岸
[法] 伊冯·勒芒
树才 译
她坐着
坐在她的四十公斤里
面朝大海
大海宽阔得
如同她向自己
提出的问题
我想象
在死亡面前
她坐着
坐在双目之下
坐在天空之下
她的眼睛在看
在看护她所看的
她的手中
她到彼岸时才会打开它
就像一个孩子
对着太阳，对着伙伴
才会展示手中的玻璃球
她的眼睛
延伸到天边
一直延伸到
不可收回之点
她坐着
坐在她的四十公斤里
坐在她的八十二岁上
她最后一次
确认地球的四周
被大海环抱
凭着她的眼睛
她在海上行走
她撞到了海平线
为了给大海
打开
天空之门
她准备着
在末日那一天
第一个抵达
The Shore
Yvon Le Men
She sits
all of six stone
by the sea
vast
like the questions
I imagine
she asks herself
when faced with death
She sits
in full view of it
beneath the sky
her eyes watch
and keep what they watch
in her hand
which she stretches out on the other side
like how a child shows marbles
to the sun
and to its friends
She raises her eyes
to the horizon
she drags herself
to the point of no return
Sitting
all of six stone
her eighty-two years
she checks one last time
the lay of the land
by the sea
with her eyes
she treads water
She knocks on the horizon
to open
to the sea
the gateway to heaven
She is preparing
to be first
on the last day.
Translated from French by Tammy Lai-ming Ho and Oliver Farry
给树才
昨天
在林边的屋子里
我读到一首杜甫的诗
它写到
八世纪
皇上听不见百姓的呼号
妇女们徒劳地握紧锹，扶住犁
荆棘到处侵入荒芜的田地
它还写到
二十一世纪
战争肆虐，杀戮不断，
人什么都不是，沦为鸡狗......
今天
在杜甫草堂
我念了一首自己的诗
在蓝蓝的天空下
成都的天空经常灰蒙蒙
好像在回应
杜甫的诗句
天空怜悯我
赠我以微风
以前他还写到
唉！我唱头一句
已经是悲歌
因为这些诗句
因为那些诗句
男人们
女人们
聚到一起
像每一个人
无论是皇帝
还是平民
聚到杜甫草堂
看他的诗
我也许能看见
他当年所见
千百次重复的风景
行人的目光
他们来来去去
生活的每一个细节
历来如此
出生
活着
死去
生活也有惨的一面
读他的诗
我肯定能看见他现在所见
如果他还活着
生活
卖柿子的人
磨刀的人
还有那位妇女自行车上
搭了个小餐馆
生活
可以这么说
是那些外来的民工
盖成了大楼
直到摩天
夜间摊开手脚
躺在一块木板上
哪里
都一样
当生活之河把人分开
有些人就活在惨的一边
读他的诗
我看见
一位老妇戴着红帽子
穿着红色工作服
眼睛无疑是黑色的
她收拾街上的纸板箱
就用手没有刀
她把纸板折叠成被子
折出很多褶皱
又用脚踏成一堆
用两根灵巧的手指
像布列塔尼女人
在硬泥巴地上跳舞
她把它拽向
一块生活的地面
再次折叠
从口袋里掏出细绳
然后离开
布绳子捆着纸板箱
但是去哪里？
能值几个钱？
是那一天的活命钱
把那个夜晚悬起
看杜甫的诗
我看见
一个男人
衬衫比外套还长
右胳膊拽紧
他儿子的左胳膊
鸭舌帽倾斜在
天空和脑袋之间
他擦鞋
整排牙齿都在笑
这儿缺一颗
那儿少
一粒
冲着儿子直喘气
以这位老妇的名义
不管哪一位妇女
以这个男人的名义
不管哪一个男人
有时
是善的名义
有时
是美的名义
我们一直读这个诗人
我们爱他
他因为爱而失去了一切
甚至他自己
但他在梦里
在他的诗里
还邀请
另一个伟大的梦者
另一个伟大的诗人
李白：月下独饮的永恒的流放犯
余亦东蒙客，
怜君如弟兄。
醉眠秋共被，
携手日同行。
……
我们彻底地拒绝
一切名分和权力
就让我们的情思
在大海之上翱翔
我在我的家里
读到一首杜甫的诗
写于745年
我在杜甫草堂
念了一首我自己的诗
作于2015年
凭借这些符号做成的词
就像云幻化出形象
在无穷的天上
在我们的眼睛里面
At Chengdu, in Du Fu’s House
Yvon Le Men
For Shu Cai
Yesterday
in my house by the woods
I read a poem by Du Fu
who as far back
as the 8th century said
The Emperor does not hear the cry of his people.
In vain the brave women grabbed the spade and drove the plough;
Brambles and thorns have everywhere overrun the desolate soil
and who again
says in the 21st century
war is still rife, and the carnage relentless
Without caring more for the lives of men than those of hens or dogs…
Today
in front of Du Fu’s house
I read one of my poems
under a blue sky
in the often grey Chengdu sky
as if it were replying to Du Fu
who wrote
heaven sends me an indulgent breeze
to keep me company
because he had written
alas! my first song, already
a sad one
it’s for these verses
for those verses
that came
from men
from women
like everyone
from emperors
like no-one
in the house of Du Fu
If I peer into his poems
perhaps I will see
what he saw
on the landscape oft-repeated
in the eyes of passers-by
oft-revisited
by all of life
for aeons
being born
living
dying
sometimes from the wrong side of life
if I peer into his poems
I will surely see what he’d see
if he were alive today
the life
of the kiwi-fruit-vendor
of the knife-grinder
of the woman who carries a restaurant
on her bicycle
the life
if one may
of the migrant workers
who built the cities of China
up to the sky
whose nights are spent
lying four to a plank of wood
everywhere
always
when the river of life separates those who live
or live not from the right side of life’s river
peering into the poems of Du Fu
I see
an old woman in a pink cap
and a pink jacket
with eyes
that are no doubt black
she tackles cardboard boxes in the street
by hand with no knife
folds them like sheets
that won’t fold
tamping them with her feet
almost like dancing
like how in Brittany we used to dance on clay
to stretch it like a floor
to live on
she binds them
with string hanging from her pocket
then she leaves
her cardboard over her shoulder
but to where?
at what cost?
at the cost of her life the day
that dangles from her night
peering at the poems of Du Fu
I see
a man
his shirt sticking out from under his jacket
his right arm hanging onto
his son’s left arm
the cap slanting
between heaven and head
he wipes his boots
smiling with all his teeth
his lack of teeth
planted here
and there
in his breath gaping wide over his son
It’s in the name of this woman
of any woman
in the name of this man
of any man
of their goodness
betimes
of their beauty
so
that we still read Du Fu’s poems
that we love them
because he loved to the point of losing everything
losing himself
to the point of inviting into his dreams
in his poems
that other great dreamer
that other great poet
Li Bai, the immortal banished to earth drinking alone under the moon
…
I love him like an elder brother.
Tipsy on wine
in Autumn we sleep
under the one cover
…
We scorn all talk
of rank and power.
Let our thoughts and our feelings
wander freely
on the vast oceans
I read this poem by Du Fu
written in Autumn 745
in my home
I read a poem of mine
written in Autumn 2015
at his home
through words that act as signs
like clouds make pictures
in the boundless sky
though not with our eyes
Translated from French by Tammy Lai-ming Ho and Oliver Farry
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