Da Yanhe — My Wet Nurse
Da Yanhe, is my wet nurse.
Her name is the name of her village where she was born,
She is a childbride,
Da Yanhe, is my wet nurse.
I am a landlord’s son;
I am also Da Yanhe’s son
Who has brought me up by breastfeeding me.
Da Yanhe raises her family by raising me,
And I have been raised by drinking your milk,
Da Yanhe, my wet nurse.
Da Yanhe, the snow today reminds me of you:
Your grass-covered grave covered with snow,
Your withered tile-plant on the eaves of your closed house,
Your plot of land of ten square chi mortgaged,
Your stone bench grown with moss before your house,
Da Yanhe, the snow I see today reminds me of you.
You embraced me in your arms and stroked me with your large hands;
After you had the burning faggots ready,
After you cleaned the soot on your apron,
After you tasted whether the rice was well cooked,
After you placed the dark sauce-bowl on the dark table,
After you mended your sons’ clothes torn by thorns on the mountains,
After you wrapped your youngest son’s hand wounded by a faggot-knife,
After you nipped the lice one by one on your husband’s and sons’ clothes,
After you picked up the first egg today,
You embraced me in your arms and stroked me with your large hands.
After I had sulked all milk of you Da Yanhe,
I was taken back to my own home by my parents.
Alas! Da Yanhe, why did you weep?
I was now a new member of my own parents’ family!
I felt the lacquered and cared furniture,
I felt the golden patterns of the bed of my parents,
I gazed at the board inscribed with Tianlunxule which I did not understand on the eaves,
I felt the silk and pearly buttons of the new clothes I began to wear,
I watched my strange sister in the arms of my mother,
I sat on the lacquered bench equipped with a bowl of cinder,
I ate the rice rolled for three times,
But, I felt so strange and upset! Because I
I was now a new member of my own parents’ family.
To make a living, Da Yanhe
Started laboring with her arms that used to embrace me
After she had used up her breast-milk;
With a smile, she washed our clothes,
With a smile, she went to the nearby pool with a basket of vegetables,
With a smile, she minced the ice-covered radish,
With a smile, she drew out the wheat dregs for pig food with her hands,
With a smile, she fanned the fire in the stove on which pork was stewed,
With a smile, she took the winnowing fan to the threshing ground
To insolate those beans and wheat,
To make a living, Da Yanhe
Started laboring with her arms that used to embrace me
After she had used up her breast-milk.
Da Yanhe, deeply loved this son she breastfed;
On festivals, for him, she busied herself cutting the sugared rice-lump,
For him to stealthily visit her home near the village,
For him to call her “ma” at her side,
Da Yanhe put up the portrait of Guan Yunchang painted in fabulous color
On the wall of her kitchen,
Da Yanhe would praise this son she breastfed to her neighborhood;
Da Yanhe had a dream which couldn’t be told to others:
In her dream, she enjoyed the wedding wine of her breastfed son,
Sitting in the hall brilliant with red lanterns,
She was dearly called “Ma” by her beautiful new daughter-in-law,
………
Da Yanhe, deeply loved this son she breastfed!
Da Yanhe died before she woke up from her dream.
When she died, her breastfed son was not by her side,
When she died, her husband who beat and criticized her also shed tears for her,
Her own five sons, each in tears,
When she died, she gently called her breastfed son’s name,
Da Yanhe, has died,
When she died, her breastfed son was not by her side.
Da Yanhe, gone in tears!
With the insult of human life for some forty years,
With numerous sufferings of being a slave,
With a coffin bought with four yuan and some bunches of rice stalks,
With some square feet of burial place,
With a handful of money-ashes,
Da Yanhe, she was gone in tears.
And this is what Da Yanhe did not know:
Her drunken husband had died,
Her first son became a bandit,
Her second died in the smoke of gun-fire,
And her third, fourth and fifth sons
Living in the scolding of their masters or landlords.
And I, I am writing a curse for this unjust world.
When I return to my homeland after long drift,
In the waist of the mountain and in the field,
We feel closer than six or seven years ago when we brothers meet!
This, this is for you, Da Yanhe in slumber
You do not know this!
Da Yanhe, your breastfed son in prison today,
Is writing a psalm for you,
For your soul underground,
For your outstretched hands that embraced me,
For your lips that kissed me,
For your dark and mild face,
For your breasts that raised me,
For your sons, my brothers,
For all wet nurses like Da Yanhe and their sons
On this vast land,
For Da Yanhe who loved me as she loved her own sons.
Da Yanhe,
I am your son
Brought up by sulking your breast-milk,
I respect you
And love you!
I Love This Land
If I were a bird,
I would also use my coarse throat to sing:
This land stricken by storms,
These rivers forever torrential with our indignation,
This wind ceaselessly blowing in rages,
And that incomparably mild dawn coming from the forest…
—Then I die,
Decomposed into the land even with my feathers.
Why am I always tearful?
Because I have a deep love for this land…
Snow falling on China ’s land,
Cold is blocking China …
Wind,
Like a wailing old woman,
Closely following
The claws stretching with cold,
To clasp the clothes of passengers,
Endlessly prattling
In words as old as the land…
You, China ’s farmhand
Emerging from forest,
Driving a cart,
Wearing a leather hat,
Braving the snow,
Where are you going?
I tell you,
I am a descendant of the farmhand, too.
Because of your
Faces fully carved with pains and wrinkles,
I can understand
So deeply
The hardships of the years
Of those living on the prairie.
And I
No more happier than you.
The waves of bitterness
Have for several times swallowed and involved me —
Vagrancy and imprisonment
Have deprived me
Of my best days of my youth,
My life, too
Wan and sallow
As your lives.
Snow falling on China ’s land,
Cold is blocking China …
Along the river of the snowy night,
A little lamp is slowly moving,
In a shabby roofed boat,
Against the light, bending the head low,
Who is it that is sitting there?
— Ah, you
An uncombed young woman,
Is it that
Your home
—That happy and warm nest —
Was destroyed
By the brutal enemy?
Is it that
You have lost the protection of your husband
At such a night,
And you have suffered from the bullying of the enemy’s bayonet
In the terror of death?
Alas! At such a cold night,
Our numerous
Old mothers,
Crouching not in their own homes,
Just like people of an alien land,
Not knowing where the wheels
Will go tomorrow…
— Besides,
Is so tortuous
And so slushy.
Snow falling on China ’s land,
Cold is blocking China …
Through this prairie of the snowy night,
In those regions licked by the war-fire,
Countless cultivators of land
Lost the cattle they herd,
And their fertile fields,
Crowding
In a desperate dirty lane:
The famine land,
Toward the overcast heaven,
Stretches out its trembling arms
For aid.
Widespread and lengthy as this snowy night!
Snow falling on China ’s land,
Cold is blocking China …
In my lightless night,
Can my frail lines
Offer you some warmth?
[The editor's note:: The above work is selected from 300 New Chinese Poems (1917-2012), a Chinese-English college reader published by Poetry Pacific Press in October 2013.]
About the author:
Ai Qing (1910—1996), originally named Jiang Haicheng, was a native of Jinhua County, Zhejiang Province. In 1928, he was enrolled in the state-run West Lake Art School Paris , France China , and joined China ’s Federation of the Leftwing Fine Artists. In the July of the same year, he was arrested. He was freed in 1935. he went to Yan’an in 1941. he was the editor-in-chief of The Poetic Journal (Yan’an edition). After 1949, he was deputy editor-in-chief of People’s Literature, vice chairman of Chinese Writers’ Association, vice president of the Center of Chinese Writing
(Tr. by Yang Xu)
艾青
大堰河——我的褓姆
大堰河，是我的褓姆。
她的名字就是生她的村庄的名字，
她是童养媳，
大堰河，是我的褓姆。
我是地主的儿子；
也是吃了大堰河的奶而长大了的
大堰河的儿子。
大堰河以养育我而养育她的家，
而我，是吃了你的奶而被养育了的，
大堰河啊，我的褓姆。
大堰河，今天我看到雪使我想起了你：
你的被雪压着的草盖的坟墓，
你的关闭了的故居檐头的枯死的瓦菲，
你的被典押了的一丈平方的园地，
你的门前的长了青苔的石椅，
大堰河，今天我看到雪使我想起了你。
你用你厚大的手掌把我抱在怀里，抚摸我；
在你搭好了灶火之后，
在你拍去了围裙上的炭灰之后，
在你尝到饭已煮熟了之后，
在你把乌黑的酱碗放到乌黑的桌子上之后，
在你补好了儿子们的为山腰的荆棘扯破的衣服之后，
在你把小儿被柴刀砍伤了的手包好之后，
在你把夫儿们的衬衣上的虱子一颗颗的掐死之后，
在你拿起了今天的第一颗鸡蛋之后，
你用你厚大的手掌把我抱在怀里，抚摸我。
我是地主的儿子，
在我吃光了你大堰河的奶之后，
我被生我的父母领回到自己的家里。
啊，大堰河，你为什么要哭？
我做了生我的父母家里的新客了！
我摸着红漆雕花的家具，
我摸着父母的睡床上金色的花纹，
我呆呆地看着檐头的我不认得的“天伦叙乐”的匾，
我摸着新换上的衣服的丝的和贝壳的钮扣，
我看着母亲怀里的不熟识的妹妹，
我坐着油漆过的安了火钵的炕凳，
我吃着碾了三番的白米的饭，
但，我是这般忸怩不安！因为我
我做了生我的父母家里的新客了。
大堰河，为了生活，
在她流尽了她的乳液之后，
她就开始用抱过我的两臂劳动了；
她含着笑，洗着我们的衣服，
她含着笑，提着菜篮到村边的结冰的池塘去，
她含着笑，切着冰屑悉索的萝卜，
她含着笑，用手掏着猪吃的麦糟，
她含着笑，扇着炖肉的炉子的火，
她含着笑，背了团箕到广场上去
晒好那些大豆和小麦，
大堰河，为了生活，
在她流尽了她的乳液之后，
她就用抱过我的两臂，劳动了。
大堰河，深爱着她的乳儿；
在年节里，为了他，忙着切那冬米的糖，
为了他，常悄悄地走到村边的她的家里去，
为了他，走到她的身边叫一声“妈”，
大堰河，把他画的大红大绿的关云长
贴在灶边的墙上，
大堰河，会对她的邻居夸口赞美她的乳儿；
大堰河曾做了一个不能对人说的梦：
在梦里，她吃着她的乳儿的婚酒，
坐在辉煌的结彩的堂上，
而她的娇美的媳妇亲切的叫她“婆婆”，
…………
大堰河，深爱她的乳儿！
大堰河，在她的梦没有做醒的时候已死了。
她死时，乳儿不在她的旁侧，
她死时，平时打骂她的丈夫也为她流泪，
五个儿子，个个哭得很悲，
她死时，轻轻地呼着她的乳儿的名字，
大堰河，已死了，
她死时，乳儿不在她的旁侧。
大堰河，含泪的去了！
同着四十几年的人世生活的凌侮，
同着数不尽的奴隶的凄苦，
同着四块钱的棺材和几束稻草，
同着几尺长方的埋棺材的土地，
同着一手把的纸钱的灰，
大堰河，她含泪的去了。
这是大堰河所不知道的：
她的醉酒的丈夫已死去，
大儿做了土匪，
第二个死在炮火的烟里，
第三，第四，第五
在师傅和地主的叱骂声里过着日子。
而我，我是在写着给予这不公道的世界的咒语。
当我经了长长的飘泊回到故土时，
在山腰里，田野上，
兄弟们碰见时，是比六七年前更要亲密！
这，这是为你，静静的睡着的大堰河
所不知道的啊！
大堰河，今天你的乳儿是在狱里，
写着一首呈给你的赞美诗，
呈给你黄土下紫色的灵魂，
呈给你拥抱过我的直伸着的手，
呈给你吻过我的唇，
呈给你泥黑的温柔的脸颜，
呈给你养育了我的乳房，
呈给你的儿子们，我的兄弟们，
呈给大地上一切的，
我的大堰河般的褓姆和她们的儿子，
呈给爱我如爱她自己的儿子般的大堰河。
大堰河，
我是吃了你的奶而长大了的
你的儿子
我敬你
爱你！
我爱这土地
假如我是一只鸟，
我也应该用嘶哑的喉咙歌唱：
这被暴风雨所打击的土地，
这永远汹涌着我们的悲愤的河流，
这无止息地吹刮着的激怒的风，
和那来自林间的无比温柔的黎明……
——然后我死了，
连羽毛也腐烂在土地里面。
为什么我的眼里常含泪水？
因为我对这土地爱得深沉……
雪落在中国的土地上
雪落在中国的土地上
寒冷在封锁着中国呀……
风，
像一个太悲哀了的老妇。
紧紧地跟随着
伸出寒冷的指爪
拉扯着行人的衣襟。
用着像土地一样古老的话
一刻也不停地絮聒着……
那从林间出现的，
赶着马车的
你中国的农夫，
戴着皮帽，
冒着大雪
你要到哪儿去呢？
告诉你
我也是农人的后裔——
由于你们的
刻满了痛苦的皱纹的脸，
我能如此深深地
知道了
生活在草原上的人们的
岁月的艰辛。
而我
也并不比你们快乐啊
一一躺在时间的河流上
苦难的浪涛
曾经几次把我吞没而又卷起一一
流浪与监禁
己失去了我的青春的
最可贵的日子，
我的生命
也像你们的生命
一样的憔悴呀。
雪落在中国的土地上，
寒冷在封锁着中国呀……
沿着雪夜的河流，
一盏小油灯在徐缓地移行，
那破烂的乌篷船里
映着灯光，垂着头
坐着的是谁呀？
一一啊，你
篷发垢面的少妇，
是不是
你的家
一一那幸福与温暖的巢穴一一
己被暴戾的敌人
烧毁了么？
是不是
也像这样的夜间,
失去了男人的保护,
在死亡的恐怖里
你已经受尽敌人刺刀的戏弄？
咳，就在如此寒冷的今夜，
无数的
我们的年老的母亲,
都蜷伏在不是自己的家里,
就像异邦人
不知明天的车轮
要滚上怎样的路程……
一一而且
中国的路
是如此的崎岖，
是如此的泥泞呀。
雪落在中国的土地上。
寒冷在封锁着中国呀……
透过雪夜的草原
那些被烽火所啮啃着的地域，
无数的，土地的垦殖者
失去了他们所饲养的家禽
失去了他们肥沃的田地
拥挤在
生活的绝望的污巷里：
饥馑的大地
朝向阴暗的天
伸出乞援的
颤抖着的两臂。
中国的苦痛与灾难
像这雪夜一样广阔而又漫长呀！
雪落在中国的土地上
寒冷在封锁着中国呀……
中国，
我的在没有灯光的晚上
所写的无力的诗句
能给你些许的温暖么？
作者简介：
艾青（1910—1996），原名蒋海澄，生于浙江省金华县。1928年考入国立西湖艺术院。次年赴法国巴黎留学。1932年回国，加入中国左翼美术家联盟，7月，被捕入狱。1935年出狱。1941年赴延安，曾任《诗刊》（延安版）主编。1949年后，历任《人民文学》副主编、中国作家协会副主席、中国笔会中心副会长、全国人大常委会委员等。主要作品有：诗集《大堰河》、《向太阳》、《火把》、《他死在第二次》、《北方》、《黎明的通知》、《海岬上》、《归来的歌》、《艾青诗选》等。专著《诗论》、《新文艺论集》等。其诗被译成数十种外国文字。
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