“When I Walk up the Footbridge” by Woo Sai Nga, translated by Audrey Heijns

Woo Moon & Footbridge Image

Please scroll down for the Chinese version!

“When I Walk up the Footbridge”

Sometimes I am inclined to
acceptance that vehicles driving along the road naturally
tend to get stuck in one direction
and refuelling is never a solution
susceptibility in extreme weather can only accelerate expansion or shrinkage
roads that are cracked open
people smashed to pieces
the world is supposed to be like this, full of defects
and we are fragile throughout

At other times, for example
in the face of headwinds, when my fringe is ruffled
it is easy to believe that
what I once accepted has already aged, and will eventually
be like the cracks in the road,
the people who repair the road,
will have to be us

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

〈當我走上天橋〉/ 胡世雅

有時我傾向接受
路上的車當然會向同一方向堵塞
加油永遠不能成為辦法
過份易感只會在極端天氣下加速膨脹或收縮
裂開的是路面
破碎是人
世界本應如此,充滿缺陷
而我們始終脆弱

也有一些時候,例如
逆風的日子,當瀏海翻動
便又輕易相信
曾經接受過的已經老去,終會
像路面斷裂
而修路的人
會是我們

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

● Woo Sai Nga, born in Hong Kong, is a member of Fannou Poetry Society. She graduated from the Chinese Department, Baptist University of Hong Kong in 2017 and is now teaching at a secondary school. She publishes poems in literary magazines in Hong Kong and Taiwan, and has won the Youth Literary Award (青年文學獎) and the Award for Creative Writing in Chinese (中文文學創作獎) in Hong Kong.

● Audrey Heijns, based in Hong Kong, is working at Shenzhen University. Her translations of Chinese literature have been published in literary magazines, including Het Trage Vuur, Twee Ronde, KortVerhaal, Terras, Renditions, Exchanges and Poetry International.

Tomas Tranströmer: “Allegro”

Tung PIng Chau Cliff Face TWO 2016

It sometimes seems to me that the world is made up of two kinds of people: a majority in love with the “rule of law” and the exercise of absolute power (it’s nice to have someone strong do all the thinking, and most of your feeling, for you), and those who prefer to see the flawed human spirit shine, especially unexpectedly and when it appears that all else is lost.

“Allegro” is a poem for the shiners. It was included in Tranströmer’s 1962 collection Den halvfärdiga himlen, a title that translates as “the half-ready Heaven”. I take it that what Tranströmer means here is that it is up to us — the human beings — to finish it off. Clearly, too many of us have understood “to finish it off” in completely the wrong way.

(Incidentally, the image of “half-ness” reappears in the wonderful title poem which ends with the lines:

Var människa en halvöpen dörr
som leder till ett rum för alla.
Each and every human being: a half-open door leading to a room for all.)

Defiance is generally coupled with anger. A joyous musical defiance is a rare thing, but the poet manages to make it make sense. He sits down to play at the piano after a “black day”. This may refer to his work at the Roxtuna center for juvenile offenders, or it may have to do with the state of the world. As he writes in “Lamento”:

För mycket som varken kan skrivas eller förtigas!
Too much that can neither be written down nor kept quiet!

The music at once changes the temperature of his mood: using the wonderful compounding property of Swedish, he writes of “driving his hands deeper into his Haydnpockets” before hoisting the “Haydnflag”, an image that suggests that he has reached the most triumph section in the composer’s allegro movement. The only hint of violence in the poem — on the part of those resisting — is in the strokes of “the mild hammers”, musical hammers incapable of inflicting the lightest wound.

The tremendous final image of the intact glass panes echoes the closing words of “Lamento”:

Malarna sätter sig på rutan:
små blek telegram från världen.
Moths settle on his window-pane: / bleak little telegrams from the world.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

thomas_transtromerjpg_220x500

“Allegro”

Jag spelar Haydn efter en svart dag
och känner en enkel värme i händerna.

I play Haydn after a black day and feel a simple warmth in my hands.

Tangenterna vill. Milda hammare slår.
Klangen är grön, livlig och stilla.

The keys are willing. Mild hammers strike. The sound is green, lively, reposed.

Klangen säger att friheten finns
och att någon inte ger kejsaren skatt.

The sound insists that there is such a thing as freedom, and that there is someone who pays Caesar no tax.

Jag kör ner händerna i mina haydnfickor
och härmar en som ser lugnt på världen.

I drive my hands deeper into my Haydnpockets and play the part of a man who can look the world calmly in the face.

Jag hissar haydnflaggan — det betyder:
“Vi ger oss inte. Men vill fred.”

I hoist the Haydnflag — what this means is: “We won’t give in. But want peace.”

Musiken är ett glashus på sluttningen
där stenarna flyger, stenarna rullar.

The music is a glasshouse on that slope where the stones come rolling, come crashing down.

Och stenarna rullar tvärs igenom
men varje rutan förblir hel.

And the stones roll right through it, but leave every pane intact.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Perhaps for a second or two, by the end of this poem, we are lifted along with Tranströmer’s music to a point where we sense, briefly, what invincibility might feel like for a human being. The question is: What could we learn to live from there?

For Robin Fulton’s expert translation of “Allegro”, please visit the official Tomas Tranströmer website.

Photograph: 香港東平洲 Tung Ping Chau, Hong Kong

Tomas Tranströmer: En vinternatt/One Winter Night

2019-02-18 Pumpkin Four

Stormen sätter sin mun till huset
och blåser för att få ton.
Jag sover oroligt, vänder mig, läser
blundande stormens text.

The storm puts its lips to the house and blows to make a note. I sleep, fitful, tossing and turning, reading the storm’s text with my eyes closed.

Men barnets ögon är stora i mörkret
och stormen den gnyr för barnet.
Båda tycker om lampor som svänger,
Båda är halvvägs mot språket.

But the child’s eyes grow wide in the darkness and the storm, it roars for her. Both are fond of lamps when they sway and both are half-way to language.

Stormen har barnsliga händer och vingar.
Karavanen skenar mot Lappland.
Och huset känner sin stjärnbild av spikar
som håller väggarna samman.

The storm has the hands and wings of a child. The caravan takes off in the direction of Lappland. And the house feels its constellations of nails, which hold the walls fastened together.

Natten är stilla över vårt golv
(där alla förklingade steg
vilar som sjunkna löv i en damm)
men därute är natten vild!

The night is calm over our floor (where all footsteps rest like leaves sunk to the bottom of a pond when they fade away), but out there, the night runs wild!

Över världen går en mer allvarlig storm,
Den sätter sin mun till vår själ
och blåser för att få ton. Vi räds
att stormen blåser oss tomma.
A more critical storm passes over the world. It puts its lips to our soul and blows to make a note. We fear that blast will leave us completely hollowed out.

“The Paranormal Minibus Driver” by Wong Leung Wo, translated by Audrey Heijns

 

minibus two

Please scroll down for the Chinese text!

While I was walking to the bus stop from my place, a minibus 28K sped by like the wind from behind. When I got to the stop, I was wondering how long I would have to wait for the next one. To my surprise, there was another one, no two more minibuses approaching. The first one was 28K and so I immediately waved at it. The female driver did not stop, probably because the minibus was full. I felt disappointed, until I realized that the next minibus was another 28K. It was not full and it opened its doors right in front of me. I got on the bus, and a man wearing a mask also got on. I only just sat down, when he swiped his octopus card and the driver said: “Sir, you with the mask, I recognize you! There’s no need to call out, I know where you want to get off.” My heart beat loudly when I heard the driver’s voice, surprised that I got on his minibus.

The man who just got on the bus, took his seat right behind the driver. He pulled off his mask and laughed: “You’re amazing!” Then he made a remark about the fact that the minibus in front of us did not stop.

“The lady driver in front is my “apprentice”, she knows I am right behind her, so of course she lets the “master” pick you up,” replied the driver.

“Of course: you’re the True Master of the Road!” The man who had removed his mask imitated the tone of Jacky Chan reminding drivers to drive carefully in the government ad shown on TV.

“No, not “True Master”! In our profession we’re called “senior apprentice”, when my apprentice greets me they call me “Senior Apprentice”. Nowadays the meaning of words change all the time and you have to be careful. In the past in mainland China everyone was Comrade this, Comrade that, but that’s no longer used. Those guys in Lan Kwai Fong who fancy men are now called comrades!”

That was the first time I caught his bus in the direction of Tai Po. In the past I had only been on his bus from the market in Tai Po to go back home. The first time I took his minibus, he abused me; the second time, he and a passenger were shouting at each other; the third time, I wanted to file a complaint about him; the fourth time, I wanted to get off early; the fifth time….

The first time I was on his minibus, we had just set off when I suspected something was wrong. The driver was constantly talking, mumbling to himself, swearing at passengers who had called out twice where to get off. In the past, it happened to me, that I had told the driver where to get off, and the driver had forgotten where to stop, thereafter I made it habit to remind the driver when we were approaching the place where I had to get off. Then he told me off: “You have already told me where you want to get off, there is no need to repeat yourself. You eighteen people just tell me once where to get off, and I will remember!” By the time I got off, I was still annoyed by his swearing in public. To my surprise, not long after this incident, another passenger who told him his destination “Care Village” when getting on, also got told off when he repeated it when we almost arrived at “Care Village”. The passenger reacted: “There’s no reason to get angry, when I remind you.” The driver said: “Why do you have to repeat it? You already said “Care Village” when you got on, didn’t you? I remember all of your destinations. Hey, the young lady there with the long hair has to go Deerhill Bay. Ask her if that’s right? How could I forget? Anyway, once is enough!” The young lady in the back stared pokerfaced without making a sound. He insisted that passengers tell him only once. It was an offense to say it twice.

Continue reading ““The Paranormal Minibus Driver” by Wong Leung Wo, translated by Audrey Heijns”

I Remember Shigatse • Yu Jian (2018)

 

Tashi Lhunpo Monastery_17 SEP 2018

Tashi Lhunpo Monastery. Photograph from https://bloogs.com/

“I Remember Shigatse”

that day in red Shigatse     when I was young     with a travelling bag and a drinking-flask on my back     and on my feet a pair of Liberation running shoes

I strode across fields of highland qingke barley     a forest combed its hair in the mist     dawn rinsed its face     crows bore the name of a divine being

a snow leopard flew in the Himalayas     some Tibetan’s white house stood poised on a hill-top     prayer-flags

fluttered with a pantheon of gods     a paper lion overcame its altitude sickness     as imps and a fine steed

rolled in its erect body     I strode past villages     fortresses     temples     cream-coloured tents     a Tibetan mastiff

roared against a railing     this mighty collector     took care of a Black Hole from the Middle Ages     I had no way of getting near to

bells tolled from high up in the clouds     the Doors of a Whole Household opened     a crowd of matsutake mushrooms put on their caps

the Doors of a Hundred Rivers opened     a hundred thangkas bloomed riotously on slopes covered in a hundred kinds of flowers     a hundred bronze cauldrons

were brewing a whole day’s yak-butter tea     Baidumu stood in a country fair of weiqi chess-players     bearing Tibetan woollen pulu cloth and a love

very soon to be realized    Sakya Monastery was raining     Mount Qomolangma was chanting scriptures     the Doors of the Galsang Flowers opened     every horse

in a pack of horses had lowered its head to the ground     having found the root     a vermilion monk with one shoulder bare pulled out a key from somewhere at his side

the Doors to the Sun opened wide     its brilliance lighting up the Tashi Lhunpo Monastery lost in thought     Doors of Stone opened

the Doors of Wood opened     Doors of Eggs     Doors of Orchards     fathers and sons

worked on the rooves of Autumn     fifty-one years old, Jiangmu’s mother     had a row of white teeth

in her apple of a face     the Doors of the White Poplars opened     I met people spinning prayer-wheels

made of sheep’s hide     people dancing behind white clouds     people offering their hands in support     people walking along roads     people on their way

to Lhasa     these joyous clocks     crawled along the ground     and moved more slowly than time itself     I met with people

lying stretched out in fields of grass     and I met kings without crowns     the mothers of mothers     riders on horseback     ladies of noble birth

necks encircled with turquoise     beautiful woman cooks     a reincarnated descendant of King Gesar     just like a stupa     I met with young girls

like white cranes     bronzed boys     and at the long-distance bus station I met with butter gilded with gold-leaf     as well as people

carrying scars     fleas and love songs     people come from corn and potato     who led me

and guided me past precipices and streams     with hands scythes had once cut into     o     that day in faraway Shigatse

the Doors of the Choir opened     everywhere lips were singing     Jamyang Gyatso     sang in each and every prayer wheel

sorrowful songs     that day     Shigatse was bathed in an auspicious glow     that day     all the doors opened

the white hair of grandmothers hung down in doorways     the world was so old     Beauty was slow in coming     but how I hoped that this was not

the End of the World     that day, with Shigatse lit up in the light of the setting sun     I found the main gate to an Old Heaven     sheep

making their way back home     trod my footprints into the mud’s oblivion as they passed     there was no electricity in Shigatse that day

no hotels     the Doors of the Stars opened     and together with the motionless yaks on a plain of grass

I was glad to be darkness

Notes:

① 勃起的身体中滚着 / 骏马和精灵
I asked Yu Jian about the horse and the imps and he said that all this was in him: “I had become a steed” [我自己的身体内,我成了一匹骏马].

② 一头藏獒 / 在栅栏旁咆哮  伟大的收藏家  保管着中世纪的黑洞  我无法走近
I am still puzzled about the dog being described as a “mighty collector”. Yu Jian explained that he saw it as a kind of spirit [你可以那么想,藏獒在我看来就是神灵]; perhaps he means the kind that protects house and home from unwanted influences. The phrase “meaner than a junkyard dog” also springs to mind in this context: in a way, the dog is both collector and protector of such a hoard. The image of the black hole may refer to the gaping mouth of the dog and to unmodernised Tibet (one characteristic modernization is perpetual bright lighting and the loss of complete natural darkness) and, taking things a step further, to the difficulty modernized individuals experience in approaching other kinds of societies

③ 白度母站在手谈者的集市
Yu Jian does like to literalize words. The word for “chess” here is 手谈, literally “hand talk”. He could have in mind here the scenario he describes in the prose piece “In Lhasa”: “In a certain spot on Barkhor Street, groups of Khampa men do business by thrusting a hand into the sleeve of their trading-partner and moving it around inside. They look as if they’re putting on some kind of play with hand-puppets. An expert on local affairs told me that this was how they haggled. They bargain with their fingers in their sleeves, communicating prices by means of gesture.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Yu Jian photo SMALL_30 JUL 2018

回忆日喀则

那一天在红色的日喀则  我正年轻  背着行囊和一壶水  穿着解放鞋

大步穿过青稞地  森林在雾中梳头   黎明洗脸  乌鸦有一个神的名字

雪豹在喜马拉雅山中飞  藏族人白色的房子停在山岗   风马旗跟着

诸神飘扬   一头纸狮子在克服它的高原反应   勃起的身体中滚着

骏马和精灵  大步迈过村庄  城堡  寺院  奶油色的帐篷  一头藏獒

在栅栏旁咆哮  伟大的收藏家  保管着中世纪的黑洞  我无法走近

钟声响起在云端  一家人的门打开了  一群松茸戴好了它们的小帽子

一百条河流的门打开了  一百张唐卡盛开在百花山坡  一百只铜锅

在煮着一日的奶茶  白度母站在手谈者的集市  带来氆氇和将至的

爱情  萨迦寺在下雨  珠穆朗玛在颂经  格桑花的门打开了  马群

低着头  它找到了根  朱红色的僧人袒露肩膀从腰间取出了钥匙

太阳的门大大地打开了  光辉照亮沉思的扎伦布寺  石头的门打开了

木头的门打开了  鸡蛋的门打开了 果园的门打开了  丈夫和儿子们

在秋天的屋顶上干活  降姆的妈妈五十一岁  苹果般的脸上含着一排

白牙齿  天空的门打开了  白杨树的门打开了  我遇见摇着羊皮转经筒

的人  尾随白云跳舞的人  彼此搀扶的人  走在路上的人  要去拉萨

的人  这些快乐的表  匍匐在大地上  走得比时间还慢  我遇见躺在

大草原上的人  遇见无冕的国王  母亲的母亲  骑士  戴绿松石项链

的贵妇  美丽的厨娘  格萨尔王的转世后裔  像一座塔  我遇见白鹤

少女  古铜男子  在长途汽车站我遇见镀着黄金的酥油  遇见那些身上

有疤痕  跳蚤和情歌的人  那些来自玉米和土豆的人  他们牵着我

绕过悬崖和溪流  用被镰刀割伤的手  哦呀 那一天在遥远的日喀则

唱诗班的门打开了  所有嘴唇都在歌唱  仓央嘉措在每一只经筒中唱着

伤心之歌  那一天  祥光笼罩日喀则  那一天  所有的门都打开了

门洞里挂着祖母们的白发  世界如此老迈  美姗姗来迟  但愿这不是

末日  那一天在夕光中的日喀则  我找到旧天堂的大门  一只只羊

在归家  我的脚印跟着它们在泥泞中隐去  那一天日喀则没有电

没有旅馆  星星的门打开了  跟着草原上那些一动不动的牦牛

我甘于黑暗

2018年8月1日星期三在理塘

芬蘭印象 • Finland Impressions

Evette Kwok_Finnish Forest_27 AUG 2018

Nuuksio National Park (Evette Kwok, 2018)

Please scroll down for the English translation!

郭少鳳著

我好鐘意芬蘭嘅森林,我哋去咗一個叫 Nuuksio National Park,第一天行了森林(混合咗樺樹同松樹),因為太鐘意呢個地方,所以第二日再去行多趟,仲去咗個好靚嘅湖泊游水,有野鴨陪我哋一齊游,又有蓮花,第一次喺水底踩到啲咁濕潤嘅泥土,真係超難忘嘅體驗(同時諗起一個澳洲朋友屋企嘅小水庫,好羨慕佢成日有機會同鴨仔游水)。

游水時冇意咁「品嚐」到湖水,嘩!啲水唔係鹹㗎,感覺好神奇。香港係一個沿海城市,沙灘多的是,喺鹹鹹嘅海水中游水並唔出奇,但香港冇天然嘅湖泊。第一次喺大自然嘅淡水湖游水真係好舒服,出水時,覺得身體好乾淨,同平時去完沙灘感覺太唔同,冇咗嗰份醃鹹魚嘅感覺,唔會覺得個身好污糟,要即刻沖水洗身。

芬蘭俾我嘅感覺係好先進、好發達、配套好好嘅地方,同日本有小小相似。最明顯嘅地方,佢哋嘅廁所都可以洗 pat pat。去過日本嘅人都知,日本嘅廁所板通常都有一個電動洗 pat pat 嘅設備,㩒制就會向你嘅 pat pat噴水;而芬蘭就會喺廁所旁邊配置一個小花灑,方便你洗 pat pat,兩者都可以確保你有一個乾淨舒服嘅 pat pat!

芬蘭人唔單止十分注重個人嘅清潔衛生,亦會保持城市嘅清潔,佢哋嘅街上好難會見到一舊垃圾。佢哋亦會注重城市嘅儀容。佢哋城市嘅外貌都好有品味,你好難會見到舖頭嘅大招牌,一定揾唔到五光十色嘅淘金舖頭,總之,佢哋嘅招牌一啲都唔浮誇,有好多時,你甚至唔知自己經過了一間舖頭或一間餐廳。

不過唔知點解,啲芬蘭人都好嚴肅,冇咩笑容(唔知同佢哋有個長長黑黑嘅冬天有冇關係?!)。仲有佢哋講嘢好「直接」,問咩就答咩,唔會講多餘嘅嘢,同埋佢哋對自己國家有一種無明嘅優越感。雖然係咁,唔代表佢哋唔友善:我哋曾經被邀請搭一架順風車,被送到一個就近嘅巴士站。芬蘭人亦好樂意回答問題,當然佢哋英文好好,溝通冇問題。

芬蘭人好熱愛森林同夏天,喺我哋喺芬蘭短短嘅4日內,見到好多人都想同陽光玩遊戲:行森林、游水、燒野食、露營、飲酒食飯,總之好盡情享受夏天、白天…

Continue reading “芬蘭印象 • Finland Impressions”

Notes on Thick Brown Paper: In Tibet • Yu Jian (1994)

L1080735_Yu JIn TIBET

Photograph by Yu Jian

The etymological root of the Tibetan world is “origin”. There is nothing static about this notion of origins, for this world in its vital energies is originary. It is not only a spiritual quality; it is also immediately apparent in the land, in the architecture, in the way of life. For someone who comes from a world of which the etymological root is “progress”, it is simply not possible to make use of the word “backward” in the case of Tibet. Tibet rejects the outlook of Darwin’s theory of evolution so widespread in our world. Everything in this world takes place in an untrammelled time-space, an integrated whole, a powerful consciousness of life and history. Here you might gain an immediate sense of what is known as “eternal life”. When you discover that the time shown on your watch is totally out of sync with that of the Buddhist elders seated on the stone slab at the Jokhang Temple, you begin to suspect that the time of your “progress” is in fact regressing this moment in the direction of death.

In no sense is Tibet a place where spiritual beings are ethereal like the wind. This is pure conjecture on the part of atheists living in the world of “progress”. In Tibet, a spirit is something you can meet with on the road. They are not insubstantial air: they are tangible and have all the intense reality of stone. They are things capable of inflicting injury on the wind and its ilk.

A materialist visiting Tibet who did not become—if only for a split second—a mystic would, I believe, have to be devoid of any feeling.

I do not like discussing the supernatural. Nor am I fond of poets given to liberally sprinkling their works with the word “soul”. I am certain that there is no spirit to speak of in those places where the word “soul” is spoken of with such gusto. I didn’t hear the word once during my stay in Tibet, nor did intellectuals there debate its loss. But the spirit was everywhere.

Prior to my trip to Tibet, an avant-garde friend back from New York told me that he found it surprising that there were people still wanting to go there. Surely such behaviour was well and truly passé? I didn’t quite know what he meant. Could the progress of time mean that places such as Tibet were out of date? To which parts of the globe would future ages travel? No, I felt hopelessly out of step with fashion—I had always imagined the Tibets of this world to be timeless.

Continue reading “Notes on Thick Brown Paper: In Tibet • Yu Jian (1994)”