随着那新鲜的深度协会 | 臧棣诗选
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— Horizons 飞地·视野 —
顾爱玲、王敖 译
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臧棣的不少诗篇都带有“元诗”的倾向和意味，他以诗的想象力为生活赋形，将之纳入新的秩序与可能性之中；因而每一次词与物的双重历险，都足以“在孤独的语言中 / 找到美妙的支撑”。
Many of Zang Di’s poems are reminiscent of Yuan dynasty poetry, as he uses his poetic imagination to give shape to life, and to bring it into a new order and set of possibilities. Each time, the risks taken by his poetry’s words and objects manage to “find superb sustenance / in a solitary language.”
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随着那新鲜的深度协会
——纪念谢默斯·希尼 (Seamus Heaney 1939~2013)
爱尔兰的爱。足够遥远
但绝不陌生。每一次挖掘，
爱尔兰的兰，都会随着
那新鲜的深度，在孤独的语言中
找到美妙的支撑。深绿的叶尖摇动
一个细心。动摇的花蕊
在这样的口风中，会如何看待
人生的片面，已成为诗的俘虏呢。
至于挖掘留下的坑，只有汗水
才能填满。也只有这样的坑，
才能在时世的艰难中加深一次信任。
给倒影打一个电话吧——
既然它们已在风景中的风景里
坚持了这么久。爱是冰。
不信的话，你可以自己动手试一试。
八月的最后一天，像一头大象。
别这么看着我。我现在是个盲人。
这样的底线，就该有这样的盲人。
德尔默•施瓦茨，即“洪堡的礼物”中
洪堡的原型，他悲伤地说过——
“接触是一杆枪”。情况的确很严峻，
但是你，坚持掀开油腻的铁匠铺门帘，
教会我像铁锤一样，去信任每一次触摸。
2013年9月1日
After the New Society for Wisdom
——in memory of Seamus Heaney 1939~2013
The love of Ireland. Far enough
but not unfamiliar. With every dig,
Ireland’s orchids follow
that new wisdom, and find in the language of loneliness
a supreme support. The deep green tips of leaves sway
the careful heart. How will the pistils trembling
in those worded intentions regard
this side of human life, now poetry’s prisoners.
As for the hole left by the digging, only sweat
can fill it. Only this kind of hole
leads to a deeper trust in this wearisome world.
Call the after-images——
they’ve already persisted this long
in a landscape set in the landscape. Love is ice.
If you don’t believe it, you can go see for yourself.
The last day of August came like an elephant.
Don’t look at me that way—for now, I’m blind.
Blind men for dark times.
As Delmore Schwartz, Humboldt’s model
in Humboldt’s Gift, painfully said——
“For like a gun is touch.” All grim,
but still you open the blacksmith’s oily shop curtain,
teach me to be like a hammer, to trust in every touch.
顾爱玲 译
追忆丛书
列车缓缓启动。世界模糊成背景。
只有美丽的自我箭在弦上。
还有谁发出的声音
会比靶心被击中时更响彻呢？
列车驶向平原以南，
平原安静得就像一大片膏药，
听任钢铁的速度将随意的涂抹
变成神秘的愈合。加速之后，
列车驶向上海，驶向青蛙作为订婚礼物的国度，
驶向记忆比空气更多的江南小镇，
驶向太平洋深处的情人节。
你靠在车门上，全然不知
有一个世界正随你而去，被你扩大到
天真的极限。该死的天真，
假如天真无助于机遇。十分钟，
你有点后悔。毕竟，天真纠正过命运。
但是在另一个时间里看到
现在的时间的真相，这似乎不是
所有的人都能习惯的事。
酝酿出自内心的真实：还有谁的记忆
会如同这慢慢旋动的瓶塞？
还有谁能在孤独中判断出这区别的含意：
我的记忆总能轻易地追上时间，
而你的记忆从来就没追上过时间。
Remembrance Series
The train slowly starts up. The world blurs into backdrop.
There is only the beautiful inevitability of the self.
And will someone’s voice
be more penetrating than a bull’s-eye when struck?
The train heads south of the plains,
the plains are so quiet they’re like an ointment,
allowing the velocity of iron and steel casually smooth on
its mysterious healing. After its acceleration,
the train heads toward Shanghai, toward a nation where frogs are taken as engagement gifts,
toward little southern towns where there is more memory than air,
toward a Valentine’s Day deep in the Pacific ocean.
You lean against the train doors, completely unaware
that there is a whole world following you, and you’ve pushed it out
to the limits of innocence. This damn innocence,
as though innocence never aids opportunity. Ten minutes,
and you’re a bit regretful. After all, innocence has corrected fate.
But seeing the truth of this moment
at some other time, seems to be something
not everyone can get used to.
A truth brewed in the heart: whose memories
will be like this slowly turning cork?
Who in their loneliness can judge the meaning of this difference:
my memories always easily catch up to time,
and your memories have never caught up to time.
顾爱玲 译
未名湖
你的天地，因这小湖
而有了一个明确的边界。
喜鹊在低空巡逻，顺便放任一下
爱的歌喉。高大的雪松像界碑，
无名在青春的秘密中。
你也许还没有学会使用我们的秘密，
但你不可能没有秘密。
于是，刺猬像信使，将你的工作范围
扩大到茂密的灌木林中。
请回忆一下，宇宙是如何变小的。
这将是非常重要的一环。
我们的宇宙，因这小湖
参与了你的工作而开始变小——
小到你可以直接拥有我的整个天空；
小到你的身体就是我的世界，
而我欢迎这样的改变；小到你可以不必化装，
就能自如地进出我的天地，如同
这只小刺猬来到漆黑的湖畔。
小到仔细一看，噫，原来你就是
我身体里的那块试金石。
Weiming Lake
Your world, because of this little lake,
has a clearly defined border.
Magpies patrol the sky, casually letting
love songs slip out. Tall cedars are like border signs,
nameless amid the secrets of youth.
Perhaps you haven’t learned how to put our secrets to use,
but you can’t not have secrets.
So the hedgehog is a messenger, expanding your work
out into the thick underbrush.
Please remember how the universe is shrinking.
This is a vital step.
Our universe began to shrink because this small lake
joined in your work——
so small you can have my whole sky,
so small your body is my world,
but it’s a change I welcome. So small you needn’t disguise yourself,
you can come and go from my world as you please, just like this small hedgehog
comes to the pitch black bank of the lake.
So small that when one looks carefully——oh, it turns out you really are
my body’s touchstone.
顾爱玲 译
菠菜
美丽的菠菜不曾把你
藏在它们的绿衬衣里。
你甚至没有穿过
任何一种绿颜色的衬衣，
你回避了这样的形象；
而我能更清楚地记得
你沉默的肉体就像
一粒极端的种子。
为什么菠菜看起来
是美丽的？为什么
我知道你会想到
但不会提出这样的问题？
我冲洗菠菜时感到
它们碧绿的质量摸上去
就像是我和植物的孩子。
如此，菠菜回答了
我们怎样才能在我们的生活中
看见对他们来说
似乎并不存在的天使的问题。
菠菜的美丽是脆弱的
当我们面对一个只有五十平方米的
标准的空间时，鲜明的菠菜
是最脆弱的政治。表面上，
它们有些零乱，不易清理；
它们的美丽也可以说
是由繁琐的力量来维持的；
而它们的营养纠正了
它们的价格，不左也不右。
Spinach
This beautiful spinach hasn’t once
hidden you in its green shirt.
You have never worn
any green shirts at all.
You avoid this kind of image——
yet I can clearly remember
your silent flesh resembled
a seed at its apex.
Why does spinach look
beautiful? Why
do I know you will think
this question, but won’t ask it?
Washing spinach, I feel
its deep green quality
is like a child I had with the plant.
So spinach answers the question
of how we can see in our lives
angels that others say don’t exist.
The beauty of spinach is weak——
when we face the mere fifty square meters
of standard living space, this vivid spinach
is the weakest politics. On the surface
a bit wild, difficult to clean——
its beauty one might say
is sustained by the power of little irritations.
Yet its nourishment determines
its value, not to the left nor to the right.
顾爱玲 译
新诗的百年孤独
关于你的诗——
我猜想，它比你本人
更适应这里的自然环境。
它绕开了遗传这一关。
它吸收营养时，像一株晃动的玉米，
它睡觉时，像一只怀孕的野狗。
它散步时，像一条小河流过
横匾般的铁路桥。
它解雇了语言，
理由是语言工作得太认真了。
它煽了服务对象一巴掌。它褪下了
格律的避孕套。它暴露了不可能。
它就像一把木勺在不粘锅里指挥
豌豆的不宣而战。
这些豌豆尽管圆润，饱满，
但还不是词语。
关于我和你的关系，
你的诗是一幢还没有租出去的房子。
现场如此空荡，
就好像戒指是在别的地方拣到的。
沿着篱墙，它甚至结出了美味的丝瓜；
和我从早市上买回的，一样鲜嫩，
一样乖巧于色情的小掌故。
它是生活中的生活。
它惊异于你回来的次数，
而我，尽量避免打听你曾去过哪里。
这就是你的诗。
是的，有一瞬间，它几乎不是你写的。
The One Hundred Years of Solitude of Modern Chinese Poetry
About your poetry——
I’m guessing it adapts to the environment
better than you do.
It’s avoided the problem of inheritance.
Digesting its food, it’s like swaying corn,
asleep, it’s like a pregnant wild dog.
Out for a stroll, it’s a stream flowing
past the plaque-like railroad bridge.
It fires language
because language takes work too seriously.
It slaps the customer. It pulls off
the condom of prosody. It reveals impossibility.
It’s like a wooden spoon in a nonstick pan
commanding the peas’ undeclared war.
These peas are round and plump,
but they still aren’t words.
About the relationship between you and me,
your poetry is an unrented house.
Right now the scene is so empty
it’s like a ring picked out somewhere else.
Along the wall, at least it brings out sponge gourds
like those I bought at the morning market, fresh and tender,
clever enough for erotic stories.
It is the life inside of life.
It’s astonished by the number of times you’ve returned.
I try my best not to ask where you’ve been.
This poem is yours.
Yes, for a moment, it almost seemed not your writing.
顾爱玲 王敖 译
换骨学丛书
抵达之前，会有很多和解，
但不会有幸运。会有很多谜，或是
就不信迷不死你，但不会有
无法揭开的谜。谜是严厉的，
你真的需要我把每个环节都铺垫好吗？
为什么幸运不能太廉价？
因为它不抗震，至少这一回，
至少在这一点上，它没有对电视新闻说谎。
严厉的幸运或许才能带来
神秘的帮助。否则，即使脱了胎，
也别想换骨。你想知道换骨学的
政治底线在哪里吗？一个人的痛苦
就是宇宙的痛苦，但不是国家的痛苦。
一个人的痛苦只可能在国家和国家之间的
绝对的深渊里得到解决。时间能抹平的，
只是你我的结局或局限。时间能抚慰的，
你现在知道，诗会做得更出色。
A Study of Changing Bones
Before arriving, there will be many reconciliations,
but there won’t be good fortune. There’ll be many riddles——though
who could be baffled to death——but there won’t be
intractable riddles. Riddles are serious business,
must I really prepare each step for you?
Why does luck not come cheap?
Because it isn’t quakeproof, at least this time,
at least at this point, it hasn’t lied to the TV news.
Maybe only bad luck can bring
this inscrutable help. Otherwise, even if you remake yourself,
you can’t change your bones. Want to know the political bottom line
of the study of changing bones? One person’s pain
is the pain of the universe, but it isn’t a country’s pain.
A person’s pain can only be alleviated in the absolute abyss
between countries. What time can erase
is only the ending or limits of you and me. What time can comfort,
you know now, poetry can do better.
顾爱玲 王敖 译
反回忆录
心爱之物中有东西表明——
有时，你的心跳得足以唤醒
一只正在冬眠的熊。
另有些东西，你关心
它们在日常生活中
看起来会像什么。
你不必隐瞒即使是在厨房里
你也是一个天文爱好者。
那些西红柿是沿海王星轨道下到锅里的。
至于这柳条编的篮子——
它是角落里的一个神明，
虽然表面上看，它像一只被闲置的小船。
它曾被用来盛放石榴，
香蕉，苹果，红枣，鸭梨……
它曾让生活向这些静物缓缓倾斜。
它是最温和的图腾。
它记得你曾带它出去过一次——
你对它的颜色不满意，想另换一个。
现在，它空在那里。
它用它被生活遗忘的部分
解释着你的生活。
Anti-Memoire
Among the beloved, something becomes clear
sometimes, your heart beats so fast it could wake
a hibernating bear.
Something else, you care
about how they look
in daily life.
Though you’re in the kitchen, you needn’t hide
you’re also an astronomy lover.
Those tomatoes follow Neptune’s orbit to drop into the pot.
As for this wicker basket——
it is a god in the corner,
although on the surface it seems like a little resting boat.
It used to hold pomegranates,
bananas, apples, red dates, pears......
it used to let life lean leisurely against these things.
It is the gentlest of totems.
It remembers you took it out one time——
you weren’t satisfied with its color, you wanted to exchange it.
Now it’s there empty.
It uses the forgotten part of life
to explain your life.
顾爱玲 王敖 译
反诗歌
几只羊从一块大岩石里走出，
领头的是只黑山羊，
它走起路来的样子就像是
已做过七八回母亲了。
而有关的真相或许并不完全如此。
它们沉默如
一个刚刚走出法院的家庭。
我不便猜测它们是否已输掉了
一场官司，如同我不会轻易地反问
石头里还能有什么证据呢。
从一块大岩石里走出了
几只羊，这情景
足以纠正他们关于幻觉的讨论。
不真实不一定不漂亮，
或者，不漂亮并非不安慰。
几只羊旁若无人地咀嚼着
矮树枝上的嫩叶子。
已消融的雪水在山谷里洗着
我也许可以管它们叫玻璃袜子的小东西。
几只羊不解答它们是否还会回到岩石里的疑问。
几只羊分配着濒危的环境：
三十年前是羊群在那里吃草，
十年后是羊玩具越做越可爱。
几只羊从什么地方走出并不那么重要。
几只羊有黑有白，如同这首诗的底牌。
Anti-Poem
A few goats emerge from a boulder.
The leader is a black goat
who walks as though
she’s been a mother many times.
Yet maybe related truths aren’t all this way.
They are as silent
as a family just leaving a courthouse.
It’s rude to guess whether they lost
the case, just as I won’t rashly ask
if there might still be evidence in the rock.
Out of the boulder emerge
a few goats. This scene
will correct their talk of illusion.
Not real isn’t necessarily not pretty,
or perhaps, not pretty isn’t not comforting.
A few goats arrogantly nibble
on the tender leaves of low-lying branches.
Melted snow in the valley washes
something I would call little crystal socks.
The goats don’t say if they’ll return to the boulder.
A few goats take stock of the dying world.
Thirty years ago, goats grazed there.
Ten years later, toy goats get cuter and cuter.
Where the goats came from doesn’t matter.
Black goat, white goat, like this poem’s ace in the hole.
顾爱玲 王敖 译
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