蔗尾蜂房

[她就是葦荻]
--王屏 (1957- ), 羅浩原 譯

別指著妳咯咯傻笑的女兒
說︰我小女兒，她叫葦荻。

別停下妳的紡輪，看著池塘，
「女孩幹嘛都得取花的名字﹖我要叫她葦荻。」

母親，哎﹗我母親叫我葦荻，
妳訴說的事令我吃驚的把杏核吞進肚裡。

「我小女兒出生時哭不出來。
妳阿姨做了隻葦笛把妳喚了回來。」

「嘴對著嘴，那笛子引導妳哭出第一聲。
難道我不該為妳取名葦笛嗎﹖」

「好名字」，我說，但我為何又咯咯傻笑了﹖
妳把我的耳朵拉過來說︰「就算妳會讀書識字
妳依然是蘆葦。」

母親，哎﹗我的母親叫我葦荻，
一年年過去，妳還記得那蘆葦嗎﹖

妳拉著我的手用力吹著蘆笛，
妳的淚水汗水把我拉回妳暖黑的窯洞。

我長得真醜，母親，又瘦又倔像池塘邊的草，
但妳知道妳不用再為我操心了。

我們徘徊山谷間採野果、摸鴿蛋，
再走上十五里去市集上賣錢籌我的學費。

我也許是唯一被蘆葦救活的人，
每回妳對新認識的人講這故事我就臉紅。

「哭得出來的娃兒才長得大」，妳笑著說，
「我要我女兒像一陣席捲黃土高原的風。」

我越長越像妳，母親，
只不過我的頭髮蔓生河川越過大海

假如妳看到個奇怪的女子大學生走進河谷，
她就是葦荻，母親，她朝妳的笛中迸發出她第一陣哭聲。


[She is That Reed]
--Wang Ping (1957- )

Don’t point at your giggling daughter
and say: My last child, her name is Reed.

Don’t stop your spinning wheel,your eyes at the pond,
“Why should girls be called flowers? I want to name her Reed.”

Mother, oh my mother who called me Reed,
Your story shocked me so much I swallowed an apricot pit.

“My last daughter couldn’t cry when she was born.
Your aunt made a reed flute to call you back.”

“Mouth to mouth, the flute brought your first cry.
Ain’t I right that I named you Reed?”

“A good name,” I said, but why was I giggling again?
You pulled my ear and said: “You are still Reed even though
you learned how to read.”

Mother, oh my mother who call me Reed,
Years passed, do you still remember that reed?

You held my hand and blew the flute hard,
your tears and sweat caught me back to your dark warm cave.

How ugly I was, mother, thin and stubborn like grass in the pond,
but you knew you’d never have to worry about me again.

We roamed around valleys to pick wild fruits and pigeon eggs,
and walked fifteen miles to sell them at the fair for my tuition.

I’m probably the only person on earth saved by a reed,
I blushed every time you told the story to a strager.

“Only a crying baby could live and grow,” you smiled,
“I like my daughter whirling around the Yellow Plateau like the wind.”

I’m looking more and more like you, mother,
except my hair has grown beyond the river beyond the sea.

If you see a strange college girl walking down the valley,
she’s that Reed, mother, who blasted out her first cry into your flute.

(Wang Ping, Of Flesh and Spirit, Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 1998, p.17.)