Nick Kaldis:

Birdwatching with Liu Kexiang 劉克襄

抉擇

這是一個焦慮的年代
反抗與逃避隨時發生
我曾經放棄工作
獨自旅行西海岸
追隨自己觀察的水鳥
從一處海岸飄泊到另一處海岸
我未曾遇見年歲相仿的朋友
只有學童的遠足遙遙抵臨
或者偶爾垂釣海邊的老人

今晚,我像往昔的旅行
再度離開城市
我仍想回去,模仿沉默的人群
只要從事遠離政治的職業
最擔心跟過去一樣
繼續抨擊執政當局
然後,因了意識型態的爭執
彷彿在追尋真理
如同每個革命青年的徘徊
從一家政論雜誌換到另一家

前幾日,經過遠南
許久未見的同學緊緊擁抱我
介紹他新婚的妻子
他的孩子叫我叔叔
那一晚,我也失眠
跟現在一樣,煩惱複雜的人生
卅歲了,未婚的我
猶疑在時代的劇變裡
我只好藉旅行的疲倦來忘記

今晚,我繼續非常非常疲倦
真想為自己安排
從此去一個遠遠的邊陲安定
又不情願啊…

福爾摩沙

第一個發現的人
不知道將它繪在航海圖的那個位置
它是徘徊北回歸線的島嶼
擁有最困惑的歷史與最衰弱的人民

關渡生命

冥冥大河中
一條小河蜿蜒出
明光灑滿了

青青草澤裏
正片蘆葦以枯褐敗死
巢鼠抱著一株熟睡著

暗暗疏林間
一聲秧雞的怪叫穿破
黑夜又將它縫合

瑟瑟水灘上
是誰偷偷地睜開了眼睛
上萬隻水鳥緊緊閉眼

關渡宮的媽祖
穿過千萬信徒的虔敬
那慈悲的表情
還末看到其他的生命

黑面琵鷺

空曠意味著安全
遼闊包含了幸福

如此遙望時
在團體間
我們傳遞著
白色的溫照

以及,摩挲著
一些
黑色的孤獨

我們是北方的森林
在南方的海岸棲息

Choice

This is an anxious age
Always inciting defiance and flight
I once quit my job
Roved the west coast alone
Tailing the shorebirds I observed
Drifting along the coast from one spot to another
I never once came across a friend my age
Only school kids at the furthest reaches of a field trip
Or the odd old man fishing by the sea

Tonight, I’m like a traveler of yore
Once more leaving the city
I still think of going back, mimicking the mute throngs
Wanting only a career far removed from politics
Lest I fall back to my old ways
Resume lashing out at the powers that be, then
Caught up in dueling ideologies
As if taking the high ground
Like every other fickle young rebel
Abandoning one political journal for another

A few days back, while crossing the far South
A classmate I hadn’t seen in ages hugged me tight
Introduced his new wife
His child called me Uncle
And that night, I didn’t sleep
Same as tonight, baffled by life
At thirty, still unmarried I’m
Uncommitted in this tumultuous age
Might as well let travel wear away these worries

Tonight, I’m still so very very weary
I’d love to find myself
A remote outpost and settle down
But then again, I’d rather not…

Formosa

The first discoverer
Had no idea where to plot it on the nautical charts
An island wavering over the Tropic of Cancer
Possessed of the most vexing past and the frailest people

Guandu Life1

From the murky depths of a great river
A little river wriggles forth
Sprinkled full of moonlight

In the midst of green thickets
An entire field of reeds withers, browns, rots
A harvest mouse
2 hugs a clump, fast asleep

Within a hidden grove
A water rail’s
3 strange cry pierces the air then
Black night sutures it tight again

On the soughing shoals
Who secretly opened their eyes?
Myriad waterfowl squeeze their eyes shut

The Mazu
4 of Guandu Temple5
Permeates the piety of countless believers
That benevolent countenance
Has yet to acknowledge other lives

1999.11.10

Black-faced Spoonbill6

Vastness signifies safety
Distance contains bliss

Looking this way into the distance
Within a crowd
We are transmitting
A white warmth

And, caressing
Some
Black solitude

We are the North Forest
Roosting on Southern Seashores

1999.11.12

Around the tail end of the last century, my friend Tom Moran suggested that I look up his friend Liu Kexiang during my impending visit to Taiwan. One of my mentors in birding, Tom spoke highly of Liu’s enthusiasm for the sport and his ability to hone in on whatever particular species we amateur foreign naturalists were hoping to spot while on the island. Not long after my arrival in Taipei I was eager to get out into the wild, so I decided to call Liu. Since he is the literary editor at a major newspaper and a writer of some fame, I felt a bit out of line asking him to take me, a total stranger, birding. I had barely introduced myself and briefly hinted at my interest in Taiwan birds when he promptly suggested: “I’ll pick you up at 6 a.m. tomorrow, what do you like for breakfast?—I’ll get us a couple of rice balls (fàntuán) to eat on the trail, okay?”

Early the following morning found us atop Seven Star Mountain in Yang-Ming National Park, eating rice balls. Between mouthfuls, we chatted about poetry, favorite books, coffee shops, etc. Such fleeting moments I’ve come to treasure with Liu Kexiang, for he seems most relaxed and talkative during pauses in the middle of a trek through the mountains. As we finished eating, Liu glanced at his watch, frowned, and regretted that it was too early in the day for thermals to have formed, so he couldn’t show me any soaring Crested Serpent Eagles (dàguānjiū, Spilornis cheela). Then he informed me that he was in the process of writing an historical guide to the lost trails of northern Taiwan (i.e., mountain footpaths unused for generations). He neglected to mention that we were about to go searching for one of these trails—one which had long since been reclaimed by the subtropical forest. The search proved to be brutal. We soon veered off the park trail system and spent the next several hours winding through bug-infested muddy creek beds, over abrasive boulders, and bushwhacking through vast stretches of razor-sharp six-foot high elephant grass (xiàngcǎo). Nature, I discovered, is a merciless, recalcitrant archive when it comes to yielding data to the historical geographer.

Wearing only shorts and a tee-shirt, I was bruised, cut, bitten, and stung by the time we got back to the car. But I was exhilarated. During our descent, Liu Kexiang had pointed out numerous dragonflies, beetles, butterflies and lizards; he had taught me the names of various trees and their uses for animals and humans; and we had spotted a Bamboo Partridge (zhújī, Bambusicola thoracica) and several other less-common species. On the ride home that afternoon, he handed me copies of his recent books and asked me if I wanted to go out the following week, in search of the Fairy Pitta (bāsèniǎo, Pitta nympha). I agreed, and we have been friends from that moment.

I have since translated dozens of Liu Kexiang’s poems and, together with Tom Moran, I am currently translating a volume of his nature writing (zìrán xiězuò). I try to capture the complexities of his personality and the experience of being with him whenever I translate his work. He is at once enigmatic, energetic, shy, introspective, loquacious, sensitive, righteous, opinionated, generous, scholarly, philosophical, creative, and, above all, considerate. Each poem he writes, especially those based on his relationship to nature, embodies some (contradictory) combination of these character traits, albeit usually in imagistic form (such as the final line in “Formosa,” the final two stanzas of “Guandu Life,” or the entire poem “Black-faced Spoonbill”).

About six weeks ago (late June, 2005), I met Liu Kexiang for lunch at a western-style restaurant. As I sat down, I handed him a folder containing my translations of Choice and Formosa, which I had completed the night before. I put the folder in his hands and cockily asserted “一字千金” (yízì qiānjīn, an ancient aphorism implying that one’s writing is so good that anyone who can improve it by so much as a single word deserves a thousand pieces of gold). Liu Kexiang smiled modestly, as if to thank me, shoved the folder in his backpack, and returned to his menu. His acknowledgment of my labor was, I assume, some kind of kōan—he said: “Don’t order the steak, they’ve discovered another mad cow—this time in Texas”7.

notes