阿尔阿札威诗5首

阿尔阿札威（Fadhil Al-Azzawi），1940年出生于伊拉克北部的科库克。他曾在巴格达大学攻读英国文学，并且加入左翼政治团体，曾因此入狱。此一阶段的他对存在主义和荒谬文学深感兴趣。随后他前往德国留学，取得文化新闻学的博士学位。他在伊拉克和海外编过若干杂志，并且创立《诗69》刊物。自六Ｏ年代初期，他的诗作及评论即刊登于阿拉伯主流文学刊物，他的书也在许多阿拉伯国家发行。他出版过八本阿拉伯文诗集，一本德文诗集，两本开放的文本，五本小说，一本短篇故事集，两本评论和文学理论集，并将许多英文和德文的文学作品翻译成伊拉克文。1977年，他离开伊拉克，并于1983年开始定居柏林（至今仍居住在德国），以自由投稿作家身分专事写作。他的诗和作品曾被译成多国语言，如英文、德文、法文、瑞典文、西班牙文、挪威文、需牙利文、土耳其文、波斯文等。

他出版过的英文诗集有《在每一口井里都有一名约瑟夫在哭泣》（1997），《奇迹制造者：1960-2002诗选》（2003），以及与其他诗人的合集《帝国的黄昏》( 2004 )。

他堪称阿拉伯世界最具创新企图的作家之一，在政治和文学上他都是拒绝崇拜偶像的叛逆者。博览英文和德文著作的阿尔阿札威，将西方的现代和后现代主义融入阿拉伯文学传统，从他的许多作品可以看出他反对意识型态而鼓吹人道主义的倾向。

一场在车站放映的电影 

在冬日火车站，自长途旅行归来，

我发现自己置身于专为旅客而设的电影院

观赏一部情节不熟悉的电影。

在我抵达前就开始放映了，

一部永无终止的电影。

你什么时候开始看都无所谓。

场景不断重复

就像人生的事件不时重现。

英雄戴着窃贼的面具。

军队跋涉雪地到达一座城市。

小丑走在疲惫马匹拖行的马车前面。

戴着蜡做的翅膀的男子在太空游走。

昆虫窜入怪异的路径前往行星

在数个燃烧的太阳下方。

有人发现一颗珍珠却再次遗失。

而我们将血淌在廉价的一夜旅馆的

客房床单上。

死去的观赏者，活着的观赏者。

有人进入，有人离开。

大厅始终阴暗。

我们的电影永无止尽地上演。

谎言之书

经过半个小时的飞行

从拉纳卡到柏林

美丽的空姐透过播音系统宣布

飞机有一具引擎发生故障，

唯恐我们会坠入海里，

为了安全起见，

我们将飞返起航的城市。

除此之外一切无恙。

我望着在窗外堆聚的云层

感到恐惧，心想在如此神奇的一天

就这样死去对我有欠公平。

飞机开始像老旧的卡车似地摇摇晃晃，

突然掉入无底的井里，

鲸鱼和舞动的海豚群聚的海洋

将它蓝色的地毯铺在我们底下。

我铁定是吓得半死，

此时坐在我隔壁的美国人

语带自信地说：「不要怕。

这一切只是鬼扯。

飞机不会只因为引擎停止运转就坠毁的。」

然后他开始向我述说他经历过的恐怖事件：

在非洲绿色丛林上空

一架飞机的机长因心脏病发作过世，

在内华达干旱山区上空

另一架的引擎吞噬了许许多多的鸟，

而在满是鲨鱼的海洋上空

第三架的机翼被风撕裂。

但是他总是大难不死，

因为飞机

是世界上最安全的交通工具。

飞机终于降落并且摆荡到机场大门，

我们也终于松了一口气，

此时我的美国邻座从他的袋子抽出

一本书送给我。

与我握手道别时，他说：

「别忘了读它。这是我的最新作品，

谎言之书。」

狮子和使徒

如果你是名字刻在殉道者碑石上的使徒，

我便是圆形竞技场中站在你面前的那头猛狮。

你可以尽情地梦想天国的花园，

在我将你的四肢啃啮见骨的时候。

啊，不要诅咒我。你知道我们两个，

在一起，

只不过扮演着这个世界指派给我们的角色。

所以你就欢喜又胜利地朝不朽的天空上升，

而我们，丛林之狮，

就继续留在这地球上

吞食圣徒。

沙的回忆

一片石砾荒漠向远方绵延

突然闪现一段沙的回忆。

这里有一座孤独的荒山——

从来没有人攀爬过它——

日复一日空等

一艘绝不可能到临的

宇宙飞船。

没有任何手触摸过这岩块，

没有任何向导横越过这红色地平线，

覆盖着十亿年沙尘。

然而还是有东西不见了：

溜进山谷的沙漠游牧者，

飞跃草原的瞪羚，

自巢穴轰然走出

咆哮又窃笑的恐龙，

提出忠告的智者，

以及在未来之门哭泣的罪人。

甚至有人在此不见了：

纷飞的雪中带领疲兵

前往莫斯科的拿破仑，

烤箱塞满吾人尸体的希特勒，

以缰绳勒住历史

将之拉往食槽的斯大林。

我知道有一天我们将站在那里

审视这段回忆——

我们将在我们的遗照里

将之留传给我们的子孙。

光是岩石的回忆

就足以照亮盲者的去路，

当他被人遗忘

漫行于这片荒漠。

自挫诗

他们绝不会来，既不会从这里，也不会从那里

他们绝不会来，既不会从这里，也不会从

他们绝不会来，既不会从这里，也不会

他们绝不会来，既不会从这里

他们绝不会来，既不会从

他们绝不会来，既不会

他们绝不会来

他们绝不会

他们绝

他们

陈 黎、张 芬 龄 / 译

Fadhil Al-Azzawi is one of the leading experimental writers in the Arab world. Born in 1940 in Kirkuk, Iraq, he has published seven volumes of poetry, six novels, three books of criticism and memoir, and several translations of German literary works. Al-Azzawi participated in Iraq's avant-garde Sixties Generation, and his early controversial work was critiqued and lauded with great enthusiasm. He edited a number of magazines in Iraq and abroad and founded Shi`r 69 (Poetry 69), which was banned after the fourth number. He spent three years in jail under the dictatorship of the Ba`th regime. In 1976, as the Baathist-controlled regime was tightening its grip on power, Al-Azzawi left Iraq to earn a doctorate in cultural journalism from Leipzig University. Titles available in English include Miracle Maker (BOA Editions 2003), poems translated by Khaled Mattawa, and three novels, The Last of the Angels (2007 and 2008), Cell Block Five (2008), and The Traveler and the Innkeeper (2011), all translated by William Maynard Hutchins. Al-Azzawi has worked as a freelance journalist and translator for Arab newspapers and cultural reviews, and is currently a full-time writer living in Berlin.

I Confess That I Have Lived My Life

I confess that I have lived my life: 

I tasted so many things 

And forgot thousands more. 

I loved women, I forgot to count how many 

Cried over me. 

I found friends for good times 

And friends for bad ones. 

I lived among forgotten victims 

And learnt with my skin 

The whips of executioners in prison cells. 

I stood before unjust courts 

Accused of blind love. 

I wandered from desert to desert 

And set up my tent in fairyland. 

I let my horse drink from the waters of al-Kawthar. 

I slept among thieves on the shores of Tigris 

And sometimes lived in the castles of kings. 

I travelled to cities, swimming in darkness. 

I sat in the sun, and walked through snow, 

Changing one land with another, 

One pair of shoes with another. 

I burned so many bridges behind me 

And sailed in seas that could never be crossed. 

In a time of drought I sowed seeds 

In the valley of rains. 

In darkness I lit thousands of candles. 

Under the waking moon 

I sighed like an old man in love 

And wandered between continents. 

How many times have I built paper palaces in my dreams? 

How many times have I swapped reality for illusion? 

I've told the truth and I've also lied. 

I've doubted a little and believed a little. 

I've smoked all brands of cigarettes, 

Drunk in bars the best vintage wines 

And written the poems of my life. 

I've laughed so much in this world. 

I've cried so much in this world. 

I've passed by like a light in the night. 

I've been here and I've seen, 

I've stayed and I've left. 

I confess that I have lived my life. 

How To Write A Magical Poem

There's nothing easier than writing a magical poem

If you have strong nerves

And good intentions, at least.

It's not that difficult, I assure you.

Take a rope and tie it to a cloud 

And leave one end of it dangling.

Like a child, climb the rope to the end

Then throw it back to us

And let us try to find you -in vain-

In every poem. 

The New Ten Commandments

Do not light up a match in a forest

A bird is afraid of fire!

Do not sit in a sunrise

Someone might be looking for light!

Do not stop a wind in the dessert

It might bring rain to the Bedouins!

Do not look in the mirror

Perhaps you became someone else!

Do not spit in a bitter well

Thirsty, you might drink from it one day!

Do not dwell in a barren woman

You might by chance, have a child with her!

Do not raise your voice in a dark night

Ghosts might hear you and enter your home out of loneliness!

Do not joke around with an executioner's rope

Perhaps it will drag you to a hanging!

Do not supress your joys behind a mask

The wind might lift it up, whilst you are singing in the wind!

Do not enter a history that was not made by your own hands

You might fall under its train as it passes by!

A Night With The Vampire

In a tavern in Transylvania 

- It was evening - 

I met a slim man with a top hat 

And a black silk gown. 

He told me his name was Count Dracula 

And had just left his plush coffin 

To hunt for young beautiful girls, 

Coming back home from discos.

I did not believe him, of course.

He invited me to his cellar 

To drink a glass of red wine 

In honour of his Irish creator, 

Bram Stocker. 

When he took off his hat 

And grinned at my face 

I saw spiders roam in his hair 

And his canine teeth drip blood.

I do not know how I escaped him 

And with which stick I drove off his wolves, 

Which chased me along the streets. 

Was it professor Van Helsing 

Who hurried to escape me? 

Had someone draped garlic lace around my neck? 

Or was it the beautiful Lucy who turned into a black bat 

And let him follow her to the ruins 

Covered in a blanket of fog? 

All I remember now is that 

When I woke up from sleep 

I found that I had spent that horrible night 

Laying up curled on the sofa in the living room, 

As Dracula was still howling on TV, 

burning in the sunlight infiltrating through the window. 

Bedouins

Three Bedouins in a desert, 

Carrying sacks strapped to their shoulders, 

Walking one after the other 

Stooped for eternity 

Like defeated soldiers.

Three Bedouins in the desert 

Walk on silently, 

As the wind blows now and then 

And wipes out their traces. 

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