英汉双语诗选（吴盛青 顾爱玲译）
In the following section dedicated to the work of Chi Lingyun 池凌雲, literary scholar Shengqing Wu 吳盛青 and translator Eleanor Goodman 顧愛玲 offer CLT readers an avenue into the lively scene of contemporary women poets. Focusing on Chi's poetry, they explore issues of the feminist consciousness, different possibilities for the expression of empathy, questions of a writer's social responsibility, and the status of a poet's relationship to language in contemporary China. Born in 1966, Chi has emerged as one of the most prominent feminist voices in poetry during the past decade. Her books include Darting Snowflakes (Feiben de xuehua 飛奔的雪花) published in 1997, One-Sided Dialogue (Yigeren de duihua 一個人的對話) in 2005, _Select_ed Poetry of Chi Lingyun (Chi Lingyun shixuan 池凌雲詩選) in 2010, and Stealth's Gleam (Qianxing zhiguang 潛行之光) in 2013.
As a whole, Chi's work is characterized by a strong female voice and charged with lyrical emotionalism. Many of her early poems offer reflections upon and metaphorical transformations of her struggles growing up as an intelligent, inquisitive child in the restrictive environment of rural China, and then coping with the rapid changes the country has undergone in the last several decades, an experience shared by many of her generation. She also writes extensively about the experiences of other prominent female figures, from Lin Zhao 林昭 to Jacqueline du Pré, through which she delves into a collective experience of—and resistance to—the forces of seemingly predetermined fate, as well as to gender and social hegemony. Much of her literary inspiration is drawn from other great writers of the past century, especially the poets of the Silver Age of Russian literature, such as Marina Tsvetaeva and Anna Akhmatova, and, like these writers, Chi uses a deft touch to reveal "the beauty of tremendous difficulty" in life as in art. Her work draws upon personal experience and everyday life to explore often-disturbing themes of death, suffering, and assault. Yet she is also able to write about a full range of topics, and demonstrates a virtuosic ability to render everyday subject matter with an abstract and philosophical dimension. In this way, she has made great contributions to the larger artistic exploration of the ethical dimension and affective power of contemporary Chinese poetry. In her personal ethos, "Sorrow is ever / the slow walk of maturity."
According to contemporary critic Xi Du 西渡, Chi Lingyun belongs to the third wave of Chinese female poets who have come to the fore since the late 1970s. Having internalized a "consciousness of night" (a phrase coined by her contemporary Zhai Yongming 翟永明), her articulation of a feminist grounding can be more subtle and mediated than what is sometimes found in the work of her peers. Further, Chi is deeply committed to dealing with subject matter such as poverty, despair, injustice, and death, all of which carry significant social import. With these dark materials she fashions a melancholic voice, a "feeble murmur" that in the current situation in China can paradoxically be heard more clearly than a shout. She understands her own writing to be a form of "hungry writing," a concept indebted to Nietzsche, which she uses to mean a commitment to the social responsibility of writing about poverty, disasters both natural and manmade, and the plight of the less privileged. This idea is also revealing of her attitude toward language, which she considers "another skeleton of my spirit, giving me a second life." In purely artistic terms, her poetry is characterized by concrete imagery, a strong lyric voice, and the use of oxymoron and concise description. With its expressive power, language is a "dangerous light" that can combat darkness of social, historical, and existential import.
The Chrysanthemum's Question
The chrysanthemum enters the wheat field, and reaches up between the wings
of gold-plumed birds. Why does its hungry stomach
reject the real grains of wheat? The pitch-black prairie
refuses to subside. The shadows of days bearing chrysanthemums
shift about, worse than a yoke.
More chrysanthemums pace along the road.
More white-colored rites
fall from the sky. More empty earth
comes under the potter's hand. One by one, human puppets
are captured, offered up for sale.
You are all the same sort of thing.
Anonymous spasms
are also the same.
菊问
菊花进入麦地,延伸到金翅鸟的
翅膀中。不知为什么,它饥饿的胃
拒绝真实的麦粒。漆黑的旷野
拒绝下沉。背负菊花的日子,
影子的移动,比牛轭艰难。
更多菊花在路上徘徊。
更多白色的礼仪
从空中降落。更多空土
在制陶匠手中。一个个人形
被擒住,被出售。
你们有着同一种色彩。
匿名的抽搐
是同一种。
Cloth's Dance
Her longing is soundless
her longing covers all of longing's eyes
it shocks all those who are falling
An unstoppable descent
each soft closure
drives a woman to madly
entangle her own body in the dark
and dance in silence. An aching bird
takes off in low flight
her pain has a warm exterior
This one single refuge, an inexpressible
loneliness, adds to life's urgency—
the _set_ting sun in her heart is transparent
and emits a mysterious radiant halo
A soundless violation is beautifully patterned
I've gazed at it for a long time, touching
her loosening pain
it lets someone completely different from me
live inside my body
But she has forgotten her fate
she hopes to encounter a thief
and be stolen. She dashes through the stillness
with a tearing sound
布的舞蹈
她的渴望无声
她的渴望覆盖了所有渴望的眼睛
让所有下降的人感到惊奇
无可阻挡的陷落
一次松软的关闭
让一个女人疯狂
在黑暗中纠缠自己的身体
安静地舞着。一只疼痛的鸟
开始低低的飞翔
她的痛苦有一副温暖的外表
这唯一的庇护,无法言说的
孤独,加重了生命的紧迫
她内心的落日是透明的
发出神秘的光晕
无声的侵害有着美丽的图案
我长久地注视,抚摸
她正在松开的伤痛
任由一个与我有着不同秉性的人
住在我的躯体中
然而,她忘记了自己的命运
她希望碰到一个窃贼
被偷走。她在寂静中飞跑
发出撕裂的声音
A Kind of Poetry
To discover a tree's memories is impossible.
To seek a pebble's experience
is also impossible.
We spy on water's motion
but in the end we still can't touch its core.
The cloud has always been there, we exhaust our energy
to understand its will, yet there's no hope
it will reveal the sky's mysteries.
Poetry also has the will of clouds
with words like rain, to avoid madness
it creates more madness. Just as when love
is written down, it loses half of its sincerity.
When explained, there is only a layer of sticky
mist left. No one is quick or deft enough
to capture poetry for long. Everything perfect
contains a dark cave.
I can't explain the attraction of this cave.
A kind of tranquility, which carries a greater sacrifice
undissolved by light. A kind of dizziness
from this shore to the farther shore, crossing freely.
It has enslaved every golden finger.
A wild cave, harboring minerals, ice and feathers
a few symbols, and I still don't know what it is.
一种诗艺
发现一棵树的记忆,是不可能的。
寻找一块鹅卵石的经验
也不可能。我们窥探水的运动
却始终无法触及它的核心。
云朵一直存在,我们耗费力气
理解它的意志,却无法祈望它
泄露空中的奥秘。
诗歌也有云朵的意志
言辞如雨水,为逃避疯狂
制造更多的疯狂。就像爱情
被写下,就失去一半纯真。
意义经过阐释,只留一层黏糊的
薄雾。没有人能做到眼明手快
捕获长久的诗意。一切完美
都存在一个黑洞。
我无法说清黑洞的诱惑。
一种寂静,带着更大的牺牲
不被光所溶解。一种晕眩
从此岸到彼岸,自由过渡。
所有的金手指都受过它奴役。
野性的黑洞,包藏矿物、冰块和羽毛
一些符号,我至今不知它是什么。
Sea Lily
As it retreats step by step into the deep sea
opening into a sea lily, the world's
loneliest flower appears on the horizon.
My path also secretly revolves.
The breeze blows over the water and the newly built towers,
lurks between the railings and inscribes its yellow mark
and spreads the sea lily's seeds.
This lithe lit gold,
the feather-light petals dance with flames.
These ancient young deaths in the ocean, the end
to which it has retreated, let it all rise from the dead.
海百合
当它一步步退到深海
开成一朵海百合,这世上
最孤独的花,现出了地平线。
我的道路也在悄悄回转。
风吹着流水也吹着新建的塔楼,
潜流在栅栏之间打上金黄的印记
送出海百合的种子。
这守护光明的柔软的黄金,
轻如羽毛的叶瓣与火焰共舞。
这古老的深海之殇,退守的
终点,让一切死而复生。
A Flame's Hardship
A sheep sparkles in crystal—it's very important not to run.
Inside, he softly lifts his front hoof.
So it goes year in and year out. A flame's hardship
has never pulled along a wisp of smoke. No fissures.
I am convinced that a sheep lives in the crystal.
I don't pity him. The sky
darkens with every minute.
We are already soaked through.
I tell them his heart is pure.
People haven't changed the bark and grass.
No one knows what his breath means.
Anyway, trees are pulled up tall from the earth.
A woman hovering over the craggy terrain
goes on her way alone.
一朵焰的艰难
羊在水晶里闪光,不奔跑,这多么重要。
它在里面轻轻举起一只前蹄。
常年如此。一朵焰的艰难
从不曳着一缕轻烟。没有裂缝。
我确信,一只羊住在水晶之中。
我没有感到惋惜。天空
每分钟都在变暗。
而我们早就湿透了。
我对人说,它的胸中没有一点杂物。
树皮和青草没人动过。
呼吸怎么样,没有人知道。
总之,树从地下被高高拉起。
飞翔的女人,在嶙峋的岩石上
独自走去。
Jacqueline’s Tears
The rich song of the silver rain
and a zither’s heart. The chanting
of lips changes a motionless tree.
Your moon outruns the white birch forest
stirring up pine twigs. I even believed
it was a cello that lifted her lovely hair
her glance surpassed chrysanthemums.
I see her frozen black wristwatch
facing her tilted shoulders. Their smiles
are welts that wave to themselves
this painful beauty, a nameless melancholy
without a single break.
Only the white strings move
they know the reason, but cannot
say it all in one song.
This faraway Jacqueline
is everything. In the end sorrow
is the slow walk of maturity. The early
fading holds onto seedlings
and draws from the depths.
(Note: The title is from a piece by Bach.)
雅克的迦可琳眼泪
富于歌唱的银色的雨
锦瑟的心。唇的
吟诵，改变着一棵静止之树。
你的月亮追过白桦林
拨弄松的细枝。我竟会以为
是大提琴扬起她的秀发
她的眼神胜过菊花。
我看见她不会走动的黑色腕表
向她倾斜的肩。他们的笑容
都有挥向自己的鞭痕
这痛苦的美，莫名的忧郁
没有任何停顿。
只有白色的弦在走动
它们知道原因，却无法
在一曲之中道尽。
遥远的雅克的迦可琳
这就是一切。悲伤始终是
成熟生命的散步。提前来临的
消逝，拉住抽芽的幼苗
正从深处汲取。
（注：题目取自巴赫曲名）
The Sabbath
——In memory of Lin Zhao
Please release one handcuff from the woman wearing two
let her leave this tiny dark room for awhile
and walk over to the green plants
to breathe the fresh air, to say what she wants to say.
Beyond the high wall a joyful dance weighs down the mist
blind enthusiasm builds up the stage, but who is cheering?
Please give her hot water and a white shirt
the old one is dirty, and blocks out the light
the latecomers can’t read her scribbled poetry
thinking that the world was destroyed in a heat wave.
So many happily slavish people
they are never surprised, they can’t see themselves clearly.
Please love her, let her become a mother
and smile at a swaddled baby
singing a hundred-year-old lullaby in mezzosoprano
waiting for him to grow into an accomplished young man.
Constant interrogation makes a sick man well
countless healthy men become ill, circulating inside a shared body
Please give her a silk scarf, return the dew-filled morning to her
let her come from the crowd, loudly denouncing
the stifled cries. Soldiers of freedom
let the regretful people mourn openly.
What was once an endangered city is now a boundless territory where she is buried
at Weiming Lake, grass and trees and endless time.
安息日
——兼悼林昭
请给带两副镣铐的人取下一副
让她暂时离开小小的黑房间
移步到那丛绿色植物边
呼吸清新的空气，说出要说的话。
院墙外快乐的舞蹈加重了迷雾
盲目的热情筑起高台，是谁在欢呼？
请给她热水和白色衬衣
原来那件已经脏了，遮住了光线
后来的人看不清她匆忙中写下的诗句
以为世界已在一股热浪中毁坏。
这么多心甘情愿被奴役的人
他们从不感到惊讶，已看不清自己。
请给她爱，让她成为母亲
冲着襁褓里的婴儿微笑
用女中音吟唱流传百年的摇篮曲
等待他成为一个品学兼优的少年。
无休止的审讯让一个患病的人健康
无数健康的人病倒，在共同的身体里循环。
请给她丝质头巾，还她带露的早晨
让她在人群中走来，大声斥责
停住的呼号。一名自由的战士
让遗恨的人当面说出哀叹。
曾经是危城，现在是安葬她的无边的疆域
在未名湖畔，草、木和永恒的时间里。
Marina Writing Poetry Late at Night
Falling asleep in solitude, waking in loneliness
God knows what kind of person you are, Marina
you draw from poverty, you sing
let everything forfeited return to the chair.
You hide red carbon fire in your heart
like a moon that inclines toward evening.
But you know what darkness is
and there is only the abyss in your eyes.
There is no magician, no one confessing to the ocean
my dear, after a hundred years it is still the same
the campfire has cooled. No one can make us happy.
“There are too many people, I feel a new kind of loneliness”
so I cry quietly, and send my regards to the night.
Aside from this, only the sweet stabbing black cypress
only the dazzling point of the knife, that calm galloping light.
(Note: Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941), a well-known Russian poet.)
玛丽娜在深夜写诗
在孤独中入睡，在寂寞中醒来
上帝知道你是什么样的人，玛丽娜
你从贫穷中汲取，你歌唱
让已经断送掉的一切重新回到椅子上。
你把暗红的碳火藏在心里
像一轮对夜色倾身的月亮。
可是你知道黑暗是怎么一回事
你的眼睛除了深渊已没有别的。
没有魔法师，没有与大海谈心的人
亲爱的，一百年以后依然如此
篝火已经冷却。没有人可以让我们快乐
“人太多了，我感到从未有过的寂寞”
为此我悄悄流泪，在深夜送上问候。
除此之外，只有又甘甜又刺痛的漆黑的柏树
只有耀眼的刀尖，那宁静而奔腾的光。
注：玛丽娜指茨维塔耶娃·玛丽娜·伊万诺夫娜（Цветаева Марина Ивановна），1892—1941年，俄罗斯著名的诗人