translation

 

Eulogy for Professor Leung Ping Kwan

 

Christopher (Kit) Kelen (客遠文)

 

On behalf of ASM (the Association of Stories in Macao), I would like to express deep sadness at the passing of our friend and mentor, Professor Leung Ping Kwan. Leung Ping Kwan was not merely Hong Kong’s leading light in poetry, he was a great fiction writer, essayist and a scholar of broad scope and interest. I think he made a great contribution to Hong Kong letters, to Chinese literature at home and abroad and to the spirit and ethos of Lingnan University. But my emphasis in writing this piece will be on Ping Kwan as a poet and a friend and on his mentoring role with Macao poets.

Leung Ping Kwan’s poetry was well known for its detailed and shrewd observation of everyday life. He wrote about quotidian objects imbued with life through use. Flirting with Chinese traditions and the re-discovery and renewal of traditional aesthetics, Leung’s ‘landscape poetry’ calls the environment and ethno-scape (and its poetry, among other things) into question. A poetry of wide reading but close focus, in the work of Leung Ping Kwan we witness the adaptation of classical themes and traditional aesthetics, and there is also a renewal of the naughty playfulness characteristic of so many great names in the Chinese poetry tradition. A poet engaged to an unusual degree with other than literary artforms, Leung drew attention in his poems to various affinities and to reciprocities among the arts. Poetically expressed, these attentions are not in the form of criticism, but suggest rather a sympathetic presence to the imagination of others. The result is to take Chinese language poetics where it has not been before and to seek influence and subjects for observation away from poetry’s usual domain. Leung Ping Kwan constantly reminded his readers of the poetic qualities of art, of cinema and on the live stage; and he reminded us that what makes poetry live is its connection and engagement with creativity in every form.

I worked with Prof Leung on two collaborative translation projects – with Chris Song Zijiang, with Debby Sou Vai Keng, with Iris Fan Xing. In 2009 we published Shifting Borders, a collection of Prof Leung’s Macao poems. And we extended that project with amblingsselected poems of Leung Ping Kwan in Chinese/English parallel text, published in 2010. We had hoped Prof Leung would accompany us to Australia in 2011 to work with us on translating Australian poets into Chinese, but his health situation prevented this. Last year ASM also published Mapa Refeito – a collection of Leung Ping-kwan poems in Portuguese on which the author collaborated with translator Beatriz Brasil.

So we have had a long and fruitful association and it is very sad for us to mark the passing of a great mentor, a great friend, a great supporter of Macao poetry and of ASM.

On a more personal/collegial note, I remember in workshops (in person and on-line) Ping Kwan was always the picture of patience. So many times I would want to have him solve the problem we faced because I knew he could, because very often he did have the best answer in English to the problem the poem at hand posed. But he wanted us to work it out for ourselves if we could. That was because the workshop was a learning process for us all; it wasn’t merely a means of producing a best translation. The books on which Professor Leung worked with us were evidence of something far more important – a genuine dialogue across cultures, in about poetry. Leung Ping Kwan was a Renaissance man, a true man of letters, and he was an exemplary poet scholar. How rare a phenomenon today! How vital it is that we keep his memory alive!

Ping Kwan liked to involve people in his poetry, liked to make it a conversation, have people engage with the work and the words and tell what the poem meant for them. He never stopped teaching and he never stopped being a poet – these were his ways in the world. So I think the best way we can honour Prof Leung’s memory is to respond to his work – and to respond in kind. I would like to offer the new multilingual on-line journal the wonderbook as a forum for that kind of response, in the hope that we can collect enough poems responding to Ping Kwan’s so that we might publish a bilingual (English-Chinese) volume of poems to honour a light which still shines in our hearts. Having said all this I know that at this point in the proceedings Ping Kwan would be (a little embarrassedly) hoping the speeches would stop so that we could all hear a poem. Let me leave you with some words from his 1981 poem ‘cloud journey’, as translated in amblings (2010):

I’m looking and waiting

the light in the cloud says a clear day’s just ahead

why do I still see street snow as if unmelting?

snow melts with spring’s arrival

but I travel in a space out of seasons

only cloudy emptiness ahead

the held-out hand touches the cold glass

people stir down in muddy sleep

from day to night

from spring to winter

all are lost

outside of clouds

at midnight

motors make deep

sounds alone

why are fallen petals blown here?

can I bring spring to the snow?

will I turn to ice?

before spring

willows hang stroking wine cups

no, someone has taken them away

silent

you see things still, forlorn

shadows of clouds in constant change

colours disappear in a blink

even though white clouds are beautiful

you can’t live in them

 

Below we reproduce a selection of poems of Leung Ping Kwan, in the original Chinese and in English and Portuguese translations, as published in ASM’s three volumes of Leung’s poetry. We hope that these works will inspire members of the wonderbook community to respond to Professor Leung’s poems. And we hope to be able to collect these responses in a multilingual hardcopy tribute volume.

 

以下詩作和譯作選自梁秉鈞在澳門故事協會出版的三本詩集:  

《變化的邊界》(中英) 客遠文、梁秉鈞、宋子江、蘇惠琼合譯  

《游詩》(中英) 客遠文、宋子江、蘇惠琼、樊星合譯  

《重畫地圖》(中葡) 比特茲•巴西、梁秉鈞合譯

The poems and translations in this post are extracted from the three books of poems from Leung Ping-kwan published by the Association of Stories in Macao:

Shifting Borders (Chinese-English) Translated by Kit Kelen, Leung Ping-kwan, Chris Song Zijiang, and Debby Sou Vai-keng 

Amblings (Chinese-English) Translated by Kit Kelen, Chris Song Zijiang, Debby Sou Vai-keng, and Iris Fan Xing

Mapa Refeito (Chinese-Portuguese) Translated by Beatriz Brasil and Leung Ping-kwan

 

       

 

一個尋常的雨天 

 

坐在圖書館窗前讀書

翻開的書頁上有人說詩

「是施諸日常言語上的

一種有組織的暴力行為」

雨就這樣落下來,我抬頭看見

它把現實染成濡濕,雨的緩急和疏密

叫我看見風在撫引,羣樹

柔順地呼應,溢出

日常的韻律

是在這四壁圖書館之間

曾有過猛烈的地震

所有的書都動搖了

有人尖叫起來

悸動的心突然注視抖索的世界

洶湧的熱情搖晃牆壁叫人回答它

當鉛筆掉落地上

清脆的紙張飄散

顫慄的人找尋依靠的懷抱

現在有些樹已落盡葉子了

當我思慮過多

胃部隱隱絞痛的時候

我繼續翻閱俄國形式主義者

對詩的看法,用一枝新削的鉛筆

在紙上寫字,或是走出圖書館

獨自去吃午飯,我把帽子翻起來

默默行走在濡濕的路上

林木間淤積的沙堆上有清淺的流水

折斷的枝椏和落葉貼在柏油路邊緣

點點棕色可疑的果子

浮浮沉沉的傷痕

展示雨的始末

在路上走得太久了

雙手和臉孔變得冰冷

走過去年的辦公室

現在不知誰在裏面

他們把大門敞開,也沒有掛畫

它又變回一個尋常的房間

灰色瀰漫,遠山都隱去了

偶然一聲自行車的鈴響

滑過發亮的地面

一件鮮黃的雨衣,點破

沉默,然後又是灰色的路

我沿着行人道旁的紅線

前行,那慣見的紅線

在雨中發出刺目的亮光

 

一九八零年一月

an ordinary rainy day

 

reading before a window in the library

turn to a page where someone says poetry

‘is organised violence committed

on ordinary speech’

rain falls as such and I look up

and it soaks reality

the rain slow and fast, light and heavy

shows me the stroking wind, the trees

soft response, the spilling

daily rhythm

there was an earthquake

inside these library walls

all the books were shaken

the people screamed

pounding hearts suddenly saw the world trembling

the billowing passion shakes the wall for response

when the pencil falls on the ground

brittle paper scatters

trembling bodies seek embraces

now some trees are leafless

when I have thought too much

I feel a dull stomach ache

I go on to read Russian Formalists’

ideas about poetry, write on the paper

with a re-sharpened pencil

or leave the library

for lunch alone

I turn up my cap

silently walking on a sodden road

there is a clear stream through the silted wood

broken branches and fallen leaves

stick on the sides of the road

suspicious fruits with brown stains

scars float and sink

showing the rain’s beginning and end

I’ve walked for too long

hands and face are cold

walk by last year’s office

don’t know who’s in

the door is wide open, no painting hung

it’s turned back into an ordinary room

the grey prevails, far mountains vanish

an occasional bike bell rings

glides through the shimmering

a bright yellow raincoat breaks

the silence, and then it’s a grey road again

I walk straight ahead along the red line

beside the sidewalk

the red line seen so often

glares in the rain

 

January 1980

 

 

 

帶一枚苦瓜旅行 

 

我中午的時候煮來吃了

切開來,炒熟了

味道很好,帶點苦,帶點甜

帶著你從另一個地方帶回來的好意

在你帶著它回來的途中,在你身邊

它一定是逐漸變得溫柔了

你是怎樣帶著它的?

是托運的行李?還是自攜的行李?

它在飛機上有沒有東張西望、有沒有

因為肚子餓而哭了?因為遠離海拔而暈眩?

我說我這邊滂沱大雨,你說你那邊

陽光普照,你正要出發來我的城市

所以你相信可以帶著它跨越

兩地不同的氣候和人情

我看到它也就相信了

你讓我看見它跟別人不一樣的顏色

是從那樣的氣候、土壤和品種

窮人家的孩子長成了碧玉的身體

令人舒懷的好個性,一種溫和的白

並沒有閃亮,卻好似有種內在的光芒

當我帶著這枚白色的苦瓜乘坐飛機

來到異地,踏上異鄉的泥土

我才想到問可曾有人在海關盤問你:

為甚麼不是像大家那樣是綠色的?

仔細檢視它曖昧的護照,等著翻出麻煩

無辜的初來者背著沉重的過去靜候著

它還是那令人舒懷的好個性,收起酸澀

平和地諒解因工作辛勞而變得陰鬱

兩眼無神且苦著臉孔的移民局官員

我帶著它愈走愈遠,像我的說話

愈不著邊際,愈是想包容更多

只緣我不願漏掉細節,關於一枚苦瓜

如何在夜晚輾轉反側,思念它離開的同類

它的呼吸喘急,可是它懷念瓜棚下

那熟悉的位置、外人或覺瑣碎的感情?

你總是原諒我言語的陋習,當我問:

你甚麼時候回來?你只是回應:

你甚麼時候走?一個離去,一個

歸來,你接受了我言語的時態

滑溜而不可界定。我吃苦瓜

我吃過苦瓜才上飛機

為甚麼它又長途跋涉來到我的桌上

是它想跟我說別離之苦?失意之苦?

它的身體長出了腫瘤?它的臉孔

在孤獨中長出皺紋了?

老是睡得不好,老在凌晨時份醒來

睜著眼睛等到天亮?,在那水紋一樣的

沉默裏,它說的是疾病之苦?

是沒法把破碎的歷史拼成完整?

是被陌生人誤解了,被錯置

在一個敵意的世界之苦?

但它的外表還是晶瑩如玉

澄澈得教人咀嚼可以開懷

我在說每個人該好好說的

明白的話裏說我自己想說的

混亂的話,我獨自擺放杯盤

隔著汪洋,但願跟你一起

咀嚼清涼的瓜肉

總有那麼多不如意的事情

人間總有它的缺憾

苦瓜明白的

 

柏林,1998年6月

Um Melão para Viagem  

 

Preparei-o para depois do almoço

parti-o em fatias, coloquei-o num prato

Estava delicioso, meio amargo, meio doce

com o sabor do carinho que trouxeste contigo de outro lugar

Ele te acompanhou na viagem de volta

Amadureceu e, aos poucos, tornou-se tenro a teu lado

Como o trouxeste?

Foi despachado, ou veio na tua bagagem de mão?

Será que ele olhou para os lados e deu-se conta de que estava num avião?

Será que chorou de fome? Sentiu falta de ar?

Eu te disse que chovia lá fora e disseste que onde estavas

fazia sol, estavas de partida para a minha cidade  

e achaste que poderias trazê-lo contigo, passar com ele

por diferentes climas, por diferentes costumes e comportamentos

Acreditei em ti quando o avistei-o

Graças a ti pude distinguir aquela coloração — tão única

Em que clima, em que solo e com que tipo de semente foi cultivado?

Esse descendente de uma família pobre com seu corpo de verde-jade,

com sua personalidade cativante, uma suavidade branca

que não brilha mas irradia uma luz interior

Carreguei comigo esse melão branco no avião, desci com ele no país estrangeiro

Ao passar pela alfândega perguntei-me se tu não havias sido interrogada:

‘Por que não é verde, como a maioria dos melões?’  

Enquanto os funcionários da imigração examinavam-lhe o passaporte

[duvidoso, prontos para criarem um problema

o recém-chegado esperou pacientemente, o peso do seu passado

[a vergar-lhe os ombros

manteve-se afável, não demonstrou amargura, não foi malcriado

ao contrário, parecia pronto a fazer concessões àqueles que o importunavam;

[não era afinal ressentimento,

mas excesso de trabalho a severidade nas faces, a fatiga nos olhos

Levei-o comigo e prossegui, fui em frente — como as minhas palavras,

cada vez mais fora de contexto, a tentar abranger mais e mais

não querendo omitir nenhum detalhe sobre como está o melão

a revirar-se na cama de noite sem conseguir dormir, sentindo a falta

dos seus amigos, sentindo falta de ar — ou são as memórias daquele

lugar tão familiar, o galpão onde com os outros melões abrigava-se

[— sentimentos que outros achariam triviais?

Tu foste tão generosa com meus desajeitados vícios de linguagem

[— quando te perguntei:

‘Quando pensas regressar?’ Respondeste apenas:

‘Quando partes?’ Um parte, outro

Retorna. Acabaste por aceitar o tempo em que costumo conjugar meus verbos

Um tempo escorregadio, impreciso. Estou sempre a comer melões amargos

Comi mais um antes de embarcar no avião

Por que então de tão longe retorna ainda outra vez para a minha mesa?

Será que quer transmitir-me a amargura da separação? Da frustração?

Quer me contar que tem um tumor? Que o seu rosto

ficou cheio de rugas por causa da solidão?

Que continua passando mal as noites, que acorda cedo demais

e fica na cama de olhos abertos a espera do amanhecer? Nas ondulações

do silêncio, estavas tentando me contar que foi a doença a causa da tua amargura?

ou foi a incapacidade de fazer sentido com os fragmentos da história?

Ou foi a amargura causada pela constante incompreensão de estranhos,

pelo fato de encontrar-se no lugar errado, num mundo hostil?

Ainda assim parecia tão translúcido, tão branco-jade

tão reconfortante, a idéia de vir a saboreá-lo acalma-me os nervos

Estava apenas a falar o que todos deviam dizer

estava apenas a expressar, entre outras tantas frases mais ou menos lúcidas,

[o que eu queria dizer

em sentenças confusas. Sozinho, ponho a mesa

um oceano entre nós agora e eu queria tanto estar contigo

para compartilhar deste melão tão refrescante

São tantas as coisas que não correspodem às expectativas

O mundo está cheio de imperfeições

O melão amargo compreende.

 

Berlim, Junho de 1998

 

 

還差幾哩路才到新年 

 

又是一年的終了

你走向更遠的路

明信片村莊

和那麼多名人的墓地

星光下我站定

在指尖看一個寒冷的奇跡

回顧我的影子

它總在那裏

歌聲繼續唱下去

朋友說我看來很好

在風裏紅着鼻子

並不比記憶中更難看

在濕滑的斜坡保持平衡

我不會誇耀扭傷的腳踝

始終不相信

從一個玩具風鼓模型

可以搖出豐富的稻米

在咖啡裏加一點酒罷

它喝來會更溫暖

站在路口的時候

我設法辨別吸進鼻子裏的

是甚麼氣味

在深夜的街頭

金屬大廈的腳旁

果皮和煙蒂竊竊私語

野貓宣佈愛上殘羹

而腳旁的滿地紙屑

在一陣微風後四散

我仍做各種愚蠢的事情

在寒天走路

懷疑所有的鞋子

吃許多魚骨

看一部沉悶的間諜片

等待溫情的一幕

調整收音機的波長

收聽鳥兒掙扎自由的呼吸

我仍比東區所有的咖啡店

更遲入睡

我們已經過這麼多事情

所以也不要假裝了

我知道惺忪的談話

並不會使太陽更壯麗地升起

指尖上的奇跡

只是每日的寒冷

影子難得歌唱

即使走過鋼琴舖

或是殘花滿地的殯儀館

你若聽見聲音

那不過是我

在口袋的破紙上

寫下斷續的句子

 

一九七七年二月

how many miles to the new year 

 

it’s the end of another year

you venture to the far road

postcard villages

and those many tombs of famous men

I stand still under the starlight

watch one cold miracle on my fingertips

look back on my shadow

it’s always there

the singing goes on

my friends say I look alright

nose reddened in the wind

not worse than they remember

keeping my balance on the slippery slope

I won’t boast about my broken ankle

still don’t believe

you could shake out a rich harvest of rice

from a toy model of a wind drum

add some spirits to the coffee

tastes warmer

standing at the intersection

I try to tell what

the smell in my nose is

on the late night street

at the foot of the steel tower

fruit skins and cigarette ends murmuring

wild cats declare they’ve fallen in love with left-overs

and the waste paper beside my feet

scatters after a gust of wind

I’m still doing all kinds of stupid things

walking in the cold days

suspicious of all kinds of shoes

try to suck on so many fish bones

see a boring spy film

waiting for the tender scene

adjusting waves of the radio

listening to the birds struggling

for a breath of freedom

I still fall asleep later than

all the cafes in the east district

we’ve been through all these things

so let’s not pretend

I know sleepy conversations

won’t make the sun rise more magnificently

the miracle on my fingertips is just

everyday coldness

the shadow seldom chants

even when passing by the piano shop

or the floor of the funeral parlour

covered with withered flowers

anything you hear

will merely be my broken lines

written on scrap paper

out of my pocket

 

February 1977

 

 

大地上的居所 

 

在大地上尋找居所

可以生活和工作的家

人們來到圍牆旁邊

停下來,向遠方眺望

不僅是可以托庇的樹蔭

還望有隨意舒展的天空

 

眨着疲累的眼睛

望向遠方的汪洋

一個夢碎了又好像有新的夢

遺忘的洪水上往往翻起歷史的碎屑

在劇場裏人們逐漸圍攏,談起

新的劇本:改變原來的情節

牆上沒有偷聽的耳朵

沒有人需要壓低聲音、扭曲

自然生長的身體

 

望向地平線的那邊

傷心的眼淚聚成更深的海水

浪花碎散在遠處掀起波瀾

受了傷的會得到治療嗎?

冤枉的會得到裁決

心會找到安頓的所在

地下室裏的眼睛再看見天空?

 

在寂寞裏聽見水流的聲音

淤漬的溝渠疏通又再流動

在一處受的委屈真的可以在另一處舒展?

是甚麼節日令人想起往歷史裏尋找?

不僅是一個家是許多許多個家

椅子端出門外拆下一道道籬笆

 

一九九零年初

dwelling on earth 

 

finding a place to live on earth

could be a home for living and working

people come to the walls

stop, gazing out

could be the protecting shades of trees

or it could be the stretching sky

 

tired eyes blinking

look to the sea far off

one dream is broken but there might be a new dream

oftentimes there are crumbs of history on the flood of forgetting

people gather up in the theatre, mentioning

the new script: change the old plot

no eavesdropping ears on the walls

no one needs to lower his voice, to twist

the naturally growing body

 

look at the horizon

sad tears converging in the deeper sea

waves broken billowing up afar

will the wounded ones be cured?

will the wronged be given justice?

the heart will find its way

the eyes in the basement –

will they see the sky again?

 

in silence the sound of water flowing

a silted channel runs again

one wronged here – will he be elsewhere vindicated?

what kind of a festival makes people want to learn from history?

not just one dwelling but many

take the chairs out, tear down the fences

 

early 1990

 

 

葛巾

 

我識你在二月

牡丹未華的時候

我看著初發的嫩芽

寫出了詩句中的未來

 

我與你的相遇是重重驚訝

彷如飲鴆而寬舒,魂飛魄散了

再重活過來,擁抱熾烈的肌膚

燙熱的葛紫與玉白令我忘記了今天

 

歡愉的日子我忍不住想知道根源

看見簷高的魅魎疑你是異種的花妖

彼此相愛而相信,猜疑帶來更多猜疑

昨天累積的疑慮回到我們之間

 

我看見你的臉孔變了顏色,把我們的愛

帶怒擲死在地上,日夜的相愛和期望

刹那化灰。只剩日後墮地處生出紫白的

牡丹,碩大而繁碎一如我們的愛情

 

改寫自<葛巾>

Ge Jin, the peony fairy

 

I knew you in February

when peonies were yet to blossom

gazing at the new buds

I wrote down the future in a poem

 

our encounter was surprising on many levels

as if drinking poison and feeling relieved, the soul gone

and revived, embracing searing skin

the hot purple and white made me forget today

 

happy days, I couldn’t help asking why

peering at the ghost tall as the roof, suspecting you were a flower spirit

love begot trust, while suspicion gave birth to more of the same

yesterday’s suspicion kept coming between us

 

I saw your face change, cast our love to the ground

and it was dead, love and hope day and night

turned to ashes in a moment. Purple and white peonies

grew from the ground, gigantic and flourishing just like our love

 

(rewritten from the ‘Ge Jin, The Peony Fairy’ episode

in Strange Tales from the Liao Study)

 

 

峰景酒店的一夜

 

把酒望大橋上車輛穿梭

明年今日再難在迴廊上喝酒了

戰時它曾是難民營

庇護逃離戰火的眾生。

我回首看幾經翻修的優雅廊柱

我們不要忘記歷史的鬼魂

 

誰是這場戲的主角?

十七世紀巍峨古堡的城牆逐漸崩塌

院落棄置的水井有下人來洗衣服

眼前男女在生日蛋糕的掌聲中擁吻

我們老是在歷史的場景裡當臨時演員

今夜我們圍坐在長桌旁,仿如

乘坐豪華郵輪航向二十一世紀

 

這些樓梯真的將要消失?餐廳

丟空,沉進遺忘的海洋深處?

我坐在這兒默默喝酒,聽著

郤沒有聽見戲劇性的隆然巨響

看得見的美景背後有每個人

自己想像的好風景,燭光晚餐

總沒有想的美味。聽得見的音樂背後

另外一種音樂繼續彈奏下去

 

這兒曾有我們年輕的夜晚,第一次

不覺疲倦地走遍小巷,沿街看

謙卑的營生,夜來投宿破落的旅館

民生的智慧總不會輕易消失

英國人和法國人曾經爭著收購的建築

見証了不同的起伏,現在面對

填出來的爛地,也許要建新的塔樓

招徠遊客。誰是這場戲的主角?

 

澳門菜和粵菜,在年月中演變

沒有穿著漿硬制服的待者了

只有本地的雜燴把種種舊菜翻新

巴西的紅豆煮肉、莫三鼻給的椰汁墨魚

到頭來是它們留下來,伴著桌上

一種從甘蔗調製成的飲品

 

一九九八年二月底澳門作

a night at Hotel Bela Vista  

 

over wine I watch the traffic on the bridge

this time next year no more drinks on the porch

a refugee camp during the war

elegant columns renovated again and again

history keeps haunting us

 

who is the hero of this show?

tumbling down those lofty 17th century walls

in the lonely courtyard a maid washing clothes at the well

tonight we sit around a long table, as if

cruising towards the 21st century

applause and kisses round a birthday cake

we are always extras in the tableaux of history

 

are these stairs disappearing? the deserted dining room

sinking into the ocean of forgetfulness?

I sit here and drink to myself, listen

but can’t hear the theatrical thunder

beautiful scenes with each one’s imagined

good view, candle light dinner

never quite does

under the tune of the day

the tune in your head goes on

 

our young hearts are still here in the night

taking first steps through small lanes and alleys  

watch honest men with their wares, never tired

check into a shabby hostel in the night

the people’s wisdom never wears off

these piles, through their ups and downs

fascinated the British and the French

uneven land probably reclaimed to build a new tower

for tourists? who is the hero of the show?

 

Macao’s and Cantonese cuisine have changed

no more waiters in well-ironed suits

only old food cooked in the fusion style

at the end Brazilian feshuada and Mozambiquan coconut squid

are all that remain, served with

the juice of the sugar cane

 

written in Macau, end of February, 1998

 

 

家傳食譜秘方

 

從一盞燈旋轉的閃爍開始

永遠無法持續的意外在耳邊

有人說你是辛辣的但你已經

不是辛辣的,後來的人

把這道菜煮得太乾,忘記了

原來的主題,我們在搞拌中

逐漸失去了自己

太模糊、太軟弱、太妥協

難以達到朝思暮想的形狀

我們繼續在平庸的烹飪以外

想去尋回那些失落的筆記

 

不管去到哪裡我們總帶著

童年放學經過巷道間

那些殖民地大屋中傳出的香味

來自遙遠的市鎮,修葺我們的慾望

是我們屢屢失落的安慰的懷抱

成長時那微甜的苦酸

在那些無法逃避的沉悶中

發現了逃走的暗道卻不知通往何方

永恆的祕密,如牙縫中弔詭的

老祖母的魚餅:無法分辨的

鹹和甜的混合

 

要得有上好的百加休魚,要得

有夠強夠醇的葡萄牙橄欖油

然後那一切就可以像魔法般重現?

教母在星期天脕上給我們煮的晚餐

在某一個閣樓,某一道闢上的

南歐風味的木窗裡面窗帘和窗罩下

那塵封的昨天裡,微微閃光的是什麼?

姊妹們曾經記下、親友反覆鈔寫

而紙張逐漸褪色了

難留下那無法挽回的

巫師般準確搬演的神祕儀式

 

記得那些茴香與肉豆寇粉的味道

那些葡式蝦醬炒菜特別惹味

記得祖母煮過的一道神祕的菜

(左鄰右里的人都知道,是她下廚一顯身手了)

那氣味歷久不散,但自從她去後

沒人能再調出同樣的味道

 

我們被喚甜角的渾名,放學後

打賭輸了請吃雜豆渣渣甜湯

我們在零食間長大,隱約記得

大人們曾向我們顯示一本神祕的冊頁

我們攪拌鍋中食物,不知能否尋回那豐富

 

recipes handed down in the family 

 

start with a lamp’s swirling flicker

the unsustainable accident compelling the ear

some said you were fiery but not anymore

later folk boiled the dish dry, forgot

the original theme, in the stirring

we gradually lost ourselves

too vague, too weak, too compromised

so hard to attain the shape long wished

surpassing a mediocre cuisine

to retrieve those notes lost

 

it didn’t matter where we went we always brought

with us the after school alley aroma

it came out of big colonial houses

from faraway towns renewing desire

solace we lost time and again

light bitter sweet in the time of growing up

a secret tunnel from the inescapable ennui

but where to?

a confidence forever – like grandma’s fish cakes –

glue between teeth: a blend of salt and sweet

no one could tell apart

 

with best bacalhau, with Portuguese olive oil

strong enough, mellow, then would all reappear like magic?

godmothers cooked us Sunday night dinner

in attics, behind shutters and curtains of the southern style

what’s flickering in that dust-laden yesterday?

sisters jotted something down, relatives, friends

repeatedly copied but the paper’s faded

hard to keep track of secret rituals

such sorcery perfectly performed

 

remember the taste of aniseed, nutmeg

those balichão stir-fries especially provoking

remember grandma’s great mystery dish

(all neighbours knew, it was her show in the kitchen)

that aroma was lingering and after she’d gone

 

no one could blend those flavours that way

we were nicknamed muchi-muchi (sweet tamarind)

after school whoever lost a bet bought others

cha-cha sweet bean curd soup

we grew up in the between of meals, just with scant memory

the grown-ups once showed us a mysterious album

we stir it all in the pot, no knowing

whether those riches will be ours again

 

 

Jonas Zdanys’ ‘The Abrasions of Rain’

translated into Chinese by Chris Song Zijiang

 

的磨損

鍾納斯•茨達奈斯

宋子江譯

 

心神是一種沉靜的擾亂。

白毛毯在瀝青般的黑暗中

燃燒,夜鹽腌了天堂之血。

城市已被撕碎,城門敞開

戰火中的人把腳腫栽入

蛛網和塵污之中,

不怕迷失,不怕死亡,

也不怕在眼光的猶豫中

沖刷而過的淤泥鉸鏈。

什麽也沒有想。讓身體

在風的冷玻璃上,成為

古老翅膀的涼白的倒映。

 

*

 

夜一次短促的呼吸,淺淺地

慢慢地飄流城市街道

雨滑流,纖薄如飢餓,

鐵的灰色的對角線。

稻草插成的天使在發光

彷彿朦朧紙袋套著翅膀

轉身背向暗紅的房子。

我撫摸漆黑運河面上的

恒星,運河眩惑無盡,

我腳下的世界加速運轉。

廣場外,迷途的狗吠——

火與冰秘密的名字。

 

*

 

我在最小的窗口外

度量時光的流逝,

尺棍在地板的塵埃中

劃出鐮月的輪廓,

看著一千歲月,陰鬱地

裸體地躺在寒冷的

地平線的傷口下,

點算老婦人的傘上

雨水的磨損——

悟出怎樣忍受

自己對永恆的渴求

和鳥的無常。

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