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伊安 ● 博德恩(Ian Boyden):鶴 — 獻給嘉央諾布

2017/12/19 — 18:38

圖伯特的鶴。 (拍攝者及拍攝時間不詳)(左)、Ian Boyden(右)

圖伯特的鶴。 (拍攝者及拍攝時間不詳)(左)、Ian Boyden(右)

唯色按:美國藝術家Ian Boyden(伊安·博德恩)的這首長詩,與我有某種相契投合,而各自所寫的實際上有內在關聯的第三首詩。 它們包括:Ian Boyden——"Frog Song — Dedicated to everyone who has lost their freedom in the pursuit of freedom"、 "Spider Field"、"The Cranes — for Jamyang Norbu";唯色——《故鄉的火焰》、《堯西達孜的蜘蛛》、《白鶴》。 

(孫蓉譯)

為此感謝伊安。 並感謝他 將我的這三首詩都譯成了英文。

廣告

Ian Boyden的這首長詩由孫蓉譯成了中文,使我得以領略其美意、詩意、深意,為此感謝譯者。

Ian Boyden把這首長詩獻給了圖伯特作家Jamyang Norbu(嘉央諾布)先生。 應該與這篇文章有關,當然不止於此:"High Sanctuary: WILDLIFE AND NATURE CONSERVANCY IN OLD TIBET"(《高原聖殿:圖伯特往昔的野生動物和自然保育》)。 其中寫到:“我從我母親與其他年紀更大的博巴那裡聽來的故事與軼事中,常常提到圖伯特的鳥,特別是仙鶴(tung-tung)、胡兀鷲(jha- goe)以及杜鵑鳥(khuyu)。

廣告

他們有時候會提到一個特別供養鳥的神龕,就在雅礱河谷的源頭之處,雅魯藏布之南,澤當的附近。”“然而在五九年前的圖伯特,在藏歷的三月十五日(五月上旬),會在此廟裡舉行一個特殊的儀式與慶典,好歡迎眾鳥之王的杜鵑鳥,以及其他過境喜瑪拉雅北遷的候鳥。拉薩會派出兩位官員來此地迎接鳥王。在廟宇旁邊的公園(林卡)裡,會放一張很大的氈毯與皮墊,上面撒著各類的穀物- -青稞、小麥、豌豆等等。還會架設桌子,上面放著酥油茶、青稞酒(chang)、藏式甜餅乾(khapsay,卡賽)、乾果、堅果等等,再點兩盞稱之為庫玉曲美(khuyu chome)即杜鵑供燈的特別酥油燈……”

在轉貼《鶴》的中譯與英文之前,附上Ian Boyden給我的一段留言:

“其實,整首詩好像多年來藏在我的心臟。我覺得很玄秘。如同伏藏存在於環境裡,它也存在於心裡。我相信整個世界存在於這兩個地方。內在的心不是鏡子。外在的世界也不是鏡子。一個不復制另一個。它們同時存在。在一個地方發生了什麼,也發生在另一個地方。當然有細微差別。我們的詩歌語言像一種吊橋聯合了這兩個地帶。天上有鵲橋,我們的友誼有鶴橋!

我開始寫這首詩,我寫了一首詩。 我自己說這是甲薩拉康。 然後我把這首詩打破了。 一個字一個字一個字。 像是一堆石頭,把詩變成廢墟。 ……過了幾個星期,我覺得我要使用原來的詩開始造成新的詩。 不是修改第一首,不是要重建原始的寺廟。 讓這首新的詩從原始的詩的廢墟長出來。《鶴》的土壤是另一首詩的廢墟。

要感謝你,是我們的友誼讓詩脫化出來。 我想想2017年,我覺得今年我做的最重要的事情,就是寫這三首詩,而我還翻譯了你的幾首詩。 這些成就對我來說最重要。 是活著的一個原因! ”


鶴 
——獻給嘉央諾布 


1.眼睛 

我看見鶴的羽翼 
從一隻眼睛的曼陀羅中拍翅 

我曾握著一張男人的照片 
他射殺了飛到圖伯特的 
最後一隻白鶴 

他抓住白鶴的喉頸 
像抓住時間流逝的咽喉 
空洞地耀武揚威 
白鶴活著,它握著問題的百萬年 
白鶴死去,垂吊著,像一個可怕的答案 

白鶴的眼睛變成乳白 
冰封的一汪湖泊 

想像俯瞰褶皺的地球—— 
藍色綠色,灰色白色 

每一汪湖面是一位神的眼睛 
每一位神的眼睛是一面鏡子 
你看見你自己的飛行 
飛過神的眼睛的天空 

班丹拉姆 
她的身體一汪湖,她的皮膚藍如水 
他們詢問她一個預言 
她回答: 
看你自己的雙手 
他們再問,她說: 
山的影子,你讀到什麼? 
第三次問她時 
她舉起一把形同一隻鶴的錘子: 
有誰能砸碎時漏? 

他們說她將每一個傷口變成一隻眼睛 
通過它們,我們可以看見世界 
透過這樣的瞳孔 
我們或許能理解 
我們自己的單獨的幻覺 

這是她的贈予 

我們的傷口的眼睛 
他人看似一汪湖,看似一面鏡 
他們看見自己的飛行 
在我們視覺的天空 

風能模糊但不能抹去 
冰以一吻變成乳白 
溫暖的春天等待著 

他們說她被烈焰環繞 
像眼睛的虹膜 

2.鶴影 

鶴群在石頭間踏步 

不是支幹如辮的大河圓石 
不是上游山谷冰蝕的石頭 
是被鐵鎚擊碎的石頭 
被火碎裂的石頭 

燒毀的地面,變黑的地基 
遠處天空疑問的白 
山的影子像法槌垂落 
塗黑弧形的脖頸 
召喚它們成石墨 
召喚它們成黑碳 

山的影子像法槌垂落 
共謀無效,它垂落像它一直在垂落 
一座舞台或許有人能讀到自己的心 

夜色籠罩的舞台 
一隻鶴,佇立像一個問號 
舉起一塊襯著陰影之重的石頭 
碎石的一個拳頭,說: 
我的家人, 
這塊碎石和我會照看你 
石頭掉落下來 
會砸碎你睡眠的陰影 
我的家人 
像星星一樣 
站在我們曾經飲食 
現在被焚毀的地方 

它們像星星閃爍,獨立悲痛的湖泊 
將它們的頭埋在翅膀的獄中 

少有人知第二個陰影在第一個之中 
月亮撒下第二個陰影 
精細錘成的銀練 
移向那隻勇敢的鳥 

更少人知其他的陰影也一樣 
每顆星旋轉向山脈 
撒下比一根根睫毛鍛造的遺忘 
更薄的陰影 

3.曼陀羅 

讀者 
如果你有一個問題塞在內心 
那麼碎石穿過你的影子墜落 

它是一座古老的廟宇 
甲薩拉康的一塊碎片 
一座圖伯特古老的聖殿 
聞名於它是鳥類休息的地方 

它沿著雅魯山谷西口的 
藏布那長長的岸邊 
建造於一千多年前 
那裡一條鳥類的河流傾瀉山脈 
瀉落平原,帶著飢渴的透明 
席捲稀薄空氣的陰影 

一千個春天,僧侶們 
在廟宇的地面畫曼陀羅—— 
用小麥、青稞、黑麥、燕麥 
粟米和豌豆描繪宇宙 
盛宴呈現像一隻望著天空的巨大眼睛 

他們知道圖畫同時完成與未完成 
像時漏的細腰等待著沙粒 
一千多年,萬鳥入畫飛過 
彷彿它們是時間本身 
起初杜鵑鳥,接著噪鶥 
最後是鶴 

鳥兒變成曼陀羅 
和曼陀羅的消逝 
飛來前它們就是曼陀羅 
飛走後 
它們也一直是永遠是曼陀羅 

碎石穿過你自己影子的時漏墜落 
像一個夢降落,落進你自己的覺醒 
風模糊著記憶的湖面 

碎石砸傷了湖面嗎? 
這個傷口會變成眼睛嗎? 

4.尋鶴 

我是孩童時 
母親帶我 
去馬盧爾河岸 
尋鶴 

沙丘鶴,命名於母親的生長之地 

雙雙沙丘鶴 
舞過我們的視網膜 
它們是星光 

我們會閉上眼睛聽 
漸漸消失成一種超越時間的語言 
進入石頭變成水的歌聲 

我的母親是孩童時 
她的父親帶著她 
去普拉特河多沙的河岸 
尋鶴 

他們會閉上眼睛聽 
驚奇他們的心 
怎樣變成問號 

父親女兒 
母親兒子 
淙淙 

我的祖母,母親的母親,離世時 
我和母親坐在脆弱的光中 

我看入她的眼睛時 
我看見什麼 
滾動在眼淚的干草里 

5.入侵 

軍隊的暴力 
被疑問的缺失衡量 
承托過穀物宇宙的地面 
變成碎石無牆的監獄 

1959年春 
外來的時漏翻轉這塊土地 
外表覆蓋詞語:解放、繁榮、統一…… 
但詞語空洞 
穿過玻璃的腰際所墜落的 
僅僅消失進陰影裡 

陰影橫掃風景 
陰影降落,掃蕩愛慕月光的語言 
包含聲音的語言: 

淙淙 

鶴的召喚聲 
鶴自身的名字 

今天,白鶴完全絕跡 
黑頸鶴——僅餘數千隻 

最後一隻鶴死亡時,我們的世界沒有希望 
征服與被征服同時敗北 

如果有人知道 
餵食鳥兒的僧侶們發生了什麼 
他們從不開口 

他們流亡了嗎? 
他們同廟宇一起焚燒了嗎? 
他們在石頭下壓碎了嗎? 

軍隊的暴力 
被答案的喪失衡量 
誰記得甲薩拉康 
在哪裡? 

淙淙 

6.孿生 

鳥類休息地上面的斜坡 
有兩個雕刻的洞窟 

一個坐著魔剎一個坐著佛陀 
儘管一個極易成為另一個 

魔剎坐在洞窟的入口 
她石頭的身體被釘子刺破 
每個釘子一座廟宇,每個釘孔一隻眼睛 
她的身體是一張綠松石的地圖 
在她左乳的廟宇下面 
舞蹈著薈萃的白色星辰 

在她的夢中,一條隧道開在她的心臟 
所有的鳥兒穿越飛過 
她看見隧道像一條河流 
此岸,有人在鍛鐵 
彼岸,瀰漫著煙霧 

我們不能阻止鳥兒飛翔 
穿越我們的雕刻 

淙淙 

佛陀坐在他的洞窟入口 
關注著疑問 
他注視著河流通向桑耶寺 
這座古老的僧院 
佛陀像鶴一樣起舞 
降服眾魔的地方 
之後在鳥的遷徙中 
藏起伏藏,他教導的寶藏 

他是沒有倒影的一片湖泊 
他的身體沒有傷疤 
萬物的光子經過他 
從最遙遠的星辰到 
匯聚在下面山谷的亮光 

理解因果,看你在哪裡 
衡量未來,看你的雙手 

在他的夢中,他變成一隻兀鷲的伴侶 
醒來,一根黑色的羽毛 

一個盲點擱在他的枕上 

7.石頭唱歌 

那單獨的圓點是一塊碎石 
握著地球的問題 

獨自的碎石擱在一口井的底端 
所有的問題充滿他們的水桶 
無眼、耳、鼻、舌身意 
但以肉身和重量 
兩者覺悟這個世界和記憶 

當鶴舉起這塊碎石,變化發生 
沒有嘴的石頭,開始唱歌: 

淙淙 
我要活著——我是一隻眼睛 
我有活著的理由——我是一座山 
我是一塊石頭 

獨自的圓點是一枚蛋 
問號用泥巴將自己覆蓋 
荒蕪直到變成貧瘠的土地 

他們說蛋殼不是被鳥嘴啄裂 
而是被問題內核的心跳碎裂 

獨自的圓點是一座宮殿 
問號行走在人群中 
它像人一樣雙腿行走 
它欣賞精美的石頭工藝 
寬闊,有坡度的走廊 
問號被餵養得太長久 
忘記了飛翔 
問號被餵養得太長久 
再也不想離開 

問號開始脫羽 
直到整座宮殿變白 
靜默像一個鳥巢—— 
枕頭中的枕頭 

問號走到最高的陽台 
天空如毯 
它靠著它的贈予躺下 
一根黑色羽毛擱在白色的枕上 
聽著世界的哭聲: 

淙淙 

早晨問號消失 
它從同一個陽台消失 
那裡倉央嘉措留意著白鶴 
在流沙河的沙灘上起舞,寫到: 

請借雙翅,飛不多遠…… 

那單獨的圓點是北極星 
旋轉的有我們餐飲的盤子 

8.淙淙 

我請你去戶外 
在石頭之間躺下 
讓脊背臥在重力安靜的心臟 
感受山的影子湧向你 
感受月光的影子星光的影子 

記住你正握著破碎的什麼 

有什麼在乾草間沙沙作響 
沙沙響的是曼陀羅的一部分 
一隻撒播種子的手,一隻揮動錘子的手 
風、翼、田鼠 
也許是悲痛。 一隻幼鶴 
衡量著軍隊的暴力: 

淙淙 

也許是你第一次學寫字時 
用鉛筆寫在紙上的一個點 

獨自的圓點是你自己的眼睛 
你會永遠是一個問題 
你會永遠是一汪湖泊 

記住你正握著破碎的什麼 
記住讓石頭掉落下來沒有關係 
你的手僅僅只是 
石頭存在的時漏的細腰 

你現在的狀態怎麼樣? 

也許一群鶴將飛越你頭頂 
也許其中一隻鶴會向下看 
看見它們正穿越 
飛過你的眼睛 

你的雙手,你記住的是什麼? 

Ian Boyden 
2017-11-15 
聖胡安島 
孫蓉翻譯 

The Cranes
for Jamyang Norbu
1. The Eye
I saw the wings of the crane
released from the mandala of an eye.
I once held a photograph in my hand
of the man who shot the last white crane
to ever set foot in Tibet.
He held the bird by the throat
the hollow triumph of choking the flow of time .
L iving it held a hundred million years of questions .
D ead it hung as a horrible answer.
The crane's eye turned to milk,
a lake blinded by ice.
Imagine looking down upon the folded Earth—
blue and green, gray and white.
The surface of every lake is the eye of a god .
T he eye of each god is a mirror
where you see your own flight
through the sky of the god's eye .
Palden Lhamo.
Her body a lake, her skin blue as water.
They asked her for a vision.
She answered:
Look at your hands.
They asked her again, she said:
What do you read in the mountain's shadow?
And when they asked her a third time,
she held up a hammer shaped like a crane:
Can any of you smash the hourglass?
T hey say she turns every wound into an eye ,
that we may see the world through them .
A nd through such an oculus ,
we might come to understand
the illusion of our own separateness .
This is her gift.
The wounds we see through ,
others see as a lake , others see as a mirror
in which they see their own flight
in the sky of our own seeing .
W ind blurs but cannot erase .
I ce turns it to milk with a kiss .
The warm spring waits.
They say she is ringed by fire,
like the iris of the eye.

2 . Crane Shadow
The cranes step among stones.
Not the rounded stones of a braided river,
nor the ice-worn stones of the upper valleys,
but stones broken by iron hammers
and spalled by fire.
The burned ground, the blackened foundation,
white with questions from a distant sky.
The mountain's shadow falls as a gavel
darkening the curved necks,
calling them to graphite,
calling them to carbon.
The mountain's shadow falls as a gavel
void of complicity, it falls as it has always fallen,
a stage upon which one might read one's own heart.
That night upon the stage,
a single crane, standing like a question mark,
lifted a stone against the shadow's weight,
a fist of broken stone, and spoke:
       My family,
       this stone and I will watch over you.
Should the stone drop,
it will shatter the shadow of your sleep.
       My family,
       stand now like stars
in this burned field where we once ate.
And they stood like stars in a lake of grief,
and buried their heads in the prison of their wings .
Few know of the second shadow within the first.
But the moon casts a second shadow,
a finely hammered sheet of silver
and it, too, shifted toward that brave bird.
And even fewer know of other shadows still.
Every star that swirls toward the mountain
casts its own shadow thinner than the oblivion
forged by our own eyelashes.

3. Mandala
Reader,
if you have a question tucked within you
then the stone is falling through your shadow .
It's a fragment of an ancient temple,
the Chyasa Iha-khang,
an ancient sanctuary of Tibet,
known as the resting place of the birds .
It was built a thousand years ago
along the banks of the Tsangpo river,
west of the mouth of the Ya r lung valley,
where a river of birds pours over the mountains,
falling to the plains, almost translucent with hunger,
shadows rolled of thin air .
For a thousand springs, monks drew
a mandala of grain upon the temple grounds—
the universe drawn with wheat and highland barley,
rye and oats, millet and peas.
A feast laid out as a giant eye looking at the sky.
They knew the drawing was both complete and incomplete,
like the waist of an hourglass awaiting sand.
And for a thousand years, the birds
poured through this drawing as though they were time itself.
First the cuckoo and then the laughing thrush
and at last the cranes.
The birds became the mandala
as well as the mandala's erasure.
It is also true they were the mandala before they arrived,
and they continued being so forever
after they flew away.
The stone falls through the hourglass of your own shadow.
It falls as a dream falls into your own awakening
where the wind blurs the surface of the lake of memory.
Does the stone wound the surface of the lake?
Can such a wound become an eye ?

4. Looking for Cranes
When I was a child,
my mother would take me
to the banks of the Malheur river
to look for cranes:
Sandhill cranes, named for the earth where she grew up.
Pairs of cranes danced across our retinas
as the starlight they are.
We would close our eyes and listen,
disappearing into a language beyond time,
into the song of stone turned to water.
And when my mother was a child,
her father would take her
to the sandy banks of the Platte river
to look for cranes.
They would close their eyes and listen,
marveling at how their hearts
became question marks.
Father to daughter.
Mother to son.
trung trung
When my grandmother, my mother's mother, died,
I sat with my mother in the vulnerable light.
And when I looked in her eyes,
I saw something move there
in the dry grass of tears.

5 . Invasion
The violence of an army
is measured by its lack of questions.
The ground that held a universe of grain
bec a me a wall-less prison of broken stone .
It is the spring of 1959.
A foreign hourglass has turned over upon the land.
Its skin is covered with words: liberation , prosperity , unity …
But the words are empty.
Much of what fell through the waist of this glass
simpl y disappeared into shadows.
The shadows that swept across the landscape
fell across a language that loved moonlight,
a language that held this sound:
trung trung
the calling of the crane
and the name of the crane itself.
Today, the white crane is completely gone,
of the black-necked crane—just a few thousand remain.
When the last crane dies, there is no hope for our world.
Both the vanquisher and vanquished will have lost.
If someone knows what happened
to the monks who fed the birds,
they have never spoken.
Did they walk into exile?
Did they burn with the temple?
Were they crushed under stone?
The violence of an army
is measured by the loss of answers.
Who remembers the location
of the Chyasa Iha-khang ?
trung trung

6. Twins
There are two caves carved in the slopes above
the resting place of the birds.
In one sits an ogre and in the other a Buddha,
though one could easily be the other.
The ogre sits at the entrance of her cave
Her body of stone pierced by nails,
each nail a temple, each nail hole an eye.
Her body is a map of turquoise
below the temple of her left breast
dances a constellation of white stars.
In her dream, a tunnel opened in her heart
and all the birds flew through it.
She saw the tunnel had shores like an river.
On one shore, she saw them forging iron,
on another, it was filled with smoke.
We cannot keep the birds
from flying through what we carve.
trung trung
The Buddha sits at the entrance of his cave
and watches the questions.
He looks over the river to Samye,
the ancient monastery where he subdued
the demons by dancing like a crane.
And then later hid a terma , a treasure of his teaching ,
in the birds' migration.
He is a lake of no reflections.
There is not a scar upon his body.
Photons of every single thing pass through him,
from the most distant stars to the light
gathering in the valley below.
To understand causation, look at where you are.
To measure the future, look at your own hands.
In his dream, he became the consort of a vulture
and woke to a single black feather
a blind spot resting on his pillow.

7. The Stone Sings
That solitary dot is a stone
that holds the question to earth.
That solitary stone rests at the bottom of a well
where all the questions fill their buckets.
It has no eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth.
But in its flesh and weight
it has both means to make sense of this world
and memory.
But as the crane held this stone something happened.
The stone, which had no mouth, began to sing:
trung trung
       I wish to live — I am an eye.
       I have reason to live —I am a mountain.
I am a stone.
That solitary dot is an egg.
The question mark covers itself with mud
and broken grass until becomes the barren field.
They say the shell is broken
not by the beak but by the heartbeat
of the question inside.
That solitary dot is a palace
where the question mark walks among humans.
It walks on two legs like a human.
It admires the fine stonework,
the wide, sloping corridors.
It has been fed long enough
that it has forgotten flight.
It has been fed long enough
that it never wants to leave.
The question mark begins to molt,
until the entire palace is white
and quiet as a nest—
a pillow of pillows.
It walks to the highest balcony
where the sky is a blanket.
It lies down upon its gift
a black feather resting on a white pillow
and listens to the world's crying:
trung trung
In the morning the question mark vanished.
It vanished from the same balcony
where Gyatso looked out upon the cranes
dancing on the sand of the Je Rak river and wrote:
lend me your wings, I won ' t fly far…
That solitary dot is the north star.
What revolves there is the plate from which we eat.

8. Trung Trung
I ask you to go outside
and lie down among the stones.
Lie on your back in the calm heart of gravity,
and feel the mountain's shadow rushing toward you.
Feel the moonlight shadow and starlight shadows.
Remember you are holding something broken.
Something rustles the dry grass.
What rustles is part of the mandala itself.
A hand scattering seed, a hand swinging a hammer.
The wind, a wing, a field mouse.
It might be grief. A baby crane
measuring the violence of an army:
trung trung
It might be a single dot you pushed
into paper with a pencil when you first learned to write.
That solitary dot is your own eye.
You will forever be a question.
You will forever be a lake.
Remember you are holding something broken.
Remember it is alright to let go of the stone.
You hand is simply one waist
in the hourglass of the stone's existence.
What is your present condition?
Perhaps a flock of cranes will fly over you.
And perhaps one of them will look down
and see themselves flying through
the lake of your own eye.
What do you remember of your own hands?

Ian Boyden
November 15, 2017
San Juan Island

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