海岬上的缆车
风是冷的，海岬，落入了黄昏。
再加上一个配角，这哆嗦而干净的秋天。
我，一个人，坐在缆车上，脚下是湛碧而汹涌的海水。
一只海鸥停在浮标上，向我张望。
我也望着它，我的手，紧紧抓住棒球帽。
我，一个人，抓住这时辰。
抓住我的孤单。我拥抱它，
仿佛它是风，充满力量，然而却是
那么虚无。
2003.4.6.18:04
A Cable Car on a Headland
The wind is cold, the headland falling into the twilight.
And there is another actor here in this trembling, clean autumn.
I, all alone, sit in a cable car, crystal blue surging water at my feet.
A seagull perches on the buoy, intently gazing at me.
I gaze back, my hand clutching my baseball cap.
I, all alone, seize the moment.
I clutch my loneliness. I embrace it,
as if it were wind, full of strength, yet it is
utterly empty.
2003.4.6.18:04
.
每天早晨的道路
冰凉的水
走过时间凋敝的森林
从坎坷的额角
走至荒芜的下腭
那股清醒的思想
浸润着未曾破裂的皮肤
他在一面劣质蛋圆镜子里
看到一位苍老的陌生人
向他张望
向他做着各种各样的表情
他默不作声
他知道残废的门框
有窃听的功能
拉开门
就是漫长而狭窄的街
每个行人
都迈着棉花的脚步
向稀奇古怪的目的靠近
他看见电车黑暗的车轮
像古老的唱片
在花哨的晨光指针下面
在他自己错乱的血液下面
在莫名其妙的电波监测下面
安详地运转
安详地对每一幢规矩的建筑
对每一盏失血的路灯
对每一群新鲜的儿童
展示它天真的眼睛
他绽线的皮鞋
载着杂草前夜的梦语
向河的南面
向既定辉煌的内心
向我和你共同的约束
缓缓前行
风，章鱼般的手指
握着他树枝般的手指
那种隔世的温暖
从每条排水管道
从每方地铁入口
从每扇打开的灵魂深处
露出它疲倦的笑容
1987.9.22
The Road Every Morning
cool water
passing by the woods of withered time
from a rough forehead
to a barren jaw
that lucid train of thought
soaked through unbroken skin
he sees an aged stranger
in a shoddy oval mirror
looking at him
with various facial expressions
he remains silent
acutely aware that the discarded door frame
functions as an eavesdropper
open the door
to a long and narrow street
with each pedestrian
approaching a bizarre end
with cotton-light footsteps
he sees the dark wheels of a tram
like old records
peacefully spinning
under the garish morning light
under his own deranged blood
under the inexplicable airwave monitoring
peacefully presenting its innocent eyes
to every regulation building
to every bleeding streetlamp
to every group of fresh-faced children
his ragged leather shoes
bearing weeds and last night’s sleep talk
heading south of the river
to the established glorious mind
to our shared bondage
slowly moving forward
the wind, with octopus-like appendages
holds his twig-like fingers
the warmth of the other world
from every drainage pipe
from every subway entrance
from the vaults of every opened soul
cracks a tired smile
1987.9.22
室内乐
1.
我坐在时间的阴影里。
街上年轻的你
看
坐在阴影里的我，
一只陌生的红色蚂蚁。
我看你，
你背部简洁明了的日光，
你背部昏黄温暖的言语。
教堂的钟
此时开始引导你，
用他诱惑的呻吟。
你走进去，
像一枚淡黄的果核，
走进：嘴
明亮的孔穴。
我坐在时间的阴影里。
你知道么？
我在认真地看你。
2.
屋内没有谁。
远处操场有很多落叶。
落在心外面的秘密，
我不说，
便没有谁知道。
门球，父亲母亲的游戏
和深灰色的脚手架
构成角度。
在这种角度里没有我，
我是一种深刻的烦恼。
我走远了。
我躲进墙上的画面。
我看门后的你。
你找茶杯的时候，
我看墙。
我知道
你不是看我，
你只是
出于一种已知的习惯。
3.
我喜欢低着头
和鱼
说话。
鱼是我寂寞的影子。
他可以游动，
也可以变幻形状，
而我不能。
我是一株焦黑的树桩。
我不能动。
云推我，雨爱我
我也不能。
我只能说话，
我的语言
是你头顶的红色草帽，
每一圈的沉默
鱼都知道。
我讨厌我。
我
经常在幻觉中
脱掉我，
在你周围
唱情歌。
你微笑抚摸我：
多乖
孩子
你的鱼也是我的影子。
4.
他睡了，
一片美的蓝夜。
他睡在河上。
河流吻着他的悲哀。
他睡里梦见我。
我躺在河岸，
我数漫天的星辰。
1988.6.1-2
Chamber Music
1.
I sit in the shadow of time.
A young you on the street
watching
me sitting in the shadows,
a strange red ant.
I see you,
the light of your back, simple and transparent,
the words on your back, dusky and warm.
This is the time
the church bell begins to guide you
with his seductive moaning.
You walk in,
like a yellowish core,
into: its mouth,
a shining cavity.
I sit in the shadow of time.
You know what?
I’m watching you in earnest.
2.
There’s no one in the room.
The playground is scattered with fallen leaves.
The secret that falls out of the heart:
if I fail to reveal it,
no one would know.
Croquet: mother and father’s game
forms an angle
with the dark grey scaffolding.
From this angle I do not exist,
I’m a profound irritation.
I have walked far away.
I hide in the picture on the wall.
I watch you behind the door.
When you look for a teacup,
I watch the wall.
I know
you’re not looking at me,
but simply looking
out of habit.
3.
I like to keep my head down
and talk with
the fish.
The fish is the reflection of my loneliness.
He swims,
changes his shape,
but I can’t.
I am a scorched stump.
unable to move.
The clouds push me,
the rain loves me;
I still can’t move.
The one thing I can do is speak.
My language
is the red straw hat on your head,
the fish know
every circle of silence.
I hate myself.
I often take off my own self
in hallucinations,
singing love songs
around you.
You touch me with a smile:
what a lovely
child.
Your fish is also my reflection.
4.
He’s asleep.
A beautiful blue night.
Sleeping on the river.
The river kisses his sorrow.
He dreamed of me in his sleep.
I lie on the riverbank,
counting the stars blanketing the sky.
1988.6.1-2
诗人怎样生活
诗人怎样生活
找到自己，阳光和土地
我和街角穿蓝色羽绒制服的女孩
同时大笑，彼此注视一座正在崛起的建筑
我过会儿就要乘十七次特快列车奔向雪国
而她会走向哪里
在我心中有一片雪野一样广阔的猜测
这是我找到的奇妙的生活
1989.12.31
How a Poet Lives
how does a poet live
seek out his self, the sunshine and the earth
the girl in the blue down coat at the street corner and I
burst into laughter simultaneously
while gazing at a rising building
I’m taking Express 17 hurtling towards Snowland in a minute
but where will she go
a vast snowy field of conjecture opens out in my mind
this is the wonderof life I have found
1989.12.31
稗草
你们以为团结在一起，
就能成为向风示威的鞭子，
把风撕碎而不是被风
把头拨过来拨过去。
其实外行看见的壮观
并不能减轻你们因屈辱而造成的痛苦，
如果把声音加进来，
更大的外行也会把眼泪抛出来。
你们挣扎的痕迹可能仅仅
体现在草叶弓起的瞬间，
如果不曾注意，斗争也就泯灭在
无穷无尽的伪装的寂静之中。
知根知底的泥土，
曾经倾听过你们秘密的决心，
你们不要把他们当作你们的友人，
天暮时分，他们一定会断然抽去你们的水分。
在这短暂的旅行之中，
清醒地意识到生命的结束也就行了。
重生的仿佛是你们，
其实根本不是你们。
没有安慰——
现在就可以冷冰冰地告诉你们，
那么还可以做点儿什么？
欣赏彼此的色泽如何巧妙地向天色转换。
2011.9.14.18:45
Water Grass
You think that coming together
makes you a whip against the wind:
tearing the wind up, instead of getting
your head tossed around by it.
In fact, the grand spectacle outsiders see
cannot alleviate the pain humiliation has caused you,
and if you include the voices,
even greater outsiders would shed tears.
The traces of your strivings might only
appear in the moment that grasses and leaves bow up.
If you’re not paying attention, the struggle vanishes
into endless silence in disguise.
The soil knows you to your roots;
it has listened to your secret resolutions.
But don’t take them as your friends:
at dusk, they will be sure to suck the water from you.
In this brief journey,
knowing clearly when life has come to an end is enough.
The reborn might resemble you,
but they are never really you.
There is no consolation:
I can coldly say this now.
What else is there to do?
Appreciate how each other’s lustre deftly becomes the colour of sky.
2011.9.14.18:45
给住在楼下的弟弟的一封信
我告诉你：东部的农场是军队的，不是
父亲的。他的烟斗中放满了干豆角叶子。
没人道歉。你知道：这个国家有太多的
歉意，对山上那株榆树，对河边那株
铃兰和她的姊妹。父亲躺在草丛中看着
比飞机更高的一颗星的滑行。因为高度
他不能断定：那是卫星呢，还是流星。
常识的获得其实比我们想象的要艰难，
在像黑龙江这样辽阔而又荒凉的外省里。
1996.12.8
A Letter to My Brother Living Downstairs
Let me tell you: the eastern farm belongs to the army,
not Father. His pipe is filled with dried bean leaves.
No one apologises. You know, this country owes too many
apologies: to the elm on the mountain, to the riverside
lily of the valley and her sisters. Father, lying in the bushes, sees
a star gliding higher than planes. Because of the height,
he can’t tell whether it is a satellite or a meteoroid.
The acquisition of common sense is harder than we imagined,
especially in Heilongjiang, this vast and bleak outer province.
1996.12.8
我年幼的时候是个杰出的孩子
我年幼的时候是个杰出的孩子
我被公众孤立。我站在校舍操场边的杨树林里
目睹同龄的男孩子女孩子歌唱
我想死去的姐姐，在薄薄的被窝里搂着我
青青的头发，蓝色花朵的书包
我知道在我身体里面住着
不止一个人，他们
教我许多谁也不懂的游戏
阳光有着三色蛋糕一样的层次，我为什么看不见？
我蹲在高高的窗台下，我的旁边是吃鱼骨的猫咪
我捏着针状的罂粟花叶放入嘴里
我感到印字硬糖一样的甜
1990.5.2
When I Was Young I Was An Outstanding Child
when I was young I was an outstanding child
I was isolated in public. I stood in the poplar woods near the schoolyard,
witnessing the singing of boys and girls of my own age
I thought of my dead older sister, hugging me under a thin quilt,
her indigo hair, her schoolbag of blue flowers
I knew that more than one person
was living in my body; they
taught me games no one else understood
sunlight has the gradation of a three-layered cake; why couldn’t I see them?
I squatted under high windows; a kitten was chewing fishbones beside me
I put needlelike poppy petals in my hands into my mouth
I felt the sweetness of engraved candy
1990.5.2
那么多丑陋的字句
那么多丑陋的字句陈列在干净的纸上。
那么多糟糕的东西竟是我多年的心血。
我称之为神圣的，今夜已是垃圾。
我得退出去了。我是个胆怯的人。
因为我是多么的无知。
因为我的笔是那么的愚笨。
笔尖开不出花，只有一滴滴墨水。
墨水里浸泡着我的泪。
谁都可以活着。我也可以。
别理我。请你们别再理睬我。
让我默默地写一会儿。
我的悲伤也是末路的。
1992.1.15
Ugly Words
A plethora of ugly words are now displayed on a clean page.
Years of blood, sweat and tears are no more than this plethora of disgusting things.
Sacred I used to call them, tonight they seem to me nothing but trash.
I have to quit. I dare not.
For I am a hopeless idiot.
For my pen could not be more obtuse.
On its nib no blossoms seen, only drips of ink ooze.
The ink brims with my tears.
Everyone is allowed to live. I am too.
Leave me alone. Please everyone leave me alone.
Let me write in silence for a little while.
My sadness is a dead end too.
1992.1.15
乡野间
有一天，我在乡野间乱走。
不知向东还是向北。只是乱走，在潦草的乡野之间。
但一株草、一株树，却让我停下来。
这株草，这株树，不是什么奇迹，也没给我什么欢喜。
但我停下来，在乱走之中缓缓停了下来。
2004.8.5.19:52
In the Fields
One day, I was wandering aimlessly in the fields.
I couldn’t tell if I was heading east or north, just drifting, in the scrawled fields.
But, a blade of grass, a lone tree, stilled me.
The blade of grass and the lone tree were not miracles, nor did they please me.
But I stood still, gently still amid my drifting.
2004.8.5.19:52
自画像
我是怎样的？
羞涩，挑剔，保守，
还有那么一点儿洁癖。
反复洗手，
直到没有一点儿泥痕。
看了太多的转述，
这样，那样。
那是我么？被马虎地误读，
被故意地误读。
迹近毁谤的，我不辩解；
无中生有的，我不在乎。
光斑是我有意忽略的，
我面对着个人的黑暗。
至少在你的面前，
我是透明的琥珀。
其实，我一直是透明的。
切勿把我的知识当作复杂；
切勿把我的宁静当作莫测高深。
我是典型的Ｏ型血，
我是典型的处女座。
我不奢望彻底的干净，
不奢望长出柔软的白色的羽毛，
不奢望在天上飞；
但是会与欲念斗争，
哪怕是你死我活。
2009.8.30.22:56
Self-portrait
What am I like?
Shy, picky, conservative
a bit of a neat freak.
I wash my hands again and again
until no mud remains.
I have read too many old stories:
so it goes, so it goes.
Are they all me? Be carelessly misread,
or deliberately.
from those who attempt to spread slander, I don’t defend myself;
to those who fabricate something out of nothing, I pay no mind.
The light spots are something I shun consciously,
I face my own darkness.
At least in front of you,
I am transparent amber.
Actually, I am always transparent.
Do not mistake my knowledge for complexity;
do not mistake my serenity for profundity.
I am a typical O blood-type,
I am a typical Virgo
I don’t yearn for immaculacy,
don’t yearn to grow soft white feathers,
don’t yearn to fly in the sky;
but I shall dive in to a desperate grapple with my desires
even if it is a fight to the death.
2009.8.30.22:56
Sang Ke 桑克
Sang Ke was born in 1967 at 8511 Farm, Heilongjiang Province. He graduated from the School of Chinese Language and Literature of Beijing Normal University. As a renowned poet, he has published several collections of poems, including Sang Ke’s Poems, Sang Ke: Selected Poems, Snow in Midnight, No Title, Poems 15, Tears, Slider, A cable car on a Headland, Nightclub, Cold Air, Turntable Game, Landscape Poetry, Morning Flight in Winter. He is the Chinese translator of Philip Larkin and Wystan Hugh Auden. Sang Ke is currently living in the city of Harbin.
