Li Shaojun (China)

 
Li Shaojun (China)
 
Li Shaojun was born in Xiangxiang, Hunan Province in 1967. He earned a B.A. from Wuhan University with a major injournalism (1989). He has published sixteen books, includingpoetry collections “Book of Nature”, “Book of Grass Roots”, “Book of the Sea and the Sky”, and “Let Us Do Something for Spring”. Li Shaojun is known in China as The Naturalist Poet. He now serves as the editor-in-chief of China’s Poetry Journal (Beijing).
 
 
《我是有大海的人》
 
从高山上下来的人
会觉得平地太平淡没有起伏
 
从草原上走来的人
会觉得城市太拥挤太过狭窄
 
从森林里出来的人
会觉得每条街道都缺乏内涵和深度
 
从大海上过来的人
会觉得每个地方都过于压抑和单调
 
我是有大海的人
我所经历过的一切你们永远不知道
 
我是有大海的人
我对很多事情的看法和你们不一样
 
海鸥踏浪,海鸥有自己的生活方式
沿着晨曦的路线,追逐蔚蓝的方向
 
巨鲸巡游,胸怀和视野若垂天之云
以云淡风轻的定力,赢得风平浪静
 
我是有大海的人
我的激情,是一阵自由的海上雄风
浩浩荡荡掠过这一个世界……
 
 
I Have the Ocean In Me
 
People from high mountains
see the plains as flat and uninteresting.
 
People from the grassland
feel the cities are congested and constricted.
 
People from the forest
see the streets as sterile and depthless.
 
People from the sea
feel all other places are stuffy and drab.
 
I am a man of the sea,
what I have experienced, you will never know.
 
The sea is with me,
my perspectives are often different from yours.
 
Seagulls tread the waves, living their lifestyle,
following the morning sun into the magnificent blue.
 
Whales patrol their realm, freehearted and high-minded,
the tireless wanderers of the untroubled sea.
 
I have the ocean in me.
My heart is as free and willful as the wind at sea,
going where it pleases, till the end of the world. . .
 
 
《热带雨林》
 
雨幕一拉,就有了热带雨林的气息
细枝绿叶也舒展开来,显得浓郁茂盛
雨水不停地滴下,一条小径通向密林
再加上氤氲的气象,朦胧且深不可测
 
没有雨,如何能称之为热带雨林呢
在没有雨的季节,整个林子疲软无力
鸟鸣也显得零散,无法唤醒内心的记忆
雨点,是最深刻的一种寂静的怀乡方式
 
 
Tropical Rainforest
 
Raindrops release the scent of the rainforest.
Branchlets and leaves loosen up, looking supple and lush.
A footpath enters the jungle, dewy and misty,
adding an aura of mystique to its unsounded depth.
 
How can it be a tropical rainforest but for the rain?
Without the rain, the entire forest droops—
bird songs seem scant, memories grow faint.
Raindrops manifest the deepest and quietest kind of homesickness.
 
 
《云之现代性》
 
诗人们焦虑于所谓现代性问题
从山上到山下,他们不停地讨论
我则一点也不关心这个问题
 
太平洋有现代性吗?
南极呢?抑或还有九曲溪
它们有现代性吗?
 
珠穆朗玛峰有现代性?
黄山呢?还有武夷山
它们有现代性吗?
 
也许,云最具现代性
从李白的“众鸟高飞尽,孤云独去闲”
到柳宗元的“岩云无心自相逐”
再到郑愁予的“云游了三千岁月
终将云履脱在最西的峰上……”
 
从中国古人的“只可自怡悦,不堪持赠君”
到波德莱尔的巴黎呓语“我爱云……
过往的云……那边…….那边……奇妙的云!”
 
还有北美天空霸道凌厉的云
以及西亚高原上高冷飘忽的云
东南亚温润的云,热烈拥抱着每一个全球客
 
云卷云舒,云开云合
云,始终保持着现代性,高居现代性的前列
 
 
Cloud’s Modernity
 
Poets fret about the so-called modernity,
lingering over the topic all the way up and down the mountain.
As for me, I don’t worry about it at all.
Can we say the Pacific Ocean is modern?
How about Antarctica? The Nine-Turn Creek?
Are they modern?
 
And Everest?
How about Huangshan Mountain? Wuyi Mountain?
Are they modern?
 
Clouds are perhaps the modernest.
From Li Bai’s verse “Birds have flown far and high, leaving behind a roving cloud”,
to Liu Zongyuan’s “The clouds play tag with the precipice without a care”,
to Zheng Chouyu’s “Three thousand eons of roaming, the clouds
finally come to rest on the westernmost peak . . .”
 
From the old Chinese saying— “Good enough for self-amusement,
but too scanty as a gift”,
to Baudelaire’s dreamy voice—“I love clouds . . .passing clouds . . . there . . . over there. . .
marvelous clouds!”
 
Then, there are bellicose clouds in the sky over North America,
the icy cirrus clouds over western Asiatic plateau,
and the warm passionate clouds of Southeast Asia for every globetrotter.
 
Roving and roiling, merging and diverging,
clouds are forever modern,
the avant-garde of Modernism.
 
 
《西山如隐》
 
寒冬如期而至,风霜沾染衣裳
清冷的疏影勾勒山之肃静轮廓
万物无所事事,也无所期盼
 
我亦如此,每日里宅在家中
饮茶读诗,也没别的消遣
看三两小雀在窗外枯枝上跳跃
但我啊,从来就安于现状
也从不担心被世间忽略存在感
 
偶尔,我也暗藏一丁点小秘密
比如,若可选择,我愿意成为西山
这个北京冬天里最清静无为的隐修士
端坐一方,静候每一位前来探访的友人
让他们感到冒着风寒专程赶来是值得的
 
 
Western Hill, There and Not There
 
Winter always arrives on time, frosting our clothes.
Skeletal trees raise the mountain’s stately profile,
an indolent world where no one expects anything.
 
So am I, staying indoors every day,
sipping tea and reading poetry, no real diversions.
A few sparrows skip around the leafless twigs outside the windows,
as for me, I am ever content with the way things are;
not fluttered at all if the world has forgotten me.
 
I do hide a small secret now and then,
for example, wanting to be the Western Hill,
the serene, zen-like recluse in Beijing’s winter,
patiently waiting for good friends to visit,
who later would call the treacherous trip in the storm totally worthwhile.
Translator’s note: Western Hill or Xishan (西山) is a mountain range
towards the west of Beijing.
 
 
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper
 

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