Louis (Huang Luoyi) is a writer and poet born in China, currently residing in Vancouver, Canada. He holds a Master’s degree from the University of Washington. As a former senior journalist for Wen Hui Bao and a special correspondent based in New York, he possesses keen observational skills and a rich intercultural background. Louis began publishing literary works at the age of sixteen; his creative career spans several decades with over millions of words published. A lifetime member of the Canadian Chinese Poetry Association, his current work focuses on modern poetry, exploring common human dignity and humanitarian themes within a global perspective.
《尚未压扁的青芒》：路易诗选十首 (中英双语版)
The Fern Not Yet Pressed Flat: Ten Selected Poems by Louis
作者：路易
By Louis
1. 某人想当世界之王
Someone Wants to Be King of the World
某个想当世界之王的人
喜欢把天空分割成产权，
把太阳折叠，
塞进带锁的抽屉。
此人大言不惭：
顺从是秩序，
沉默是修养，
低头是智慧。
谁抬头太久，
就剜掉他的月亮；
谁站得太直，
就抽走他脚下的土地。
可有谁愿意
把舌头磨成抛光的勺子，
替刀锋擦亮寒光？
把脊椎弯成桥梁，
让车轮碾过胸膛？
如果连站立都要申请，
如果连呼吸都需许可，
那么活着
不过是被编号的影子。
所以不要诧异
总有人在最暗的夜里
悄悄把脊骨扶正。
总有人把被锁住的太阳
一点一点
拧回天空。
总有人在被剜空的穹顶下
用伤口
养出新的月亮。
最后会是
谁胜？
谁负？
There is a man who wants to be King of the World,
Who loves to carve the sky into property deeds,
To fold the sun,
And stuff it into a locked drawer.
This man declares without shame:
Obedience is order,
Silence is refinement,
Bowing is wisdom.
Whoever looks up for too long,
He gouges out their moon;
Whoever stands too straight,
He pulls the earth from beneath their feet.
But who is willing
To file his tongue into a polished spoon,
To burnish the cold gleam of the blade?
To bend his spine into a bridge
For wheels to crush his chest?
If even standing requires an application,
If even breathing demands a permit,
Then living
Is nothing but a numbered shadow.
So do not be surprised
If in the darkest hour of the night,
There is always someone quietly straightening his back.
There is always someone taking back the imprisoned sun,
And bit by bit,
Screwing it back into the sky.
There is always someone beneath the gouged-out dome,
Who, with his own wounds,
Nurtures a new moon.
In the end,
Who wins?
Who loses?
2. 清明节祭祖
Qingming Ancestral Rite
异乡的雨丝织成笼子
这一天又钻了进来。
香火如脐带断在梦中
祖先们从茶垢里浮起
围坐。他们递给我
半截烧焦的日历
以及一颗尚未引爆的
石榴。
话题岔开去，
说到中东——
扎格罗斯山脉的骨殖里
麦粒与弹壳同时抽芽
碑站立得比树快。
旗帜的舌头舔着天空
炮口在襁褓与白发间
画等号。土地打嗝
吐出半只鞋。
文明？
你的呼吸是我的
你的回声也是我的——
不签字？那就让弹坑
按手印。
清明雨像订书钉
钉住新翻的土。
风在碑林间磨牙
磨出一地铁屑。
同一棵树，为何叶子长成刀刃
互砍到只剩脉络。
泥土张开布袋
装所有姓氏。
不知哪一个清明
雾散后
露珠里只映出
露珠。
In a foreign land, threads of rain weave a cage.
Once more, the day slips in.
Incense smoke, like an umbilical cord, snaps in a dream.
Ancestors rise from the tea scale,
Gathering round. They pass to me
Half a charred calendar
And a pomegranate yet to be detonated.
The topic drifts
To the Middle East—
In the skeletal ridges of the Zagros Mountains,
Wheat grains and bullet casings sprout as one.
Tombstones rise faster than trees.
The tongues of flags lick the sky.
Gun barrels draw an equal sign
Between swaddling clothes and white hair.
The earth belches,
Spitting out half a shoe.
Civilization?
Your breath is mine,
Your echo is mine—
Refuse to sign? Then let the crater
Leave its fingerprint.
The rain of Qingming falls like staples,
Pinning down the freshly turned soil.
The wind grinds its teeth among the forest of steles,
Scattering iron filings everywhere.
On the same tree, why do leaves grow into blades,
Slashing each other until only veins remain.
The earth opens its burlap bag
To receive every surname.
I know not which Qingming it will be—
When the mist finally clears,
The dewdrop will reflect
Nothing but another dewdrop.
3. 逃向死亡
Flight Toward Death
自你呱呱坠地，
死亡便已将自己
折进你命运的夹页。
你第一声啼哭敲响的钟，
从此
只朝一个方向倾斜。
白昼将你钉成标本，
黑夜再把钉子
一点点拧深。
有人活着，
像被反复咀嚼的甘蔗——
甜味早已榨尽，
只剩粗硬的纤维
被鞋底反复踩踏。
有人消失在某个夜晚。
桌上的茶
还没有凉。
生与死：
隔河相望的两簇灯火。
也许河并不存在，
只有黑暗
在中间缓慢流。
长夜深处
有一道狭窄的缝隙，
人们侧身滑过，
便再也回不来。
当影子背着都觉得重——
离去，是最后一次转身。
From the moment you are born,
Death has already folded itself
Into the hidden pages of your fate.
The bell struck by your first cry,
From then on,
Leans in only one direction.
Daylight pins you into a specimen;
Night then twists the nail
A little deeper, bit by bit.
Some live
Like sugarcane chewed over and over—
The sweetness long ago wrung out,
Leaving only coarse fibers
To be trampled repeatedly underfoot.
Someone disappears on an ordinary night.
The tea on the table
Has not yet gone cold.
Life and death:
Two clusters of light across a river.
Perhaps the river does not exist at all—
Only darkness,
Flowing slowly in between.
Deep in the long night
There is a narrow seam;
When people slip through it sideways,
They can never come back.
When even carrying your shadow feels too heavy—
Leaving is the final turning away.
4. 有个小媳妇真好
There’s Nothing Better Than Having a Dear Wife
有个小媳妇真好
饿了
只需轻轻喊一声
厨房里的灯
便亮了起来
有个小媳妇真好
手术刀啃咬后背的那日
她一直握着我的手
像替我按住
身体里不断翻涌的刃
有个小媳妇真好
头疼脑热
翻来覆去
她的手落在额头上
比药暖
比呼吸还轻
比黑夜更长
小媳妇要出门九天
行李还没提走
屋子忽然大了三倍
我在空荡荡的房间里
来回打转
喊一声——
只有回音
贴着墙壁
慢慢变凉
There’s nothing better
than having a dear wife
When I’m hungry
all I need is a soft call
and the kitchen light
comes alive
There’s nothing better
than having a dear wife
The day the scalpel
gnawed at my back
she held my hand the whole time
as if helping me press down
the blades endlessly surging
inside my body
There’s nothing better
than having a dear wife
Head aching, fever rising
tossing from side to side
her hand resting on my forehead
warmer than medicine
lighter than breathing
longer than the night
My dear wife
Just left for Europe
And wouldn’t be back until nine days later
Before the suitcase
had even been carried away
the room suddenly
grew three times larger
I wandered
through the hollow house
back and forth
I called out once—
Only the echo
clinging to the walls
slowly turned cold
5. 我梦中的地质
The Geology of My Dreams
为什么我的梦中，
出现的都是死亡——
像页岩里压扁的蕨类，
像冰川腹地封存的呼号。
醒来我仍追问：
什么温度
比体温更靠近地心?
生不提供答案，
只推出新的疑问。
冰隙通向更深的沉寂。
两块漂砾在黑暗中相磨，
磨出的粉屑
也曾是山。
两双手在黑暗中相握——
像一对迟疑的星，
为彼此传导
零点几度的温暖。
有些石头不再滚动，
只把一次山崩
刻进骨髓。
死也未必是终点。
更像一座被掩埋的火山口，
冷却之后，
成为湖泊。
于是我们继续前行，
一边坠落，一边仰望。
在颤栗中
写下诗。
此刻的呼吸，
是宇宙偶然的偏爱——
在无边冷寂之间，
像一粒尚未被压扁的蕨，
隐隐透出青芒。
Why is it that in my dreams,
Only death appears—
Like ferns pressed flat in shale,
Like howls sealed in the belly of a glacier.
I wake, still asking:
What temperature
Lies closer to the earth’s core than body heat?
Life offers no answers,
Only pushing forward new questions.
The ice crevasse leads to a deeper silence.
Two erratic boulders grinding against each other in the dark,
The powder they wear away
Was once a mountain.
Two hands clasped in the dark—
Like a pair of hesitant stars,
Conducting between them
A warmth of fractions of a degree.
Certain stones no longer roll,
They merely engrave a landslide
Into the marrow of the bones.
Death is not necessarily the end.
It is more like a buried volcano,
Which, once cooled,
Becomes a lake.
And so we press on,
Falling and looking up at the same time.
Amidst the trembling,
We write poems.
The breath of this moment
Is a chance favor from the universe—
Between the boundless cold and silence,
Like a fern not yet pressed flat,
Glinting with a faint green light.
6. 墓地的樱花
Cherry Blossoms in the Cemetery
春天恣意绽放时，
总有人潮汹涌
在它的腹部狂欢。
墓地的樱花树下
新碑如笋，
刺破三月的绑带。
鲜活的生命
本该如川流不息的脉动，
却在天降横祸里
碎成一地无声的控诉。
樱花在枝头
一再变轻，
仿佛在向人世抛出
一个又一个为什么。
没有答案。
樱花一瓣一瓣吻着新碑。
稍作停留
随即被风拔走
——像很多名字
来不及长出根须。
When spring blossoms with abandon,
Crowds always come rushing
To revel in its belly.
Beneath the cherry trees in the cemetery,
New tombstones sprout like bamboo shoots,
Piercing the bandages of March.
Vibrant life
Should have been a pulse in ceaseless flow,
Yet in a bolt from the blue,
It shatters into a ground of silent accusations.
Upon the boughs,
The blossoms grow lighter and lighter,
As if casting toward the world
One "Why" after another.
There is no answer.
Petalo by petalo, the blossoms kiss the new stones,
Lingering for a brief moment,
Then abruptly plucked away by the wind—
Like so many names,
Too fast to strike root.
7. 不可避免的行进
The Inevitable March
第一次呼吸
就已经把终点
带进了肺里。
从那以后
每一步都是一次
小小的抹去。
当爱敲门
我们交出身体里储存的暖
换一盏小小的灯
在胸口多亮一晚。
即便这灯光
也只是攀登中
背靠石头的一次喘息——
任风清点
骨缝深处
尚未踏出的脚步。
终天一天
在同样的光里
我们忽然裂成
无数个自己
各自飘向
不同的暮色。
像一口钟
敲完最后一下——
它的余音悬在空气里
多停了一会儿
直到沉默
找到它。
The first breath
already carries the end
into the lungs.
From then on,
every step
is a small erasure.
When love knocks,
we offer the warmth stored in the body
in exchange for a small lamp
to burn one night longer in the chest.
Even this light
is but a single breath against a stone
during the climb—
leaving the wind to count
the steps yet untaken
deep within the seams of the bones.
One day,
in the very same light,
we will suddenly splinter
into countless selves,
each drifting toward
a different dusk.
Like a bell
after its final toll—
its residual vibration hangs in the air,
lingering a moment too long,
until silence
finds it.
8. 风穿过生命所有的形状
Wind Passes Through All Life’s Shapes
刀锋一再剖开肌肤，
要把镜中人
生生取出。
也许生命就是伤口
就是深渊——
一片没有坐标的荒原。
若可以，
请赐我一点失明的光，
让我在这太过清晰的黑暗里
不必看到自己。
再赐我一处凹陷，
只要容得下
弯曲的脊背。
身体这件旧衣服破了之后，
风会穿过
它所有的形状。
The blade repeatedly splits my skin,
To tear the person in the mirror out alive.
Perhaps life is the wound,
Is the abyss—
A wasteland with no coordinates.
If it were possible,
Grant me a bit of blinding light,
So that in this too-distinct darkness
I do not have to see myself.
Grant me one more hollow,
Just deep enough to hold
A bended back.
After this old garment of a body is torn through,
The wind will pass through
All its shapes.
9. 也是一种母亲节的纪念
Another Kind of Memorial for Mother’s Day
同一口老井里
打上来的月光，
后来竟在两只碗里
结出不同的霜。
我们曾共披
一场大雪——
火塘里的栗子噼啪作响，
屋檐下
风替我们守夜。
可一枚硬币
忽然长出獠牙。
它在掌纹间啃食血缘，
一口一口，
啃到骨节空响。
母亲留下的乳名
被风吹散以后，
只剩几截枯枝
在族谱里互相刮擦。
长夜终会松手。
从此以后——
你向南海放舟，
我往北山牧雪。
不再互为伤口，
也是另一种
迟来的慈悲。
The moonlight drawn
From the very same old well,
Ended up forming different frosts
In our two separate bowls.
We once shared
A single great snowfall—
Chestnuts crackled in the hearth,
And beneath the eaves,
The wind kept watch for us.
But a single coin
Suddenly grew fangs.
It gnawed away at our blood ties between the palm lines,
Bite by bite,
Until the joints echoed with emptiness.
After the childhood names our mother left us
Were scattered by the wind,
Only a few dry twigs remained,
Scraping against each other in the family tree.
The long night will finally let go.
From this moment on—
You set sail toward the Southern Sea,
I go to the Northern Mountains to herd the snow.
To no longer be each other’s wound
Is also another kind
Of belated mercy.
10. 肋骨之间
Between the Ribs
隆起——雪丘
在肋骨之间
暴露微烫的火漆
手指解缆
碰落瓷器深处的午夜
舌尖轻触
群星缓慢转明
乳白绸缎下
一对暗哑的梨
收藏着退潮后的沙纹
一弯淡蓝的月
悬在呼吸之上
我饮下这寂静的壳
骨骼里
渐渐长出
复活的晨光
Rising—snow hills
Between the ribs
Exposing the smoldering glow of sealing wax.
Fingers cast off the moorings,
Shaking midnight loose
From the depths of porcelain.
The tip of the tongue brushes lightly,
And the stars slowly brighten.
Beneath milky silk,
A pair of dusky pears
Harbor the sand ripples of a receding tide.
A crescent of pale blue moon
Hangs above the breath.
I drink this shell of silence.
Within the bones,
A resurrected dawn
Slowly begins to grow.
