Poem
Qin Xiaoyu
CROSSING A LONELY OCEAN
1I stepped onto whitecap-tossed Lonely Island,
nostrils hit by stinking seafood drying on the road,
and the gutted and emptied-out fugu –
inside the circle of the drying rack, each one
split in two like the wooden Yin-Yang Fish
that tell the future in the Queen of the Sea’s Temple.
Weia, driving a truck commandeered for the occasion,
met me on the wharf, his whittled face gloomy as his uniform.
We got to his place. A police uniform was hanging on the door,
an unfinished novel spread out on the table.
2
We climbed the hillock behind the police station.
As we passed a Fish is What We Like hair salon,
Weia told me: that was where he’d come on
the most depressing of account books,
every page densely covered with records
of years and years of whorehouse debts;
he also talked about his first work assignments,
taking in girls like that or moving them on.
Along combat-ready stairways behind barbed wire
I was led before a long-abandoned house,
over-grown with weeds, loud with insects and birds:
Weia said it was his study. He seemed to be
boasting about some kind of reading,
secluded among vistas of mountains and sea.
Yet not long after he chose the clumps of scrubby cane
that grow all over the place, to tell me of his troubles.
He said this weedy vagabond bamboo
was the plant that he’d been named for.
3
For ages at twilight on the second day
I walked a forbidding shoreline.
Typhoons had damaged the path,
so I was forced to scramble over shingle.
The barking of the fishing boats’ dogs seemed
sadder and shriller against the boats’ horns.
The sea was as limpidly clear as Utopia.
Over and over herring gulls introduced sky to sea.
A seaside pavilion hung with New Year lanterns;
far away, the dark ice factory. A sloping culvert
thrust itself into the sea. I guessed ice cubes would be
slipping though it and into the holds of the boats,
to become the slowly-melting companions
of imprisoned fish.
Tired, I lay down on the snail-encrusted rocks,
and out on Lonely Ocean the setting sun seemed to sigh for very loneliness.
© Translation: 2013, Brian Holton
DE ZEE VAN EENZAAMHEID OVERGAAN
1Ik was het Eiland van Eenzaamheid opgegaan, met zijn aanrollende witte schuimkoppen.
In mijn neus prikte de stank van vis en garnalen die lag te drogen langs de weg,
en de fugu waaruit de organen verwijderd waren –
in de cirkel van het droogrek lag elk van hen
in de lengte gehalveerd,
als de voorspellende yinyangvissen in de Mazu-tempel.
Weia haalde me met een tijdelijk in beslag genomen vrachtauto op
bij de haven, zijn scherpe gezicht deprimerend als zijn uniform.
We gingen naar zijn flat. Achter de deur hing een politie-uniform,
op de tafel lag het onaffe manuscript van een roman.
2
We klommen de heuvel achter het politiekantoor op.
Terwijl we een kapsalon ‘Vis, daar hou ik van’ passeerden,
vertelde Weia mij dat hij hier
een wrang handelsboek had gevonden,
dicht opeengeschreven
lang verschuldigde hoerenlonen;
ook kletste hij over zijn eerste taak na werktijd:
allerlei van dat soort vrouwen opvangen en wegsturen.
Langs een op oorlog voorbereide trappenstraat en dichte verhakking
werd ik naar een sinds lang verlaten huis geleid.
Vanbinnen was het helemaal begroeid, vogels floten, insecten zoemden.
Weia zei dat dit zijn studeerkamer was.
Hij leek te pronken
met een soort lezen, afgezonderd, open, tussen berg en zee.
Maar even later ging hij weer, onder het mom van een bosje
kleine en chaotische bamboe die je overal ziet, tegen me klagen.
Hij zei dat het karakter dwergbamboe in zijn naam
naar deze armzalige bamboe verwijst.
3
De volgende dag, tegen de avond,
liep ik een hele tijd langs de woeste kustlijn.
Een orkaan had de weg vernietigd,
ik moest over losse stenen klauteren.
Het geblaf op de vissersboten
stak schril af bij de scheepshoorns.
Het zeewater was even helder als Utopia.
Keer op keer kwamen zilvermeeuwen de lucht aan de zee aanprijzen.
Een zeepaviljoen was volgehangen met nieuwjaarslampions,
in de verte stond een gitzwarte ijsfabriek. Een schuine buis
stak de zee in. Waarschijnlijk gleed het ijs daarlangs het scheepsruim in,
om het langzaam smeltende gezelschap van gevangen vis te worden.
Ik voelde me moe, strekte me uit op een rots vol zeeslakken.
De zon ging onder – zuchten van eenzaamheid bij de Zee van Eenzaamheid.
© Vertaling: 2013,
De titel verwijst naar een beroemd gedicht ‘Lingdingyang overgaan’ van Wen Tianxiang (1236-1283), die trouw bleef aan de Songdynastie, ondanks gevangenschap en marteling door de nieuwe machthebbers van de Yuandynastie. Lingdingyang, dat Zee van Eenzaamheid’ betekent, ligt aan de monding van de Parelrivier, in de provincie Guangdong.
过零丁洋
一我登上了白头浪翻的零丁岛。
刺鼻的腥味来自沿路晾晒的鱼虾，
和剔除了肺腑的河豚——
晒筛的方圆中，它们每一条
都被剖成两半，
像妈祖庙里占卜的阴阳鱼。
唯阿开着一辆临时征用的卡车
来码头接我，刀削脸像他的制服一样沉郁。
我们来到他的寓所。门后挂着警服，
桌上摊开一篇尚未定稿的小说。
二
我们去爬警局后的小山。
经过一家“鱼我所欲也”的发廊时，
唯阿告诉我：他从这里
搜出过一本辛酸的账簿，
密密麻麻
记录着久久赊欠的嫖资；
又聊起他工作后第一份差事：
收容与遣散各种这样的姑娘。
沿着备战的梯形路、密实的鹿砦，
我被引领至一处久已废弃的房前。
房子里草木葱茏，鸟叫虫鸣。
唯阿说这就是他的书房。
他似乎在炫耀
一种幽独而又开豁的，山海间的阅读。
但没多久，他又借一丛丛随处可见的
低矮杂乱的竹子向我诉苦。
他说他名字里的
筱，就是指这种潦倒的竹子。
三
第二天傍晚，
我沿着狞厉的海岸线走了很久。
飓风毁损了公路，
我不得不在砾石上攀行。
渔船上的狗吠
被汽笛衬托得格外凄厉。
海水像乌托邦一样清澈。
银鸥一次次把天空引荐给大海。
一处望海亭挂着春节的灯笼，
远处是黑黢黢的冰厂。一条倾斜的涵道
插入大海。我猜想冰块正沿着涵道滑入船舱，
成为鱼囚慢慢融化的伴侣。
我累了，躺在粘满螺蛳的礁石上。
而落日，就像是零丁洋里叹零丁。
© 2013, Qin Xiaoyu
Poems
Poems of Qin Xiaoyu
Close
CROSSING A LONELY OCEAN
1I stepped onto whitecap-tossed Lonely Island,
nostrils hit by stinking seafood drying on the road,
and the gutted and emptied-out fugu –
inside the circle of the drying rack, each one
split in two like the wooden Yin-Yang Fish
that tell the future in the Queen of the Sea’s Temple.
Weia, driving a truck commandeered for the occasion,
met me on the wharf, his whittled face gloomy as his uniform.
We got to his place. A police uniform was hanging on the door,
an unfinished novel spread out on the table.
2
We climbed the hillock behind the police station.
As we passed a Fish is What We Like hair salon,
Weia told me: that was where he’d come on
the most depressing of account books,
every page densely covered with records
of years and years of whorehouse debts;
he also talked about his first work assignments,
taking in girls like that or moving them on.
Along combat-ready stairways behind barbed wire
I was led before a long-abandoned house,
over-grown with weeds, loud with insects and birds:
Weia said it was his study. He seemed to be
boasting about some kind of reading,
secluded among vistas of mountains and sea.
Yet not long after he chose the clumps of scrubby cane
that grow all over the place, to tell me of his troubles.
He said this weedy vagabond bamboo
was the plant that he’d been named for.
3
For ages at twilight on the second day
I walked a forbidding shoreline.
Typhoons had damaged the path,
so I was forced to scramble over shingle.
The barking of the fishing boats’ dogs seemed
sadder and shriller against the boats’ horns.
The sea was as limpidly clear as Utopia.
Over and over herring gulls introduced sky to sea.
A seaside pavilion hung with New Year lanterns;
far away, the dark ice factory. A sloping culvert
thrust itself into the sea. I guessed ice cubes would be
slipping though it and into the holds of the boats,
to become the slowly-melting companions
of imprisoned fish.
Tired, I lay down on the snail-encrusted rocks,
and out on Lonely Ocean the setting sun seemed to sigh for very loneliness.
© 2013, Brian Holton
CROSSING A LONELY OCEAN
1I stepped onto whitecap-tossed Lonely Island,
nostrils hit by stinking seafood drying on the road,
and the gutted and emptied-out fugu –
inside the circle of the drying rack, each one
split in two like the wooden Yin-Yang Fish
that tell the future in the Queen of the Sea’s Temple.
Weia, driving a truck commandeered for the occasion,
met me on the wharf, his whittled face gloomy as his uniform.
We got to his place. A police uniform was hanging on the door,
an unfinished novel spread out on the table.
2
We climbed the hillock behind the police station.
As we passed a Fish is What We Like hair salon,
Weia told me: that was where he’d come on
the most depressing of account books,
every page densely covered with records
of years and years of whorehouse debts;
he also talked about his first work assignments,
taking in girls like that or moving them on.
Along combat-ready stairways behind barbed wire
I was led before a long-abandoned house,
over-grown with weeds, loud with insects and birds:
Weia said it was his study. He seemed to be
boasting about some kind of reading,
secluded among vistas of mountains and sea.
Yet not long after he chose the clumps of scrubby cane
that grow all over the place, to tell me of his troubles.
He said this weedy vagabond bamboo
was the plant that he’d been named for.
3
For ages at twilight on the second day
I walked a forbidding shoreline.
Typhoons had damaged the path,
so I was forced to scramble over shingle.
The barking of the fishing boats’ dogs seemed
sadder and shriller against the boats’ horns.
The sea was as limpidly clear as Utopia.
Over and over herring gulls introduced sky to sea.
A seaside pavilion hung with New Year lanterns;
far away, the dark ice factory. A sloping culvert
thrust itself into the sea. I guessed ice cubes would be
slipping though it and into the holds of the boats,
to become the slowly-melting companions
of imprisoned fish.
Tired, I lay down on the snail-encrusted rocks,
and out on Lonely Ocean the setting sun seemed to sigh for very loneliness.
© 2013, Brian Holton
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