让一个陌生人/在清晨的镜子里等我
黄梵的近作延续着他对“物”的冷静而克制的扫描，但必须注意到：他所谓的“移动的深渊”不仅指代“我”，更具体地，它恰恰是那个“使用语言的我”，那个在语言中构型出事物、却始终不曾脱离对“空无”之怀想的“我”。（秦三澍）
黄梵的诗
罗玛丽 译
中年人的胡子
胡子，总向来人低头
不是凭吊，就是认错
甚至像围巾，悉心裹着一个人的叹气
只要有风经过，它也想飞起来
它一直往下长，是想拾捡地上的脚印？
是想安慰被蚯蚓钻疼的耕土？
是想弄清地上的影子，究竟有没有骨头？
是想长得像路一样长，回到我初恋的地方？
它从不记恨我每天刮它的疼痛
它从不在乎，我是它飞不高的祸首
当然，它也像一根根铁链
把我锁进了中年
一旦睡梦来临，它便腾出一千只手
彻夜为我化妆，让一个陌生人
在清晨的镜子里等我
2015
THE MIDDLE-AGED BEARD
The beard is always bowing to onlookers.
If it's not paying respects, it's confessing wrongs.
It's a scarf tenderly circling a man's sighs.
With every breeze, it tries to take flight.
Is it reaching down to pluck our footprints?
To comfort the earthworm-ravaged soil?
To find out if shadows have bones?
Does it want to grow as long as a road
to the place where I first fell in love?
It never begrudges me for yanking it.
It doesn't mind that I'm the rival it can't rise above.
Of course, each hair is a link in the chain
shackling me to middle age.
As I dream, my beard frees a thousand hands.
They spend all night doing my make-up, making the stranger
who waits for me in the mirror every morning.
Chris Steele-Perkins.jpg
苍蝇
我想看清它的脸
不论幸福还是饥饿都狰狞的脸
想象它体内装满了毒药
想象它恼人的嗡嗡声里，泊着对我的仇恨
其实它和人一样，只是饿了
像饥饿的人推门进来，想要一块饼
但我没有勇气放过它——
要用苍蝇拍啪啪的官话，消灭它嗡嗡的方言
它不得不跳起生死的圆舞曲
也许，它是苍蝇界的信徒
向往去它的圣地——我的厨房
展开翅膀来祷告
嗡嗡的祷文，令它不敢栖息在供品
——我的蛋糕上
也许，它是苍蝇界的文艺青年
想把目光狠狠插进诗集——
它沿诗集爬了一圈，却没找到缝隙
只听见，屋里响起了阴险的脏话
也许，它是苍蝇界的乖孩子
渴望父亲和它嬉戏
这飞来飞去的苍蝇拍，多像它酷爱的飞碟啊
只一瞬，就把它揽入黑暗的怀抱
2015
HOUSEFLY
I want to see his face.
No matter whether he's happy or hungry, his face stays ferocious.
I imagine his body full of poison.
I imagine his buzz full of hate for me.
Actually he's like a person: just hungry,
like a starving person barging in, wanting a cookie.
But I'm not brave enough to let him slip by—
I have to squash his buzzing dialect
below the slap slap of the swatter's jargon.
All he can do is dance his waltz of life and death.
Maybe in the fly world, he's a believer
yearning to go to the holy land: my kitchen.
Spreading his wings to pray
a prayer that warns him not to perch on the offering:
my cake.
Maybe in the fly world, he's a young artist,
wanting to bury his nose in a book of poetry—
he crawled all over the book but couldn't find an opening.
He heard only my curses filling the room.
Maybe in the fly world, he's a good kid
longing for his father to play with him.
This swatter waving back and forth is just like that kid's Frisbee—
hurled suddenly into darkness.
老婆
我可以谈论别人，却无法谈论老婆
她的优点和缺点，就如同我的左眼和右眼——
我闭上哪一只，都无法看清世界
她的青春，已从脸上撤入我的梦中
她高跟鞋的叩响，已停在她骨折的石膏里
她依旧有一副玉嗓子
但时常盘旋成，孩子作业上空的雷霆
我们的烦恼，时常也像情爱一样绵长
你见过，树上两片靠不拢的叶子
彼此摇头致意吗？只要一方出门
那两片叶子就是我们
有时，她也动用恨
就像在厨房里动用盐——
一撮盐，能让清汤寡水变成美味
食物被盐腌过，才能放得更长久
我可以谈论别人，却无法谈论老婆
就像牙齿无法谈论舌头
一不小心，舌头就被牙齿的恨弄伤
但舌头的恨，像爱一样，永远温柔
2015
MY WIFE
I can talk about other people, but I can't discuss my wife.
Her merits and faults are my left and right eyes:
if I try to shut either, I can't see clearly.
Having left her face, her youth lives in my dreams.
A cast on her leg hushed her high-heeled clicking.
She still has a jade throat
but it often thunders over the kids'unfinished homework.
Our worries seem as enduring as love.
Have you ever seen two distant leaves on a tree
nodding towards each other? Whenever one of us goes out,
she and I are those leaves.
Sometimes she uses hate
like salt in cooking:
a pinch of salt turns a meager meal into a delicacy.
Only food cured in salt can keep.
I can talk about other people, but I can't discuss my wife.
Just as teeth can't discuss the tongue—
if they aren't careful, their hate injures the tongue
but the tongue's hate is just like love: always tender.
问题的核心
棕色的东西
其实是蓝色的
黄色的爱情
其实白得单纯
红色的杀戮
其实是黑色的背叛
有些缓慢
其实刺刀一样冲动
亮得耀眼的
其实灰得惭愧
夸耀你的
其实是蓄意的省略
喷薄而出的英雄
其实是委身者
成就其实
是累了的被拒绝
我和你
虽然不同
其实一样要面临结束
2001
THE CORE OF THE PROBLEM
Brown things
Are in fact green
A gold love
Is in fact pure white
A red massacre
Is a black deceit
Those who are slow
Are quick as blades
Blinding radiance
Is in fact gray shame
What you flaunt
Is what’s been elided
The rising hero
Is an acquiescent slave
Accomplishment in fact
Is exhausted rejection
You and I
May appear to be different
Are in fact alike facing the end
筷子
筷子，始终记得林子目睹的山火
现在，它晒太阳都成了奢望
它只庆幸，不像铺轨的枕木
摆脱不了钉子冒充它骨头的野心
现在，它是我餐桌上的伶人
绷直修长的腿，踮起脚尖跳芭蕾——
只有盘子不会记错它的舞步
只有人，才用食物解释它的艺术
有无数次，它分开长腿
是想夹住灯下它自己的影子
想穿上灯光造的这双舞鞋
它用尽优雅，仍无法摆脱
天天托举食物的庸碌命运
我每次去西方，都会想念它
但我对它的爱，像对空碗一样空洞
我总用手指，逼它向食物屈服
它却认为，是我的手指
帮它按住了沉默那高贵的弦位
当火车用全部的骄傲，压着枕木
我想，枕木才是筷子的孪生兄弟
它们都用佛一样的沉默说：
来吧，我会永远宽恕你！
2015
CHOPSTICKS
Chopsticks remember forest fires.
Now they can't even sunbathe.
They're just lucky they're not railroad ties
impaled by those zealous railroad spikes.
Now my chopsticks form an actor on the table,
his slender legs on tiptoe to dance ballet.
Only the plate will remember his steps.
Only a human being would use food to interpret art.
The chopsticks keep extending their legs,
wanting to pluck their own shadow,
wanting to wear those pointe shoes made of lamplight.
No matter how elegant they are, they can't escape
their destiny: having day after day to lift food.
Every time I go to the West, I miss chopsticks,
but my love is hollow as an empty bowl:
I always make my chopsticks serve me
and still they think my fingers press the frets of a noble silence.
When a train uses all the force of its pride to crush the railroad ties,
I think those ties are chopsticks'twins.
They use the same buddha's silence to say
Come, I will always forgive you!
汤勺
我们和汤勺成不了朋友
哪怕喝汤时，我们深情地看着它
我们衣锦荣华，它却总把自己倒空
它要倒掉让地球变穷的山珍海味
它宁愿空着眼窝，也不要汤水给它眼睛
它拒绝阅读坟场一样的菜单
有时，我似乎听见它谈起久别未归的故乡——
那锈黑了河水的矿山，曾经是啄木鸟弹琴的琴房
我们买再多的汤勺，也和汤勺成不了朋友
它宁愿空着眼窝，也不想和我们交换眼神
宁愿不穿衣裳，也不拔一根草取暖
只愿用清脆的嗓音，和瓷碗谈心
我不记得，已买过多少汤勺
我努力学习，这空眼窝的盲诗人的语言
看戏之前，试着用喝汤的声音，道出它内心的巨响
2015
SPOONS
We can never befriend spoons.
We gaze at them feelingly, slurping soup.
We pile on clothes while they empty themselves,
pouring away those delicacies plundered from the world.
A spoon prefers an empty socket to the eye soup would pool for it.
It doesn't want to read the menu's epitaphs.
Sometimes, I think I hear a spoon describe its long-lost village—
the river blackened by a mine that used to echo with woodpeckers.
No matter how many spoons we buy, we can't befriend them.
A spoon prefers its socket empty, doesn't want to meet our eyes.
It wants to stay naked, it won't pick a single blade of grass to warm itself.
It only raises its pure voice to confide in a porcelain bowl.
I don't remember how many spoons I've bought.
I study the language of this blind poet's sockets.
Eating soup before I see a play, I try to make my slurping sing
that vast sound of the spoon's interior.
——诗作选自《飞地·得体》，张尔主编，2019年。
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黄梵，原名黄帆，1963年5月生，湖北黄冈人。诗人、小说家。1979年由黄冈中学高一考入南京理工大学飞行力学专业，1983年毕业后留校任教，现为该校文学副教授。已出版《第十一诫》《浮色》《南京哀歌》《月亮已失眠》《等待青春消失》《女校先生》《中国走徒》等。长篇小说处女作《第十一诫》在新浪读书原创连载时，点击率超过300万，被网络推重为文革后最值得青年关注的两部小说之一。《中年》入选“新诗百年百首”。诗歌在海峡两岸广受关注，被联合报副刊主编称为近年在台湾最有读者缘的大陆诗人。受到珠江国际诗会、青海湖国际诗歌节、多伦多国际文学节等邀请；2011年受邀访台，成为“两岸作家交流计划”驻留作家；2014年受邀访德，成为“中德作家交流计划”驻留作家；2015年受邀访美，成为弗蒙特中心驻留作家。获《作家》金短篇小说奖、紫金山文学奖长篇小说奖、北京文学奖、“中国好诗歌”奖提名奖、金陵文学奖、《芳草》汉语双年诗歌十佳奖、《后天》双年度文化艺术奖、美国露斯基金会诗歌奖金等，作品被译成英、德、意、希腊、韩、法、日、波斯、罗马尼亚等文字。
| 罗玛丽，美国纽约80后诗人，出版有诗集《分时度假》等。生于纽约，曾就读哈佛大学和爱荷华大学作家工作室。诗歌见于《波士顿评论》《新共和国》《纽约客》等。获得奥尼登诗歌奖，富布赖特研究基金，斯坦福大学斯特格纳奖学金，露丝基金会中文诗歌翻译奖学金等。曾在爱荷华大学和耶鲁大学任教，目前任斯坦福大学琼斯讲师。
编辑：尘卷
