Li-Young Lee
李立杨
 Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jarkarta, Indonesia. In 1964 when he was 7, his family moved to the United States. He authored numerous books, including The Winged Seed: A Remembrance; Behind My Eyes; Book of My Nights, which won the 2002 William Carlos Williams Award; The City in Which I Love You, which was the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection; and Rose, which won the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award. He has been the recipient of a Fellowship from the Academy of American Poets, a Lannan Literary Award, a Whiting Writer's Award, the PEN Oakland/Josephine Miles Award, the I. B. Lavan Award, three Pushcart Prizes, and grants from the Illinois Arts Council, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship.
李立杨1957年生于印尼，七岁时移居美国。他曾荣获多个写作奖，包括美国蓝南文学奖，慧亭写作奖，拉凡奖等。他曾出版多部诗集, 包括《漂的种子，追忆》；《眼里》；《黑夜中，我的书》，此书获得2002 威廉-卡陆斯-威廉斯奖；《这城市是我爱你之地》，此书进入1990年拉蒙诗选；《玫瑰》，此书获得记念待尔莫习瓦兹的诗奖。
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译者
Translator
李作昌
T. C. Lee
李作昌，1936 年生于江西南昌市。1957年毕业于台大电机系，1964年于斯坦佛大学电机系获博士学位。之后在美国高科技工业界从事研发工作长达三十八年。退休以后，重拾年轻时对诗的喜爱，开始写作发表。
T. C. Lee was born in Nanchang, Kiangsi, China 1936. He graduated with B. S. degree from National Taiwan University and from Stanford University with Ph. D in 1964, both in Electrical Engineering. Then he worked in R&D with the high tech industry in US for thirty eight years. After retirement he devoted his long hobby and love in poetry and starting writing poems for several magazines.
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Wait for evening.
Then you'll be alone.
Wait for the playground to empty.
Then call out those companions from childhood:
The ones who closed his eyes
And pretended to be invisible.
The one to whom you told every secret.
The one who made a world of any hiding place.
And don't forget the one who listened in silence
while you wondered out loud:
Is the universe an empty mirror? A flowering tree?
Is the universe the sleep of a woman?
Wait for the sky's last blue
(the color of your homesickness)
Then you'll know the answer.
Wait for the air's first gold (that color of Amen).
Then you'll spy the wind's barefoot steps.
Then you'll recall that story beginning
with a child straying in the woods.
The search for him goes on in the growing
shadow of the clock.
And the face behind the clock's face
is not his father's face.
And the hands behind the clock's hands
are not his mother's hands.
All of time begins when you first answered
to the names your mother and father gave you.
Soon those names will travel with the leaves.
Then you can trade places with the wind.
Then you will remember your life
as a book of candles,
Each page read by the light of its own burning.
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盼着黄昏来临，
剩一个人清静。
盼着游戏场地空空无人，
你就呼唤出童年的游伴。
一个闭上眼睛，
假想他是个隐形人。
另一个你把秘密全告诉了他。
还有一个把我们每个躲蔵地
变成一个新鲜的世界。
别忘了另外一个玩伴一声不响，
静听你大声地猜想，
宇宙是一面空镜？开花的树？
女人的沉睡？
等到天空只剩下些许淡蓝
（你想家的颜色).
你就知道答案了。
等到第一线金光
闪烁在空气中（好颜色啊，阿门）
你就窥见轻风赤裸的脚步。
你就会想起来那个故事，
从前有一个孩子迷失在树林里。
大家在寻找他，
时钟的影子渐渐拉长。
时钟顔面背后的脸，
不是他父亲的脸。
指针背后的手指，
不是他母亲的手指。
当你开始回应父母给你的名称时，
时间就启动了。
不久，你这些名字随着叶子飘游，
然后，你和风的位置也可以掉换。
然后你就记得你的生命
是一根根腊烛组成的书，
页页由它燃烧中的光芒去读。
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I said, "What if by story you mean the shortcut home,
But I mean voices in the room by the sea
while days go by?"
She said," Open, The Word is a child of eternity.
Closed. The Word is a child of time."
I said, "And what if by dream you mean to comb
The knots out of your hair,
to prune the orchard
and correct the fruit,
But I mean to travel
by rain crossing the sea, or apple blossoms
traversing a stone threshold
with a word carved into it: Abyss?"
She said, "Home, speech is the living purchase
of our nights and days.
A traveler, it is a voice in its own lifetime.
A river, it is Time shifted, Time manifest,
laughter that sires the rocks and the trees,
that fetches in its ancient skirts
the fateful fruits and seeds."
I said, "And what if I say, Song,
you hear, A wing
executing boundary by sounding
The range of its hunting,
but I mean Time and the World
measured by voice's passage?"
She said, "Empty, The Word is a wind in the trees.
Full, it is the voice of a woman
Reading out loud from a book of names."
I said, "To speak is to err.
Words name nothing.
There are no words."
She said, "Lure, slaughter, feast, blood
in the throat, words turn, changing."
I said, "We should give up
trying to speak to be understood.
It's too late in the world for dialogue.
Death creates a blind spot.
Man is a secret, blind to himself.
And woman.....Woman is....."
She said, "Our meeting here manifests
a primordial threshold.
A first and last place, speech
is no place at all, a shelter, ark, and cradle;
salt but not salt, bread but not bread,
a house but no house."
I said, "The garden was ruined long before
we came to make a world of it."
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"故事，你认为是归途的捷径，
而我认为是海边斗室里
度日说话的声音？" 我说
"心门打开，话语是永恒的童心。
关闭了，话语是时间里的孩童。"她说
我说，"如果你认为梦
是把乱发梳齐，
是清理果园，
是修剪果枝，
而我认为是驾雨过海，
或者是苹果花盛开，
并攀越石墙，
墙上刻的字：深渊？"
她说，"家，语言活生生地
买下了我们的昼夜。
旅行人，它是一生一世的声音。
河流，是筛过的时间，是时间的显现，
它的欢笑创造了石和树，
并从旷古的裙子里掏出，
命中注定的种子和果儿。"
我说，"假设我说，歌曲，
你却听成翅膀
乘风翱翔
以鸣唱描画出猎搜的区域？
但我是指时和空
是以声音的流动来度量。"
她说，"空，道是树林之风。
满，是一个女人之音，
髙声念着名册。"
我说，"说话等于犯错，
话语不代表任何东西。
没有话语。"
她说，"诱惑，屠杀，嚎餐，血腥
在喉咙中，话语转湾，变化。"
我说，"我们该放弃说话
也放弃希望给人了解。
当今之世，对话的机会已逝。
死亡制造了一个盲点。
男人是一个秘密，他看不见自己。
女人呢...女人..."
她说，"我们在此相会显示了
最原始的门槛。
语言什么都不是，
最先是它，它也是最后，
藏身处，方舟，和摇篮；
盐非盐，面包非面包，
房屋非房屋。"
我说，"花园，在我们把它
建立成美好世界之前，早已凋零。"
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