宋子江，1985年生於中國廣東，曾於2010和2011年兩度任澳洲本德農駐留詩人和詩譯者，也是澳門故事協會的副總編輯。他發表過兩本詩集，最近一本是《千行》（2010），詩翻譯逾15本，包括《保羅•斐捷馳：金翅雀一瞬》（2013）、《接近尋思：當代澳洲十二詩人選集》（2011）、《孔雀東南飛：漢朝詩選》（2010）等等。他活躍於在珠江三角洲，供職香港嶺南大學人文學科研究中心，住在深圳，也經常前往澳門和珠海。
Chris Song Zijiang was born in 1985 in Guangdong, China. He was poet/translator in residence at Bundanon NSW 2010-2011, and associate series-editor of the Association of Stories in Macao (ASM). Song has published two books of poems, the latest being Strolling (2010). He has also translated more than fifteen volumes of poetry, including Paul Friedrich: A Goldfinch Instant (2013), The Noise of Exchange: Twelve Australian Poets (2011), The Peacock Flies Southeast: An Anthology of the Han Dynasty Poetry (2010), etc. Now he is based at the Pearl River Delta in South China, working at the Centre for Humanities Research of Lingnan University (Hong Kong), living in Shenzhen, and travelling to Macao and Zhuhai regularly.
飄搖中的家
要搬走的人找不到家，要留下的
歸家無期。白天，你說太重的負擔
壓彎了支柱。夜裡，增生的腰椎
讓你難以入睡。你聽到石屎剝離
鋼筋兀兀外露。隱隱作痛的腰椎
又長出了多少根骨刺？你咬著牙
十多年來，忍過多少個睡不著的
夜晚。你不敢叫出來，怕惹來
人去樓空之禍。而如今，紛雜的
腳步，終讓你嘗到惶恐的節奏。
你短暫回家收拾行裝時，思慮浪蕩
在錯綜的街巷，你要留下什麽？
蹙弱的夕陽鋪過冰冷的鐵欄，
棱棱杠影保持著曖昧的間距，
紅白藍上尼龍線仍井井有條，
内裏卻盡是格格不入的淩亂，
結果也只帶上不知所從的將來，
臨走前關上不知何時再打開的窗，
當你的腳踏在實在的街道上，
想起自己留下了飄搖中的房子，
看著一扇忘了關的窗，想問自己——
什麽是家？
小女孩拖著媽媽的手，抱著枕頭，
壓歲錢枕了半年，還是趕不走
跨世紀的作祟。秋風肅肅，
你徘徊在對面馬路，仰看
昨夜睡房的窗台，昨夜的床
仍在那扇烏牆後，你還從簾縫間
瞧見銀亮的新月，現在它在鐮鐮
收割心底的微光，背上的竹筐
盛著太多沉重的說話，你說不出來，
你挺直的腰板被壓成一個問號——
今晚要睡在哪裡呢？你也沒有
問出口，只是抱著沉默的枕頭。
我們是彼此的災民
我們睡在火床上
我們只有一板之隔
說好今晚不說話
安靜地睡過今晚
為何床板軋軋作響？
說好今晚不說話
但你歎氣，你抗議了嗎？
我們都不要出聲
安靜地睡過今晚
shaking home
Some want to move, but can’t find
their homes; others want to stay, but don’t know
when they may return. During the day
you say you’re overburdened, your spine
is already a curve; at night, the swelling
keeps you from sleep. You hear cement
flaking; steel bars exposed. You wonder
how many spurs stick out from your aching spine.
You have to grit your teeth through this sleepless night.
You have gritted your teeth for fifteen years.
You dared not cry, afraid to be evacuated.
In the end it’s tumultuous footsteps
– an anxious rhythm to which you’re drawn.
You go back to pack your stuff
thoughts drifting through a web of intersections.
What should you leave behind?
The weak sun through the indifferent rails;
the bars keep obscure distance from one another;
threads of the nylon bag look to keep their outside
in check; in it are all out of tune. In the end,
you can only bring an uncertain future. Before leaving,
you shut the windows, not knowing when
they can be re-opened. You come down
to the solid street, realizing you’ve left behind
a shaking home. Looking at a window
that you’ve forgotten to close, you wanted to ask yourself –
what is home? –
A little girl is holding her mother’s hand
other hand holding a pillow. Your red pockets
under it haven’t brought enough luck
for you to sleep over this trans-century
time bomb. A rustle of dry autumnal winds.
You walk over to the other side of the street
and look at the window sill. Your bed
is just behind the dark dingy wall. Last night
you peeked through the sliver between curtains
at the silver crescent. This sickle is now harvesting
the remnant in your heart. The light
dims into tenebrous doubts you carry
on your back. You can’t let it out.
Your straight back bone is curved
to a question mark – Where am I to sleep tonight? –
You haven’t asked. You’re just holding the silent pillow.
We’re all taking refuge here;
We’re all sleeping on beds of fire;
We’re separated by one plank.
We’ve agreed not to speak,
so that we can sleep through the night.
Why do the planks creak?
We’ve agreed not to speak,
but you sighed. Are you
thinking otherwise?
Let’s not make a sound.
Let’s sleep through the night.
孤獨的國際歌
我遺傳了他的眉毛
他遺傳了他爺爺的眉毛
他生在一個遙遠的北方小鎮
我從未到過那個那裏
他是那麼好的一個人
我七歲的時候
暴雨後的清晨
他便摸黑起床
挑著棕色的扁擔
用乾泥把路上的水潭填好
一輛疲勞的貨車
讓他倒在血池上
那時我只有三歲半
幾粒米飯掉落桃木桌上
他勃然大怒，翻掉整張桌子
然後他把我帶到五十里外的湖邊
用戰場上撕殺的故事來逗我開心
戰時，他槍口對外
戰後，家人變成敵人
他深信著拾金不昧的未來
他為此而活在過去，今天變成了他的敵人
每年在山上拜祭他的時候
都讓我想起國旗
但紅色已從鮮血變成工業染料
沒有臉的人影拿著扁擔
常常在馬克思雕像前唱國際歌
偶爾深夜讓我失眠的
卻是他最浪漫的回歸
lonely singing – ‘The Internationale’
I inherited his thick eyebrows
he, his grandpa’s
he was born in a northern town faraway
I’ve never been there
he was such a good man
when I was seven
on a dim dawn after a deep-night storm
he rose into the twilight
picked up a brown carrying pole
and used dry dirt to fill up the water hazards
a tired truck threw him to a blood pool
and when I was three and a half
a few grains of rice fell
furious, he dropped the table
brought me to the lake fifty miles away
and cheered me up with his war stories
at that time, his gun pointed towards another gun
after the war, it turned towards the family
he truly believed in a future when people
would single-mindedly throw away road-picked gold
he lived in the past and fought against
the present, every time I go to the little hill
where he was buried, I think of the national flag
although the redness comes from industrial dye
instead of blood, and an image often comes to mind –
a faceless man shouldering the brown carrying pole
standing alone in front of Marx’s statue
sings ‘The Internationale’ out loud in breezes
sometimes his singing steals my sleep
his most romantic return
孟郊在澳門
冬夜下起細雨
只好閉門苦思——
怎樣在淅瀝的雨聲中
拾起清愁的詩句？
再絕的絕句也沒有報紙好賣
新聞記者寫盡民間疾苦
每年派糖都沒有我的份
要我唐代落魄詩人作甚？
怎樣用雨滴敲打青竹的聲音
來描寫我這綑轆轆饑腸？
懷才不遇的遊子滿街都是
身上的衣裳卻是工廠貨色
再沒有不識字的異鄉人
來找我代寫書信寄鄉情
再怎麼寫也無法
改變這座充滿情欲的城市
詩詞無法把賭場的籌碼
變成花花碌碌銀紙
我不想看見站街的庸姿俗粉
怎樣用長袖遮瘦臉？
怎樣才能寫出幾首沒有韻律的詞
寄去報章雜誌？
我是穿著綠衣
能屈能伸的青蛙
我是四處覓食
自命清高的狸貓
獨坐四面寒墻的日子裏
讀盡詩書萬卷
來年終得戴上展腳襆頭
一夜看盡濠江花
奈何宏圖難大展
看不透螃蟹著紅袍
看不慣老鼠偷皇糧
只好脫下朱服烏紗
退回小棧高樓
舞筆弄墨
冬夜下起細雨
只好閉門苦思——
怎樣在淅瀝的雨聲中
拾起清愁的詩句？
Meng Jiao in Macao
rain falls through this wintry night
I have to stay home –
picking up sad lines
from the pitter-pat
even briefest lines can’t beat newspapers
everyday journalists write down people’s sufferings
I’ve never received the annual sweeteners
does Macao need a poor Tang poet?
my hungering stomach rumbles
but how to describe it
with the sound of
rain knocking through bamboos?
the street is full of buried talents
but their clothes are made in factories
no homesick stranger hires me
to write down their illness
for them to send home
no matter how much I write
I can’t change this
hormone-driven city
my poem can’t change
casino chips into patacas
I don’t want to see those girls on the street
but how to dodge behind my long sleeves?
and how to write rhymeless poems
to submit to The Macao Daily?
I’m a frog in green clothes
stretching in and out
I’m a cat hunting everywhere
putting on airs
in the days of facing the four bleak walls
I read all the scrolls of the classics
finally I got to put on
an official’s black hat
with two thin flaps
nothing is better than
seeing all the flowers in Hou Kong
just in one night
but I fail to fulfill my political ideal –
I don’t know why crabs wear red garments
I can’t put up with a mouse stealing from the emperor’s table
so I quit
and retreat to a little flat in a high-rise
playing with ink and with brushes
rain falls through this wintry night
I have to stay home –
picking up sad lines
from the pitter-patter
冬綠
殘舊的小學語文課本——
一面扭曲的鏡子
虛構白色的冬天
這裡從來未降下一片片的白
我們的冬天是高貴的冷美人
肌膚和血肉都是綠色的翡翠
她彷彿在傲視北方的白
傲視課本裡無能的文字
時間的魔術是一隻烏鴉
把她唱成一群北飛的大雁
五月的花蕾在炎熱中發呆
渴望一個綠色的冬天
wintry green
a worn-out primary school Chinese textbook
a twisted mirror reflecting white winter
not even one flake of white
has fallen here
our winter is an arrogant cold beauty
blood and skin are jade-green
as if despising the north’s white
and the incompetent words in the book
the magic of time is a crow
sings winter as north-flying swallows
May’s buds dull in the heat
expecting wintry green
古怪的釘子
要搬家了
那枚釘子
還古怪地楔在牆上
剛搬進來那天
你說這個露台西斜
剛好可以晾床單
於是你拿來錘子和釘子
釘住牆上釘子的影子
你說你要釘住陽光
要搬家了
床單已在箱子裡
那枚釘子
還古怪地楔在牆上
an old nail
about to move
that odd nail
still wedged in the wall
the first day we moved in here
you said this balcony had afternoon sun –
a perfect place to hang our bed sheet
so you fetched a hammer
and nailed down its shadow
you said sunlight was the target too
now about to move
the bed sheet has been packed
that odd nail
still wedged in the wall