本名蓝廷骏，在菲律宾生长，受教育。十七岁时出版第一本诗集《忧郁的五线谱》，以及继后出版的《秋天里的春天》，《盗虹的人》，《蓝尘》诸诗集，丰富了诗人60年代的创作历程。从抒情、唯美到现代诗技巧的实验，他予人的感觉是恒在改变的风格。由于环境的原因，曾停笔近十五年，再出发后，所发表的作品，已摆脱旧有的诗风，在繁复的技巧中，表现了人生深刻的一面。80年代出版有《野生植物》、《诗影交辉》二册诗集，2002年出版《云鹤的诗100首》。

Yun He, in real life James T.C. Na, was born and educated in the Philippines.  At 17 he published his debut collection of verses Melancholic Score, which in conjunction with subsequent publication of various collections, namely Springtime in Autumn, The Rainbow Snatcher, and The Blue Dust, concurrently enriched the Poet’s creative course in the Sixties.  Exploring techniques ranging from lyricism, to aestheticism, to contemporary, he was impressive with his ever dynamic style.  Circumstances caused him to pause for 15 years, and when he launched out anew, he managed to shake off the older style and depict the poignant aspects of life with a sophisticated set of skill in his then articles.  In the Eighties he put up two more collections of verses, Wild Plant and In the Light of Poetry and Photography.

乡愁

Nostalgia

如果必须写一首诗
就写乡愁
且不要忘记
用羊毫大京水
用墨，研得浓浓的

因为
写不成诗时
也好举笔一挥
用比墨色浓的乡愁
写一个字——
家
			

If a poem must be written
let’s write about nostalgia
and let’s not forget
to use Beijing wool brush
use ink-stick, ground in thick solution

just so
if the poem couldn’t be done
the brush might be swung
with nostalgia thicker than ink 
to write a word--
Home
			

瓶

Flask

                           
容纳了一海潮音
我的瓶，静默如一塑像
盲瞳里刻上万顷烟波
柔和但不可逼视
真实却无以触摸

饰你以海的辽阔与深邃，以
波光的闪烁与浪涛的起伏
透过你，我的瓶
让我观看，你如何把宇宙
浓缩、翻转、且倒置阴阳

泳於你腹中的冰澈
我已迷糊，是泉?是酒?
是不甘不烈的非泉非酒?
当千航慈渡，钟声
绕千岩万壑南来
不沾唇，但我已醉
已解缆远去……
			

Containing a sea of tidal gurgle
my flask, remains reticent like a sculpture
acres of billow etched on its blind pupils
soft yet vain to close-up stares
real but null to sensory strokes

Let’s adorn you with the sea’s breadth and depth, with
tidal glow’s luster and the wave’s undulation
right through you then, my flask
let me descry, how do you render the universe
condensed, overturned, and placed upside down

Submerged in the frosty clearness of your abdomen
I am all stupefied.  Is it the spring? Is it the wine?
Or a non-spring none-wine neither luscious nor potent?
And when all sails journey, and the toll of bells
comes south around the rocks and ravines
without even a sip, still I would have been drunk
have the hawser undone and gone far off...
			

空舟

The Empty Canoe

                           
何其庞大的空寂
隔开了尘嚣与繁华
在你眼前扩张、伸展
让你整体投入了
如此纯净的孤绝中

如此纯净
沙粒、泡沫、滩与不羁的浪花
潮汐连接潮汐、记忆追逐记忆
远与近的坚持、新与旧的和合
时与空之距离间
你修长的立姿恒在

你修长的立姿恒在
云迷离、风隐失
涛声骤止，瞑色蓦临
浅搁在滩上，你是
那翻转了的空舟
等待再次沉没
			

What an enormous inane is it
isolating the hullaballo and he boom
stretching, extending before your eyes
dropping your entirety into
such a solitude of crystal purity

Such crystal purity
the pebbles, foams, beach and surging wave
tide following tide, memory chasing memory
far and near persisted, new and old allied
distance between time and space
and you erect form eternal

and your erect form being eternal
the cloud vague, wind subsided
tidal roar stopped short, dusk fallen quick
stranded on the beach, you are
that capsized empty canoe
waiting for the next submersion
			

蓝荷

The Blue Lotus

                           
翩然而至的是那一朵
重瓣又重瓣
在正午开放的
蓝荷，带着冷冽的清芬
以及整个夏季的
暧昧

室外，烈日当空
时刻虽然短暂，但乐於
与你共渡、共忍受
那层层围迫
高速度的热能
只是
体外的焚易于忍受
熊熊的，却是体内的燃烧
那烤心成炭、成灰的
燃烧

夏季快过了，你说
该归去了，你说
归去，向北北西
北北西
那里海是你的蓝天
滩是你的白云
当你匆匆奔过潮退后的沙滩
云上便留下你闪烁的足印

当你倦于那种
没有翅膀的飞翔
那，你该躺下
在海的臂弯里
把万缕愁绪解开，让海浪梳理
然后，轻轻睡去
像滩上每一粒细沙

那时，不管你感知或不感知
有一个人，他把灰化了的心
让北去的风，带走
向沙滩上蓦然怒放的那一朵
蓝荷
徐徐撒落……
			

Arriving gracefully is that
Double and double petal
Blue lotus flourishing at
High noon, with cold crispy fragrance
And an entire summer’s
Ambiguity

Outdoors, the ardent sun stays up
The moment though brief, yet I’ll gladly
Share with you, and endure together 
That siege of stratifying
Heat energy at high velocity
Just that
With extraneous fire should be bearable
What’s red-hot would be the in body combustion
That heart charring, ash converting
Combustion

Summer is to go soon, you say
You must return, you say
Return to north-north-west
North-north-west
Where the sea is your blue sky
The beach your white cloud
And when you hasten across the after tide stands
Up the cloud remain your glistening footmarks

When you are weary of that sort of
Flight without the benefit of wings
Then, you must couch down
Into the arm of the ocean
Untangle all sorrows, for the waves to comb
And thus, go to sleep at ease
Like each and every sand on the beach

By then, whether or not you are perceptive
Of a man, he would let the northerly wind
Carry his heart, turned ashes by now
And scatter leisurely by the sands over that
Blue lotus
In sudden full bloom...
			

痕

Mark

                           
1

以剩余的青春索取
隐埋在你体内爱的光华
干渴的喉，能否以水声滋润?
即使翻转了整座森林
我仍找不到，一棵没有根柢的树

只因为
你是轮，我是路，永不能相拥
唯有让时间，把这微小的接触面
贯连成一道深深的痕

2

即使读不懂我的诗，我仍坚持着
等待。相信终有一天
你懂得如何分担我的负疚
那时，在你的眼中，我当嚐到
我泪水独有的咸

但你蓦然转身，匆匆隐入来路
我仰首，以歌声的最高音
射杀飞扬的意志
毛羽纷坠，我拾回一具折了翼的翱翔

3

千万须根伸入你全身的筋脉
感情的树，紧紧抓住你的灵魂
以血液滋培，以绞痛
说出什么是给予，什么是接受
无需诠释，我读懂了你眼中的永恒

不为得瓜而种瓜，你当知晓
伤口尚未成形，血已在涌
受创的位置不一定以疤痕标示，象那人
肤肌完好，却遍体鳞伤
			

1

Demanding with the remnant of youth
for the glory of love buried in your being
the dry throat, can it be moistened with gurgles?
Even by overturning the entire forest
I still fail to locate one single rootless tree

just because
you’re the wheel, I’m the road, never to embrace
but to let time chain up the tiny contact surface
Into a path of deep deep track

2

Beyond comprehension as though my verse, I yet bear up
and wait, trusting in the end someday,
you will know how to share my guilt.
By then, in your eyes, I shall taste
the salt unique of my teardrops.

But abruptly you pivot, fading fast into where you came.
I lift me head, and with highest vocalization note ever,
Shoot dead the soaring determination.
Plumage falls around. I gather a flight of broken-wing.

3

Its million rootlets insetting your entire body network,
the tree of sentiment clutches at your soul,
sustains it with blood, and expounds
what giving is and what taking is, with agony.
Without a hint, I apprehend the eternity in your eyes.

Planting melon not for sake of reaping, you must realize
Before a wound takes shape, the blood oozes;
Injured part need not marked by scar, like the guy there,
Skin and flesh intact, yet it hurts all over his torso.
			

路

The Way

                           
在那忧心忡忡的日子里
即使风和日丽，当你仰首读云
也仅读到它飘逸背后的沉郁
仅能感到它蕴藏着的
举起山洪，颤栗海族的潜威
你苦苦思索，如何避开那尚未发出
无形却足以致命的一击

此时，四野不受控制的惊呼
正尖锐地
一排又一排激射而来
下午三时十五分
从异族的华尔街到汉裔的四方城
旱雪纷纷下降、下降
某一种数字，乘机跃升
以蛇的蜿姿，以鼠的迅步
窜越你熟悉的生活圈
你想抓紧些什么
却什么都抓不到

时刻已不容犹豫
推开万钧的挽意与劝阻
你举足疾奔
仓皇如丧家之犬
强忍风沙穿过肋骨时的剧痛
且闭紧双目
因你不敢正视迎面而来的路径
更不敢想像，路径导向的
是削壁，或是悬崖 

疾奔，疾奔
忽然在你左侧
拉开了一片久违的风景——
稻田、阡陌、瓜棚与菜畦
安祥宁静里，历历可闻的是儿时的笑语
那几间茅屋虽然破旧，却满含温情……

疾奔，疾奔
忽然在你右侧
闪现一幅钢骨与水泥的构图——
滥泛的人潮
尽是碧眼金发的胡儿
沙律、热狗、汉堡包与三文治
似在嘲笑你惯于热食的胃肠……

而路还在你面前伸展
不许左转也不许右拐
而路还在你面前伸展
不管闭目或睁眼，路仅仅一条
或走或跑，只是不许停留

不许停留的路
不许停歇的奔跑
疾奔，疾奔
直至你的须发脱落
如暮色里飘洒的秋叶
那时，请驻足稍息
看一看四周
是茫茫的旷野，或是
一片拔光了树的森林

是旷野?是森林?
你将永不知晓
因那奥秘
即使穷一生的长度去量测
也求不出答案来

有关本诗：此诗完成于一九八三年十一月菲律宾大独裁者马科
斯时代末期，诗主要是表现当时华人华裔的心态。诗中“异族的
华尔街”指大岷马加智地区，该区是西班牙裔控制的金融中心；
“汉裔的四方城”指华人区；“旱雪”指这两个地区每天下午三时
十五分（反对党领袖参议员亚谨诺遇刺的时间），高楼大厦中
的人们纷纷抛下纸屑以表追悼，其景象有如漫天飘雪；“某一种
数字”指菲币与美金的比率。
			

In those care-ridden days,
calm and fair, yet you looked up to read the cloud
and had but the vapors behind its grace to read,
had but to perceive its conceiving,
torrent-avalanching, aquatic-rocking latent might.
you took pain pondering how to evade that unleashed,
shapeless, yet adequately lethal blow.

Meanwhile, the untamed screeches from all fields
were sharp and acute,
in volleys and volleys, to dart over here.
Three fifteen in the afternoon,
from Wall Street of other kind to square city of Han’s kin,
dry snow in flocks were falling, falling.
And a certain figure took occasion to shoot up,
in a snake’s creeping form, with a rat’s swift gait,
to rush beyond your familiar living circle.
You tried to hang on something tight,
but ended up with none to hang on to.

The moment could allow no hesitation!
Shoving aside tons of hindrance and dissuasion,
you took off sprinting,
panic-stricken as a homeless dog,
tolerated the agony of rib-piercing sandstorm,
even closed your eyes
as you dared not face the way coming head-on,
above all dared not imagine where the way pointed to
would be a crag, or a cliff.

Sprinting, sprinting.
Suddenly to your left
there unveiled a parcel of good old scenery--
rice field, farm paths, melon arbor and garden plot.
And amid the serenity, vividly audible were childhood laughters.
And the straw-huts, worn and torn, yet all warm-hearted...

Sprinting, sprinting.
Suddenly to your right
there flashed a copy of steel and concrete composition--
The overwhelming human flow
was of but blue eyed blonde hair aliens,
of salad, hotdog, hamburger, and sandwich,
seemingly teasing your hot-food-acquainted guts...

And the way still extended in front of you.
No left turn and no right turn.
And the way still extended in front of you.
Eyes shut eyes open regardless, the way would be but one.
Walk it or run it, just no stopping.

It was the way of no stopping.
It was the race of no laxity.
Sprinting, sprinting,
till your beard and hairs fell off
like autumn leaves wafting at dawn.
Right then, please halt for a breath
and take a look around
if it is the boundless wilderness, or
the jungle with all its trees uprooted.

Is it the wilderness? Is it the jungle?
You would never know.
Esoteric as it has been,
even survey with lifelong exhaustion
would come up with no answer.

About the Poem: 
This poem was composed in November, 1983, the late 
period of Marcos dictatorship in the Philippines, mainly
to show the state of mind of the Filipino-Chinese people 
at that time. In the poem, the term "Wall Street of other 
kind" refers to Makati, Metro-Manila, the monetary center 
run mostly by Spanish-Filipinos; "square city of Han's 
kin", the Chinatown; "dry snow" means the act of dropping 
shredded papers from tall buildings in both districts by 
the people everyday at 3:15 P.M. (The time opposition 
leader Senator Aquino was assassinated) to express their 
grieves, creating a view like snow drifting all over the 
sky; "a certain figure" in turn is the exchange rate 
between Peso and U.S. Dollar.
			

生存

Being

                           
生存是荒谬的，在岁月的激流中
    是苍白的尸首缓慢的腐蚀
  棺盖之下，另一股性命正冉冉升起

寄生着黑色的愤怒，我们再也懒于寻找
      属于自己的憔悴，属于自己的悲哀
而纯洁；纯洁只是字典里一个发光的名词
我们常花费了一个狂欢的下午
  为死去的人格服丧

去笑，去哭，去听临死者低低的嘶喊
去假装时髦，去嗅泥土里春天的气味
  你嘲笑一切而又被嘲笑于一切
  你以躯壳为祭品，你驻足在死亡的阶前
  你买梦、买时间、买灵魂小小的颤栗
  你觅不到自己……


除了死，什么都不是真实
      夜、霓虹、潜意识与遗言
  而预感是风，是写在水里的数目字
    当道德在席褥间被昨夜的重量压扁
    当一个远行僧迷失在黑森林里
    当他流尽没颜色的血，当他垂下头死去
你便再去呷妓女的醋，去与病菌肉搏
      去廉价出售罪恶，嚼烂发酸味的文化
你便了解这是生活
      残缺的生活
    揉皱了的生活
    我们以夜色浸溺自己
       以谎言安慰自己

那是春天突来的痉挛，欲念很单薄
在灿烂的曙光中，欲念很单薄
    你以染血的手，带着圣经去散步
    在额头划着十字，你走进教堂
  上帝!上帝在你眼中只是魔鬼的同类
  当人们握着整叠的慈悲与仁悯沿街分发
太阳背后藏着羞辱，时代以浓血洗面

我们听见岁月的喘息
    听见每一声绝望的狂呼
许多人涌向死亡谷，许多人从那里回来
他们给我们讲了很多危险的经历
(关于残虐的官能，关于被蹂躏的官能)
下回不知谁将被恐怖袭击
    不知谁将哗笑，谁将沉默
        谁将把哭泣挂满牢狱的铁窗

犹如焚城后不寻常的死寂
讪笑便停留在牙缝间，等待跃起
你是属于不流泪的动物，乐意于接受虐待
你以一幕悲剧诠释自己
    在輓联上写你肮脏的名字
  呻吟里面，你是一只分食欲望的野兽

某种声息与动作将激动你不洁的血液
你便去红灯之间享受一夜温馨的缠绵
吐礼教的渣滓于枕褥上，你活着
    你打着领结，你穿着裤子
    你有易于激动的血液

同情不过是副伪善的笑脸
    他们惯用于微笑杀人，惯用于冷眼谋剌
    于是你以烈火点燃头发
      点燃指甲，点燃你萎缩的心。第一年
  你的坟前站满哭着没有感情之哭的人群
  第二年；墓石上布着一些时间的疤痕
没有人再慷慨地为你的不存在而洒一滴眼泪
春天大脚踢着你枯干了的骨骸

在九月，什么都标上价目
  阳光、信仰、真理与艺术
  以及女人，穿得很少的女人
    爱被路人注目与吹口哨的女人
  以及希望，以及爱情……

而我们向碎裂的脑袋索取灵感
而我们努力地抓住尘埃里的记忆
而我们感激良心给我们的小小宽容

而这是生存，写在盲者眼珠的生存
  一切都属于你；一切都不属于你
  一切都是奇迹；一切都不是奇迹
思想是潮湿的，没有人真正看见自己的影子
晚露在叶尖守住了长长的一夜
        天亮时却必须死去
星子们为殒落的同伴射下更多哀弔的冷辉

而这是生存，神经质的生存
  饮下午茶，笑不知为什么而笑的笑
  没目标地工作，没原因地搏斗
而这是生存，发腐味的生存

而这是生存，贪婪得像昨夜血红的双眼
  
在餐桌上我们啃嚼自己的胸骨
以今晨的痛苦液化灵魂，且饮下
让微醺后的双眼去描画明日的欢乐

而这是生存
没有谁能够解释的生存
			

Being, in the torrent of duration, is absurd,
		is the wan cadaver decaying by degrees.
	And beneath the coffin lid, a resurgence bulges gradually.

Infested with dark fury, we are tire of the quest for
			the self-owned worn look, for the self-owned woe.
And purity; purity is just a shiny term in wordbooks.
We often spend an exultant afternoon
	to stay in mourn for the personality deceased.

Go laugh, cry, listen to feeble bawl of the dying,
disguise in fashion, and sniff the mire for the taste of Spring.
	You ridicule everything and by them get ridiculed in turn.
	You use the torso as sacrifice, you set foot on the verge of death.
	You buy dreams, buy time, buy puny shivers of the soul.
	You find not yourself...

Save mortality, all else is unsubstantial:
			Nightfall, neon light, sub-conscious, and verbal will.	
	And premonition is a drift, is a batch of figures written on water
		when ethics got flatly crushed on mattress by last night’s heaviness,
		when a wayfaring monk lost the way in black forest,
		when he drained the hueless blood, when he drooped the head and died.
You then go get jealous again over a whore, get in field combat with germs,
			and peddle sin at bargain price, and chew up at sourish culture.
You then realize this is life,
			a life handicapped to inadequacy,
		a life totally crumpled up.
		We soak to drown ourselves with dusk,
				and comfort ourselves with lies.

There is the abrupt springtime spasm, and desire is skimpy.
Amidst the resplendent rays of aurora, desire is skimpy.
		You with bloodstained hands, bring along the Bible for a walk,
		and making cross sign over the forehead, you enter the church.
	God! God in your eyes is merely the like of Devil
	when man holds a stackful of mercy and kindness to strew by the streets,
behind the sun hides the shame, and the epoch clean the face with thick blood.

And we hear the gasp of time,
		hear each and every desperate screech.
Many rush toward the valley of death, many return from there.
They relate to us lots of perilous experiences,
(About sense that was atrocious. About sense that was debauched.)
knowing not who would be next stricken by horror,
	knowing not who would guffaw, who would hush up,
			who would hang the clamor all over the prison bars.

As though in unusual dead silence after a city was burnt,
mockery withheld between dental space, waiting to hop up,
you belong to animals that shed no tear, glad to be maltreated.
You illustrate yourself with a stage of tragedy,
		and write your dirty name on the funeral stroll.
	Among the moans, you are a beast sharing the spoil of lust.

A certain sound and gesture excite your putrefied blood serum.
You then go enjoy a night of tender entanglement among red lanterns.
Throwing up ethical dregs on pillow and mattress, you are alive,
		you wear a cravat, you don a pair of pants,
  	you have readily excitable blood serum.

Compassion is but a sweet face of hypocrisy.
		They are used to kill with smile, used to murder with outsider look.
		Thus you employ blazing flame to burn the hair,
			to burn the fingernails, to burn your withered heart. Year One:
	Before your grave there swarm people crying an apathetic wail.
	Year Two: A few trace of time spread around your tombstone,
none sheds a generous drop of tear any more over your non-existence,
and spring kicks at your desiccated skeleton with big boot.

In September, everything is marked with a cost:
	Sunshine, faith, verity and art,
	and women, women scarcely clad,
		women fond of stares and wolf calls by the passers-by,
	and hope and affection...

And we search the shattered brain for inspiration.
And we endeavor to catch memories in the dirt.
And we extend gratitude that conscience gave us a little break.

And such is being, being written on eyeballs of the blind.
	Everything belongs to you; Everything belongs not to you.
	Everything is miracle; Everything is not miracle.
Thought is humid, no one really sees his own shadow.
Evening dew stays on guard at a leaf’s apex thru long long night
			Yet must perish as daybreak occurs.
Stars cast more lamenting cold beams for fallen companions.

And such is being, being that is neurotic,
	taking afternoon tea, laughing a laugh knowing not why to laugh,
	working without an aim, striving without a reason.
And such is being, being with a rotten smell.

And such is being. So covetous like last night’s bloodshot eyes,
over the dining table we gnaw and chew our own rib,
and liquefy the soul with the pang of this morn, and drink it,
and let the slightly intoxicated eyes sketch tomorrow’s joy.

And such is being. 
Being which no beings can ever account for.