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An ordinary rainy day
reading before a window in the library
to a page where someone says poetry
“is organized 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, spilling beyond
daily rhythm
there was an earthquake
inside these library walls
all the books were shaking
some people screamed
pounding hearts suddenly saw the world trembling
the billowing passion shook the wall for response
when the pencil fell on the floor
crisp paper scattered
quivering bodies sought embraces
now some trees are leafless
when I think too much
I feel a dull stomach ache
I go on to read Russian Formalists
ideas about poetry, write on paper
with a re-sharpened pencil
or leave the library
for lunch alone
I turn up my hood
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
passing by last year’s office
don’t know who’s in it
the door is wide open, no painting on the wall
it’s turned back into an ordinary room
the grey prevails, far mountains vanish
an occasional bike bell rings
glides through the shimmering road
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
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，用一隻新削的鉛筆
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
一九八〇年一月
to a page where someone says poetry
“is organized 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, spilling beyond
daily rhythm
there was an earthquake
inside these library walls
all the books were shaking
some people screamed
pounding hearts suddenly saw the world trembling
the billowing passion shook the wall for response
when the pencil fell on the floor
crisp paper scattered
quivering bodies sought embraces
now some trees are leafless
when I think too much
I feel a dull stomach ache
I go on to read Russian Formalists
ideas about poetry, write on paper
with a re-sharpened pencil
or leave the library
for lunch alone
I turn up my hood
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
passing by last year’s office
don’t know who’s in it
the door is wide open, no painting on the wall
it’s turned back into an ordinary room
the grey prevails, far mountains vanish
an occasional bike bell rings
glides through the shimmering road
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
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，用一隻新削的鉛筆
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
一九八〇年一月
Seeing Snow
drinking coffee at Figaro’s
then through the windows I see snow falling
snowflakes, a big change in a second
cold for such a long time, patient for such a long time
slowly and lightly, it snows
for some time, then gets heavy
heavier and heavier, and it turns into a white web
covering the whole world: an old man
passes by, snow on his short hair
everyone wearing this new colour
it turned cold yesterday
we walked through the city in the cold wind
to a church to watch a dance
or listen to an old Lithuanian poet reading
his poems in the evening
sometimes I looked up at the sky
unaware the cold was a kind of growth
we see snow at different stages
at first surprised
then full of love and hate
looking for images to correspond
now, like a kind of warmth
in loneliness feeling through the glass
a vast cold, like a taste of
unspeakable welcome or rejection
the world can be clear and inconsistent
sunlight is strangely mixed with the shadows of snow
we have stayed in many different rooms
spent warm afternoons, perhaps
talking late into the night, and then opening doors or windows
suddenly discovered, “Oh, it is snowing!”
things that some rooms cannot house
no idea who has scattered them into the human world
falling flakes everywhere
these homeless
words, sherds
that these rooms cannot carry
land on everyone’s
head, staying on the clothes
of people traveling
then it thickens in front of my eyes
I look at the cups and bottles on the desk, places we know
cannot hold those dancing flakes
they sometimes gather in this direction
sometimes twirl around
as though wanting to erase everything
they knit you and me together on a new web
and later undo it stitch by stitch
won’t we all have had joy and
fear in the end? longing to stay a little longer
but unwilling to remember those
extraordinary gentle touches
for fear they hurt you
sitting in front of the window to watch the sudden fall
realizing I am not wearing enough warm clothes for this weather
gestures drifting in the air
hands waving tenderly
in the long run will open up slowly
in tufts they swirl into the inner world
or endlessly project onto the outside
together they clothe the sky
we must have observed it at different times:
this snow: in various forms
with a gentle heart, violent
passion, sometimes it denies completely a metaphor settled
the moment before, sometimes with hope and a wide-opened
heart, ready to accept even those of our yesterday's
experience, beyond tomorrow’s expectations
those things we have
or have not seen before
見雪
坐在費加羅喝一杯咖啡
抬頭突然看見窗外飄着
雪花，一下子改變了天地
冷了這麼久，忍耐了這麼久
慢慢地、慢慢地、撒落下來
有好一會，然後濃密了
下得更急了，一張白色的網
罩住了世界：一個老人
走過，短髮上沾滿雪花
每個人都帶了這新的色彩
昨天已經開始冷了
我在寒風中穿過城市
到教堂去看一場舞
或者傍晚時分去聽
一個立陶宛老詩人讀他的詩
偶爾仰首看看天空
可沒想到這嚴寒是一種醞釀
我們在不同的階段看見雪
最先是一種驚訝
然後是糾纏着愛恨的心靈
往外尋找相應的意象
現在，像是一種溫暖
寂寞中隔着玻璃感到的
廣大的微涼，好像有一種
說不出來的迎拒的味道
世界可以使明淨而不貫徹的
陽光奇怪地混和着雪的影子
我們曾在許多房間裏停留
度過暖和的下午，或者
談到深夜，然後打開門窗
突然發現，「呵，下雪了！」
一些房間容不下的東西
不知誰把它紛紛撒回人間
滿天點點撇撇的
這些無家的
文字，這些房子
無法承載的碎屑
飄落到每個人
頭上，留在衣服上
行人帶着遠去了
然後又在眼前濃密起來
我看這桌上的杯瓶，已有的方圓
盛不了那些紛飛的片屑
它們有時向這個方向凝聚
有時又旋過身去
彷彿要把一切抹掉
它們把你我織在一個新的網裏
又會一針一線把它拆開
我們到頭來不都既有歡喜
也有恐懼嗎？想停留得久一點
心裏又總是不要記牢那些
不同尋常的溫柔的接觸
怕它會把你傷害
坐在窗前看突然落下的雪
想自己未穿夠禦寒的衣服呢
漫天飄散的手勢
婉轉地搖晃着掌
長久以後也會緩緩舒開
叢叢旋入內心的世界
或者無盡地向外投射
紛紛抹滿了天
我們一定在不同的時間細看過
這雪：不固定的形狀
帶着溫柔的心、兇猛的
激情、有時一瞬間把上一瞬間
安頓好的比喻徹底否定，有時
又會帶着希望包容一切的寬大的
心，那連着我們的昨天的
經驗，超出明天的期待的
那些我們見過
或未見過的事物
then through the windows I see snow falling
snowflakes, a big change in a second
cold for such a long time, patient for such a long time
slowly and lightly, it snows
for some time, then gets heavy
heavier and heavier, and it turns into a white web
covering the whole world: an old man
passes by, snow on his short hair
everyone wearing this new colour
it turned cold yesterday
we walked through the city in the cold wind
to a church to watch a dance
or listen to an old Lithuanian poet reading
his poems in the evening
sometimes I looked up at the sky
unaware the cold was a kind of growth
we see snow at different stages
at first surprised
then full of love and hate
looking for images to correspond
now, like a kind of warmth
in loneliness feeling through the glass
a vast cold, like a taste of
unspeakable welcome or rejection
the world can be clear and inconsistent
sunlight is strangely mixed with the shadows of snow
we have stayed in many different rooms
spent warm afternoons, perhaps
talking late into the night, and then opening doors or windows
suddenly discovered, “Oh, it is snowing!”
things that some rooms cannot house
no idea who has scattered them into the human world
falling flakes everywhere
these homeless
words, sherds
that these rooms cannot carry
land on everyone’s
head, staying on the clothes
of people traveling
then it thickens in front of my eyes
I look at the cups and bottles on the desk, places we know
cannot hold those dancing flakes
they sometimes gather in this direction
sometimes twirl around
as though wanting to erase everything
they knit you and me together on a new web
and later undo it stitch by stitch
won’t we all have had joy and
fear in the end? longing to stay a little longer
but unwilling to remember those
extraordinary gentle touches
for fear they hurt you
sitting in front of the window to watch the sudden fall
realizing I am not wearing enough warm clothes for this weather
gestures drifting in the air
hands waving tenderly
in the long run will open up slowly
in tufts they swirl into the inner world
or endlessly project onto the outside
together they clothe the sky
we must have observed it at different times:
this snow: in various forms
with a gentle heart, violent
passion, sometimes it denies completely a metaphor settled
the moment before, sometimes with hope and a wide-opened
heart, ready to accept even those of our yesterday's
experience, beyond tomorrow’s expectations
those things we have
or have not seen before
見雪
坐在費加羅喝一杯咖啡
抬頭突然看見窗外飄着
雪花，一下子改變了天地
冷了這麼久，忍耐了這麼久
慢慢地、慢慢地、撒落下來
有好一會，然後濃密了
下得更急了，一張白色的網
罩住了世界：一個老人
走過，短髮上沾滿雪花
每個人都帶了這新的色彩
昨天已經開始冷了
我在寒風中穿過城市
到教堂去看一場舞
或者傍晚時分去聽
一個立陶宛老詩人讀他的詩
偶爾仰首看看天空
可沒想到這嚴寒是一種醞釀
我們在不同的階段看見雪
最先是一種驚訝
然後是糾纏着愛恨的心靈
往外尋找相應的意象
現在，像是一種溫暖
寂寞中隔着玻璃感到的
廣大的微涼，好像有一種
說不出來的迎拒的味道
世界可以使明淨而不貫徹的
陽光奇怪地混和着雪的影子
我們曾在許多房間裏停留
度過暖和的下午，或者
談到深夜，然後打開門窗
突然發現，「呵，下雪了！」
一些房間容不下的東西
不知誰把它紛紛撒回人間
滿天點點撇撇的
這些無家的
文字，這些房子
無法承載的碎屑
飄落到每個人
頭上，留在衣服上
行人帶着遠去了
然後又在眼前濃密起來
我看這桌上的杯瓶，已有的方圓
盛不了那些紛飛的片屑
它們有時向這個方向凝聚
有時又旋過身去
彷彿要把一切抹掉
它們把你我織在一個新的網裏
又會一針一線把它拆開
我們到頭來不都既有歡喜
也有恐懼嗎？想停留得久一點
心裏又總是不要記牢那些
不同尋常的溫柔的接觸
怕它會把你傷害
坐在窗前看突然落下的雪
想自己未穿夠禦寒的衣服呢
漫天飄散的手勢
婉轉地搖晃着掌
長久以後也會緩緩舒開
叢叢旋入內心的世界
或者無盡地向外投射
紛紛抹滿了天
我們一定在不同的時間細看過
這雪：不固定的形狀
帶着溫柔的心、兇猛的
激情、有時一瞬間把上一瞬間
安頓好的比喻徹底否定，有時
又會帶着希望包容一切的寬大的
心，那連着我們的昨天的
經驗，超出明天的期待的
那些我們見過
或未見過的事物
In Kafka’s old house
in a room too bright on a sunny morning
I imagine you escaping late onto the cold wet road of slates
rejecting the chomping teeth of the towering buildings
you turned to the shimmering dream scales of brain cells
this is one of the houses you once have lived in
you blew out the candles one after another, shadows on relationships
the bell tolled eight times, was it a carrot or a nose on the cursed street?
who is he? the poet among messy tombstones or the old decorative streetlamp
in the maze there’s the smell of old times, fear gathering at the peeled yellow wall
reminding us of the dirty slum bar in the city
under your father’s harsh gaze, the dark round cap, an offering at the altar
they start wearing your face in the city, once deserted but now rebuilt
Could your gloomy cocoon help others metamorphose into butterflies?
will your fear make us see the courage we lack?
collecting fragments of meaning, the monster reflects the light on tubes and tiles
do we finally find the old Jewish district trembling at the corner of the heart?
在卡夫卡故居
在一個陽光的早晨過分明亮的房間裏
想像你深夜在濕冷的石板路上逃走
曾經拒絕巍峨的建築咀嚼的齒牙
轉入腦細胞經營波光夢影的鱗片
這是你在好多房子中曾經生活過的房子
一次又一次吹熄洋燭聚影在人際關係上
鐘敲八下受詛咒的街道上胡蘿蔔還是鼻子
他是誰亂石墓碑間詩人還是裝飾的舊路燈?
迷宮甬道傳來舊日的氣味剝落黃牆堆積恐懼
在現代城市中提醒我們貧民區中骯髒的酒館
父親嚴苛的注視重重壓下黑色圓帽猶如祭品
頹垣重建的城裏他們開始把你的臉孔穿在身上
相信你陰鬱的蛹能幫助其他人化成蝴蝶?
你的恐懼能否令我們正視大家缺乏的勇氣?
不斷收集意義的碎片怪獸承露渠管磚瓦的光影
到頭來我們發現古老猶太人區在心的一角顫慄?
I imagine you escaping late onto the cold wet road of slates
rejecting the chomping teeth of the towering buildings
you turned to the shimmering dream scales of brain cells
this is one of the houses you once have lived in
you blew out the candles one after another, shadows on relationships
the bell tolled eight times, was it a carrot or a nose on the cursed street?
who is he? the poet among messy tombstones or the old decorative streetlamp
in the maze there’s the smell of old times, fear gathering at the peeled yellow wall
reminding us of the dirty slum bar in the city
under your father’s harsh gaze, the dark round cap, an offering at the altar
they start wearing your face in the city, once deserted but now rebuilt
Could your gloomy cocoon help others metamorphose into butterflies?
will your fear make us see the courage we lack?
collecting fragments of meaning, the monster reflects the light on tubes and tiles
do we finally find the old Jewish district trembling at the corner of the heart?
在卡夫卡故居
在一個陽光的早晨過分明亮的房間裏
想像你深夜在濕冷的石板路上逃走
曾經拒絕巍峨的建築咀嚼的齒牙
轉入腦細胞經營波光夢影的鱗片
這是你在好多房子中曾經生活過的房子
一次又一次吹熄洋燭聚影在人際關係上
鐘敲八下受詛咒的街道上胡蘿蔔還是鼻子
他是誰亂石墓碑間詩人還是裝飾的舊路燈?
迷宮甬道傳來舊日的氣味剝落黃牆堆積恐懼
在現代城市中提醒我們貧民區中骯髒的酒館
父親嚴苛的注視重重壓下黑色圓帽猶如祭品
頹垣重建的城裏他們開始把你的臉孔穿在身上
相信你陰鬱的蛹能幫助其他人化成蝴蝶?
你的恐懼能否令我們正視大家缺乏的勇氣?
不斷收集意義的碎片怪獸承露渠管磚瓦的光影
到頭來我們發現古老猶太人區在心的一角顫慄?
Household Articles
a chair handed down from ancestors
for you to rest in after a day’s work
you go about carrying it
drinking with your tribesmen in a circle
a cup made from a gourd
holding wine brewed from plums
a pillow made from tree branches
for your head when you’re drunk
letting you slip peacefully into your dreams
a big spoon for cooking
a small spoon for drinking soup
stirring hot food
keeping us warm in winter
a pipe in the shape of a human body
tobacco sizzling noisily within
smoke rings exhaled like skulls in our imagination
fragrance wafts inside the tent
she lets fall from her head a comb
the wooden comb close to her hair
rolls of silk in it
stroke a gourd
that gradually glows with time
caress a tree branch
until there appear the mouth and limbs of a beast
bones sucked clean, cleansed and dried in the sun
thread entwining thread making a rope, rock knocking on
rock, until they bear desired looks
these two hands pick up clueless materials, give them shapes
craft household articles and keep a family whole
after seeing an exhibition of African folk household articles in Washington in the winter of 1991
家用的器皿
一張先人留下的椅子
讓你一日工作之餘坐下休息
你抬着它到處去
與族人圍成一圈喝酒
一個葫蘆瓜造的杯子
盛着梅子造的酒
醉了就有一截樹枝造的枕頭
托着你的腦袋
讓你安然進入夢鄉
大的匙羹用來煮菜
小的匙羹用來喝湯
攪拌燙熱的食物
在冬天令我們溫暖
煙斗有人體的形狀
煙絲在身體裏燃燒絲絲鳴叫
噴出的煙圈凝成想像的頭顱
芳香飄揚在營帳裏
她從頭上卸下木梳
熨帖着她的頭髮的木梳
上面有綹綹纏綿
摩挲一個葫蘆瓜
逐漸在實踐裏發出光澤
愛撫一截樹幹
直至那裏露出野獸的嘴巴和四肢
吮乾淨骨頭洗刷又曬乾
線絞着線編成繩子，石頭敲鑿
石頭，直至它們有心想的樣貌
就是這雙手撿拾渾噩的材料給予形式
經營家用的器皿承載了家裏的人
一九九一年冬在華盛頓博物館
看非洲民俗用品展覽有感
for you to rest in after a day’s work
you go about carrying it
drinking with your tribesmen in a circle
a cup made from a gourd
holding wine brewed from plums
a pillow made from tree branches
for your head when you’re drunk
letting you slip peacefully into your dreams
a big spoon for cooking
a small spoon for drinking soup
stirring hot food
keeping us warm in winter
a pipe in the shape of a human body
tobacco sizzling noisily within
smoke rings exhaled like skulls in our imagination
fragrance wafts inside the tent
she lets fall from her head a comb
the wooden comb close to her hair
rolls of silk in it
stroke a gourd
that gradually glows with time
caress a tree branch
until there appear the mouth and limbs of a beast
bones sucked clean, cleansed and dried in the sun
thread entwining thread making a rope, rock knocking on
rock, until they bear desired looks
these two hands pick up clueless materials, give them shapes
craft household articles and keep a family whole
after seeing an exhibition of African folk household articles in Washington in the winter of 1991
家用的器皿
一張先人留下的椅子
讓你一日工作之餘坐下休息
你抬着它到處去
與族人圍成一圈喝酒
一個葫蘆瓜造的杯子
盛着梅子造的酒
醉了就有一截樹枝造的枕頭
托着你的腦袋
讓你安然進入夢鄉
大的匙羹用來煮菜
小的匙羹用來喝湯
攪拌燙熱的食物
在冬天令我們溫暖
煙斗有人體的形狀
煙絲在身體裏燃燒絲絲鳴叫
噴出的煙圈凝成想像的頭顱
芳香飄揚在營帳裏
她從頭上卸下木梳
熨帖着她的頭髮的木梳
上面有綹綹纏綿
摩挲一個葫蘆瓜
逐漸在實踐裏發出光澤
愛撫一截樹幹
直至那裏露出野獸的嘴巴和四肢
吮乾淨骨頭洗刷又曬乾
線絞着線編成繩子，石頭敲鑿
石頭，直至它們有心想的樣貌
就是這雙手撿拾渾噩的材料給予形式
經營家用的器皿承載了家裏的人
一九九一年冬在華盛頓博物館
看非洲民俗用品展覽有感
Cloud Travel
Clouds are amazing, but you can’t live there.
Our plane’s wings harvest
the houses far below,
a mountain chain,
a coast.
Our old haunts in the city are left way behind
as we enter cloud banks.
Pretty enough, as I say, but no place to live.
Taipei, Tokyo, Honolulu:
we’ll pass through darkness and light,
come out on the other side of the tunnel,
sleep through it, in fact, and wake up.
Then there is light,
pink scattered in the sky up ahead,
pale yellow,
beginnings of blue,
darkness failing and gathering,
blue growing steadily lighter,
oldest friendships far in the lees.
I’m bringing my favorite calligraphy
but I’m alone here, high in the emptiest air,
Tang poems in my carry-ons,
pieces declared fragments of a strange star,
clouds becomes boulders
that turn again back into clouds,
bits and tufts…on the east side dawn,
on the west rain, sunshine and rain at once.
Docking in the night sky over Tokyo,
no bell welcomes
the guest’s lonely boat.
The trees slip backwards in my window past a station
while others sleep and start restlessly
and where are we heading?
“Coffee, tea or wine?”
until I’m tipsy
in might-be rain outside,
no, not raining,
only parts of our own little star falling.
It’s getting bluer out now, through hardly visible,
then shadows again.
Sleep while you can.
Forget it,
No, we’ve got to come down somewhere,
pass documents,
show one of this world’s passports
and stand in line,
present the baggage of your life
carried from country to country.
Daybreak for sure
without old rooster’s crowing,
the blue sky of Honolulu under our wings,
exactly half-way between tropical suns and northern snows,
having crossed yet another border.
Snow’s great but it’s also a famous killer
but now I’m sweating in too many clothes.
No one’s as free as he wanted to be.
You only seem to have made it to another space and time
but there you are still strapped in your seat.
You are flying
but you must land, like snow, eventually.
You’re toasting
but the rocks in your drink won’t melt
till the last snows in the Spring.
And when is Spring?
When the warm chill of the glass at hand holds sunshine and rain,
which eventually flow east and west on their own.
Out my window the universe has turned the flowered trees to bronze pillars
when we get to our point of entry
and they sound like cold, metallic sheets.
You’re still searching for something
in the morning clouds that have as yet no stories.
The sky yellows and then gradually fades
to patches of pink light.
One searches further and further
ahead in the brightening day.
Could I pitch this glass as well as past griefs?
Will all really be renewed in the Spring?
I remember
ordinary days and connections in the world;
then how plain is this sea of clouds.
Don’t they expect to be the world’s rain?
I’m watching; I’m waiting,
brightness ahead showing on the cloud’s tops guarantees sunshine
so why do I find myself thinking of never melting snows?
Spring will come and snows melt
but up here I’m traveling in a space without seasons,
into empty space ahead without sunshine.
I put out my hand and touch the cold glass;
people are still starting in restless sleep
from day into night,
from Spring to Winter,
all lost
beyond clouds
in the middle of the night
with all that droning horsepower
roaring alone.
What are these fallen petals blown at me?
Am I supposed to bring Springtime back to the snows?
Or will the snows turn me to numbed cold?
One imagines toasting a spring
and a willow stroking the wine glass.
No, wait; somebody picked up all the glasses.
In silence
you study the quiet desolation outside,
the clouds changing resemblances
their colors soon disappearing.
The clouds are amazing, but you can’t live there.
December, 1981
Translated by Gordon Osing
雲游
即使白雲美麗你也不能住在裏面 機翅吞沒了
屋宇
山脈
和海灣 熟悉的城市遠了
進入白雲 美麗你也不能住在裏面
台北、東京、火奴魯魯
看盡人間的黑暗與燦爛
我們已飛到黑暗的隧道盡頭
睡過又醒來
然後光亮了
前面一脈嫣紅
微黄
粉藍
黑暗撕開又縫合
藍色漸漸稀淡了
背後的人情遠了
我拿著一卷喜愛的墨迹
卻是進入無人的空中
行囊中的唐詩
化成陌生星球的碎片
雲變成岩石
岩石再軟化成雲
絮絮片片，東邊日出
西邊雨，道是無晴卻有晴
夜泊東京的高空
沒有鐘聲
到客船
驛站窗外一株株樹往後移
旅途中人們睡了又醒
往那兒去呢
喝茶，喝酒
微醉了
窗外微微有雨
不，沒有雨
只是落著石頭
藍色已稀薄得看不見了
又沒入黑暗
睡覺吧
忘掉一切
不，你要回到地面
出閘
拿著世界的證件
等待
你提一生沉重的行李
來自不同國家的負累
天亮了
不，鷄還沒有啼
火奴魯魯的藍天在民航機翅下
南邊有溫暖的陽光北方有雪
你來了又去了
但願在有雪的地方又怕雪傷害你
現在你穿著過多的衣服你流汗
並不如想像的自由
你好像越過了空間又跨過了時間
到頭來你還是局促在座位上
你飛翔
又落下成為積雪
你舉起杯
杯中冰塊不溶
春天來時雪就溶了
春天甚麽時候來呢
杯子的溫涼裏有人間的晴雨
各自東西流去
窗外宇宙的花樹化為銅柱
在你抵達的驛站上
發出金屬冷冷的聲音
你還在找尋
在那還未成形的早晨的雲霞之間
黃色顯現又漸漸隱去
一團團的微紅的光
在前面在前面
一個好晴天
舊嵗隨著一個喝盡的酒杯拋去哀愁嗎
春天會帶來物色新鮮嗎
可是我又記得
尋常的日子我們在人世的關連
淡素的雲海
要去作人間的雨嗎
我在看我在等待
雲上的光說睛天在前面了
但為甚麼我又只見到街頭永不消溶的積雪
春來雪就溶了
而我是在一個沒有季節的空間航行
前面只是無晴的空漠
伸出手抵到玻璃是寒冷的
人們搞動沉濁的睡眠
從日到夜
從春天到冬天
都掉失在
雲堆外 夜半
沉沉的馬達聲
獨自響著
為甚麽把落花吹來呢
我能把春天帶給冰雪嗎
還是冰雪會令我凝結
臨著泉水
還有垂楊拂著酒杯呢
不，有人把酒杯收去了
沉默
你看著外面安靜的荒涼
雲影變幻
顏色瞬息消逝
即使白雲美麗你也不能住在裏面的
一九八一年十二日
Our plane’s wings harvest
the houses far below,
a mountain chain,
a coast.
Our old haunts in the city are left way behind
as we enter cloud banks.
Pretty enough, as I say, but no place to live.
Taipei, Tokyo, Honolulu:
we’ll pass through darkness and light,
come out on the other side of the tunnel,
sleep through it, in fact, and wake up.
Then there is light,
pink scattered in the sky up ahead,
pale yellow,
beginnings of blue,
darkness failing and gathering,
blue growing steadily lighter,
oldest friendships far in the lees.
I’m bringing my favorite calligraphy
but I’m alone here, high in the emptiest air,
Tang poems in my carry-ons,
pieces declared fragments of a strange star,
clouds becomes boulders
that turn again back into clouds,
bits and tufts…on the east side dawn,
on the west rain, sunshine and rain at once.
Docking in the night sky over Tokyo,
no bell welcomes
the guest’s lonely boat.
The trees slip backwards in my window past a station
while others sleep and start restlessly
and where are we heading?
“Coffee, tea or wine?”
until I’m tipsy
in might-be rain outside,
no, not raining,
only parts of our own little star falling.
It’s getting bluer out now, through hardly visible,
then shadows again.
Sleep while you can.
Forget it,
No, we’ve got to come down somewhere,
pass documents,
show one of this world’s passports
and stand in line,
present the baggage of your life
carried from country to country.
Daybreak for sure
without old rooster’s crowing,
the blue sky of Honolulu under our wings,
exactly half-way between tropical suns and northern snows,
having crossed yet another border.
Snow’s great but it’s also a famous killer
but now I’m sweating in too many clothes.
No one’s as free as he wanted to be.
You only seem to have made it to another space and time
but there you are still strapped in your seat.
You are flying
but you must land, like snow, eventually.
You’re toasting
but the rocks in your drink won’t melt
till the last snows in the Spring.
And when is Spring?
When the warm chill of the glass at hand holds sunshine and rain,
which eventually flow east and west on their own.
Out my window the universe has turned the flowered trees to bronze pillars
when we get to our point of entry
and they sound like cold, metallic sheets.
You’re still searching for something
in the morning clouds that have as yet no stories.
The sky yellows and then gradually fades
to patches of pink light.
One searches further and further
ahead in the brightening day.
Could I pitch this glass as well as past griefs?
Will all really be renewed in the Spring?
I remember
ordinary days and connections in the world;
then how plain is this sea of clouds.
Don’t they expect to be the world’s rain?
I’m watching; I’m waiting,
brightness ahead showing on the cloud’s tops guarantees sunshine
so why do I find myself thinking of never melting snows?
Spring will come and snows melt
but up here I’m traveling in a space without seasons,
into empty space ahead without sunshine.
I put out my hand and touch the cold glass;
people are still starting in restless sleep
from day into night,
from Spring to Winter,
all lost
beyond clouds
in the middle of the night
with all that droning horsepower
roaring alone.
What are these fallen petals blown at me?
Am I supposed to bring Springtime back to the snows?
Or will the snows turn me to numbed cold?
One imagines toasting a spring
and a willow stroking the wine glass.
No, wait; somebody picked up all the glasses.
In silence
you study the quiet desolation outside,
the clouds changing resemblances
their colors soon disappearing.
The clouds are amazing, but you can’t live there.
December, 1981
Translated by Gordon Osing
雲游
即使白雲美麗你也不能住在裏面 機翅吞沒了
屋宇
山脈
和海灣 熟悉的城市遠了
進入白雲 美麗你也不能住在裏面
台北、東京、火奴魯魯
看盡人間的黑暗與燦爛
我們已飛到黑暗的隧道盡頭
睡過又醒來
然後光亮了
前面一脈嫣紅
微黄
粉藍
黑暗撕開又縫合
藍色漸漸稀淡了
背後的人情遠了
我拿著一卷喜愛的墨迹
卻是進入無人的空中
行囊中的唐詩
化成陌生星球的碎片
雲變成岩石
岩石再軟化成雲
絮絮片片，東邊日出
西邊雨，道是無晴卻有晴
夜泊東京的高空
沒有鐘聲
到客船
驛站窗外一株株樹往後移
旅途中人們睡了又醒
往那兒去呢
喝茶，喝酒
微醉了
窗外微微有雨
不，沒有雨
只是落著石頭
藍色已稀薄得看不見了
又沒入黑暗
睡覺吧
忘掉一切
不，你要回到地面
出閘
拿著世界的證件
等待
你提一生沉重的行李
來自不同國家的負累
天亮了
不，鷄還沒有啼
火奴魯魯的藍天在民航機翅下
南邊有溫暖的陽光北方有雪
你來了又去了
但願在有雪的地方又怕雪傷害你
現在你穿著過多的衣服你流汗
並不如想像的自由
你好像越過了空間又跨過了時間
到頭來你還是局促在座位上
你飛翔
又落下成為積雪
你舉起杯
杯中冰塊不溶
春天來時雪就溶了
春天甚麽時候來呢
杯子的溫涼裏有人間的晴雨
各自東西流去
窗外宇宙的花樹化為銅柱
在你抵達的驛站上
發出金屬冷冷的聲音
你還在找尋
在那還未成形的早晨的雲霞之間
黃色顯現又漸漸隱去
一團團的微紅的光
在前面在前面
一個好晴天
舊嵗隨著一個喝盡的酒杯拋去哀愁嗎
春天會帶來物色新鮮嗎
可是我又記得
尋常的日子我們在人世的關連
淡素的雲海
要去作人間的雨嗎
我在看我在等待
雲上的光說睛天在前面了
但為甚麼我又只見到街頭永不消溶的積雪
春來雪就溶了
而我是在一個沒有季節的空間航行
前面只是無晴的空漠
伸出手抵到玻璃是寒冷的
人們搞動沉濁的睡眠
從日到夜
從春天到冬天
都掉失在
雲堆外 夜半
沉沉的馬達聲
獨自響著
為甚麽把落花吹來呢
我能把春天帶給冰雪嗎
還是冰雪會令我凝結
臨著泉水
還有垂楊拂著酒杯呢
不，有人把酒杯收去了
沉默
你看著外面安靜的荒涼
雲影變幻
顏色瞬息消逝
即使白雲美麗你也不能住在裏面的
一九八一年十二日
Catching a Squirrel
on white sands
rustling
sunflowers
chrysanthemums
a snake held up its head tongue shooting out
casting one shadow and another
one hole and another
shocks
of grass
arch up
a grave
or secret
hair?
ear up
in there
some creature
swishing
trembling
snake
rat
lizard
or just the odd warm breeze
on white sands
yellow flowers
open
mouth
of the burrow
touches
soft petals
among wilting leaves
and ruffles
the lips yet to open
words yet to be said
touch
cactus’ thin points
that prick
hands stretched
moving sand
a lizard’s grey body
scurries by
disappears into the hole
among the grass
what’s in there?
listen
the soughing
a nest of birds
a fierce creature
secretly catches breath
bend down to call to the soil
waiting for its answer
lays fingers on the cracks
props closer
darkness
the unknown breathing
arouses
wisps of
subtle verbiage
getting hotter
in the desert
sun beating down
in silence
only
the swishing
in the grass
don’t know what it’s calling for
getting hotter
sweat streams down
life boils over
waiting for another life
April, 1979
捕松鼠
白色沙地上
瑟瑟的
向日葵
黃菊
吐信的蛇昂起頭
投下一個一個黑影
一個一個洞穴
蓬亂的草
團團
拱起
是墳墓
還是隱秘的
髮絲？
仔細聽
裏面有
綷縩的聲音
有生物
顫抖
是蛇
是鼠
是蜥蜴
還是一陣偶然的熱風？
白色沙地上
黃花
展開了
洞穴的
嘴巴
輕輕觸及
索索草葉中
柔和的花瓣
顫慄了
未開啟的唇
未說出的話
輕輕觸及
仙人掌的細刺
戳痛了
伸過去的手
一片會移動的沙
蜥蜴灰色的身體
竄過
沒入草叢
微張的洞穴
裏面是甚麼？
聽
那嚶嚶的
細語
一窩鳥
一頭兇猛的生物
隱隱在喘息
俯身向泥土裏面呼喚
等着聽它回答
把指頭放在裂縫上
探近了
黑暗
未知的呼息
牽起了
絲絲縷縷
晦澀的言語
越來越炎熱
沙漠裏
太陽直射
寂靜中
只有
草叢裏的聲音
噝噝的
不知在叫喚甚麼
越來越炎熱
汗水流下
生命正沸騰
等待那陌生的生命
一九七九年四月
rustling
sunflowers
chrysanthemums
a snake held up its head tongue shooting out
casting one shadow and another
one hole and another
shocks
of grass
arch up
a grave
or secret
hair?
ear up
in there
some creature
swishing
trembling
snake
rat
lizard
or just the odd warm breeze
on white sands
yellow flowers
open
mouth
of the burrow
touches
soft petals
among wilting leaves
and ruffles
the lips yet to open
words yet to be said
touch
cactus’ thin points
that prick
hands stretched
moving sand
a lizard’s grey body
scurries by
disappears into the hole
among the grass
what’s in there?
listen
the soughing
a nest of birds
a fierce creature
secretly catches breath
bend down to call to the soil
waiting for its answer
lays fingers on the cracks
props closer
darkness
the unknown breathing
arouses
wisps of
subtle verbiage
getting hotter
in the desert
sun beating down
in silence
only
the swishing
in the grass
don’t know what it’s calling for
getting hotter
sweat streams down
life boils over
waiting for another life
April, 1979
捕松鼠
白色沙地上
瑟瑟的
向日葵
黃菊
吐信的蛇昂起頭
投下一個一個黑影
一個一個洞穴
蓬亂的草
團團
拱起
是墳墓
還是隱秘的
髮絲？
仔細聽
裏面有
綷縩的聲音
有生物
顫抖
是蛇
是鼠
是蜥蜴
還是一陣偶然的熱風？
白色沙地上
黃花
展開了
洞穴的
嘴巴
輕輕觸及
索索草葉中
柔和的花瓣
顫慄了
未開啟的唇
未說出的話
輕輕觸及
仙人掌的細刺
戳痛了
伸過去的手
一片會移動的沙
蜥蜴灰色的身體
竄過
沒入草叢
微張的洞穴
裏面是甚麼？
聽
那嚶嚶的
細語
一窩鳥
一頭兇猛的生物
隱隱在喘息
俯身向泥土裏面呼喚
等着聽它回答
把指頭放在裂縫上
探近了
黑暗
未知的呼息
牽起了
絲絲縷縷
晦澀的言語
越來越炎熱
沙漠裏
太陽直射
寂靜中
只有
草叢裏的聲音
噝噝的
不知在叫喚甚麼
越來越炎熱
汗水流下
生命正沸騰
等待那陌生的生命
一九七九年四月
50 Gladstone Avenue
Dear Holly and Ka-sing:
Thanks for inviting me to the opening
of your new gallery. My flight was on time
but two months too soon: 48-50 Gladstone
is still under renovation. Never mind
Our hearts are witness to each other’s milestones
Scientific time is not always in sync with our own
Glitches happen, as sometime ago I tried to contact
your state-of-the-art computers. So avant-garde
they preferred self-perfection to conversation
Just as well, isn’t it? The past
dismantled, laid out on the floor
Power-cutters cut old connections to make new links
A house in a state of openness:
Wood floor, dare to expose its holey heart
Divisions and doors of protection, yet to be set up
We find our footprints in vintage dust
We look out from the vantage of incompletion:
From the 2nd floor, we perceive
tomorrow’s 3rd floor, and yesterday’s basement
Started out looking for some storage space along the street
Ended up with a three-story gallery. Fun
can become a responsibility, a heaviness
So many rooms: one to chase out melancholy
one to endure pain from illness, one made esoteric
by feng shui and ghosts, another for the family
where children grew
Old rooms torn down for new configurations
We rock-climb on the floor, sail across the ceiling
Tightrope above the sink, headstand on the windowsills
In each room we perform acrobatics for housewarming
Rid of the past (but keep one
elegant front door) to better enter the future?
Each day’s progress chips the blueprint in the heart
A different city renovates with different speed and prices
The weighing and measuring and balancing—
A hardship in the making. Will the critic friend from the island
understand, in the end, good art isn’t necessarily ironic?
To change wind’s direction is hard, in any place
Nomads, disappointed, keep chasing water and grass
As words become monsters, pitching their tents on the web
We communicate in digital language, but don’t we also hear
the slow murmuring of our past?
Take the windows and odds and ends for a rich box of art
Then we’ll have new shows forever
In front of lenses, murky or sharp
You are the site where great events once happened
When you move the mouse
You are the flowing water of distant imagination
You are the red-white-blue bag carrying the most junk
You are the accents of men and women, the young and the old
What’s impossible in this room
Take it to another room
Play your magic. Keep playing
Always carry your roomful of boxes:
One disappeared, a new one invented
2006
Translated by Lo Hui
吉石大道五十號
親愛的家昇與楚喬
多謝你們邀請我來參加
新畫廊的開幕禮，航機依時抵達
卻早了兩個月，吉石路四十八、五十號
還在進行裝修工程，沒關係，我們在心中
互相見証彼此生命中的重要時刻
儘管科學的時間並不一定與我們同步
總有參差，就像之前我整天嘗試跟你先進的
電腦系統溝通，但它們太先進了
獨自完善自己，並不情願與我對話。
就這樣不也很好嗎？過去都拆散
分佈在地板的不同區域
電掣切斷舊的糾纏，重新建立新的連繫
房子正處於一種開放的狀態
地板不怕坦露了心中的窟洞
屏障和防禦的門戶有待完成
我們從昔日的灰塵裡發現自己的鞋印
我們從不完整的狀態中張望
卻提供了更好的角度，從二樓
透視未來的三樓，回顧地下的昨天
原先沿街尋找看中儲物的小室
沒想到要連起三層的畫廊，從嬉笑開始
也可以變成責任，夠沉重的
這麼多個不同的房間：在其中一間放逐傷感
在另一間忍受疾病的痛切，一間裡有
幽靈和風水的玄秘，另一間是
子女成長的家常
原來的房間拆去又組成新的圖案
我們在地板上攀石，風帆航過天花板
在水碗上走單桿，在窗緣倒豎蔥
不同的房間裡我們表演的雜技沒有冷場
要把一切過去拆掉（還是要保留
一扇優雅的大門）以便更好地移進未來？
每天看工程的進展總跟心中的藍圖互有齟齬
在不同城市裝修工程有不同的進度與價錢
在逐漸成形的艱困中，衡量如何
把握分寸，不知小島上藝評的朋友到頭來
可會明白︰好的藝術不見得就是反諷？
要轉移一個地方的風向談何容易
失望的游牧逐水草而居
當文字變成怪獸，在網上搭起帳蓬
大家用數碼化的語言溝通，卻好似
又聽見了昔日遲緩的耳語？
把窗子連同雜物看成一個豐富的盒子藝術
那就永遠有新的展覽
不管面對朦朧或尖銳的鏡頭
你是大事曾經在此發生的現場
當你移動撥鼠
你是遠方想像的水流
你是攜帶最多雜物的紅白藍膠袋
你是男女老幼的鄉音
不能在這個房間產生的
就在另一個房間完成吧
你們在玩魔術，一直玩下去
隨身帶著許多盒子的房間
一個消失了又變出一個新的
(20/4/06—15/5/06)
Thanks for inviting me to the opening
of your new gallery. My flight was on time
but two months too soon: 48-50 Gladstone
is still under renovation. Never mind
Our hearts are witness to each other’s milestones
Scientific time is not always in sync with our own
Glitches happen, as sometime ago I tried to contact
your state-of-the-art computers. So avant-garde
they preferred self-perfection to conversation
Just as well, isn’t it? The past
dismantled, laid out on the floor
Power-cutters cut old connections to make new links
A house in a state of openness:
Wood floor, dare to expose its holey heart
Divisions and doors of protection, yet to be set up
We find our footprints in vintage dust
We look out from the vantage of incompletion:
From the 2nd floor, we perceive
tomorrow’s 3rd floor, and yesterday’s basement
Started out looking for some storage space along the street
Ended up with a three-story gallery. Fun
can become a responsibility, a heaviness
So many rooms: one to chase out melancholy
one to endure pain from illness, one made esoteric
by feng shui and ghosts, another for the family
where children grew
Old rooms torn down for new configurations
We rock-climb on the floor, sail across the ceiling
Tightrope above the sink, headstand on the windowsills
In each room we perform acrobatics for housewarming
Rid of the past (but keep one
elegant front door) to better enter the future?
Each day’s progress chips the blueprint in the heart
A different city renovates with different speed and prices
The weighing and measuring and balancing—
A hardship in the making. Will the critic friend from the island
understand, in the end, good art isn’t necessarily ironic?
To change wind’s direction is hard, in any place
Nomads, disappointed, keep chasing water and grass
As words become monsters, pitching their tents on the web
We communicate in digital language, but don’t we also hear
the slow murmuring of our past?
Take the windows and odds and ends for a rich box of art
Then we’ll have new shows forever
In front of lenses, murky or sharp
You are the site where great events once happened
When you move the mouse
You are the flowing water of distant imagination
You are the red-white-blue bag carrying the most junk
You are the accents of men and women, the young and the old
What’s impossible in this room
Take it to another room
Play your magic. Keep playing
Always carry your roomful of boxes:
One disappeared, a new one invented
2006
Translated by Lo Hui
吉石大道五十號
親愛的家昇與楚喬
多謝你們邀請我來參加
新畫廊的開幕禮，航機依時抵達
卻早了兩個月，吉石路四十八、五十號
還在進行裝修工程，沒關係，我們在心中
互相見証彼此生命中的重要時刻
儘管科學的時間並不一定與我們同步
總有參差，就像之前我整天嘗試跟你先進的
電腦系統溝通，但它們太先進了
獨自完善自己，並不情願與我對話。
就這樣不也很好嗎？過去都拆散
分佈在地板的不同區域
電掣切斷舊的糾纏，重新建立新的連繫
房子正處於一種開放的狀態
地板不怕坦露了心中的窟洞
屏障和防禦的門戶有待完成
我們從昔日的灰塵裡發現自己的鞋印
我們從不完整的狀態中張望
卻提供了更好的角度，從二樓
透視未來的三樓，回顧地下的昨天
原先沿街尋找看中儲物的小室
沒想到要連起三層的畫廊，從嬉笑開始
也可以變成責任，夠沉重的
這麼多個不同的房間：在其中一間放逐傷感
在另一間忍受疾病的痛切，一間裡有
幽靈和風水的玄秘，另一間是
子女成長的家常
原來的房間拆去又組成新的圖案
我們在地板上攀石，風帆航過天花板
在水碗上走單桿，在窗緣倒豎蔥
不同的房間裡我們表演的雜技沒有冷場
要把一切過去拆掉（還是要保留
一扇優雅的大門）以便更好地移進未來？
每天看工程的進展總跟心中的藍圖互有齟齬
在不同城市裝修工程有不同的進度與價錢
在逐漸成形的艱困中，衡量如何
把握分寸，不知小島上藝評的朋友到頭來
可會明白︰好的藝術不見得就是反諷？
要轉移一個地方的風向談何容易
失望的游牧逐水草而居
當文字變成怪獸，在網上搭起帳蓬
大家用數碼化的語言溝通，卻好似
又聽見了昔日遲緩的耳語？
把窗子連同雜物看成一個豐富的盒子藝術
那就永遠有新的展覽
不管面對朦朧或尖銳的鏡頭
你是大事曾經在此發生的現場
當你移動撥鼠
你是遠方想像的水流
你是攜帶最多雜物的紅白藍膠袋
你是男女老幼的鄉音
不能在這個房間產生的
就在另一個房間完成吧
你們在玩魔術，一直玩下去
隨身帶著許多盒子的房間
一個消失了又變出一個新的
(20/4/06—15/5/06)
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