骆英（本名黄怒波），文学博士、诗人、登山家，宁夏人。中国诗歌学会会长、北京大学中国诗歌研究院副院长、麦德林国际诗歌节荣誉主席、中国登山协会副主席。毕业于北京大学中文系，骆英1992年出版了第一部诗集《不要再爱我》。此后出版的诗集包括《拒绝忧郁》《落英集》《都市流浪集》《小兔子及其他》《7+2登山日记》《第九夜》（繁体版）《知青日记及后记:水-魅》《骆英诗选》《绿度母》《小兔子》（再版）《动物日记》《文革记忆》《第九夜》《太阳神》，中篇小说《蓝太阳》及旅行随笔散文《德国，你如此优雅》、《法国，你如此迷人》。八部作品被译为英、法、德、日、韩、俄、蒙古、土耳其、西班牙等语种文本。他是中国第一位完成登顶七大洲最高峰和穿越南北极点的诗人、第一位在世界最高峰珠穆朗玛峰顶朗诵自己诗歌作品的诗人，也是第一位三次登顶珠峰的诗人。

Luo Ying (Autonym: Huang Nubo), born in Ningxia, China, is a Doctor of Literature, poet, and mountaineer. He is the president of the Poetry Institute of China, the vice president of Chinese Academy of Poetry, Beijing University, the honorary president of Medellin International Poetry Festival, and the vice president of Chinese Mountaineering Association. He graduated from Peking University and has published 15 books of poetry since 1992. Eight of Luo Ying's works have been translated into English, French, German, Japanese, Korean, Russian, Mongolian, Turkish, Spanish, etc. Memory of the Cultural Revolution was highly recommended by Groupe Gallimard and archived by French National Library. He was the first Chinese poet who has reached the summit of seven continents and crossed the North Pole, the first poet who has read his poems on the Mountain Everest, the highest mountain in the world, and the first poet who has summited Mountain Everest for three times.

Poet and translator. He is a co-translator
of Frontier Taiwan (Columbia). His book of
poems Man Cut in Wood was published by
Valley Contemporary Press in 2003. He has
lectured on the I CHING at the Temple
School of Poetry (Walla Walla).

诗人和中英文翻译。 曾翻译了很多中
国现代诗人的作品介绍给美国的诗坛，
曾任美国西北部诗刊《诗庙》的编辑。
他是美国哥伦比亚大学出版社出版的
有关台湾的“前沿”一书的翻译者之一。
他还曾在《寺庙》创办的诗人学校里讲
课。他的个人诗集《刻在木头里的人》
2003年由美国当代山谷出版社出版。

死亡-意象（组诗）

Death-Image

一

一切都死了  即便是时间  哲学  命运以及历史
当故乡仅仅成为了一座荒坟之后  草和骆驼变成了杀马者
我呢  成为了一个往下走的人  身披黑夜斗篷及心怀恶意
天空深处打着鼓  却没有马或鸽子急急而来
死让我们伟大了  即使我们常常只是像一片叶子飞
即便是这样  也不必疑虑以什么方式落下来或以多长时间腐烂
此刻  你只需要向着太阳翻过身去  不需要声响也不需要激动
此时  你只需要手持黑色的剑挥向宇宙的另一边或是黑暗深处
无边无量的死让我们从心底深处感到了无足轻重
历史如一匹野蛮的马疾驰而去又罔顾一切而惊心动魄
我们都因此是生还者  死亡者  或者是杀生者以及是谋害的人
我们如野性的马打着响鼻因而还鄙视一切
死  让我们崇高了  即便是我们曾经卑鄙
我们藏起金色的手铐在岁月的密林中潜行捕食一切 
在思想的墓穴中我们并没有因而高大或者微不足道
我们只是死  让我们因此获得一块墓碑或者一个二十一世纪的地标
想一想  向失群的雁打一声响指并举起一杯酒
红颜向我致以微笑并在我的来路款步而行
作为一个数叶子的人  我不习惯于想象历史
当杀马者穿越隐秘小径之后  我也不习惯会有马兰花开
夜鸟如一匹骆驼  隐没于草丛以及波涛之下
那种日子轻易就为灰蛇蜕去第36层皮
在叶子下抖动以至于不形于色让某种痛苦无足轻重


二

在思想的深处我们都是死亡者  因为我们都诅咒过上帝
我们恐惧老  害怕贫穷  厌恶背叛  因而我们夜半惊梦
在一棵树枯萎后  我们仍旧活着  这本身足以说明我们并不光明
我们如夜行的蝙蝠在夜的缝隙中飞  像地狱密使
在童色的马喊叫妈妈时  一切都不会因此变调或变色
我们紧闭住眼睛等待或寻找一条密色小径
在翅膀不飞翔时  我们以羽毛紧裹住身躯在宇宙中抖动
在光线变黑或是变铁色时我们紧揪住双手以免尖叫
露水渐渐地变重了如雄浑的铁叮叮咚咚地响起来
面对一匹马的枯骨  我们缓缓地举起双手遮住眼睛
一切都在死  都在变白  都在粉碎  以及都在静下来
如海潮卷起小墨鱼的尾鳍及碎屑不顾一切而去
尽管是我在歌颂死  我也还是如此惊心动魄
无论是我写不写 落日如血逝去  我都会热泪盈眶
我宁愿相信海深处  密林中  河对岸有一种琴在弹拨
它如风云  如铁锤  如凄厉  如永别  层迭而来逐浪而去
如一匹黑色的马惊恐从荒原上飞腾紧紧的抿起它的双耳
深灰色的波浪在大地上重重地划出一道世纪印痕	


三

清晨  当阳光终于灿烂时  我看见彩色出现在地平线
如地狱中的一只麻雀飞翔而来  一片叶子从天上落下来
此时  我想奔跑  如邪恶的黑熊伸出巨大的尖爪
在黑暗的底部坐起来等待着有人一声令下
吞咽下一粒艰涩的榛子向着远处走动起来
并且向着一处处密林长啸或是悲鸣
事情就是这样的  不论你是生或是死
在你试着高尚时你却发现自己如此低下
在你试着死亡时你却发现自己是如此不值一提
你在黑夜中蜷缩起来戴好铁皮的面具入睡
这种阳光是死亡的  刚一发烫就变得冰冷无比
致使你刚想飞扬就变成了历史垃圾
麻雀们从不在彩色中飞因而它们懂得如何死亡
它们仅仅以细弱的羽毛就能让自己飞起来或深入地下
从来听不见它们唱歌或者是诅咒或者是有所绝望
它们不知死活了  由此判断或者是无赖或者是豪杰
			

#1

Everything has died…even time…philosophy…fate, along with history
Now that my native place is only a weedy grave…grass and camels have given way to the horse-slayer
I myself have become a man on the way down…putting on night's conical hat and rain-cape…my heart holding ill intentions
Drumbeats sound in the sky's depths…yet no horse or dove comes hurrying
Death lends us greatness…even though we are often only like a flying leaf
Because it does…we need not worry over how to fall…or how long decay will take
This moment…I just need to turn sunward…no need to make noise or get aroused
This moment…I just need to draw a black sword…brandish it toward the other edge of the cosmos or into the depths of birdsong
Boundless, borderless death makes me feel that deep-down I am of no consequence
The barbarous horse of history gallops away…heedless of everything…shaking Heaven and earth
Thus we are all the ones who made it through…the ones yet to die…the ones who lay plans to kill or do harm
We are like untamed horses…whickering to show disdain of things around us
Death has made us high-minded…though we were lowly before
Hiding golden handcuffs we sneak through the jungle of seasons, pillaging all in our path
In the grave-pit of thought this has not increased or detracted from our stature
We are just death…thus let us obtain a grave plaque or plat marker in the 21st century
Just think…either I snap my fingers or drink a toast for a goose parted from its flock
A fresh young face gives me a smile…and saunters along the road I will pass on
As a counter of leaves…I am not used to imagining history
Now that a horse-slayer proceeds down a hidden path…you will not find “horse orchids” [1] blooming around me
A bird at night and a camel both lose themselves…one over white-capped waves, one in a stand of tall grass
Such days as these can readily shed the 36th skin of a snake
It shudders beneath leaves and makes no expression…treating a certain type of pain as negligible 

(Note: The Chinese iris (Iris ensata Thunb), commonly called mahuo, is also called malan-hua, 
literally the “horse orchid flower.” Here the poet also alludes to the older plant name ma-lan  
(Kalimeris indica) from the anthology Chu Ci [Songs of the South]. The latter is a plant that grows 
in boggy places and has an unpleasant odor.)


#2

In the depths of thinking we all belong to the dead…because we have cursed God
We dread old age…fear death…recoil from betrayal...are harried by dreams 
A tree has withered…we go on living…this alone shows we are not in the light
We come out at night and fly through night's cracks…bat-messengers of Hell
A colorless horse cries for its mother…this won't make things change key or color
We close our eyes tight and wait or search for a secret path
When wings do not take flight…our feather-wrapped bodies shudder in the cosmos
As light rays turn black or iron-colored…we cross arms to keep from screaming
Dewdrops slowly turn heavy and transmit clanging sounds from pig iron
In front of a horse's bare bones…we slowly raise our hands and cover our eyes
All things are dying…all is turning white…all is fragmenting…all is quieting down
Like ebb-tide lifting up a cuttlefish's tail or flakes of debris as it rolls out
We sing praises of death…though anyone can see we are shaken to the core
Writing this down or not…at the late sun's bloodlike passing...tears always brim in my eyes
From undersea kelp forests or a river's far shore, I like to think some kind of harp is being played
Like windborne clouds or plectrums or inklings or goodbyes…welling up to roll away
Like a black horse galloping away from the grassland with ears laid back in fright
Pounding gray waves cut the century's deep marks on the land


#3

Early morning, when sunrise at last turns splendid, I see colors along the horizon
A lone leaf falls from the sky like a sparrow flying into the gates of Hell
Right now I wish to dash wildly, like an evil bear stretching out giant claws
At bottom of darkness I sit upright waiting for someone to bark out a command
Having swallowed a bitter hazelnut, I set out toward distant places
Facing one thicket after another, letting out howls or sorrowful cries
 This is the way things are, whether you are going to live or die
Try to be high minded and you'll find how lowly you are
Try to die and you'll find you are hardly worth mentioning
You curl up in the dark night wearing an iron mask to sleep in
Here comes the sunlight of death; whatever heats up soon gets a terrible chill 
Such that your thoughts of soaring soon turn into garbage of history
Sparrows never fly within colors, which is why they know how to die
With only flimsy feathers they can fly aloft or go deep underground
One never hears of them singing or cursing or despairing over things
Since life and death to them are one, they can judge between shiftless and glorious