▲ Midorikawa Yoichi
Lantern, Offering on the Water (c. 1950)
水边书
胡续冬
这股水的源头不得而知，如同
它沁入我脾脏之后的去向。
那几只山间尤物的飞行路线
篡改了美的等高线：我深知
这种长有蝴蝶翅膀的蜻蜓
会怎样曼妙地撩拨空气的喉结
令峡谷喊出紧张的冷，即使
水已经被记忆的水泵
从岩缝抽到逼仄的泪腺；
我深知在水中养伤的一只波光之雁
会怎样惊起，留下一大片
粼粼的痛。
所以我
干脆一头扎进水中，笨拙地
游着全部的凛冽。先是
像水虿一样在卵石间黑暗着、
卑微着，接着有鱼把气泡
吐到你寄存在我肌肤中的
一个晨光明媚的呵欠里：我开始
有了一个远方的鳔。这样
你一伤心它就会收缩，使我
不得不翻起羞涩的白肚。
但
更多的时候它只会像一朵睡莲
在我的肋骨之间随波摆动，或者
像一盏燃在水中的孔明灯
指引我冉冉的轻。当我轻得
足以浮出水面的时候，
我发现那些蜻蜓已变成了
状如睡眠的几片云，而我
则是它们躺在水面上发出的
冰凉的鼾声：几乎听不见。
你呢？
你挂在我睫毛上了吗？你的“不”字
还能委身于一串鸟鸣撒到这
满山的傍晚吗？风从水上
吹出了一只夕阳，它像红狐一样
闪到了树林中。此时我才看见：
上游的瀑布流得皎洁明亮，
像你从我体内夺目而出
的模样。
From the Water’s Edge
Hu Xudong
There’s no telling where this stream of water begins or where
it winds up after it seeps into my spleen.
The flight paths of those delicate mountain nymphs
have warped the contour lines of beauty: I know deep down
how those dragonflies with butterfly wings
can tantalize, so elegantly, the Adam’s apple of the air,
forcing the canyons to cry out in nervous chills, even though
memory’s pump has drawn water
from cliff crevices to the narrows of the tear ducts,
and deep down I know how the wild goose in the glistening light of ripples,
nursing a wound in the water, will bolt when startled to cast off
a vast sheet of shimmering pain.
So to cut
to the quick, I plunge into the water headfirst
and flounder around in the harsh cold of it all. First,
like a dragonfly nymph, I keep to the shadows and stay humble
among the pebbles. Then, as a fish blows bubbles into
a yawn, which you deposited under my skin, as bright and bewitching as daybreak,
I begin to form a faraway air bladder that will
contract whenever you're sad, leaving me
no choice but to roll over and show the white belly of bashfulness.
And yet,
most of the time it will just be like a water lily
swaying with the waves between my ribs, or
like a Kongming lantern lit on the water’s surface,
guiding my slowly drifting lightness. When I’m light
enough to break the surface,
I find those dragonflies have turned into
cloud fragments in the shape of sleep itself, while I’ve
become their wintry snoring, barely audible as they lie
upon the water’s surface.
And where are you?
Are you dangling from my eyelashes? Can your word “No”
still entrust itself to a string of bird songs and be spread
through this dusk covering the mountains? The wind blows
a setting sun from out upon the water and, like a red fox,
it dodges into the grove. Only then do I see it:
the waterfall upstream shines bright, flows clear,
just the way you look when you rush out, shimmering
from inside this body of mine.
translated by Ying Qin & Daniel Comiskey
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编辑 | 排版：文煜
