Wednesday, 5 November 2014

3 Poems by Mu Dan



Glorification

The undulation of mountains that stretch endlessly beneath the feet, rivers and grasslands,
The densely located villages which are innumerable, cock crowing and dog barking,
Connected to the Asian land which is originally desolate,
The dry wind is blowing across the vastness of wild grass,
The east-flowing water is singing monotonously under the low hanging murky clouds,
And countless ages and years are buried in the somber forest.
They embrace me silently:
Countless stories are countless miseries, and what is taciturn
Is love, is the flock of hawks soaring in the sky,
And is the hot tears surging like a spring which is expected by dried and withered eyes.
When the unchangeable gray lines are crawling in the distant horizon,
I have too many words to tell, and too long-standing emotion to reveal;
I will, with the desolate desert, bumpy roads, and mule-drawn cart,
I will, with a trough boat, a mountainful of wild flowers, and overcast and rainy weather,
I will embrace you with all, you,
The people I see everywhere, O,
People living in humiliation, stooping people,
I will embrace you one by one with my blood-stained hands,
Because a nation has stood up.

A peasant, his unshaped body is moving in the field;
He is the son of a woman, and the father of many children.
How many dynasties have experienced the ups and downs beside him
While hopes and disappointment are heaped upon him,
And he is always turning and turning wordlessly after the plough.
The same earth is turned over and what has ever dissolved his ancestors
Is the same crucified image which is concreting by the road.
How many joyful songs have elapsed on the road,
And how many times have his hardships come hither.
People are delivering a speech, clamoring and merry-making,
But he is not, and he only puts down the ancient hoe.
He once more believes nouns, and popular love has been transfused;
With determination, he sees himself dissolve into death.
But such a road is infinitely long,
And he is not entitled to shed tears;
He does not shed tears, since a nation has stood up.

In the bosom of mountains, under the azure sky,
When spring and autumn pass through his homestead,
The most pregnant sorrow lies latent in the deep and serene valley:
An old woman is expecting children, and many children are expecting
Hunger, while restraining themselves in hunger.
By the road is still the thatched hut which gathers darkness;
The unknowable fear is the same, and the earth
Which is encroaching life in the great nature is the same,
But once he departs he never turns back to curse.
For the sake of him I will embrace everybody,
For the sake of him I will lose the comfort of embrace;
Because of him, we cannot grant happiness.
Cry then, let’s cry to our heart’s content over him,
Since a nation has stood up.

The centuries-old wind of the ages is the same,
And endless coldness and groans which are scattered
From under the dilapidating eaves are the same.
It is singing atop a withered tree;
It has blown across deserted swamp, reeds, and insect chirping;
The voice of the crow flying over is the same.
When I pass by, and loiter on the road,
I loiter for the many years of humiliation,
And I am still waiting in the boundless mountains and rivers;
Waiting, our wordless affliction is too heavy to bear.
But a nation has stood up,
But a nation has stood up.

                                December, 1941


Spring

Green waves are dancing on the grass,
And he is keen to embrace you, flowers.
Against the earth, flowers throw themselves out,
When the warm wind blows hither vexation, or conviviality.
If you are awake, and push open the window,
See how beautiful is the gardenful of desires.

Under the azure sky, what is deluded by the eternal riddle
Is our locked bodies of twenty years,
Just like the songs of clay-made birds.
You are enkindled, but have nowhere to refuge.
O, light, shadow, voice, and color, all are naked;
In affliction, they are waiting to be merged into new combination.

                                                                                                                                                 February, 1942


The Flag

We are below, and you are flying on high;
The wind is your body, and you go along with the sun;
Always wanting to fly out of the earth, but you are drawn by the ground.

You are words written in the sky, which can be read by everyone;
While clear and simple, you are at once broad and invisible;
You are the wandering souls of the heroes who are alive today.

Your minute body is the driving force of the war,
And after the war, you are the only one that is whole;
When we are reduced to ashes, you retain the glory.

Too responsible, sometimes we are at a loss.
The capitalists and landlords use you to explain themselves,
And use you to obtain the peace of everybody.

You are the heart of everybody, but you are wiser than everybody;
You come with the morning, and suffer with the night;
You are at your best to tell the joy of freedom.

Storms and tempests from all directions, are to be first felt by you;
You are the orientation of everybody, and we owe our victory to you.
We adore you, who belongs to the people nowadays.

                                                                                                                              May, 1945

About the author:
Mu Dan (19181977), his original name was Zha Liangzheng; his ancestral place is Haining of Zhejiang Province, and he was born in Tianjin. He entered the Foreign Languages Department of Qinghua University through examination in 1935; in 1949, he went to America to further his studies, and in 1953, returned to teach at Nankai University. In 1958, he published The Contending Stories of Nine Schools in People’s Daily and was hence labelled as “a historical counterrevolutionary”. He is an important member of the “Nine Leaves School”. His main works include poem collections such asThe PathfinderThe Flag, and Collected Poems by Mu Dan, etc. In addition, he has also translated many works.
                                                          Tr. by Zhang Zhizhong

穆旦
赞美

走不尽的山峦的起伏,河流和草原,
数不尽的密密的村庄,鸡鸣和狗吠,
接连在原是荒凉的亚洲的土地上,
在野草的茫茫中呼啸着干燥的风,
在低压的暗云下唱着单调的东流的水,
在忧郁的森林里有无数埋藏的年代。
它们静静地和我拥抱:
说不尽的故事是说不尽的灾难,沉默的
是爱情,是在天空飞翔的鹰群,
是干枯的眼睛期待着泉涌的热泪,
当不移的灰色的行列在遥远的天际爬行;
我有太多的话语,太悠久的感情,
我要以荒凉的沙漠,坎坷的小路,骡子车,
我要以槽子船,漫山的野花,阴雨的天气,
我要以一切拥抱你,你,
我到处看见的人民呵,
在耻辱里生活的人民,佝偻的人民,
我要以带血的手和你们一一拥抱。
因为一个民族已经起来。

一个农夫,他粗糙的身躯移动在田野中,
他是一个女人的孩子,许多孩子的父亲,
多少朝代在他的身边升起又降落了
而把希望和失望压在他身上,
而他永远无言地跟在犁后旋转,
翻起同样的泥土溶解过他祖先的,
是同样的受难的形象凝固在路旁。
在大路上多少次愉快的歌声流过去了,
多少次跟来的是临到他的忧患;
在大路上人们演说,叫嚣,欢快,
然而他没有,他只放下了古代的锄头,
再一次相信名词,溶进了大众的爱,
坚定地,他看着自己溶进死亡里,
而这样的路是无限的悠长的
而他是不能够流泪的,
他没有流泪,因为一个民族已经起来。

在群山的包围里,在蔚蓝的天空下,
在春天和秋天经过他家园的时候,
在幽深的谷里隐着最含蓄的悲哀:
一个老妇期待着孩子,许多孩子期待着
饥饿,而又在饥饿里忍耐,
在路旁仍是那聚集着黑暗的茅屋,
一样的是不可知的恐惧,一样的是
大自然中那侵蚀着生活的泥土,
而他走去了从不回头诅咒。
为了他我要拥抱每一个人,
为了他我失去了拥抱的安慰,
因为他,我们是不能给以幸福的,
痛哭吧,让我们在他的身上痛哭吧,
因为一个民族已经起来。

一样的是这悠久的年代的风,
一样的是从这倾圮的屋檐下散开的
无尽的呻吟和寒冷,
它歌唱在一片枯槁的树顶上,
它吹过了荒芜的沼泽,芦苇和虫鸣,
一样的是这飞过的乌鸦的声音。
当我走过,站在路上踟蹰,
我踟蹰着为了多年耻辱的历史
仍在这广大的山河中等待,
等待着,我们无言的痛苦是太多了,
然而一个民族已经起来,
然而一个民族已经起来。

194112



绿色的火焰在草上摇曳,
他渴求着拥抱你,花朵。
反抗着土地,花朵伸出来,
当暖风吹来烦恼,或者欢乐。
如果你是醒了,推开窗子,
看这满园的欲望多么美丽。

蓝天下,为永远的谜迷惑着的
是我们二十岁的紧闭的肉体,
一如那泥土做成的鸟的歌,
你们被点燃,却无处归依。
呵,光,影,声,色,都已经赤裸,
痛苦着,等待伸入新的组合。

1942 2



我们都在下面,你在高空飘扬,
风是你的身体,你和太阳同行,
常想飞出物外,却为地面拉紧。

是写在天上的话,大家都认识,
又简单明确,又博大无形,
是英雄们的游魂活在今日。

你渺小的身体是战争的动力,
战争过后,而你是唯一的完整,
我们化成灰,光荣由你留存。

太肯负责任,我们有时茫然,
资本家和地主拉你来解释,
用你来取得众人的和平。

是大家的心,可是比大家聪明,
带着清晨来,随黑夜而受苦,
你最会说出自由的欢欣。

四方的风暴,由你最先感受,
是大家的方向,因你而胜利固定,
我们爱慕你,如今属于人民。

19455

  
作者简介
穆旦19181977),原名查良铮,祖籍浙江海宁,生于天津。1935 年考入清华大学外文系。1949年赴美国留学。1953年回国,任教于南开大学。1958年在《人民日报》发表《九九家争鸣记》,被打成“历史反革命”。系“九叶派”主要成员。主要作品有:诗集《探险者》、《旗》、《穆旦诗集》等。另有译著多种。




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