向杜甫致敬 / Xiang Du Fu zhi jing (jie xuan)

这是另一个中国。
  为了什么而存在?
没有人回答,也不
再用回声回答。
  这是另一个中国。

一样,祖孙三代同居一室
  减少的私生活
  等于表演;下一代
由尺度的残忍塑造出来
  假寐是向母亲
  和父亲感恩的同时
学习取乐的本领,但是如同课本
  重复老师的一串吆喝;
啊,一样,人与牛
  在田里拉着犁铧耕耙,
  生活犹如忍耐;

这是另一个中国。
  讲汉语仅仅为了羞耻,
当我们像啤酒,溢出
  古老语言的泡沫,就是
没有屈辱感, 也没有荣耀。
  牙膏、馅饼、新名词
  引文和人类精英
之类蠢头衔换掉了嘴巴的
  味觉,谁肯定呢,
  这不是勾践的诡计?

熟悉的城市在变成
  另一座城市,相同的
  楼群,带着
小片伤疤(郊区的小河
  流着临时码头淌下的坏血)
家家电视收看一部连续剧,
  几个人杀人,缺乏
  正义感但是幽默。
(说到“人性”,警察认为,
  得睡一觉,美美地。)
  至于诡计将否定
我们所说的和所习惯的绝望,
  机关里准备了最佳理由
  让喜悦来统治表格。

啊,我在河北、长江和上海的
  灰色漩涡——
  停电,停热,停水——
辨认出神仙的行踪,
  我轻蔑地恭敬地出神,
  我看见了另一个人。
街头的熊熊红色舔食着他
  那肉感的柴薪竭力证明
这是另一个中国。
  勉强算是“中国”的遗迹。
可是在菜场,在阅报栏前,在其它
  次重要场所——奇迹般地——
      生命信念
把两个中国的臣民沟通;
  一侧是男人做女红。

不读你们的日记
  我也谴责你们的苦衷,
  (栽花养草,说废话)
那幸存者的委屈所控告的飘逸
  构成了妖媚的判词,
 “句法,风骨”,
简直就是稀泥。我恶心
  你们发明的中国,慢速火车
  缀结起来的肮脏国家,
照着镜子毁容,人人
  自危 ,合乎奖赏,
 (火车开过来了)

山顶和楼顶上的望远镜
  放大的局部痛苦
使得我比你激烈——在街头
  我向一个老头撒娇:把你
  说已经给我们的东西给我们!
给?就是给。老头领
  和老现实,拒绝
  妥协,别无它途。
我面对着的倒是我所缺乏的,
  国家,支配,某一天,
  和自由的能力。

麻雀的黄昏理论可以休矣!
  恐龙轻飞的哲学,
  必须饶恕九十年代的
中国人,他不能崇拜沉默。
  翻译就像风疹。
  斜眼是合适的,
合适而又警惕。哦,交集着
  悲哀和糊涂,坐在门前的
  泥地上:孩子们
喊叫着走过;命运尖厉的哨声
  控制着成长。睡前
  读《人间喜剧》。
  
这是另一个中国。
  只是为了存在。
不是官僚的,而且是反官僚的。
  我们的生活就象我们
  躲躲藏藏,可是我们
目的并非痛苦,也不是
  因此折腰,自言自语,  
  喃喃地,“你,你呢?”。     


(1995.8)

© Xiao Kaiyu
From: Xuexi zhi tian (Das süsse Lernen)
Beijing: Gongren, 2000
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Homage to Du Fu, Part One

This is another China.
            For what does it exist?
Nobody answered, not even an
echo of an answer either.
            This is another China.

It’s the same, three generations to a room,
            living in reduced privacy amounts to
            a performance; the next generation
is fashioned from a certain measured cruelty.
            Dozing is a much-appreciated
            shared time for mother and father
to learn the skill of pleasure, but it’s like a teacher
            reciting from the textbook in a string of bellows;
Alas, it’s the same, people and cattle
            in the field pulling the plow, tilling the land,
            life is like enduring.

This is another China.
            To speak Chinese only to be ashamed,
When we are like beer, with ancient words
            frothing up, it’s just
that there’s no sense of humiliation, and no honor either.
            Toothpaste, meat pie, the text
            of new words and the essence of humanity
are idiotic titles just to swap out the taste
            in the mouth. Who can say for sure
            that this is not just a cheap trick?

The familiar city is changing
            into another city, with the same
            clumps of buildings, keeping
the minute scars (which from makeshift docks
            are oozing with rotted blood)
A soap opera is broadcast on TV in each and every home.
            A few people kill another; it lacks
            a sense of justice but it’s funny.
 (Speaking of “human nature,” the police believe,
            one must sleep for a while, soundly.)
            As for disclaiming the trick,
there’s no hope for what we’ve said and are accustomed to;
            the authorities have prepared the most exquisite reasons
            to allow joy to rule the paperwork.

Alas, the grey swirls around me in Hebei,
            Shanghai, and the Yangtze River -- --
            The electricity goes off, the heat goes off, the water goes off -- --
Identifying the tracks of gods and immortals,
            I’m lost in a trance of disdain and reverence.
            I see another person.
Flames of red on the street are licking and devouring him.
            That sexy kindling safely proves
this is another China.
            If pressed, we could call it the remnants of “China.”
But in the vegetable market, in front of the newspaper stands, in other
            areas of secondary importance -- -- as if a miracle -- --
                        the belief in life
gets two Chinese
            On the side one man does needlework.

Not reading your diaries,
            I condemn your muted anguish,
             (cutting flowers, growing grass, talking nonsense)
That elegance, a survivor’s accusation of being wronged,
            Becomes a seductive verdict,
            “Syntax, style,”
It’s simply muck. I’m disgusted by
            the China you invented, a slow, lurching train,
            A patchwork of a filthy nation,
a shattered countenance in the mirror, all the people
            endangering themselves, rising to the accolades,
             (The train passes by)
The partial magnification of suffering seen
            through binoculars from atop mountains and roofs
makes me fiercer than you ---- on the street
            I whine to the old man:
            Give us what you said you already gave us!
Give? That’s right, give. The old man leads
            the old reality, refusing
            compromise, there’s no other way.
What I am facing is actually what I am lacking,
            country, control, one day,
            and the ability to be free

The twilight reasoning of the sparrows can cease!
            The philosophy of gliding dinosaurs,
            One must make allowances for the Chinese
Of the 1990s.  They can’t worship silence.
            Translation is like a rash.
            It’s appropriate to avert the eyes,
Appropriate and still unnerving.  Eh, the congregants
            Are melancholy and muddled, sitting in the dirt
            In front of the door; the children scream
As they go by; the shrill whistle of destiny
            Stifles their growth.  Before they sleep,
            They read Comédie Humaine.

This is another China.
            It’s only for survival.
It’s not bureaucratic, in fact its anti-bureaucratic.
            In our lives it seems we
            Are hiding, but our
Goal is not to toil, and it’s not
            Therefore bending at the waist, talking to ourselves,
            Murmuring, “You, and how about you?”

Translation by Christopher Lupke