i learn by negation
how to breathe,
positions made unavoidable
by a city dancing between
qigong in the square
below Starbucks
and traffic that will not stop.
the proper stance is
flowing from there
to here, knowing
when to swerve.
a matter of collisions
a matter of avoiding
collisions — not
knowing, bodies falling.
Shenzhen, March 2013
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
Macao/Hong Kong/Shenzhen
1
on a road
you think you know
sidewalks go
nowhere.
sudden absences leave us
walking in traffic.
to take our minds
off the narrow margin
between the curb
and every passing car
we imagine ourselves
one of them.
we pass two dogs
lounging near an open gate.
when they rise behind us
in the corner of our eyes
we see one smiling
at the thought of making us
jump before he
barks once on our heels.
dogs grow larger
margins grow smaller
and, unsure of their intentions
as they are of ours,
unwilling now
to struggle for turf,
we turn back at last
before we arrive
at the beach you were sure is
somewhere on this road
later, still walking on earth, you
realize you lost your butterfly
earrings somewhere
on the way.
2
In Central, where people
walk every day without once
putting their feet on the ground, I
wonder if they imagine us walking, lost.
3
On the same day in another city
altogether, we wander slowly through
a long talk on cracks in neo-
liberal cities where artists live.
A friend of friends says
strong German beer
has made her dizzy and I look
like Marx. I imagine
to change the world is a matter
simpler than interpreting it, hope
you are home dreaming butterflies
who do it without thinking
every time they move a wing.
YANG Qian is an independent playwright, director, actor, and cultural critic. Since 2005, he has been the Artistic Director of Fat Bird Theatre, Shenzhen. Recent theatre scripts include Mandala (2011), Eye of the Universe (2011), and 519 Happy School (2010). As a dramaturge, he has collaborated with Silo Theater (Amsterdam) and the Theatre Practice (Singapore). Yang is a three-time recipient of the Cao Yu award, China’s highest award for theatre. In 2005, the Schaubuhne Theatre invited and translated Hope (1997) for a staged reading.
Translator Mary Ann O’DONNELL is an artist-ethnographer at the Shenzhen University School of Architecture. O’Donnell curated Boom! Shenzhen for the 2011 Shenzhen Hong Kong Bi-City Biennale of Architecture and Urbanism, and has exhibited work at the Arts de Vivre Artspace and The Inheritance Project. Since 2005, her blog, Shenzhen Noted has provided anthropological commentary on the politics, culture, and patterns of urbanization in Shenzhen, earning a public citizenship award from The Southern Metropolis (南方都市报) in 2011.
哦，船长，我的船长：全球变暖
哦，船长，我的船长
您是不是同样长寿？这还真不好说
但您现在有了一船的长寿乘客
我们大多身体健康，食欲旺盛
身体略为发福，也一直保持运动
长寿秘诀是别人的秘密我们
想知道太多
包括您船员的工资和他们的国籍。虽然
刚刚开船的时候，我们已了解您
给他们口音定的价格。这没影响我们
付小费的慷慨也不能改变您雇人的吝啬
哦，船长，我的船长
您广播说我们去的路上浪凶涛恶
但您的船和我们付的保险总有一个不能出错
我们相信您，船长。即使我们写了遗嘱
有些事上很难理解我们会有多宽的尺度
比如，去天国的路上，牛顿一直在开车
另一个秘密谁都知道，可谁都不说，为什么
我们都想看那个地方不可？在学院里嘴仗打得
不亦乐乎，全球变暖究竟是科学还是邪说？
我们需要证据是因为需要推托
哦，船长，我的船长
看来您的运气，到现在还不错，
秋天的阿拉斯加，在过去可是更吓人的美国。
他们说鲸鱼和女人都在夜里盯着你，
他们说狼和印第安人在雪里嗅着你，
他们说黄金和梦在荒原里陪伴你，
他们说有一位船长在海上等你。
他们说有
他们说
他们！
哦，船长，我的船长
假如电影中的泰坦尼克再次启航
您愿不愿意坐在现在您坐的地方
比起这漫漫长路，您的照片很新，但您的制服太旧
乘客们被您严肃的表情逗乐了，在酒吧里喝的开心
一个银白色的美人鱼在舞池中间跳着舞，她的脚
船舷和船尾神秘的泡沫，还有爱情里阵阵作痛的歌声
每一层甲板都有救生圈和酒吧
每次演习海难的警报之后就跟着广告说东西打折
但每个走进赌场的表情和出来时都不一样。
哦，船长，我的船长
您打赌但不下注却总是预言成真，
所以您不会有奥德修斯（Odysseus）麻烦
跟随您声音的手指，我们在海面搜寻
如期而来的抹香鲸，白头海雕，角嘴海雀。
行踪不定的北极熊和随波逐流的水母
甚至在夜晚，燃烧着极光的天空
飞机与流星的轨迹，不知何处飞来的蛾子
追逐着一串灿烂的灯火，BBQ和超大屏幕
露天的spa热气腾腾。入水，海更黑更冷
哦，船长，我的船长
什么是你的梦想，在什么地方你迷失过方向
你坐在壁炉前不广播的时间，留给自己多少？
我们有些人的船舱没有海景阳台和舷窗，看不见
太阳还没升起来，可他们刚点了早餐在看电视
拳击台上，两个衣冠楚楚的政客正准备互相攻击
报道说他们的手套里没发现暗器。时差更不真实
东部时间和西部时间的裁判不会区别南北谎言的距离
费那劲干吗？不交税的阿拉斯加真要听懂他们的话？
够了石油，冠军奖杯里的香槟和刚送来芳香四溢的早餐
哦，船长，我的船长
您的声音再次把我们从睡梦中唤醒，冰川
您允诺的神物正一点一点出现
从山颠一路蜿蜒，琉璃城墙围着蓝晶晶的王国
比罗德岛还大的无礼和冷漠，让我们苦等了几百万年
站在巨大的冰门前，秘密需要一个咒语洞开。刚弄明白
原来期待才是最好的消遣，而我们竟一直在娱乐中闷死。
这时有更惊人的消息传来，从左舷到到右舷。
船在浮冰之间，焦急的目光失去了焦点，漂移，晕眩
是的，谁见过他？在航行中船长一直没有露面
哦，船长，我的船长
请告诉我们，您自杀的妙药。还有什么事
属于我们的权利应该在死前知道
“女士们，先生们，我是船长！现在请静默片刻……
大家当然都会记得今天这个日子……在大海深处……
大白鲨透过一层又一层不同的水温瞄准美国，是我们
把这个望远镜递到它手里，伽利略的发明已不受控制
这就是全球变暖的后果。所以，我们要静……” 突然
裂地的一声响打破了静默，直耸云天的冰川崩塌滑落，海成了漩涡
“全球化了？”您问，“不，世界生气了”风回答，我们听见……
Oh Captain, My Captain: The Globe is Raging
Oh captain, my captain
Are you as old as we are? It’s hard to be certain
But now you have a ship full of old passengers
Most of our bodies are healthy, and appetites strong
We’ve become plump, but continue to exercise
The secret to longevity is someone else’s, as we don’t want to know
How much your seamen earn and their country of origin. Even though
When the ship departed, we already understood
The agreed upon price. Yet it hasn’t stopped us
From being generous with tips or stopped you from paying miserly wages
Oh captain, my captain
You’ve announced rough waters
But as long as the ship or our insurance holds firm, there’s no problem
We trust you, Captain. Even if we’ve written our wills
And it’s difficult to know measure of some facts
For example, on the road to heaven, did Newton drive a car
Or another secret that no one explains, why
Do we all want to see what’s there? In schools we debate
And who doesn’t enjoy it, is global warming science or disinformation?
We need proof because we need the delay
Oh captain, my captain
It seems you’ve been lucky, and you’re still doing well
Autumn in Alaska, once was a more fearsome America.
They say that at night the wales and the women watch you,
They say that in snow the wolves and Indians smell you,
They say in the wilderness gold and dreams accompany you,
They say at sea a captain awaits you.
They say there is
They say
They!
Oh captain, my captain
Suppose the Titanic launched in another movie
Would you still want to sit where you are
Compared to this long route, your photos are new, but your uniform old
Your serious mien amuses the passengers, who drink happily at the par
A platinum mermaid leaps in the pool, her feet
Mysterious foam afore and aft, and a melancholy love song
There are life vests and bars on every level
And the stores offer discounts after we’ve finished a safety drill
Yet the faces entering and leaving the casino are all different.
Oh captain, my captain
You gamble but don’t put money down, yet the prophecies come true
And thus you void Odysseus’ troubles
Following the gestures of your voice, we search at sea
For sperm wales in season, bald eagles, and puffins.
A polar bear’s uncertain tracks and drifting jelly fish
And late at night, the aurora borealis
Traces of airplanes and shooting stars, and a moth of uncertain origin
Following a series of brilliant fireworks, bbq and a large screen
An outdoor Jacuzzi, boiling hot. We slip in the water, the sea becomes darker, colder
Oh captain, my captain
What is your dream, where did you get lost
When you sit by the electric fire and the broadcasts are silent, how much remains for you?
Some of the cabins lack balconies and window views, cannot see
The sun rising, but as they order breakfast they watch a boxing match
On television, two immaculately dressed politicians attack each other
And the announcers claim iron knuckles inside their gloves. Jetlag is a mirage
The difference between eastern and western time doesn’t mean we can tell the distance between northern and southern lies
And why should we? If Alaska doesn’t pay taxes does it need to understand what they’re saying?
There’s enough oil, and the champion’s cup is filled with a Champaign breakfast
Oh captain, my captain
Your voice once again wakes me from dreams, glaciers
And the mystery you promised little by little appears
From the mountain peak the road twists, a glass wall surrounds a kingdom of blue crystal
An affront and a desert larger than Rhode Island, if we wait several billion years
Standing before the ice gates, a secret incantation opens the door. We’ve just understood
Anticipation is the best pastime, and instead we were bored by entertainments.
This was when the startling news came, and we went from starboard to port.
The boat was floating, anxious eyes missed the focus, we drifted, seasick
Yes, who saw him? On the entire voyage the captain never appeared
Oh captain, my captain
Please tell us, what poison killed you. And what else is there
Is it our right to know before we die
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain! Please be silent for a moment…
Of course everyone will remember these days…in the deep ocean…
The great white shark views America through levels with different temperatures, and we
Put the binoculars in its hands, Galileo’s invention is no longer limited
And this is the result of global warming. Thus, we need to be quite…” Suddenly
The sound of earth splitting broke the silence, the massive glacier calved, and the sea became a whirlpool
“Global meltdown?” you asked, “No, the world is raging” we heard the wind reply…