张杰英文诗3首

Zhang Jie (China): 《Red Star Canal 》

【美国】杨 劳伦斯 西思翎 译

Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)   translation

 杨 劳伦斯 西思翎（Jan Laurens Siesling) 是艺术史学者和著有小说和诗歌的作家、诗人。他的小说常处理艺术，他的艺术的书是处理诗意灵感。他是一个语言的人，在他的自由时间他喜欢翻译，从一种喜爱的语言到另一种。中文很可能变成他的将来的挑战。他生于荷兰，从阿姆斯特丹自由大学取得博士学位。他在法国生活很多年，他的书大多是用法语写的。现在他半年在欧洲，半年在美国。他最近的书《艺术是更多》，是一个非传统的历代的西方艺术史。

Biographical Note  Jan Laurens Siesling is an art historian and a writer of fiction and poetry.  His novels often deal with art and his books on art deal with the poetry behind artistic inspiration. He is a man of languages and in his free time he likes to do translations from one beloved language into another. Chinese is likely to become his future challenge. He was born in the Netherlands and he obtained his degrees from the Free University of Amsterdam. He lived in France for many years and most of his books were written in French. Now he spends half of the year in Europe, the other half in America. His most recent book, Art is More, is an unconventional history of Western art through the ages.  

Zhang Jie:《Red Star Canal 》 [1]（Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling）

In the hinterland of a small county we stumbled upon  

A long canal, in total decay, the ruins of a Star. Surprising.

Amid countless half-moon arches sunken in the mire or with thorns overgrown,

We seemed to wipe the ashes of the past century, falling  

like dust. The people who built the canal used its water  

For making steel, irrigating the fields, and play;

Now, in the evening dusk, it was the silent landmark  

of a bygone era. An iron pipe of the nearby pump station

Rusted away; poplar trees and sparrows had taken over the dry drains,

Overflowing with dead leaves and _drop_pings; on either side

Weeds grew freely, buried memories returning to wilderness.

At an interruption in the canal

We paused in silence; the sun was slowly _set_ting

Behind the distant hills.

If you walk on along the canal, across an iron bridge, cut  

Through a cemetery, you will find a charming regional train station.

It has a new and bright

Waiting room. When, in the dreary emptiness,  

The whistle blows, there is always a mother with white hair;

She stands on the platform, wiping off tears of farewell

To her children parting to far off lands.

             　Beijing, 10.22.2005

[1] The Hong Xing Qu or Red Star Canal was constructed in 1958, during the “Iron and Steel Campaign”. Located in Lushan County, Henan, it is now abandoned.  

张杰：《红星渠》（注[1]）

   《Red Star Canal》 (Hong Xing Qu)

小县郊外，长长的红星渠已颓圮

它的老态，让我们吃惊

众多半月的拱洞，陷入淤泥和葛榛

我们轻抚渠身，上世纪的灰渣噗噗

掉下。那些建渠人，曾用这渠水

炼钢、浇田、嬉戏

而今，只余这时代地标，空寂于

暮晚。不远的灌站，输水铁管

也已锈蚀，护渠的青杨、灰雀，

用枯叶和鸟粪堆满干涸渠道，两岸荒草

宛若隐埋的记忆，在旷野间

游荡。在渠的断裂处，

我们默然停步，渠头落日，

正缓缓沉降于远山。  

若顺着渠走，跨过铁桥，斜穿

一片坟地，便是小县温暖的车站，

那里，新建有明亮的

候车厅，每当沉闷、空旷的

汽笛鸣响，总有白发母亲，

伫立在站台，抹泪送别

踏上远乡漂泊的儿女。

   　2005.10.22   北京

注[1]：红星渠建于1958年大炼钢铁时期，位于河南某县。已荒废。

Zhang Jie:《Writing to Siesling and Haiyan Tian》

Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling, 12-15-2016

Pingdingshan West Station was the treasure box

And you were the gemstones having traveled far,

Shining gently, glowing up in our eyes.

In July, that was a good omen.

How hard not to persevere in a mountain rain conversation,

As it pours from the Lushan sky, ah the rain, hold high

The umbrellas when we move to the restaurant; various countries

Correspond to various sacred symbols, all different.

The emblem of Holland would appear to be the deer!

China should be represented by the dragon,

But there appear the shadows of the wolf and the pig,

No progress in this old land.

The waste terrain was full of discarded scrap,

Plowed up by antiquated drunken bulldozers.

You were here like a semaphore, suddenly

Illuminating the mud of a wide plain.

Through the clods a desolate sleepwalking crowd wiggled its way.

The Flat Lands steam boiled the suffering, darkness, love.

People struggled through the potholes in the dirt road,

Muddier than ever, and the Flat Land leaned over.

You two joined the lightless and the soundless

Crossing a vast area.

The night rain smelled of fresh pine resin,

The summer night on the balcony was heavy with joy.

The symphony of the frogs, the zither of the rain,

Countless microphones were speaking,

Pingdingshan is also in China a loud voice,

A giant sunken bomb, now about to speak.

Humor in the heart is a light beam of freedom,

And freedom, freedom of that kind, is the central axis

That never reached the human oceans of Middle Kingdom.

Guci drums, calligraphy, an experience of investigation, on the scroll

The world like a treacherous liquor was flowing,

Spreading its vertigo. Meanwhile Haiyin,

Ouyang Guangxue, Beidu and we all –

Were the tender stones of the night, melting in the hot springs.

The warm Xiatang river was the permanent back_drop_,

From one space to another, a parallel stream.

And when we entered Zhengzhou, the gigantic rising

Groundhog City produced another kind of sludge.

Buildings like fast grown monsters seemed to dance to a blues

With gypsy beauty and malice. When you had finished your art talk,

Left the street level behind, reappearing on another planet,

We stepped on stairs to stars, in the mirror turning into egrets.  

张杰：《写给西思翎、田海燕》

平顶山西站犹如宝匣，

你们是远征的宝石，

善的辉光，闪在我们眼底。

七月，预示一个命运。

难以挽留的山雨交谈

在鲁山的天空，雨，让我们

举着蘑菇抵达餐厅，各国的

神物对应表，各不相同。

荷兰显影的是鹿！

中国本应显影的是龙，

投影的却是狼与猪，

古陆仿佛停止了进化。

大野有无数的报废，

有腐朽推土机的醉意。

你们也像飞来的灯塔，

照亮了大原的泥泞。

泥珠上蠕动梦游荒凉的人群。

平原蒸熟了苦难、黑暗和爱。

人们费力走在坑洼的泥路，

空前的泥泞，使平原倾斜。

你们汇入了无光无声的人们

在茫茫大地上的横渡。

夜雨令人有松脂的清香，

夏夜阳台令我们享受沉重。

青蛙的交响乐，雨的古筝，

无数的麦克风在发言，

平顶山也是中国的一个话筒，

代表一颗沉没的巨弹即将发言。

幽默的心，有自由的光芒，

那种自由的自由是一种轴心，

还从未出现在中国的海洋中。

鼓词，书法和审查，在滚动

世界如同浑浊的烈酒在滚动，

展露自己的晕眩。而海因、

欧阳关雪、北渡和我们——

都是夜的软石，都融进了温泉。

下汤的暖河，是相互的背景，

不同空间里，我们有平行的飞行。

而当我们进入郑州，那巨大升腾的

土拨鼠之城，制造着另一种泥泞。

楼群像速生的怪物，似乎在感伤舞动

吉普赛的美和恨。当你们讲完艺术，

在大街的甲板上消失，在另一颗星上重现，

我们会踩着星星的台阶，在镜中变成白鹭。

                                     2016.10.27

To Feng Xin Wei

In the great black earth, the night again descending on Lushan,

You were like the lone lantern stumbling on,

Since long the fertilizer plant was closed, since long you were fired,

This is the triptych of a destiny: darkness, lone light, joblessness.

The dust whirling up on People’s Road, the chaos of crowds,

You changed your mind like a wild swan, your voice into a quill,

On the white wall of your bedroom you wrote: “Before the sky is dark,

Complete a new work, you have much time to kill.” 1

Woebegone you stepped far behind the mirror,

Our world let you down, and your poetic aims with that.

Your experience was that there is no substitute for suffering.

Like Poseidon the sea god, you bear the heavy load of the waves.

You live in a house of wine, under the table the floor is covered with bottles,

The house smells of wine, you said: “Come, brother,

Let me get you two bundles of poems,” at

Your bedside under the lonely light, dark and damp –

A spider’s web had made a sort of night sky against the ceiling,

We all live in our helpless webs.

You said: “at the worst we pay for it with the rest of our life,” 2

You read poems to me under the lonely lightbulb, the excitement

Made you breathe heavily, a ferocious tiger or a whale emerging from the deep.

Yellowing fans were flying saucers, overlooking the demonic planet of the

Lonely poet. I believed I felt the universe split in two

By shock, you must have convoked the god of poetry himself.

We then climbed to the roof, of the county’s central village  

The observatory, north of the sheep’s pen, pervading the night with its smell,

With the help of your glasses you identified vague groups of stars,

Large clusters of them stare at you since long, and ignore you.

The moon was low and seemed to sink into a sublunary bedroom.

The cypress in the courtyard, moving like drunken,

Its fingers as fine as if stitching, pointed at the stars. A hawthorn

Threw its silence over the sleep of the sheep, while the Jiao Zhi

Train mooed lower than a cowherd, and far away a tower crane,

A gigantic gun, aimed at high buildings crazily popping up.

We were like the night train under November stars moving.

The water of the Xia Wa released the sweet smell of mud.

Your roof, the squalid cave wrapped in cold night,

The spider’s web, the peeling ceiling, the ragged walls,

The greasy wires, the rough sand concrete floors,

The lost mirror of the wardrobe, the missing mat for a bed.

Dust covered the table, like the dust of time,

A ghost bends over it often and writes, turning in circles,

In the dark room the owner, often sitting in the chair, motionless

In a somber cave, like oblivious in still water a black fish.

The house is packed with Tao Er River brandy boxes, you shout

Loudly: “Tao Er River”, like calling the god of the Changbai Mountain,

But there is no redemption from the god – those books though

Make a pile at your bedside, a form of revolution.

Tonight we will sleep in the turmoil of this revolution,

A useless revolution it is, we are always the turmoil’s victim.

Later that night in the window, the sky collapses, the poplar shuffles darkly

Like a space shuttle until, king of the night, the rooster, calls for dawn.

As early as nine, going down Xia Wa Street we come across the big iron mantis,

Its giant arms hanging steel bars; we walk by these iron limbs,

The sky becomes a white cave, like lit by LED lights, countless torches,

Buoys float by us, the detectors as usual drifting off.

_____

1 This is a quote from Feng Xin Wei’s poem “A Poet in the Golden Week”.

2 A quote from Feng Xin Wei’s poem “A Nude Song”.

Zhang Jie, 2016-11-08

Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling 2017-05-23

张杰：《给诗人冯新伟》

在黑色的大地上，夜又降临了鲁山，

你像一盏跌跌撞撞的孤灯，

化肥厂早已破产，你也早已下岗，

这是一个命运的三件套：黑暗，孤灯和失业。

尘土飞扬的人民路，混乱的人群，

你像变卦的野天鹅，喉头化为笔，

在你的卧室白墙上，写上“趁天黑前，

完成一首新作，有的是时间供你消磨”①。

你埋头走在一个幽深的镜框里，

这个世界辜负了你，一个诗人的美意。

你所经历的是你无法替换的苦难。

你像海神波塞冬，承受住了重载的海浪。

你已住在酒屋，桌下满是酒瓶，

屋中满是酒香，你说“来，老弟，

我给你整理出两套诗”，就在

你床头的孤灯下，黑暗又潮湿——

蛛网在天花板扭曲成小小的天网，

而我们就活在这无可奈何的网下。

你说“大不了把余生全赔进去”②，

你在孤灯里为我读诗，因为激动

喘着气，犹如一头猛虎或浮出深海的鲸鱼。

发黄的扇叶像个飞碟，望着这颗魔鬼星球上

孤寂的诗人。我似乎感到了宇宙分裂的

震撼，那一定是你感召到了飞过的诗神。

我们又走上屋顶，这是县城城中村的

瞭望台，北面的羊圈，在夜晚膻味弥漫，

你戴上眼镜，辨认着模糊的星群，

大片的星团，早已把你凝望，又忘却。

月亮低的，似乎沉入人间的睡房。

院中的雪松，像喝醉的醉汉，举着

刺绣的细手，指着星空。那山楂树

在歇息的羊群上沉默，焦枝线上

火车牛群一样低鸣，远处，塔吊

像一把巨大的手枪，指着疯长的楼群。

我们像夜行列车驶过繁星下的十一月夜。

下洼的水，带着混浊的甜味。

你的屋顶，寒夜笼罩的贫民窟，

蛛网，掉皮的天花板，破烂的墙，

油污的电线，粗糙，沙愣愣的水泥地面，

丢了镜子的衣柜，没有垫子的床。

灰尘落满的桌子，像积尘的时代，

一个幽灵时常在那里伏案写作，转圈，

而昏暗屋子的主人，时常呆坐在椅中，

如同昏暗洞穴里，在静水里走神的黑鱼。

屋中堆满洮儿河酒的酒箱，你大声

喊出“洮儿河”，像呼喊长白山的山神，

但山神也无法救赎什么——那些书，

堆垒上你的床头，像闹了一场革命。

今晚我们就要睡在这革命的漩涡中，

漩涡是无益的，我们永远是漩涡的牺牲品。

后夜的窗外，是倒塌的天空，夜杨哗哗

似飞船，黑夜的帝王，雄鸡，呼叫着黎明。

早九点，下洼街中横着大铁螳螂，

巨臂吊着钢筋，我们从铁臂下走过，

天空的洞穴变白，像LED灯，无数火把，

浮标流过我们，探测器一般飘散着出发。

注：①引句摘自冯新伟《一个诗人在黄金周》一诗；

 ②引句摘自冯新伟《裸体之歌》一诗。

                            2016.11.8