何人斯
文摘
文化
2023-10-05 16:18
北京
Brion Gysin, Magic Mushrooms, 1961[October Gallery, London. © Brion Gysin]Trans. by Zuo Fei & Jennifer FossenbellWho are you anyway? The noise coming from outsidecould only be outside. Your heart is unknowable, distant,a sago tree at the moss-rimmed well. When you walk in the doorwhy do you not come to find me? Instead, you slip over tothe wooden beam laden with dried fish, where we used totie nets together. You loved the me that spoke to the water.And what are you chasing after now?Why are you so cruel to me?Once we stood back to back, flowing with glorious youth,I smoothed the wrinkles on your forehead, and my palmswere warmed from weaving; you and I are actuallyone thing enjoying another thing: papered-panes, stars, pots—who was it that blurred our eyes?One snowflake turning into two.A fish’s belly ripped open, what bloodiness! When youwalk through the door, why don’t you come to greet me?You move around coldly, silent as the mountain outside.It’s been ten months since I fell in love,my time got married to a shadow.I bite into a fresh peach I picked, letting youbite with your shining teeth, too. The sweetnesswill make you swell all over with gratitude.Why is there only your voice speaking?I can’t see the leftover skins of the fruit you had at dinner,only your empty, dusty coat.I can’t see your face, only cigarette smoke rising—You can’t show your face to the world, to me?Who in the world are you? All changebegins at the fingertips. The sound of chopping timber,it reminds me of your gestures. A storm fills the pavilionand an abrupt wind gathers,not from the north, nor the south.How bitterly cold it is in our tunnel.Whether you’re plodding forwardwith horses languid and slow, six reins laden with the gloom.Or whether you’re rushing forwardwith horses winding along, whip whistling in the air.February of white flowers, you can’t escape it even if you try.Wherever you rest, I’ll be watching. If you tell mehow you lower your arms, I will tell youhow to wave once more; if you tell mewhat’s fading out of your sight,I will tell you who you are.
Hans Erni, 1909-2015 (CH) - Wellen mit Schaumkronen, 1990Tempera auf Papier / H 460 mm B 330 mm
Trans. by Zuo Fei & Jennifer Fossenbell“It’slight.” I look up, my heartracing outward. “She should be decorated.”My eyes are fixed on the stagewhich was built from various vessels.When I see her, she is onlydancing for me, but I don’t care.Most of her is real. On stagethe drums are deafening, the people restless;bearing no resemblance to her. I’m taking inthe beauty of her in corduroy, and only whenthe first leaf falls on a cold day, will Itell the people around me: “She’s a feast for the eyes.”I’m on my knees in spite of the dirtand she is an array of dazzling limbs; exiting orentering stage, altering her voice and mien. She changes;a mutable vessel, indeterminable. In its many uses,her corduroy is damaged and worn.Through the vastness of heaven and earth, my five sensesrun wild; the stage is set up and demolished at will.Clothing comes and goes. “With many sunsets,objects grow even more beautiful.”I stand up, without guilt, only to hear—before the voice fades away—a sigh.I see the beauty and the weakness in myself.I’m dancing, spinning as I stand still.His dream dreams of a dream, a spotless moonilluminating the velvet—which is my form,He and I are dancing together.It’s not that I’m ambiguous,it’s just that life is a real thing.“The gentleman is not a mere vessel.” I’m strictwith myself but always indulging,I’m the light in the wine andthe scheme for nickels, enchanting.It’s not that I want to mix the false with the genuine,it’s just that I was born with such talents,that’s why I seem so unfamiliar to him.My clothes haven’t changed,and my shadow has tears in its eyes—that’s why we differ in understanding.In the end, I’ll blame him,but he won’t see the reason.Unless he comes again, puts himself in my position,like picking a ripe fruit.“Alas, the lost can only be with the one who has lost,”and with that I let out a long sigh.注：以上英译首发于Spittoon Literary Magazine 第八期，由昨非、詹妮弗·福森贝尔译出。
Arthur Boyd (Australian, 1920-1999), Birds, Horse and Trap, ShoalhavenOil on board, 49.5 x 62.5 cm
