Poems by Bei Dao
Bei Dao (1949-), meaning "Northern Island" literally, is the pseudonym of Chinese modern poet Zhao Zhenkai, who became in the 1970s the poetic voice of his generation. Bei Dao gained first international acclaim with the poem 'Answer,' which was published in the official poetry journal Shi Kan (Poetry Monthly) in 1980. 'I don't believe the sky is blue; / I don't believe in thunder's echoes; / I don't believe that dreams are false; / I don't believe that death has no revenge." (from 'The Answer') Bei Dao's tone was defiant and especially the last lines from 'Notes on the Coty of the Sun,' have been often quoted as representing the disillusionment of his generation.
Answers
Cruelty is the ID pass of the cruel,honesty the grave stone of the honest.Look, in the sky plated gold,crooked reflections of all the dead float around.The glacial epoch is over,so why is there ice everywhere?Good Hope was rounded a long time ago,so where are these thousands of boats racing on the Dead Sea?I came into this worldwith only blank pages, rope and my fingers;therefore, before final judgements are given,I need to speak in all the voices of the defendants.Just let me say, world,I--don't--believe!If a thousand challengers are under your feetcount me as challenger one-thousand-and-one.I don't believe the sky is always blue;I don't believe it was thunder echoing;I don't believe all dreaming is false;I don't believe the dead cannot bring judgement.If the sea is doomed someday to break its leveesmy heart must flood with all the bitter waters.If the land is destined to form the hills again,let real human beings learn to choose the higher ground.The latest, favorable turnings, the twinkling starsstudding the naked sky,are pictographs five-thousand years old.They are the eyes of the future staring at us now.
An Unfamiliar Beach
--to P.1The sails have been lowered.A winter forest of mastscontains unexpected sights and sounds of Spring.2The ruins of a lighthousestill hold the great beams from the past.You lean on the remaining stairs,on the rusted banisters,beating the same rhythm over and over.3In the dignity of high noonour shadows look for temporary lodging.All over the placesalt rock glistens, condensed andsparkling with memories.4In the distancethere is a vast, white expanse.The blue horizonis like a moving deck.How many nets have been cast?5A scarf,like a red bird,waves over the Sea of Japan.It flings its imitation of fireat this grey end of the world,and at your fixed gaze.An absence of storms is fine,but there is also no direction and no wind.Perhaps in answer to a call,its wings thrum like a bowstring.6The ebbing tidewave after wave,spills on a golden carpet,spills a night suffused with foam,a lost rope, a broken oar.Fishermen bend their naked backsand repair the temple the storm collapsed.7Children chase a crescent moon.A sea gull flies right for you,but doesnt light on your outstretched hand.
Quiet and Tremble
Translated by the author with the assistance of Chen Yan Bing and Diana Jaioyou are drawing yourselfbeing born--light's risingturning the paper-nightmadness that you releasedis quiet cast by truthpride shines as if internal woundsdarken all the wordsin secret tremblingthose angels in uniformsof a private schoolbecome fish, querying seaa wind reads rutssaluting the blue silk beyondpain
An Ancient Temple
The long ago songs of a bellweaved this spider web; in the column's crevices,grown outward, one sees annual rings there for the counting.No memories are here; stonesthat merely scattered the echoes in this mountain valley,have no memories.That little path, even, by-passed it;its dragons and strange birds are gone.They took with them the silent bells that hung from the eaves.They took the unrecorded legends of the place, too.The words on the walls are all worn clean and torn.Maybe if it caught on fireone could read the words on the inside.See the annual growths of the wild grasses,so indifferent.They don't care if they submit to any master,to the shoes of the old monks,or to the winds, either.Out front the sky is held up by a broken stone tablet.Still, led by the gaze of some living person,the tortoise may revive andcome out carrying his heavy secret,crawl right out there on the temple's threshold.
We
lost souls and scattered spiritsholdings lanterns chase springscars shimmer, cups revolvelight's being createdlook at that enchanting momenta thief steals into a post officeletters cry outnails o nailsthe lyrics never changefirewood huddles togethersearching for an audience to listensearching for the heart of winterriver's enda boatman awaiting boundless twilightthere must be some one to rewrite love
Outsider
one generation drops like a curtainthe next is applaudingthe lifetime you've knownhiding in dark placesstarts gaining attentiongroping, hence lightletting half a life empty outand fill with crane songsomeone's swimming in sicknessas autumn wind inspectsthe small temperaments of young animalsthe road joins sleepand in radiant light that's defeated youyou stand fast at the nameless fencetranslated by David Hinton
June
Wind at the ear says JuneJune a blacklist I slippedin timenote this way to say goodbyethe sighs within these wordsnote these annotations:unending plastic flowerson the dead left bankthe cement square extendingfrom writing tonowI run from writingas dawn is hammered outa flag covers the seaand loudspeakers loyal to the sea’sdeep bass say June
Delivering Newspapers
Who believes in the mask’s weeping?who believes in the weeping nation?the nation has lost its memorymemory goes as far as this morningthe newspaper boy sets out in the morningall over town the sound of a desolate trumpetis it your bad omen or mine?vegetables with fragile nervespeasants plant their hands in the groundlonging for the gold of a good harvestpoliticians sprinkle pepperon their own tonguesand a stand of birches in the midst of a debate:whether to sacrifice themselves for art or doorsthis public morningcreated by a paperboyrevolution sweeps past the cornerhe’s fast asleep
Post
An elk heading for the pit-trappower, the fir tree said, strugglecherishing the same secretmy hair turned whiteretiring, going backwardsleaving my postonly one step backno, ten whole yearsmy era behind mesuddenly beating on a bass drum
Untitled
The landscape crossed out with a penreappears herewhat I am pointing to is not rhetoricOctober over the rhetoricflight seen everywherethe scout in the black uniformgets up, takes hold of the worldand microfilms it into a screamwealth turns into floodwatersa flash of light expandsinto frozen experienceand just as I seem to be a false witnesssitting in the middle of a fieldthe snow troops remove their disguisesand turn into language
Teacher’s Manual
A school still in sessionirritable restless but exercising restraintI sleep beside itmy breath just reaching the nextlesson in the textbook: how to flywhen the arrogance of strangerssends down March snowa tree takes root in the skya pen to paper breaks the siegethe river declines the bridge invitesthe moon takes the baitturning the familiar cornerof the stairs, pollen and virusesdamage my lungs damagean alarm clockto be let out of school is a revolutionkids jump over the railings of lightand turn to the undergroundother parents and Iwatch the stars rise
Morning Song
Words are the poison in a songon the track of the song’s night roadpolice sirens aftertastethe alcohol of sleepwalkerswaking up, a headachelike the window’s transparent speakersfrom silence to a roarlearning to waste a lifeI hover in the birdcallscrying neverwhen the storms have filled up with gaslight rays snatch the letterunfold it and tear it up
Deformation
My back to the window of open fieldsholding on to the gravity of lifeand the doubts of Maylike the audience at a violent movielit by drinkexcept for the honey-drop at five o’clockthe morning’s lovers grow oldand become a single bodya compass needleon a homesick seabetween writing and the tablea diagonal enemy lineFriday in the billowing smokesomeone climbs a ladderout of sight of the audience
Spending the Night
A river brings a trout to the platebrother alcohol and father sorghumask me to spend the night, the glasshas the wrinkles of a murdererthe hotel clerk stares at meI hear his arrhythmic heartthat heart now bright now dimlighting the registration formon the glossy marblethe piano goes out of tunethe elevator turns a yawn into a screamas it cuts through lamplit foamcoming out of its sleevethe wind bares an iron fist
The Hunt
The teacher faded long agoyet the fragments of her diaryact as a go-betweenfollowing the corridors of continual evolutionthe whole team chases the rabbitwho will skin it?the back door leads to summerthe eraser can never erasethe dotted lines turning into sunlightthe rabbit’s soul flies lowlooking for its next incarnationthis is a story, many years agosomeone’s ears pricked upstole a glimpse of the skyand we the wolves suckling on a red lamphave already grown up
Mission
The priest gets lost in prayeran air shaftleads to another era:escapees climb over the wallpanting words evokethe author’s heart troublebreathe deep, deepergrab the locust tree rootsthat debate the north windsummer has arrivedthe treetop is an informermurmurs are a reddish sleepstung by a swarm of beesno, a storm
Swivel Chair
I walk out of a roomlike a shadow from a music boxthe rump of the sun swaysstopping dead at noonempty empty swivel chairin the funnel of writingsomeone filters through the white paper:wrinkled facesinister wordsin regard to enduring freedomin regard to can I have a lightthe heart, as if illuminatingeven more of the blindshuttles between day and night
Dry Season
First it’s the wind from homethe father like a bird flyingover a river of drowsy hazesuddenly changes coursebut you’re already sunk in the fogsupposing memory wakeslike the night sky in an observatoryyou clip your fingernailsclose the door open the doorfriends are hard to recognizeuntil letters from the old dayscompletely lose their shadowsat sunset you listen closelyto a new citybuilt by a string quartet
Soap
In the kitchen washing my handssoapy water runs down the drainlike a French horn’sanxietythe bride waves goodbyeto the canal of keeping dateswho is the white-haired witnessgoing upstream?a group photo with the sunhalf my face coveredthe other half daylightin the windless solitudein the rivers and lakes fish forget one anotherthe night creates a momentary godbats in the eyes of drug addictsdestroy themselves in passion
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发表于 2017-8-8 01:38:49
