主旨:交大外文所2010年第三屆文學與文化研究 國際研究生研討會徵稿
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2010年2月1日 星期一
Semele Recycled by Carolyn Kizer
Semele Recycled by Carolyn Kizer
After you left me forever,
I was broken into pieces,
and all the pieces flung into the river.
Then the legs crawled ashore
and aimlessly wandered the dusty cow-track.
They became, for a while, a simple roadside shrine:
A tiny table set up between the thighs
held a dusty candle, weed, and fieldflower chains
placed reverently there by children and old women.
My knees were hung with tin triangular medals
to cure all forms of hysterical disease.
After I died forever in the river,
my torso floated, bloated in the stream,
catching on logs or stones among the eddies.
White water foamed around it, then dislodged it;
after a whirlwind trip, it bumped ashore.
A grizzled old man who scavenged along the banks
had already rescued my arms and put them by,
knowing everything has its uses, sooner or later.
When he found my torso, he called it his canoe,
and, using my arms as paddles,
he rowed me up and down the scummy river.
When catfish nibbled my fingers, he scooped them up
and blessed his re-usable bait.
Clumsy but serviceable, that canoe!
The trail of blood that was its wake
attracted the carp and eels, and the river turtle,
easily landed, dazed by my tasty red.
A young lad found my head among the rushes
and placed it on a dry stone.
He carefully combed my hair with a bit of shell
and set small offerings before it
which the birds and rats obligingly stole at night,
so it seemed I ate.
And the breeze wound through my mouth and empty sockets
So my lungs would sigh and my dead tongue mutter.
Attached to my throat like a sacred necklace
was a circle of small snails.
Soon the villagers came to consult my oracular head
with its waterweed crown.
Seers found occupation, interpreting sighs,
and their papyrus rolls accumulated.
Meanwhile, young boys retrieved my eyes
they used for marbles in a simple game
—till somebody's pretty sister snatched at them
and set them, for luck, in her bridal diadem.
Poor girl! When her future groom caught sight of her,
all eyes, he crossed himself in horror,
and stumbled away in haste
through her dowered meadows.
What then of my heart and organs,
my sacred slit
which loved you best of all?
They were caught in a fisherman's net
and tossed at night into a pen for swine.
But they shone so by moonlight that the sows stampeded,
trampled each other in fear, to get away.
And the fisherman's wife, who had 13 living children
and was contemptuous of holy love,
raked the rest of me onto the compost heap.
Then in their various places and helpful functions,
the alter, oracle, offal, canoe, and oars
learned the wild rumor of your return.
The alter leapt up and ran to the canoe,
scattering candle grease and wilted grasses.
Arms sprang to their sockets, blind hands with nibbled nails
groped their way, aided by loud lamentation,
to the bed of the bride, snatched up those unlucky eyes
from her discarded veil and diadem,
and rammed them home. O what a bright day it was!
This empty body danced on the river bank.
Hollow, it called and searched among the fields
for those parts that steamed and simmered in the sun,
and never would have found them.
But then your great voice rang out under the skies
my name! –and all those private names
for the parts and places that had loved you best.
And they stirred in their nest of hay and dung.
The distraught old ladies chasing their lost altar,
and the seers pursuing my skull, their lost employment,
and the tumbling boys, who wanted the magic marbles,
and the runaway groom, and the fisherman's 13 children
set up such a clamor with their cries of “Miracle!”
that our two bodies met like a thunderclap
in mid-day—right at the corner of that wretched field
with its broken fenceposts and startled, skinny cattle.
We fell in a heap on the compost heap
and all our loving parts made love at once,
while the bystanders cheered and prayed and hid their eyes
and then went decently about their business.
And here it is, moonlight again; we've bathed in the river
and are sweet and wholesome once more.
We kneel side by side in the sand;
we worship each other in whispers.
But the inner parts remember fermenting hay,
the comfortable odor of dung, the animal incense,
and passion, its bloody labor,
its birth and rebirth and decay.
posted by Rachel
After you left me forever,
I was broken into pieces,
and all the pieces flung into the river.
Then the legs crawled ashore
and aimlessly wandered the dusty cow-track.
They became, for a while, a simple roadside shrine:
A tiny table set up between the thighs
held a dusty candle, weed, and fieldflower chains
placed reverently there by children and old women.
My knees were hung with tin triangular medals
to cure all forms of hysterical disease.
After I died forever in the river,
my torso floated, bloated in the stream,
catching on logs or stones among the eddies.
White water foamed around it, then dislodged it;
after a whirlwind trip, it bumped ashore.
A grizzled old man who scavenged along the banks
had already rescued my arms and put them by,
knowing everything has its uses, sooner or later.
When he found my torso, he called it his canoe,
and, using my arms as paddles,
he rowed me up and down the scummy river.
When catfish nibbled my fingers, he scooped them up
and blessed his re-usable bait.
Clumsy but serviceable, that canoe!
The trail of blood that was its wake
attracted the carp and eels, and the river turtle,
easily landed, dazed by my tasty red.
A young lad found my head among the rushes
and placed it on a dry stone.
He carefully combed my hair with a bit of shell
and set small offerings before it
which the birds and rats obligingly stole at night,
so it seemed I ate.
And the breeze wound through my mouth and empty sockets
So my lungs would sigh and my dead tongue mutter.
Attached to my throat like a sacred necklace
was a circle of small snails.
Soon the villagers came to consult my oracular head
with its waterweed crown.
Seers found occupation, interpreting sighs,
and their papyrus rolls accumulated.
Meanwhile, young boys retrieved my eyes
they used for marbles in a simple game
—till somebody's pretty sister snatched at them
and set them, for luck, in her bridal diadem.
Poor girl! When her future groom caught sight of her,
all eyes, he crossed himself in horror,
and stumbled away in haste
through her dowered meadows.
What then of my heart and organs,
my sacred slit
which loved you best of all?
They were caught in a fisherman's net
and tossed at night into a pen for swine.
But they shone so by moonlight that the sows stampeded,
trampled each other in fear, to get away.
And the fisherman's wife, who had 13 living children
and was contemptuous of holy love,
raked the rest of me onto the compost heap.
Then in their various places and helpful functions,
the alter, oracle, offal, canoe, and oars
learned the wild rumor of your return.
The alter leapt up and ran to the canoe,
scattering candle grease and wilted grasses.
Arms sprang to their sockets, blind hands with nibbled nails
groped their way, aided by loud lamentation,
to the bed of the bride, snatched up those unlucky eyes
from her discarded veil and diadem,
and rammed them home. O what a bright day it was!
This empty body danced on the river bank.
Hollow, it called and searched among the fields
for those parts that steamed and simmered in the sun,
and never would have found them.
But then your great voice rang out under the skies
my name! –and all those private names
for the parts and places that had loved you best.
And they stirred in their nest of hay and dung.
The distraught old ladies chasing their lost altar,
and the seers pursuing my skull, their lost employment,
and the tumbling boys, who wanted the magic marbles,
and the runaway groom, and the fisherman's 13 children
set up such a clamor with their cries of “Miracle!”
that our two bodies met like a thunderclap
in mid-day—right at the corner of that wretched field
with its broken fenceposts and startled, skinny cattle.
We fell in a heap on the compost heap
and all our loving parts made love at once,
while the bystanders cheered and prayed and hid their eyes
and then went decently about their business.
And here it is, moonlight again; we've bathed in the river
and are sweet and wholesome once more.
We kneel side by side in the sand;
we worship each other in whispers.
But the inner parts remember fermenting hay,
the comfortable odor of dung, the animal incense,
and passion, its bloody labor,
its birth and rebirth and decay.
posted by Rachel
2010年1月29日 星期五
謁金門 以及 減字木蘭花 -- 朱淑真 (ca. ~1131~)
謁金門
春已半，觸目此情無限。
十二闌干閑倚遍，愁來天不管。
好是風和日暖，輸與鶯鶯燕燕。
滿院落花帘不卷，斷腸芳草遠。
------------------------------------------
減字木蘭花
獨行獨坐，獨唱獨酬還獨臥。
佇立傷神，無奈輕寒著摸人。
此情誰見，淚洗殘妝無一半。
愁病相仍，剔盡寒燈夢不成。
2010年1月28日 星期四
賦別--鄭愁予
這次我離開你 是風 是雨 是夜晚，
你笑了笑 我擺一擺手
一條寂寞的路便展向兩頭了
念此際你已回到濱河的家居
想你在梳理長髮或整理濕了的外衣
而我風雨的歸程還正長
山退得很遠 平蕪拓得更大
哎 這世界 怕黑暗已真的成形了......
你說 你真傻 多像那放風箏的孩子
本不該縛它又放它
風箏去了 留一線斷了的錯誤
書太厚了 本不該掀開扉頁的
沙灘太長 本不該走出足印的
雲出自岫谷 泉水滴自石隙
一切都開始了 而海洋在何處？
「獨木橋」的初遇已成往事了
如今又已是廣闊的草原了
我已失去扶持你專寵的權利
紅與白揉藍於晚天 錯得多美麗
而不錯入金果的園林
卻誤入維特的墓地......
這次我離開你 便不再想見你了
念此際你已靜靜入睡
留我們未完的一切 留給這世界
這世界 我仍體切地踏著
而已是你底夢境了.......
===================
偷偷說：就我私心而言，本詩在意象鍛造上的表現雖較為傳統，然我仍偏愛風、雨、平蕪在此處的運用，尤其欣賞鄭氏在第五節特殊的運鏡方式。熔鑄白話入詩對讀者而言一向可親，但我更喜的是他的音韻之美，若有似無的浪子之風。"一條寂寞的路便展向兩頭了"，下次相見，會是隔山隔海。
你笑了笑 我擺一擺手
一條寂寞的路便展向兩頭了
念此際你已回到濱河的家居
想你在梳理長髮或整理濕了的外衣
而我風雨的歸程還正長
山退得很遠 平蕪拓得更大
哎 這世界 怕黑暗已真的成形了......
你說 你真傻 多像那放風箏的孩子
本不該縛它又放它
風箏去了 留一線斷了的錯誤
書太厚了 本不該掀開扉頁的
沙灘太長 本不該走出足印的
雲出自岫谷 泉水滴自石隙
一切都開始了 而海洋在何處？
「獨木橋」的初遇已成往事了
如今又已是廣闊的草原了
我已失去扶持你專寵的權利
紅與白揉藍於晚天 錯得多美麗
而不錯入金果的園林
卻誤入維特的墓地......
這次我離開你 便不再想見你了
念此際你已靜靜入睡
留我們未完的一切 留給這世界
這世界 我仍體切地踏著
而已是你底夢境了.......
===================
偷偷說：就我私心而言，本詩在意象鍛造上的表現雖較為傳統，然我仍偏愛風、雨、平蕪在此處的運用，尤其欣賞鄭氏在第五節特殊的運鏡方式。熔鑄白話入詩對讀者而言一向可親，但我更喜的是他的音韻之美，若有似無的浪子之風。"一條寂寞的路便展向兩頭了"，下次相見，會是隔山隔海。
2010年1月27日 星期三
Chaplinesque -- Hart Crane (1899-1932)
卓別林扮相我們乖乖調適自己，
慰藉時有時無，足矣...
＊ ＊ ＊
這一局，也只能苦笑了；
但我們曾見，月映孤巷，
空垃圾桶也能看成聖杯，且笑聲盈杯。
一切嘻笑過後，一切尋覓過後，
荒野中，仔貓哭號。
slithered: well worn, hence slithered
deposits: lets fall; drops
too ample: stuffed with odds and ends
famished: starved; hungry
recesses: places to hide
elbow coverts: protective patches at the elbow of a (usually old-fashioned) jacket
smirk: a forced smile
dally: to act playfully; to deal with lightly
that inevitable thumb: the thumb of Death
puckered index: wrinkled index finger
squint: a side glance
obsequies: a funeral or burial rite, usually used in plural
the pirouettes of any pliant cane: referring to Charlie Chapline's act with his cane
We can evade "you": kept ambiguous (therefore beautiful and poetic) in three possibilities--Death, the reader, or an obscure fear
We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!
And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
2010年1月25日 星期一
邊界酒店 -- 鄭愁予
(詩，未經詩人許可；像，不知版權何方。罪則罪矣，癡心於詩而已...)
秋天的疆土,
分界在同一個夕陽下
接壤處, 默立些黃菊花
而他打遠道來, 清醒著喝酒
窗外是異國
多想跨出去, 一步即成鄉愁
那美麗的鄉愁, 伸手可觸及
或者, 就飲醉了也好 (他是熱心的納稅人)
或者, 將歌聲吐出
便不祇是立著像那雛菊
祇憑邊界立著 .
2010年1月24日 星期日
Solitude - Alexander Pope
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield shade,
In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?" is a quotation – sometimes misquoted with "on" in place of "upon" – from Alexander Pope's "Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot" of January 1735. The line has entered common use and has become associated with more recent figures.
Let Sporus tremble –"What? that thing of silk,
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?"
Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'r enjoys
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Solitude (This is a poem I like) - Copied from this site http://www.poemhunter.com/
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel (A quotation I like) - Copied from Wikipedia
Picture - Wikipedia
Jennifer
很喜歡這個網站喔!
湊個熱鬧 雖然我不是NTNU 但父母是 那我算是NTNU的親戚 (為了參一腳..拼命攀關係..)
2010年1月23日 星期六
One Art- Elizabeth Bishop
One Art
by
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
by
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
2010年1月21日 星期四
Spleen -- Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
The picture tagged here is taken from http://aviewfromacarpark.wordpress.com/2009/06/; photographer, unknown. The French original and the English translation are taken intact from http://fleursdumal.org/poem/161 without courtesy granted. For more English translation of the same poem, please visit: http://fleursdumal.org/poem/161
天色低沉，凝重如蓋
壟罩呻吟的靈魂，百無聊賴...
Spleen
Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;
Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;
Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,
Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.
— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.
— Charles Baudelaire
-----------------------------------------------------
Spleen
When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,
And from the all-encircling horizon
Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;
When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon,
In which Hope like a bat
Goes beating the walls with her timid wings
And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling;
When the rain stretching out its endless train
Imitates the bars of a vast prison
And a silent horde of loathsome spiders
Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains,
All at once the bells leap with rage
And hurl a frightful roar at heaven,
Even as wandering spirits with no country
Burst into a stubborn, whimpering cry.
— And without drums or music, long hearses
Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished,
Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish
On my bowed skull plants her black flag.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
2010年1月19日 星期二
甜蜜的復仇 及其他 -- 夏宇
後兩首詩直接摘自《詩路》。（Alvin註：夏宇女士親切、低調，相片難求，張貼違意，故略；好友與師母與之有私交，然我數次與詩人錯身不得見，扼腕！）
-----------------------------------------------------
甜蜜的復仇
把你的影子加點鹽
醃起來
風乾
老的時候
下酒
-----------------------------------------------------
Fusion Kitsch
什麼時候開始的
這牧歌式的泛亂倫氣氛
那早就屬於同一本家庭相本的
已經淪落為親人的愛人們
那些淪落為愛人的動物們
還有所有羅曼史最終到達
之萬物有靈論述
裡的壓抑傾向
文章出處：
現代詩復刊27期
-----------------------------------------------------
你正百無聊賴我正美麗
只有咒語可以解除咒語
只有秘密可以交換秘密
只有謎可以到達另一個謎
但是我忽略健康的重要性
以及等待使健康受損
以及愛使生活和諧
除了建議一起生一個小孩
我沒有其他更壞的主意
你正百無聊賴
我正美麗
文章出處：
現代詩復刊27期
-----------------------------------------------------
甜蜜的復仇
把你的影子加點鹽
醃起來
風乾
老的時候
下酒
-----------------------------------------------------
Fusion Kitsch
什麼時候開始的
這牧歌式的泛亂倫氣氛
那早就屬於同一本家庭相本的
已經淪落為親人的愛人們
那些淪落為愛人的動物們
還有所有羅曼史最終到達
之萬物有靈論述
裡的壓抑傾向
文章出處：
現代詩復刊27期
-----------------------------------------------------
你正百無聊賴我正美麗
只有咒語可以解除咒語
只有秘密可以交換秘密
只有謎可以到達另一個謎
但是我忽略健康的重要性
以及等待使健康受損
以及愛使生活和諧
除了建議一起生一個小孩
我沒有其他更壞的主意
你正百無聊賴
我正美麗
文章出處：
現代詩復刊27期
2010年1月18日 星期一
Persimmons -- Li-Young Lee
Li-Young Lee, “Persimmons” from Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions Ltd. Photo taken from: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=4003後來得知即將失明
一夜，父親通宵未眠
盼首歌，或盼條魂
我遞給他柿子
渾圓飽滿－沉甸如悲
甜如愛...
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose
persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet,
all of it, to the heart.
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down.
I teach her Chinese.
Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
Naked: I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo: you and me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.
＊ ＊ ＊
Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father sat up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons,
swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
2010年1月17日 星期日
向日葵 -- 余光中
木槌在克莉絲蒂的大廳上
going
going
gone
砰然的一響，敲下去
三千九百萬元的高價
買斷了，全場緊張的呼吸
買斷了，全世界驚羨的眼睛
買不回，斷了，一隻耳朵
買不回，焦了，一頭赤髮
買不回，鬆了，一嘴壞牙
買不回匆匆的三十七歲
木槌舉起，對著熱烈的會場
手槍舉起，對著寂寞的心臟
斷耳，going
赤髮，going
壞牙，going
惡夢，going
羊癲瘋，going
日記和信，going
醫師和病床，going
親愛的弟弟啊，going
砰然的一聲，gone
一顆慷慨的心臟
併成滿地的向日葵滿天的太陽
後記：
一九六八年三月三十日，梵谷誕辰九十七週年
他的一幅向日葵在倫敦克莉絲蒂拍賣公司賣出
破紀錄的高價是美金三千九百八十五萬元
Going，going，gone是拍賣成交時的吆喝，語終而木槌敲下
(Alvin註：大二那年，遇見了詩人，自此浸淫於英美詩歌之美，無法自拔。此處張貼詩作，自然未能報備，望老師不至責難才好。相片取自：http://shwomen.eastday.com/renda/node5661/node5663/node11831/images/745986.jpg，攝影人不詳，恐為多次轉貼。)
2010年1月16日 星期六
Esthétique du Mal VIII -- Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
惡的美學 八：撒旦之死，靈感之哀
*tenement: old apartment building
*the capital Negation: this is associated with the later "the mortal no" and "no" elsewhere
*the mortal no: here the three words make one phrase that serves as the subject of that line
from Esthétique du Mal
VIII
The death of Satan was a tragedy
For the imagination. A capital
Negation* destroyed him in his tenement*
And, with him, many blue phenomena.
＊ ＊ ＊
Phantoms, what have you left? What underground?
What place in which to be is not enough
To be? You go, poor phantoms, without place
Like silver in the sheathing of the sight,
As the eye closes….How cold the vacancy
When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist
First sees reality. The mortal no*
Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
The tragedy, however, may have begun,
Again, in the imagination’s new beginning,
In the yes of the realist spoken because he must
Say yes, spoken because under every no
Lay a passion for yes that had never been broken.
2010年1月15日 星期五
愛的辨證 -- 洛夫
《莊子‧盜跖》篇：「尾生與女子期於梁下，女子不來，水至不去，抱梁柱而死。」
式一：我在水中等你
水深及膝
浮在河面上的兩隻眼睛
仍炯炯然
望向一條青石小徑
兩耳傾聽裙帶撫過薊草的窸窣
日日
月月
千百次升降於我脹大的體內
石柱上蒼苔歷歷
臂上長滿了牡蠣
髮，在激流中盤繞如一窩水蛇
緊抱橋墩
我在千噚之下等你
水來我在水中等你
火來
我在灰燼中等你
式二：我在橋下等你
風狂，雨點急如過橋的鞋聲
是你倉促赴約的腳步？
撐著那把
你我共過微雨黃昏的小傘
裝滿一口袋的
雲彩，以及小銅錢似的
叮噹的誓言
我在橋下等你
等你從雨中奔來
河水暴漲
洶湧至腳，及腰，而將浸入驚呼的嘴
漩渦正逐漸擴大為死者的臉
我開始有了臨流的怯意
好冷，孤獨而空虛
如一尾產卵後的魚
篤定你是不會來了
所謂在天願為比翼鳥
我黯然拔下一根白色的羽毛
然後登岸而去
非我無情
只怪水比你來的更快
一束玫瑰被浪捲走
總有一天會漂到你的手中
(此處轉載，未能先徵求詩人同意，又相片為時報出版社之版權，特此致歉)
2010年1月14日 星期四
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