在寒山中 | 黄有源

黄有源

HWANG Yu Won

黄有源（韩国），诗人、翻译家，于2013年获得文学村出版社新艺术家奖。2015年出版的诗集《世间万物最大化》获得韩国最重要的诗歌奖金洙暎诗歌奖；2019年出版最新诗作《你应该看见我戴皇冠》。翻译著作包括鲍勃·迪伦的《歌词集：1961–2012》、美国作家赫尔曼·梅尔维尔的《白鲸记》，以及麦斯·波特、戴维·邵洛伊、约翰·加德纳、卡理·纪伯伦和沃尔特·惠特曼的诗歌。黄有源现于东国大学攻读哲学博士学位。

1

关于初冬的半跏思惟

我在这里，静默地坐着，手扶脸颊

若是桌上放着的水瓶颤抖不止，那颤抖

便从，

我独自一人的颤抖，

变为，

整个世界的颤抖

在冰冷的地板上

秋草倒挂于墙上风干的时间里，

半跏思惟像的左脚掌，洁白如雪

窗外，一只汲满水的水瓮浮于空中

颤抖，

翻涌

翅膀从锐利发光的破碎水瓮中洒出

伸展，

变宽，

从脚，至膝盖

至盆骨，至胸腔

寒冷蔓延

最终，大脑一阵冰凉

半跏思惟有何特别？

甚至不及一阵凉爽的风、一场十分钟畅快的换气

像敲下输入键，猛然

起身，不要试图冲向窗边

空格，

又一空格，像按下空格键

我移开发麻的脚

金铜如来立像有何特别？

在天空再次染成久违的天青色时

开窗站定，无论是谁，都可享受片刻开阔

佛像脸庞如同机场跑道，

在跑道上，在无许可便飞行的表情和

时常着陆的表情之间，

金铜如来立像嘴角上扬，

定格成一旦起飞便不再返航的表情

半跏思惟像的思绪，洁白如雪

金铜弥勒半跏思惟像和金铜如来立像之间的差异只有序号

按下空格键

再敲下输入键

若是调换顺序

或许会成为惊喜键

每当那时，烛火坠入夜晚的大海

水平线、竖直线、

分界线等等

形形色色的线，化为火海

若是火焰将晚风点燃，若是火焰高涨

便不好了

而然，即便不好

也并非不可能

每当那时，剎车，剎车，从远方海岸公路传来轮胎燃烧的气味

像水流泛滥一般

溢出火焰的时节，

水火不分

用没有手指的眼睛

在这晚秋最后一日的清晨中，久久地触摸那捉不住的云，

如同长长地按下空格键一般

半跏思惟像的思绪

洒落在那天空

如来立像诸类

输入键，

输入键，

在那里，噗通一声

彻底跌坐

The Meditating Buddha Sitting Full-Lotus That Meditates on the Beginning of Winter

I am still here, sitting with my head in my hands

and over there on top of that table

if the vases are really trembl-ling

their trembling is a trembling that is really only me—

Only me

in a way

where the trembling won’t stop

until it becomes the trembling of the entire world.

On the cold special floor that is found in only Korean buildings,

in the time it takes

for the autumnal grass hanging upside down on the wall to dry,

the left sole of the foot of the Meditating Buddha Sitting Full-Lotus

turns white as rice.

Hanging outside the window, floating in the sky

is a water scooping pot.

Shaky, shaky,

splashy, splash and

within the widening surface

of the wings that spill from the

acute and light emitting

spreading out of the

shattering of the water pot

is a cold that grows

from foot to knee

through pelvis to chest

until finally coming

to brainfreeze at the head.

What’s so fucking special about a Buddha sitting full lotus anyway?

It’s not even as nice as a handful of cool wind,

or ten minutes of wide-open ventilation.

Like pounding the enter key, I jump up!

Intending to dash to the window, I hesitate

like pressing Spacebar like

Space,

and then

Space,

I remove my sleeping

feet.

What’s so special about the Standing, Gold-Plated Buddha anyway?

Whenever the sky turns sky-colored for the first time in who remembers when,

anyone that stands in front of an open window can momentarily expand.

Yes, the face is a thing like a runway—

between expressions that fly without permission overhead

and the familiar ones that frequently land,

the corners of the Standing, Gold-Plated Buddha’s mouth

always end in an expression that takes off

and never comes back.

The meditation of the Meditating Buddha Sitting Full-Lotus

becomes white and

the only difference between Gold-Plated Future Buddha sitting in meditation

and Standing, Gold-Plated Buddha

is just a serial number.

I press Spacebar.

I pound Enter.

If it were possible to do this in reverse,

wouldn’t that be a surprise?

Because when it does happen in reverse

the fire of the candles collapse into the night sea and

the becoming of the sea of flames is made up of

horizontal lines, vertical lines,

border lines, etc…

until it is that which is every line.

And if that fire caught on to the night wind, if that fire swelled,

no, no, don’t even think it.

It would be bad.

Yeah, it would be bad, but

bad does not mean impossible.

Because every time that happens, Brake, Brake,

in the distance, the smell of burning tires on a road near the beach.

The way water expands,

an overflowing season of flames.

Waterfire, firewater, with no discrimination,

in this late Fall when I finger the untouchable clouds

for a long time with eyes that don’t even have fingers,

on the morning of the final day,

for the duration of time I hold down the spacebar,

the meditation of the Meditating Buddha Sitting Full-Lotus

spills into the sky.

Standing, Gold-Plated Buddha, whatever,

Enter,

Enter,

flop there, crashdown,

collapse.

2

在寒山中

冬天双脚冰凉

心未冰冷

双手尚温

冰凉的脚化作飞鸟

那日在下班路上莫名架起的东湖大桥

矗立在封冻的汉江之上

未加思索，群鸟一列升空

冰凉的双脚像冬天一样

你在十年前为我买下的登山袜

如今每到冬日我还会拿出来穿

只穿在屋内

不曾在屋外穿过

只在冰冷的屋内将之穿在脚上

冬日若消逝便再次脱下

用那双冰凉的脚

我再次前往曾经踏足的寒冷国度

尽管双脚会被冻僵

只要心脏未凉

定要将袜子脱下

如此一来，在突然重新涌现的凌晨，若是双脚冰凉

我便仿若无处可去

尽管看似何处皆可去

尽管看似无论去何处都无法脱离此处

冰凉的脚似凌晨一般

所有凌晨的脚皆是冰凉

仿佛所有凌晨的脚都不穿袜子

在深夜酒席上老人常对我说

你是诗人

便试着祝辞作为完美的收尾吧

诗人并未祝辞，只能脱下袜子

露出冰凉的赤足

只能整夜像狂人一般独自赤足

攀登冬日的山

无精打采直到思如泉涌为止！

直到牙齿为那呼之欲出的灵感发寒为止！

如此一来在双脚仿若要消失时

猛然清醒

在此刻用双手撑开在脚踝处变长的袜子

迟迟地将双脚伸入其中

直到那似是要消失的脚

在袜中变得柔软为止

先辈诗人寒山

在山中寒冷的夜里

也会拿出往日谁人为之买下的袜子穿着入眠吗？

尽管无从得知

尽管已是十年岁月飞逝

但我还未曾遗忘

此刻袜子伸长至全身

尽管彻底变得无法在屋外穿

On the Cold Mountain

In winter, my feet feel cold,

but my heart doesn’t,

and my hands are still lukewarm.

So cold my feet transform into birds.

That day on my way home after work, I saw Dongho Bridge

was hanging over the frozen Han River.

Without thought, a flock of birds rise to the sky.

My feet are as cold as winter itself.

The hiking socks you bought me ten years ago,

I take them out and wear them in winter every year,

but I only wear them inside the house

never outside

I only wear them inside the house where I feel cold.

I take them off as soon as winter ends.

My feet that once felt cold

will step on all the warm places they stepped on before.

Even though my feet feel cold,

as long as my heart does not,

I will take off the socks.

In the dawn that breaks in a sudden, if my feet feel cold,

I would as though have nowhere to go.

Although I seem to have everywhere to go

I cannot escape no matter where I go.

My feet are as cold as the dawn.

The feet of all the dawns feel cold,

as if none of them wear socks.

At a midnight drink, old people often say:

You are a poet.

You end the drink with a note.

But the poet does nothing but takes off the socks

and shows his cold bare feet.

He can only climb the winter mountain alone

all night long with his bare feet like a wild man,

low-spirited until inspiration channels

until his teeth chatter for the inspiration about to burst

At the moment the feet are to vanish

the poet sobers up

pulls the socks that have slipped to the ankles.

He slowly stretches his feet inside

until the vanishing feet

soften in the socks.

Did the ancient poet Han Shan

take out the socks that someone bought for him

and wear them in bed at a cold night on the mountain?

Though no way to tell,

and it has been ten years,

I haven’t forgot

the socks have stretched to cover my whole body

cannot be worn outside the house.

中文翻译：陈佳琳

Translated from Korean to English by Jake Levine and Jialin Chen

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