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Hu Xudong

MAMA ANA PAULA ALSO WRITES POETRY

Mama Ana Paula also writes poetry.
Corn-husk tobacco in mouth, she throws a thick poetry book
at me, “Read your Mama’s poems.”
This is true, my student José’s mother,
two Brazils on her chest, a South America on her bucks,
a stomach full of beer, surging like the Atlantic,
this Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. The first day I met her, she lifted me
up like an eagle
catching a small chick, I wasn’t informed she writes poetry.
She spat at me her wet words, and rubbed my face
with her big palm-tree fingers. When she licked my panicked ears
with marijuana tongue, I didn’t know she writes poetry.
Everyone including her son José and daughter-in-law Gisele said
she was an old Flower Silly, but no one told me she writes poetry.
“Put my teacher down, my dear old Flower Silly,” José said.
She dropped me, but went on “dick, dick”, catching another chick.
I looked at her back, strong like a hairy bear that kills
a bull even when she’s drunk, and I understood she writes poetry.
But today, when I followed José into the house, and caught
a glimpse of her lying by the pool
with four limbs stretched out, smoking, I didn’t think she writes poetry.
I ran into a ponytail
like Bob Marley, a muscle guy, in the living room, Gisele told me
that’s her mother-in-law’s guy from last night, I wouldn’t think,
even if you would kill me, that Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. But Mama Ana Mama Paula Writes Poetry, the Ana Paula
that burps and farts. I leafed through page after page of
Mama Ana Paula’s poetry book. Yes, Mama Ana Paula writes poetry
indeed. She doesn’t write fat poetry, liquor poetry,
marijuana poetry, dick poetry, or muscle poetry of muscle guys.
In a poem called “Three Seconds of Silence in Poetry”
she wrote: “Silence in a poem, give me three seconds and in it
I can spin the nine yards of sky.”
 
(2004. Brasília)

MAMA ANA PAULA SCHRIJFT OOK POËZIE

Mama Ana Paula schrijft ook poëzie.
Met een sigaret van maiskolfblad in haar mond smeet ze me
een dikke dichtbundel toe en zei: ‘Lees maar.’
Het is waar, mama Ana Paula, onstuimig als de Atlantische Oceaan,
de moeder van mijn student José,
twee ronde Braziliën op haar borst, een stuk Zuid-Amerika op haar billen
en een buik vol bier, schrijft ook poëzie.
De dag dat ik haar voor het eerst ontmoette en ze me optilde,
als een arend die een prooi greep, wist ik niet dat ze poëzie schreef.
Toen ze me begroette met een mondvol ‘lul’, met haar grote palmboomhanden
over mijn gezicht aaide, met haar marihuanatong mijn paniekerige oren likte,
wist ik niet dat ze poëzie schreef. Iedereen, inclusief
haar zoon José en haar schoondochter Gisèle, zei dat ze een losbol was,
maar niemand zei me dat ze poëzie schreef. José zei:
‘Zet mijn leraar neer, lieve losbol van me.’
Dus zette ze me neer, bleef naar willekeur ‘lul’ uitspuwen en ging
een andere prooi pakken. Kijkend naar haar sterke rug,
die zelfs als ze dronken was nog altijd een stier dodelijk kon vloeren, kon ik
me totaal niet voorstellen dat ze poëzie schreef. Ook vandaag, een dag dat
mama Ana Paula buitengewoon kalm is, kan ik me niet voorstellen dat ze poëzie schrijft.
Toen ik met José het huis binnenliep en een glimp van haar opving,
rokend bij het zwembad, met gespreide armen en benen, kon ik me ook niet voorstellen
dat ze poëzie schreef. Toen ik in de woonkamer een gespierde kerel
met Bob Marley rastahaar tegenkwam en Gisèle me vertelde dat hij het vriendje
van haar schoonmoeder was van de avond ervoor, geloofde ik helemaal niet meer
dat mama Ana Paula die elke dag een gespierde kerel had ook poëzie kon schrijven.
Maar het is absoluut waar dat mama Ana Paula ook poëzie schrijft. Waarom
zou de boerende en scheten latende mama Ana Paula geen vrouwenpoëzie
zonder boeren en scheten mogen schrijven? Ik bladerde de dichtbundel
van mama Ana Paula helemaal door. Inderdaad, mama Ana Paula
schrijft poëzie. Geen vette poëzie vol drank, geen poëzie
met marihuana en lullen, of gespierde poëzie met gespierde kerels.
In een gedicht met de titel ‘Drie seconden stilte in een gedicht’,
heeft ze geschreven: ‘Geef me drie seconden stilte in een gedicht,
dan kan ik daarin de donkere wolken van de lucht beschrijven.’
 
Brasilia, 29 december 2004

安娜·保拉大妈也写诗

安娜·保拉大妈也写诗。
她叼着玉米壳卷的土烟,把厚厚的一本诗集
砸给我,说:“看看老娘我写的诗。”
这是真的,我学生若泽的母亲、
胸前两团巴西、臀后一片南美、满肚子的啤酒
像大西洋一样汹涌的安娜·保拉大妈也写诗。
第一次见面那天,她像老鹰捉小鸡一样
把我拎起来的时候,我不知道她写诗。
她满口“鸡巴”向我致意、张开棕榈大手
揉我的脸、伸出大麻舌头舔我惊慌的耳朵的时候,
我不知道她写诗。所有的人,包括
她的儿子若泽和儿媳吉赛莉,都说她是
老花痴,没有人告诉我她写诗。若泽说:
“放下我的老师吧,我亲爱的老花痴。”
她就撂下了我,继续口吐“鸡巴”,去拎
另外的小鸡。我看着她酒后依然魁梧得
能把一头雄牛撞死的背影,怎么都不会想到
她也写诗。就是在今天、在安娜·保拉大妈
格外安静的今天,我也想不到她写诗。
我跟着若泽走进家门、侧目瞥见
她四仰八叉躺在泳池旁边抽烟的时候,想不到
她写诗;我在客厅里撞见一个梳着
鲍勃·马力辫子的肌肉男、吉赛莉告诉我那是她婆婆
昨晚的男朋友的时候,我更是打死都没想到
每天都有肌肉男的安娜·保拉大妈也写诗。
千真万确,安娜·保拉大妈也写诗。凭什么
打嗝、放屁的安娜·保拉大妈不可以写
不打嗝、不放屁的女诗人的诗?我一页一页地翻着
安娜·保拉大妈的诗集。没错,安娜·保拉大妈
的确写诗。但她不写肥胖的诗、酒精的诗、
大麻的诗、鸡巴的诗和肌肉男的肌肉之诗。
在一首名为《诗歌中的三秒钟的寂静》的诗里,
她写道:“在一首诗中给我三秒钟的寂静,
我就能在其中写出满天的乌云。”
 
         29/12/04 Brasília
Close

MAMA ANA PAULA ALSO WRITES POETRY

Mama Ana Paula also writes poetry.
Corn-husk tobacco in mouth, she throws a thick poetry book
at me, “Read your Mama’s poems.”
This is true, my student José’s mother,
two Brazils on her chest, a South America on her bucks,
a stomach full of beer, surging like the Atlantic,
this Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. The first day I met her, she lifted me
up like an eagle
catching a small chick, I wasn’t informed she writes poetry.
She spat at me her wet words, and rubbed my face
with her big palm-tree fingers. When she licked my panicked ears
with marijuana tongue, I didn’t know she writes poetry.
Everyone including her son José and daughter-in-law Gisele said
she was an old Flower Silly, but no one told me she writes poetry.
“Put my teacher down, my dear old Flower Silly,” José said.
She dropped me, but went on “dick, dick”, catching another chick.
I looked at her back, strong like a hairy bear that kills
a bull even when she’s drunk, and I understood she writes poetry.
But today, when I followed José into the house, and caught
a glimpse of her lying by the pool
with four limbs stretched out, smoking, I didn’t think she writes poetry.
I ran into a ponytail
like Bob Marley, a muscle guy, in the living room, Gisele told me
that’s her mother-in-law’s guy from last night, I wouldn’t think,
even if you would kill me, that Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. But Mama Ana Mama Paula Writes Poetry, the Ana Paula
that burps and farts. I leafed through page after page of
Mama Ana Paula’s poetry book. Yes, Mama Ana Paula writes poetry
indeed. She doesn’t write fat poetry, liquor poetry,
marijuana poetry, dick poetry, or muscle poetry of muscle guys.
In a poem called “Three Seconds of Silence in Poetry”
she wrote: “Silence in a poem, give me three seconds and in it
I can spin the nine yards of sky.”
 
(2004. Brasília)

MAMA ANA PAULA ALSO WRITES POETRY

Mama Ana Paula also writes poetry.
Corn-husk tobacco in mouth, she throws a thick poetry book
at me, “Read your Mama’s poems.”
This is true, my student José’s mother,
two Brazils on her chest, a South America on her bucks,
a stomach full of beer, surging like the Atlantic,
this Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. The first day I met her, she lifted me
up like an eagle
catching a small chick, I wasn’t informed she writes poetry.
She spat at me her wet words, and rubbed my face
with her big palm-tree fingers. When she licked my panicked ears
with marijuana tongue, I didn’t know she writes poetry.
Everyone including her son José and daughter-in-law Gisele said
she was an old Flower Silly, but no one told me she writes poetry.
“Put my teacher down, my dear old Flower Silly,” José said.
She dropped me, but went on “dick, dick”, catching another chick.
I looked at her back, strong like a hairy bear that kills
a bull even when she’s drunk, and I understood she writes poetry.
But today, when I followed José into the house, and caught
a glimpse of her lying by the pool
with four limbs stretched out, smoking, I didn’t think she writes poetry.
I ran into a ponytail
like Bob Marley, a muscle guy, in the living room, Gisele told me
that’s her mother-in-law’s guy from last night, I wouldn’t think,
even if you would kill me, that Mama Ana Paula
writes poetry. But Mama Ana Mama Paula Writes Poetry, the Ana Paula
that burps and farts. I leafed through page after page of
Mama Ana Paula’s poetry book. Yes, Mama Ana Paula writes poetry
indeed. She doesn’t write fat poetry, liquor poetry,
marijuana poetry, dick poetry, or muscle poetry of muscle guys.
In a poem called “Three Seconds of Silence in Poetry”
she wrote: “Silence in a poem, give me three seconds and in it
I can spin the nine yards of sky.”
 
(2004. Brasília)
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