Someday I shall lay down my pen
And take slow walks. Can you picture
My calm steps tinged with faint sorrow?
Chi Lingyun, born in Rui’an, Zhejiang Province in 1966, began writing in 1985. Her poetry collections include The Smallness and Lightness of Eternal Things, Selected Poems of Chi Lingyun, Light Creeping Forward and Golden Lichen. Some of her poems have been translated into English, German, Korean and other languages. She is the recipient of the October Poetry Award, the Dong Dangzi Poetry Prize, and the Outstanding Poet Award of the Liu Bowen Poetry Prize.
池凌云，1966年出生于浙江瑞安，1985年开始写作。著有诗集《永恒之物的小与轻》《池凌云诗选》《潜行之光》《金色地衣》，部分诗作被翻译成英文、德文、韩文等。曾获《十月》诗歌奖、东荡子诗歌奖•诗人奖、刘伯温诗歌奖•杰出诗人奖。
Translated by Ma Yongbo
Gloom of Dusk
Someday I shall lay down my pen
And take slow walks. Can you picture
My calm steps tinged with faint sorrow? By then
I will have settled all debts for every joy I’ve known,
No more restless dread. I am no fugitive,
Nor do I bear any glory to speak of.
I simply let all visions come to me:
A fir tree, beside a bodhi tree.
Silently I inscribe the vastness of great souls,
The weariness of nameless lives,
The hush of dead desires.
Then my nightfall shall set forth, bearing my new birth.
I remain clumsy, unversed in spring breezes:
Depth is but an ancient dry well. Warmth
Resides in the hearts of strangers hurrying down roads.
All things will shift, all things fade—
There shall be no lakeshore left to haunt my memory. Not even
My most beloved melody can sing the whole of me.
I know not whether to turn left or right. A thousand times
I rouse myself, lifting my face to the sky
I’ve gazed upon a thousand times. At last it sinks into gloom—
This truest light, drawing me deep within itself.
This unshakable beauty of despair holds me lost in solitary reverie.
黄昏之晦暗
总有一天，我将放下笔
开始缓慢的散步。你能想象
我平静的脚步略带悲伤。那时
我已对我享用的一切付了帐
不再惶然。我不是一个逃难者
也没有可以提起的荣耀
我只是让一切图景到来：
一棵杉树，和一棵
菩提树。我默默记下
伟大心灵的广漠。无名生命的
倦怠。死去的愿望的静谧。
而我的夜幕将带着我的新生
启程。我依然笨拙，不识春风：
深邃只是一口古井。温暖
是路上匆匆行人的心
一切都将改变，将消失
没有一个可供回忆的湖畔。甚至
我最爱的曲子也不能把我唱尽
我不知道该朝左还是朝右。我千百次
将自己唤起，仰向千百次眺望过的
天空。而它终于等来晦暗——这
最真实的光，把我望进去
这难卸的绝望之美，让我独自出神。
***
Iron Water Lily
When a block of iron is melted, plated silver,
And cast into the shape of a water lily,
It resembles a brief ballad, exquisite yet desolate,
Casting faint glimmers amid cups and goblets.
Its desolation is tangible. Hard sharp edges
Carry a wisp of cold; where the metal seems broken,
Raised veins stretch outward—a new birth
Spanning from raw iron to a lily bloom.
A subtle revelation lingers within it:
The fine grain etched into metallic leaf veins,
The deliberate missing notch, neither too big nor too small,
An exact likeness of unfulfilled longing.
What of the craftsman’s hands behind this forging?
Why are they obsessed with stitching fractures whole?
The art of poetry, the craft of mending brokenness,
Is fraught with uncertainty. A lump of iron,
Aided by molten liquid, enters a unique mould,
Taking shape while bearing inherent rifts.
This transformation can blur a master artisan’s gaze,
Deadening his sharp sense of smell.
This improbable fusion brings quiet perplexity,
Like a poem woven from endless ambiguities.
A brand-new creation carries on,
Marked with minor flaws, ashes hidden deep inside,
While an indescribable beauty flows endlessly forth.
铁睡莲
当一块铁被溶解，被镀上银色
并有了一朵睡莲的形状
像一首短歌，精致而荒凉
在杯盏之间流泻淡淡光泽。
它的荒凉是真实的，坚硬的边角
带有一丝寒意，断裂之处
有凸出的经络延展，一种新的诞生
从一块铁，到达一朵睡莲。
某种微妙的启示
比如金属的叶脉中，细密的纹理
比如这故意缺损的一角，不多不少
正如无法抵达之遗憾。
这背后的锻造之手，
为何热衷于弥合？
诗的艺术，避免破碎的艺术
也有不确定性。而一块铁
借助溶液，到达一种特殊的容器
形成结构与分歧。
这过程足以让一个好匠人的目光
突然模糊，嗅觉失灵
这不可能的交融，带来困扰
像一首充满不确定之诗
全新的发明，在延续
尽管有些许残损，一些灰烬隐藏其中
而一种难以言说的美，在流动。
***
Mother, Every Time I Teeter on the Brink of Collapse
Mother, every time I teeter on the brink of collapse,
I long to come see you. To behold how you bear everything
Without complaint or regret, unflinchingly resigned.
What you taught me goes far beyond mere endurance—
It is a whole way of being alive. And yet
Countless times I’ve caught you
Sitting alone in pitch darkness,
Lingering for ages, unwilling to turn on the light.
Mother, you tell me not to dwell on absurd trivialities,
Not to steep myself too deeply in grief.
“Nothing will ever amount to nothing, never.”
“Even if all seems reduced to emptiness, do not draw your verdict—
Or it shall surely come to pass.”
Again and again, I marvel
That you never received formal schooling,
Yet your wisdom dwarfs mine by far.
Mother, your flowery summer dress brings to mind
An aged flower goddess dwelling hidden among mortals.
You still think of the childhood betrothal arranged for me long ago,
Softly murmuring your excuse: “We were simply too poor back then.”
You chatter of mundane odds and ends as you tidy bowls and plates
In the kitchen, and every clink and rustle you make
Speaks against my despair: nothing exists
That cannot be borne. Nor does any perfect, finer life await us.
One of my feet bears an old wound, while the other
Cannot resist the pull sinking me down. Bereft of strength
To carry my burdens, sorrow overwhelms me. Some mending,
I find, no longer works at all. Mother, last night
I dreamed I’d lost my mind. In that dream,
My clothes hung tattered, and I could not recall the way home.
You gazed at me like a sorrowful horse
Halfway up the mountain slope, turning back
To watch me with unending grief in your eyes.
母亲，每一次濒临崩溃的边缘
母亲，每一次濒临崩溃的边缘
我就想来看看你。看你无怨无悔，
坦然接受一切的样子。
你教我的，不止是忍耐
而是一种活着的态度。可是
好多次我看到你
也独自坐在黑暗中，
久久不愿开灯。
母亲，你要我不要介意荒谬的日常，
不要过度品尝那些伤心事。
“不会一切等于零，不会的。”
“即使一切等于零，也别下结论，
不然就会真的应验。”
一次又一次，我惊讶
你并没有读过书。
我的智慧，却远不如你。
母亲，你夏天的花衣让我想到
老去的花神，隐身在人间。
你惦记着早年给我定娃娃亲，
委婉地解释，“只怪家里太贫穷。”
你一边说着琐事，一边在厨房
整理碗碟，你发出的每一种声音
都在反驳我：没有什么
不堪承受。也没有更好的生活。
我一只脚受过伤，另一只
抵不住下坠之势。失去负重的能力
让我禁不住悲伤。而有些修补法，
已不管用。母亲，昨天夜里
我梦见自己疯了。在梦中，
我衣衫褴褛，不记得回家的路，
你看着我，像一头忧伤的马，
在半山腰，你回头，忧伤地
望着我。
______________________
Read: Cold Moon of the Tang Dynasty
