单小月的诗 I 我想象我听到绿色，在樱桃树里穿针引线的声音
我想象我听到绿色，在樱桃树里穿针引线的声音
英文诗/单小月 中文翻译/Alice Zheng
explain to me fate as if I were a child
how do things come up to be next
to one another. streets with no names
pressed poorly upon mountains, molasses
twilight holding the day, hip
pushed to hip during rush hour,
and old photographs leaving yellow oil
upon the new. the city-bound flocking
above the river-water, the benevolent
laying her hands on the unforgivable,
the living light that eagerly tenderizes
the dying one. how does a child
meet the future just so,
how do sprouts meet their flowers,
how do various evenings meet in the kitchen
over broths and breads. how many pairs
of hands carried fruit to this bowl.
what rhythm of music led some eyes
from here, to a place a little more
dangerous. how did we come to be with
one another, here as if enchanted, with
no more reason than two grains of sand,
and no less intoxication than two winds,
infuriated by the distance
they’ve both had to come.
向我解释命运，像对一个孩子那样
事情如何一个接着一个出现。
无名街道勉强压在山头，
糖蜜色暮光扶着天，
屋脊推进屋脊，在高峰期间，
老相片留下黄色油脂
在新的上面。奔赴城市的鸟群
掠过河水上方，善者将她的手
搭在罪无可恕的人身上，
活着的光迫切着去温柔将死的。
一个孩子会如何遇见未来呢，
嫩苗如何碰到花朵，夜晚
如何就着厨房里的汤羹
碰到另一个夜晚。多少双手
将水果捧到这个碗里，
是什么音乐的旋律将目光
从此处引向更危险的远方。
我们又怎样来到对方身旁，
此刻宛如着魔，
比两粒沙的理由更少
比两束风的毒性更多
如何被激怒，被这距离
都需要经过的距离。
modals of lost opportunity
the bright-out day, the rebellion of cicada song,
you said this is one of the only places in tokyo
where geishas still live
your renegade smile
soldiering damp camellia. this moment
singular and bracketed, against all other moments.
august was a month
we measured in thunderstorm,
peeling skin from the grapevine days.
I asked, when will we arrive?
though I knew we weren’t going anywhere, but
still believing in perfect questions.
sumida river had swelled
while we forgot to eat. asakusa,
a sheet of light, leaked molasses through the glass.
people are on their way to work when
you said, we’ll be there soon.
even though you weren’t coming.
even though we were standing on opposite sides
of the room, asking about trips we would never take,
wishing for pointless, good, weather.
the present ambers memory
into souvenir. when time argued against
merely happening, and sank deeply into shape.
bright day, cicadas, woody scent of camellia.
I thought, we are finding human ways
to kill.
the corpses of ourselves as in memory.
sumida river can’t tell itself from the rain.
minutes arrived as regularly as busses.
the hour came
without sitting down. hurry and shyness precise
in theatre.
I don’t want to follow, I want to change things.
but the script rises to my tongue
and ignites. the seeming cascade of what can be said.
the light will go dark as the door closes. slowly,
slowly, fever, warfare, yet nothing arrests time
as love does.
错失机会的情态动词
白昼敞亮，蝉歌逆反
你说这是东京为数不多
仍有艺妓生活的地方
你叛徒的微笑
挥兵于潮湿的山茶花。这一刻
相对所有其他的时刻，
是单数形式的，括号里的。
八月是一个
我们用雷雨度量，
并从葡萄藤岁月里蜕皮的月份
我问，我们何时抵达？
尽管知道我们哪也不去，但
我依然相信美好的提问。
我们忘记吃饭的时候，
隅田川涨潮了。浅草，
一面光，糖浆般渗过玻璃。
人们赶去上班时，你说，
我们马上就到，
尽管你并不会来。
尽管你我在房间两边各自站着，
询问我们决不会去的旅行，
期盼无意义的好天气。
当下将回忆封印成
纪念品。当时间反驳
仅仅发生本身，并沉塑成形。
天气明朗，蝉响，山茶花有木质香。
我想，我们在寻找人类的方式
杀死
记忆里我们自己的尸体。
隅田川无法从雨中分辨出它自己。
分钟像公交车一样规律地到来。
小时到来，
并没有坐下。匆忙、羞怯
表演精湛。
我不想跟从，我想改变。
然而剧本浮上嘴边，
点燃。台词似乎倾泻而出。
灯光和门一起关上了。慢慢地，
慢慢地，发烧，战争，
没有什么比爱更能囚禁时间。
how often I have chosen love
how often I have chosen love
in the chestnut of november
when the night cracks open and is yellow
the dusk lifts the city up towards mid-air
how it stays there
pendulating and trembling
grasped in the palm-sized wind
daily how I have chosen the lemon tree
hanging over the slatted rooftop
and tatami shade
copper-colour, time-stoned
every shape of the moon having made
itself upon it
bearing fruit
such heavy living fruit
to be picked by no one
how every rained-in morning
spoke itself in unison
just as I have chosen to meet it
and all the distance was electric
pretty girls standing paled
roman windows spun with wire
along the circle paths of daikanyama
river pebbles
how I have chosen to love a city
that takes from other cities
the whole of tokyo a lockbox
overflown with photos of flowers
passing the bike rack by nakameguro station
upon which miki had brushed her hair
and taught me dirty words in japanese
few leaves clinging
I imagined I heard the sound green made
threading the cherry trees
how often I have chosen the sumida
and the sight from the middle
standing on the red bridge looking
at the blue bridge
as a man pours half a bottle of whiskey
into the river and it whirled
inward like a handprint
should I mention the fingernail moon
how I had once boarded a train to ibaraki
and peeled mandarin oranges
until citrus drowned the stale air
I watched heels dig perfect circles
into the snow and seedlings shot up
from where precisely they had stood
it was easy to imagine
what could be watercolour
a painted moment otherwise gone
saved for later
names of people do not come as easily
as the names of rivers
at the photographic museum I saw
a flock of birds all rise at once
save for one who nailed
a piece of the ground underneath him
how often we sat by the heating lamp
smoking our different cigarettes
as their tails drew non-figures upward
we read them as symbols
you did not look at me at first and then
you looked at me
my hand was painted into the dim
in yanaka the trees grew into houses
and we did not spend too much time thinking
about who lived here before
how clouds turned into gold once
they touched the ground in shinjuku
how lightbulbs shed their cloud-glow
upon those who kissed under them
ikegami: in the mute plum garden
combed through whitely
by generations of hands
starlight is vivified when reflected
off the skin of a plum
how I had walked
on music shed by passersby careless
leaving strings of words dangling
handed to me adjacently
from both sides
even sometimes laughter
even sometimes ginger flowers
passed over and I took them
the acquiescing light tied around
wild-pink buildings
by some hand wishing
I take it a sign of my good youth
that I am still enraptured by sunsets
how I was taught the right way to pray
with a ten yen coin
by someone who loved me
up an uncountable number of stairs
the jagged papers spun
as though the forces of our shadows
inhumanly elongated
ruffled the hems of a spiritdom
there were three anonymous flowers
growing from the stone
how often fresh figs were cracked
against the concrete linings in toyama-koen
capsuled in droplets of lilac sun
their sweet smell
how often I have chosen love
upon this ground every block charted
by prodigal feet, by unnamed rulers
in the onset of winter a cartography emerges
a heart startles heavy
traffic blindly intersecting
in tokyo where there is no patience
after having chosen
我曾多少次选择爱
我曾多少次选择爱
在栗色的十一月
当夜晚劈开露出黄色
黄昏将城市抬至半空
它停在那里
摇摆，颤抖
攥在巴掌大的风中
每天我是怎样选择那棵柠檬树
悬在屋顶交错的木条
和榻榻米的阴影上
黄铜色，被时间石化
月亮每个形状都曾在上面
留下它自己
果实累累
如此沉重鲜活的果实
无人采撷
每一个下进雨的早晨
怎样齐声讲述它自己
正如我选择迎接它
然后所有距离充满电力
美丽女孩苍白伫立
罗马窗上拧着铁丝
代官山环形的路
镶满河卵石
我是怎样选择爱一座
拿取其它城市的城
整个东京一个保险箱
溢满了花的照片
经过中目黑站的单车架
美纪曾在上面梳头发
并教我日语里的脏话
不剩几片叶子了
我想象我听到绿色
在樱桃树里穿针引线的声音
我曾多少次选择隅田川
和站在它中央的红桥上
望向蓝桥的景象
一个男人把半瓶威士忌
抛向河里它向内旋转着
就像一个手印
我该提起指甲盖一样的月亮吗
我曾登上一辆去往茨城的火车
不停地剥橘子
直到柑橘味淹没陈旧的空气
我看过高跟鞋在雪地里
挖出完美的圆幼苗
就在那里发芽
不难想象
什么能够构成水彩画
一个不上好颜色便会消失的时刻
留给以后
人名不如河流的名字
容易唤起
在摄影博物馆我看见
一群鸟一齐起飞
除了钉在
它脚下土地的那一只
我们曾多少次坐在暖灯边
抽不同的烟
烟头朝上画出非物
我们像符号一样解读它
起初你没有看我然后
你看向我
我的手被涂进暗影
在谷中树长成房屋
我们没有多想
谁曾住在这里
云曾怎样变成金色
抚摸新宿的土地
灯泡怎样在亲吻的人们头顶
发出云的光
池上：寂静的梅园
被世世代代的手
梳得洁白
星光照在梅子上
有了呼吸
我是怎样走在
行人粗心落下的音乐里
一串串字句悬荡着
被从两旁递给我的
有时甚至有欢笑声
有时甚至有野姜花
递给我我便收下
默许的光
被一些手祈愿着
系在艳粉色的楼上
夕阳仍令我狂喜
我把这看作年轻的证据
一个爱我的人怎样
用十日元教会我
正确的祈祷方式
锯齿状的纸片转着
飞过无数级台阶
好像我们影子的力
被无情地拉长
拨乱了灵界的褶边
石头里开出
三朵匿名的花
新鲜无花果曾多少次
在户山公园的水泥墙上被敲开
它们甜蜜的气味
装在一滴滴丁香色的阳光里
我曾多少次选择爱
在这片土地每一寸
都曾被浪子的脚和无名统治者丈量
地图浮现在冬天伊始
一颗心惊得沉重
在东京车流盲然纵横
作出选择后就再没有耐心
Shan Xiaoyue, Poet and editor, winner of the Frontier Poetry Chapbook Prize and was published in the Spring of 2019, co-Editor-in-Chief of the Beijing-based Spittoon Literary Magazine, Art Director and Editor at Tokyo Poetry Journal, Blog Editor at Asymptote Journal, and Poetry Editor at Cicada.
单小月，英语诗人与编辑，生于中国东营，现居温哥华岛。她的诗集《我选择爱情的频率》（2019）获得了Frontier Poetry Chapbook Prize；诗集《然后告诉是解药》获 Tupelo Press Berkshire Prize，将于2022年出版。她是英语文学杂志《Spittoon Literary Magazine》的主编，《Tokyo Poetry Journal》的艺术总监和编辑，《渐近线文学季刊》英文版的博客编辑与《Cicada》诗刊的诗歌编辑。她的个人网站为：shellyshan.com。单小月是本次重音诗歌奖单元D 重音新声奖组的评委。