Isle 王梆

到蘇格蘭Carradale島旅行，白天剪草護(hù)林，觀看海豚和鸕鶿，晚上在爐邊烤火讀書，過了一段時(shí)間與世隔絕的生活。這幾首詩獻(xiàn)給Carradale靜寂的夜晚。

囚禁

像中世紀(jì)的傍晚一樣，在熄滅的燈塔旁散步

偶爾，也和島上的人談?wù)撎鞖?，和鱈魚的價(jià)格

學(xué)習(xí)用夏天的沙漏，灌制不朽的香腸

學(xué)習(xí)對冬天的忍耐，像禿鷹，含著

分解的尸身，在一根黑色的羽毛里

觀看滿天黑色的羽毛。這里，自由是

二十四小時(shí)的放風(fēng)，我可以伸手

觸摸所有死去的星辰

你那被火車穿過卻永不到站的身體

和我的鎖骨，一起，成了島的一部分

成了這片無盡的，銀浪交織的鐵絲網(wǎng)

我甚至愛上自己在一小片鱗形陽光下的

強(qiáng)大波紋——這是人類囚禁體驗(yàn)中最陰暗

也最曖昧的一幕。每天凌晨

握著削尖的鵝毛筆，爬上燧石造的房頂

跳下為自己折好的紙船，追捕

一個(gè)又一個(gè)，企圖通過海底逃往彼岸的夢

Imprisonment

ramble around the unlit lighthouse

in medieval gloom

occasionally chat to the island people

about weather，or the price of cod

learn to make perennial bread

with the sand timer

learn to endure winter，like a vulture

savouring decomposed bodies，gazing into

a sky full of black feathers in a black feather

here，freedom is a 24 hour routine release

I can reach out to all the dead stars

your never arrived train-penetrated body

and my collarbones，together

have become a portion of this island

and its infinite，silvery wave of wire mesh

through a tiny piece of scaly sunshine

I even fall in love with my own ripple

blinking，relentless-this is the darkest

yet most ambiguous experience of imprisonment，

every dawn，I sharpen my quill

climb onto the flint roof

jump into my paper boat，chasing

the dreams of attempted escape

one after another，underneath the unfathomable sea

恐懼

三個(gè)音符的島。早上八九點(diǎn)

還是冷煤灰色的。半個(gè)世紀(jì)來它幾乎沒有新生兒

早產(chǎn)的守陵人之妻，也已經(jīng)97歲了

她在教堂門口掃落葉的身影，被一陣齒間的寒風(fēng)

吹到松動(dòng)的墻上。那里經(jīng)常跳出一個(gè)

1612年的九歲女童，踢掉鞋子，赤腳站在證人席上

指控自己的母親是女巫。圍觀吊刑的人群

像圍觀煙花，臉上涂著熒光漆

她沒有朋友、財(cái)產(chǎn)和郵差，沒有馬車

其他人也和她一樣。在防波堤上

海鷗追撲裂口里掉下面包屑的行人

本來只是出來遛狗，卻沉默不語

仿佛連風(fēng)都是潛在的告密者

即使如此，也沒有多少人死去

他們守著蠟燭，老鼠，干硬的黃油，內(nèi)心的暗房

那些不敢曝光的膠片，度過千禧年

連遠(yuǎn)方的盲人，都能聽見烏鴉的手語

斷裂的云骨，銹水，在浴缸里

穿過脈搏，流入地下。我卻突然

決定在這里落腳（夢從不讓人選擇）

像落魄、失聰?shù)匿撉賻?/p>

找一份活下去的職業(yè)

向矮生長，到水下，為所有的不安裹上海草

盼望蘇醒，盼望你回到我的身邊

Fear

This is an island composed of 3 notes.

9am it will still be ash-gray

No newborns have arrived for over half a century

the premature girl

now wife of the late undertaker is 97

The shadow of her sweeping leaves

blown by a brisk wind

from a slit between the teeth

& dropped onto the sprawling church wall

There，a 9-year-old girl in 1612

would often jump from the shadows

kicking off her shoes

barefoot on the witness stand

asserting her mother to be a witch

Hanging becomes a death-foreplay applauded by onlookers

the excited faces at a firework display

framed with luminance

She has no friends，the same as everyone，

possessions，postmen，nor carriages，

On the seawall，the seagulls

chase the pedestrians，who drop crumbs

from their dead mouths

& walk their dogs in absolute silence

to prevent the wind from becoming informer

People idle the day away

by candles，rats and dry butter

Darkroom films inside hearts unexposed

Even a distant blind man could hear

the sign language of the crows

the spine of the clouds break

the rusting water in the bathtub

plunges through my pulse

& leaks underground

Still，I decide to stay here

（dreams are never chosen）

like a near-deaf pianist

Looking for odd jobs

shrinking lower and lower

seaweeds veiling the uncanny

longing to be awake

calling your return to me

接受

只有九月，知道如何用它的琥珀，讓風(fēng)靜下來

同樣的平靜，也讓海鹽結(jié)晶，黑鳥在蘆葦叢中暢歌

果實(shí)進(jìn)入果核，生產(chǎn)遠(yuǎn)離連綿的疼痛

只有九月，蘇格蘭的印度夏天，蜜蜂才會嘗到球蘭中

最甜蜜的部分。我才會，穿上你寄來的開襟羊毛衫

到海灘上，會見天堂里泄漏的陽光

Conceiving

Only September knows

how to dye in amber

to still the wind’s heart

the same stillness

makes sea-salt crystals，

blackbirds sing in reeds

fruits enter their core

and the pain

in labour is distanced

Only in September

in the Carradale Indian summer

I will wear the cashmere cardigan

that you sent me

to walk on the beach

while bees are savouring

the nectars of blooms

the sunlight carried

in the hollow of a cloud

encircling me

（寫于蘇格蘭Carradale ）

夢

在工廠里殺魚

每天十小時(shí)

像一根潮濕的火柴

厭惡著自己的味道

生活是，那些

灑阿瑪尼，吃魚子醬的人

制造的空心塑料袋

填滿著新割的魚鰓

我是披著玻璃斗篷的海風(fēng)

在對閃電的追逐中

愛上了一朵濕地紫羅蘭

為了與她在同色的曙光里蘇醒

我用被海水穿透的身體

堵住了通往現(xiàn)實(shí)的大門

Dream

Killing fish in the factory，10 hours a day

a damp match in hate with its sweat

Life is a hollow plastic bag

made by those who wear Armani and eat caviar

replete with fresh-cut gills

I am the wind in a raincoat of glass

after a battle against lightning

falling in love with a marsh violet

to wake with her in the colour of her dawn light

I stop up the door of reality with my body

drenched through by the sea

責(zé)任編輯 杜小燁