Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Zang Di

READING TSANGYANG GYATSO, A SERIES

The Tibetan girls I saw when I was young
at a Sichuan Fair, far and remote,
have grown into beautiful women in your poems.
You write as if the world can do nothing about them.
Or, you write as if time can do nothing about them.
If you don’t write poetry, you can not recognize in you
the highest king of the snow kingdom.
Beautiful women are gods, of course.
There is no other way to begin than from the beginning.
This is different from whether God is foolish or not.
The women are their own gods but they don’t know about it.
Or, they are their own gods –
far less fair than – they are our gods.
1987, I was 23, getting dumped was like an avalanche.
You have been 23, the difference is that
I have survived while you were murdered.
And we are separated by two hundred years of solitude.
Over the years, I approach you in a way
like walking in your poetry
to walk back to myself quietly. 1989, I was 25,
you were 22, the shadow of the red religion was bluer
than the blue water of Lhasa.
1996, I was 32, you were 19,
how can a voice be only independent in snow-capped mountains.
2005, I was 41 and you were 17,
once a rebellious spirit jammed with gems, the moon
became the back door to any place we wanted to enter.
2014, I am 50 and you are 15, as simple as that.
But how can your ambivalence,
stripped off the young shell, be my secret only?

HET LEZEN VAN TSANGYANG GYATSO, SERIE

De Tibetaanse meisjes die ik toen ik klein was
zag op een verre markt in Sichuan, zijn in jouw gedichten
uitgegroeid tot mooie jongedames.
Toen jij poëzie schreef leek de wereld niets met hen aan te kunnen.
Of, toen jij schreef, leek de tijd niets met hen aan te kunnen.
Stel dat je niet had geschreven, dan was je niet in staat geweest om jezelf
te identificeren als de grootste koning van de sneeuwgebieden.
Mooie vrouwen zijn natuurlijk goden,
zonder dat beginpunt zouden we onze oorsprong niet kennen.
Dat is niet hetzelfde als de vraag of god stom is of niet.
Vrouwen zijn hun eigen goden, maar dat weten ze niet.
Of, vrouwen zijn hun eigen goden
maar onze goden zijn ze verre van.
1987, een verloren liefde was als een sneeuwlawine, ik was 23
jij ook, het verschil was alleen
dat ik het heb overleefd, maar jij werd vermoord.
En tussen ons liggen tweehonderd jaren eenzaamheid.
Al vele jaren lijkt de manier waarop ik met jou in contact ben
alsof ik langs jouw poëzietijd
heimelijk naar mezelf terugkeer. 1989, ik was 25
jij 22, de schaduw van de rode leer was blauwer dan de meren bij Lhasa,
1996, ik was 32, jij 19,
hoe kan de stem van het hart alleen onafhankelijk zijn op imposante sneeuwbergen.
2005, ik was 41, jij 17;
ooit stonden achterhoofdsbeen en parels naast elkaar, de maan
was de achterdeur van iedere plek die we wilden binnengaan.
2014, ik ben 50, jij 15;
dat is het dan, de schalen van de jeugd afgepeld,
hoe kan jouw tegenstrijdigheid alleen mijn geheim zijn?

读仓央嘉措丛书

小时候在四川偏僻的集市上
见过的藏族女孩,在你的诗中
已长大成美丽的女人。
你写诗,就好像世界拿她们没办法。
或者,你写诗,就好像时间拿她们没别的办法。
假如你不写诗,你就无法从你身上
辨认出那个最大的雪域之王。
美丽的女人当然是神,
不这么起点,我们怎么会很源泉。
这不同于无论神冒不冒傻气。
她们是她们自己的神,但她们不知道。
或者,她们是她们自己的神
但远不如她们是我们的神。
1987,失恋如同雪崩,我23岁时
你也23岁,区别仅仅在于
我幸存着,而你已被谋杀。
且我们之间还隔着两个百年孤独。
多年来,我接触你的方式
就好像我正沿着你的诗歌时间
悄悄地返回我自己。1989,我25岁时
你22岁,红教的影子比拉萨郊区的湖水还蓝。
1996,我32岁时你19岁,
心声怎么可能只独立于巍巍雪山。
2005,我41岁时你17岁;
一旦反骨和珍珠并列,月亮
便是我们想进入的任何地方的后门。
2014,我50岁时你15岁;
就这样,你的矛盾,剥去年轻的壳后
怎么可能会仅仅是我的秘密。
Close

READING TSANGYANG GYATSO, A SERIES

The Tibetan girls I saw when I was young
at a Sichuan Fair, far and remote,
have grown into beautiful women in your poems.
You write as if the world can do nothing about them.
Or, you write as if time can do nothing about them.
If you don’t write poetry, you can not recognize in you
the highest king of the snow kingdom.
Beautiful women are gods, of course.
There is no other way to begin than from the beginning.
This is different from whether God is foolish or not.
The women are their own gods but they don’t know about it.
Or, they are their own gods –
far less fair than – they are our gods.
1987, I was 23, getting dumped was like an avalanche.
You have been 23, the difference is that
I have survived while you were murdered.
And we are separated by two hundred years of solitude.
Over the years, I approach you in a way
like walking in your poetry
to walk back to myself quietly. 1989, I was 25,
you were 22, the shadow of the red religion was bluer
than the blue water of Lhasa.
1996, I was 32, you were 19,
how can a voice be only independent in snow-capped mountains.
2005, I was 41 and you were 17,
once a rebellious spirit jammed with gems, the moon
became the back door to any place we wanted to enter.
2014, I am 50 and you are 15, as simple as that.
But how can your ambivalence,
stripped off the young shell, be my secret only?

READING TSANGYANG GYATSO, A SERIES

The Tibetan girls I saw when I was young
at a Sichuan Fair, far and remote,
have grown into beautiful women in your poems.
You write as if the world can do nothing about them.
Or, you write as if time can do nothing about them.
If you don’t write poetry, you can not recognize in you
the highest king of the snow kingdom.
Beautiful women are gods, of course.
There is no other way to begin than from the beginning.
This is different from whether God is foolish or not.
The women are their own gods but they don’t know about it.
Or, they are their own gods –
far less fair than – they are our gods.
1987, I was 23, getting dumped was like an avalanche.
You have been 23, the difference is that
I have survived while you were murdered.
And we are separated by two hundred years of solitude.
Over the years, I approach you in a way
like walking in your poetry
to walk back to myself quietly. 1989, I was 25,
you were 22, the shadow of the red religion was bluer
than the blue water of Lhasa.
1996, I was 32, you were 19,
how can a voice be only independent in snow-capped mountains.
2005, I was 41 and you were 17,
once a rebellious spirit jammed with gems, the moon
became the back door to any place we wanted to enter.
2014, I am 50 and you are 15, as simple as that.
But how can your ambivalence,
stripped off the young shell, be my secret only?
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Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
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J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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