Poem
Liu Waitong
THE MISSING
It’s been thirty hours and you are looking for us.Thirty days, thirty years,
One and many missing people are looking for us,
You left your footprints in the hills, the bushes, the riverbeds,
in the shape of a human figure
in the shape of a country where people can breathe freely,
as vast as the void left by your absence, filled with newly fallen snow.
Now we eat just to practice your hunger,
Now we sleep just to become your dream,
Now we awake just to speak for you, with missing mouths,
And to speak is to spit out the blood clot in your mouth,
To spit the blood clot is to shake our fists at the blustery wind,
To shake our fists is to prove our existence,
And to exist is to deny
the omnipotence of nothingness.
Days changed from red to black, and from black to yellow,
Still, crows comb their hair while seals make love, and people own their names,
But as they looked back they found their own standing selves had disappeared
The selves who had stayed to debate with a wall were swallowed by the wall’s shadow,
The selves who attempted to roll up the shadows into a parcel were confiscated,
The selves who had their recipients’ addresses erased were put through the paper shredder,
Each shred of paper was carrying a sharp fragment of a word.
We are left with fragments of words, rises and falls, twists and turns, disintegration. We are
the birch.
Yesterday’s protests were written all over my body, the protests had become a poem.
let the ice saw cut all the way into the tree’s dream,
Let the horse look at its own footprints on the water like silver foil . . .
The stroller who rose up early had disappeared into the mist like horses,
The mist attempted to stride with its staggering hooves as does a nation yet unborn,
It searches for riders among us.
4 April 2011, midnight
© Translation: 2013, Chan Lai Kuen
VERMISTE PERSONEN
Dertig uren was je ons aan het zoeken.Dertig dagen, dertig jaren,
een persoon en nog ontelbare vermiste personen waren ons aan het zoeken,
jullie hebben voetsporen en markeringen achtergelaten in valleien, grasvelden en rivierbedden,
die aangeven dat wij de vorm van een mens hebben, en dat
het land de vorm van een ruimte heeft waarin mensen vrij kunnen ademen,
grenzeloos als een plaats die vrij is gekomen en opgevuld met nieuwe sneeuw.
Dit moment waarop we eten is juist dat jij de honger test,
dit moment waarop we inslapen verander je in een droom,
dit moment waarop we wakker worden is juist de vervanging voor jouw praten, met verdwenen
mond,
we praten om de bloedklontjes in je mond uit te spugen, we spugen
de bloedklontjes uit om met de wind op de vuist te gaan, we gaan op de vuist om ons bestaan
te bewijzen, we bestaan om de omnipotentie
van de ledigheid tegen te gaan.
Dagen die overgaan van rood in zwart, van zwart in geel,
kraaien kammen haar als altijd, zeehonden paren als altijd, mensen hebben namen als altijd,
maar toen ze omkeken ontdekten ze dat hun staande zelf verdwenen was,
zijzelf die met de muur in discussie waren werden door de schaduw opgeslokt,
zijzelf die met de schaduw opgerold waren werden in een postpakket gegrepen,
zijzelf die het adres van de ontvanger hadden gewist werden in de papiershredder gevoerd,
elke snipper papier droeg een scherpe helft van een teken.
We blijven achter met halve tekens, hoge en lage tonen, kronkels, die uiteenvallen. We zijn een berk
vervuld van protesten van gisteren die al een gedicht zijn geworden.
Laat de schaatsen zijn weg duwen tot diep in de droom van de boom,
laat het paard omlaag kijken naar zijn hoeven in het water dat lijkt op zilverfolie . . .
De vroege wandelaars zijn net paarden verdwenen in de mist,
de mist probeert ook aarzelend op zijn vier hoeven weg te rennen als een ongeboren land,
hij is op zoek naar rijders onder ons.
’s nachts, 4 april 2011
© Vertaling: 2013, Audrey Heijns
失蹤者
三十個小時了，你在尋找我們。三十天了，三十年了，
一位，無數位失蹤的人在尋找我們，
你們在山壑，莽原，河床留下足印，標下記號，
標出我們作為一個人的形狀，標出一個
國度作為人自由呼吸的空間的形狀，
磅礴如你們空出來的位置，鼓滿了新雪。
此刻我們吃飯就是練習你的饑餓，
此刻我們入睡就是成為你的夢境，
此刻我們醒來就是代替你在說話，用消失的嘴巴，
而我們說話就是吐出你嘴裏的血塊，我們吐出
血塊就是向大風擊拳，我們擊拳就是為了證明
我們的存在，我們存在是為了
反駁虛無的無所不能。
日子從紅走到黑，又從黑走到黃，
烏鴉照舊梳頭海豹照舊做愛，人照舊擁有人的名字，
但在回頭時發現那個留下來佇立的自己已經不見了，
那個留下來和一堵牆辯論的自己被牆的陰影吞沒了，
那個嘗試把陰影卷起來放到郵包裏的自己被收繳了，
那個被擦去了收件人地址的自己被放進了碎紙機，
碎片各自拿著一個鋒利的偏旁。
我們僅餘偏旁，頓挫，曲折，支離。我們是白樺樹
滿身是昨日的抗議，抗議已經成為一首詩。
讓冰刀在樹的夢境裏一推到底，
讓馬兒低頭看見水面上銀箔似的蹄印……
早起的步行者們如群馬在晨霧中消失，
霧也試探邁開四蹄躊躇如未生之國，
它在我們當中尋找騎手。
2011年4月4日深夜
© 2013, Liu Waitong
Poems
Poems of Liu Waitong
Close
THE MISSING
It’s been thirty hours and you are looking for us.Thirty days, thirty years,
One and many missing people are looking for us,
You left your footprints in the hills, the bushes, the riverbeds,
in the shape of a human figure
in the shape of a country where people can breathe freely,
as vast as the void left by your absence, filled with newly fallen snow.
Now we eat just to practice your hunger,
Now we sleep just to become your dream,
Now we awake just to speak for you, with missing mouths,
And to speak is to spit out the blood clot in your mouth,
To spit the blood clot is to shake our fists at the blustery wind,
To shake our fists is to prove our existence,
And to exist is to deny
the omnipotence of nothingness.
Days changed from red to black, and from black to yellow,
Still, crows comb their hair while seals make love, and people own their names,
But as they looked back they found their own standing selves had disappeared
The selves who had stayed to debate with a wall were swallowed by the wall’s shadow,
The selves who attempted to roll up the shadows into a parcel were confiscated,
The selves who had their recipients’ addresses erased were put through the paper shredder,
Each shred of paper was carrying a sharp fragment of a word.
We are left with fragments of words, rises and falls, twists and turns, disintegration. We are
the birch.
Yesterday’s protests were written all over my body, the protests had become a poem.
let the ice saw cut all the way into the tree’s dream,
Let the horse look at its own footprints on the water like silver foil . . .
The stroller who rose up early had disappeared into the mist like horses,
The mist attempted to stride with its staggering hooves as does a nation yet unborn,
It searches for riders among us.
4 April 2011, midnight
© 2013, Chan Lai Kuen
THE MISSING
It’s been thirty hours and you are looking for us.Thirty days, thirty years,
One and many missing people are looking for us,
You left your footprints in the hills, the bushes, the riverbeds,
in the shape of a human figure
in the shape of a country where people can breathe freely,
as vast as the void left by your absence, filled with newly fallen snow.
Now we eat just to practice your hunger,
Now we sleep just to become your dream,
Now we awake just to speak for you, with missing mouths,
And to speak is to spit out the blood clot in your mouth,
To spit the blood clot is to shake our fists at the blustery wind,
To shake our fists is to prove our existence,
And to exist is to deny
the omnipotence of nothingness.
Days changed from red to black, and from black to yellow,
Still, crows comb their hair while seals make love, and people own their names,
But as they looked back they found their own standing selves had disappeared
The selves who had stayed to debate with a wall were swallowed by the wall’s shadow,
The selves who attempted to roll up the shadows into a parcel were confiscated,
The selves who had their recipients’ addresses erased were put through the paper shredder,
Each shred of paper was carrying a sharp fragment of a word.
We are left with fragments of words, rises and falls, twists and turns, disintegration. We are
the birch.
Yesterday’s protests were written all over my body, the protests had become a poem.
let the ice saw cut all the way into the tree’s dream,
Let the horse look at its own footprints on the water like silver foil . . .
The stroller who rose up early had disappeared into the mist like horses,
The mist attempted to stride with its staggering hooves as does a nation yet unborn,
It searches for riders among us.
4 April 2011, midnight
© 2013, Chan Lai Kuen
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère