迷一下吧
——去
给他们一个拍节
但不要给他们以觉察
不要让他们同居的窗口
因此变得昏暗
不要让他们因此失去
眺望原野的印象力量
当他们向黎明的街心走去
他们看到了生活。生活
就是那个停住劳动
看着他们走近的清道夫
他穿着蓝色的工作服
还叨着一只烟斗，站在早晨——
1976
Morning
It’s morning or any time, it’s morning.
You dream of waking up, you're afraid of waking up
so you say: you're afraid of ropes, afraid of women with faces of birds, so
you dream of your father
speaking bird words, drinking bird milk.
You dream of your father as a bachelor
who by chance, not in a dream
had you, you dream the dream your father dreamed.
You dream that your father says: this is a dream a dead man dreamed.
You don't believe but you're inclined to believe
this is a dream, only adream, and it’s yours:
it was once the handlebar of a bicycle keeping the shape squeezed by a hand.
Now it droops from your father's belly.
It was once a son refusing to be born.
Now it’s you
crawling back to that handlebar. You've dreamed of all the details
like the teeth your father dropped on the ground, glittering
and laughing at you.
So you are not the death
but merely a case of death: you've dreamed your dream’s death.
1991
早晨
是早晨或是任何时间，是早晨
你梦到你醒了，你害怕你醒来
所以你说：你害怕绳子，害怕脸
像鸟儿的女人，所以你梦到你父亲
说鸟儿语，喝鸟儿奶
你梦到你父亲是上独身者
在偶然中而不是在梦中
有了你，你梦到你父亲做过的梦
你梦到你父亲说：这是死人做过的梦。
你不相信但你倾向于相信
这是梦，仅仅是梦，是你的梦：
曾经是某种自行车的把手
保持着被手攥过的形状
现在，就耷拉在你父亲的小肚子上
曾经是一个拒绝出生的儿子
现在就是你，正爬回那把手
你梦到了你梦中的一切细节
像你父亲留在地下的牙，闪着光
笑你，所以你并不是死亡
只是其中一例：你梦到了你梦的死亡。
1991
I’m reading my father
I’m reading my father in the November’s wheat field.
I’m reading his hair,
the color of his tie, and the stitches on his pants
and his hooves—tripled by shoelaces.
He plays violin while ice-skating, his scrotum tightened.
His neck stretches toward the sky as if having too much understanding of it.
I’m reading him, a horse with two big eyes.
I’m reading my father—he’saway from the other horses
briefly, his coat hanging on a small tree,
along with his socks.
Those pale asses fade in andout, like the soaps
women use to wash their bodies, placed inside oyster shells
where the meat has been scooped out.
I smell my father's greasy hair
and the tobacco on his body.
His tuberculosis lightens up the left lung of a horse,
I read that a boy's questions
rise from a golden cornfield.
I read about my teenage years. It rains on the red roofs
where grains are spread out, sun-dried.
In the sowing season, a plow drags the four legs of a dead horse.
The horse skin, an opened umbrella. The horse’s teeth scatter around.
I’m reading and I see faces after faces rolled away by time.
I see my father's story rotten under the ground,
the grasshoppers on his body live on by themselves.
When I’m about to become astone bench in the London fog
and when I glance over a man walking on the Bank Avenue,
a white-haired barber cuddling an aged persimmon tree
I see my father putting me back into the stomach of a horse…
1991
我读着
十一月的麦地里我读着我父亲
我读着他的头发
他领带的颜色，他的裤线
还有他的蹄子，被鞋带绊着
一边溜着冰，一边拉着小提琴
阴囊紧缩，颈子因过度的理解伸向天空
我读到我父亲是一匹眼睛大大的马
我读到我父亲曾经短暂地离开过马群
一棵小树上挂着他的外衣
还有他的袜子，还有隐现的马群中
那些苍白的屁股，像剥去肉的
牡蛎壳内盛放的女人洗身的肥皂
我读到我父亲头油的气味
他身上的烟草味
还有他的结核，照亮了一匹马的左肺
我读到一个男孩子的疑问
从一片金色的玉米地里升起
我读到在我懂事的年龄
晾晒壳粒的红房屋顶开始下雨
种麦季节的犁下托着四条死马的腿
马皮像撑开的伞，还有散于四处的马牙
我读到一张张被时间带走的脸
我读到我父亲的历史在地下静静腐烂
我父亲身上的蝗虫，正独自存在下去
像一个白发理发师搂抱着一株衰老的柿子树
我读到我父亲把我重新放回到一匹马腹中去
当我就要变成伦敦雾中的一条石凳
当我的目光越过在银行大道散步的男人……
1991
Gratitude
In returning what we’ve taken, we take again
and we're grateful to the emptied space, our land.
We expand its geography to the mining zone
in the off hours, and are grateful to its past, a vast land.
Our ancestors refuse to be plaster statues,
we're grateful to the trees—they stand in line as our families.
Tombstones will no longer measure the groundwater levels,
we're grateful to them,singers of the earth.
We bow to the earth that continues to give,
grateful to its deep messages that reach our knees.
When the blessings are not sure where to go,
we’re grateful to the hidden journeys.
When the emptied space reveals the wheat field underneath,
we’re grateful for the unexpressed apologies.
When the trees send a lyrical force to touch our shirts,
we’re grateful to the stars that point down
to what we should be grateful to
but has been concealed to us…
2000
感谢
在归还它的时候借它
感谢空地，实在就是大地了
向着下工时分的煤区扩散它的地理
感谢它的过去，已显得尤其宽广了
在祖先的骨骸拒绝变为石像的那条线上
感谢树木的伫立，就是亲人的伫立了
不会再有墓碑测量地下水位的起降了
感谢它们原是多好的朗诵者
向着有赐予继续发生的地点鞠躬
感谢土地深层的意思已传至膝头
去推动祝福所不知前往的
感谢隐藏的里程开始了
当空地也显示麦地
感谢那预定的歉意，尚未被取走
树木抒情性的力量便一再牵动我们的衣襟
感谢桥头星光灿烂，直指接受者藏身处……
2000
I’m dreaming
I’m dreaming of my father as a cloud drawing clouds,
left-handed, like the glass window of a drugstore.
He wears a blue raincoat, crossing a street
along the spinning needle of an old gramophone.
He passes through a laundry-mat, and a coffin shop
not far from where I grew up.
He walks, and with his blue skeleton
he calls for a streetcar.
I’m dreaming that on every corner stands a father
fighting with fathers. I’m dreaming of him and see
his back among the fathers.
Every street resists his fighting, every corner
is the witness: in the center of the street
a tongue is pulled out like a bicycle tire…
Time stops after my father's death, then rushes out,
in full swing, to the street.
Can someone stop me and wake me up?
No one.
I dream on, as if in a dream of all the dead
dreaming of their entire lives.
Black soil is shoveled in to the open chests
of the dead, shovel after shovel, and from their bodies
the land takes its new frontiers.
Flies fly away. They don’t eat human flesh any more.
The dead sit up and cry when they see the hooks
in the fish market…
I take this as my dream.
I’ve dreamed what I should’ve dreamed
and I’ve dreamed what the dream tells me to dream of
as if my dream is hijacked—
2000
我梦着
梦到我父亲，一片左手写字的云
有药店玻璃的厚度
他穿着一件蓝色的雨衣
从一张老唱片的钢针转过的那条街上
经过洗染店，棺材行
距离我走向成长的那条街不远
他蓝色的骨骼还在召唤一辆有轨电车
我梦到每一个街口，都有一个父亲
投入父亲堆中扭打的背影
每一条街都在抵抗，每一个拐角
都在作证：就在街心
某一个父亲的舌头被拽出来
像拽出一条自行车胎那样……
我父亲死后的全部时间正全速经过那里
我希望有谁终止这个梦
希望有谁唤醒我
但是没有，我继续梦着
就像在一场死人做过的梦里
梦着他们的人生
一锹一锹的土铲进男子汉敞开的胸膛
从他们身上，土地通过梦拥有新的疆界
一片不再吃人的蝇
从那边升起好一会儿了
一望到鱼铺子里闲荡的大秤
他们就会一齐嚎啕大哭......
我接受了这个梦
我梦到了我应当梦到的
我梦到了梦的命令
就像被梦劫持——
2001年
Promise
I love—I love my shadow,
a parrot, I love to eat what it loves
to eat. I love to give you what I don’t have.
I love to ask you do you still love me?
I love your ears that love to hear that I love
adventures. I love the house on fire, inviting us
to lie down as its roof.
I love to lie on my side, casting a straight evening shade,
a line of small villages for a full body.
I love your lips to be close and to know my promise.
I love my dreams full of intelligent ambitions
like a real groom.
I love to eat raw meat, looking straight into hell.
But I love more to play violin in your arms.
I love to turn off lights early, and wait for your body
to light the room.
I love to sleep while my pillow grows plums.
When I wake up, they grow back to their tree branches.
I love the waves to love the front deck all night long.
I love to cry out “Come back” and you will.
I love to torture the harbor and torture the words.
I love to control myself at a desk.
I love to put my hands into the sea.
I love my fingers all stretching out
holding fast to the edge of a wheat field.
I love it when my five fingers are your five boyfriends
as before. I love memory tobe a kind of life, not much,
but more than it can lose when a woman walks to me,
as she did thirty years ago—
in the sunset, a girl with a violin case
smiled at me, for no reason.
I love even more that we’re still a pair of torpedoes
waiting to shoot again.
I love to join you in the deep ocean, you
are mine and mine alone, and I
still love to say and to sing I promise—
2001
诺言
我爱，我爱我的影子
是一只鹦鹉，我爱吃
它爱吃的，我爱给你我没有的
我爱问：你还爱我吗
我爱你的耳廓，它爱听：我爱冒险
我爱动情的房屋邀我们躺下做它的顶
我爱侧卧，为一条直线留下投影
为一个丰满的身体留下一串小村庄
我要让离你的唇最近的那颗痣
知道，这就是我的诺言
我爱我梦中的智力是个满怀野心的新郎
我爱吃生肉，直视地狱
但我还是爱在你怀里偷偷拉动小提琴
我爱早早熄灭灯，等待
你的身体再次照亮这房间
我爱我睡去时，枕上全是李子
醒来时，李子回到枝头
我爱整夜波涛吸引前甲板
我爱喊：你会归来
我爱如此折磨港口，折磨词语
我爱在桌前控制自己
我爱把手插入大海
我爱我的五指同时张开
紧紧抓住麦田的边缘
我爱我的五指仍是你的五个男友
我爱回忆是一种生活，少
但比一个女人向我走来时
漏掉的还要多，就像三十年前
夕光中，街道上，背着琴匣的姑娘
仍在无端地向我微笑
我就更爱我们仍是一对鱼雷
等待谁把我们再次发射出去
我爱在大海深处与你汇合，你
是我的，只是我的，我
还是爱这么说，这么唱我的诺言——
2001
Vermeer's light
Dust in the light is collected on a tiny scale,
to be weighed, in Zen proportion, the extra weight
of extra meanings of dust.
Each small pearl, touched
by the girl with golden eyes,
brings even smaller beams oflight
and from here to extract numbers—
numbers learn to sing—when and how
can they reach the light in Vermeer’s?
What’s unknown and unsaid
is the beauty extreme.
2004
维米尔的光
按禅境的比例，一架小秤
称着光线中的尘埃
以及尘埃中意义过重的重量
粒粒细小的珍珠，经
金色瞳仁姑娘的触摸
带来更为细小的光亮
以此提炼数，教数
学会歌——至多晚，至多久
抵达维米尔的光
从未言说，因此是至美
2004
A father, heading toward the Sagittarius
To make the solitude of the ocean
and to weigh the boat no one paddles, sailing
in my daughter's eyes—five stacks of feathers
and spider webs, one heart left,
half of van Gogh's ear—and the moon wanes
into the light.
The barley field in the Orion Star spreads, in full frontal,
waking up the Venus.
My daughter sits on every river, catching the secret
of where we shall meet again.
2005
一个父亲要去人马座
造大海孤独的质量
无人船的重量，驶进
女儿的眼睛——五堆羽毛
蜘蛛，只剩下心
凡高的半只耳朵，残月
从光里开始
猎户星座的麦田
已接近金星全醒的全景
女儿在每一条河流继续拦截
我们再见的秘密
2005
Over the Easter Hills
A stony corn and a female stone pit cuddle
in a circle shape, a pre-ice age eruption.
Quietly we cut off the quiet forests
on our bed, and we can’t stop
this moment of temporary time.
Above us the roof may be a sky, a reincarnation.
Alas, what’s cut off adds to what’s “less”,
our sail sings a duet with an opera house:
Go to the sunken land of lotus,
a silk Chinese pavilion bristles on our daughter’s head—
joy is framed there.
2005
复活节的山岗上
石头玉米与母性采石场环形的拥抱
已联合成白垩纪的中立
祝我们冷静地斩
我们床上的树林
我们停不下来的临时
和我们楼顶可能轮回的天空
呵，斩增加那少
呵，帆与歌剧院的二重唱：
去沉落的莲花大陆
女儿头上竖着绢作的中国亭
欢乐就定在那里
2005
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