This time, I have left my body behind me, crying
In its dark thorns.
Still,
There are good things in this world.
It is dusk.
It is the good darkness
Of women's hands that touch loaves.
The spirit of a tree begins to move.
I touch leaves.
I close my eyes and think of water.
If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.
Going to Church
Would entail a fording
To dry, different clothes;
My liturgy would employ
Images of sousing,
A furious devout drench,
And I should raise into east
A glass of water
Where any angled light
Would congregate endlessly.
《绝对时刻》
作者：赖内·马利亚·里尔克（Rainer Maria Rilke）(奥地利)
译者：李祚福
此刻谁在世上某处哭，
无缘无故地哭，
哭我。
此刻谁在夜晚某处笑，
无缘无故地笑，
笑我。
此刻谁在世上某处走，
无缘无故地走，
走向我。
此刻谁在世上某处死，
无缘无故地死:
望着我。
附：德文原文：
Rilke, Rainer Maria
Ernste Stunde
Wer jetzt weint irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund weint in der Welt,
weint über mich.
Wer jetzt lacht irgendwo in der Nacht,
ohne Grund lacht in der Nacht,
lacht mich aus.
Wer jetzt geht irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund geht in der Welt,
geht zu mir.
Wer jetzt stirbt irgendwo in der Welt,
ohne Grund stirbt in der Welt:
sieht mich an.
（1897年6月12日于慕尼黑）
写得很早，可见，诗总是能跨时空相遇。哭笑走死，四个行为，与相遇有关。人类命运共同体，人的绝对相通之处，难于言说的东西，只能用诗来统称吧！
Siwashing
It Out Once in Suislaw Forest
I slept under rhododendron
All night blossoms fell
Shivering on a sheet of cardboard
Feet stuck in my pack
Hands deep in my pockets
Barely able to sleep.
I remembered when we were in school
Sleeping together in a big warm bed
We were the youngest lovers
When we broke up we were still nineteen
Now our friends are married
You teach school back east
I dont mind living this way
Green hills the long blue beach
But sometimes sleeping in the open
I think back when I had you.
at first it seems like fucking is the big thing,
then after that--social consciousness,
then intellectual accomplishment,
and then after that
some fall into religion
others into the arts.
after that begins the gathering of money
and after the gathering of money
the stage where we pretend that
money doesn't matter.
then it's health and hobbies,
travel, and finally just sitting around
thinking vaguely of vague things,
rooting in gardens
hating flies, noise, bad weather, snails,
rudeness, the unexpected, new neighbors,
old friends, drunks, smoking, fucking,
singing, dancing, upstarts,
the postman and weeds.
it gives one the fidgets: waiting on
death.
Streets in Shanghai
TomasTranstrmer Translatedby Patty Crane
1
The white butterfly in the park is being read by many.
I love that cabbage-moth as if it were a fluttering corner of truth itself!
At dawn the running crowds set our quiet planet in motion.
Then the park fills with people. To each one, eight faces polished likejade, for all
situations, to avoid making mistakes.
To each one, there's also the invisible face reflecting "something youdon't talk about."
Something that appears in tired moments and is as rank as a gulp of viperschnapps
with its long scaly aftertaste.
The carp in the pond move continuously, swimming while they sleep, settingan
example for the faithful: always in motion.
2
It's midday. Laundry flutters in the gray sea-wind high over the cyclists
who arrive in dense schools. Notice the labrinths on each side!
I'm surrounded by written characters that I can't interpret, I'm illiteratethrough and through.
But I've paid what I owe and have receipts for everything.
I've accumulated so many illegible receipts.
I'm an old tree with withered leaves that hang on and can't fall to theground.
And a gust from the sea gets all these receipts rustling.
3
At dawn the trampling hordes set our quiet planet in motion.
We're all aboard the street, and it's as crammed as the deck of a ferry.
Where are we headed? Are there enough teacups? We should consider ourselveslucky
to have made it aboard this street!
It's a thousand years before the birth of claustrophobia.
Hovering behind each of us who walks here is a cross that wants to catch upwith us, pass us, unite with us.
Something that wants to sneak up on us from behind, put its hands over oureyes and whisper "Guess who!"
We look almost happy out in the sun, while we bleed to death from wounds we don't know about.
My ear amps whistle like they are singing
to Echo, goddess of noise,
the raveled knot of tongues,
of blaring birds, consonant crumbs
of dull doorbells, sounds swamped
in my misty hearing aid tubes.
Gaudí believed in holy sound
and built a cathedral to contain it,
pulling hearing men from their knees
as though atheism is a kind of deafness.
Who would turn down God?
Even though I have not heard
the golden decibels of angels,
I have been living in a noiseless
palace where the doorbell is pulsating
light and I am able to answer.
2
What?
a word that keeps looking
in mirrors like it is in love
with its own volume.
What?
I am a one-word question,
a one-man
patience test.
What?
What language
would we speak
without ears?
What?
Is paradise
a world where
I hear everything?
What?
How will my brain
know what to hold
if it has too many arms?
3
The day I clear out my dead father’s flat,
I throw away boxes of molding LPs, Garvey,
Malcolm X, Mandela, speeches on vinyl.
I find a TDK cassette tape on the shelf,
smudged green label Raymond Speaking.
I play the tape in his vintage cassette player
and hear my two-year-old voice chanting my name Antrob
and dad’s laughter crackling in the background
not knowing I couldn’t hear the word “bus”
and wouldn’t until I got my hearing aids.
Now I sit here listening to the space of deafness—
Antrob Antrob Antrob
4
And no one knew what I was missing
until a doctor gave me a handful of Legos
and said to put a brick on the table
every time I heard a sound.
After the test I still held enough bricks
in my hand to build a house
and call it my sanctuary,
call it the reason I sat in saintly silence
during my grandfather’s sermons when he preached
the good news, I only heard
as Babylon’s babbling echoes.
5
And if you don’t catch nothing
then something wrong with your ears—
they been tuned to de wrong frequency
—Kei Miller
So maybe I belong to the universe
underwater, where all songs
are smeared wailings for Salacia,
goddess of saltwater, healer
of infected ears, which is what the doctor
thought I had, since deafness
did not run in the family
but came from nowhere,
so they syringed in olive oil
and saltwater, and we all waited
to see what would come out.
Source: Poetry (March 2017)
