A Crow's Passing - Ayi Guli

A Crow's Passing

Ayi Guli / 阿依古丽诗歌两首

A Crow's Passing

The sky belongs to the gods, the earth is a surprise
All-encompassing, yet returning to one. In the afternoon
The sky and the earth were both suspended
In the death of a crow in the tangled grass.
Around it, a field of white dandelions bloomed.
It was my phone’s navigation that brought me here.
A little strange, how machine and meadow conspired,
To direct this strange encounter for me.
The dawn redwoods above, the gods above,
You saw me arrive beside the crow.
Between two dawn redwoods that soared into the clouds,
I tied the afternoon hammock to the trees,
In a place three feet below the crow.
Then I felt a knowing in the air, a scent
of something higher—
The breath of death rushed to my nose.
“Allow everything to happen.
Do what you can, and honor what you cannot.”
Facing the unpredictable world,
I always comfort myself this way.
He asked: “Could there be a virus? A blight upon this bird?”
I said, “No, no. The crow’s world
is not so filled with such fears.”
I want to keep this crow company.
So I lay down in the hammock
And read a book of poems by W.S. Merwin.
I read for a long time...
But the poet’s voice could not reach me,
His Hawaiian island life.
My reading was a hollow, fruitless thing.
In my eyes, there was only this—
A crow swaying among the dandelions, lying/In the tangled grass.
The crow’s chest muscles were bare, bone-thin,
It no longer had its once-strong body.
There was blood on one of its claws,
And on the other, too; its ferocity all gone.
Feathers scattered, lay strewn upon the ground,
And the marshland breathed around me, a panting beast
That let out a secret
Once it devoured a thing.
Then I rose and walked to the crow’s side,
And gathered up each fallen feather,
Placing them gently on its wings,
“Let it soar again,” I prayed.
Then I took a handful of the tangled grass and dandelions
And covered the crow’s round, plump eyes.
“Death is a cliff that faces the stars,” I whispered,
“and the morning star knows
The joy of the grass. Let it be illuminated.”

Then I stepped back, my small rite complete,
and felt a quiet settle in my heart.
And in that moment, I knew. I knew the crow felt it too,
A sense of gratitude, of peace, a final, gentle grace.




乌鸦之死

天空属于神，大地是惊喜
包罗万象又归一。午后
天空和大地都悬置在
蓬蓬草丛一只乌鸦的死亡中
它的周围是盛开的白色蒲公英花
是手机导航带我来到这里
有点蹊跷，科技和自然不谋而合
为我导演了这场奇遇
水杉在上，众神在上
你们看见我来到乌鸦旁边
两棵高耸入云的水杉中间
把午安吊床绑在树上
一个低于乌鸦三尺的地方
我仿佛嗅到什么，仿佛仰望到什么
死亡的气息扑鼻而来
允许一切发生
尽己所能，敬己所不能
面对莫测无定的世界
我总是这样安慰自己
他问：会不会有病毒
我说不会，不会
乌鸦的世界哪有那么多病毒
我要陪陪这只乌鸦
于是我躺在吊床上
读一本 W.S 默温先生的诗集
读了许久……
我并没有进入到
诗人的夏威夷岛生活
我的阅读宣布失效
我眼中全是这只
摇曳在蒲公英花中、躺在
蓬蓬草丛中的乌鸦
乌鸦胸肌裸露，骨瘦如柴
已没有往日健硕的身体
它的爪一只上有血
另一只上也有血，戾气尽失
翅膀上的羽毛掉落一地
湖岸湿地像一只还在喘息的猛兽
曾吃下了什么
就必会向我吐露什么
我立即起身走到乌鸦身旁
把周围的羽毛一一捡回
放在乌鸦的翅膀上面
“请让它继续飞吧”，我祈祷
又把一捧蓬蓬草和蒲公英花
盖在乌鸦圆嘟嘟的眼睛上面
“死亡是朝向星空的悬崖，启明星知道
蓬蓬草的欢乐，点亮它吧！”
我默默地祈祷着退回自身
我知道乌鸦也和我一样
体会到了感激与安宁



*



Woman and a Guitar

——To Juan Gris, the Spanish Avant-Garde Painter①

At the pier of the ancient Grand Canal on Nanchang Street
I am a guitar exiled
On Juan Gris’s canvas
That Cubist guitar
Bright in color, blurred in structure
Holding a hidden self
And a vast hollow
If you do not come, the hollow remains forever
If you do not come, Gris’s soul and crimson paint
Race across the canvas, never to stop
If you do not come, in Gris’s guitar
There rises a sharp, icy mountain
In the stillness the canvas unfolds
If you do not come, the ice never melts

If you do not come, the ebony of the guitar
Holds more of this winding waiting,
Together with the stark, jarring reds,
They layer upon the sharp blues—
These dizzying blocks of color,
Pretending to be happy,
Where are they taking me?

Walking through an uneasy unknown,
I whisper: what do these howling blues,
Hurled skyward with such resolve, mean?
The question stumps the guitar,
And the guitar stumps the one who asks.
Let the painter Gris keep the question.
Cruel beauty is always born of questions,
And leads to yet more questions.
No one cares for a guitar’s dreams or secrets, perhaps.
When I reach out, my fingertips touch
Not you — Gris.
The strings I try to pluck are not you — Gris.
I wait, and wait.
All night I waited,
Is it you — Gris, that finally came?

On the sweltering pier of Nanchang Street,
I walk through the crowd:
The drunks, the ice-cream buyers,
The souvenir vendors, the qipao sellers in Taohuawu-
None of them matter to me.
I am just a guitar.
The one who walks toward me is not you.
The one who walks away from me is not you.
No one knows
I am nothing but a guitar:
A guitar in lipstick and glasses,
A guitar in a long white dress,
A guitar whose long hair falls over its strings,
A guitar that wanders the ancient canal, the pier,
And Nanchang Street,
Not knowing where to go,
Nor where to return.
If you do not come, the guitar loses its purpose.
If you do not come, the bustling streets are all loneliness.
If you do not come, even simple things become questions.
The guitar becomes its own question.

A guitar with questions
Is how strings lie still, waiting, on ebony, rosewood, mahogany, spruce, cedar.
Is how it waits to be played beneath a person’s fingers.
Is how the world comes alive in his palms, humming and clattering.
In truth, I am just a guitar:
A guitar exiled in Gris’s blurred conceptions,
Always singing to the hand that reaches for it,
The sharp crackle in its ears,
Crackling, clanging, tinkling.
The guitar only wants this:
To be alive and noisy inside its own body.

Walking on the pier of Nanchang Street,
I only want to be that metaphysical guitar
In Gris’s painting,
Only want to be exiled on his canvas,
Keeping my distance
From the world’s deceit and intrigue,
And having little to do
With its endless strife and rivalry.

Suddenly I understand some things,
Crossing out some questions with a single stroke.
One’s ears must answer to ears,
And one’s eyes must stay wary of other eyes.
“Before God, do not be quick to speak,
Nor quick to let thoughts arise in your heart.②”
A guitar must also learn
To break free from rough noises,
To demand care from the practicing fingers,
And to return quickly, from one boiling life to the next,
To the stillness that life keeps creating.

I am a guitar.
A guitar exiled on Gris’s canvas,
A guitar peddling a woman’s affections on Nanchang Street.
Who am I waiting for, and who waits for me?
When I turn, whom do I miss?
What is the difference between the love story of a flower
And that of a thorny plant?
Who left a guitar alone
In the etude of the earth,
Turned and walked away,
Flew on a night flight
Into Juan Gris’s
Cubist guitar?


Notes：
① Juan Gris (March 1887 – May 1927), Spanish Cubist painter, moved to Paris in 1906, co-founded Cubism with Picasso, a key figure of the French avant-garde.

② Quoted from Heart, What Are You Waiting For? by Spanish poet Olvido García Valdés (trans. Hu Xudong).



*



女人和一把吉他

——致西班牙先锋艺术画家胡安·格里斯①

在南长街古运河的码头边
我是在胡安·格里斯的画布上
流亡的吉他
是那把立体主义的吉他
吉他色彩鲜明结构模糊
有一个隐晦的自己
也有一个巨大的空洞
你不来 空洞一直都在
你不来 格里斯的灵魂和红油彩
在画布上奔跑 停不下来
你不来 格里斯的吉他中
就有了一座冷峭的冰山
在画布铺展的寂静中
你不来 冰山不化
你不来 吉他的黑檀木中
就多了一些曲折的等待
和巨大突兀的红色一起
它们叠加在尖利的蓝色上
这些让我眩晕的
假装幸福的色块
要把我带向哪里

走在不安的未知里
悄悄问 这些啸鸣的蓝色
掷向天空的决绝 暗示了什么
这个问题难住了这把吉他
这把吉他难住了提问的人
问题还是留给画家格力斯
残酷的美总是从一些问题中诞生
又走向另一些问题
一把吉他的理想和心事
人们或许并不关心
我伸手时 指尖触到的
不是你 ——格里斯
我试着弹响的琴弦
不是你——格里斯
我等啊 等
等了一夜等到的
是不是你——格里斯

在南长街燥热的码头上
我走在人流中
买醉的 买冰激凌的
卖旅游纪念品的 桃花坞里卖旗袍的
都与我没了关系
我只是一把吉他
走过来的人 不是你
走过去的人 也不是你
没有人知道
我仅仅只是一把吉他
一把涂口红戴眼镜的吉他
一把穿白色长裙的吉他
一把披肩长发垂在琴弦上的吉他
一把在古运河边 在码头上
在南长街上走来走去的吉他
不知道该走向哪里
也不知道该返回何处
你不来 吉他就没了主意
你不来 热闹的街市全是寂寞
你不来 简单的事也成了问题
一把吉他成了它自己的问题

一把有问题的吉他
是琴弦静候在乌木玫瑰木桃花芯木云杉木雪松木上的样子
是在一个人指间时等待演奏的样子
是世界来到他掌心里的嗡鸣音稀里哗啦的样子
其实 我只是一把吉他
一把在格里斯的模糊概念中
流亡的吉他总是唱响
那个伸向它的手指
耳边激烈的爆破音
噼里啪啦叮叮咚咚
吉他只想这样
在自己的琴箱里热热闹闹

走在南长街的码头上
我只想是格里斯的画中
那把形而上的吉他
只想流亡在格里斯的画布上
和这个世界的尔虞我诈
保持距离
和这个世界的你争我夺
少一点关系

突然明白了一些事情
把一些问题一笔勾销
人们的耳朵总该对耳朵负责
眼睛要对另一只眼睛保持警惕
“在上帝面前 不要急于开口
也不要急于在心中冒出什么念头②”
一把吉他还要学会
从粗暴的噪音中脱身
对练习的手指提出要求
也要从一场又一场沸腾的生活中
迅速回到生命持续创造出的寂静

我是一把吉他
一把在格里斯的画布上流亡的吉他
一把在南长街上贩卖女人情怀的吉他
我在等谁 谁在等我
我转身时 错过了谁
一朵花的情爱史与刺荆植物的情爱史
有区别吗
是谁将一把吉他独自留在
大地的练习曲中
转身走了
乘夜行航班飞到
胡安·格里斯的
那把立体主义的吉他里

2019.9.18

注：①胡安·格里斯（1887.3～1927.5）于1906年来到巴黎，他是在第一次世界大战后掀起的法国先锋派艺术的主要成员之一，在法国立体派集团中算是个年轻的理论家。格里斯擅长把立体派的理论加以系统化，使之便于宣传，并为人们所理解。而他的作品则预示着毕加索与勃拉克两人进入综合立体主义的领域。
胡安.格里斯1906年移居巴黎后，与毕加索共同开创立体画派，作品以拼贴画和静物油画为主。在《毕加索说》一书中，毕加索说格里斯是天才。在海明威的《不固定的圣洁》一书《一个相当奇妙的结局》一文中，海明威写道：“她（指葛特鲁德.斯泰因）几乎和我们所有喜爱她的人都吵了嘴，除了胡安.格里斯，她无法跟他吵架了，因为他已经死了。我不能肯定他会计较这种事情，因为他已经对什么都不计较了，这从他的绘画作品中可以看出来。”
②引自西班牙当代诗人、散文作家、译者奥尔维多.加西亚.巴尔德斯的长诗《心呀，你在等什么》中的诗句（胡续冬译）。



***




Ayi Guli, originally named Du Wanfeng, a contemporary Chinese poet and essayist. She was born in the military reclamation farm of the 148th Regiment of the 8th Agricultural Division in Shihezi, Xinjiang. She formerly lived in Pingdingshan City, Henan Province, and currently resides in Wuxi City, Jiangsu Province. She is a member of the China Poetry Society, and serves as the Vice President of the Wuxi Poetry Society. She often employs aphoristic sentence structures, maintaining a rigorous scale of conventional lyrical tone, and advocates for the rational connotation hidden within the perceptual form. She has published the poetry collections Put the
Harmonica to the Lips (Beijing: China Yanshi Publishing House, September 2025), Garden (Beijing: China Youth Press, July2019), The Scenery Inside the Body (Beijing: Guangming Daily Publishing House, January 2016), and the collection of poems and essays The Flowering Moon (Beijing: China Federation of Literary and Art Circles Publishing House, February 2016).


阿依古丽，又名杜万凤，中国当代诗人，随笔作家。出生于新疆石河子农八师148团军垦农场，曾居河南平顶山市，现居江苏无锡市。中国诗歌学会会员，无锡市诗歌学会副会长。她常常采用箴铭式的句子结构，保持了常规抒情语调的严谨尺度，崇尚感性外形中隐藏的理性内涵。已出版诗集《把口琴放到唇边》（2025年9月中国言实出版社）、《花园》（2019年7月中国青年出版社）、《身体里的风景》（2016年1月光明日报出版社），诗文集《开花的月亮》（2016年2月中国文联出版社）。