注册 登录  
 加关注
   显示下一条  |  关闭
温馨提示!由于新浪微博认证机制调整,您的新浪微博帐号绑定已过期,请重新绑定!立即重新绑定新浪微博》  |  关闭

杨克博客

一个写过十多本书,作品收入300种文选(不计报刊)写字的人

 
 
 

日志

 
 

存档,欧阳昱前些年翻译的我的《信札》  

2008-06-21 13:38:28|  分类: 诗歌 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

Following Poem are translated by OuyangYu(欧阳昱)

 

 

 

 

信札 

            

“隔着遥远的时空,你的声音就来了”
一只左手按在纸上,扎心的穿透力
瞬间面对许多无法记忆的东西
诸如语气、语调、有机无机的停顿
甚至你心里杂音的强弱
“不可救药的气息,还有体味”
刹那的疼痛,躲在格子里写字的人
不小心就会被字走漏了风声

把手放在你曾写过的字上
铺天盖地而来的感觉,几乎要把人击倒
那字太有劲力,杀伤力很强
“手抚在上面会获取能量”
以至我仿佛起落有致地抚一张脸或什么别的
最过瘾的还是去嗅,能品到阳光
“东方人皮肤的变化,有一种动人的魅力”

该死的蚊子咬了我的脚心
“这不等于舔了人家灵魂一样难受吗?”
我不经意把一朵菊花吞了进去
那么细软柔滑让人“非”想“飞”想
时不时冒出的念头如同喝污水
渴了,喝了,真痛快啊可泥浆塞了喉
更渴,再喝,生命被涩在头身之间
进入地狱的那一瞬,绝望涌来如同最初的爱情
谁也不能真正承受幸福的“打击”
“如果幸福时死去是多么奢侈”

       

南方是一个空虚的巢
我是屋檐下孤零零的鸟儿,超脱、冷漠
多重人格,翅膀用来拥抱不是飞翔
外面有风,尔或有雨
小商小贩打情骂俏,有女人在小蜗居中盛开
美丽小女人丈夫归来时给换了户主
尼采已死,嗅一下,腥!
高更说他所要确立的是想做什么就做什么的权利

分裂一羽给我吧,我在变俗却没人管我
读书?写作?鸡零狗碎地度日
如同湖底的淤泥,觉得自己在一寸一寸的死
“但这样的夜晚不写字能一个人呆着吗?”

许多人不如一只鸟儿
人,真不知是什么鸟

“别听我扯淡!我好像很有情绪”
——无端端地有什么情绪啊?


       

但我读到你第一封信的时候
你的话教会了我灵魂去飞

如果没有你的字为证
鬼知道你是谁,鬼知道我在做什么
我不认识你却又熟悉你,我无法验证你的存在
我怀疑你写来的字说不准来自中世纪以前
记忆的袭击有一种恍惚感
人最柔弱时最易回到童年
拉上小水帘,在一个小小的空间里
一、二、三、四、五、六、七……
一笔一画,流着口水,抹着鼻涕,认认真真
时光倒转,如蚕蛹幻化
你有两条粗而长的辫子,眼睛很奇怪地看人
而我是你的邻居,“我叫你哥哥”
你总是以为只有你才能这样称呼我
腰中的蛐蛐鸣出个夏天
有藤蔓牵牵连连,绕啊绕啊绕

你使我感到纯洁,纯真
虽然我再也回不去了

凄楚之感糅合些莫名其妙的欲望降临
抽一支烟,再想象一个色香味俱全的女人
在苏小小墓前千百年前也为某地名妓
遭遇激情,然后伴君拔剑平天下
捏着裙子冒充淑女,留一风流说法
这样的人对我来说永远神秘,但很安全
却有一种不可言喻的杀伤力

呀,呀,或许这两种虚构都不对劲
可要男人停止幻想比不让一个女人照镜子还要难受

       

也许一开始我的身子就被你的笔迹捆住了
柔韧的不是语言,而是缠绕本身


我不明白谁是圣言的倾听者,谁在不可言说的言说
在黎明的鸟鸣中,我听见了心跳

通过一朵花蕾我看见你的局部
在梦里你是真实的形体,醒来只有虚无

我不再因为音乐的旋律而感动、诗的节奏而感动
我只为“能指”感动,为你的嘴唇而手心湿润

燃烧。飞升。有云彩落下,被天使“劫持”
整整一个夏天我飞扬灿烂在你的明媚里

只是我一直无法肯定这是经历过的事件还是愿望的幻象

      

垃圾。
我的周围。你的周围
——“于是你也是”。“于是我也是”
我们被污染。我们接受。而且要说挺好,快活

我们

隔着漫天遍野的客观
忙碌,从一个城市到另一个城市
无根本无居所。现代人的状态。人类的状态

是一只蚂蚁,总搬家,可从未见过有家
额头有粒米,不知从哪儿衔来

“我怀疑我只是在梦游”

而如今,你,唤醒了我,让我觉得活着
我——当下的,此时此刻的——
如同吐了一天墨的乌贼
用清水冲刷干涸的肚皮,然后臃臃胀胀地伸展开来
最长的触角伸到你的胸前,吸附你

我觉得我应该在别的地方
我觉得我已经在别的地方

诗性的手指将你的我的“我”从日常生活中剥离
灵与肉如此相谐地充满活力
被一团无形无状无罪恶无廉耻的黏稠气体所包裹
大气吸附着大气。一片蓝色,一片黄色

一种感情的流,如拔牙之后的痛,隐隐地……

从此我们看不起快乐

         

只是我一直无法肯定这是经历过的事件还是愿望的幻象

                            1995。7。24

 

 

 

 

Letters

 

                  Written in Chinese by Yang Ke(杨克)

                  Translated into English by Ouyang Yu(欧阳昱)

 

1.

 

“your voice comes, separated by distant time and space”

the left hand pressing the paper, with a heart-piercingforce

facing, in an instant, many a thing that can’t be recalled

such as the tone, the intonation, pauses organic andinorganic

even your heart murmurings, strong and weak

“the incurable smells, and the body odours”

the instant pain, the man writing characters hidden in thesquares

whose wind may be leaked by the characters if not carefulenough

 

putting the hand over the characters you had written

the heaven-and-earth sweeping feeling, nearly striking onedown

the characters so energetic, with enough force to wound andkill

“the hand over them could gain energy”

so much so that i seemed to be hovering over a face or somethingelse

the most enticing part of it was to smell it, and you couldtaste the sun

“the change in the skin of an easterner has a movingcharm”

 

the damned mosquitoes bit the arch of my foot

“isn’t that as unbearable as licking someone’ssoul?”

by accident i swallowed a chrysanthemum

so softly smooth and slippery that one “sinks” thought and“thought” sinks

thoughts that emerged on and off, like drinking muddy water

thirsty, then quenched, feeling so happy but the throat gotstuck with mud

thirsty again and quenched again, life jammed between the headand the body

in the instant when hell was entered into, despair surging likefirst love

no one could really bear the “strike” with happiness

“it would be a luxury to die in happiness”

 

    2.

 

the south is an empty nest

and i am a lonely bird under the eaves, detached, cold

with a multiple personality, my wings used to embrace, not tofly

wind outside, occasional rain

pedlars and street-hawkers are coquetting with each other; womenin full bloom in

their snail abode

on the small pretty woman’s husband’s return the owner ofthe household has

changed

nietzsche is dead; smell it; it smells horrific!

gauguin said what he wanted to establish was the right to dowhatever he wanted to do

 

split a feather for me but no-one gives a damn when i am turningvulgar

reading? writing? spending days fragmentarily like chickens anddogs

like mud at the bottom of the lake, feeling myself dying inch byinch

“but on such a night can you remain on your own if not writingcharacters?”

 

many people are not as good as a bird

people, really not knowing what sort of birds

 

“don’t listen to me talking rubbish! i seem to be quitemoody”

-moody about what? and for no reason at all

 

3.

 

however, when i read your first letter

what you said taught my soul to fly

 

without evidence of your characters

the devil only knows who you are and the devil only knows whati’m doing

i do not know you but am familiar with you although i am in noposition to prove your

existence

i suspect the characters you wrote may possibly have originatedbefore the middle

ages

the assault of the memory carries with it a dizzy sensation

at one’s weakest it is easy to return to childhood

drawing up a small water curtain, in a small space

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven….

one stroke, another stroke, slobbering, being serious

time turning the other way round, like the silkworm chrysalismetamorphosing

you got two thick and long pigtails, looking at people in astrange way

and i was your neighbour, “i’ll call you big brother”

you always thought only you could call me so

the crickets around the waist sang out a summer

involving wisteria, curling and curling and curling


you made me feel pure, innocent

although i can’t return there again

 

sadness descends mixed with unnameable desires

smoking a cigarette and imagining, again, a woman with allcolors, fragrance and

tastes

who in front of su xiaoxiao’s tomb was also a famous courtesanfrom some place

hundreds or thousands of years ago

and, encountering passion, accompanied her gentleman to conquerthe world

shamming a fair lady, holding up one corner of her skirt,leaving behind a wind-flow

version

for me such people remain mysterious, and safe

but have an inexplicable force to wound and kill

ah, ah, maybe neither version of the fiction works

but it would be more unbearable for a man to stop imagining thanto stop a woman

from looking into a mirror

    4.

 

maybe my body was bound by your handwriting right from thebeginning

what is pliable and tough is not the language, but the bindingitself

 

i do not know who listens to the saint’s words, who speaksunspeakably

in the dawn birds’ callings, i hear heart-throbbings


through a budding flower i see part of you

you are physically real in my dream but nothing when i wakeup

 

i’m no longer moved by the melody of music or the rhythm ofpoetry

i’m moved only by “the signifier”, my hand moistened byyour lips

 

burning. ascending. colorful clouds falling, “kidnapped” bythe angels

for a whole summer i have been flying brilliance in your brightbeauty

 

except that i am never sure whether this is an experiencedincident or a desired

illusion

 

5.


rubbish.

around me. around you.

-“so are you”. “so am i”

we are being polluted. we accept it. and we say it’s prettygood, happy

 

are we

 

separated by the objective world that spreads over heaven andearth

busy, from one city to another

no real foundation no real residence: status of the modernperson. status of human

beings

 

an ant, always moving house but never seeing a home

a grain of rice on the forehead, picked up from no-one knowswhere

 

“i suspect i am only sleepwalking”

and now, you, woke me up, made me feel i am alive

i--at present--here and now

 

like an inky thief that has vomited ink all day

its dry belly scoured with clean water and spread, swollenup

the longest tentacle reaching your chest, adsorbing you

 

i feel that i should be somewhere else

i feel that i am already somewhere else

 

the poetical fingers are taking “me” of your mine off fromthe daily life

the body and the soul full of vitality and so harmoniouslymixed

wrapped up in a sticky air that is shapeless, evil-free andshame-free

the atmosphere adsorbing the atmosphere. a spread of yellow. aspread of yellow

 

a feeling-flow, like the post tooth-extraction pain,faintly….

 

we have since looked down on happiness

 

    6.

 

except that i am never sure whether this is an experiencedincident or a desired

illusion

 

 

Translator’s Note:

 

Su Xiaoxiao: a famous Chinese courtesan in Southern Qi(479-502), whose tomb is

found in Hangzhou near West Lake.

Wind-flow: an adjective that literally means “wind-flow” butfiguratively means,

according to A Chinese-English Dictionary,“distinguished and admirable,

talented in letters and unconventional in life style anddissolute and loose”.

Inky thief or wu zei: the Chinese version of the inkfish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  评论这张
 
阅读(278)| 评论(0)
推荐 转载

历史上的今天

在LOFTER的更多文章

评论

<#--最新日志,群博日志--> <#--推荐日志--> <#--引用记录--> <#--博主推荐--> <#--随机阅读--> <#--首页推荐--> <#--历史上的今天--> <#--被推荐日志--> <#--上一篇,下一篇--> <#-- 热度 --> <#-- 网易新闻广告 --> <#--右边模块结构--> <#--评论模块结构--> <#--引用模块结构--> <#--博主发起的投票-->
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

页脚

网易公司版权所有 ©1997-2017