Brion Gysin, Magic Mushrooms, 1961[October Gallery, London. © Brion Gysin]
何人斯张枣/著
究竟那是什么人？在外面的声音只可能在外面。你的心地幽深莫测青苔的井边有棵铁树。进了门为何你不来找我，只是溜向悬满干鱼的木梁下，我们曾经一同结网，你钟爱过跟水波说话的我你此刻追踪的是什么？为何对我如此暴虐？
我们有时也背靠着背，韶华流水我抚平你额上的皱纹，手掌因编织而温暖；你和我本来是一件东西享受另一件东西；纸窗、星宿和锅谁使眼睛昏花一片雪花转成两片雪花鲜鱼开了膛，血腥淋漓；你进门为何不来问寒问暖冷冰冰地溜动，门外的山丘缄默
这是我钟情的第十个月我的光阴嫁给了一个影子我咬一口自己摘来的鲜桃，让你清洁的牙齿也尝一口；甜润得让你也全身膨胀如感激为何只有你说话的声音不见你遗留的晚餐皮果空空的外衣留着灰垢不见你的脸，香烟袅袅上升你没有脸对人，对我？
究竟那是什么人？ 一切变迁皆从手指开始。伐木丁丁，想起你的那些姿势， 一个风暴便灌满了楼阁疾风紧张而突兀不在北边也不在南边我们的甬道冷得酸心刺骨
你要是正缓缓向前行进马匹悠懒，六根辔绳积满阴天你要是正匆匆向前行进马匹婉转，长鞭飞扬
二月开白花，你逃也逃不脱，你在哪儿休息哪儿就被我守望着。你若告诉我你的双臂怎样垂落，我就会告诉你你将怎样再一次招手；你若告诉我你看见什么东西正在消逝我就会告诉你，你是哪一个
Who Art ThouBy Zhang ZaoTrans. by Zuo Fei & Jennifer Fossenbell
Who are you anyway? The noise coming from outsidecould only be outside. Your heart is unknowable, distant,a sago tree at the moss-rimmed well. When you walk in the doorwhy do you not come to find me? Instead, you slip over tothe wooden beam laden with dried fish, where we used totie nets together. You loved the me that spoke to the water.And what are you chasing after now?Why are you so cruel to me?
Once we stood back to back, flowing with glorious youth,I smoothed the wrinkles on your forehead, and my palmswere warmed from weaving; you and I are actuallyone thing enjoying another thing: papered-panes, stars, pots—who was it that blurred our eyes?One snowflake turning into two.A fish’s belly ripped open, what bloodiness! When youwalk through the door, why don’t you come to greet me?You move around coldly, silent as the mountain outside.
It’s been ten months since I fell in love,my time got married to a shadow.I bite into a fresh peach I picked, letting youbite with your shining teeth, too. The sweetnesswill make you swell all over with gratitude.Why is there only your voice speaking?I can’t see the leftover skins of the fruit you had at dinner,only your empty, dusty coat.I can’t see your face, only cigarette smoke rising—You can’t show your face to the world, to me?
Who in the world are you? All changebegins at the fingertips. The sound of chopping timber,it reminds me of your gestures. A storm fills the pavilionand an abrupt wind gathers,not from the north, nor the south.How bitterly cold it is in our tunnel.
Whether you’re plodding forwardwith horses languid and slow, six reins laden with the gloom.Or whether you’re rushing forwardwith horses winding along, whip whistling in the air.
February of white flowers, you can’t escape it even if you try.Wherever you rest, I’ll be watching. If you tell mehow you lower your arms, I will tell youhow to wave once more; if you tell mewhat’s fading out of your sight,I will tell you who you are.
灯芯绒幸福的舞蹈张枣/著
1
“它是光，”我抬起头，驰心向外，“她理应修饰。”我的目光注视舞台，它由各种器皿搭就构成。我看见的她，全是为我而舞蹈，我没有在意
她大部分真实。台上锣鼓喧天，人群熙攘；她的影儿守舍身后，不像她的面目，衬着灯芯绒我直看她姣美的式样，待到天凉，第一声叶落，我对
近身的人士说：“秀色可餐。”我跪下身，不顾尘垢，而她更是四肢生辉。出场入场，声色更迭；变幻的器皿模棱两可；各种用途之间她的灯芯绒磨损，陈旧。
天地悠悠，我的五官狂蹦乱跳，而舞台，随造随拆。衣着乃变幻：“许多夕照后东西会越变越美。”我站起，面无愧色，可惜话声未落，就听得一声叹喟。
2
我看到自己软弱而且美，我舞蹈，旋转中不动。他的梦，梦见了梦；明月皎皎，映出灯芯绒——我的格式又是世界的格式；我和他合一舞蹈。
我并未含混不清，只因生活是件真事情。“君子不器，”我严格，却一贯忘怀自己，我是酒中的光，是分币的企图，如此妩媚。
我更不想以假乱真；只因技艺纯熟（天生的）我之与他才如此陌生。我的衣裳丝毫未改，我的影子也热泪盈盈，这一点，我和他理解不同。
我最终要去责怪他。可他，不会明白这番道理，除非他再来一次，设身处地，他才不会那样挑选我像挑选一只鲜果。“唉，遗失的只与遗失者在一起。”我只好长长叹息。
Dance of Corduroy JoyBy Zhang ZaoTrans. by Zuo Fei & Jennifer Fossenbell
1
“It’slight.” I look up, my heartracing outward. “She should be decorated.”My eyes are fixed on the stagewhich was built from various vessels.When I see her, she is onlydancing for me, but I don’t care.
Most of her is real. On stagethe drums are deafening, the people restless;behind her is a shadowbearing no resemblance to her. I’m taking inthe beauty of her in corduroy, and only whenthe first leaf falls on a cold day, will I
tell the people around me: “She’s a feast for the eyes.”I’m on my knees in spite of the dirtand she is an array of dazzling limbs; exiting orentering stage, altering her voice and mien. She changes;a mutable vessel, indeterminable. In its many uses,her corduroy is damaged and worn.
Through the vastness of heaven and earth, my five sensesrun wild; the stage is set up and demolished at will.Clothing comes and goes. “With many sunsets,objects grow even more beautiful.”I stand up, without guilt, only to hear—before the voice fades away—a sigh.
2
I see the beauty and the weakness in myself.I’m dancing, spinning as I stand still.His dream dreams of a dream, a spotless moonilluminating the velvet—which is my form,but also the world’s.He and I are dancing together.
It’s not that I’m ambiguous,it’s just that life is a real thing.“The gentleman is not a mere vessel.” I’m strictwith myself but always indulging,I’m the light in the wine andthe scheme for nickels, enchanting.
It’s not that I want to mix the false with the genuine,it’s just that I was born with such talents,that’s why I seem so unfamiliar to him.My clothes haven’t changed,and my shadow has tears in its eyes—that’s why we differ in understanding.
In the end, I’ll blame him,but he won’t see the reason.Unless he comes again, puts himself in my position,he won’t pick melike picking a ripe fruit.“Alas, the lost can only be with the one who has lost,”and with that I let out a long sigh.
注：以上英译首发于Spittoon Literary Magazine 第八期，由昨非、詹妮弗·福森贝尔译出。