本帖最后由 雨夜人鱼 于 2024-10-3 19:57 编辑
我穿梭在城市与村庄，挖掘词汇的块状根
文／问剑（杨卫东）
译 / 李正栓
1 我用次中音萨克斯 把月亮吹瘦，又用目光洗净 树上的金子
土豆，红薯，山药 蚂蚁般的车辆，钢铁和水泥穿上 过冬的衣服。这些都是 我深埋地下的词汇
我从棺材铺旁走过。那个老木匠 在为自己打造棺材，他的秃顶 像这片荒芜的原野 我穿梭在城市与村庄，挖掘词汇的块状根
2 为了救赎，秋天带上毛笔和经文 山坡上的羊群啃着 稀松的枯草和阳光。我想说出的话 像鱼在嘴唇游动。我说 重新出发，剪断我村庄的脐带
我看见街边两个女孩 她们的红裙子在风中摇曳 夜从四方逼近广场。石头坐在那 比石头还冷
3 我在20世纪80年代的门前歇息 门前树上的鸟窝，像一团牛粪冒着热气 像我恓惶的童年。我从城市来
我寻找到了水源。西北口的民风淳朴 像歌声中铺陈的部分。我知道 我不大喜欢高潮。正如这个世界
不喜欢诗人和他们的追随者
4 我又在生命里加了点盐，在泡菜罐中 加了点糖，在书架上安放了一册书 狗眼中柔软的部分
像人类的黎明。露水把她的爪子打湿 乌鸫的叫声顺着阳光的梯子 爬下来。它们一直爬到灶台的灰尘上
5 我下钩，钓起的都是陈旧深水处 对于浅水中的事物 我知道的太多，也等同于 一无所知。鸡的叫声
从村东头传过来，太阳在桑树巅上 停留片刻。剃头匠松柏 两个女儿不断给他寄钱，这些年从来没回来过 他边数钞票边剥花生下酒。年 在门框的红对联中荡秋千
6 我要说到我的城市。高冷的天空下 是低矮的行人。我总是把自己 摆在环卫工人的位置。月亮起了
月亮又落了，那天光 像是一道巨大的伤口。邻居车书记 每天早起送孙子上学，他想培养孙子 成为接班人。我从小就学会那首歌
我沦落成一个诗人
7 我陪秋天 秋草陪着我 我们与落叶交谈 时代从身旁倏忽而过 我们没有去追赶
屋顶在远处 夕阳在天边（此处有抄袭洛尔迦 的嫌疑。洛尔迦说：船在海上 马在山中）
8 扯皮的渡船泊在岸边 化工厂给他每年补贴五万。那些工人 都是我的乡邻，搭乘最后一班船回家 憨子是其中一个 他的女儿在民办学校教书（去年，即2023 年刚考上编制。孩子们说：上岸）
那些呼进肺里的毒气 在路上也就吐出多半。他们已经 涉过这条河，家里的灯 等着
9 我挂在银杏树上 握紧冰冷的风。屋椽有宣统年间 的雨声，我是一个落荒的秀才 多想成为举子 不想装孙子。道路在左边 我在右边摇摆
10 三元在海船上帮工 买菜做饭兼做零活。他说 工资全额寄回家，平时买菜拿点回扣 攒了点私房钱 这也不够每天注射胰岛素的费用 海风把他50岁的容颜 吹成60岁的笑脸
我们停留在16岁的夜晚 那时月亮多圆呀，邻居家的甘蔗田里 有两双布鞋的脚印
11 冬天的网从树梢上撒下来 太阳比往年更红。我在谋生的路上走着 路过的陌生人和我一样孤单
我回头望见空空的城，那些房屋 已经赶不上我空空的车 一座钟楼在寒冷中举着时间的手指
我被现实按进去 我被诗意挤出来
12 姐夫的坟上已长出荒草 他是方圆几个村有名的屠夫 我学车的师傅，做人的师傅 他能把清淡的生活过得油水十足
他把破旧的院庭 过成热闹的街，我和他喝酒 总能喝出诗句
我最近几次去看我姐 小虎嗅嗅我，像是向我打听 它的主人去了哪里
13 冬天即将来临。我把骨头 藏在皮肉中，把皮肉藏在棉袄中 把棉袄藏在时光中，把时光 藏在肤浅的水中。那些水
曾经沧海，它们洞悉了一切 因此看山还是山 没有因为修辞而改变流动 没有因为阻隔而破碎。它们总是 绕道而行。冬天即将来临
那些凝固的冰，有人说那是水的 骨头，冰层下涌动的暗流 才是河的真相
14 我从侧门经过一棵榆树 向西走就到了小爱的家。那棵榆树 后来为姐出嫁打了嫁奁。整个童年就是 一盏油灯，把乡村的夜 烧个大窟窿。我们灰头土脸 从黎明钻出来。那时
贫穷而又富有。像王
15 三个老太太每天坐在黄昏的梧桐下 现在只剩下一个。她们相约 清晨谁先起床就去叫醒另外两个
那年我在她们的牌桌上放了六百块钱 有两位到死都记得，有一位现在还记得。她是我邻居大妈
小时候我伤风感冒 她给我拔过火罐 还给我在水缸喊回丢了的魂
16 村庄更空了。只装得下狗叫声 果树们总是回忆枝头挂满果实的时候
秋风四处游荡，找不到它牵过的手 村东的柿子树上几颗柿子 像母亲在蓝布衫上钉的红纽扣
母亲的坟头上长满了 葱兰和枯黄的鹅儿肠
2021年秋天创作 2023年10月23日改动 2024年8月14日订稿
I Shuttled Through Cities and Villages, Digging the Tuberous Root of Vocabulary By Wen Jian (Yang Weidong)
Tr. Li Zhengshuan (李正栓 译)
1. I played my baritone sax And blew the moon thin. With my eye I cleansed The gold on the tree,
Potatoes, sweet potatoes, Chinese yams. Ant-like vehicles, steel and cement Dressed up for winter; all these were The words I’ve buried deep in the ground.
As I passed by the coffin shop’s gloom, the old carpenter Was building a coffin for himself. His bald head Gleamed like barren land. I shuttled through cities and villages, digging the tuberous root of vocabulary
2. For redemption, autumn appeared with brush and scriptures. On the hillside, sheep munched the dry, Withered grass and sunlight. Words I wished to utter Swam like fish on my lips. I said To start anew, to cut the umbilical cord of the village the tie.
I spotted two girls by the street side, Their red skirts fluttering in the wind. Night encroached on the square’s face, where stones sat Colder than the coldest stone.
3 I rested in front of the door of the 1980s. The bird's nest in the tree afore the door steamed like a pile of dung, Like my forlorn childhood. I came from the city.
I have found the source of water. The simplicity of the northwest Was like a part laid out in a song. I know I don't particularly enjoy climaxes, just as this world
Dislikes poets and their followers.
4 Again, I added a bit of salt to my life, a bit of sugar to the pickle jar, And placed a book on the shelf, The soft part in the dog’s eye,
Like the dawn of humanity. Dew dampened her paws. The call of the blackbird climbed down the ladder of sunlight. They climbed all the way to the dust on the stove.
5 I cast my line, reeling up things from ancient depths. As for the affairs of shallow waters, I know too much, which was equal to Knowing nothing at all. The rooster's crow
Came from the eastern edge of the village as the sun Paused for a moment atop the mulberry tree. The barber, With two daughters endlessly sending him money, has never returned In all these years. Counting bills while peeling peanuts to drink, the year Swung on the red couplets of the door frame.
6 I wanted to speak of my city. Beneath the aloof sky Were the lowly pedestrians. I always placed myself In the position of the sanitation worker. The moon rises,
The moon falls again; that daylight Is like a massive wound. The neighbor, Secretary Che, Rises early each day to send his grandson to school, hoping to raise him To be his successor. I learned that song from childhood, I have fallen to become a poet.
7 I accompanied autumn. The autumn grass accompanied me. We conversed with fallen leaves. Time rushed past us But we did not chase after it.
The rooftop was distant. The setting sun was at the horizon. (This part shows a suspicion of plagiarism from Lorca; Lorca said: the boat is on the sea; The horse is in the mountains).
8 The bickering ferryboat docked on the shore. The chemical factory subsidized it fifty thousand Yuan each year. Those workers Were my neighbors, taking the last boat home. Hanzi is one of them; His daughter taught in a private school (last year, in 2023, She just passed the exam for a formal position. The children say: we’ve landed).
The toxins breathed into their lungs That were mostly expelled on the road. They have already Crossed this river; the lights at home Waited for them.
9 I hang from the ginkgo tree, Clenching the cold wind. The sound of rain from the Xuantong era resonates; I am a destitute scholar, Longing to become a more successful scholar, Not wanting to act like a low person. The road was on the left And I swayed on the right.
10 Sanyuan helped out on a fishing boat, Buying groceries, cooking and doing odd jobs. He said He sent his entire salary home, sometimes took a kickback When buying groceries, saving up a bit of pocket money. But this was not enough for his daily insulin shots.
The sea breeze has weathered his 50-year-old face Into a 60-year-old smile.
We lingered in a 16-year-old night; How round the moon was then! In the neighbor's sugarcane field, There were footprints of two pairs of cloth shoes.
11 The winter net fell from the treetops. The sun was redder than in previous years. I walked along the path of making a living. Strangers I passed by were just as lonely as I was.
I turned back to see the vacant town; those houses Could not keep up with my empty cart. A clock tower held up its finger in the cold.
I was pushed into reality. I was squeezed out of poetry.
12 Weeds have grown on my brother-in-law's grave; He was a renowned butcher in several nearby villages, My driving teacher, my life mentor; He could turn the blandest life into one rich with flavor.
He transformed the worn courtyard Into a bustling street; when I drank with him, Verses would always emerge.
Recently, I went to see my sister a few times. The dog named Xiaohu sniffed at me, as if inquiring Where its owner had gone.
13 Winter was approaching. I hid the bones Inside the flesh, the flesh within the cotton coat. The coat was hidden within time, and time was hidden In shallow waters. Those waters,
Once a vast ocean, perceived everything. Thus a mountain remained to be a mountain, Unchanged by rhetoric, Not shattered by obstructions; they always Took the long way around. Winter was coming.
The solidified ice, some say, was the bone of the water. The currents swirling beneath the ice Revealed the river's truth.
14 I passed by an elm tree through the side gate, Walking west to Xiao Ai's home. That elm Eventually provided a dowry for my sister’s wedding. My entire childhood was An oil lamp, creating a big hole In the village night. Sooty and dusty, We emerged from dawn, Back then,
I was poor yet rich, like a king.
15 Three old women sat beneath the plane tree at dusk every day; Now only one is still alive. They had agreed that Whoever rises first in the morning wakes the other two.
That year, I placed six hundred Yuan on their card table; Two of them remembered until death, one still remembers. She is my neighbor.
When I had a cold as a child, She cupped my back for me, And even called back the soul I lost in the water tank.
16 The village has grown more vacant now. It can only hold the sound of barking dogs. The fruit trees always recall the times their branches hung heavy with fruit.
The autumn wind wanders everywhere, unable to find the hands it once held. On the persimmon tree in the east end of the village, several persimmons Are like the red buttons sewn on my mother’s blue shirt.
My mother’s grave is overgrown With swamp lilies and withered water hemlock.
Written in the autumn of 2021 Revised on October 23, 2023 Final copy on August 14, 2024
| 
|Archiver|手机版|小黑屋|中诗网
( 京ICP备：12024093号-1|
京公网安备 11010502045403号 )
发表于 2024-10-3 19:45:10
发表于 2024-10-4 14:41:25
）
）
