Poem
Hu Xudong
A MAN RECITING ALOUD ON THE BEACH
A man reciting aloud on the beachnever thought he would be doing this,
sitting crossed-legged on the beach in competition with the waves
to see who has the louder voice. His audience, a group of retirees
who have chased the sunset and settled on the west coast of Florida,
have brought folding beach chairs from their homes,
and break into smiles as they listen to
his gravelly voice spiral airborne in the
transparent receptacle called poetry,
and then fall to the ground to become
fine grit under their feet. Only he is aware:
whenever he recites a poem in Chinese,
a flock of seagulls will use friendly wings over his head
to indicate each character’s tone;
and when he uses his clumsy English
to recite the text in translation, it is not he who speaks
but a halting thespian who hides behind his Adam’s apple
and rehearses the outlandish lines
of a foreign actor in a supporting role. As he recites
he raises his head and gazes off into the distance, there
where the sky ends, and Goodwife Sea
is calling Sun to come home after a full day’s labor.
In that instant the man feels that he too has become
a member of the audience, and before he knows it
a great poet by the name of Wind closes in
on the microphone clipped to his collar; and when
for a moment he pauses, Wind begins to use the sound
it borrows from every shell and leaf
to recite the one imperishable poetic line:
silence, a silence at seventeen miles per hour.
(23 November 2008, Manasota Key/Florida)
© Translation: 2011, Kuo-ch’ing Tu & Robert Backus
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, 2011
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, 2011
EEN MAN DIE OP HET STRAND VOORDRAAGT
Een man die op het strand voordraagthad nooit gedacht dat hij ooit zoals nu in kleermakerszit
op het strand met de golven een wedstrijd zou houden
om de hardste stem. Zijn toehoorders, een groep
gepensioneerden die de zon najagen en zich hebben gesetteld
aan de westkust van Florida, luisteren met een brede lach,
op uit hun huizen meegenomen vouwstoelen,
hoe zijn hese stem omhoog draait in een soort transparante container
midden in de lucht, poëzie geheten, om daarna
op de grond te vallen, te veranderen in minuscule
zandkorrels onder hun voeten. Alleen hijzelf merkt op:
bij elk gedicht dat hij in het Chinees voordraagt
laat de zwerm meeuwen met hun vriendelijke vleugels
boven zijn hoofd de toon van ieder woord
zien; wanneer hij een vertaling voordraagt
in het onhandige Engels, is het niet hijzelf,
maar een slechte acteur, verborgen in zijn adamsappel,
die het vreemde script oefent van een buitenlandse,
tweederangs rol. Terwijl hij voordraagt, heft hij zijn hoofd
en staart in de verte, waar de hemel eindigt, roept
de kuise zee de zon terug van een hele dag werken.
Een ogenblik lang denkt hij dat hijzelf ook
deel van het publiek uitmaakt, voor hij het weet is
een groot dichter met de naam Wind dicht bij
zijn kraagmicrofoon gekomen, en wanneer
hij even pauzeert, begint Wind,
klanken ontlenend aan alle zeeschelpen en aan alle bladeren,
de meest onsterfelijk dichtregel voor te dragen:
stilte, een stilte van zeventien mijl per uur.
23 november 2008
© Vertaling: 2014, Silvia Marijnissen
一个在海滩上朗诵的男人
一个在海滩上朗诵的男人从来都没有想到他会像现在这样
盘腿坐在沙滩上，跟海浪
比赛大嗓门。他的听众，一群
追逐夕阳定居在佛罗里达西海岸的
退休老人，从各自的家中带来了
沙滩折叠椅，笑眯眯地，
听他沙哑的嗓音如何在半空中一种
叫做诗的透明的容器里翻扬，而后
落在地上，变成他们脚下
细小的沙砾。只有他自己注意到：
每首诗，当他用汉语朗诵的时候，
成群的海鸟会在他头顶上
用友善的翅膀标示出每个字的
声调；而当他用笨拙的英语
朗诵译本的时候，不是他，
而是一个蹩脚的演员，躲在
他的喉结里，练习一个外国配角
古怪的台词。朗诵中，他抬头
望向远方，天尽头，贤惠的大海
正在唤回劳作了一整天的太阳。
一瞬间，他觉得自己也成了
听众的一员，一个名字叫风的
伟大的诗人，不知何时凑近了
别在他衣领上的麦克风，在他
稍事停顿之时，风开始用
从每一扇贝壳、每一片树叶上
借来的声音，朗诵最不朽的诗句：
沉默，每小时17英里的沉默。
11/23/2008 Manasota Key/Florida
© 2010, Hu Xudong
From: 旅行/诗 (Travel / Poetry)
Publisher: Hainan Publishing House, Hainan
From: 旅行/诗 (Travel / Poetry)
Publisher: Hainan Publishing House, Hainan
Poems
Poems of Hu Xudong
Close
A MAN RECITING ALOUD ON THE BEACH
A man reciting aloud on the beachnever thought he would be doing this,
sitting crossed-legged on the beach in competition with the waves
to see who has the louder voice. His audience, a group of retirees
who have chased the sunset and settled on the west coast of Florida,
have brought folding beach chairs from their homes,
and break into smiles as they listen to
his gravelly voice spiral airborne in the
transparent receptacle called poetry,
and then fall to the ground to become
fine grit under their feet. Only he is aware:
whenever he recites a poem in Chinese,
a flock of seagulls will use friendly wings over his head
to indicate each character’s tone;
and when he uses his clumsy English
to recite the text in translation, it is not he who speaks
but a halting thespian who hides behind his Adam’s apple
and rehearses the outlandish lines
of a foreign actor in a supporting role. As he recites
he raises his head and gazes off into the distance, there
where the sky ends, and Goodwife Sea
is calling Sun to come home after a full day’s labor.
In that instant the man feels that he too has become
a member of the audience, and before he knows it
a great poet by the name of Wind closes in
on the microphone clipped to his collar; and when
for a moment he pauses, Wind begins to use the sound
it borrows from every shell and leaf
to recite the one imperishable poetic line:
silence, a silence at seventeen miles per hour.
(23 November 2008, Manasota Key/Florida)
© 2011, Kuo-ch’ing Tu & Robert Backus
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: 2011, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: 2011, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend
A MAN RECITING ALOUD ON THE BEACH
A man reciting aloud on the beachnever thought he would be doing this,
sitting crossed-legged on the beach in competition with the waves
to see who has the louder voice. His audience, a group of retirees
who have chased the sunset and settled on the west coast of Florida,
have brought folding beach chairs from their homes,
and break into smiles as they listen to
his gravelly voice spiral airborne in the
transparent receptacle called poetry,
and then fall to the ground to become
fine grit under their feet. Only he is aware:
whenever he recites a poem in Chinese,
a flock of seagulls will use friendly wings over his head
to indicate each character’s tone;
and when he uses his clumsy English
to recite the text in translation, it is not he who speaks
but a halting thespian who hides behind his Adam’s apple
and rehearses the outlandish lines
of a foreign actor in a supporting role. As he recites
he raises his head and gazes off into the distance, there
where the sky ends, and Goodwife Sea
is calling Sun to come home after a full day’s labor.
In that instant the man feels that he too has become
a member of the audience, and before he knows it
a great poet by the name of Wind closes in
on the microphone clipped to his collar; and when
for a moment he pauses, Wind begins to use the sound
it borrows from every shell and leaf
to recite the one imperishable poetic line:
silence, a silence at seventeen miles per hour.
(23 November 2008, Manasota Key/Florida)
© 2011, Kuo-ch’ing Tu & Robert Backus
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: 2011, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend
From: Push Open the Window: Contemporary Poetry from China
Publisher: 2011, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend
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