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

四

风起时  蜘蛛们轻微的抖动  紧紧抓住它们的丝
它们是杀手  是致死者  而是从来都是不动声色
它们永远保有出生的秘密如兰海棠静静地开放和枯萎
它们悄悄地设置绞索像大英雄静静地磨利他的刀刃
向上帝张起一张网  是世纪死亡的一种象征
阳光照亮了各种各样的死  例如谋害  肢解以及吸吮灵魂
因此  我常常在正午惊讶地观看一只只蜂鸟或是一头野猪被粘在网上
它们紧缩起来  扑扇翅膀  嘶声裂叫  在空中打滚
那种无赖的死让它无动于衷以至于可笑不耻一提
在蜘蛛的丝上  或是在海乌贼的爪中以及一头野狼的腹中都无所谓轻重
在我于千万张网中小心翼翼地走动时  我会情不自禁地笑起来
我看到千万种死  千万个杀手以及千万次死亡结局
这因此成为了一个谋杀的世纪以及死的世纪  我也必须死
像一只鸽子先飞起来  然后被一个主人以冷峻的箭射碎
我因此会在密林中伸出手来随便指明一种方向
在那种通道中蛇行  匍伏  跳跃  迟疑  但并不回望
在红蜘蛛收缩爪子时  我也收缩四肢准备跨世纪一跳
在枯骨上空飞  在腐烂的牙齿上空飞  在一个世纪的墓场上飞


五

黑沉的海静静的在月夜下让我的心感到了无垠的恐惧
即便是我在乎死  我也害怕从海中间跃出阴沉沉的鱼
我想听听有谁发出那种被撕裂的尖叫以及绝望
此刻  我丧失了把手伸出来在海水里生长或是变形的勇气
海狮都不见了  可以想象它们正在岩洞里向我窥视
它们并不掩藏腥臭的体味或表明它们来自于地狱
它们一直把小海鸥的骨架种成海深处的蝴蝶兰
波涛汹涌或是平静如梦都散放出一种死的气息
往远处看  潜行的海鹰从水中正向空中飞起
由于月光的作用  它的长牙可以看得清楚无疑
它从空中抛下一只只乌贼表明它已完成杀戮
乌贼们闪亮亮的在海面上漂浮构成了死亡意象
我一直不想闭上眼睛尽管这是一个死亡夜晚
我迷恋种种死的过程  如一匹马迷恋于迷途
在我背过身变成海的一部分之时  我握紧了死亡钥匙
我知道在海的北纬31度  东经22度有通往地狱的门


六

昨夜  我刚回忆完往事  它又不干净又十分可疑
我总是在一条密径上走  像地狱密使摇着黑色的铃
在那种太阳下的墓前  我从来没有说过话以表明无足轻重
其实  我也种过一棵酸枣树以标示一种死的界限
大地空旷的那种背影一直是忽远忽近  忽暗忽明
我绝不想跟踪而去  因为我双手扎满了浅红色的酸枣刺
在手心暖起来时  我知道太阳要出来了  尽管它尚未出现
我用手及早指向一束星光以确定我在这个宇宙的位置
在我的视线中似乎是黑色的蝙蝠在飞飘忽不定
我宁愿相信它们并没有发出那种濒死的尖叫声
也许是它们把叶子撒下来  枯黑  迷离  臭腐  破碎
落在荒山之前它们就已经长出一粒粒透着水气的毛毛虫
猜测着我将去的方向和深度  我向黑暗和光明之处打了响指
荧光四起  寒冷紧紧地缩起来让原野显得很疼痛
此刻  我听到寒冬的蝉鸣但也并不因此惊讶
因为大地正在转过来  转到太阳的另一侧
			

#4

As wind stirs, the spiders rock slightly…holding fast to their silk
They are killers…death-bringers…never advertising their intentions
Always keeping their births secret, like winter jasmine quietly blooming and withering 
They quietly lay their snares and sharpen knives, they play at being heroes
A net laid out in the face of God…is a symbol of death in this century
Sunlight lights up all kinds of death…such as dismemberment and vampirism of souls
At midday I often amazedly watch a hummingbird or wild boar caught in a web
They clench up, beat wings…squeal and thrash about in mid-air
No need to say that such deaths leave you unmoved or make you laugh
To end in a spider's web or a wolf's belly or squid's arms is a negligible thing
Walking gingerly among a thousand webs I can't help wanting to laugh
I see a thousand ways of dying, a thousand killers and a thousand death-scenes
All this went to make up a century of killing and dying…I have to die too
Like a dove taking flight then being pierced by an arrow its master shot
So in the jungle I extend my hand…point out a direction on a whim
Along this path I slither, crawl, hop, hesitate…but never despair
As the spider shuts its jaws I coil limbs and prepare the leap of the century
Flying above bare bones…above rotten teeth…above the century's graveyard


#5

The grave, dark sea on a moonlit night makes fear grip my heart out of nowhere
Though I don't care about death...I fear a sinister giant fish will breach the surface
I want to listen for screams of someone being torn apart or yielding to despair
Now I have lost courage to reach my hand into water, to let it take on freakish shapes
Walruses are gone from sight…I imagine them peering at me from a cave
They do not cover up their fishy odor or claim to have emerged from Hell
They just keep planting skeletons of gulls to grow their underwater orchids
Choppy surf or dreamy billows alike emit an aura of death
Seen in the distance…a sea hawk lurking on the surface goes airborne
Due to a trick of moonlight, I catch clear sight of fangs
It lets a squid fall from its talons, to show that its work of slaughter is done
Squid float on the shining surface…they too present a death-image
I want to keep my eyes open, even though this is a deathly night
I am fascinated by processes of death…like a horse looking at straying paths
I turn my back and become part of the ocean…my hand lays hold of death's key
I know at 31° N latitude by 22° E longitude there is a doorway to Hell


#6

Last night…I happened to recall a story…it was unclear and quite suspicious
I was going down a secret path…like Hell's messenger shaking a black bell
I front of me was that grave beneath the sun…I never said a resentful word
In fact I too planted a jujube tree…to indicate death's boundary
The land's featureless backdrop is now far—now near, seeming to flicker
I have no wish to seek its traces…for my hands were pierced by many jujube thorns
As my hands grow warm…I know the sun will rise…though it has not appeared
I point my hand toward a ray of starlight to confirm my place in the cosmos
In my line of sight black bats seem to fly…their position unfixed
I want to believe they are not emitting those near-death squeaks
Maybe they hasten the falling of leaves…withered, moldering, crumbling
The moment they fall on a barren slope they change to squishy caterpillars
Guessing how deep I have gone…I snap my fingers at the zone where light meets darkness
My way lit by glow of phosphors...coldness clenches the wasteland painfully
Right now I hear a midwinter cicada, but it does not amaze me
For the good earth comes back around…revolves to the sun's other side