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欧阳江河的诗(剑桥大学徐志摩诗歌节专稿)

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发表于 2015-7-29 10:01:39 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
欧阳江河的诗
(剑桥大学徐志摩诗歌节专稿)

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欧阳江河,男,1956生于四川省泸州市,原名江河,著名朦胧派诗人。1979年开始发表诗歌作品,1983年至1984年间,他创作了长诗《悬棺》。其代表作有《玻璃工厂》,《计划经济时代的爱情》,《傍晚穿过广场》,《最后的幻象》,《椅中人的倾听与交谈》,《咖啡馆》,《雪》等。著有诗集《透过词语的玻璃》,《谁去谁留》,《事物的眼泪》、评论集《站在虚构这边》,其写作理念对20世纪90年代以来的中国诗坛有较大的影响,现居北京。
 楼主| 发表于 2015-7-29 10:08:44 | 显示全部楼层
谁去谁留

黄昏,那小男孩躲在一株植物里
偷听昆虫的内脏。他实际听到的
是昆虫以外的世界:比如,机器的内脏。
落日在男孩脚下滚动有如卡车轮子,
男孩的父亲是卡车司机,
卡车卸空了
                        停在旷野上。
父亲走到车外,被落日的一声不吭的美惊呆了。
他挂掉响个不停的行动电话,
对男孩说:天边滚动的万事万物都有嘴唇,
但它们只对物自身说话,
只在这些话上建立耳朵和词。
        男孩为否定物的耳朵而偷听了内心的耳朵。
他实际上不在听,
却意外听到了一种完全不同的听法—
那男孩发明了自己身上的聋,
他成了飞翔的、幻想的聋子。
会不会在凡人的落日后面
另有一个众声喧哗的神迹世界?
会不会另有一个人在听,另有一个落日
在沉落?
                哦踉跄的天空
大地因没人接听的电话而异常安静。
机器和昆虫彼此没听见心跳,
植物也已连根拔起。
那小男孩的聋变成了梦境,秩序,乡音。
卡车开不动了
                                父亲在埋头修理。
而母亲怀抱落日睡了一会,只是一会,
不知天之将黑,不知老之将至。
1997.4.12于斯图加特

Who is Gone, and Who Remains


Dusk: the boy secrets himself in a tree-root,
eavesdropping on the innards of insects.
What he hears is not the world of insects
but the world outside: for example, innards of machines.
The setting sun turns beneath his feet like the wheel of a truck,
the boy’s father drives a truck
the truck is empty
                                        parked in an empty field.
The father gets out, and the soundless beauty of the sunset strikes him dumb.
He turns off his crying cell phone, says to the boy:
all things turning at the edge of the sky
have lips, have tongues. But they speak only amongst themselves,
erecting their ears upon this speech.
                The boy, refusing to believe in the ears of things, listens to the ears
                of his heart.
In truth, he is not listening at all,
but, by not listening, he overhears
a different kind of hearing—
he invents his own deafness, and soars,
rising on mute updrafts of imagination.
Behind our everyday sunset, could there be
a miracle-world alive with voices?
Could there be another boy listening, another sun
sinking in the west?
                                Staggering sky—
The world has fallen silent: a telephone rings on, unanswered.
Machines and insects cannot hear each other’s heartbeats,
and the root has been ripped from the soil.
The boy’s deafness becomes dream-vision, protocol, brogue.
The truck is broken
                                        his father buries his head under the hood
and his mother sleeps, sunset cradled in her arms, unaware
of the coming of night, the coming of age.
 楼主| 发表于 2015-7-29 10:10:04 | 显示全部楼层
毕加索画牛        

接下来的两个星期毕加索在画牛。
那牛身上似乎有一种越画得多
也就越少的古怪现象。
“少”艺术家问,“能变成多吗?”
“一点不错,”毕加索回答说。
批评家等着看画家的多。

但那牛每天看上去都更加稀少。
先是蹄子不见了,跟着牛角没了,
然后牛皮像视网膜一样脱落,
露出空白之间的一些接榫。
“少,要少到什么地步才会多起来?”
“那要看你给多起什么名字。”

批评家感到迷惑。
“是不是你在牛身上拷打一种品质,
让地中海的风把肉体刮得零零落落?”
“不单是风在刮,瞧对面街角
那间肉铺子,花枝招展的女士们,
每天都从那儿割走几磅牛肉。”

“从牛身上,还是从你的画布上割?”
“那得看你用什么刀子。”
“是否美学和生活的伦理学在较量?”
“挨了那么多刀,哪来的力气。”
“有什么东西被剩下了?”
“不,精神从不剩下。赞美浪费吧。”

“你的牛对世界是一道减法吗?“
“为什么不是加法?我想那肉店老板
正在演算金钱。”第二天老板的妻子
带着毕生积蓄来买毕加索画的牛。
但她看到的只是几根简单的线条。
“牛在哪儿呢?”她感到受了冒犯。
                        1998.9.17于北京





Picasso Paints a Bull



Over the course of the next two weeks Picasso will paint a bull.
A bull whose body seems possessed by a strange reality:
the more Picasso paints, the less there is.
“Can less”—the artist asks—“become more?”
“Right on,” Picasso replies.
The critic waits to see the painter’s more.

But Picasso’s bull just keeps getting less and less.
The hooves are first to go—then the horns,
then the skin itself drops off like a retina,
revealing the joints between empty spaces.
“How less does it have to get before it becomes more?”
“That depends on the name you give to more.”

The critic is confused. “Would you say that in this work
you are committing moral violence on the bovine body,
shearing off every scrap of flesh with your Mediterranean wind?”
“Don’t blame the wind—look at that butcher shop
across the way. Every day I watch lovely young ladies
walk home with a few dozen pounds of his meat.”

“Whose meat? The meat of the bull on your canvas?”
“Now that depends on which knife you use.”
“Is this a contest between the ethics of aesthetics and the ethics of life?”
“All cut up, how’d he have energy for that?”
“And what’s left over? Anything?”
“No, no spirit remains. Praise waste.”

“Is your bull an act of subtraction upon the world?”
“Why not addition? I imagine that butcher is
counting his cash right now.” Sure enough, the next day,
the butcher’s wife comes with her life savings to buy Picasso’s bull.
But all she sees is a couple lines.
“Where’s the bull?” she asks, indignant.
 楼主| 发表于 2015-7-29 10:25:27 | 显示全部楼层
汉英之间

我居住在汉字的块垒里,
在这些和那些形象的顾盼之间。
它们孤立而贯穿,肢体摇晃不定,
节奏单一如连续的枪。
一片响声之后,汉字变得简单。
掉下了一些胳膊,腿,眼睛。
但语言依然在行走,伸出,以及看见。
那样一种神秘养育了饥饿。
并且,省下很多好吃的日子,
让我和同一种族的人分食,挑剔。
在本地口音中,在团结如一个晶体的方言
在古代和现代汉语的混为一谈中,
我的嘴唇像是圆形废墟,
牙齿陷入空旷
没碰到一根骨头。
如此风景,如此肉,汉语盛宴天下。
我吃完我那份日子,又吃古人的,直到

一天傍晚,我去英语角散步,看见
一群中国人围住一个美国佬,我猜他们
想迁居到英语里面。但英语在中国没有领地。
它只是一门课,一种会话方式,电视节目,
大学的一个系,考试和纸。
在纸上我感到中国人和铅笔的酷似。
轻描淡写,磨损橡皮的一生。
经历了太多的墨水,眼镜,打字机
以及铅的沉重之后,
英语已经轻松自如,卷起在中国的一角。
它使我们习惯了缩写和外交辞令,
还有西餐,刀叉,阿司匹林。
这样的变化不涉及鼻子
和皮肤,像每天早晨的牙刷
英语在牙齿上走着,使汉语变白。
从前吃书吃死人,因此

我天天刷牙,这关系到水,卫生和比较。
由此产生了口感,滋味说
以及日常用语的种种差异。
还关系到一只手,它伸进英语
中指和食指分开,模拟
一个字母,一次胜利,一种
对自我的纳粹式体验。
一支烟落地,只燃到一半就熄灭了
像一段历史。历史就是苦于口吃的
战争,再往前是第三帝国,是希特勒。
我不知道这个狂人是否枪杀过英语,枪杀过
莎士比亚和济慈。
但我知道,有牛津辞典里的、贵族的英语,
也有武装到牙齿的、邱吉尔或罗斯福的英语。
它的隐喻,它的物质,它的破坏的美学
在广岛和长崎爆炸。
我看见一堆堆汉字在日语中变成尸首——
但在语言之外,中国和英美结盟。
我读过这段历史,感到极为可疑。
我不知道历史和我谁更荒谬。

一百多年了,汉英之间,究竟发生了什么?
为什么如此多的中国人移居英语,
努力成为黄种白人,而把汉语
看作离婚的前妻,看作破镜里的家园?究竟
发生了什么?我独自一人在汉语中幽居
与众多纸人对话,空想着英语。
并看着更多的中国人跻身其间
从一个象形的人变为一个拼音的人。


1995,6,于成都





Between Chinese and English



I live between the bricks of Chinese characters,
in glances exchanged between image and image.
They’re separate but continuous, with shifting limbs
and a rhythm uniform as gunfire.
The dust settles: Chinese is simplified.
Off tumble legs, arms, eyes.
But my language still runs, still reaches, sees.
These mysteries give birth to hunger.
And there are plenty of suns and moons left
to linger over with my comrades-in-tongue.
In this vast crystal aggregate of accents and dialects,
this murky admixture of ancient and new,
my mouth is a circular ruin,
teeth plunging into space,
never hitting bone.
Such vistas, such meat: Chinese is a banquet for all.
I eat up my suns and moons, and the ancients’ too, till

one evening I walk through the English corner, and see
a bunch of Chinese mobbing an American kid: it seems
they want to make their homes in English.
But in China, English has no sovereign turf.
It’s a class, a test, a TV show,
a way of speaking, words on paper.
On paper, we behold our penciled nature.
A sketch, a life of worn erasers.
After centuries of inkwells, spectacles, typewriters,
after years of accumulated lead,
how could English be so light, folded and tucked in our corner?
Now we speak diplospeak, acronyms,
muffins, aspirin, forks and knives.
But these changes do not affect the nose, the skin:
like the toothbrush you pick up in the morning, English
glides lightly over the teeth, whitening language.
With so much ink caked in my gums, I’d better

brush every day: this requires water, a cleaning agent, and perspective.
It gives rise to theories of taste, and countless
disparities in everyday usage.
It also requires a hand, reaching into English,
two fingers apart, a letter, a triumph,
a Nazi experiment upon the self.
A cigarette falls to the ground still burning
like history, which after all
is what happens when one nation eats another’s words.
One step forward, you’ve got the Third Reich, Hitler.
I don’t know if that madman gunned down English,
massacred Shakespeare and Keats.
But I do know that English comes in two flavors:
the noble, alphabetized English of Oxford,
and the English of Churchill and Roosevelt, armed to the teeth.
Its metaphors, its science, its obliterating aesthetics
landed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
I watched Chinese characters become Japanese corpses—
but outside of language, our nations are allies.
I’ve read this history, and I’m suspicious.
I don’t know which is crazier, history or me.

What’s happened, this past hundred years, between Chinese and English?
Why are so many Chinese streaming into English,
trying hard as they can to blanche their own skin?
Why do they treat their language like an estranged wife,
a home in a broken mirror?
I live alone amid my stacked bricks, conversing
with paper dolls, dreaming in English, while all around me
Chinese mount the steps to English, turning
from people of pictures to people of sound.







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