辛虹
Xin Hong
1970生于大连。 在北京读大学。诗作曾发表在《花城》、《山花》、《创世纪》 等刊物。1997年移居美国，暂停诗歌写作。2004年重新拾笔创作中文诗歌。现居纽约。
Born in 1970 in Dalian，China, went to college in Beijing. Her poems appear in many Chinese literary publications such as Hua Cheng, Shan Hua, Chuang Shi Ji. She came to the United States in 1997 and stopped writing poetry until 2004. She presently lives in New York.
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译者
Translator
Denis Mair
梅丹理
 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。
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（1）
可以更短。但拖得久了，即使插入
一根针，也无法使黑夜疼痛，使
已经静止的风涩涩吹动。同一种灾难
降临多次，仿佛天亮时
突然又暗下来的梦，在白昼刻下印迹。
没人记得，哪片落叶是你踏过的秋夜
哪一扇窗户，寂静在里面疯狂地生长
没有谁，他的手在光亮中能遮住
失控的掌纹。没有一棵树能替代你的树
草场以惊人的速度褪化成无人的屋顶。
而一只鸟儿，当它贴着天边飞翔
它落在地面上的影子被风吹动时就
变成另一只鸟。当它拖着不同尺码的
鞋子，当它一前一后地穿过密林
一颗被省略的头颅回到倾斜的肩膀上。
（2）
黑夜的脏手指被灯光拒绝，几节旧电池费力地
哼着咏叹调。面对没有世界的窗口
没人能像布罗茨基的牛奶般保持
乳白色的镇静。如果是一间空屋子
也就罢了。你知道，两个人是很具体的。
当你不慎丢掉一只鞋，怎能预料
另一只是不是就将孤独下去
不是为你的脚，而是它落在地面的阴影
一旦抬起，就再也不会准确地落下来
像声音般空洞，像椅子一样不可靠
邮递员的手被一扇铁门敲响。来自
黑夜的雨催促着时光的记忆发白，像那些
化为粉末的蝴蝶，一个人可以是很多人
他们好像在这儿，也好像没在。这时
如果有人说爱你，其实爱的是他自己。
（3）
风过之后，天空在我多雾的身体里
找到了蔚蓝。孤单而冷静的下午时分
报纸在餐桌上充当着刀和叉。如果
不是我反复地想起同一条鱼
整池的雨水都将迅速干涸。时光的阴影
落在钟表的指针间像鳄鱼的眼泪
我们无法转动它的桅杆，就像不能
止住一场潮汐。此时，有谁听见空瓶子的
碎裂声？当它不规则的晶面在一枚水果
留下光斑，所有看得见的岁月令人怀疑。
仿佛昔日押注的轮盘赌，一旦
血液上升到马眼中的春天，我们的直觉
在黑暗中会看得更远。撇下傍晚
和黄昏的空地，直接进入光阴的内核
像一只酒杯要求幻美而短暂的晕眩。
（4）
事物的最初是一场梦。当它冬天的长发
披垂着，直到植物的根。空荡荡的睡眠
和形体，仿佛从灰尘中突然地举起
头痛般地，当你不能退得更远，你也不能
将它弯曲像从来没有过的那样。
而草长得再高也不会淹没月光
不会因为你不是我，而成为你的藏身之地
如果火焰熄灭，一只飞蛾就不如呆在茧蛹里
真是这样。世界暗下来像你打开的一本书
——漩涡般越来越小，阴影似地难以确定
你或是她，我们还是谁？比红色更像
蓝色，比绳索还像绳索。如此而已
更多的时候，泪水飞进我们眼里。
你的悲痛用一只钳子就可以拔去
而拔不去的，是事物永恒的阴影。
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(1)
Could have been shorter. Having dragged on so, even a needle's jab
Cannot make the night twinge, cannot make this still wind
Rustle to life. The same shadow has descended
On you twice; like a dream that dims abruptly
At dawn, to leave a mark on your daylight skin.
No one recalls which fallen leaf is the autumn night you walked on,
In which window is stillness growing wordlessly?
No man hand could shield your crazy palm-line
From the glare. No tree can replace your tree,
A lawn devolves at shocking speed into a deserted roof.
And a bird, as it is flying along cross the heavens,
Its fallen shadow on earth blowing by the wind
Becomes another bird, dragging an unmatched pair
Of shoes, and while it zigzags through a thicket,
An overlooked skull comes back to the reeling shoulders.
(2)
Night's soiled fingers are refused by the lamp, some old batteries
Squeeze out a melancholy aira. Facing a window lacking a world,
No one maintains Brodsky's milk-white calm.
If it's an empty room, then don't bother.
You know, two people are something definite.
When you carelessly lose a shoe, how can you foretell
The other will go on being lonely?
Not because of your foot, but for the shadow it cast
Once picked up, it will never fall that precise way.
As hollow as sound, as unreliable as a chair.
The postman's hand is knocked by an iron door. Rain
From darkness urges time's memory paling, like those butterflies
That turned to powder, a person might be many people.
They seem to be here, yet seem not to be.
Saying they love you, yet really loving themselves.
(3)
Wind has gone, and the sky in my foggy body
Finds clear blue. On this lone, clear-headed afternoon,
Newspaper on table serves for knife and fork. If it's not me
Who repeatedly thinks of the same fish,
A whole pond of rainwater would soon dry up. Shadows of time
Fall like alligator tears between the clock's hands.
We cannot rotate the masts of time, just as we can't
Stop an incoming tide. At this moment who hears
The empty bottle shattering? When jagged shards spread light-flecks on
A fruit, the span of visible years are doubtful.
Like the roulette game we bet on so intently once, if ever
Its blood mounts to springtime in a horse's eye, our hunches
Will see further into the darkness. Cast aside the evening
And empty field of twilight, enter straight into time's core,
Like a wineglass that seeks beautifully illusory, fleeting dizziness.
(4)
The beginning of Being is only a dream. When its winter hair
Hangs long, right down to the roots of plants, vacant slumber
And body rise up as if out of dust.
Like a headache, while you cannot back away from it,
Neither can you bend it back as it had never been.
But no matter how deep grass grows, it will not bury moonlight,
My not being you hardly makes me your hiding place.
Once the flame goes out, a moth had better stay in its cocoon.
That's the way it is. The world darkens just like the book you open
---like a whirlpool dwindling, shadowy and hard to define.
You or me, who else are we? More like blue than red.
More like rope than rope. That's all there is to it.
Most of the time, tears fly into our eyes.
Your sorrow can be yanked out by pliers, and what cannot
Are the eternal shadows of things themselves.
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