得一忘二 译
《致马哈茂德·达维什》
他双眼紧闭，眼镜在床头柜上。
一支笔和一张纸在刺绣枕下
等候缪斯的召唤。
他告诉我说他曾经看到自己漂在一朵白云上，
光从云上云下闪出光。
他不需要戴眼镜就能看清月光下远处的招牌。
我问他为什么要长途跋涉。
他说，“为了几个钟头后回家。”
他问，“你知道我为什么出生吗？”
“为了活几年后死去。”
他登上加利利的迦密山，回到我们海滩上的桌子旁。
“我爬上山只是为了回到桌子旁。”
他啜着苦咖啡，看着镜子中的自己。
“我不喜欢看到自己上电视。”
“那是纯粹自恋”，一个朋友低声说。
“混蛋，你才是！”马哈茂德喊道。
“我不怕死。我准备好了，但我不会等死。”
他讨厌等待。
他问死神是否可以等他一点时间，让他写完他的新诗。
他看着镜子里的自己，在翻领上
放了一朵鲜玫瑰，为了即将到来的漫长旅程。
To Mahmoud Darwish
His eyes are tightly closed, his glasses on the nightstand.
A pen and paper rest under his embroidered pillow,
waiting for the call of the muse.
He tells me how he once saw himself floating on a white cloud,
light glittering from above and beneath.
He didn’t need his glasses to read the distant signboard under the moon.
I ask him why he has come for this long journey.
He says, “to return in a few hours.”
He asks, “Do you know why I was born?”
“To live for some years and die.”
He goes up Mount Carmel in Akka and returns to our table on the beach.
“I climbed the mountain only to return to the table.”
He sips his bitter coffee and looks at himself in the mirror.
“I don’t like to see myself on TV.”
“That is pure narcissism,” a friend whispers.
“Bastard, you are!” Mahmoud shouts.
“I am not afraid of death. I am ready but I am not waiting for it.”
He hates waiting.
He asks death if it could wait for some time until he finishes writing his new poem.
He looks at himself in the mirror and puts
a fresh rose in his lapel for the coming long journey.
《爱德华·萨义德、诺姆·乔姆斯基和西奥多·阿多诺在加沙》
爆炸后，
尘土踮着脚尖长时间鼓掌。
光，照在冰冷的土地上，
消失在小镇的坑洞中。
爱德华·萨义德再次
格格不入：
他的书从我书架上掉下，
落在破碎的窗玻璃上。
巴勒斯坦也格格不入：
它的地图
从我的墙上掉下来。
爱德华的流亡再次流血，因为战争
与持久的疏离。
乔姆斯基天生就会修补
受伤的字词，
他用通用语法工具包
进行包扎。
阿多诺试图研究
炸弹落下
震碎玻璃的音乐。
然而书中滑漏的字词
迷蒙了他的视线和思维：
灰尘蒙住了他的眼镜，
乐谱躺在他颤抖的脚边，
喘不过气。
Edward Said, Noam Chomsky, and Theodor Adorno in Gaza
Dust tiptoes in a standing ovation
after the explosion.
Light hits the icy earth,
fades into the town’s potholes.
Edward Said is out of place,
again:
His books fall from my shelves
onto the broken window glass.
Palestine is also out of place:
Its map
falls off my wall.
Edward’s exile bleeds again of wars,
of continued estrangement.
Chomsky, innately, repairs
the wounded words,
applying bandages
from his Universal Grammar kit.
Adorno tries to study the music
of the falling bomb
and shattering glass.
But the words slipping from the books
mystify his sight and mind:
the dust covers his glasses,
the musical score lies breathless
near his shivering feet.
《流离失所》
纪念爱德华·赛义德
我既不在内，也不在外。
我在之间。
我不是任何事物的一部分。
我只是某个事物的影子。
充其量，
我是一种
实际上并不存在的
东西。
我没有重量，
是一粒时间的尘埃，
在加沙。
但我将会长留于
我现在所在之地。
Displaced
In memory of Edward Said
I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am.
《沙漠与流亡》
致阳光下的男人们
在深夜，沙漠和黑暗，哪个更旷阔？
在沙地，你的脚与恐惧，哪个更沉重？
你为什么不敲水池的墙壁？
是不是睡眠用粗绳缠住了你的嘴？
我能听到车轮碾过流沙的声音
能听到沉默的悸动之心。
司机丢失了地图，把你带到
将要埋葬你的大地。
而你的所有祈祷、讲过的轶事，
流亡沙漠的海市蜃楼会听到，
死骆驼和死马的骸骨会听到，
它们的骑手埋在已无痕迹的步道下。
Desert and Exile
for Men in the Sun
Which is vaster in the night, the desert or the dark?
Which is heavier on the sand, your feet or your fear?
Why don’t you knock on the walls of the water tank?
Is sleep wrapping its thick rope around your mouths?
I can hear the sound of wheels on the moving
sand and the throbbing heart of silence.
The driver loses the map and takes you
to the earth where you will be buried.
But all the prayers and anecdotes you shared
will be heard by the mirage of exile desert
and the bones of dead camels and horses,
whose riders are buried under the obliterated footpaths.
《你可能会发现我耳朵里隐藏着的东西》
一
当你打开我的耳朵，请你轻轻
触摸。
我母亲的声音在我耳中某处萦绕。
她的声音回响，能帮我恢复
平衡，消除我专注时的头晕。
你可能会遇到阿拉伯语歌曲，
我背给自己听的英文诗，
或者我给我们家后院鸟儿唱的歌。
你缝伤口时，别忘了把这些都放回我的耳朵。
把它们放回原位，像你在整理架子上的书。
二
无人机的嗡嗡，
F-16的轰鸣，
炸弹落在房屋上、
田野里、身体上、
火箭飞去的种种啸叫——
把这些声音都清除出我小小的耳道。
在刀的切口上喷一点你微笑的香水。
在我的血管里注射生命之歌让我醒来。
轻击我的耳鼓，让我的心灵与你的共舞，
医生，别管白天黑夜。
Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear
i
When you open my ear, touch it
gently.
My mother’s voice lingers somewhere inside.
Her voice is the echo that helps recover my equilibrium
when I feel dizzy during my attentiveness.
You may encounter songs in Arabic,
poems in English I recite to myself,
or a song I chant to the chirping birds in our backyard.
When you stitch the cut, don’t forget to put all these back in my ear.
Put them back in order as you would do with books on your shelf.
ii
The drone’s buzzing sound,
the roar of an F-16,
the screams of bombs falling on houses,
on fields, and on bodies,
of rockets flying away—
rid my small ear canal of them all.
Spray the perfume of your smiles on the incision.
Inject the song of life into my veins to wake me up.
Gently beat the drum so my mind may dance with yours,
my doctor, day and night.
【感谢阅读 欢迎常来】
