作者：吉狄马加
出版社：四川文艺出版社
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吉狄马加的诗试读：
作者简介
吉狄马加，彝族著名诗人、作家。1961年生于四川大凉山。1982年毕业于西南民族大学中文系。曾任中国作家协会书记处书记。现供职于青海省人民政府，并兼任中国少数民族学会会长，中国诗歌学会常务副会长。吉狄马加是一位具有广泛国际影响的诗人，已在国内外出版诗集近二十部，其中诗集《初恋的歌》获中国第三届新诗(诗集)奖，诗集《一个彝人的梦想》获中国第四届民族文学诗歌奖。多次获得中国国家文学奖和国际文学组织机构的奖励。2006年被俄罗斯作家协会授予肖洛霍夫文学纪念奖章和证书。同年，保加利亚作家协会为表彰其在诗歌领域的杰出贡献，特别颁发证书。2007年创办青海湖国际诗歌节，担任该国际诗歌节组委会主席和“金藏羚羊”国际诗歌奖评委会主席。
BIOGRAPHICAL SUMMARY OF THE AUTHOR
Jidi Majia, an eminent poet and writer of the Yi nationality, was was born in Daliangshan, Sichuan, and graduated from the department of Chinese language and literature of Southwest University for Nationalities in 1982; he was member of the secretariat of Chinese Writers Association and at present he holds office in the Qinghai Provincial People's Government, while concurrently serving as president of China Minority Literary Association and permanent vice-president of China Poetry Association. Jidi Majia has an international reputation as poet. He has published over 20 collections of poetry in several languages. He has won many important literary prizes, both in China and abroad. The Song of My First Love won the 3rd China National Prize for Poetry as the best poetry collection; The Dream of a Yi Native won 4th China Minority Literary Prize for poetry. In recognition of his great contribution to poetry, the Russian Writers Association awarded him the Sholokhov Memorial Medal for literature in 2006; that same year the Bulgarian Writers Association awarded him a special certificate. In 2007 Jidi Majia sponsored Qinghai Lake International Poetry Festival and held the post of chairman of the festival’s organizing committee. He was also director of the review committee for Gold Tibetan Antelope International Award for Poetry.
译者的话
梅丹理
在我着手翻译这本诗选之前，我有幸在吉狄马加先生的陪同下，到他的故乡——位于川西山区的凉山彝族自治州走了一趟。在布拖和昭觉两县的诺苏彝族村庄里，我被诺苏彝族山民们对于他们的传统的怀念和依恋所深深打动。旧日的土坯房已经不见踪影，代之而起的是瓦舍。这些瓦舍仍然按照节省空间的老格局在原址上建造，散落在田园或牧场上。诺苏彝族女人们依旧三五成群地在门前用系在腰部的小型织布架织布，男人们肩上依旧披着类似玻利维亚的印第安人穿的那种黑色披肩。
目前，彝族共有七百多万人口，主要分布在中国西南腹地的四川、贵州的云南等省，其中有数百万人口依旧讲属于藏缅语族的彝语。诺苏是彝族这个古老而神秘的民族中人口最为繁盛的支系，她刚刚开始向世界显示她的存在、传统和荣耀。
诺苏彝族有自己的神话传说，而其神话和传说所体现的思想体系跟汉族、藏族的思想体系有一点相似却又有微妙的不同。诺苏彝人有靠口耳相传的史诗和长篇叙事诗，譬如《勒俄特依》和《支呷阿鲁》。他们氏族的图腾是山鹰，而这个鹰经常被描绘为银色的，这让我想起了藏族的银翅鸟。此外，他们还有属于自己的送魂经。当超度一个亡灵上天堂的时候，毕摩(即祭奠仪式中的祭司)手里摇动着一个杵形法器和一个小铃，穿过烟火，口中念念有词。和藏传佛教法师手里拿的那种像雷电的金刚杵不一样的是，毕摩诵经的时候手里拿的法器像一个吞食烟火的鸟。毕摩不是端坐在庙堂里念经，而是坐在露天地上的席子上念经。经卷是用完全不同于汉字的象形文字写成的。
如果你到诺苏彝人居住的村子里转悠一圈，或许你会遇见头戴蘑菇状黑毡帽的毕摩。当毕摩不在葬礼上念经或是在驱瘟仪式上作法术的时候，他们通常在村头的一个僻静地方待着。在诺苏彝人居住的村子里，你或许会碰到毕摩在为人作法祛病或者为死者念经送魂，他的旁边通常会有一位助手在维护着一个火堆。经文通常被抄写在莎草纸或是薄薄的羊皮上。彝族还有一类神职人物，叫苏尼，是巫师——他，头发凌乱，长可抵胯，腰间挂着一面像西巴利亚巫师使用的腰鼓，神思恍惚地一边跳舞一边击鼓歌唱，他们甚至可以连续几个小时一直蹦跳歌唱。
诺苏彝人至今还没有接受来自外部世界的任何宗教，因为他们的信仰系统具有固有的复杂性,他们的信仰体系包括多种线索：一是季节性的祭奠仪式，二是关于他们的神性祖先的史诗，三是关于自然力的神话故事。也许因为彝族一直保持着多个分支的缘故，所以他们至今没有形成一个统一的、教条式的信仰。他们的信仰体系像一个编织物，昭示着他们所信奉的归宿是自然；这包含了对于人类生存境况的多方位的思考和透视。它使我想起了美洲的印第安人的宗教。
吉狄马加出身在一个颇有名望的彝族家庭，他的父亲在共和国成立后曾在彝族聚居腹地布拖县法院担任主要领导职务。由于读了俄罗斯大诗人普希金的诗歌的缘故，吉狄马加在少年时代就立志要做一位诗人，用诗歌来表达诺苏彝人的个性、身份和精神世界。
十七岁那年，吉狄马加考取了设在成都的西南民族大学，大学期间，他如饥似渴地学习诺苏彝族的史诗和传说，此外，还阅读了从屈原开始直到二十世纪末的大量的汉语诗歌、散文和小说的经典之作以及大量的外国文学优秀作品，如米哈伊尔·亚历山大罗维奇·肖洛霍夫、陀思妥耶夫斯基等文学大家的作品。
大学毕业后，吉狄马加回到了家乡凉山彝族自治州文联工作，很快他的诗作在著名的《星星》诗刊上连续发表，在四川文学圈子里产生了很大影响，不久，他就被调到四川省作家协会工作并很快担任了秘书长的职位。1986年，他的诗作获得中国作家协会颁发的国家诗歌奖，并受到已故大诗人艾青的青睐。
吉狄马加执著于诗歌，视诗歌创作为己身的使命和追求，尽管他不期待任何外在于诗歌的奖励，但是他的诗作还是不断获得国家级奖项，并在35岁那年被调到中国作家协会担任书记处书记，从此开始了他诗歌创作和人生事业的新天地。其间，他曾多次率领中国作家代表团出访，与国际文学界对话与交流; 另外，他还曾应邀作为美国国会青年领导者项目一员的身份赴美观察美国政府的工作近一个月之久。为了充分了解吉狄马加近年来在文化领域里的作为和影响，我们不妨参考一下他的另一些活动，比方说他担任了舞台史诗剧《秘境青海》和舞台与音乐剧《雪白的鸽子》的总策划和编剧；作为一位在国内外都颇有影响力的文化人物，吉狄马加还创办了青海湖国际诗歌节，并担任该诗歌节的组委会主任。青海湖国际诗歌节于2007年8月在青海西宁举办了第一届，2009年8月举办了第二届，已在国际诗歌界产生了广泛影响。
吉狄马加从未停止过他的追求，作为一个来自中国西南部少数民族的伟大灵魂，他要用诗歌承担起他的民族和民族精神与外部现实世界交流的使命。就文化身份而言，吉狄马加既是一个彝人，也是一个中国人，也是一位世界公民，这三者是互不排斥的。
吉狄马加是一位用汉语写作的彝族诗人，这让我想起了19世纪末和20世纪在英格兰文坛上颇为风光且为英语注入了巨大活力的爱尔兰作家群。尽管“女皇英语”(即标准英语)对于爱尔兰作家诗人们来说是借用语言，但也许正是因了爱尔兰强烈的口语传统，他们却使得英语更具新鲜感。这种传统给他们带来了文才，也就是我们有时候所说的那种“胡侃天赋”。具有这种“胡侃天赋”的爱尔兰作家诗人有：威廉·巴特勒·叶芝，乔治·萧伯纳，奥斯卡·王尔德，詹姆斯·乔伊斯和塞缪尔·贝克特等。
在美国，我们也可以找到不少属于少数民族或种族的作家诗人用他们被作为“局外人”的本民族或种族的历史和传统为文学表达“输血”的范例，譬如美国黑人作家兰斯顿·休斯和拉尔夫·埃里森，美籍犹太人作家伊萨克·辛格和索尔·贝娄, 此外，还有美洲印第安裔诗人谢尔曼·亚历克斯以及美籍华裔诗人李立扬等。
由此，我们不难发现，吉狄马加的文化主张和美国的哈莱姆文艺复兴有着惊人的相似之处，只有具有伟大情感的诗人才可能完成兰斯顿·休斯所企图完成的那种文化使命：在现代的文化错位和迷离的语境下，从根开始，将自己民族的身份认同重新加以唤醒。哈莱姆文艺复兴是从文化的边缘地带开始的，他们的声音最终被主流文化所接纳。作为一位诗人，吉狄马加所为之奋斗的使命也会被主流文化所接纳，因为他和哈莱姆文艺复兴的类同之处在于建立在一个更具有自然力和象征性的水平上——黑色现象。彝族中人口最为繁盛的一支称自己为“诺苏”，在彝族语言中即“黑族”的意思。他们的日常生活中最常见的图案以黑色为基调，配之以红色和黄色，所以，吉狄马加说，“我写诗，是因为我相信，忧郁的色彩是一个内向深沉民族的灵魂显像。它很早很早以前就潜藏在这个民族心灵的深处”(见《一种声音》)。黑色，作为一种情绪和情感氛围的象征，显示了彝族人民对于苦难和死亡的认识；同时，它也昭示了一种精神上的向度和深度。
在诺苏彝族的历史上，曾和他们的汉族和藏族邻居发生过冲突和争斗，但更多的时候是和平共处。今天，随着中国现代化步伐的加快，诺苏人的山林被大量采伐，让他们失去了和他们的传统信仰和价值观相和谐的生态环境，给他们的心灵带来了阴影和不安，无疑这是现代化在给他们带来新生活的同时所带给他们的一种负面影响。
吉狄马加认为，苦难是人类生存境况中难以避免的部分，很多充满了创造性表现力和希望的图案正是由那种代表着忧郁的色彩通过对比的方式显现出来的。在他的一些描述现代社会危机的诗作里，吉狄马加对于暴力进行了强烈抨击，但他从不提倡“以暴易暴”的做法或观念。众所周知，中国的抗日战争时期，重庆多次遭受日本侵略者飞机的狂轰滥炸，数万人在轰炸中丧生，整个城市几乎变成一座废墟。60多年后的2005年，在纪念全世界反法西斯胜利50周年的日子里，吉狄马加在一首以重庆大轰炸为背景的诗作《我承认，我爱这座城市》里写道：“是的，我爱这座城市/还有一个特殊的原因/那就是这座伟大的城市/与它宽厚善良的人民一样/ 把目光永远投向未来/从不复制仇恨/在这里，时间、死亡以及生命/所铸造的全部生活/都变成了一种/能包容一切的/沉甸甸的历史记忆！/从某种意义而言/这个城市对于战争的反思/对和平的渴望/就是今天的中国/对这个世界的回答！”
在后工业时代的社会条件下，从中国西南部大山的少数民族里走出一位具有世界眼光的诗人，是不难理解的。首先，在20世纪的社会里，一切神奇的事物都变得不那么神奇。历史证明，主流文明所看重的基本思想范畴与大自然是脱离的，譬如，上帝、佛陀、道、柏拉图的理念、作为本质的存在或物质力量。而这些观念总是呈现相互否认乃至相互吞噬的状态。和这些庞大的思想体系形成鲜明对比的是，土著民族文化是至今持有巨大发展空间的神话，土著民族对于自然依旧有着强烈的情感依附，因之，他们对于他们所赖以生存的自然环境和生态环境的改变是特别关注并十分敏锐的。
遗憾的是，那些主流文明所尊崇的思想范畴和自然是脱离的。当这种错位所导致的危险和荒谬接踵而来，对那些所谓的文明人类带来危机的时候，他们才认识到他们的思想体系需要“解构”的日子来到了。但是，那种“解构”不过是另一种荒唐的行为，同样延伸或加长了通往“诗意地栖居”这一理想的路途。而持有土著民族信仰体系的人们则无需担心解构什么。任何一个土著民族的信念系统在细节结构方面都含有怀疑论的成分；土著民族都感恩和敬畏自然，但他们对自己的信念也不是盲从。从吉狄马加的诗作中，我感受到了一种少数民族独有的信念体系的风景，而这一风景的窗户对于当下的世界是开放的。
当土著民族被迫放弃自己的家园时，他们会把一切留给记忆，因为他们一代代的先人们早已用属于他们自己的价值观塑造了他们，让他们重视旷世的生命和跨世的生命的延续。有关这方面的主题在吉狄马加的诗歌里随处可见，在《太阳》里他写道：“……望着太阳，总会去思念/因为在更早的时候/有人曾感受过它的温暖/但如今他们却不在这个世上”。随着传统习俗的消逝，他们神话史诗中的祖先开始担任代表可继承价值的角色，于是吉狄马加在《火塘闪着微暗的火》一诗里这样写道，“在河流消失的地方/时间的光芒始终照耀着过去/当威武的马队从梦的边缘走过/那闪动白银般光辉的/马鞍终于消失在词语的深处/此时我看见了他们/那些我们没有理由遗忘的先辈和智者/其实他们已经成为这片土地自由和尊严的代名词/……我怀念/那是因为我的忧伤/绝不仅仅是忧伤本身/那是因为作为一个人/我时常把逝去的一切美好怀念！”显然，这是对于文化剥夺行为的一个有力的反击和响亮的回答。在文化消遁的灰烬里，吉狄马加和他的诗歌至少能够挽救一种洞照人生道路的视野，并以此留给后来者。
2010年2月 写于南京艺事后素美术馆
(中文翻译：杨宗泽)
Translator’s Introduction
By Denis Mair
While I was preparing to translate these poems by Jidi Majia, I had the good fortune to accompany him on a trip to his native district in Liangshan Yi Nationality Autonomous Prefecture, which is located in mountainous west Sichuan. In secluded Nuosu villages of Butuo and Zhaojue counties, I was struck by the attachment of the Nuosu hill people to their time-honored ways. Where old cob [i.e., clay and straw] houses had been replaced, I could see that new ones had been built according to the space-conserving pattern, with clusters of small buildings interspersed among gardens and pastures. The Nuosu women still sit in small groups in front of their houses, weaving strips of cloth on waist looms. I saw men wearing black capes of hand-woven wool similar to the ponchos of Bolivian Indians.
The Yi people, of which the Nuosu make up the most populous branch, are a mystery that is only beginning to declare itself to the world. There are at least seven million Yi, and several million of them still speak their own language, which belongs to the Tibeto-Burman language family. They live in pockets in southwest China, in the provinces of Sichuan, Guizhou, and Yunnan.
The Nuosu have their own independent mythology and folklore. In some ways it reminds me of Tibetan and Chinese ways of thinking, but it is different. They have oral epics, for instance the Book of Origins and Zhyge Alu. They have a myth of a great ancestral bird totem, which reminds me of the Tibetan garuda. They often portray the great bird in beaten silver, which also reminds me of the garuda. They have their own scriptures for sending off souls after death. The bimo (ritual priest) waves a prayer sceptre and bell through the smoke of a fire while chanting the scripture; his only incense is the smoke of this fire. Unlike the thunderbolt-shaped dorje of the Tibetans, the bimo’s prayer scepter resembles like a smoke-inhaling bird. The bimo does not sit in a temple when reading his scriptures; he sits on a mat out in the open. The scriptures are written in a pictographic script which is independent from the Chinese writing system.
If you spend any time around Nuosu villages, eventually you will see one of the bimos, wearing a toadstool-shaped hat of black felt. When a bimo is not doing ceremonies for healings or funerals, he goes off to a quiet spot at the edge of a village. You can never predict where you will happen upon a bimo reading his scripture, often with an acolyte beside him tending a small fire. The scriptures are copied out on papyrus-like material or thin sheepskin. There is another kind of priest-figure, a suni, who is a kind of shaman. He drums on a waist-mounted hoop-drum (which looks very Siberian); he dances and sings for hours in a trance; he often has matted hair going down past his waist.
The Nuosu people have never accepted a religion from outside. In fact, their belief system has an inherent complexity: it is a tapestry of seasonal rituals, epics about divine ancestors, and stories of nature spirits. Perhaps because the Yi nationality remains an aggregate of branches, their beliefs have never fused into a dogmatic system. Their collection of beliefs provides a sense of belonging to the natural environment; it contains a rich variety of perspectives on the human condition. For these reasons it reminds me of American Indian religion.
The poet Jidi Majia is the child of an aristocratic Nuosu family. After 1949 his father held a leading position in the judiciary of Butuo County, in the Nuosu heartland. Jidi Majia came upon his calling as a poet in his early teens, when a Chinese version of Pushkin’s works came into his hands. He resolved early upon his path in life: he would articulate the identity and spiritual outlook of the Nuosu in poetry.
At the age of 17 Jidi Majia was admitted to Southwest Nationalities College in Chengdu. During his college years his hungry mind absorbed Nuosu epics and folklore. He also read great works of Chinese literature: everything from the mythically rich ancient poetry of Qu Yuan to vernacular prose masters of the 20th Century. He also read works of world literature, such as the novels of Michail Sholokhov and Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
After graduation he returned to his home district; his poems soon won province-wide attention when they were printed in the Sichuan journal Xingxing. Before long he was hired by the Writer’s Association of Sichuan, and he rose steadily to a position as secretary of that organization. He broke onto the national stage in 1986, when he won the National Poetry Award from the National Writers’ Association and became a protégé of the respected older poet Ai Qing.
Jidi Majia concentrated on being a poet, without seeking rewards extrinsic to his vocation, yet such awards came his way when he was given a position in the office of the National Writers’ Association. He had chances to participate in conferences of writers and poets around the world; he was invited to observe the workings of the U.S. government almost a month, as a guest of the U.S. Congress’ International Young Leaders’ Program. To appreciate the breadth of Jidi Majia’s activities as a cultural figure in recent years, it helps to know that he has been creative director and librettist of musical stage productions (‘Qinghai’s Secret Realm’ and ‘White Dove’); he has also organized major cultural festivals (Qinghai International Poetry Festival—2007 and 2009).
Jidi Majia has never stopped being what he always was: a great soul who emerged from among an indigenous group southwestern China and undertook to bridge his people’s ethos with realities of the outside world. For Jidi Majia, the project of articulating his identities as a Nuosu, as a Chinese, and as a world citizen are in no way mutually exclusive.
The Nuosu are a proud people whose antecedents lie on the margins of Sinitic culture. Being a long-embedded element within Chinese culture, yet never having been fully absorbed by it, they represent a unique position on the continuum of Chineseness. With respect to influences across the Han-Nuosu cultural interface, they have contributed as much as they have received in music, folk art, and myth.
The position of Jidi Majia as a Nuosu poet writing in Chinese reminds me of Irish writers who emerged on England’s literary scene in the late 19th and 20th centuries. Irish writers and poets brought a tremendous vitality to the English language. Though the Queen’s English was a borrowed language for them, they were able to make it fresh, perhaps because of Ireland’s strong oral tradition. This tradition gave them an eloquence which we sometimes describe as the ‘gift of blarney.’ Several examples spring to mind: W.B. Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, and Samuel Beckett.
In the U.S. we also have examples of ethnic groups whose historical position as embedded outsiders lent strength to their literary expression. These include black American writers such as Langston Hughes and Ralph Ellison, as well as writers from the Jewish immigrant community such as Issac Singer and Saul Bellow. More recently, we have heard strong voices from the native American poet Sherman Alexie and from the ethnic Chinese immigrant Li-Young Lee.
It comes as no surprise to learn that Jidi Majia has a strong affinity for figures of America’s Harlem Renaissance. Only a great-souled poet could have succeeded in the project that Langston Hughes attempted: to revive a people’s identity, from the roots up, in a modern setting of cultural dislocation and anomie. The Harlem Renaissance figures started from a position on the margin, but their voices were eventually heard and felt by the cultural mainstream. Such was also the mission which Jidi Majia settled upon as a poet. But his affinity with the Harlem figures also lies on a more elemental, symbolic level—in the phenomenon of blackness. The most populous branch of the Yi call themselves the Nuosu, which in their language means the ‘black tribe.’ Their holy men wear black hats and capes. Their formal decorative scheme features a black background with red and yellow patterns. In one poem Jidi Majia writes: ‘I write poems, because it seems that the spirit of our introspective, ruminative tribe is shown outwardly in a melancholy color. For a long time this color has been harbored deeply in our souls.’ (‘One Kind of Voice’) The color black, as a symbol of an emotional atmosphere, indicates an awareness of suffering and death; it is also the color of spiritual knowledge and depth.
There has been conflict and suffering in the history of the Nuosu’s dealings with their Han and Tibetan neighbors, of course, they have more often co-existed peacefully. In recent times, the timber cutting practices which scarred the Nuosu homeland were an unfortunate side-effect of modernization that was basically imposed upon them. This is part of the Nuosu burden of sadness, a loss of harmony with the environment which they feel keenly of their attachment to traditional beliefs and values.
Jidi Majia accepts suffering as part of the human condition: it is the underlying melancholy color on which the hopeful patterns of creative expression appear by contrast. In his poems about crises of the modern world, he denounces violence but does not seek to attach blame or exact retribution. His attitude toward suffering can be seen in his praise for the people of Chongqing: ‘..Indeed, my love for this city/ Has another special reason/ Namely that this great city/ Like its kind, generous people/ Always keeps its eyes on the future/ Never seeking to duplicate vengeance/ ...This city’s reflective attitude toward war/ And its longing for peace/ Is no other than what today’s China/ Gives as its answer to the world!’ (‘I Admit It, I Love This City’)
In our post-modern context, it is no surprise that a poet of worldwide vision would emerge from a minority people in the isolated mountains of China’s southwest. After all, nothing could be more fantastic than what has already happened in our 20th century reality. History has shown that major civilizations produce systems of thought which trumpet certain fundamental categories as standards of truth: God, Buddha-nature, the Dao, the realm of ideal forms, the ground of Being, material forces. These are ideas which tend to deny each other or swallow each other up. In contrast to such monolithic thought systems, the cultures of indigenous peoples possess still-living myths which have room to grow. Indigenous cultures have a responsive emotional attachment to nature; they are quite observant about changes in their natural environment.
Unfortunately, the fundamental thought-categories valued by major civilizations are dislocated from nature. When the danger and absurdity of such dislocation is impressed upon civilized people by one crisis after another, they realize it is time to ‘deconstruct’ their systems of thought. But ‘deconstruction’ is yet another absurd exercise which only prolongs their detour from the task of getting oriented to life on planet earth. People with indigenous belief systems don’t have to bother deconstructing anything. The detailed structure of an intact indigenous belief system includes a dose of skepticism. Indigenous people have a connection of gratitude and reverence toward nature, but they can take their own beliefs with a grain of salt. As I read Jidi Majia’s poetry, I experience the perspective of an indigenous belief system with its windows thrown wide-open to the modern world.
When indigenous people are dispossessed, they grope for memory because the continuity of life across generations has value for them. This theme is addressed from many angles in Jidi Majia’s poetry. In ‘Sun’ he writes: ‘…Looking at the sun always makes me miss/ Those people before my time/ Who once could feel this warmth/ And are no longer in this world…’ As specific traditional customs fade away, the great mythic ancestors come to stand for inheritable values. Thus Jidi Majia writes: ‘…Where a river has vanished, time keeps rays to light the past/ As a column of riders approaches along a dream’s edge/ The silvery brightness of saddles disappears/ Deep into a word-string, whereupon I see them/ Elders and wise men we are not justified in forgetting/ In fact they signify truth and dignity on this land/ … I think back, not to dwell on sad losses/ Just being human I am drawn/ To relive all beautiful bygone things!’ (‘Glowing Embers in the Fireplace’). This is a healthy response toward cultural dispossession. Out of the ashes of loss, at least the poet can rescue moments of clear vision to light the way for his successors.
February 2010
White Canvas Gallery, Nanjing
自画像
风在黄昏的山冈上悄悄对孩子说话，
风走了，远方有一个童话等着它。
孩子留下你的名字吧，在这块土地上，
因为有一天你会自豪地死去。
——题记
我是这片土地上用彝文写下的历史
是一个剪不断脐带的女人的婴儿
我痛苦的名字
我美丽的名字
我希望的名字
那是一个纺线女人
千百年来孕育着的
一首属于男人的诗
我传统的父亲
是男人中的男人
人们都叫他支呷阿鲁[1]
我不老的母亲
是土地上的歌手
一条深沉的河流
我永恒的情人
是美人中的美人
人们都叫她呷玛阿妞[2]
我是一千次死去
永远朝着左睡的男人
我是一千次死去
永远朝着右睡的女人
我是一千次葬礼开始后
那来自远方的友情
我是一千次葬礼高潮时
母亲喉头发颤的辅音
这一切虽然都包含了我
其实我是千百年来
正义和邪恶的抗争
其实我是千百年来
爱情和梦幻的儿孙
其实我是千百年来
一次没有完的婚礼
其实我是千百年来
一切背叛
一切忠诚
一切生
一切死
啊，世界，请听我回答
我——是——彝——人
[1] 支呷阿鲁，彝族创世史诗中传说中的英雄。
[2] 呷玛阿妞，彝族史诗中传说的美女。
SELF-PORTRAIT
Wind blows over a ridge, speaking softly to a child at twilight.
The wind goes off into the distance where a tale awaits it.
Leave your name on this land, child,
for your time will come to die proudly.
— Inscription
I am history written on this land in the Nuosu tongue
I was born to a woman who could hardly bear to cut the birth cord
My agonizing name
My beautiful name
My name full of hope
Is a poem of manhood
Gestated for a thousand years
By a woman at her spindle
My tradition-bearing father
Is a man among men
People call him Zhyge Alu [1]
My never-aging mother
Is a singer upon this land
She is its deep-running river
My eternal beloved
Is a beauty among beauties
People call her Gamo Anyo [2]
In each of my thousand deaths as a man
I lay down to rest facing left
In each of my thousand deaths as a woman
I lay down to rest facing right
At the end of a thousand mourning rites
I am friendly words of a guest from afar
At the high-point of a thousand mourning rites
I am a mother's quavering syllables
Though all this includes me
In truth I am the millennial conflict
Of justice against evil
I am the millennial descendant
Of love and fantasy
Truly down through the centuries
All the treachery and loyalty
The births and deaths have been mine
Ah world, let me give answer
I—am—of—the—Nuosu—people
[1] Zhyge Alu is a mythic hero of the Nuosu whose exploits are recounted in an epic of the same name.
[2] Gamo Anyo is a legendary beauty of the Nuosu people.
回答
你还记得
那条通向吉勒布特的小路吗？
一个流蜜的黄昏
她对我说：
我的绣花针丢了
快来帮我寻找
(我找遍了那条小路)
你还记得
那条通向吉勒布特的小路吗？
一个沉重的黄昏
我对她说：
那深深插在我心上的
不就是你的绣花针吗
(她感动地哭了)
ANSWER
Do you still remember
The little road to Jjilu Bute?
A honeyed twilight hour
She said to me:
I’ve lost my embroidery needle
Hurry up and help me find it
I looked everywhere on that country lane
Do you remember
The little road to Jjilu Bute?
A weighty twilight hour
I said to her
Something is stuck deeply in my heart
Isn’t that your embroidery needle?
(She was moved to tears)
“睡”的和弦
如果森林是一片郁郁的海
他就沉沉地浮起
呼吸在海岸线上
小屋像一只船
搁浅在森林的最南方
搁浅在平原的最北方
抛锚在一个大港湾
猎狗弓着背打盹
为火塘以外的夜，画一个温热的
起伏的问号
他睡在那间
有女人的头发味和孩子的
奶香味的小屋里
那梦境似流水，诡秘地卷过
他朦胧的头顶
白日里那只母鹿漂亮的影子
刚从这里飘走
他开始追寻，肩上落满了
好多秋天的黄金叶
他没有开枪。他看见那只母鹿
在一座中国西南的山上跳舞
于是他也想跳
但妻子枕着他的左臂
孩子枕着他的右臂
这是两个小港湾
他好像只能用神思
吹着悠扬的口哨
走往日猎人那种细碎步
一首不尽的森林小夜曲
便从他的额头上悄悄滑过
THE CHORD THAT PASSES FOR SLEEP
If the forest is a sea of loden green
His weight is borne afloat there
And he breathes at the shoreline
In the boat of his hut
Beached at the southern edge of the forest
Beached at the northern edge of the plain
Run aground in a harbor
A curled-up hunting dog dozes
Like a cozy, heaving question mark
For the night beyond the stove’s warmth
The man lies in the little room
Redolent of a woman’s hair
And a child’s milky breath
A dream-current slips in winding course
Past the obscured crown of his head
No sooner does the pretty shape
Of a doe glimpsed in daylight drift by
Than he gives pursuit, and onto his shoulders fall
Many golden leaves of autumn
He does not shoot the doe. He sees her
Dancing on a mountain in southwest China
Whereupon he too wants to dance
But his wife is pillowed on his left arm
His child is pillowed on his right arm
With these two coves on either side
It seems that only in spirit
Can he sound a long, haunting whistle
And tread the gliding step of old-time hunters
A forest nocturne that knows no end
Quietly slips past his forehead
彝人谈火
给我们血液，给我们土地
你比人类古老的历史还要漫长
给我们启示，给我们慰藉
让子孙在冥冥中，看见祖先的模样
你施以温情，你抚爱生命
让我们感受仁慈，理解善良
你保护着我们的自尊
免遭他人的伤害
你是禁忌，你是召唤，你是梦想
给我们无限的欢乐
让我们尽情地歌唱
当我们离开这个人世
你不会流露出丝毫的悲伤
然而无论贫穷，还是富有
你都会为我们的灵魂
穿上永恒的衣裳
A NUOSU SPEAKS OF FIRE
Give us blood, give us land
O power stretching further than antiquity
Let the latter-born glimpse their forbears in a trance
You bestow warm care, you give succor to life
May we feel your benevolence, know your kindness
You have safeguarded our self-respect
Kept us from harm at others’ hands
You are forbidden pleasure, you beckon to us, you are a dream
You give us limitless joy
You let us sing with abandon
when we leave the human world
Not a trace of sorrow will you show
Whether we lived in poverty or wealth
You will dress our souls
In garments of flame
民歌
赶场的人们回家了
可是我的诗没有归来
有人曾看见它
带着金色的口弦
在黄昏路口的屋檐下
喝醉了酒
沮丧徘徊
坡上的羊儿进圈了
可是我的诗没有归来
领头羊曾看见它
在太阳沉落的时候
望着流血的山冈
欲哭无泪
独自伤感
四邻的乡亲都安睡了
可是我的诗没有归来
一个人坐在门前等待
这样的夜晚谁能忘怀？！
FOLK SONG
Folks have all come home from market
But my poem has not come back
It was seen drunk
Pacing heavy-heartedly
With a golden jews harp in hand
Under eaves of a house,
Near a crossroads at dusk
Sheep have come down from the hillside
But my poem has not come back
The lead ram caught sight of it
As the sun edged downward
It was watching the bleeding hills
It was past the point of weeping
Grieving to itself
The neighbors are all asleep
But my poem has not come home
I sit at the gate to watch for it
How could I forget such a night?!
反差
我没有目的
突然太阳在我的背后
预示着某种危险
我看见另一个我
穿过夜色和时间的头顶
吮吸苦荞的阴凉
我看见我的手不在这里
它在大地黑色的深处
高举着骨质的花朵
让仪式中的部族
召唤先祖们的灵魂
我看见一堵墙在阳光下古老
所有的谚语被埋进了酒中
我看见当音乐的节奏爬满羊皮
一个歌手用他飘忽着火焰的舌头
寻找超现实的土壤
我不在这里，因为还有另一个我
在朝着相反的方向走去
THE OTHER WAY
I have no goal
Suddenly the sun behind me
Foretells an oncoming danger
I see my other self pass through
The crown of darkness and duration
Nursing on the coolness of buckwheat
I do not see his hand here before me
It is in black depths of the land
It is holding up flowers of bone
So my tribe, in its rituals will know
The presence of ancestors’ souls
I see an earthen wall, ancient under the sun
All proverbs have been buried in wine
I see rhythms snaking over a drumhead
A singer loosens his flaming tongue
To seek surreal terrain
I am not here, for there is another self
Walking in an opposite direction
母亲们的手
彝人的母亲死了，在火葬的时候，她的身子永远是侧向右睡的，听人说那是因为，她还要用自己的左手，到神灵世界去纺线。
—— 题记
就这样向右悄悄地睡去
睡成一条长长的河流
睡成一架绵绵的山脉
许多人都看见了
她睡在那里
于是山的女儿和山的儿子们
便走向那看不见海的岸
岸上有一条美人鱼
当液态的土地沉下去
身后立起一块沉默的礁石
这时独有一支古老的歌曲
拖着一弯最纯洁的月牙
就这样向右悄悄地睡去
在清清的风中
在濛濛的雨里
让淡淡的雾笼罩
让白白的云萦绕
无论是在静静的黎明
还是在迷人的黄昏
一切都成了冰冷的雕像
只有她的左手还漂浮着
皮肤上一定有温度
血管里一定有血流
就这样向右悄悄地睡去
多么像一条美人鱼
多么像一弯纯洁的月牙
多么像一块沉默的礁石
她睡在土地和天空之间
她睡在死亡和生命的高处
因此江河才在她身下照样流着
因此森林才在她身下照样长着
因此山岩才在她身下照样站着
因此我苦难而又甜蜜的民族
才这样哭着，才这样喊着，才这样唱着
就这样向右悄悄地睡去
世间的一切都要消失
在浩瀚的苍穹中
在不死的记忆里
只有她的左手还漂浮着
那么温柔，那么美丽，那么自由
MOTHER’S HAND
Among the Nuosu, when a mother dies, her body is laid out facing rightwards to be cremated. People say this leaves her left hand free to keep spinning yarn, even in the spirit-world.
— Inscription
In this right-facing pose she goes off to sleep
The sleep of a long river
The sleep of a far-stretching ridgeline
Many people have seen her
Laid out in those places
Whereupon those highland sons and daughters
Go to the shore of an unseen ocean
And where the waves of land subside
A mermaid remains on the shore
Behind her is a brooding shoal
Where only an ancient song is heard
Bearing up the purest of crescent moons
In this right-facing pose she goes off to sleep
In the clear-aired wind
In a hazy rain-shower
She is enveloped in thin mist
She is enwreathed in white clouds
Whether at tranquil daybreak
Or in enchanting twilight
All else turns to chilled sculpture
Only her left arm floats free
Its skin surely gives off warmth
Its veins surely flow with blood
In this right-facing pose she goes off to sleep
How like a mermaid she is
How like a crescent moon
How like a brooding shoal
She sleeps between land and sky
She sleeps on the heights of birth and death
Only thus do rivers keep flowing beneath her
Only thus do forests keep growing beneath her
Only thus do boulders keep standing beneath her
Only thus do my sweet, suffering people
Keep weeping and shouting and singing
In this right-facing pose she goes off to sleep
All things in the world will fade away
In the vast vault of heaven
In undying memory
Only her left arm still floats
So tender, so beautiful and free
做口弦的老人
这是谁的口弦在太阳下闪光，多么像蜻蜓的翅膀。
——题记
一
在群山环绕的山谷环绕的山谷中
他的锤声正穿过那寂静无声的雾
音乐会溅落星星般的露珠
处女林会停止风中的舞步
那就让这男性的振动
在高原湖丰腴的腹部上
开始月光下
爱和美的结盟
二
他苍老多皱的手
是高原十二月的河流
流褐黄色的音韵
流起伏着的思绪
正缓缓地
剪裁金黄金黄的古铜
三
他的手里正游过一条自由的鱼
它两翼是古铜色的波浪
他举起高而又高的礁石
在和金色的鱼鳞碰撞
于是从他的童话世界中
将飞出好多好多迷人的蜻蜓
四
蜻蜓金黄的翅膀将振响
响在太阳的天空上
响在土地的山峰上
响在男人的额头上
响在女人的嘴唇上
响在孩子的耳环上
蜻蜓金黄的翅膀将振响
响在东方
响在西方
响给黄种人听
响给黑种人听
响给白种人听
响在长江和黄河的上游
响在密西西比河的下游
这是彝人来自远古的声音
这是彝人来自灵魂的声音
五
当月亮从大山背后升起
爱在山岗上岩石般站立
缠绵的蜻蜓
匆忙的蜻蜓
甜蜜的蜻蜓
到少女的胸脯上栖息
那些无声的喇叭花
独自对着星空呼吸
因为有了一对对金色的翅膀
爱在这块土地上才如此久长
六
假如土地上失去了金翅拍击的声音
假如土地上失去了呼唤友情的回音
那世界将是一个死寂的世界
那土地将是一片荒凉的土地
有什么比这更令人绝望
有什么比这更令人悲哀
七
人类在制造生命的蛋白质
人类在制造死亡的核原子
毕加索的和平鸽
将与轰炸机的双翼并行
从人类的头上飞过
飞过平原 飞过
飞过高山 飞过
飞过江河 飞过
飞过那些无名的幽谷 飞过
我们的老人已经制造了一万次爱情
我们的老人已经制造了一千颗太阳
看那些蜻蜓金黄的翅膀
正飞向每个种族的故乡
八
有一天他将默默地死去
为了永恒的爱而停止呼吸
那时在他平静的头颅上
会飞绕着一群美丽的蜻蜓
它们闪着金黄金黄的翅膀
这块土地上爱唱歌的彝人
将抬着他的躯体 走向
走向那千古不灭的太阳
THE OLD JEWS HARP MAKER
Whose jews harp is making these flashes in sunlight, that so resemble a dragonfly's wings?
— Inscription
1
In a valley encircled by valleys encircled by mountains
His hammer-taps pierce the lonely silent mist
Music splashes down like starry dewdrops
Making the virgin forest pause in its windy dance
So send out this manly vibration
Across the curvy waist of a highland lake
Under the moon begin to tie
New bonds of love and beauty
2
His crabbed and wrinkled hands
Are a highland river in December
Flowing with earth-toned resonance
Flowing with excited and dejected moods
As he takes his time snipping
The warm-hued golden bronze
3
Through his hands a fish of freedom swims
With fins that undulate in tones of bronze
And the fish with its metallic scales crashes
Against high shoals he causes to appear
Setting loose many lovely dragonflies
To fly about in this story-like world
4
Glinting wings of dragonflies will thrum
Sounding up to the sunny vault of sky
Sounding over the land’s mountain peaks
Sounding over a man’s forehead
Sounding over a woman’s lips
Sounding over a child’s earring
Glinting wings of a dragonfly will thrum
Sounding in the east
Sounding in the west
Sounding in the ears of the yellow race
Sounding in the ears of the black race
Sounding in the ears of the white race
Sounding upstream on the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers
Sounding downstream on the Mississippi
These are sounds of the Nuosu from antiquity
These are sounds of from within the Nuosu soul
5
When the moon rises from behind a great mountain
Like a boulder love stands upon the ridgeline
A dragonfly wanting to cling
A dragonfly darting here and there
A dragonfly of sweetness
Perching on a maiden’s chest
While each silent trumpet of woodbine
Exudes its breath toward the starry sky
Only because of these glinting wings
Has love endured so long on this land
6
Were the land to lose the sound of golden wings beating
Were the land to lose the sound of friendship calling
This world would be a desolate world
This land would be a desolate land
What could plunge people into greater hopelessness?
What could make people more sorrowful than this?
7
Human beings are crafting the protein of life
Human beings are crafting nuclear particles of death
The dove of Picasso
In tandem with a bomber’s wings
Are flying over mankind’s head
Over the plain they fly
Over high mountains they fly
Over streams and rivers they fly
Over nameless hidden valleys they fly
Our old one has already crafted a myriad loves
Our old one has crafted a myriad of suns
Look at the dragonflies flying on golden wings
Toward the native places of each race
8
One day he will quietly pass away
In the name of eternal love his breath will cease
Whereupon a host of lovely dragonflies
Flashing their brilliant golden wings
Will fly in arcs above his tranquil skull
The song-loving Nuosu of this land
Will bear away his earthly remains
Away, towards the ageless undying sun
我愿
彝人的孩子生下地，
母亲就要用江河里纯净的水为孩子洗浴。
——题记
当有一天我就要死去
踏着夕阳的影子走向大山
啊，妈妈，你在哪里？
纵然用含着奶汁的声音喊你
也不会有你的回音
只有在黄昏
在你的火葬地
才看见你颤颤巍巍的身影
这时让我走向你
啊，妈妈，我的妈妈
你不是暖暖的风
也不是绵绵的雨
你只是一片青青的
无言的草地
那么就让我赤裸着
唱一支往日的歌曲
啊，妈妈，我的妈妈
你勿需用嘴为我呻吟
假如这是爱的时辰
那夜露就会悄悄降临
在这茫茫世界
在这冷暖人间
我的皮肤有太阳的光泽
我的眼睛有森林的颜色
可你看见了吗？
我的躯体
那曾经因为你
而最洁净的躯体
也曾被丑恶雕刻
啊，妈妈，我的妈妈
我真的就要见到你了吗？
那就请为你的孩子
再作一次神圣的洗浴
让我干干净净的躯体
永远睡在你的怀里
MY WISH
When a Nuosu child comes into this world,
its mother will cleanse it with pure water from a stream.
— Inscription
One day when it is my time to die
When I tread on long shadows, heading towards high mountains
Ah, Mother, where will you be?
Though I call you in a milky-toned voice
There can be no sound from you
Only when twilight comes
At our cremation ground
Will I see your wavering silhouette
At this time let me draw near you
Ah mother, my mother
You are not a warm wind
You are not a drizzling rain
You are simply a meadow
A green place, lush and quiet
So let me sing nakedly
An old song I learned
Ah mother, my mother
Don’t moan for me with your mouth
If this is the hour of love
Evening dew will fall
In this world that has lost its way
In this crowd that blows hot and cold
My skin is tinged by sunlight
My eyes have a forest color
But can you see
My body of flesh
This physical frame
That once was pure because of you
Has been chiseled by ugliness?
Ah mother, my mother
Am I truly to see you soon?
Then please perform for your child
Another sacred cleansing
Let this flesh of mine be fully clean
For its eternal sleep in your embrace
听《送魂经》
要是在活着的日子
就能请毕摩为自己送魂
要是在活着的日子
就能沿着祖先的路线回去
要是这一切
都能做到
而不是梦想
要是我那些
早已长眠的前辈
问我每天在干些什么
我会如实地说
这个家伙
热爱所有的种族
以及女子的芳唇
他还常常在夜里写诗
但从未坑害过人
LISTENING TO THE SOUL-SENDING SCRIPTURE
If I could ask a bimo to send off my soul
During the days of my lifetime
If I could trace the route back to my ancestors
During the days of my lifetime
If this could be done
And were not a dream
And if my elders who have gone
To their eternal rest
Were to ask me what I do each day
I would say truthfully
This fellow has ardent love
For all races of people
And for fragrant lips of women
Often he stays up late writing poems
But he has never done harm to others
古里拉达的岩羊
再一次瞩望
那奇妙的境界
其实一切都在天上
通往神秘的永恒
从这里连接无边的浩瀚
空虚和寒冷就在那里
蹄子的回声沉默
雄性的弯角
装饰远走的云雾
背后是黑色的深渊
它那童真的眼睛
泛起幽蓝的波浪
在我的梦中
不能没有这颗星星
在我的灵魂里
不能没有这道闪电
我怕失去了它
在大凉山的最高处
我的梦想会化为乌有
MOUNTAIN GOATS OF GUNYILADA
Again I survey the vista
Of that marvelous domain
In truth it is in the sky-realm
It opens out onto vastness
It leads somewhere mystical and timeless
In that place of emptiness and cold
Echoes of hooves go off into silence
The crescent horns of the male
Are set off against a scudding cloud
And behind it is a black abyss
Its childlike eyes stir
Like elusive blue waves
Within my dreams
I cannot do without this star
Within my dreams
I cannot do without this lightning flash
I fear if it is lost
From the heights of Great Liangshan
My dreams will dissolve to nothing
部落的节奏
在充满宁静的时候
我也能察觉
它掀起的欲望
爬满了我的灵魂
引来一阵阵风暴
在自由漫步的时候
我也能感到
它激发的冲动
奔流在我的体内
想驱赶一双腿
去疯狂地迅跑
在甜蜜安睡的时候
我也能发现
它牵出的思念
萦绕在我的大脑
让梦终夜地失眠
呵，我知道
多少年来
就是这种神奇的力量
它让我的右手
在淡淡的忧郁中
写下了关于彝人的诗行
RHYTHM OF A TRIBE
In moments filled with tranquility
I can also detect
The desire it stirs
Snaking through my soul
Even when strolling at ease
I still have a sense
Of its energizing impulse
Coursing inside my body
Trying to goad my legs
Into making a mad dash
At times of sweet slumber
I notice it tugging at my thoughts
Until they coil in my brain
Filling the night with restless dreams
Ah, I also know
All these years
It is this marvelous force
In a state of slight melancholy
That makes my right hand
Write down poems about the Nuosu
土地
我深深地爱着这片土地
不只因为我们在这土地生
不只因为我们在这土地死
不只因为有那么多古老的家谱
我们见过面和没有见过面的亲人
都在这块土地上一个又一个地逝去
不只因为在这土地上
有着我们千百条深沉的野性的河流
祖先的血液在日日夜夜地流淌
我深深地爱着这片土地
不只因为那些如梦的古歌
在人们的心里是那样的悲凉
不只因为在这土地上
妈妈的抚摸是格外的慈祥
不只因为在这土地上
有着我们温暖的瓦板屋
千百年来为我们纺着线的
是那些坐在低矮的木门前
死去了的和至今还活着的祖母
不只因为在这土地上
我们的古磨还在黄昏时分歌唱
那金黄的醉人的温馨
流进了每一个女人黝黑的乳房
我深深地爱着这片土地
还因为它本身就是那样的平平常常
无论我怎样地含着泪对它歌唱
它都沉默得像一块岩石一声不响
只有在我悲哀和痛苦的时候
当我在这土地的某一个地方躺着
我就会感到土地——这彝人的父亲
在把一个沉重的摇篮轻轻地摇晃
LAND
I deeply love the land around me
Not only because we are born on this land
Not only because we die on this land
Not only for all the ancient family trees
Our relations we have seen and have not seen
One by one have passed away on this land
Not only because this land is crossed
By hundreds of deep-set wild rivers
And ancestral blood trickles night by night
I deeply love the land around me
Not only because of dreamy old songs
That strike the heart with such sorrow
Not only because a mother’s caress
Carries an extra measure of kindness
Not only because this land holds
Our warm tile-roofed cottages
For centuries our yarn has been spun
By women who sit at low wooden doors
The dead ones and the grandmother still living
Not only because of the ancient millstone
That still hums at dusk on this land
A heady amber scent suffuses the air
And seeps into each woman’s dark breasts
I love this land around me deeply
Simply for what it is on ordinary days
No matter how tearfully we sing to it
It remains as wordless as a boulder
Yet in times of sorrow and suffering
When we lie down at a certain spot
We feel this land—father of the Nuosu
Lightly rocking us in its heavy cradle
黑色狂想曲
在死亡和生命相连的梦想之间
在河流和土地的幽会之处
当星星以睡眠的姿态
在蓝色的夜空静默
当歌手忧郁的嘴唇失去柔软
木门不再响动，石磨不再歌唱
摇篮曲的最后一个音符跳跃成萤火
所有疲倦的母亲都已进入梦乡
而在远方，在云的后面
在那山岩的最高点
沉睡的鹰爪踏着梦想的边缘
死亡在那个遥远的地方紧闭着眼
而在远方，在这土地上
千百条河流在月光下游动
它们的影子走向虚无
而在远方，在那森林里
在松针诱惑的枕头旁
残酷的豹忘记了吞食身边的岩羊
在这寂静的时刻
啊，古里拉达峡谷中没有名字的河流
请给我你血液的节奏
让我的口腔成为你的声带
大凉山男性的乌抛山
快去拥抱小凉山女性的阿呷居木山
让我的躯体再一次成为你们的胚胎
让我在你腹中发育
让那已经消失的记忆重新膨胀
在这寂静的时刻
啊，黑色的梦想，你快覆盖我，笼罩我
让我在你情人般的抚摸中消失吧
让我成为空气，成为阳光
成为岩石，成为水银，成为女贞子
让我成为铁，成为铜
成为云母，成为石棉，成为磷火
啊，黑色的梦想，你快吞没我，溶化我
让我在你仁慈的保护下消失吧
让我成为草原，成为牛羊
成为獐子，成为云雀，成为细鳞鱼
让我成为火镰，成为马鞍
成为口弦，成为马布，成为卡谢着尔[1]
啊，黑色的梦想，就在我消失的时候
请为我弹响悲哀和死亡之琴吧
让吉狄马加这个痛苦而又沉重的名字
在子夜时分也染上太阳神秘的色彩
让我的每一句话，每一支歌
都是这土地灵魂里最真实的回音
让我的每一句诗，每一个标点
都是从这土地蓝色的血管里流出
啊，黑色的梦想，就在我消失的时候
请让我对着一块巨大的岩石说话
身后是我苦难而又崇高的人民
我深信这千年的孤独和悲哀呵
要是岩石听懂了也会淌出泪来
啊，黑色的梦想，就在我消失的时候
请为我的民族升起明亮而又温暖的星星吧
啊，黑色的梦想，让我伴随着你
最后进入那死亡之乡
[1] 马布和卡谢着尔，都是彝族传统的原始乐器。
RHAPSODY IN BLACK
Among dreams where life and death are joined
When somnolent stars beam in silence
In night's deep-blue sky
When the singer's lip is set in a pensive line
The wooden door does not creak, the millstone does not hum
The lullaby's last notes leap up as fireflies
And all weary mothers have entered dreamland
Far away on the yonder side of clouds
Atop the highest crag
Eagle’s claws tread on a dream's edge
And here, in THIS faraway land
Where the eyes of death are sealed
Hundreds of rivers race beneath moonlight
Their forms head off towards nothingness
And far away in the forest
Next to tempting pine-needle pillows
The panther leaves off preying on the mountain goat
In this moment of stillness
oh Gunyilada river in your deep chasm
Give me the rhythm of your lifeblood
Let my mouth's roof resound with your voice
Oh hurry, male mountain Vupuo of the Great Liangshan range
Embrace the female mountain Agajjumu of Lesser Liangshan
Let my body be your embryo once again
Let me gestate in your abdomen
Let vanished memory swell again
Ah black dream, at this silent moment
May you soon cover me, envelop me
Let me disappear under your lover-like touch
Let me turn into air, into sunlight
Into boulders and quicksilver and privet flowers
Let me turn into iron, into bronze
Into pearly shells, into asbestos, into phosphor
Ah black dream, may you soon engulf and dissolve me
Let me vanish under your benign protection
To become a grassland, a lark, a fine-scaled fish
To become a tiny sickle for striking sparks
To become a saddle, to become a jews harp
To become a mabu, to become a kaxi-jjuhly [1]
Ah black dream, as I fade away
Pluck lute strings of sorrow and death for me
Let the pain-racked, burdened name Jidi Majia
Be tinged by colorful sunlit mysteries, even at midnight
Let every word I speak, each song I sing
Give truest voice to the spirit in this soil
Let each line of poetry, each punctuation mark
Flow forth from blue veins of this soil
Ah black dream, just as I disappear
Let me converse with a monolith of rock
With my suffering, high-minded people behind me
I trust that their centuries of lonely sorrow
Were it heard, would draw tears from even a boulder
Ah black dream, just as I disappear
Let the bright, warm star of my people rise
Ah black dream, let me follow you
To enter death's country at last
[1] Mabu and kaxi-jjuhly are musical instruments used by the Nuosu.
岩石
它们有着彝族人的脸形
生活在群山最孤独的地域
这些似乎没有生命的物体
黝黑的前额爬满了鹰爪的痕迹
(当岁月漫溢的情感
穿过了所有的虚幻的季节
望着古老的天空和熟悉的大地
无边的梦想，迷离的回忆
只有那阳光燃成的火焰
让它们接近于死亡的睡眠
可是谁又能告诉我呢？
这一切包含了人类的不幸)
我看见过许多没有生命的物体
它们有着彝族人的脸形
一个世纪又一个世纪的沉默
并没有把他们的痛苦减轻
BOULDERS
They have the facial forms of Nuosu people
Who live in the loneliest mountain regions
These seemingly lifeless objects
Swarthy brows scrabbled with traces of eagle talons
When overflowing feelings of the years
Have passed through all illusory seasons
Unbounded dreams and stray memories
Survey the ageless sky and familiar soil
Only after the sun's fire has kindled them
Can they approach the sleep of death
But who can tell me what human misfortunes
Are contained in all this
I have seen many lifeless objects
That have facial forms of Nuosu people
Century after century of silence
Has done nothing to lighten their agony
群山的影子
跟随太阳而来
命运的使者
没有头
没有嘴
没有骚动和喧哗
它是光的羽衣
来自隐秘的地方
抚摸倦意和万物的渴望
并把无名的预感
传给就要占卜的羊骨
那是自由的灵魂
彝人的护身符
躺在它宁静的怀中
可以梦见黄昏的星辰
淡忘钢铁的声音
SHADE OF GROUPED MOUNTAINS
Following the sun it comes
Harbinger of fate
It has no head or mouth
It makes no noise or fanfare
It trails a feathered cape of light
From a hidden place emerging
To comfort the weariness and longing of all beings
And to the sheep's knuckles a diviner will throw
It imparts a nameless presentiment
This is the spirit of freedom
The talisman that guards the Nuosu people
Those who lie in its quiet embrace
Will dream of stars coming out at dusk
Will find respite from sounds of steel
故土的神灵
把自己的脚步放轻
穿过自由的森林
让我们同野兽一道行进
让我们陷入最初的神秘
不要惊动它们
那些岩羊、獐子和花豹
它们是白雾忠实的儿子
伴着微光悄悄地隐去
不要打扰永恒的平静
在这里到处都是神灵的气息
死了的先辈正从四面走来
他们惧怕一切不熟悉的阴影
把脚步放轻，还要放轻
尽管命运的目光已经爬满了绿叶
往往在这样异常沉寂的时候
我们会听见来自另一个世界的声音
SPIRITS OF THE OLD LAND
Lighten your footsteps
To pass through freedom's forest
Let us advance in company with wild beasts
Let us plunge into the original mystery
Do not startle them
Those mountain goats, river deer and panthers
Those faithful children of the white mist
Stealing quietly away among pale wisps
Do not disturb the eternal stillness
All about is an air of divine presences
Departed elders draw near on all sides
They are fearful of unfamiliar shadows
Walk with light footsteps, still lighter
Though fate's glance may be overgrown with greenery
Often at this time of utter stillness
We hear the sounds of another world
苦荞麦
荞麦啊，你无声无息
你是大地的容器
你在吮吸星辰的乳汁
你在回忆白昼炽热的光
荞麦啊，你把自己根植于
土地生殖力最强的部位
你是原始的隐喻和象征
你是高原滚动不安的太阳
荞麦啊，你充满了灵性
你是我们命运中注定的方向
你是古老的语言
你的倦意是徐徐来临的梦想
只有通过你的祈祷
我们才能把祝愿之辞
送到神灵和先辈的身边
荞麦啊，你看不见的手臂
温柔而修长，我们
渴望你的抚摸，我们歌唱你
就如同歌唱自己的母亲一样
BITTER BUCKWHEAT
Buckwheat, you make no sound
You vessel of the earth’s richness
You are drinking the milk of starlight
As you remember the blazing light of day
Buckwheat, you push your roots down
Into the land’s most reproductive zone
You are a primal metaphor and symbol
You are the roiling sun of the highlands
Buckwheat, you are full of spirit-nature
You are the direction ordained in our fate
You are an ancient language
Your fatigue is an encroachment of dreams
You are the only prayer by which
Our invocation can reach the side
Of nature-spirits and ancestors
Buckwheat, your invisible arms
Are tender and long
We yearn for your caress and sing of you
Just as we sing for our own mothers
看不见的人
在一个神秘的地点
有人在喊我的名字
但我不知道
这个人是谁？
我想把它的声音带走
可是听来却十分生疏
我敢肯定
在我的朋友中
没有一个人曾这样喊叫我
在一个神秘的地点
有人在写我的名字
但我不知道
这个人是谁？
我想在梦中找到它的字迹
可是醒来总还是遗忘
我敢肯定
在我的朋友中
没有一个人曾这样写信给我
在一个神秘的地点
有人在等待我
但我不知道
这个人是谁？
我想透视一下它的影子
可是除了虚无什么也没有
我敢肯定
在我的朋友中
没有一个人曾这样跟随我
SOMEONE UNSEEN
In a mysterious place
Someone is calling my name
But I do not know
Who it might be
I want to carry his voice with me
But it is unfamiliar to my ear
I can affirm
That among my friends
No one has ever called me this way
In a mysterious place
Someone writes my name
But I do not know
Who it might be
I try to construe his writing in dreams
But on waking I always forget it
I can definitely say
That among my friends
No one has ever written me such a letter
In a mysterious place
Someone is waiting for me
But I do not know
Who such a person might be
I wish to fix my gaze on his silhouette
But aside from emptiness there is nothing
I can definitely say
That among my friends
No one has ever followed me this way
守望毕摩
[1]——献给彝人中的祭司
毕摩死的时候
母语像一条路被洪水切断
所有的词，在瞬间
变得苍白无力，失去了本身的意义
曾经感动过我们的故事
被凝固成石头，沉默不语
守望毕摩
就是守望一种文化
就是守望一个启示
其实我们没有选择的余地
因为时间已经证实
就在他渐渐消隐的午后
传统似乎已经被割裂
史诗的音符变得冰凉
守望毕摩
我们悼念的不但是
一个民族的心灵
我们的两眼泪水剔透
那是在为智慧和精神的死亡
而哀伤
守望毕摩
是对一个时代的回望
那里有多少神秘、温情和泪水啊！
[1] 毕摩：彝族中的文化传承者和原始宗教中的祭司。
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]