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——中译外——
三、陈东东的诗（4首）…………………Michelle Yeh, John Cayley等译
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] |
二零二二年第一期
