哈金的几首诗

www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/40900

Missed Time 
BY HA JIN

My notebook has remained blank for months
thanks to the light you shower
around me. I have no use
for my pen, which lies
languorously without grief.

Nothing is better than to live
a storyless life that needs
no writing for meaning—
when I am gone, let others say
they lost a happy man,
though no one can tell how happy I was.

哈金是个聪明的作家，他的英文写作为老外呈现了中国的那个特殊时代的一角。
Allen Grossman 是哈金的伯乐。

bostonreview.net/ha-jin-poets-sampler

Poet's Sampler: Ha Jin
Ha Jin
Allen Grossman
August 03, 1988

The poems on this page were written in English by a young Chinese poet and scholar, Xuefei Jin, whose pen name is Ha Jin. He was born in Liaoling province of Manchuria in 1956, entered the Chinese People’s Liberation Army at fourteen, served somewhat more than five years as a soldier (his father was at the time a soldier) and then three years as a telegraphist for the Harbin Railroad Company. In 1978 he entered Heilongjiang University and is continuing his studies at present at Brandeis. The poems he has written since he began his studies in America deal mainly with the experience of persons in China during the Cultural Revolution–“experience,” as he writes, “not strictly personal, although in most cases . . . stimulated by memory of hard facts which cannot be worn away by time.”

In Ha Jin’s poems we overhear the people of China–one at a time–speak to one another in the infinite particularity of his concern or her concern and in the deep solitude of a vast nation–the People’s Republic–which constitutes a fate no one can understand or change. Nonetheless, as Ha Jin says, they are “not merely victims of history. They are also the makers of history. Without them the history of contemporary China would remain a blank page.” We hear in these poems the living and the dead–vulnerable, passionate, rational, unforgiving, heartbroken, relentless, gay–speaking of the interests which constitute their humanity in an uncanny language in which English is carried up into a region of pure human authenticity–the language of no nation but the nation of the person who speaks willingly or unwillingly the truth. In the introduction to his manuscript, from which these poems are drawn, Ha Jin remarks: “If not every one of these people, who were never perfect, is worthy of our love, at least their fate deserves our attention and our memory. They should talk and be talked about.”

—Allen Grossman

An Older Scholar’s Advice

After you get your master’s degree
you will have to work hard for some years
to be promoted to a lectureship. Then you can relax.
Don’t think that if you go on working in that way
you can get your professorship. First,
you must have enough teaching experience.
In my school, only after having taught for 24 years
will you be qualified for consideration
as an associate professor. Second,
you must publish enough papers.
it is not hard to write them but it is not easy
to publish them. In fact, you can publish anything
if you have connections. My colleagues told me that
publication is also an important field of study.
Well, if you "study" it thoroughly
you may be able to get your papers out,
but you will have to pay a lot for it.

For me the most practical thing to do now
is not to worry about my professorship.
So many lecturers are not qualified for it
until they are qualified for retirement
or for death. I just ignore it for the time being.
In the morning I practice Tai Chi.
In the evening I watch TV and go to bed early.
I have quit smoking but drink two cups of wine
every day. Wine can warm your blood.
Don’t indulge yourself in sex.
It will weaken your young kidneys.
As long as you are in good health,
as long as you live longer than others,
eventually you will get your professorship.

You can wait for that.



The Dead Soldier’s Talk

In September 1969, in a shipwreck accident on the Tuman River, a young Chinese soldier was drowned saving a plaster statue of Chairman Mao. He was awarded Merit Citation 2, and was buried at a mountain foot in Hunchun County, Jilin.

I’m tired of lying here.
The mountain and the river are not bad.
Sometimes a bear, a boar, or a deer
comes to this place
as if we were a group of outcast comrades.
I feel lonely and I miss home.
It is very cold when winter comes.

I saw you coming just now
like a little cloud wandering over grassland.
I knew it must have been you,
for no other had come for six years.

Why have you brought me wine and meat
and paper-money again?
I have told you year after year
that I am not superstitious.
Have you the red treasure book with you?

I have forgotten some quotations.
You know I don’t have a good memory.
Again, you left it home.

How about the statue I saved?
Is it still in the museum?
Is our Great Leader in good health?
I wish He live ten thousand years!

Last week I dreamed of our mother
showing my medal to a visitor.
She was still proud of her son
and kept her head up
while going to the fields.
She looked older than last year
and her grey hair troubled my eyes.
I did not see our little sister.
She must be a big girl now.
Has she got a boy friend?

Why are you crying?
Say something to me.
So you think I can’t hear you?
In the early years
you came and stood before my tomb
swearing to follow me as a model.
In recent years
you poured tears every time.

Damn you, why don’t you open your mouth?
Something must have happened.
What? Why don’t you tell me!

This poem originally appeared in The Paris Review, #101, Winter 1986.



The Haircut

When we quarreled last time
you promised to give me a special haircut.
Yesterday you fulfilled your word
by shaving my head bald.

You could not straighten your body
and laughed until tears came to your eyes.
How proud you were
while telling your friends
about the masterwork at home!
Our daughter laughed too.
She laughed,
for her daddy’s head was shining like a bulb.

In fact, I also laughed at myself,
for when I lost my first love
I shaved my head the same way.
In our town everybody sighed and shook his head
seeing me walking in the streets
without my dark curly hair
except the girl I loved
who laughed and loved my haircut.



A Hero’s Mother Blames Her Daughter

Every time you come home you make me angry.
You accuse me of being vain, and loving
the name of the Hero’s Mother. Today
I don’t want to quarrel with you.
I just want to speak up so that
you may understand I’m not such a bad woman.

After your elder brother died in the fight
with the Russians on Zhenbao Island,
I did send your younger brother to the army
and let him fight the enemy like his brother.
It was not because I lost my senses
and wanted to enhance my honor as the Hero’s Mother.
Is there any mother who would choose to
sacrifice her own son for such fame?
Listen! The country was in danger at that time
and your younger brother was already a big man.
With or without the example of your elder brother
he should go to the army. It is men’s duty
to defend the country. I was not wrong in this.

After your younger brother got killed in an accident
while digging a tunnel with his comrades,
I sent you to the army. I tell you I was not
a heartless mother. You’re a part of my flesh too;
besides, you were the only child I could keep.
Let Heaven witness, I did not mean to send you
to fight like a man, although I did say:
“Let her take over the gun left by her brothers.”
This time I knew you would not get killed
because they would try every way to protect you.
But if I did not send you to the army,
how could you leave our poor remote village?
how could you become a doctor as you are now?
how could you marry a good handsome man?
how could you live in Beijing with your son
going to the best primary school?
I didn’t hesitate when I sent your younger brother away.
But in your case it took me many days to decide.
One night I made up my mind and prayed
to your dead father and your elder brother:
“This is Rongrong’s only chance.
I must not let her miss it.
Whatever happens to me I can endure.
Please protect her on her way.”

Now your horns are strong and you turn around
to gore your mother. If I did anything wrong,
I did it for you. You are the person who benefits.
What did I get from it? Two martyr cards?
Do you think I can live on them?
Do you think I enjoy looking at them!

Anybody may have the right to blame me
except you. You don’t have the right to do it!



A Sacred Mango

We gathered in front of our City Hall
exploding firecrackers and beating drums and gongs.
Thousands of people came over
to receive a gift for our city from Chairman Mao.
It was a golden mango carried by a big truck
accompanied by three other trucks,
all of which were planted with colorful flags
and loaded with golden chrysanthemums.

The mango was exhibited in the center of a hall.
We lined up to look at it
and to show our gratitude and respect.

But that night
some curious child tasted the fruit
and was not caught.
Our mayor was frightened and outraged,
“Damn it, if I knew which son of a rabbit bit the mango
I would turn his whole family
into counter-revolutionaries!”

But what could we do?
We substituted a wooden mango for a real one.

cul.qq.com/a/20150607/018202.htm

海外华人作家的尴尬：两不着边
郜元宝

上世纪80年代中期以后，华人新移民在北美、澳洲、新西兰等地急剧增加，从他们中间涌现了许多值得注意的作家。这些“第一代华人新移民作家”不同于新、马、泰以及其他国家和地区的“华文作家”，前半生在中国度过，移民后或加入所在国国籍，或继续持中国护照，绝大多数坚持或只能用中文写作，写中国事情，谋求在内地及台、港、澳三地发表，许多人因为在居住国的“文化悬空”处境而自愿认定是“中国作家”。他们和国内作家惟一不同仅仅在于“移民”身份(有的已经在上世纪90年代后期回国)。

对这一群只能以“中国作家”视之。这里的“中国”，不单就国籍而言，亦不限于“文化中国”范畴，乃是国籍和文化的杂糅。

哈金的基本功：“中国人的故事”

哈金的书全写中国，中国的军队与军人，中国的乡村与农民，中国的城镇与市民。小说中的时间则从童年直到上世纪80年代中期。他很忠实于自己在中国的生活，试图真实地记录在作品里。就我看过的最好作品《等待》、《池塘》来说，他也确实达到了一个高度：因为忠实地收集了记忆的残片，清楚地记录了生活的一角，从而让读者由此及彼，联想到中国生活的比作家记录的那一角更广阔的其他方面。

哈金也属于其中一员，但他迄今为止主要以英文发表作品，能够和所在国文化界沟通，为所在国读者和文坛广泛承认并获好评，其作品目前无论在台湾还是在内地都以“翻译外国文学”被介绍进来。

但包括《池塘》和《等待》在内，哈金的小说，一般都不具有我们在读杰出文学作品时经常遇见的内涵丰富和神秘性，那种不妨称之为“意义的黑洞”的东西。他的“中国人的故事”充满传奇色彩，但也只是传奇而已，但中国乃是最不缺乏传奇、轶事、趣闻的国度，中国读者早就在乘火车蹲马桶时被这类东西喂饱了。哈金那些可以让美国人惊讶的精心之作很难触动中国读者。他写了我们熟悉的故事——以美国作家班培养的一丝不苟有板有眼的笔法写来——却没有在此之外提供我们不熟悉的、足以触动我们、震撼我们的东西，那种超出“中国人的故事”之外或蕴涵于这些故事之中的审视中国的别样的目光和心地。哈金的英文到了可以用英文写作，甚至可以每年用英文教美国孩子写作的程度，他本应该提供给我们这些内容，而不必费老大劲从美国出口转内销，述说一篇又一篇国内读者早就熟悉的、略无余味的“中国人的故事”。

有种看不见的东西将他一丝不苟描写的“中国人的故事”包裹起来，我们只能就故事看故事，不能发生额外的联想。故事写得中规中矩、清晰、准确、生动、主题鲜明，用一句话就可以完整无误地概括。向别人转述哈金小说的故事情节是一桩省力的事。《池塘》写基层领导粗暴野蛮，个别怀才不遇的人有理有利有节地进行反抗，《等待》写某些单位和地区的特殊政策与风俗习惯十八年如一日阻拦无爱的夫妻离婚、相爱的男女结婚，当事人在旷日持久的等待中被扭曲，以适应典型的中国生活的规则。中短篇小说就更简单了。中篇《纽约来的女人》、《牛仔炸鸡进了城》反复暗示的无非是中国老百姓对非我族类的可笑的歧视，另一个以唐山地震为背景的关于偶合家庭的中篇，内容全隐括在标题“活着就好”里面了，讲述苏童、余华式的乡村少年成长经历的《皇帝》的结尾，则有这样的“总结陈词”：“一年过去了，我们一个个离开歇马亭，去为各式各样的皇帝效劳”……实在简单得可以，一点不留空白。

哈金在谋篇布局、起承转合、挑选细节、避免重复等方面确实懂得节制，不乱套、不含糊、不让你觉得别扭或不知所云。但缺乏余味、主题简单直露，又是这种笔法的必然结果。再如风景描写，这在哈金小说中是“体制性的”。每当人物遭遇某种困难，每当小说叙述即将“出戏”，哈金总要让人物——也让读者——将视线从具体情境挪开，欣赏一段他准时奉献的风景描写，好像足球比赛的中场休息。这些风景描写与故事情节不相干，给我们的第一印象，是他的思想和文字顿时“跳出来”了，即不再拘泥于具体情境，可以将读者带到一个高层次。这样的风景描写，偶一为之还真有点神来之笔，但一而再再而三，在应该“跳出来”的地方千篇一律来上那么一段似乎大有深意其实毫无意思的貌似超脱的风景描写，性质就变了：变成不折不扣的“王顾左右而言他”，变成一味搪塞。

哈金的问题：故事陈旧，意识苍白

哈金作品“隐含作者”的意识水平和故事中的人物若即若离，甚至就站在“同一起跑线上”。从哈金作品“隐含作者”和小说人物的眼中看见的，无非就是上世纪60年代至80年代中国人的意识。收在《好兵》里的中篇《辞海》结尾写书呆子周文专业时，一直保护他的尊重知识爱护人才的“梁部长”送给他一枝笔和勉励的话，周大受感动，他“下定决心要成为一个文豪，挥动自己的笔，战斗终生”。隐含作者自然不等于周文，但隐含作者始终不出场，并非反讽叙述的需要，因为直到故事结束，除了“写实”，并无一点反讽意味。隐含作者的不出场只是因为没有出场的必要——他没有什么和人物不同的特别的意识需要投射在小说叙述中。这就是哈金的问题。他的故事陈旧，意识也一样苍白。

我从《光天化日》中选出《新来的孩子》、《皇帝》，从《新郎》中选出《武松难寻》、《破》、《旧情》，从《好兵》中选出《空恋》、《辞海》和《证据》，我以为是比较好的作品。在这些中短篇小说中，哈金表现了底层中国人的善良与忍耐、卑微的对生活的盼望、常常被捉弄的可怜的爱情，以及出奇的愚昧、迷信和残忍。但除了哈金特有的稳健、简捷和清晰的笔法之外，他开掘这些主题时所达到的深度远在方方、余华、苏童、朱文、韩东之下，而方方、余华、苏童、朱文、韩东的笔法乃是这些作家暗中摸索的结果，很少一成不变的体制性因素，其中显示的才华气质，不是哈金平淡无奇的文字可以相比。

无论对中国当代生活的体验还是“笔法”本身，哈金如果脱下美国货(英文写作和美国作家班的笔法)的外壳而和国内作家站在“同一起跑线上”，并无优势。

说哈金没想法，当然不是向他要求思想家的思想，而是指他的故事无法为我们提供看待中国生活的新角度。他只会“写实”——美国学者赞扬他在后现代主义时期坚持古典的写实作风——不敢越雷池一步，不敢把思想的探针伸向实际生活之外，来一点灵魂或艺术的冒险。收在《新郎》中的《武松难寻》是他最好的短篇，他写中国人不讲道理，自己差不多也有点不讲道理了。但最后他还是要讲道理，把一切都驯服在简单的、美国读者一望可知的道理上。也许他怕他的不讲道理会让美国人吃不消？还是他根本就没有“不讲道理”的本钱？

他以坚实的写实基本功描绘了不少“中国人的故事”，力求结构完整，细节丰富，贴近自己的生活记忆。除了简单直露没有余味这个基本缺点之外，在叙述的技术上面，还真难找到他有别的什么明显缺陷，这就足以让他和那些一跑到国外就瞎写一气的“第一代华人新移民作家”拉开很大一截。哈金身在美国，并没有按照自己也不太理解的美国观念来贩卖经过一番粗俗的图解和歪曲的中国故事。他没有用女权主义、家族史之类在“第一代华人新移民作家”中流行的观念和题材来取悦不明就里的美国读者。这两点，是哈金在美国用英文给美国人讲述中国故事的积极意义所在。

但哈金作为中国作家被“引渡”回国，接受国内读者评判，就需换一把尺。

前面简单比较了他和国内一些优秀的同龄作家，不妨再拿他与村上春树做个比较。哈金是整个脚板着地在邯郸学步，村上则跳芭蕾，永远踮着脚。哈金只摹写他认定是实有的事，像老实的搬运工只敢搬运别人指定的存放在某处的打好包的货物。村上瞧不起这些，他只写脑子里构想出来的东西，这些东西只需和大多数人认定的实际生活有一个相切点——芭蕾舞演员的脚尖只需和地面有极小然而足以支撑并运转全身的接触点——即使是大家认为实有的生活，村上也要加工一番，变得和构想出来的东西差不多。高明的作家写头脑里构想的图景，并享受这种创作自由；平庸的作家则害怕这种自由，构想不出任何有趣的东西，只会“写实”，也就是复制。

没余味，是因为没想法。没想法，是因为没有产生想法的思想活动。没思想活动，是因为找不到思想上的敌人，不知道究竟应该抓住中国心灵的什么东西开掘下去。由此我们可以看出哈金与他所钦佩的青年乔伊斯最大的不同。哈金在中国的生活阅历绝不会比二十来岁的青年乔伊斯逊色。

但中国作家——我所以一开始要弄清哈金的身份原是为此——最大的问题就是只能抓住中国人的身体而抓不住中国人的感情以及比感情更深刻的灵魂。感情只对人，对最近的世事，灵魂则向着类似哈金在作品中描写的广阔而无言的世界的风景开放。

教育背景不允许他们这样做。中国作家从小就并不生活于中国的精神传统以及这个传统的现实处境中。虚伪的教育一开始就毁掉了他们的大脑，等他们长大成人，懂得思考，要求“睁了眼看”，第一步必须医治头脑，祛除已往教育放进去的垃圾。这往往需要努力一生。等到把垃圾祛除，才可以用独立的意志、眼光、心胸来打量世界，说出独立的作家应该说出的话，也就是“自己的想法”。这该是多么漫长、艰辛、充满无数半途而废的可能性的道路。

所以为了保险起见，他们普遍长于“写实”而不敢“写虚”。“写实”，依靠生活经验的积累，“写虚”，则必须跳出经验，跃上更高层面，和某个具有确定性的精神传统对话。文学精神的发生必须以作家和确定性的精神传统构成积极的关系——赞成或反对——为前提。从单纯物质性的生存中产生不了精神的新苗，那种以为只要生活经验丰富就有资格成为作家的信念乃是长期误导作家的机械唯物主义的迷信。因为这迷信，中国作家往往被自己落入的生活圈子所局限，找不到积极介入中国精神的基点，因此再怎样高明的“写实”也会蜕变为无法触动心灵的看过即忘的传奇。中国作家或者可以像哈金那样建构各自的“木基市”，却很难写出各自的“都柏林”。

哈金的困境：海外华人作家的尴尬

新一代作家在新的时代条件下苦苦寻求着属于他们自己的精神基点，我看到这种寻求异常艰辛，他们的写作普遍呈现出巨大的盲目性与不确定感。他们有太多太沉重的直接来自当下生活的材料，却缺乏某个可以消化和统领这些材料的先验的思想框架。我是在这样的“精神的背景”之下理解哈金小说思想贫乏、简单与直露的。

应该充分理解哈金的困境。他可以熟练地运用外国语言写作，却很难轻易获得外国人的意识。即使终于获得了外国人的意识，也很难用这样的意识来反观中国。又因为他身在外国，脱离了国内生活每天压在我们肩头的真实的重量，脱离了中国作家群体心心相印、寻找背景依托的精神，就很容易两不着边，既难以获得异质文化的意识来梳理自己的中国记忆，又无法从本土当下的生活和不管怎样总算挣扎于其中的本土知识分子的精神中汲取同情的力量。对外既隔膜，对内亦脱节，因此不管在文学描写技术上有何种突破，在文学的真正内核——自我意识的建构上——却很容易缺氧。

这并不是因为海外中国作家特别无能，而是处境决定的。我不想夸大当代中国意识和世界人类精神的隔膜。海外华人群体的精神运动，实在可怜，远远比不上“五四”直到上世纪三四十年代先贤们曾经取得的成就。那时留学生可以不管外国大学的学位，混个“克莱登大学的文凭”也老大不情愿，他们敢坐在公寓里自己用功，直接和所在国的精神界对话。现在留学生一下飞机就掉进所在国的学院体制和学术规范，能够不淹没就很不错了，思想的对话谈何容易！这就是为什么到目前为止中国并无勃兰兑斯所谓的“侨寓文学”的原因。

中国现在只有“侨寓学术”。哈金属于这样一个海外中国知识分子群体，处在这样一个海外华人精神运动的序列，只能在“写实”上努力不落人后，如果我们不满于此，要求他或别的海外中国作家以挟泰山而超北海之势，像鲁迅当年所提倡的“洞达世界之大势，权衡较量，去其偏颇，得其神明，施之国中，歙合无间——外之既不后于世界之思潮，内之仍弗失固有之血脉，”(鲁迅《坟·文化偏至论》)岂不滑稽？

什么时候哈金走出海外华人作家的尴尬，摆脱海外华人知识分子的偏狭，在中国生活之外获得别样的眼光，他或者可以把“木基市”写成“都柏林”。现在他只能身在美国，倚赖他作为一名中国人在上世纪80年代以前就已经养成的心地和眼光，用美国人并不复杂也不高明的技术，复制着平淡无奇的“中国人的故事”。

但听说他以后准备少写中国，开始写美国。不知这个消息是否可靠。倘是真的，我的预言只好提前落空了。

Right on!


However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.
--- James Schuyler

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.  
---  Carl Sandburg

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
--- Edgar Allan Poe

Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.  
--- Plutarch