Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Biography: Ma Yongbo (马永波), born in 1964, is a scholar, poet, and translator of British and American postmodernist poetry. He has written more than 70 books, including American Poetry After 1970, Anthology of British Contemporary Poetry, Summer Playing at Two Speeds, and Snow on the Hedge. He currently teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.
Author: Ma Yongbo (马永波)
窗上的霜
已是春天，窗上的霜渐渐稀薄
它曾在玻璃上画下远山和纠结的树丛
它曾把一个少年引上无人的小径
让惟一亮着的灯陷在下沉的网中
当然，这些都是回忆
它无法挽留正在消失的一切
让那个少年在窗上走出更远
直到今天——一个白色的陷阱
无疑，霜是冷暖交战的产物
在夜里，像一群孩子扒着窗户
窥视我们温暖的生活
睁大晶状的眼睛，而阳光最初的闪耀
也是从窗上的霜中开始的
越来越响亮，像一阵赞美
我趴在窗台上，看窗上的花纹
渐渐化成一片水汽
和我的呼吸一起，把窗子变成氤氲的镜子
我们就透过这模糊的镜子观察事物
在语言和真实之间，触摸到潮湿的冷意
2001.3.11
Frost on the Window
Spring. The frost on the window thins.
It once etched mountains and thickets on the glass,
once led a young man onto a solitary path,
and caught the lone lamp’s light in its sinking net.
Of course, these are memories.
The frost can’t keep everything from disappearing.
Let the boy go further into the window
until he lands in today’s white trap.
Frost is what comes of the night’s war
between cold and warm, it’s like children
holding the sill, peeking into our cozy life
with their crystalline eyes.
The waking sun emerges from the pane
crackling, like bursts of praise.
I’m leaning on the sill, the patterns
turning to a sheet of vapor.
I breathe, and the window becomes a drenched mirror.
We perceive things through this blur
between language and reality, touch the damp cold.
秋天的敲击
秋天，我们坐在屋子里
听树叶上的风声，说着一些什么
我们有时停下，听一听外面
风声和雨声，有时分不清楚
有阳光的时候，我们会压低声音
我们并没有谈到树木和外面
那些好看的鸟儿按时来吃黑亮的树籽
吐了一地，秋天变得空旷了
黎明的火车把鸣叫藏在草里
“有人在我们头上钉钉子。”
我偶然说出了这样的话
我们坐在那里，不动
从一开始，我们就应该一动不动
2010.10.25
Autumn’s Knock
In autumn, we sit in the house
Listening to the wind in the leaves,
saying this and that. Sometimes we stop
and just listen to the blur of windy rain.
When the sun appears, we lower our voices.
We don’t mention trees, or the world outside.
The pretty birds arrive, as usual, to eat the bright black seeds,
Then spit them on the ground. Autumn empties out.
At dawn, the train buries the chirping in the grass.
Suddenly I am speaking:
“Someone is hammering nails over our heads.”
We sit there, still.
From the beginning, we should have stayed still.
2010. 10. 25
父亲老了
父亲老了
早上点起的灯还亮着
谁也不知道父亲怎么就那样老了
那时我坐在墙角里
吃一块蛋糕
用手抠着里面的李子
我没有看他
什么也不知道
父亲老了
总要把广播开到最响
吃饭时筷子滴滴答答
狂风里的树
也滴着水
滴着水，枝干闪闪发亮
山上的云，拖走了一片树林
我没有想以后的事情
父亲从外面回来
如菊的手撩开结疤的树枝
我没有想以后会怎样
我还坐在墙角里
吃那块吃不完的蛋糕
那一天，仿佛总也没有过完
外面他编的篱笆，还是新的
1984
Father is Old
Father is old.
In the morning the lamps are still burning.
How does a father become old?
That time I sat in the corner
eating a piece of cake
and picking the plums out—
I didn’t see him.
I knew nothing.
Father is old.
He turns the radio to full volume.
His chopsticks click as he eats.
Trees in the gale
are also dripping,
dripping, branches shining.
On the mountain, clouds drag away the forest.
I wasn’t thinking about the future.
Father returned home,
his chrysanthemum hands pushing aside the scarred branches.
I didn’t think about what would happen.
I just sat in the corner
eating my cake forever.
That day has never ended.
The fence he built is still new.
1984
