二零二二年第一期
栏目主持:戴潍娜
本期主编:唐晓渡   编辑部主任:田庄
陈东东的诗(4首)
Michelle Yeh, John Cayley等译

——中译外——
 
三、陈东东的诗(4首)…………………Michelle Yeh, John Cayley等译
 
ceed56c336b129a110e993018a67196

陈东东
1961生于上海,毕业于上海师范大学,和王寅、陆忆敏等是第三代诗人代表;1981年开始写诗,是民间诗刊《作品》(1982—1984),《倾向》(1988—1991)和《南方诗志》(1992— 1993)的主要编者。曾任海外文学人文杂志《倾向》的诗歌编辑(1994—1997);1992年~1993年主编《南方诗志》诗刊; 1994年~1998年任《倾向》文学人文杂志诗歌编辑;1996年~1998年刘丽安诗歌奖评委,1999年~2000年安高诗歌奖评委。
 
 
 
Across the Centuries
 
get the lantern lit inside the rock, show them
the sea’s gesture, show them
the ancient fish
might as well show them bright lights, raised high on the mountain
a lantern
the lantern might as well be lit into the river water, show them
the living fish, show them
the voiceless sea
might as well show them the setting sun
a firebird soaring from the woods
lights the lantern. as I lift my hands to block the north wind
as I stand right between the gorges
I think they will close in on me
they will come to see my riddling lantern
Language
watch flowers in Autumn
hear all night the wind’s hoarseness outside the door. outside the door
frigid iron blades segment the rain
a sound like screaming rocks
it’s been three months. I have looked for water in an arid pasture
felt the lean dusk in the mountain stream. above the matted grass
a few red birds were startled out of sleep like water lilies
I look for water, and as I turn, step back into rainy autumn
I realise the street is buried deep in fallen leaves
like a sunken ship
whose black sails no one could remember
as it dawns on me that the long night’s rain was just the tap of falling
Leaves
and this poem in my hand is going to be frigid as a
withered chrysanthemum
 
[BH, LMK]
 
 
Windowsill
 
now there’s no more than a windowsill
hanging suspended on the hypothetical peacock-blue horizon
gaping to swallow an unreal building is hard to
imagine – and impossible to show the tiger of the architect’s shocking style
 
but it could have been inferred: you pass through the windowsill
to see yourself, leaning awkwardly on
the pterodactyl’s back, as if you plan an assault
have you vanished into the mirror glass that reflects the lake? Maybe
it’s no more than this, that you’ve only just sat down by the dressing table
in the nape of your neck a feline drowsiness crimping
 
and so once more pass through the windowsill
you can see a heap of beautiful brocade, underpant
sin disorder, an idly supine lioness
if the door inside a remote backwater is starting to bang
disclosing an even remoter garden, then you can
 
expect this, that you can then be hypothetical: how from the
shallow reflections in a fish-shaped pond you
conjecture the remotest image – a
windowsill like an upside-down shadow, its crows set
non-existently off by the peacock-blue horizon
like imaginary memoirs, they’re being imagined right now
 
the trial of strength between language and the world is no more than
a trial of strength with the self – the windowsill’s surreality
has become your reality now. the gloaming sky
 has arrived, moving afternoon tea away. a cloud of bats
return to the dressing table’s gloomy lighting. And
 
you, seeking confirmation: the silhouette of an architect’s outdoor
project, it can prolong the stare of sunset vision
whether or not you can see yourself look down at yourself
–no more passed through, but protractedly stretched
beyond the windowsill is the savagery of words, night’s
wolf pack, about to merge with daydreams.
 
[BH]
 
 
 
Toad
 
as if away from supervision, away from the poet’s life in the well
the scabby toad, sat on mother earth’s cranium that
displays the curvature of the planet,
yearns even more in its vacuity
 
for golden freedom. and freedom is unfree
the fantasy of freedom, dragged between
the enforced rotation of the planets: centripetal force falls into
 
the darkness of destiny. that needn’t differ from darkness in the well
in darkness the poet wrote of darkness
…in darkness the poet, he re-incarnated as
 
the darkness he clearly intuited in the zeitgeist: a voice
a scabby toad, a frog goddess finally golden-draped
flying up to icy altitudes
 
oh toad, though, the clear night has reflected again
the deep and serene well bottom. as the poet recites
as the showgirl acting the imperial concubine by the rim of the glass
well is
 
a new Moon Goddess, between moon and moon
the freedom of shadows, like supervision gives
illumination to all things, just like TV drama, to dispatch
 
routine darkness, re-enacting the routine of darkness
it must grant you shadow fantasy
the golden one, the free/unfree
 
the scabby toad poet who jumps off the cranium
unexpectedly moving into the Moon Goddess’s womb
in vacuity – it’s not only yearning squatting there
 
2000[BH, LMK]
 
 
 
Complete Renovation
After Wallace Stevens’ ‘The Man with The Blue Guitar’
(for Bobo)
 
1
desert from a night of total lunar eclipse
that Semu Mongol whipping on Kublai Khan
a horse fast as the wind racing to conquer
 
his helm was apparently more imperative
it was mounted with a red crest; he had it lean over
the horse’s head, his spine almost bent into a bow
 
asked to slant towards the waterscape at dusk
fully glazed chain mail glittering
bringing back memories: he had crossed
 
between shallow sleep and deep doze, the repeatedly reflecting
dream of the Fiery Mountains; the plastron he daubed
right up on his chest, it reflected the light of
 
the setting sun, like a bunch of arrows, from the decorative pattern
on this ceramic tile inlaid on the wall of
the bathroom, it popped out the tip of its tongue to lick
 
to lick through – the man in the living room
though, was using an even more exaggerated neon waistline
to head-butt his brain into a LCD monitor
 
 
2
a fantasy world inferior to the magic
of reality is his reality
a desert from the night of total lunar eclipse
 
in the Age of Empires™, his nudity
was draped with the insomniac Imperial Robes
thatched cottages becoming city-states…a silver coin
 
going back and forth between the paths with nothing between
the pirates and the Wenzhou real estate speculators – and it fell again into him
he dropped his pants, while hurrying to hold emptiness
in both hands, that man had already decorated
his nakedness with Kublai, a horse fast as the wind,
chain mail glittering, hung up high in the bathroom
 
meanwhile, the radian of the bathtub obeyed the waistline
and an arc of neon slantwise crossed the artificial lake
drowning in a sea of lights, making the colours of night become
 
the colours of night covering over the residential quarter
not allowing this painstaking effort
to go on the market and be called half-finished
 
 
3
this situation was equivalent to a translated poem
the man walking Kublai the doggie
dyed his short hair blonde
 
how could he imagine he was being imagined
his brain ejecting virtual
reality at a monthly rate, and also devoting his nakedness
 
to surrealism, inlaid on the bathroom wall
the remoteness this tile mural decorated
drapes himself in a bathrobe like draping on chain mail, leaning by
the window
 
 
looking at the starry sky, conceiving just another kind of
magical memory – had he crossed between
shallow sleep and deep doze, that reflecting
 
dream of the Fiery Mountains? Maybe he simply
chose a path to return from
quarter, waterscape and stainless rockery. This situation was
equivalent to a
 
translated poem: its night of total lunar eclipse
in a desert couldn’t not say to itself
– oh god, where am I?
 
2003[BH, LMK]

    

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