槿紅鬱鬱凝書房
一字百頁思君想
負笈雲霓黃浪遠
千驚萬顫癡心長
風與你
不凋不散七里銷魂香
淚不盡
落葉有時
歸期啞詩鄉
~文瑜
(Translation One)
It is not this foreign room that frees the exotic tongue
From the purple moon comes my amber song
The poor heart of poor thought of poor wine of poor poorness
My silent story smuggling into the explicit, the show, the fall, the fall
Yet hush! It is a secret secret secret.
Did I mention love?
Did I mention crime?
Did I mention the bitterness of losing tone?
NO.
I say nothing.
Nothing is the feeling nothing is the voice nothing the meaning…
I mean
Nothing
My poor story of adoration of the aged of the known of the grumpy of the sleepy eyes of the shy, the shy, the shy…
(Translation Two)
Susan Sontag suggested that “In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art,”
Going in and out of words
The pen that I was holding on to was turned inside out
Thus going in and out of the pen
Soberly
Bustlingly
J-o-c-u-l-a-r-l-y
Pale and desperate
I could not say goodbye to come the pen
Not the words
The pen that taught me the joy and void of thought
But I have to
Have to leave the period with the drying pen
The pen then taught me that I once reminded the pen to notify myself
I was the pen yet the pen was never myself
(Translation Three)
Should I go or should I go?
Far far away locates the New York
Or just get off the phone
Let us go
I do not know what you are thinking
The thinking in voice in my hand
The thinking in the plastic technology
Then I can think not
I can think not through what I can not think
Then I think through what I think that I cannot think
Anxious is the thinking
Thinking of not thinking
The anxiety of nothing
Such is the ending
Such the wall
Such the floral papers
Shutting down all
(Translation Four)
The crimson shadow of some bottom petals
The solidity of the book wall
You and only you all over the pages
Thinking what you think claims the thought
Heavy works heavy
rainy clouds shifting
yellow billows from my mother’s memory
far far afar
Startles and trembles
The besotted heart is longing
Wind to you
The forever flavor of the night bush
Tearing eyes will shine no more
Leaves fall for the time
When I will be going home
No sound could chant the marrow of cold in warm
in warm
(Translation Five)
The blush of Hibiscus depressed the study in congealment
One word and the word sustaining a hundred pages
Musing over your thinking
While the raining cloud carried my bamboo heavy
While the muddy surf had gone far
Thousands of startle following by millions of tremble
All too long is the beating of a windowed heart
Bid you with wind
With the never withering, never loose fragrance of seven miles honeysuckle
Tearing the never end
For the falling leaves may have seen their times
Yet my date of return will mute a season of words
一字百頁思君想
負笈雲霓黃浪遠
千驚萬顫癡心長
風與你
不凋不散七里銷魂香
淚不盡
落葉有時
歸期啞詩鄉
~文瑜
(Translation One)
It is not this foreign room that frees the exotic tongue
From the purple moon comes my amber song
The poor heart of poor thought of poor wine of poor poorness
My silent story smuggling into the explicit, the show, the fall, the fall
Yet hush! It is a secret secret secret.
Did I mention love?
Did I mention crime?
Did I mention the bitterness of losing tone?
NO.
I say nothing.
Nothing is the feeling nothing is the voice nothing the meaning…
I mean
Nothing
My poor story of adoration of the aged of the known of the grumpy of the sleepy eyes of the shy, the shy, the shy…
(Translation Two)
Susan Sontag suggested that “In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art,”
Going in and out of words
The pen that I was holding on to was turned inside out
Thus going in and out of the pen
Soberly
Bustlingly
J-o-c-u-l-a-r-l-y
Pale and desperate
I could not say goodbye to come the pen
Not the words
The pen that taught me the joy and void of thought
But I have to
Have to leave the period with the drying pen
The pen then taught me that I once reminded the pen to notify myself
I was the pen yet the pen was never myself
(Translation Three)
Should I go or should I go?
Far far away locates the New York
Or just get off the phone
Let us go
I do not know what you are thinking
The thinking in voice in my hand
The thinking in the plastic technology
Then I can think not
I can think not through what I can not think
Then I think through what I think that I cannot think
Anxious is the thinking
Thinking of not thinking
The anxiety of nothing
Such is the ending
Such the wall
Such the floral papers
Shutting down all
(Translation Four)
The crimson shadow of some bottom petals
The solidity of the book wall
You and only you all over the pages
Thinking what you think claims the thought
Heavy works heavy
rainy clouds shifting
yellow billows from my mother’s memory
far far afar
Startles and trembles
The besotted heart is longing
Wind to you
The forever flavor of the night bush
Tearing eyes will shine no more
Leaves fall for the time
When I will be going home
No sound could chant the marrow of cold in warm
in warm
(Translation Five)
The blush of Hibiscus depressed the study in congealment
One word and the word sustaining a hundred pages
Musing over your thinking
While the raining cloud carried my bamboo heavy
While the muddy surf had gone far
Thousands of startle following by millions of tremble
All too long is the beating of a windowed heart
Bid you with wind
With the never withering, never loose fragrance of seven miles honeysuckle
Tearing the never end
For the falling leaves may have seen their times
Yet my date of return will mute a season of words