It has never flowed. It lies quiet and undisturbed
Within dikes striped with loess and green grass,
Like a sleeping infant. The surface of its water
Is smooth as an infant’s cream, its hues shifting with every season.
Ouyang Bai
Ouyang Bai, Doctor of Philosophy. Member of the China Writers Association and Vice Chairman of the Hunan Provincial Poetry Society. He has published more than 1,500 literary works, predominantly poems. His publications include six poetry collections and two volumes of literary criticism. In 2004, he founded the Poetry House Website, and together with fellow contributors to the site, put forward the doctrine of “Quality Poemism”. Since 2005 to the present, he has served as chief editor of the annual Poetry House Anthology and the journal Poetry House.
欧阳白，哲学博士。中国作协会员，湖南省诗歌学会副会长。发表以诗为主的文学作品1500余篇（首），著有诗集六部、评论集两部，2004年开创“诗屋网”，并和诗屋同仁一道提出“好诗主义”。2005年起至今主编诗屋年选和《诗屋》杂志。
Translated by Ma Yongbo
August 16, 2014, or Liuyang River
Do not laugh at me—I truly fail to write familiar things close at hand,
Such as the Liuyang River to my left. In my eyes,
It has never flowed. It lies quiet and undisturbed
Within dikes striped with loess and green grass,
Like a sleeping infant. The surface of its water
Is smooth as an infant’s cream, its hues shifting with every season.
The long sand dredger upon its waters seems frozen in place.
Whose accumulated wealth is this?
Silver sand piles high aboard.
Whose time, slipped and hoarded between fingers?
To my sight, it has never slipped with the age
Into the shadowed current of materialism.
Only on Dragon Boat Festival does it stir into bustle:
Dozens of dragon boats, urged onward by drumbeats,
Carve streaks across the infant’s soft skin—
All marks fading fast, returning the river to pure calm.
Cars race back and forth all day along both banks,
Yet the river lies flat as water lilies,
Facing the vast, ash-grey, impassive sky, clear, cool, unperturbed.
Only when I walk to the other side of my desk does it shift, to my right.
2014年8月16日，或者浏阳河
别笑话我，真写不好身边熟识的事物
比如左侧的浏阳河，在我眼里
它没有流动过，一直安安静静地
躺在黄土和绿草相间的堤坝里
像一个熟睡的婴儿，河水的皮肤表面
婴儿般凝脂，颜色却随着季节而更换
河面上那艘长长的挖沙船似乎也没有动过
不知道是谁沉淀的财富
船上堆满了银色的沙子
不知道是谁从指间攒下的时间
我眼中的它，没有和时代
一起滑入物质主义的阴河
端午节时，才变得闹热起来
十几条龙舟在鼓点的怂恿下
在婴儿的皮肤上划出一条条印痕
又迅疾归于澄净
两岸汽车整日飞驰而过
它却和睡莲一样，平摊着
面对阔达、灰白而面无表情的天空
清冽而沉静
只有当我走到书桌对面时，它才移到了我的右边
***
August 17, 2014, or the Flagpole Hidden in Cuffs
You left me three-dimensional memories and desires,
Much like the moonlit shade borne of your restraint.
The closer autumn draws, the hotter the air grows,
Leaving me lost, adrift, at a loss for what to do.
A gust of wind rises, and a tale begins—only to end right after.
Your delicate features seem to hint at some hidden dread.
I know the power supply will hold steady this entire autumn.
Lotus leaves have nearly shed their summer raiments;
I stand daze-struck beside the pond.
Inside the cuffs of your cheongsam lies a flagpole. I spot sails
Rising above the lake’s surface. A crucian carp of autumn mistakes it
For a fishing rod, darting abruptly down into the depths.
Tormented by hunger, it swims back again soon after. I watch its plump,
Rounded body glide nimbly yet erratically through the autumn waters.
I snap off a shaft of sunlight and shoot it into the pond.
At once you grow blurred, cold,
Prone to drowsiness, muttering to yourself without pause.
2014月8月17日，或者袖口里的旗杆
你给了我关于立体的记忆、欲望
就像你的隐忍带来的那片月荫
越是接近秋天，就越是变得燥热
就越是迷惑和不知所措
风一吹过来，故事就开始，随之结束
你那精致的面容，似乎暗示某种恐怖
我知道，这个秋天电都不会停
荷叶已经接近换完装束，我在水池中发呆
旗袍的袖口里有一只旗杆，我看到风帆
立在湖面，一只秋天的鲫鱼错以为那是
一支钓竿，突然潜入深处
碍于饥饿，又忽然折回，我看到它有些肥硕的
身体，在秋水里灵动而又飘忽
我折了一支阳光，把它射进水里
你就开始变得模糊和寒冷
变得嗜睡，变得自言自语
***
October 7, 2014, or A Flake of Snow
A flake of snow cannot stand as an independent word.
How does “flake” become “one”? Just as snow becomes flakes—
How am I to write these untenable characters and lines?
I have no choice but to forget the world,
A storehouse crammed with heavy subjects.
My palms cannot clasp a single stone;
I misread hardness, and misjudged snowflakes too.
Perhaps guilt lingers deep in my heart. I long to return
To the primal starting point called “One”—to think of an egg,
To believe cold might purify overheated blood, a banner.
I think of snow, of white things, white deeds, white affections,
All easily mistaken for warmth,
Like summer in the Southern Hemisphere.
Bearing this guilt, I wish to melt away,
Vanish within the tiniest unit of time,
A fleeting flush of awkward shame, for instance.
I do not believe the vast white land is pure at all.
Beneath the whiteness lies filth and tangled chaos—
Illusions, yet undeniably real.
2014年10月7日，或者一片雪
一片雪不能作为一个可以独立的词
片如何成为一的？就像雪如何成为片
我如何写下这种不能成立的字与句
我不得不忘记这个世界
那么多沉重话题的仓库
手握不住一块石头
我误读了坚硬，也误看了雪花
可能还是心里有愧啊，想回到最初的
那个叫做一的起点，想一个鸡蛋
想寒冷能净化燥热的血，一面旗帜
想雪，想白色的物，和白色的事，白色的情
可以被误读为温暖
就像南半球的夏天
心里有愧，就希望能被融化
在一个最小的时间单位消失
比如一个不恰当的红脸
我不觉得白茫茫一片大地有多干净
白下面有多脏，有多复杂
这些虚幻而又存在着
____________________
Read: Wild Chrysanthemums – Chinese Poetry
