在煙雲過眼中
我們留白
留出一望無垠的天空
瀟灑放手
眼眸與眼眸
相對無言
你的長髮如潑墨
渲染出眼前的紅樹林
兀立於窗外的海灣
灣外的沙丘 - 樹與樹
煙雨相忘,只餘下顧影自憐,
卻根纏上了根
寥然寂靜, 煙霧迷濛,
沒有浪打浪的聲音,
我沿着門外的紅樹林
走向出岫的雲
2006/10/17 Hong Kong
(紅樹林 - 長在淺海邊)
11/03/2006
Beginning of a Camellia
(To my teacher, Mr. Ho, Jing Hin)
Camellias in the mountain wilted and blossomed,
Blossomed and wilted are the long years
Blossomed and wilted are the long years
Of quiet eyes
Looking at the horses you ride.
I wear a poncho in the downpour,
Looking for the flower
Looking at the horses you ride.
I wear a poncho in the downpour,
Looking for the flower
At the very beginning.
Announcing arrival of years, my orchid
Filled with dusts,
Loyal companion of leaves of grass,
Unable to let go
Preparation of classes in midnight,
Naps in commute due to lack of sleep.
Toasted plum flowers in the breeze
To blow open the seasons
Taveling from place to place,
Turbulent years one after another, finally passed.
Everywhere is a home of no home,
A hermit living in metropolis by a fish pond
Lingering with fragrance in the house of orchids,
Announcing arrival of years, my orchid
Filled with dusts,
Loyal companion of leaves of grass,
Unable to let go
Preparation of classes in midnight,
Naps in commute due to lack of sleep.
Toasted plum flowers in the breeze
To blow open the seasons
Taveling from place to place,
Turbulent years one after another, finally passed.
Everywhere is a home of no home,
A hermit living in metropolis by a fish pond
Lingering with fragrance in the house of orchids,
Translucent and pure, never boasts
About the bouquet handed out personally
From one hand to another,
To the sky of no return
Departed from the homeland,
Dreams in one hand, tears in two eyes,
Chasing after the waves in four continents and five oceans
Drifted away .....
Buried in emptiness of fog,
From one hand to another,
To the sky of no return
Departed from the homeland,
Dreams in one hand, tears in two eyes,
Chasing after the waves in four continents and five oceans
Drifted away .....
Buried in emptiness of fog,
Sails to the roots,
Towards the sublime in the celestial,
Revealing glimpses of the past,
Right back to the first lesson,
Nurtured by not nurturing,
Teaching by not teaching,
With a camellia in the mountain,
At the very beginning.
December 19, 2006, Hong Kong
( translated from the original Chinese poem回到當初, November 20, 2006, Hong Kong )
Towards the sublime in the celestial,
Revealing glimpses of the past,
Right back to the first lesson,
Nurtured by not nurturing,
Teaching by not teaching,
With a camellia in the mountain,
At the very beginning.
December 19, 2006, Hong Kong
( translated from the original Chinese poem回到當初, November 20, 2006, Hong Kong )
10/19/2006
Walls and No Wall
The door is closed,
My shadow casts onto
a wall while I sit
on a rock waiting.
The hands and legs of pedestrians climb
onto my darkness, then
move into daylight.
My darkness is now your darknes
which rides on a train with no destination
and the sign reads,
Where are we ?
My shadow falls onto every puddle in the rain.
I ask the reflection to read a name,
Where are you ?
You were the one who once buried
long years of sunlight and moonlight in the library in
Washinton Square and hid the fingers of a poet in
a Upper East Side kitchen,
and wrote poems with a frown,
I want to go home !
Are you now writing a new page
on the Demoncratic Wall in Beijing, while I am
waiting outside the door ?
Open, Open
The barrier of what they call,
you a son and me a guest.
How did we get catagorized ?
Capitalist, Socialist, rare species,
orphan, friend, and enemy.
By the left side and the right side of the Pacific ?
Or, demonstrations in Washington or Beijing ?
Or, we each meditate for enlightenment to a different wall ?
I walk in your name,
names, or no name:
Idealist, nihilist, anarchist,
spiritualist, stupid, or void,
on a path we have been building for ten years:
Book, and books,
Theory, and theories,
short hair, and long hair,
shaved beard, and Karl Marx's beard.
And then:
a box, and boxes of
dogmas, dreams, slogans,
united fronts, and differences.
One day you decided to quit N.Y.U.
and to use your so-called petty-bourgeois Ph.D. to serve
democracy at Beijing U.
Today,
I wait outside the door and they say I am the U.S.
studying Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams.
The truth is, each of us is a passer-by on
a path, many paths, or no path.
Like the day when we sued a landlord called The Trump at the
Small Claims Court in Queens. It all depends on
the day, the time, and the place
where we had neither heat nor electricity and a cup of milk
was heated on a candle flame
while you laid your hand on my forehead
to test a fever,
leaving, leaving.
On a train from Hong Kong to Beijing.
Or a plane from Frankfurt to New York.
Or a bus in Paris.
From Hugo to Heisenberg.
From Neurda to Rodin.
Always moving forward and
leaving behind what has already been claimed.
Like love in a small room,
it must grow, grow
to include more than two, and the love of
a nation must expand, expand
to surround the circle of a globe.
We waved good-bye at the edge
of the globe where a hand extended, extended
to the far end
until I could no longer see you, and we
submerged inside a door.
many doors, or no door.
As evening falls,
someone takes me inside the door
as a guest.
I cannot find you,
I leave a bundle of wild daisies
by a pond named No Name.
1990, New York
(To my friend, Ah Yu who passed away)
(Photo: One of the democratic walls in Beijing - for big and small posters)
My shadow casts onto
a wall while I sit
on a rock waiting.
The hands and legs of pedestrians climb
onto my darkness, then
move into daylight.
My darkness is now your darknes
which rides on a train with no destination
and the sign reads,
Where are we ?
My shadow falls onto every puddle in the rain.
I ask the reflection to read a name,
Where are you ?
You were the one who once buried
long years of sunlight and moonlight in the library in
Washinton Square and hid the fingers of a poet in
a Upper East Side kitchen,
and wrote poems with a frown,
I want to go home !
Are you now writing a new page
on the Demoncratic Wall in Beijing, while I am
waiting outside the door ?
Open, Open
The barrier of what they call,
you a son and me a guest.
How did we get catagorized ?
Capitalist, Socialist, rare species,
orphan, friend, and enemy.
By the left side and the right side of the Pacific ?
Or, demonstrations in Washington or Beijing ?
Or, we each meditate for enlightenment to a different wall ?
I walk in your name,
names, or no name:
Idealist, nihilist, anarchist,
spiritualist, stupid, or void,
on a path we have been building for ten years:
Book, and books,
Theory, and theories,
short hair, and long hair,
shaved beard, and Karl Marx's beard.
And then:
a box, and boxes of
dogmas, dreams, slogans,
united fronts, and differences.
One day you decided to quit N.Y.U.
and to use your so-called petty-bourgeois Ph.D. to serve
democracy at Beijing U.
Today,
I wait outside the door and they say I am the U.S.
studying Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams.
The truth is, each of us is a passer-by on
a path, many paths, or no path.
Like the day when we sued a landlord called The Trump at the
Small Claims Court in Queens. It all depends on
the day, the time, and the place
where we had neither heat nor electricity and a cup of milk
was heated on a candle flame
while you laid your hand on my forehead
to test a fever,
leaving, leaving.
On a train from Hong Kong to Beijing.
Or a plane from Frankfurt to New York.
Or a bus in Paris.
From Hugo to Heisenberg.
From Neurda to Rodin.
Always moving forward and
leaving behind what has already been claimed.
Like love in a small room,
it must grow, grow
to include more than two, and the love of
a nation must expand, expand
to surround the circle of a globe.
We waved good-bye at the edge
of the globe where a hand extended, extended
to the far end
until I could no longer see you, and we
submerged inside a door.
many doors, or no door.
As evening falls,
someone takes me inside the door
as a guest.
I cannot find you,
I leave a bundle of wild daisies
by a pond named No Name.
1990, New York
(To my friend, Ah Yu who passed away)
(Photo: One of the democratic walls in Beijing - for big and small posters)
10/14/2006
有形的牆, 無形的牆
(圖: 北京大學 - 未名湖)
(永恆的悼念, 悼阿余)
門早已關上,
我在門外等你
我坐在路旁的石上等你
直到身影給投射到牆頭上
路人拖着一個又一個身影
踏入我的黑影
然後一個接一個
步入陽光
此刻我的黑影正是你的黑影
它趁搭沒有終站的列車,
“我們的終站在那裡 ?”
我的身影落入每一個雨後的泥濘
我請每一倒影辦認一個名姓
“你在那裡 ?”
你把太陽和月亮埋葬在
華盛頓廣場的圖書館
把詩人的手沒入
紐約上東城餐館的
盤子裡
用深鎖的眉頭寫詩
“我要回國去。”
此時此刻, 我正在門外等你呢 !
而你, 是否正在北京的民主牆上賦詩 ?
他們說我是外賓
你才是中國的兒子
請把這堵無形的牆
拆下來吧 !
我們怎麽竟給分門別類 ?
資本家、社會主義者、稀有動物、
孤兒、朋友、還是敵人 ?
在太平洋岸靠左還是靠右?
還是在華盛頓或北京上街 ?
或者是, 各自對着不同的牆, 面壁冥想 ?
我走在你走過的道路上,
那裡有你的姓名, 不同的化名,
乃至無名:
什麼理想主義 、虛無主義、無政府主義,
修行者、愚昧、和虛妄。
啊 ! 十年磨一劍的漫漫長路,
竟築在虛無飄渺上:
書本、理論、披肩的散髮
時短時長、馬克思的鬍子
時有時無。還有無形的牆:
一箱又一箱的教條、夢幻、口號、
聯合陣綫, 與分道揚鑣 !
那一天, 你突然放棄
所謂的小資產階級博士後
回國服務
擱下紐約大學回歸北大。
今天, 我在北大門外等你呢 !
他們說我是海外華人,
因為我專攻華韋曼和
威廉卡羅斯威廉斯
其實, 我們只是生命的過客
偶然走過一段又一段的路,
或許, 根本無路可走
只不過時空交錯
就像那陣子, 我們到皇后區的小額錢債法庭
告房東Donald Trump 截斷水電
你用爉燭溫暖着一杯奶
用手背探我額上的高燒
看着它慢慢退去,
直至離開。
離開了你
更想念你,
想念, 到處想念,
在香港到北京的列車上
在法蘭克福到紐約的班機上
在巴黎的公車上
從雨果到凱森堡
從聶魯達到羅丹。
我們把凡已到手的都放棄
以為明天會更好。
甩掉了小房間裡
狹隘的愛情
以為愛會長大
以為可以擁抱
更遼闊的天空
我們站在天邊說再見,
目送着距離愈來愈遠,
遠得徹頭徹尾看不見,
我們各自進入自己的
門, 許多的門,
無門之門。
我在等你,
依然等你，一直等你,
等到夜幕低垂,
直至有人把我領入門內
找你,
到處找你,
卻找不着你
我把一朿野菊
放在未名湖畔。
2006/10/14 香港, 譯自英文原詩
Walls and No Wall, 1990 紐約
10/10/2006
Congratulations
Who’s winning
by breaking up this finger viciously
that I cup dearly in my palms
like hugging a leaf of Begonia
which is my heart
that caresses the finger
into starlight.
I walk moonlight into daylight
In loneliness, I walk
across the oceans
that separate the hearts.
We survived
harassments and wings of winter,
rallies and solitude,
separation and embrace.
We got out
from graves, we got out with bandages
on the fingers of a loving hand
which have matured
no longer cry and panic.
I come,
I come back to you,
I bury my flesh deeply inside
your wounds.
Of each finger broken
There is always a declaration
with a million tender flowers blossom.
For every bloodshed
There is always a blood stroke painting
hung up in the sky
to defy peppers
from pepper cannon spray
which can neither be wiped nor rubbed
off the skin
has now turned into a ball of fire
needing water:
Cold water, ice water, distilled water, rain, and tears…..
lots of water that flow gently and low.
I lower myself
Like water, and bath
the wounds gently
in silence.
I grow my garden
on the head smashed mercilessly.
In bloodshed and in coma,
I grow:
Night blooming cereus, plum flowers,
Chrysanthemums, orchids,
flowers of insomnia,
flowers that cares,
flowers that turned into dirt while no one cares.
These are the gift of flowers to
You,
the broken finger which has neither sensation nor ability
to bend.
Congratulations to
You,
the finger which is now forever
straight
and does not
bend.
(translated from Chinese version 祝賀 2006/7/21 into English 2006/7/24, Hong Kong)
by breaking up this finger viciously
that I cup dearly in my palms
like hugging a leaf of Begonia
which is my heart
that caresses the finger
into starlight.
I walk moonlight into daylight
In loneliness, I walk
across the oceans
that separate the hearts.
We survived
harassments and wings of winter,
rallies and solitude,
separation and embrace.
We got out
from graves, we got out with bandages
on the fingers of a loving hand
which have matured
no longer cry and panic.
I come,
I come back to you,
I bury my flesh deeply inside
your wounds.
Of each finger broken
There is always a declaration
with a million tender flowers blossom.
For every bloodshed
There is always a blood stroke painting
hung up in the sky
to defy peppers
from pepper cannon spray
which can neither be wiped nor rubbed
off the skin
has now turned into a ball of fire
needing water:
Cold water, ice water, distilled water, rain, and tears…..
lots of water that flow gently and low.
I lower myself
Like water, and bath
the wounds gently
in silence.
I grow my garden
on the head smashed mercilessly.
In bloodshed and in coma,
I grow:
Night blooming cereus, plum flowers,
Chrysanthemums, orchids,
flowers of insomnia,
flowers that cares,
flowers that turned into dirt while no one cares.
These are the gift of flowers to
You,
the broken finger which has neither sensation nor ability
to bend.
Congratulations to
You,
the finger which is now forever
straight
and does not
bend.
(translated from Chinese version 祝賀 2006/7/21 into English 2006/7/24, Hong Kong)
祝賀
這一隻被敲斷筋骨的手指
是誰的勝利 ?
我把它棒在掌心棒着棒着
棒着整個面向海棠葉的心
我揉着它揉着它深情地揉着它把它揉進星光
頂着黑夜頂着晨曦頂着寂寥頂着心與心之間的海洋
在毒打與翅膀之間、在吶喊與閉關之間、在離別與擁抱之間我們
找到窄縫
走出去, 走出去走出去我們
背着救傷包走出去
包裡是我巳經長大不再哭泣不再顫抖的
温柔的指掌
我走進來走進來，走進你的傷痕
每一根被打斷的指頭都要綻放
十萬朶温柔的花
每一滴血都會揮就掛在天空的潑血畫
灑上胡椒噴霧
抹不掉擦不走把肌膚黏得愈來愈緊的胡椒噴霧
是愈來愈燙的火
它需要水
冷水冰水蒸餾水雨水淚水任何柔情向下的大量的水
我用似水的溫柔說不出的話
洗擦炙燙的傷疤
我在被打得鮮血淋漓昏厥過去的頭上種花
曇花梅花菊花蘭花失眠的花牽念的花萎地無人的花
送給從此再沒有感覺再也不能屈伸的被打斷筋骨的手指
祝賀它永遠正直
不會歪曲
2006/07/21 香港
是誰的勝利 ?
我把它棒在掌心棒着棒着
棒着整個面向海棠葉的心
我揉着它揉着它深情地揉着它把它揉進星光
頂着黑夜頂着晨曦頂着寂寥頂着心與心之間的海洋
在毒打與翅膀之間、在吶喊與閉關之間、在離別與擁抱之間我們
找到窄縫
走出去, 走出去走出去我們
背着救傷包走出去
包裡是我巳經長大不再哭泣不再顫抖的
温柔的指掌
我走進來走進來，走進你的傷痕
每一根被打斷的指頭都要綻放
十萬朶温柔的花
每一滴血都會揮就掛在天空的潑血畫
灑上胡椒噴霧
抹不掉擦不走把肌膚黏得愈來愈緊的胡椒噴霧
是愈來愈燙的火
它需要水
冷水冰水蒸餾水雨水淚水任何柔情向下的大量的水
我用似水的溫柔說不出的話
洗擦炙燙的傷疤
我在被打得鮮血淋漓昏厥過去的頭上種花
曇花梅花菊花蘭花失眠的花牽念的花萎地無人的花
送給從此再沒有感覺再也不能屈伸的被打斷筋骨的手指
祝賀它永遠正直
不會歪曲
2006/07/21 香港
Colors of The Azaleas
When I bring in the azaleas
what's behind me begins to fade.
The supple purple of a petal
is now my color.
I could, of course, look past
the azaleas and watch
the dust in the sun ray;
Or write a memoir for the flower
once dropped next to my feet
on a long journey when I had
neither a home nor a vase.
I folded it between the pages of uncertainty
and roads that led to nowhere,
but I ended up everywhere
in unpredictatble colors.
I picked no color, indeed
was picked by the colors
of forever-changing seasons.
I waited one season
in one country,
and another season
in another harbor.
No harbor is a harbor,
No home is a home
permanent, except our eyes
forever searching for a color
until the rain erases one color
and begins another.
My hands are full of colors
mingled with lips and hair
that I grip and then splatter
on a scroll of rice paper
brought from a remote island
now discolored in the mist
of unbridgeable oceans.
I tried to cross the oceans
on a plane,
or on the blueness of an aerogram,
more often, on a dry leaf or a petal
in a book of poems lingering
with rootless colors.
My heart has been everywhere
like the azaleas
with no identify, no nationality,
living one color in a moment
in the hands of admiration
and another moment under the feet.
Hold me,
Hold me for a moment
for holding the color
of azaleas.
posted by Stephanie Chin at 6:37 AM 1 comments
what's behind me begins to fade.
The supple purple of a petal
is now my color.
I could, of course, look past
the azaleas and watch
the dust in the sun ray;
Or write a memoir for the flower
once dropped next to my feet
on a long journey when I had
neither a home nor a vase.
I folded it between the pages of uncertainty
and roads that led to nowhere,
but I ended up everywhere
in unpredictatble colors.
I picked no color, indeed
was picked by the colors
of forever-changing seasons.
I waited one season
in one country,
and another season
in another harbor.
No harbor is a harbor,
No home is a home
permanent, except our eyes
forever searching for a color
until the rain erases one color
and begins another.
My hands are full of colors
mingled with lips and hair
that I grip and then splatter
on a scroll of rice paper
brought from a remote island
now discolored in the mist
of unbridgeable oceans.
I tried to cross the oceans
on a plane,
or on the blueness of an aerogram,
more often, on a dry leaf or a petal
in a book of poems lingering
with rootless colors.
My heart has been everywhere
like the azaleas
with no identify, no nationality,
living one color in a moment
in the hands of admiration
and another moment under the feet.
Hold me,
Hold me for a moment
for holding the color
of azaleas.
posted by Stephanie Chin at 6:37 AM 1 comments
10/05/2006
一邊走路一邊跳舞
(給邢令儀)
我們試圖找尋話語
細說當年,
卻找到了
顫抖的身軀
在九月Ronkokoma 站的寒風裡
火車已經開走,
我們衣袂飄飄,
一無所有, 只有
擁抱在深秋
擁抱着你
擁抱着你一生的旅途
一站接一站
那兒也抵達不了
除了又要駛進另一站
的恐懼
裝入十年闖蕩的草籃
提在手裡,
為了要走更遙遠的道路,
我們的雙腿
一邊走路一邊跳舞
本想說,
“我知道。”
卻手忙腳亂地打開了
過去的包袱
早已沉重得背也背不動
然後又以為沒有什麼不可或缺
習慣了拋棄, 放下
以為通通都可以不要,
直至一無所有,
生命裡的輕
反變得重
我們又胡亂的把一些東西塞回去
像一些無根的芳草:
迷迭香、薰衣草、薄荷葉
剛剛從你昨天的家採頡下來
今天已經在火車上凋零
此刻在我家裡
暗發幽香
還有伴我們走過艱辛道路的祝福:
從祖母、母親、和親人手中接過的
傳家之寶
作為我們的守護神。
我們分掉:
讓我們獲得平安的
翠玉觀音,
讓我們獲得救贖的
鑄金基督,
讓我們獲得安寧的
紫晶項鍊,
讓我們自愛自重的
珊瑚手鈪
從友人身上解下來的
大衛星………
我們把它們一一拆開
又重新串起
交換着祝福, 然后
再送出去
從英文原詩 Walk of A Dancer, 1992 紐約
翻譯成中文 Oct. 5, 2006 香港
(Walk of a Dancer, 1992 New York, translated into Chinese Oct. 5, 2006)
我們試圖找尋話語
細說當年,
卻找到了
顫抖的身軀
在九月Ronkokoma 站的寒風裡
火車已經開走,
我們衣袂飄飄,
一無所有, 只有
擁抱在深秋
擁抱着你
擁抱着你一生的旅途
一站接一站
那兒也抵達不了
除了又要駛進另一站
的恐懼
裝入十年闖蕩的草籃
提在手裡,
為了要走更遙遠的道路,
我們的雙腿
一邊走路一邊跳舞
本想說,
“我知道。”
卻手忙腳亂地打開了
過去的包袱
早已沉重得背也背不動
然後又以為沒有什麼不可或缺
習慣了拋棄, 放下
以為通通都可以不要,
直至一無所有,
生命裡的輕
反變得重
我們又胡亂的把一些東西塞回去
像一些無根的芳草:
迷迭香、薰衣草、薄荷葉
剛剛從你昨天的家採頡下來
今天已經在火車上凋零
此刻在我家裡
暗發幽香
還有伴我們走過艱辛道路的祝福:
從祖母、母親、和親人手中接過的
傳家之寶
作為我們的守護神。
我們分掉:
讓我們獲得平安的
翠玉觀音,
讓我們獲得救贖的
鑄金基督,
讓我們獲得安寧的
紫晶項鍊,
讓我們自愛自重的
珊瑚手鈪
從友人身上解下來的
大衛星………
我們把它們一一拆開
又重新串起
交換着祝福, 然后
再送出去
從英文原詩 Walk of A Dancer, 1992 紐約
翻譯成中文 Oct. 5, 2006 香港
(Walk of a Dancer, 1992 New York, translated into Chinese Oct. 5, 2006)
10/01/2006
Wind in December
(For farmers in the December wind)
Wearing this December wind without enough cloth
Frozen behind barricades of police lines
Twisted and turned.
Hungry in the middle of nights
To wipe off blood by the curbs
From heads smashed.
I wrapped you up with bandages in the miles to go
Before I sleep and the promise
to keep as your wounds and bruises
Spread out all over the bodies
I tended you with medicine, pain killer,
And a heart shattered.
I walked you three days and three nights
From main street to the dead end.
My heart grew heavy
while the first aid kit turned light
I left my fear behind
And carried on my shoulder bandages and medicine
Which has neither slogan, political agenda, nor anger.
I walked silently into the evening breeze
Surrounded by riot police.
If I am the one who has been hurt,
Don’t let my hurt be wasted,
Let it find meaning in you tonight.
If I am the one who has been harmed,
Don’t let my heart be handicapped,
Let the blood and tears to dry on it’s own
Without fear, as I closed my door on fear
The ones who harmed me
Become helpless.
Tonight, I walk you on my own suffering
My own pain and my own wound.
Tonight, I carry the first aid kit that rescued me
To sooth your pain.
Don’t ask me why.
I have no reason, I want nothing, I have nothing
No tear, no fear, no turn back, and no food
To walk you into sunrise from moonset, until
My first aid kit is empty.
In emptiness
There is something
Out of nothing
A heart simple
Genuinely has nothing
Except being
Genuine.
October 2, 2006 Hong Kong
(translated from orignal Chinese poem written on the same day)
Wearing this December wind without enough cloth
Frozen behind barricades of police lines
Twisted and turned.
Hungry in the middle of nights
To wipe off blood by the curbs
From heads smashed.
I wrapped you up with bandages in the miles to go
Before I sleep and the promise
to keep as your wounds and bruises
Spread out all over the bodies
I tended you with medicine, pain killer,
And a heart shattered.
I walked you three days and three nights
From main street to the dead end.
My heart grew heavy
while the first aid kit turned light
I left my fear behind
And carried on my shoulder bandages and medicine
Which has neither slogan, political agenda, nor anger.
I walked silently into the evening breeze
Surrounded by riot police.
If I am the one who has been hurt,
Don’t let my hurt be wasted,
Let it find meaning in you tonight.
If I am the one who has been harmed,
Don’t let my heart be handicapped,
Let the blood and tears to dry on it’s own
Without fear, as I closed my door on fear
The ones who harmed me
Become helpless.
Tonight, I walk you on my own suffering
My own pain and my own wound.
Tonight, I carry the first aid kit that rescued me
To sooth your pain.
Don’t ask me why.
I have no reason, I want nothing, I have nothing
No tear, no fear, no turn back, and no food
To walk you into sunrise from moonset, until
My first aid kit is empty.
In emptiness
There is something
Out of nothing
A heart simple
Genuinely has nothing
Except being
Genuine.
October 2, 2006 Hong Kong
(translated from orignal Chinese poem written on the same day)
十二月的寒風
(給寒風中的農民)
披上這一身十二月的寒風
警戒線裡兜兜轉轉的凍
凌辰十分的餓
馬路邊的血
一綑又一綑的繃帶
包札着淌血的頭
遍體鱗傷
雲南白药, 強力镇痛劑
都給你敷上
還有我粉碎的心
陪你走三天三夜
從大馬路走到死角
心愈來愈重
救傷包愈來愈輕
我放下恐懼
背上沒有口號沒有吶喊沒有憤怒
的繃帶和藥物
走入被防暴隊包圍
向晚的風
如果我曾經傷痛
不要讓我白白傷痛
讓傷痛都變成今夜撫慰你
溫柔的風,
如果我曾經被傷害
讓傷疤和血淚自己淌乾
不要讓我的心變成廢墟
我把恐懼推出門外,傷害
傷害它竟變得
懦弱無能
今夜, 我站在自己的傷痛傷害與傷疤上
伴你同行,
今夜, 我挽着曾經挽救我自己的救傷包
包裹你的傷痛,
不要問為什麼 ?
我什麽都不為, 我不需要理由, 我一無所有:
沒有眼淚, 沒有恐懼, 沒有退縮，沒有吃飯
伴你從長夜傷痛走入溫柔的風
一直走到救傷包空無所有
在空無所有中
無中生有
是一顆
樸素的心
樸盡歸真
October 2, 2006 Hong Kong
披上這一身十二月的寒風
警戒線裡兜兜轉轉的凍
凌辰十分的餓
馬路邊的血
一綑又一綑的繃帶
包札着淌血的頭
遍體鱗傷
雲南白药, 強力镇痛劑
都給你敷上
還有我粉碎的心
陪你走三天三夜
從大馬路走到死角
心愈來愈重
救傷包愈來愈輕
我放下恐懼
背上沒有口號沒有吶喊沒有憤怒
的繃帶和藥物
走入被防暴隊包圍
向晚的風
如果我曾經傷痛
不要讓我白白傷痛
讓傷痛都變成今夜撫慰你
溫柔的風,
如果我曾經被傷害
讓傷疤和血淚自己淌乾
不要讓我的心變成廢墟
我把恐懼推出門外,傷害
傷害它竟變得
懦弱無能
今夜, 我站在自己的傷痛傷害與傷疤上
伴你同行,
今夜, 我挽着曾經挽救我自己的救傷包
包裹你的傷痛,
不要問為什麼 ?
我什麽都不為, 我不需要理由, 我一無所有:
沒有眼淚, 沒有恐懼, 沒有退縮，沒有吃飯
伴你從長夜傷痛走入溫柔的風
一直走到救傷包空無所有
在空無所有中
無中生有
是一顆
樸素的心
樸盡歸真
October 2, 2006 Hong Kong
9/26/2006
温柔的指掌
滂沱大雨
你恬不知恥地張着唇
等待着
唇
我來了
打着傘
不, 是臉貼着
一任風吹雨打的
葉
不為誰開的花
壓在扭曲的枝幹下
沒入泥濘
張着唇
承接着不解温柔的
雨
粉紅色的拖鞋蘭
被遺忘的花
我的唇
印上你的
唇
用一根不等待誰
躺在泥濘中
折斷的枝枒
支撑着
你
我
是你温柔的指掌。
September 26, 2006 翻譯成中文/translated from English into Chinese
(譯自英文原詩/translated from original English poem: Fingers of a Loving Hand, 1992 紐約)
你恬不知恥地張着唇
等待着
唇
我來了
打着傘
不, 是臉貼着
一任風吹雨打的
葉
不為誰開的花
壓在扭曲的枝幹下
沒入泥濘
張着唇
承接着不解温柔的
雨
粉紅色的拖鞋蘭
被遺忘的花
我的唇
印上你的
唇
用一根不等待誰
躺在泥濘中
折斷的枝枒
支撑着
你
我
是你温柔的指掌。
September 26, 2006 翻譯成中文/translated from English into Chinese
(譯自英文原詩/translated from original English poem: Fingers of a Loving Hand, 1992 紐約)
8/28/2006
Hands and Feet
(Dedicated to the Chinese artist, Shanqing Zeng, who was banished by his government and now resides in the U.S.)
These Tibetan hands and feet
walk into the canvas
of a New York gallery
in silence
like pilgrims
in search of
a bowl of freedom
after a long exile
to unknown directions.
We never know
how they captured the eyes
of the artist,
or the soul of the audience.
They talk with
swollen knuckles,
wounded joints,
fists of skins
that hold a bowl of water
like tender lovers
reunited after turmoil
of burnt temples,
charred limbs,
and severe weather,
that tempered another
purpose -
to walk on the roads
for a bowl of water
seated on a half lotus
made of exhausted toes
painted by the tired fingers
of an artist
from the land of the oppressor
and the oppressed
where artists
must follow
other hands and feet
to enjoy the freedom of exile:
on a canvas
in the West
lingering in our mind,
or to drink
time in history.
1990 New York
| Artist | Zeng Shanqing | |
| Title | EATING | |
| Medium | Ink on Paper | |
| Size | 35 x 38.4 in. / 89 x 97.6 cm. |
These Tibetan hands and feet
walk into the canvas
of a New York gallery
in silence
like pilgrims
in search of
a bowl of freedom
after a long exile
to unknown directions.
We never know
how they captured the eyes
of the artist,
or the soul of the audience.
They talk with
swollen knuckles,
wounded joints,
fists of skins
that hold a bowl of water
like tender lovers
reunited after turmoil
of burnt temples,
charred limbs,
and severe weather,
that tempered another
purpose -
to walk on the roads
for a bowl of water
seated on a half lotus
made of exhausted toes
painted by the tired fingers
of an artist
from the land of the oppressor
and the oppressed
where artists
must follow
other hands and feet
to enjoy the freedom of exile:
on a canvas
in the West
lingering in our mind,
or to drink
time in history.
1990 New York
Lotus Pond
(For the Chinese artist, Yan-Ping Yang, who loves to paint lotus ponds, but never painted a summer pond since the Tiananmen Square incident in the summer of 89)
She carried nothing
from her China
except rice papers
painted with leaves of lotus
overlooking a pond.
The weight
of memory
stands on the tips
of stems bent
in the wind.
She wakes one morning
to look at the withering
colors in her paintings
gray, brown and bleak:
"where are the colors of my flowers?"
She remembers the lotus pond
in autumn,
the freeze in winter.
Even flowers in summer were battered
by storms or guns.
Not a single bud had the freedom
to blossom...
Not until the roots
were transplanted
to a pond outside a foreign window
which framed the lotus with blood
that flooded
Tiananmen Square
and now the wandering heart
of the one who could only call herself
an internationalist.
1990 New York
She carried nothing
from her China
except rice papers
painted with leaves of lotus
overlooking a pond.
The weight
of memory
stands on the tips
of stems bent
in the wind.
She wakes one morning
to look at the withering
colors in her paintings
gray, brown and bleak:
"where are the colors of my flowers?"
She remembers the lotus pond
in autumn,
the freeze in winter.
Even flowers in summer were battered
by storms or guns.
Not a single bud had the freedom
to blossom...
Not until the roots
were transplanted
to a pond outside a foreign window
which framed the lotus with blood
that flooded
Tiananmen Square
and now the wandering heart
of the one who could only call herself
an internationalist.
1990 New York
8/21/2006
Fingers of A Loving Hand
In the downpour,
you shamelessly open
Lips to wait
for lips
I come,
with an umbrella, open
No, with a face, close
to your leaves, battered
in the storm.
Stem bent,
face buried in the mud,
lips open
continuously filled with rain
of no concept
Of gentleness,
my lips touch your lips
My pink lady's slipper,
Solitary for no one.
I am yours,
fingers of a loving hand,
hold your with a twig
waiting for no one.
1990, New York
you shamelessly open
Lips to wait
for lips
I come,
with an umbrella, open
No, with a face, close
to your leaves, battered
in the storm.
Stem bent,
face buried in the mud,
lips open
continuously filled with rain
of no concept
Of gentleness,
my lips touch your lips
My pink lady's slipper,
Solitary for no one.
I am yours,
fingers of a loving hand,
hold your with a twig
waiting for no one.
1990, New York
Farewell to weeping
It might just be for one night
A split second
That’s alright
The closed door is blown
opened by the wind
sneaked inside the room
crystal clear and clean
is the smell in the dream
of the ran away flower
just returned home
now drunk
With drunken eyes, look at
the Night Blooming Cereus blossoms
from mid night to dawn.
We escaped death by crossing over
corpses of flowers that died
in peace and in melancholy.
We walked on the corpses of flowers and leaves
dropped onto every poem
forsaken
with nothing
except hearts naked
entangled with bodies and
poems swallowed by
Silence.
The ankles and toes
are searching for wounds
in deep dark corners
again and again
we caress each other.
At the funeral of flowers coming and going
We embrace
And say farewell
To the flower withered
And now picked up by me.
Please pick me up if I wither one day
like this flower
which could have been you
one day when you return home to your roots
like this flower returning to it's roots
I will buried you
deep inside
in sunrise and in moonset.
Tonight, this flower blossoms
and it is not quite the morning yet
We walk hand in hand
To send you off,
To send you off on a ferry
and wait
by walking more
to wait for another ferry,
and another ferry
We wait
from the last ferry
to the first ferry
we wait
from darkness to dawn.
Farewell, farewell
Farewell to weeping
As the wind blows
with fingers of a loving hand.
2006/8/19 Hong Kong
(translated from original Chinese version into English 2006/8/21)
Photo: Night Blooming Cereus on Stephanie's garden
8/19/2006
送別哭泣
那怕只有一夜
只有一剎那
溫柔的風也會把
深鎖的重門叩開
在清涼無汗的門扉內透入
如夢相似的氣味
是遺世獨立的花
還魂買醉 !
醉眼看花 !
守候一現的曇花
從今夜綻放至黎明
我們跨過一朶又一朶
安息或不冥目的花魂
死裡逃生
踏着殘花斷葉的詩篇
孓然一身
一無所有
只有赤裸的心
捲入
風眼的旋渦
無言的詩篇吞噬有言的話語
暮生朝死,
送別不朽的英魂 。
在花開花落的葬禮中
我們相擁
又彼此相送
如果有一天我凋謝
就像黎明前凋謝的這朶花
請你檢拾我
猶如我檢拾這朶花;
如果有一天你歸根
就像歸根的這朶花
我會把你埋在深心
從暮暮到朝朝。
在天尚未明花尚未落的今夜
我們結伴同行
送你, 送你
送你遠一點趁渡輪
等船，等船,
從末班等到首班
從黑暗等到光明
送別, 送別,
送別哭泣
全為了温柔的風!
2006/8/19 Hong Kong
圖片: Stephanie 手種的曇花
8/18/2006
Waiting For No One
She blossoms madly
head to toes
shaken me with shivers of a heart
open in a flower cupped
in the fingers of a loving hand.
Snow white petals entangled with
Leaves and stems
Pierce the deep dark hole
in the sky with nothing
to hold back.
I must have forgotten, forgotten totally
This flower waiting for no one
Must have been waiting for ten years, and
another ten years
As I wasted my life, she waited
ten years, and
another ten years
without a word.
I thought I loved her
and passed her down from one hand
To another hand, in departure
I called this love.
I must have forgotten, forgotten totally
She has no mouth and can't utter a word
Except to accept
fate like an abandoned child
left by the corner of a window
Waited ten years, and
Another ten years
I thought she could have blossomed
for my father
on my behalf
Yet, she never did.
I was wrong, totally wrong
My father said,
“This is a Night Blooming Cereus without flower.”
She dropped her leaves, half wilted.
Waited ten years, and
Another ten years
Shivered
and waited for my mother
to proclaim,
"We need to cut the flower before dawn whenever she blossoms
and keep it in the refrigerator as remedy for asthma.”
Who could she blossom for
Except shivers.
I tried to plant my flower under the bamboos
Waiting for the birds,
Or grow my flower by the curb
Looking forward to the glance of every passerby,
Or, give her the ultimatum:
“You will be crushed and turned into manure if there is no more flower.”
She remains unmoved
by seduction, harassment, and loneliness
needing no reason
she blossoms for no one
always stands alone
wordless.
Abandoning the past
of glamour under spot lights, interviews
awards, fame, and extravagance
these were things unworthy
to look back. Departure
is not just departure
Passing down from one hand to another hand
love in transfer
Waited ten years, and
Another ten years
We missed each other in a transferred account
Melancholy turned
into dirt.
If love is tainted
with fear there are reasons.
Tonight, we find each other
And let me apologize with body and soul.
Tonight, let’s turn every night into
ten years with
ten times more tenderness.
Every time when she blossoms
Let her blossom madly to the one
She waited.
Don’t let fear
Occupies our life.
In paleness and helpless
we wait.
How many more ten years
Can we afford ?
2006/8/10, Hong Kong
(translated from original Chinese version into English 2006-08-22)
Photo: Night Blooming Cereus blossoms at Stephanie's garden)
8/09/2006
不為誰開
這一夜徹底的綻放
我確然悸動
雪白的花瓣交錯着枝葉
毫無保留
伸向漆黑的夜空
花蕊在温柔的指掌中
顫抖。
我忘記了, 我確然忘記了
這不為誰開的花
默默地等待了一個十年又另一個
十年, 每當我虛度年華
她只能默默地等待
一個十年又另一個
十年, 我以為我情深款款
每次遠行, 總是不捨地把她
從一雙手托付給另一雙手。
我忘記了, 我確然忘記了
她沒有嘴吧, 不會說話,
只能接受擺弄
猶如一個棄兒綣縮在窗邊
等待着一個十年又另一個
十年, 以為她可以化身為我
為父親開花
畢竟她不為誰開!
我錯了, 我確然錯了
父親說這是一顆不會開的曇花,
垂着半枯的葉
獃了一個十年又另一個
十年, 不停顫抖
聆聽母親的宣判
“如果開花就要在天亮前摘下
存入冰箱用作治哮喘病的良方。”除了顫抖
她可以為誰而開 ?
我也曾經把她栽在竹林之下
盼望惜花的鳥;
又或者種在路邊
企圖牽引每一顆路過的心;
或者乾脆老實地向她宣佈不開花的命運
“給剪草機絞碎後堆肥。”
畢竟她不為所動
不為誘惑、恐嚇、寂寞而開
全然不為什麼
不為誰開
無言兀立
捨棄前生
一連串鎂光燈與訪問
獎項、名聲、與浮華
都變得不堪回首。
離開畢竟不只是離開
從一雙手托付給另一雙手
轉讓的愛
盼望了一個十年又另一個
十年, 過户的相思
憔悴損
化作泥塵。
如果愛有恐懼
皆由此起
重逢的今夜, 讓我由衷謝罪。
今夜, 讓每一個今夜
都化作十年的漫漫長夜
十倍珍重。
今夜, 讓每一朶重逢的花
當為誰開都由她痛快地開
十倍相惜。
我們, 我們
不要被恐懼佔領一生
我們, 我們
相濡以沫
我們, 我們
能有幾個十年 ?
2006/8/10, Hong Kong
圖片: Stephanie 家裡的曇花
8/02/2006
Downpour
As the downpour washes the mountains
into a painting
We follow the rhythm of rain
into millennia of paths
that bring us together.
Tonight, Maria sits by the window
to rub her eyes and make sure
it is just the rain
that blurs her vision.
Back at home, she never cries,
We are just carried away by the rain:
Different time or colors
now look similar.
The mountains, the rivers, the memories,
and many interpretations
of a painting, are rising
from far to near.
We listen to different versions of rain:
It looks like the vineyard in Sicily
where hundreds of folks came to a reading
by an American author. They may not understand
English, but the rain......
He sinks behind the screen of rain, and she rises:
It's like the rain of bullets on the walls
in North East China during the Japanese war
which filled pages of...........
The rain beats the windows harder:
Like the tears of the Russian Jew,
after hundreds of years, still
exile with rain..................
What seems strange in other countries
now becomes familiar.
The rain has no brain to discriminate
the boundaries of nationalities
but fall into everyone's eyes
without announcing
the arrival or departure
of feelings.
From the roots transplanted
it may or may not grow:
in different climate
being neglected,
over or under fertilized,
drought or flood.
All because of the lack of planning
of rain.
We don't plan to read tonight.
Just our hearts are pouring out
with the float of
neither tears nor rain.
It must be something more
than the beginning of
downpour.
1992 New York
into a painting
We follow the rhythm of rain
into millennia of paths
that bring us together.
Tonight, Maria sits by the window
to rub her eyes and make sure
it is just the rain
that blurs her vision.
Back at home, she never cries,
We are just carried away by the rain:
Different time or colors
now look similar.
The mountains, the rivers, the memories,
and many interpretations
of a painting, are rising
from far to near.
We listen to different versions of rain:
It looks like the vineyard in Sicily
where hundreds of folks came to a reading
by an American author. They may not understand
English, but the rain......
He sinks behind the screen of rain, and she rises:
It's like the rain of bullets on the walls
in North East China during the Japanese war
which filled pages of...........
The rain beats the windows harder:
Like the tears of the Russian Jew,
after hundreds of years, still
exile with rain..................
What seems strange in other countries
now becomes familiar.
The rain has no brain to discriminate
the boundaries of nationalities
but fall into everyone's eyes
without announcing
the arrival or departure
of feelings.
From the roots transplanted
it may or may not grow:
in different climate
being neglected,
over or under fertilized,
drought or flood.
All because of the lack of planning
of rain.
We don't plan to read tonight.
Just our hearts are pouring out
with the float of
neither tears nor rain.
It must be something more
than the beginning of
downpour.
1992 New York
Pick ups
This is just a desk we found
on the curb, abandoned
for one reason or another:
We scrape the paint - finish,
re-finish with pine oil
and touch of hands.
That is a rug left by the last tenant
because he wanted a new one:
We wash it, smooth it, and turn it
into a companion of the desk
next to the lamp from the garbage.
Those stiff joints and muscles from
forgotten season are picked up by
a glance:
We rub them with eucalyptus
and menthol at night,
bath them with lavender
in warm water in the morning.
These are pick ups
of things nobody wants,
now become our pleasures:
a poem written on the desk,
a massage of withering bodies on the rug,
a transfiguration of abandonment into
the love of hands.
1992 New York
on the curb, abandoned
for one reason or another:
We scrape the paint - finish,
re-finish with pine oil
and touch of hands.
That is a rug left by the last tenant
because he wanted a new one:
We wash it, smooth it, and turn it
into a companion of the desk
next to the lamp from the garbage.
Those stiff joints and muscles from
forgotten season are picked up by
a glance:
We rub them with eucalyptus
and menthol at night,
bath them with lavender
in warm water in the morning.
These are pick ups
of things nobody wants,
now become our pleasures:
a poem written on the desk,
a massage of withering bodies on the rug,
a transfiguration of abandonment into
the love of hands.
1992 New York
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