▲ Liz Deschenes
Left/Right (2008)
让我做一个疲累的人
阮文略
让我做一个疲累的人
一切瑰丽的事物与我无关
我在战事的中途昏沉如一团
房子角落的猫毛
我被时日拉着走向光源
各种宗教在等着我、招揽我
人群走近向我点头
而我走入莲花的巨荫之下
只听见机械的杂音
继而走上山顶,只有云在移动
分合同时,便无法计算
苍茫的远景没有更多被想象和感召
静止,而一切都在了
所以我学习我的先民
那智慧未开的人毫无机心地信仰风
石头和流水、从远方来的人
带来神秘的火
就足以放声歌颂这全部的奇妙
做一个……
疲累的人,没有任何狂喜
可以治疗我的恹色,唯有卑微的星星
在发电厂的上空为我而狐步
我敬重最温柔的人,
肯定我的疲累,为我盖被
用竖琴的乐音向我说话,零落地
并且确保我完全不会听懂
16-3-2015
Let Me Be Exhausted
Jacky Yuen
let me be exhausted
no magnificence has anything to do with me
in the midst of hostilities I’m bewildered like
a coughed up cat’s hairball in the corner
time drags me toward the source of light
religions await me, solicit me
crowds approach me nodding
and I walk into the great shade of the lotus
hearing only mechanical noises
I continue up to the mountain peak, where only clouds are moving
dividing and converging simultaneously, incalculably
the vast vista has no more been imagined or inspired
stasis, yet everything is
and so I study my ancestors
those whose wisdom never bloomed guilelessly believing in the wind
the stones and the river, those who came from afar
bringing mystical fire
enough to eulogize all marvels
as a...
the exhausted have no ecstasies
with which to treat my weariness, only the petty stars
above the electrical power plant do the foxtrot for me
I admire only the gentlest,
confirming my exhaustion, tucking me in and
speaking to me with the music of a harp, sporadically
and ensuring that I do not need to understand
16 March, 2015
translated by Lucas Klein & Chris Song
一颗子弹
阮文略
在朝雾迷茫的时分下楼
早晨是痛苦的,一如
年之初,总是踟蹰
但推蠕前行的,不过是自己的胃
自己的肠,是生之饥活之渴
我们因此清醒。
直到午后,天空渐次开阔
酒精渗进日子间隙
痛苦褪去而时间悬浮
借光读诗、看画,
果腹以自腌的咸菜和酸瓜。
是什么竟令人一直愁苦
把秋收之好日冷藏成雪灾
把日头遮蔽,令我们
不知饱饿?
死神为此抱头烦恼,他的工作
脱离了日常的轨道
在喀布尔他少画了一笔
在摩苏尔他的超收把这一划补回
在巴黎、在乌鲁木齐、在奥加杜古
死神找不到一个饱足的人
饥饿的人也可以……
他说服自己
把早餐当午餐吃:
那颗子弹
避开了香港、威尼斯、阿尔及尔,
总得在阿拉木图、在内罗比、
在顿涅茨克寻找另一个身体
我们因此确信
我们正活着
而且活得像一个生理紊乱的人
终其此生
而不知疲乏。
31-3-2015
A Bullet
Jacky Yuen
In the haze of morning mist going downstairs
morning is painful, like
the start of a new year, always wavering
yet still squirming forward, though it’s our own stomachs
our own guts, it’s the hunger and thirst of life
for which we awake.
Until the afternoon, when the sky eventually opens
and alcohol seeps into the day’s fissures
pain recedes and time suspends
the oblige of reading poetry, of appreciating paintings,
belly bound for self-preserved pickles and salted vegetables.
What is it that makes people grieve
freezing the fine days of autumn harvest into avalanches
covering up the sun, making us
never know satisfaction?
The god of death holds his head in frustration, his work
has gone off its daily track
he paints one stroke less in Kabul
but makes up for it with what he reaps in Mosul
In Paris, Ürümqi, and Ouagadougou
the god of death finds no one who is satisfied
even the hungry would suffice...
he convinces himself
to have breakfast for lunch:
That bullet
missed Hong Kong, Venice, and Algiers,
so it will have to go looking in Almaty, Nairobi,
and Donetsk for a body
so we can be sure
we are alive
but that we live in physiological disarray
and at the end of this life
we will not know our fatigue
31 March, 2015
translated by Lucas Klein & Chris Song
此刻荐读
商禽丨岁月的囚犯
柏桦丨望气的人
编辑 | 排版:文煜